University of Virginia Library

I lay on Loch Katrine's pearly breast,
My boat was floating at will;
And I felt a delirious vision of rest
Steal o'er me with passionless thrill.
Not a sound was heard on the green hill side,
Not a sound from the copsewood brake,
Not a breeze to ruffle the mirror-like tide,
Not a stir on the motionless lake.
The heaven's dark blue and its silvery haze
On the face of the waters are sleeping,
The shadow-stains trancing my rapturous gaze
Down the mountains are stealthily creeping.
There is peace in the depth of the blue changeless heaven,
There is peace in the mist-shrouded hill;
There is peace in the soul when her fetters are riven,
And the life-dream of passion is still.
And methought as I lay on that motionless lake,
With no murmur the dreamy delusion to break
But the refluent waters around the boat's wake,
That I saw a sweet vision of peace;
Where the jarring discordance of Reason is still,
And the truth, which she sought, is the guide of the will,
Disenthralled with a gentle release;
Where the faëry hopes and the day-dreams of thought
Which Fancy's sweet spell hath insensibly wrought
In the sunny exuberance of youth,
And the plaint that bursts forth from her passionate lyre,
When her dearest and last-cherished visions expire
At the touch of what manhood calls truth;—
Where all these and the dim troublous lustre that gleams,
For a moment, it may be, in exquisite dreams,
Doomed with morn's garish radiance to fade,
Are hushed in the transport of perfected joy,
Where unsatisfied cravings no longer annoy,
And the dark stream of sorrow is staid.
Though reft be the garlands aërially hung
By Fancy round youth's burning brow,
And mute the sweet strains she so rapturously sung,
Oh I would not return to them now!
For there is a stillness more solemn and deep
Than the deadlies swoon or the heaviest sleep;
A slumber transfigured with heavenlier gleams,
Than flash o'er the young in their unbodied dreams;
When Affection's untold aspirations are blest,
And the agonized throbbing of hope are at rest.
'Tis the peace of the spirit when life hath passed o'er her,
With her warfare accomplished, her guerdon before her;
'Tis the peace to self-crucified anchorites granted,
With their souls from the trammels of sense disenchanted;
'Tis the bliss of the holy, the rest of the dead,
The peace on meek sufferers unmurmuring shed:
But O 'tis a peace we may never enjoy
While our hearts are enthralled to earth's petty annoy!
'Tis a joy the fond heart in her visions may see,
O my God that such peace may be granted to me!

But hark to that sound, like the roar of the ocean
When its wild waters rave in tempestuous commotion,
And the agonized seaman's despairing devotion
Is blent with the elements' din,
Till the last dying wail
Is upbore on the gale
And the waters rush hurriedly in.
From the green slopes where Summer's soft shadows were blending,
Behold even now the white cataracts descending,
Through self-cloven alleys of rock,
While the erst silent groves are tumultuously bending,
Beneath the fierce hurricane's shock.
O solemn it is in such presence to stand,
Where mountains on mountains confusedly grand
In stern isolation are piled,
While the gathering storm-blast with ominous sigh
Moves through the ravines, and each moment more nigh
Loud thunder-claps boom from the sulphurous sky
Where moon so deceitfully smiled,
And the answering echoes of far Benvenue
Ring faint through the mist-wreaths that darken the view
And Benlomond is shrouded in night;
While passionate tears from its summit of snow
Rained down to the valleys are lost in the flow
Of the billowy waters that murmur below,
Foam-crested with white.

Perchance thou lovest such sight to scan;
Hast thou ever read in the heart of man
A darker vision of strife?
The tears that are wept on the bleak hill-side,
The fierce unrest of the darkling tide,
And clouds which the mountain-summit hide,
Are the mystery of life.
Thou need'st not list for the fitful sweep
Of angry winds o'er the valleys deep;
Thou need'st not pause for the thunder's roar,
Or the booming wave on the rocky shore;
There is a tempest of wilder din
That rages the human soul within.
It needs no wizard's potent spell
To call the fiends from their native hell;
It needs no charm-word of shadowy might
To rouse the soul to that awful fight;
The life we live is a ceaseless war,
While Reason and Will and Feeling jar.
There is rest in the grave the wise man saith;
There is peace in the weird isolation of death;
But here, poor soul, is no peace for thee
Till all thy dissonant chords agree
To beat in perfect harmony.
There is rest in the grave in the stillness of death,
There is rest upon earth in the fulness of faith.