on the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland

Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills,
Among the happiest-looking Homes of men
Scatter’d all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o’er wide plains whereon the sky distils
Her lark’s loved warblings; does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet’s pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,
Enjoys the walks his Predecessors trod,
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.