* * * and I Am reading, too, my book of memory: With eyelids closed, over the crested foam, And the blue marbled sea, I seek my home. All present things forgotten, on the shore Of the romantic Forth I stand once more; Once more I hear the waves' harmonious strife; Once more, upon the mountain coast of Fife, I see the checker'd lights and shadows fall. Upon the sand crumbles the ruin'd wall That guards no more the desolate demesne, And the deserted mansion. High between The summer clouds the Ochil hills arise; And far, far, like a shadow in the skies, Ben Lomond towers aloft in sovereign height. O, Cramond beach! are thy sands still as bright-- Thy waters still as sunny,--thy wild shore As lonely and as lovely as of yore?-- Haunts of my happy time! as wandering back Along my life, on memory's faithful track, How fair ye seem,--how fair, how dear ye are! Ye need not to be gazed at from afar; Deceptive distance lends no brighter hue; Your beauty and your peacefulness were true. Not yours the charms from which we wearied stray, And own them only when they're far away. O, be ye blest for all the happiness Which I have known in your wild loneliness. Old sea, whose voice yet chimes upon my ear,-- Old paths, whose every winding step was dear,-- Dark rocky promontories,--echoing caves, Worn hollow by the white feet of the waves,-- Blue lake-like waters,--legend-haunted isle, Over ye all, bright be the summer's smile; And gently fall the winter on your breast, Haunts of my youth, my memory's place of rest. _Wednesday, May 1st._