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Updated: July 10, 2025
But distant winds began to wake, And roused the Genius of the Lake! He heard the groaning of the oak, And donn'd at once his sable cloak, As warrior, at the battle-cry, Invests him with his panoply: Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd He 'gan to shake his foamy crest O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek, And bade his surge in thunder speak. In wild and broken eddies whirl'd.
And mine in his was wound and whirl'd About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world." Mystery! We cannot fathom it; we know not the paths of the souls of Pascal and Gordon, of Plotinus and St. Paul. They are wise with a wisdom not of this world, or with a foolishness yet more wise.
O'er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirl'd Till the silvery locks Are all comb'd and curl'd! And soon came a gale of wind, and carried away Curdken's hat, and away went Curdken after it, while the girl went on combing and curling her hair.
The ocean's violence it fiercely braves; Runs furious on, and throws about the waves. Swiftly impetuous in its course, and loud, Like the dire bursting of a show'ry cloud; Or, like a rock, forced by the winds and rain, Now whirl'd aloft, then plunged into the main.
Now pregnant clouds, with whirling blasts are torn, And, bursting, are deliver'd of a storm: Large stones of hail the troubl'd heavens shoot, That by tempestuous winds are whirl'd about; So thick it pours, whole clouds of snow and hail, Like frozen billows, on their armour fall: The earth lay vanquished under mighty snow, An icy damp the vanquisht heavens know, And vanquisht waters now no longer flow.
The constables hae been here, woman, and they met wi' my minnie at the door, and they whirl'd her awa to the Justice's about the man's wheat. Dear! thae English churls think as muckle about a blade of wheat or grass, as a Scotch laird does about his maukins and his muir-poots.
The great brand Made lightings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night with noises of the Northern Sea.
No mortal hand Directs that vessel's blazing course; The vengeance of an injured land Impels her with resistless force 'Midst breaking wave and fiery gleam, O'er-canopied with clouds of smoke; Midway she stems the raging stream, And feels the rapids' thundering stroke; Now buried deep, now whirl'd on high, She struggles with her awful doom, With frantic speed now hurries by To find a watery tomb.
O'er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirl'd Till the silvery locks Are all comb'd and curl'd! Then there came a wind, so strong that it blew off Curdken's hat; and away it flew over the hills: and he was forced to turn and run after it; till, by the time he came back, she had done combing and curling her hair, and had put it up again safe.
Well may we say, in the pious words of my old friend and neighbour, the Reverend Mr Keekie of Loupinton, that the world is such a wheel- carriage, that it might very properly be called the WHIRL'D. This reflection was brought home to me in a very striking manner, while I was preparing a discourse for my people, to be preached on the anniversary day of my placing, in which I took a view of what had passed in the parish during the five-and-twenty years that I had been, by the grace of God, the pastor thereof.
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