No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,[38]
A far projecting precipice.
The broom’s[39] tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish’d sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll’d,
In all her length far winding lay,