BETA

III.

Lochleven Castle.

Un arbre, le dernier adieu de la vegetation, est devant sa porte; et c’est A l’ombre de son
pale feuillage que les voyageurs ont coutume d’attendre.

Corrine.
A light breeze curls the Leven’s silver tide,1
Spread like a sheet around yon rocky isle,2
Whereon, in ruined hoariness, a pile3
Uprears its massy walls in castled pride ;4
The sunbeams, shooting o’er a morning cloud,5
Fall on it, and display the shrivelled trees6
Blasted and tall, their thin leaves in the breeze7
Fluttering, like plumes above a funeral shroud :8
The blue-winged sea-gull, with a wailing shriek,9
Sails round it ; and, on high, the sable rook10
Perches in peace—no more ’ tis doomed to brook11
Man’s domination—but, with aspect meek,12
Crumbles to ruin, year, and month, and week,13
Voiceless, and with a melancholy look !14