Conon, fair flowed thy mountain stream, Through blossom'd heath and ripening field. When, shrunk by summer's fervid beam, Thy peaceful waves I first beheld. Calmly they swept thy winding shore. When harvest's mirthful feast was nigh-- When, breeze-borne, with thy hoarser roar Came mingling sweet the reapers' cry. But now I mark thy angry wave Rush headlong to the stormy sea; Wildly the blasts of winter rave, Sad rustling through the leafless tree Loose on its spray the alder leaf Hangs wavering, trembling, sear and brow And dark thy eddies whirl beneath, And white thy foam comes floating down. Thy banks with withered shrubs are spread; Thy fields confess stern winter's reign; And gleams yon thorn with berries red, Like banner on a ravaged plain. Hark! ceaseless groans the leafless wood; Hark! ceaseless roars thy stream below Ben-Vaichard's peaks are dark with cloud Ben-Weavis' crest is white with snow. And yet, though red thy stream comes down Though bleak th' encircling hills appear-- Though field be bare, and forest brown, And winter rule the waning year-- Unmoved I see each charm decay, Unmourn'd the sweets of autumn die; And fading flower and leafless spray Court all in vain the thoughtful sigh. Not that dull grief delights to see Vex'd Nature wear a kindred gloom; Not that she smiled in vain to me, When gaily prank'd in summer's bloom Nay, much I loved, at even-tide, Through Brahan's lonely woods to stray. To mark thy peaceful billows glide, And watch the sun's declining ray. But yet, though roll'd thy billows fair As e'er roll'd those of classic stream-- Though green thy woods, now dark and bare, Bask'd beauteous in the western beam; To mark a scene that childhood loved, The anxious eye was turned in vain; Nor could I find the friend approved, That shared my joy or soothed my pain. Now winter reigns: these hills no more Shall sternly bound my anxious view Soon, bent my course to Croma's shore, Shall I yon winding path pursue. Fairer than _here_ gay summer's glow To me _there_ wintry storms shall seem Then blow, ye bitter breezes, blow, And lash the Conon's mountain stream. CHAPTER XI. "The bounding pulse, the languid limb The changing spirit's rise and fall-- We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all."--MONTGOMERY.