A POEM.
169
Rage fierce, and round me mad Corbrecho roar,
Wafted with love to see Columba's isles. 280
There view I winged Sky, and Lewes long,
Resort of whales; and Wyste, where herrings swarm;
And talk, at once delighted and appalled,
By the pale moon, with utmost Hirta's seers,
Of beckoning ghosts, and shadowy men, that bode
Sure death. Nor there doth Jura's double hill
Escape my sight; nor Mull, though bald and bare;
Nor Ilay, where erewhile Macdonalds reign'd;
Thee too, Lismore! I hail St. Moloch's shrine;
Inchgall, first conquered by the brand of Scots: 290
And filled with awe of ancient saints and kings,
I kiss, O Icolmkill! thy hallowed mould.
Thus, Caledonia, many hilled! to thee,
End and beginning of my ardent song,
I tune the Druid's lyre, to thee devote
This lay, and love not music but for thee.
Wafted with love to see Columba's isles. 280
There view I winged Sky, and Lewes long,
Resort of whales; and Wyste, where herrings swarm;
And talk, at once delighted and appalled,
By the pale moon, with utmost Hirta's seers,
Of beckoning ghosts, and shadowy men, that bode
Sure death. Nor there doth Jura's double hill
Escape my sight; nor Mull, though bald and bare;
Nor Ilay, where erewhile Macdonalds reign'd;
Thee too, Lismore! I hail St. Moloch's shrine;
Inchgall, first conquered by the brand of Scots: 290
And filled with awe of ancient saints and kings,
I kiss, O Icolmkill! thy hallowed mould.
Thus, Caledonia, many hilled! to thee,
End and beginning of my ardent song,
I tune the Druid's lyre, to thee devote
This lay, and love not music but for thee.
