CHAPTER XXXI. 



THE HIGHLANDS. 

 I. 



Upon the Grampian Hills entranced I stand, 

 Gazing with rapture on the weird highland, 

 Moorland and mountain, countless rippling rills, 

 Springing impatient from the heath-clad hills, 

 Leaping from ledge to ledge they downward flow, 

 Murmuring soft music as they fall below ; 

 Onward through correis wild they glide 

 In headlong haste to swell the river's tide. 

 All, all is solitude and silence there. 

 Mark yon grand eagle hovering high in air ! 

 The careful shepherd, as he tends his flocks, 

 Wrapped in his plaid, reclines amidst the rocks ; 

 His watchful eye the bird of prey descries, 

 Arising promptly, off the marauder flies, 

 Upwards he mounts, baulked of his helpless prey, 

 Circles around, then swiftly sails away, 

 Adown the glen, far o'er the topmost height, 

 Higher and higher until lost to sight. 



