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Reuben and Other Poems

by Robert Leighton

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SAILING UP THE FIRTH.
  

SAILING UP THE FIRTH.

Uprose the sun through opening clouds of gray,
And at his touch the misty hills unveil'd,
And all gave promise of a glorious day
As up the Firth we sail'd.
At every step he took, the upper clouds
Thinn'd into gauze; the wak'ning morn look'd thro'
And soon, withdrawing e'en her gauzy shrouds,
Came forth in radiant blue.
A rippling breeze was with us, just enough
To turn the waters into crisping curls;
You could not say the Firth was calm or rough—
It danced in crested pearls.

266

Along the rocky ribs of Galloway
A margin of white foam crept to and fro;
And up the steep cliffs rose the snowy spray,
Silent to us as snow.
Then into view swung Ailsa Craig's huge bulk,
And rais'd an old-world rapture in the blood;
Far-off it loom'd like some great stranded hulk,
Left there by Noah's flood.
As we approach'd, our paltry tongues were still'd,
The bold sky-pictured craig stood more defined;
We sail'd within a presence now that fill'd,
And e'en distress'd, the mind.
Round its sun-burnish'd peak the seabirds flew
In idle numbers, never to be told;
They wheel'd and slid across the skiey blue,
Like sunbeam-specks of gold.
And still we strove the mighty rock to clasp,
‘As one big grandeur,’ all unto the breast;
Its greatness only mock'd our feeble grasp,
And on we sail'd distress'd.
Along our starboard lay the Carrick shore,
And Kyle, the classic, hid in warm white haze;
However hid, reveal'd for evermore
To the poetic gaze:

267

The bonnie Doon, and Cassilis Downan's green,
The ‘Twa Brigs,’ flyting almost side by side,
The ancient town of Ayr, and scene by scene
Of Tam O'Shanter's ride.
And on our left lay Arran, sharp and clear,
Its Holy Isle and hidden loch behind,
Within whose reaches ships for shelter steer,
When storms are in the wind.
But Goatfell, with the tatter'd Arran peaks,
Took all our eyes, piled up so sheer and high:
'Twas Nature's easel—this her freak of freaks,
Her canvas the blue sky.
A sudden cloud came o'er them, and anon
The Arran hills in dark-blue blackness lay;
Surely not all the Highlands can put on
So grim a scowl as they!
They were alive with passion; we beheld
Their knitting eyebrows and their gleaming eyes;
But soon their dark brows lifted, and they smiled
Grandly at our surprise.
Then, also on our left, the Isle of Bute;
So like to what a paradise should be,
That all declared the name would better suit
With an accented é.

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There Kean, the tragic, built himself a cot
Beside its little lake, a sylvan scene,
And thought to cast in solitude his lot:
Alas, for tragic Kean!
As well expect the lion to turn a hound,
The eagle to forget the soaring wing;
He came to Bute and solitude, but found
The play was still the thing.
Upon our right the Cumbraes, sister isles,
Were pass'd with small remark, tho' fairy splores,
And devil-builded dykes and warlock wiles
Are rife about their shores.
Then landward Largs, with its old battle-field,
Where Alexander fought the invading Dane,
And made him the last hope of conquest yield,
Never to come again.
But all around us Beauty infinite,
And History, and Old Tradition vied
Which should be minister of most delight,
And preach'd from side to side:
Till Greenock's noisy piers lay on our beam,
And luggage dragg'd us back to common earth,
And finger-pointing porters broke our dream
Of sailing up the Firth.