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