Sunset

The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet;

The westland wind is hush and still

The lake lies sleeping at my feet

Yet not the landscape to mine eyes

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;

Tho' Ev'ning, with her richest dye

Flames o'er the hills on Ettrick's shore

With listless look along the plain

I see Tweed's silver current glide

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride

The quiet lake, the balmy air

The hill , the stream, the tower, the tree

Are they still such as once they were

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board

How can it bear the painter's dye?

The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord

How to the minstrel's skill reply?

To aching eyes each landscape lowers

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill:

And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill