And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb with footing nice A far-projecting precipice.
The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid;And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land.
High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world;A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
