NYMPH of the mountain stream; thy foaming urn
Wastes its pure waters on the rock below,
There no green herbage can a leaf return,
No plant can flourish, and no flow'r can blow;
Stern solitude, whose frown the heart appals,
Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy water-falls.
Yet, not in vain thy murm'ring fountain flows,--
It cheers the wand'rer in the dreary waste,
Awakes dull silence from his dead repose,
And charms the ear of fancy and of taste;
For this, the grateful muse would round thee twine,
The blushing desart rose, and lowly eglantine.
When distant far from this enchanting scene
Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods,
From Lomond's fairy banks and islands green,
His cloud-capt mountains and his silver floods,
Mem'ry shall turn in many a waking dream,
To meet thee, lonely nymph, beside thy mountain stream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem