"Round Albyn's western shores, a lonely skiff Is coasting slow:--the adverse winds detain: And now she rounds secure the dreaded cliff,[1] Whose horrid ridge beats back the northern main; And now the whirling Pentland roars in rain Her stern beneath, for favouring breezes rise; The green isles fade, whitens the watery plain. O'er the vexed waves with meteor speed she flies. Till Moray's distant hills o'er the blue waves arise. Who guides that vessel's wanderings o'er the wave; A patient, hardy man, of thoughtful brow; Serene and warm of heart, and wisely brave, And sagely skill'd, when gurly breezes blow, To press through angry waves the adventurous prow. Age hath not quell'd his strength, nor quench'd desire Of generous deed, nor chill'd his bosom's glow; Yet to a better world his hopes aspire. Ah! this must sure be thee! All hail, my honoured Sire! Alas! thy latest voyage draws near a close, For Death broods voiceless in the darkening sky; Subsides the breeze; the untroubled waves repose; The scene is peaceful all. Can Death be nigh, When thus, mute and unarm'd, his vassals lie? Mark ye that cloud! There toils the imprisoned gale; E'en now it comes, with voice uplifted high; Resound the shores, harsh screams the rending sail, And roars th' amazed wave, and bursts the thunder peal! Three days the tempest raged; on Scotia's shore Wreck piled on wreck, and corse o'er corse was thrown; Her rugged cliffs were red with clotted gore; Her dark caves echoed back th' expiring moan; And luckless maidens mourned their lovers gone, And friendless orphans cried in vain for bread; And widow'd mothers wandered forth alone;-- Restore, O wave, they cried,--restore our dead! And then the breast they bared, and beat th' unsheltered head. Of thee, my Sire, what mortal tongue can tell! No friendly bay thy shattered barque received; Ev'n when thy dust reposed in ocean cell, Strange baseless tales of hope thy friends deceived Which oft they doubted sad, or gay believed. At length, when deeper, darker, wax'd the gloom, Hopeless they grieved; but 'twas in vain they grieved: If God be truth, 'tis sure no voice of doom, That bids the accepted soul its robes of joy assume."