Poems (Campbell)/To Eliza L. G. Sutherland
TO ELIZA L. G. SUTHERLAND. 1810.
The sky is blue, the fields are gay, And calm the bosom of the deep;Then wilt thou come with me, and stray By Tomnahurich's haunted steep?
When gain'd the steep ascent we'll pause, And rest us on the mossy ground,While fancy's ready pencil draws The little fairies dancing round.
Though high the scorching sun may glow, And steep and weary is the way,The lovely scenes that spread below Shall all our labour well repay.
See, at our feet, how soft and slow Fair Nessa rolls her silver stream—There, deep and clear, how smooth the flow; There rippling in the sunny beam!
There the green isle, where eve and morn The mavis swells his warbling throat;And perch'd upon the lowly thorn, The linnet tunes the thrilling note.
Its little grove, a cluster'd group, That smiles in ev'ry varied green,As low the pendant branches droop, Reflected in the wat'ry sheen.
The busy manufacturer see Rears on its banks his useful dome;Keeps many a hand from mischief free, And gilds with joy each humble home.
And Charity has rear'd yon pile, That stands upon the level plain,Where tender cares the hours beguile Of those that suffer tort'ring pain.
Mild Pity by their couch doth stand, And fever's burning pangs allay,Or gives the draught with ready hand, That soothes their agonies away.
And there the town of Inverness, Where scenes of busy life prevail—And the fair damsel's airy dress Scarce shields her from the passing gale.
Among our Highland lasses sweet, There are, that like their dames of old,With dauntless courage bravely meet Our Northern climate's piercing cold.
Yet through these streets I oft have seen Some mild and tender beauty stray,Have mark'd the sweetly modest mien, And cheek that blush'd like dawning day.
Some in our ancient tartan clad, The fleece their native hills supply,"Blooming celestial rosy-red," The winter's frost and storm defy.
Superior far to robes of gold, That come from India's gaudy looms;—Wrapp'd in its warm and graceful fold, Health smiles secure, and beauty blooms.
But, see! what closer wins the eye— Thy happy home, in yonder street;Where oft with eager haste I fly, Thee, and my long-lov'd friends, to greet!
See, there the Kessek ferry lies, Its murmuring billows hush'd to rest;And see Morena's steep arise, Majestic, from its placid breast.
There, as along their native hills, The wild Morena's snowy prideAre straggling o'er the verdant fields, Or nibbling on the mountain's side.
And there Fort-Rose is just in sight, Where Learning still delights to dwell—Where Mitchell Scott, that wond'rous wight, Was bred, as ancient stories tell.
And there, as if by magic plac'd, Upon the ocean's murm'ring surge,With many a rounded bastion fac'd, Appear the ramparts of Fort-George.
Culloden, Stewart, Darcus too, Craigphadrick, by the Muse renown'd,And many an object worth thy view, Adorns the varied landscape round.
Then come, my friend, and arm in arm The fairy-hill together climb;Below, the spreading vale shall charm— Above, the mountain's height sublime,
Then come, my friend, oh! come away; Soon will the summer day be gone—It fades in ev'ning-shadows grey, And dreary night comes hast'ning on.
So must the sunny morn of youth, In feeble age lose all its bloom,—Then follows dark—oh, mournful truth, A night of silence in the tomb!