ON THE COAST OF ABB AN 



179 



Arran, I thought of thee indeed as fair, 

 But all that fancy feigned the fact excels : 

 Not that Atlantis of which Plato tells, 



Nor isles of Sirens in the southern air, 



From British Arran beauty's prize would bear. 

 Above, dark peaks, lone glens, and crystal wells ; 

 Below, the cottaged slopes, the brick-clad swells, 



And ocean's voice for ever sounding there. 



Farewell, a sad farewell, beloved land ! 



And other hearts to peaceful dreams beguile ; 

 Still in my thought thy cloven peaks shall stand, 



Still wave thy fringing forests fair, that smile 

 O'er lovelier seas than wash the Italian strand, 



Or marbled cape of an Ionian isle. 



N 2 



