The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
121
STAFFA.
I entered Fingal's cave, where some have learned
To scorn the art of Michael Angelo.
They made a most unfit comparison,
Here is not Art but Nature. All is rude;
And the dark pillars are not hewn alike,
But each retains its individual mark—
The impress of infinity. Man's pride
Of great conception and accomplished ends
Is not the glory of this ocean cave.
Look on its pavement—not of marble smooth,
Level, and safe, and thronged with worshippers—
But water full of motion, emerald green,
And effervescing with its inward life.
Between the glossy, rugged colonnades,
Waves sweep in swift procession to the sound
Of their own mighty voices, but the deep
Enters this portal with small reverence.
The waves outside come crowding like a host,
Whose white impatient plumes toss to and fro,
Before the black gate of a citadel.
And one by one they leave the open day
To die in this dull cavern, wildly torn
Into a thousand pouring waterfalls,
As from the slippery tops of broken shafts
They plunge into the concave of the sea.
And then before the dripping stones are bare
Another breaker rises up, and up,
Rushing into the darkness, and you hear
How at the farthest end it madly breaks
Its forehead on the rock, and staggers back,
And backward falling with a lifeless weight,
Stunned, splashing, drowning, senseless with the shock,
Is borne away by the retreating surge!
This echoing strife would drown the chaunt of priests;
And what would learned Architecture gain
By study of these pillars? Look around!
Where are the toys of artificial faith—
Altar or chancel, cloister, transept, nave,
Piscina, credence, organ, pulpit, screen;
Or thurible, or vestment for a priest;
Or pix, or monstrance for the sacrament;
Or candlestick, or sculptured imagery?
These white-robed gulls would make a sorry choir—
They scream less tunefully than choristers.
The time for building pyramids is past:
And they approached most nearly to the bulk
Of nature's hills, whose chambers are these caves.
But wherefore choose this wild and gloomy hole
To shame the patient skill of architects,
Who raised cathedrals twice as vast as this?
Compare the sunsets that you rate so cheap,
When distant isles float purple on the sea,
With all the paintings in your galleries,
And Art is humbled. Place you side by side
A handful of the common flowers that spring
In all damp nooks, with human workmanship,
So handicraft becomes mere idleness.
Planets will bear comparison with balls
That take short flights across a cricket-field;
And gas-lamps look dismayed before the sun,
Although they be the wonder of our streets.
But marble floors of many hues inlaid,
And fair mosaic on our polished walls,
And brazen gates, and ceilings bossed with gold,
And windows that upon the naked light
Fling as it enters many-coloured robes,
As luxuries of worship far surpass
This pavement of wild water, and this roof
Irregularly arched, with fissures rent,
Illumined by the ocean's glancing lights.
To scorn the art of Michael Angelo.
They made a most unfit comparison,
Here is not Art but Nature. All is rude;
And the dark pillars are not hewn alike,
But each retains its individual mark—
The impress of infinity. Man's pride
Of great conception and accomplished ends
Is not the glory of this ocean cave.
Look on its pavement—not of marble smooth,
Level, and safe, and thronged with worshippers—
But water full of motion, emerald green,
And effervescing with its inward life.
Between the glossy, rugged colonnades,
Waves sweep in swift procession to the sound
Of their own mighty voices, but the deep
Enters this portal with small reverence.
122
Whose white impatient plumes toss to and fro,
Before the black gate of a citadel.
And one by one they leave the open day
To die in this dull cavern, wildly torn
Into a thousand pouring waterfalls,
As from the slippery tops of broken shafts
They plunge into the concave of the sea.
And then before the dripping stones are bare
Another breaker rises up, and up,
Rushing into the darkness, and you hear
How at the farthest end it madly breaks
Its forehead on the rock, and staggers back,
And backward falling with a lifeless weight,
Stunned, splashing, drowning, senseless with the shock,
Is borne away by the retreating surge!
This echoing strife would drown the chaunt of priests;
And what would learned Architecture gain
By study of these pillars? Look around!
