Lines Written In A Highland Glen

To whom belongs this valley fair, That sleeps beneath the filmy air, Even like a living thing? Silent,—as infant at the breast,— Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring! The heavens appear to love this vale; Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or 'mid the silence lie. By that blue arch, this beauteous earth Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth Seems bound unto the sky. O! that this lovely vale were mine! Then, from glad youth to calm decline, My years would gently glide; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, And memory's oft-returning gleams By peace be sanctified. There would unto my soul be given, From presence of that gracious heaven, A piety sublime And thoughts would come of mystic mood, To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time. And did I ask to whom belonged This vale?—I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul. She spreads her glories o'er the earth, And all her children from their birth Are joint-heirs of the whole. Yea! long as Nature's humblest child Hath kept her Temple undefiled By sinful sacrifice, Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, He is a monarch, and his throne Is built amid the skies.