1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm, That drives the hurrying clouds along, That on each other seem to throng, And mix in many a varied form; While, bursting now and then between, The moon's dim misty orb is seen, And casts faint glimpses on the green. 2 Beneath the blast the forests bend, And thick the branchy ruin lies, And wide the shower of foliage flies; The lake's black waves in tumult blend, Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, And foaming on the rocky shore, Whose caverns echo to their roar. 3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, And swift along the past it strays, And much of strange event surveys, What history's faithful tongue has taught, Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill The page with fabled change can fill Of ill to good, or good to ill. 4 But can my soul the scene enjoy, That rends another's breast with pain? O hapless he, who, near the main, Now sees its billowy rage destroy! Beholds the foundering bark descend, Nor knows but what its fate may end The moments of his dearest friend! ALEXANDER ROSS. Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the east end of the loch.