John Stuart Blackie (1809–1895)

O’ER broad Muichdhui sweeps the keen cold blast;

Far whirrs the snow-bred, white-winged ptarmigan;

Sheer sink the cliffs to dark Loch Etagan,

And all the hill with shattered rock lies waste.

Here brew ship-foundering storms their force divine;

Here gush the fountains of wild-flooding rivers;

Here the strong thunder frames the bolt that shivers

The giant strength of the old twisted pine.

Yet, even here, on the bare waterless brow

Of granite ruin, I found a purple flower,

A delicate flower, as fair as aught, I trow,

That toys with zephyrs in my lady’s bower.

So Nature blends her powers; and he is wise

Who to his strength no gentlest grace denies.