Mountains themselves by length of years decay— 
 With ebbs and flows is the rough Ocean tost; 
 In heaven the Moon is for a season lost, 
 But thou, amidst the fullness of thy joy, 
 The same art ever, blazing in the sky! 
 When tempests wrap the world from pole to pole, 
 When vivid lightnings flash and thunders roll, 
 Thou far above their utmost fury borne, 
 Look’st forth in beauty, laughing them to scorn. 
 But vainly now on me thy beauties blaze— 
 Ossian no longer can enraptured gaze! 
 Whether at morn, in lucid lustre gay, 
 On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses play, 
 Or else at eve, in radiant glory drest, 
 Thou tremblest at the portals of the west,