The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE.
“Sing there what thou canst see, sing as if no scald had hymned it before.”
—Hans Christian Andersen.
I dwell in lands whose beauty is unknown
Unto themselves, for they are poor in lakes.
These hills around me have not closely bound
The produce of their streams in the wide valleys;
But through unguarded passes rivers flow
That drain the country, and a growing town
Spreads where a lake's deep bottom might have been.
Sometimes my selfish fancy would conceive
The town unbuilt, the mountain barriers closed,
And all the concave valley with its park,
Embattled hall, and avenues of oak,
And hundred farms, a sheet of silent water,
Wherein the sunsets and the solemn clouds
Might be reflected, and the starry nights
Build their dim mountains on a sky below.
I had not seen a lake (save one small tarn
Amongst the hills, around whose dreary marge
I wandered often), so that in my heart
A passion grew that would have blotted out
Its dearest earth, surrendered, yielded all
Its best associations to the floods.
The towers of Sodom were not well exchanged
For deadly waters, yet I could have looked
On Asphaltites with complacency.
Unto themselves, for they are poor in lakes.
These hills around me have not closely bound
The produce of their streams in the wide valleys;
But through unguarded passes rivers flow
That drain the country, and a growing town
Spreads where a lake's deep bottom might have been.
Sometimes my selfish fancy would conceive
The town unbuilt, the mountain barriers closed,
And all the concave valley with its park,
Embattled hall, and avenues of oak,
And hundred farms, a sheet of silent water,
Wherein the sunsets and the solemn clouds
Might be reflected, and the starry nights
Build their dim mountains on a sky below.
I had not seen a lake (save one small tarn
Amongst the hills, around whose dreary marge
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A passion grew that would have blotted out
Its dearest earth, surrendered, yielded all
Its best associations to the floods.
The towers of Sodom were not well exchanged
For deadly waters, yet I could have looked
On Asphaltites with complacency.
I rode away in summer, when the boughs
Chequered with shade the whiteness of the lanes.
That night I rested near a ruined abbey,
Close by a river which, with level course,
Brushed its right side against a sweep of wood,
Washing the pendulous branches. Like a bow.
Of gleaming silver, lost in meadow-grass,
The river bounded that monastic plain:
The moon was rising on the wooded hills,
And on the still deep waters nearest me
Her image brightened. Then before her face
A broad wing passed, and on the opposite bank
A stately heron poised herself to fish.
I clapped my hands, and that most noble bird
Rose with low-hanging stilts, and head thrown back,
And beak that seemed to spear the lofty moon,
And heavy wings that flapped the dusky air.
Chequered with shade the whiteness of the lanes.
That night I rested near a ruined abbey,
Close by a river which, with level course,
Brushed its right side against a sweep of wood,
Washing the pendulous branches. Like a bow.
Of gleaming silver, lost in meadow-grass,
The river bounded that monastic plain:
The moon was rising on the wooded hills,
And on the still deep waters nearest me
Her image brightened. Then before her face
A broad wing passed, and on the opposite bank
A stately heron poised herself to fish.
I clapped my hands, and that most noble bird
Rose with low-hanging stilts, and head thrown back,
And beak that seemed to spear the lofty moon,
And heavy wings that flapped the dusky air.
The morning sun foretold a burning day;
And when the languor of the hazy noon
Stole on myself and my tormented steed
I saw blue hills afar, and winding past
Sweet cottages, whose fronts of dazzling white
With rose and woodbine nourished hives of bees,
The road more steep now led me up the hills,
Whose curving lines and everchanging forms
I saw before in glimpses through the trees.
It led me out into the open heat;
My weary steed went on with loosened rein
From side to side, displacing with his hoof
Loose gravel and white stones, till on the brow
He rested, sweeping with his silken tail
His tortured flanks, and oft the nerves beneath
Convulsed the shining hide whereon had fixed
Some thirsty fly. Descending cautiously
By a steep road into a silent vale,
Which a bright river watered, we received
A pleasant shelter in green-lighted lanes,
And up the aisle of trees a gentle wind
Came from the stream to kiss and welcome me.
And then the road led out upon a green,
Whereon a little ancient chapel stood.
Here I dismounted, and sought out a pool
Where I might bathe unnoticed. Sweeping round
A wooded cone that bared its rocky foot
And stratified foundation to the stream,
Whose soft hand chafed away its verdant robe
And felt its inner structure; sweeping round
This hill the river held its onward way
In reaches broad and long, all avenued
With lofty woods.
