"By wooded bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,
By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise
At every turn the vision breaks upon,
Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes
The Highland ricks and hills in solemn grandeur rise.
Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep
More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll;
Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep,
Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul!
The pent up flood, impatient of control,
In ages past here broke its granite bound;
Then to the sea in broad meanders stole,
While ponderous ruin strewed the broken ground,
And they gigantic hills forever closed around."