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The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth

With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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Last night I saw the gloom upon the loch
Long after sunset. I had pulled across
To see a waterfall on Cruachan,
And, looking westward down the Pass of Awe,
The fringe of rainy cloud was lifted up,
And from a golden distance full of light
The waves received its splendour, brightening
As the veiled sun approached the edge of cloud,
Then glittering with a restless, dazzling sheen,
When he appeared. The mist on the green side
Of Cruachan, before invisible,
Received a sunbeam slanting on the copse.
Beyond Glen Strae the open sky appears
Of delicate pearly green, with distant clouds
Gleaming afar like hills of yellow gold.
But nearer masses from the stormy west

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Come brooding low and dark above the loch,
Which grows as black as ink at their approach—
Great lurid masses moving inwardly,
Changing like mighty spirits which assume
New forms at their own pleasure. Like a roof
One spreads above me, and descending low
Beneath it hang great pendants. In the East
The clouds wear awful shapes of dusky gold,—
Vast tawny giants moving heavily
To meet approaching night.
The sun is down:
There is one crimson stain on the cold cloud,
Whose ashy mounds are heaped on Cruachan;
And in the west the low, long, purple hills,
Are parted by a line of orange sky
From the dull clouds above them.
Then I saw
A lonely beach before me, canopied
With the deep fringe of foliage that descends
Down to the mountain's foot, and thereupon
I landed, walking on the quiet lane,
A mile or two, until I crossed a bridge
That spans a torrent. There I turned aside
Into the tangled copsewood, clambering
Through the wet fern and up the slippery rock
Until I reached the point I wished to gain.
Then it was twilight, and I heard below
The water tumbling in a dark ravine,

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And, standing on the cliff's extremest verge,
Beheld a white, unchanging waterfall
In the black depth.

This waterfall is on the south side of Ben Cruachan, near the Oban road. The whole stream is singularly picturesque.


The road was very dark
As I returned, and the fantastic rocks,
Shrouded in ghastly lichen, from the gloom
Of the impenetrable underwood,
Heaved up and scowled upon me as I passed,
Where Wallace chased Mac Fadyen, and the Bruce
With his small force defeated John of Lorn,
And drove him to his galleys on the lake.

See the notes to Scott's Highland Widow.


Far off, the opposite shore of the broad loch
Lay like a mighty cloudland in the south,
And nearer the dark isles. Towards Inishail
I rowed, and then the rain began to fall
And the grey twilight deepened on the hills.
As I approached the shallows that divide
The Black Isles from the shore of Inishail,
Ben Vorich grew more cloudy and more vast;
And as I skimmed the smooth and sheltered strait
The ruin of the church amongst the tombs
Reared its dark broken masses on the mound
Against the mountain. On my right and left
There was no land in sight, but barren water,
Wrinkled with rain, met the low-hanging clouds
Like a great ocean in the dreary night,
When at the stern I left the lonely isles.