And when the languor of the hazy noon
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I saw blue hills afar, and winding past
Sweet cottages, whose fronts of dazzling white
With rose and woodbine nourished hives of bees,
The road more steep now led me up the hills,
Whose curving lines and everchanging forms
I saw before in glimpses through the trees.
It led me out into the open heat;
My weary steed went on with loosened rein
From side to side, displacing with his hoof
Loose gravel and white stones, till on the brow
He rested, sweeping with his silken tail
His tortured flanks, and oft the nerves beneath
Convulsed the shining hide whereon had fixed
Some thirsty fly. Descending cautiously
By a steep road into a silent vale,
Which a bright river watered, we received
A pleasant shelter in green-lighted lanes,
And up the aisle of trees a gentle wind
Came from the stream to kiss and welcome me.
And then the road led out upon a green,
Whereon a little ancient chapel stood.
Here I dismounted, and sought out a pool
Where I might bathe unnoticed. Sweeping round
A wooded cone that bared its rocky foot
And stratified foundation to the stream,
Whose soft hand chafed away its verdant robe
And felt its inner structure; sweeping round
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In reaches broad and long, all avenued
With lofty woods.
I left this place at sunset,
And slept that night amongst the dreary hills:
The next day's route was on a lonely moor
Beneath a leaden sky. We slowly climbed
A long ascent, my weary steed and I;
And when at last we reached the rainy height
I saw a plain that stretched to the horizon,
Flat from the mountain's foot, and lifted up
Its woods and fields, till level with the eye
They melted to a blue and cloudy verge,
Approaching one thin distant line of white,
That seemed suspended high mid earth and cloud.
That was the sea. Those wild fantastic shapes
That rest on the horizon in the north,
Like heaped-up clouds beyond the fatal sands
Which now the tide has deluged with a sea,
Those are the mountains of rough Westmoreland;
And down below me, by the river Lune,
The tower and town of princely Lancaster.
And slept that night amongst the dreary hills:
The next day's route was on a lonely moor
Beneath a leaden sky. We slowly climbed
A long ascent, my weary steed and I;
And when at last we reached the rainy height
I saw a plain that stretched to the horizon,
Flat from the mountain's foot, and lifted up
Its woods and fields, till level with the eye
They melted to a blue and cloudy verge,
Approaching one thin distant line of white,
That seemed suspended high mid earth and cloud.
That was the sea. Those wild fantastic shapes
That rest on the horizon in the north,
Like heaped-up clouds beyond the fatal sands
Which now the tide has deluged with a sea,
Those are the mountains of rough Westmoreland;
And down below me, by the river Lune,
The tower and town of princely Lancaster.
I crossed the Leven on a glorious day,
Resting at noon within a natural tent
Of leafy branches; and the pilgrim's feet
Were kindly washed by a sweet rivulet.
A range of hills with brows of whitest rock
Bounded the valley like a battlement.
Above them in the sky some level lines
Of slender cloud hung white and motionless.
Behind them rose a tall and splendid mass,
From whose bright sides the vapours loosely fell,
And floated off upon the streams of air.
Resting at noon within a natural tent
Of leafy branches; and the pilgrim's feet
Were kindly washed by a sweet rivulet.
A range of hills with brows of whitest rock
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Above them in the sky some level lines
Of slender cloud hung white and motionless.
Behind them rose a tall and splendid mass,
From whose bright sides the vapours loosely fell,
And floated off upon the streams of air.
The children in the meadows raked in lines
The sun-dried hay from the close-shaven ground,
And bared the silvery grass that blanched beneath.
Some fields whose summer produce had been housed
Already wore a tint of tender green,
Fair as the hue of spring. I left those fields,
And riding up a hill beheld the sun
Set in the mountains from an equal height
Whereon I stood, and like a conqueror
Throned in the saddle traced my line of march.
Like him I slept too in the open air;
A meadow newly mown my bed of state,
Curtained by mountains, with the azure sky
Most richly wrought with heraldries of stars
For its high tester. Tracing those designs,
Swords, belts, and creatures which the phantasy
Of early dreamers hung in boundless space—
Lulled by the music of a waterfall,
And rustling foliage, and the booming beetles
Whose wings were faint, then loud, then fainter still,
As they flew past me—watched by the full moon,
Who kissed me as she kissed Endymion—
Breathing the scents of nature, every sense
Faded in sleep. Stars changed to nebulæ.
