Glashen-Glora

’T IS sweet in midnight solitude,
When the voice of man lies hushed, subdued,
To hear thy mountain voice so rude,
Break silence, Glashen-Glora!

I love to see thy foaming stream
Dashed sparkling in the bright moonbeam;
For then of happier days I dream,
Spent near thee, Glashen-Glora!

I see the holly and the yew
Still shading thee, as then they grew;
But there ’s a form meets not my view,
As once, near Glashen-Glora.

Thou gayly, brightly, sparklest on,
Wreathing thy dimples round each stone;
But the bright eye that on thee shone
Lies quenched, wild Glashen-Glora!

Still rush thee on, thou brawling brook;
Though on broad rivers I may look
In other lands, thy lonesome nook,—
I ’ll think on Glashen-Glora!

When I am low, laid in the grave,
Thou still wilt sparkle, dash, and rave
Seaward, till thou becom’st a wave
Of ocean, Glashen-Glora!

Thy course and mine alike have been
Both restless, rocky, seldom green,—
There rolls for me, beyond this scene,
An ocean, Glashen-Glora!

And when my span of life ’s gone by,
O, if past spirits back can fly,
I ’ll often ride the night-wind’s sigh,
That ’s breathed o’er Glashen-Glora!