Classic Poem

How oft, Columba, to my longing soul
Thy simple cots and barren hills arise,
Though thy hard soil exclude those milder skies
Nor silver streams along thy vallies roll!
Those hills, whose savage frowns with awe controul,
And call dire shapes before the pilgrim's eyes,
For me how full of charms! my bosom sighs
To climb once more, of all my cares the goal.
Hail naked rocks! with huge and shapeless stones
O'erspread, of Druid pomp the wild remains;
Its native soil the warm empassion'd breast
Still full of painful pleasing longing owns,
Ev'n bleeds to view its pale and leafless plains,
Seats of pure infant Joy, and blameless Rest.