Where are the toys of artificial faith—
Altar or chancel, cloister, transept, nave,
Piscina, credence, organ, pulpit, screen;
Or thurible, or vestment for a priest;
Or pix, or monstrance for the sacrament;
Or candlestick, or sculptured imagery?
These white-robed gulls would make a sorry choir—
They scream less tunefully than choristers.
123
And they approached most nearly to the bulk
Of nature's hills, whose chambers are these caves.
But wherefore choose this wild and gloomy hole
To shame the patient skill of architects,
Who raised cathedrals twice as vast as this?
Compare the sunsets that you rate so cheap,
When distant isles float purple on the sea,
With all the paintings in your galleries,
And Art is humbled. Place you side by side
A handful of the common flowers that spring
In all damp nooks, with human workmanship,
So handicraft becomes mere idleness.
Planets will bear comparison with balls
That take short flights across a cricket-field;
And gas-lamps look dismayed before the sun,
Although they be the wonder of our streets.
But marble floors of many hues inlaid,
And fair mosaic on our polished walls,
And brazen gates, and ceilings bossed with gold,
And windows that upon the naked light
Fling as it enters many-coloured robes,
As luxuries of worship far surpass
This pavement of wild water, and this roof
Irregularly arched, with fissures rent,
Illumined by the ocean's glancing lights.
'Tis vain to argue—for Sir Joseph Banks
Has testified more strongly to the power
Of this old fabric by his strange mistake,
Than I with all my rule and measurement.
Therefore I will forgive him, though he made
A needless onslaught on a noble art.
Let all be fools in Staffa—for the brain
That is not dead to the divinity
Of Nature is oppressed in such a place.
Let all be fools in Staffa!
124
Of this old fabric by his strange mistake,
Than I with all my rule and measurement.
Therefore I will forgive him, though he made
A needless onslaught on a noble art.
Let all be fools in Staffa—for the brain
That is not dead to the divinity
Of Nature is oppressed in such a place.
Let all be fools in Staffa!
As for me,
I only said, “This is no handiwork
Of any mere mechanic; for I find
No sign of square or measure,—but instead,
Rough blocks for columns, rude and various.
Yet most unlike in its unaltered use
Is this to any edifice of man;
For our cathedrals have survived their creeds;
Their ancient music traverses no more
With waves of sound their ribbed and vaulted roofs;
Whereas the surges in this rugged cave,
Whose date no learned antiquary knows,
Have one eternal law—one endless hymn,
Which they shall sing for ever and for ever!”
I only said, “This is no handiwork
Of any mere mechanic; for I find
No sign of square or measure,—but instead,
Rough blocks for columns, rude and various.
Yet most unlike in its unaltered use
Is this to any edifice of man;
For our cathedrals have survived their creeds;
Their ancient music traverses no more
With waves of sound their ribbed and vaulted roofs;
Whereas the surges in this rugged cave,
Whose date no learned antiquary knows,
Have one eternal law—one endless hymn,
Which they shall sing for ever and for ever!”
125
NOTE.
“Compared to this, what are the cathedrals or the
palaces built by man?—mere models or playthings!—
imitations as diminutive as his works will always be when
compared to those of nature. Where is now the boast of
the architect? Regularity—the only particular in which
he fancied himself to exceed his mistress Nature—is here
found in her possession.”
—Sir Joseph Banks
Let us make the comparison to which Sir Joseph invites us. St. Peter's at Rome, though a “mere model,” and a “diminutive imitation,” shall supply an instance of what man may do, as far as dimension only is concerned, to rival the Cave of Fingal.
- Length ... 610 ft.
- Breadth of façade . 465 ft.
- Height of façade . 150 ft.
- Height of dome .. 450 ft.
St. Peter's.
- Length ... 227 ft.
- Breadth ... 42 ft.
- Height ... 66 ft.
Fingal's Cave.
There is, however, an effect of indestructible strength and overpowering massiveness in the solid walls of columns, whose immense thickness is visible at the entrance, unrivalled in architecture, though nearly approached by the twin towers of some castle gateways, guarding the gloomy arch of the portal.
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