Lines on the Fall of Fyers Near Loch-Ness

Among the heathy hills and ragged woodsThe roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.As high in air the bursting torrents flow,As deep recoiling surges foam below,Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,And viewles Echo’s ear, astonished, rends.Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs,The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lours:Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils,And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils—