The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND.
A little boat was half across the loch
At midnight. I was sitting in the stern
Facing the mountain, which was outlined clear
Against the starry sky. You could not see
Either the line of beach from which it rose,
Or any proof of its retiring peak
Being a mile away. In mystery
We glanced across the water, cleaving fast
Its breast all grey with ripples, and I felt,
Both from their endless stream and chilly sound,
And from the cold embracing of the wind,
Sensations new and mighty. On the land
We rarely think of structure underneath;
But when beneath our seat is liquid cold
A hundred fathoms down, and high above
No roof or cloud between us and the stars,
And mountains sleeping round us, that aspire
So far above the undulating hills
Or southern plains receding into blue,
That they have gained a living influence,
And are no more inanimate: when thus,
Like insects sailing on a floating leaf,
We pass from shore to shore, our fluid path
Becomes a bridge of mystery and awe,
And wonder floats around us.
At midnight. I was sitting in the stern
Facing the mountain, which was outlined clear
Against the starry sky. You could not see
Either the line of beach from which it rose,
Or any proof of its retiring peak
Being a mile away. In mystery
We glanced across the water, cleaving fast
Its breast all grey with ripples, and I felt,
Both from their endless stream and chilly sound,
And from the cold embracing of the wind,
Sensations new and mighty. On the land
We rarely think of structure underneath;
But when beneath our seat is liquid cold
A hundred fathoms down, and high above
No roof or cloud between us and the stars,
And mountains sleeping round us, that aspire
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Or southern plains receding into blue,
That they have gained a living influence,
And are no more inanimate: when thus,
Like insects sailing on a floating leaf,
We pass from shore to shore, our fluid path
Becomes a bridge of mystery and awe,
And wonder floats around us.
Gazing still
Up to the milky way and mountain peaks,
Anticipating toil in the ascent,
And lulled to contemplation by the dip,
Frequent and short, of the impatient oars,
I sat half dreaming, till my eyelids fell
Weary of straining upward, and I saw
Close on our path a line of glimmering white,
And soon the keel was scraping on the beach.
Up to the milky way and mountain peaks,
Anticipating toil in the ascent,
And lulled to contemplation by the dip,
Frequent and short, of the impatient oars,
I sat half dreaming, till my eyelids fell
Weary of straining upward, and I saw
Close on our path a line of glimmering white,
And soon the keel was scraping on the beach.
The sparry pebbles were so white and dry
They seemed like shells an ocean-tide had left
And, as we walked across them, sparks of fire
Played round our footsteps. Then our toil began:
And through a gloomy wood we felt our way,
From which emerging, up a stair of rocks
We clambered slowly towards a sombre cliff,
Whereon the setting moon appeared to rest.
Another hour, upon a table-land
Of level moor we waded in the heath.
A mile removed still rose the second hill,
Contrasting clearly with the yellowing East,
And mocking by the vastness of its bulk
Our childish labours. Through the marshy flat
We swiftly pushed across the mountain's lap,
And up the steep we climbed. Another step
Thus gained I thought our toil was surely ended;
And much I dreaded that the royal Sun,
Who waits for no man's pleasure, should appear
Before I was prepared to welcome him.
Beholding, then, the grey rocks of the peak
Distinct and light against the morning sky,
My spirit grew more ardent—as it burns
Even now because its time is running out,
Its dawn of life fast breaking into day—
A day which must not wake me from the sleep
Of idlers in an inn, but on the height
Of watchful duty find me at my post,
Braced with successful labour.
They seemed like shells an ocean-tide had left
And, as we walked across them, sparks of fire
Played round our footsteps. Then our toil began:
And through a gloomy wood we felt our way,
From which emerging, up a stair of rocks
We clambered slowly towards a sombre cliff,
Whereon the setting moon appeared to rest.
Another hour, upon a table-land
Of level moor we waded in the heath.
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Contrasting clearly with the yellowing East,
And mocking by the vastness of its bulk
Our childish labours. Through the marshy flat
We swiftly pushed across the mountain's lap,
And up the steep we climbed. Another step
Thus gained I thought our toil was surely ended;
And much I dreaded that the royal Sun,
Who waits for no man's pleasure, should appear
Before I was prepared to welcome him.
Beholding, then, the grey rocks of the peak
Distinct and light against the morning sky,
My spirit grew more ardent—as it burns
Even now because its time is running out,
Its dawn of life fast breaking into day—
A day which must not wake me from the sleep
Of idlers in an inn, but on the height
Of watchful duty find me at my post,
Braced with successful labour.
I had reached
The summit, and was standing to receive
The first bright glow of morning on my face,
When from his opening tent of crimson clouds
Came forth the risen Sun! The stars have shrunk
Into the cold green sky—the moon is gone—
So pass the wandering lights that led my youth!
The lakes are blue and cold in the deep valleys,
And every isle attracts the rising mist.
But now the rugged peaks are flushing red
Before the orb that sternly looks on each,
Peering into the secrets of its face.
Across the lakes the spreading shadows flew,
And I beheld the outline of the peak
On which I stood, as clear on Arthur's side
As you may see the earth's circumference
On the eclipsèd moon. Then brighter grew
The aspect of the scene, and those three lakes
That slept between me and the gorgeous East
Began to feel the presence of the sun.
Bright from a spring half down the precipice
Issued the tiny Forth, whose silver line
Followed a winding course; and in the south
That white horizon is the Firth of Clyde—
That hill, Dumbarton Rock—and that blue shape,
That almost seems to float among the clouds,
The Isle of Bute. Look down that dark ravine,
And watch the white and swiftly climbing mist
Rolling in silence up the narrow fissure
Between these rugged, black, forbidding rocks,
Like troops of angels climbing fearlessly
Into a dark, and rough, and hardened soul,
Storming its blackened citadel with love!
The peaks around us have already plumed
Their crests with cloud, so let us look once more
And then descend as swiftly as we may,
Lest, blinded by the softly-creeping mist,
We overstep the precipice, or lose
The proper track and die in the morass.
The summit, and was standing to receive
The first bright glow of morning on my face,
When from his opening tent of crimson clouds
Came forth the risen Sun! The stars have shrunk
Into the cold green sky—the moon is gone—
So pass the wandering lights that led my youth!
The lakes are blue and cold in the deep valleys,
And every isle attracts the rising mist.
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Before the orb that sternly looks on each,
Peering into the secrets of its face.
Across the lakes the spreading shadows flew,
And I beheld the outline of the peak
On which I stood, as clear on Arthur's side
As you may see the earth's circumference
On the eclipsèd moon. Then brighter grew
The aspect of the scene, and those three lakes
That slept between me and the gorgeous East
Began to feel the presence of the sun.
Bright from a spring half down the precipice
Issued the tiny Forth, whose silver line
Followed a winding course; and in the south
That white horizon is the Firth of Clyde—
That hill, Dumbarton Rock—and that blue shape,
That almost seems to float among the clouds,
The Isle of Bute. Look down that dark ravine,
And watch the white and swiftly climbing mist
Rolling in silence up the narrow fissure
Between these rugged, black, forbidding rocks,
Like troops of angels climbing fearlessly
Into a dark, and rough, and hardened soul,
Storming its blackened citadel with love!
The peaks around us have already plumed
Their crests with cloud, so let us look once more
And then descend as swiftly as we may,
Lest, blinded by the softly-creeping mist,
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The proper track and die in the morass.
“Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places, and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains;” not in vain
We climb the hills, though not to worship there;
For though we cannot deem the rising sun
More truly noble than those distant stars
Which are his equals, still there is a power
In present vastness which lifts up the mind
From sloth and degradation.
His altar the high places, and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains;” not in vain
We climb the hills, though not to worship there;
For though we cannot deem the rising sun
More truly noble than those distant stars
Which are his equals, still there is a power
In present vastness which lifts up the mind
From sloth and degradation.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |