Rung for a few hours' space;
Then the wide Loch at morning
Reflected heaven's face.

Few voices now are heard there,
Around the wild deer feed;
And winds sigh loud in Autumn
Through copse, and rush, and reed.
Men say that when in darkness
They pass the water's verge,
Each hears, mid sounds of revel
The "Miserere's" dirge;
That faintly, strangely, ever
Upon the Loch's dark breast,
Beneath, above, around it
Shine lights that never rest.

Of all such ghastly phantoms,
Bred of the night and fear,
By hope of our salvation
None meets the noontide clear!
The blue sky's tender beauties
Upon the strong floods shine,
As God's eternal mercy
Dwells with His might divine!
Pure as their mystic fountain
They sleep and flow unstained,
Although the hue of sorrow
Hath in their depths remained.