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| THE SUN upon the Weirdlaw Hill | |
| In Ettrick’s vale is sinking sweet; | |
| The westland wind is hush and still, | |
| The lake lies sleeping at my feet. | |
| Yet not the landscape to mine eye | 5 |
| Bears those bright hues that once it bore, | |
| Though evening with her richest dye | |
| Flames o’er the hills of Ettrick’s shore. | |
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| With listless look along the plain | |
| I see Tweed’s silver current glide, | 10 |
| And coldly mark the holy fane | |
| Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. | |
| The quiet lake, the balmy air, | |
| The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree— | |
| Are they still such as once they were, | 15 |
| Or is the dreary change in me? | |
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| Alas! the warped and broken board, | |
| How can it bear the painter’s dye? | |
| The harp of strained and tuneless chord, | |
| How to the minstrel’s skill reply? | 20 |
| To aching eyes each landscape lowers, | |
| To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; | |
| And Araby’s or Eden’s bowers | |
| Were barren as this moorland hill. | |
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