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     A shadow woven of the oak
And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen,
     Set round with stony warders;
A fountain, gushing through the turf,
     Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow,
     With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
     And sense of peace returning.

O restless heart and fevered brain,
     Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
     Is more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun,
     Its glaring sunshine blindeth,
And blest is he who on his way
     That fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled will
     And contrite heart are o'er it;
Go read its legend, ‘trust in God,’
     On Faith's white stones before it.


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1850 AD (1)
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