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| THE TEMPEST blackens on the dusky moor, | |
| And billows lash the long-resounding shore; | |
| In pensive mood I roam the desert ground, | |
| And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found. | |
| O, whither fled the pleasurable hours | 5 |
| That chased each care, and fired the muse’s powers, | |
| The classic haunts of youth forever gay | |
| Where mirth and friendship cheered the close of day, | |
| The well-known valleys where I wont to roam, | |
| The native sports, the nameless joys of home? | 10 |
| Far different scenes allure my wondering eye: | |
| The white wave foaming to the distant sky; | |
| The cloudy heaven, unblest by summer’s smile; | |
| The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle, | |
| The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow, | 15 |
| The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below, | |
| The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled, | |
| The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild! | |
| Far different these from all that charmed before,— | |
| The grassy banks of Clutha’s winding shore; | 20 |
| The sloping vales, with waving forests lined; | |
| Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind. | |
| Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey | |
| Thy gilded turrets from the distant way! | |
| Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller’s toil, | 25 |
| And joy shall hail me to my native soil. | |
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