John Stuart Blackie (1809–1895)

THE LAKE is smooth; the air is soft and still;

The water shines with a broad lambent gleam;

And the white cloud sleeps on the hoary hill,

With the mild glory of a sainted dream.

From the steep crag the distant bleatings come

Of sheep far-straggling o’er the turfy way;

And the harsh torrent, softened to a hum,

Gives murmurous music from the stony brae.

If here on earth a heaven may be, thou hast

Heaven here to-day; now give thy soul repose.

To-morrow, down this glen the ruffian blast

May sweep, while high the enchaféd billow throws

Its surly might, and smites the sounding shore,

And the swollen rills rush down with thunderous roar!