All sounds were mingled; and the distant bark
Of moon-struck housedogs mingled with the hum
Of insects and the noise of waterfalls;
Then melted into dreams.
The sun-dried hay from the close-shaven ground,
And bared the silvery grass that blanched beneath.
Some fields whose summer produce had been housed
Already wore a tint of tender green,
Fair as the hue of spring. I left those fields,
And riding up a hill beheld the sun
Set in the mountains from an equal height
Whereon I stood, and like a conqueror
Throned in the saddle traced my line of march.
Like him I slept too in the open air;
A meadow newly mown my bed of state,
Curtained by mountains, with the azure sky
Most richly wrought with heraldries of stars
For its high tester. Tracing those designs,
Swords, belts, and creatures which the phantasy
Of early dreamers hung in boundless space—
Lulled by the music of a waterfall,
And rustling foliage, and the booming beetles
Whose wings were faint, then loud, then fainter still,
As they flew past me—watched by the full moon,
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Breathing the scents of nature, every sense
Faded in sleep. Stars changed to nebulæ.
All sounds were mingled; and the distant bark
Of moon-struck housedogs mingled with the hum
Of insects and the noise of waterfalls;
Then melted into dreams.
When I awoke,
The moon's round edge had touched the misty hill;
And groups of stars had set; and standing by,
My horse was neighing, pawing the wet ground,
And blowing with loud nostrils in my ear.
So I arose, and by the northern star
Pursued the last stage of my pilgrimage.
Star-lighted glow-worms glittered in the fern,
Down in the dew. On one side of the lane
Were meadows covered with a silver mist,
With clumps of wood for islands, which deceived
Mine unaccustomed eye with eager hopes
That underneath that mist was Windermere.
The moon's round edge had touched the misty hill;
And groups of stars had set; and standing by,
My horse was neighing, pawing the wet ground,
And blowing with loud nostrils in my ear.
So I arose, and by the northern star
Pursued the last stage of my pilgrimage.
Star-lighted glow-worms glittered in the fern,
Down in the dew. On one side of the lane
Were meadows covered with a silver mist,
With clumps of wood for islands, which deceived
Mine unaccustomed eye with eager hopes
That underneath that mist was Windermere.
I passed a silent village, still as death;
Then by the cold light of the breaking day
Explored a path that led me to the lake.
It was a mirror which the sleepy night
Had clouded with her breath. The wooded isles
Arose like bergs of green fantastic ice,
With snowy fissures from a polar sea.
Across the lake a lofty range arose,
Guarding the other shore, with gloomy heights
Reflected deep; but far the northern peaks
Were faintly purple—over miles of lake
Casting no image. All was like a dream—
The living mist, the islands, and the hills,
The pale cold stars, dim light, and yellow east.
I felt like some knight-errant who had strayed
Through midnight regions till he reined his steed
On some enchanted shore of Fairyland.
Answer me, Echo! thrice the bullet splashed,
And thrice it broke the surface of the lake;
Still no reply—sweet Echo dwells not here.
Wait! she had heard my single-voiced salute,
And was preparing a more royal volley.
From the dark fortress of the opposite hill
A rattling peal of musketry was poured;
Then faint with distance roared the purple north,
Again the nearer mountains, and again!
Then by the cold light of the breaking day
Explored a path that led me to the lake.
It was a mirror which the sleepy night
Had clouded with her breath. The wooded isles
Arose like bergs of green fantastic ice,
With snowy fissures from a polar sea.
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Guarding the other shore, with gloomy heights
Reflected deep; but far the northern peaks
Were faintly purple—over miles of lake
Casting no image. All was like a dream—
The living mist, the islands, and the hills,
The pale cold stars, dim light, and yellow east.
I felt like some knight-errant who had strayed
Through midnight regions till he reined his steed
On some enchanted shore of Fairyland.
Answer me, Echo! thrice the bullet splashed,
And thrice it broke the surface of the lake;
Still no reply—sweet Echo dwells not here.
Wait! she had heard my single-voiced salute,
And was preparing a more royal volley.
From the dark fortress of the opposite hill
A rattling peal of musketry was poured;
Then faint with distance roared the purple north,
Again the nearer mountains, and again!
