I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,And not in paths of high morality,And not among the half-distinguished faces,The clouded forms of long-past history.I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:It vexes me to choose another guide:Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

Thy mind is ever movingIn regions dark to thee;Recall its useless roving—Come back and dwell with me.

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf.

In all the lonely landscape roundI see no sight and hear no soundExcept the wind that far awayComes sighing over the heathy sea

I dream of moon and misty hillWhere evening gathers, dark and chill

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:Summer dews fell softly, wettingGlen, and glade, and silent trees.