Professor John Wilson (1785–1854)

IS this the lake, the cradle of the storms,

Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,

Where poets fear their self-created forms,

Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?

Is this the lake, forever dark and loud

With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?

Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power,

That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth;

For here might beauty build her summer-bower!

Lo! where yon rainbow spans the smiling earth,

And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower

The mighty sun comes forth, a godlike birth;

While, ’neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake

Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!