At noon I started from a dreamless rest,
And pulled all day a boat from isle to isle.
The scene had changed, its mystery was gone,
But perfect beauty loses not a charm
By that exposure which reveals it more.
The sleepy mist had soared into the sky,
And rolled in massive heaps of sunny cloud,
Casting swift shadows down upon the hills;
And rounded knolls of green, where all was blue
And flat before, were gleaming in the sun.
The starlight icebergs changed to island groves,
And by their lawny shores and pendulous boughs
I glided smoothly. You might see the rocks
That heaped the spreading base of every isle,
In grey clear detail underneath the boat
Sloping away into the darkest depth
Like the broad feet of mountains. Bright as gods
With glowing figures, naked in the sun,
Some groups of boys are bathing near the bank.
White sails are shining out against the trees
That greenly plume the islands. Many boats
Are glancing past me, and their flashing oars
Are doubled by reflections white and blue.
The crowded steamer leaves the village pier;
Its paddles splash; it flaunts a gaudy flag;
And brazen music loudens into noise
As its black hull approaches—it is past.
A smoke wreath curls between me and the sun;
And the poor stricken water swells in waves,
Not like the glad excitement of a storm,
But very whales of torture—painful hurts,
That grate my boat in madness on the rocks.
And pulled all day a boat from isle to isle.
The scene had changed, its mystery was gone,
But perfect beauty loses not a charm
By that exposure which reveals it more.
The sleepy mist had soared into the sky,
And rolled in massive heaps of sunny cloud,
Casting swift shadows down upon the hills;
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And flat before, were gleaming in the sun.
The starlight icebergs changed to island groves,
And by their lawny shores and pendulous boughs
I glided smoothly. You might see the rocks
That heaped the spreading base of every isle,
In grey clear detail underneath the boat
Sloping away into the darkest depth
Like the broad feet of mountains. Bright as gods
With glowing figures, naked in the sun,
Some groups of boys are bathing near the bank.
White sails are shining out against the trees
That greenly plume the islands. Many boats
Are glancing past me, and their flashing oars
Are doubled by reflections white and blue.
The crowded steamer leaves the village pier;
Its paddles splash; it flaunts a gaudy flag;
And brazen music loudens into noise
As its black hull approaches—it is past.
A smoke wreath curls between me and the sun;
And the poor stricken water swells in waves,
Not like the glad excitement of a storm,
But very whales of torture—painful hurts,
That grate my boat in madness on the rocks.
I rowed till dusk, and then a gentle breeze
Rippled the water white beneath the sky;
But in the west the sun had left a haze
Of crimson richness, and the wooded shores
And verdant knolls again were lost in blue.
Unmarked with detail, all the distant hills,
From rugged outline and exalted peak
To the white level of the rippling mere,
Were filled in with a cold and even blue,
A little purple near the crimson mist.
The nearer mountain was a sombre brown,
Like an old painter's background, and the lake
Reflecting it; no shore was visible—
The hill and its reflection massed in one.
An island lay between me and the moon
Like a black hulk; but as I glided past,
That gloomy island seemed to float away,
Revealing on the wavelets such a path
Of silver light as angels' feet might tread.
Then music reached me from a distant band,
And I was left as lonely as before,
When under morning stars I reined my steed
On the cold shore of mystic Windermere.
Rippled the water white beneath the sky;
But in the west the sun had left a haze
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And verdant knolls again were lost in blue.
Unmarked with detail, all the distant hills,
From rugged outline and exalted peak
To the white level of the rippling mere,
Were filled in with a cold and even blue,
A little purple near the crimson mist.
The nearer mountain was a sombre brown,
Like an old painter's background, and the lake
Reflecting it; no shore was visible—
The hill and its reflection massed in one.
An island lay between me and the moon
Like a black hulk; but as I glided past,
That gloomy island seemed to float away,
Revealing on the wavelets such a path
Of silver light as angels' feet might tread.
Then music reached me from a distant band,
And I was left as lonely as before,
When under morning stars I reined my steed
On the cold shore of mystic Windermere.
This poem is in every respect a study from nature. In the summer of 1852 I rode on horseback through the English Lake District; and, leaving my horse at Penrith, extended my journey to the Hebrides. “Staffa” and “Sunrise on Ben Lomond” owe their origin to the same tour. The scene of the bivouac was the valley of Crosthwaite in Westmoreland.
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