loch long.
But yet another lake is there,
Enshrined by mountains bleak and bare;
Yet wild in grandeur is the scene,
And beauty lingers there, I ween.
Far on a promontory's keep,
Laved by the waters of the deep,
There stand, in ruined glory piled,
The fragments of a fortress wild—
A rude memorial of the past,
That still through living years may last;
And memory's enraptured gaze
Gives back the scenes of other days,—
And Carrick Castle, bold and free,
The land-mark of Loch Goil shall be.
Oh! could I live in scenes of love,
Or picture visions from above
With all the force of passion's power
In Imag'ry's own magic hour,
Thought could not paint, lip could not tell,
The witchery of that evening spell.
Upon that lake's calm bosom sped
A tiny bark, whose sails were spread
Enshrined by mountains bleak and bare;
Yet wild in grandeur is the scene,
And beauty lingers there, I ween.
Far on a promontory's keep,
Laved by the waters of the deep,
There stand, in ruined glory piled,
The fragments of a fortress wild—
A rude memorial of the past,
That still through living years may last;
And memory's enraptured gaze
Gives back the scenes of other days,—
And Carrick Castle, bold and free,
The land-mark of Loch Goil shall be.
Oh! could I live in scenes of love,
Or picture visions from above
With all the force of passion's power
In Imag'ry's own magic hour,
Thought could not paint, lip could not tell,
The witchery of that evening spell.
Upon that lake's calm bosom sped
A tiny bark, whose sails were spread
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