 | City Poems |  |
Tradition murmured of a sullen lake
Imprisoned in the solitary hills
Far off. We talked of it around the fire,
Arranged our plans, and with the rising sun
Our boat was half-way o'er the narrow loch.
How pure the morning on the tremulous deep!
Far to the east two crimson islands burned
Like pointed flames. The sea was clad with birds,
The air was resonant with mingled cries,
And oft a dark and glutted cormorant
Flapped 'cross our path. As silent as a ghost
A whale arose and sunned his glistening sides,
Then sank as still. We hung above the bow,
And through the pale green water clear as air,
The mighty army of the herrings passed
In silvery flash on flash. The glorious main
That flowed and dimpled round the morning isles,
Laughed with as huge a joy as on that morn
When God said to it, “Live!”
Imprisoned in the solitary hills
Far off. We talked of it around the fire,
Arranged our plans, and with the rising sun
Our boat was half-way o'er the narrow loch.
How pure the morning on the tremulous deep!
Far to the east two crimson islands burned
Like pointed flames. The sea was clad with birds,
The air was resonant with mingled cries,
And oft a dark and glutted cormorant
149
A whale arose and sunned his glistening sides,
Then sank as still. We hung above the bow,
And through the pale green water clear as air,
The mighty army of the herrings passed
In silvery flash on flash. The glorious main
That flowed and dimpled round the morning isles,
Laughed with as huge a joy as on that morn
When God said to it, “Live!”
The gloomy lake,
Unvisited by sunbeam or by breeze,
Slept on the ruined shore. High up in heaven,
Rose splintered summits, visited alone
By the loud blackness of the drowning storms,
The momentary meteors of the air,
The solitary stars on windless nights,
Sailing across the chasms: there they stood
In stony silence in the sunny noon,
Crushed by the tread of earthquake, split by fire,
Horrid with grisly clefts in which the Spring
Dared never laugh in green. A weary cloud,
Half down, had lost its way; an eagle hung,
A black speck in the sun. We raised a shout,
A sullen echo—then were heard the sweet
And skiey tones of spirits 'mid the peaks,
Faint voice to faint voice shouting; dim halloos
From unseen cliff and ledge; and answers came
From some remoter region far withdrawn
Within the pale blue sky.
Unvisited by sunbeam or by breeze,
Slept on the ruined shore. High up in heaven,
Rose splintered summits, visited alone
By the loud blackness of the drowning storms,
The momentary meteors of the air,
The solitary stars on windless nights,
Sailing across the chasms: there they stood
In stony silence in the sunny noon,
Crushed by the tread of earthquake, split by fire,
Horrid with grisly clefts in which the Spring
150
Half down, had lost its way; an eagle hung,
A black speck in the sun. We raised a shout,
A sullen echo—then were heard the sweet
And skiey tones of spirits 'mid the peaks,
Faint voice to faint voice shouting; dim halloos
From unseen cliff and ledge; and answers came
From some remoter region far withdrawn
Within the pale blue sky.
On our return,
Upon a shoulder of the mountain streamed
The sun's last gush of gold: above our heads
The arch of heaven blushed with rippled rose
Back to the gates of morning, and beneath,
Each lazy undulation of the deep
Changed like a pigeon's neck. Afar, the house
Sat like a white shell on the low green shore,
And storm-worn cliffs, though inland many a mile,
Came out above its head. As on we sailed,
And as the azure night, which gathered fast
In glen and hollow, cooled the burning sky,
Stole the sleek splendour from the indolent wave,
Drew o'er the world a veil of dewy grey,
The boatmen sang the music of the land;
And, in its sad and low monotony,
There lived the desolation of the waste,
The bitter outcry of the sweeping blast,
The sob of ocean round the iron shores.
Upon a shoulder of the mountain streamed
The sun's last gush of gold: above our heads
The arch of heaven blushed with rippled rose
Back to the gates of morning, and beneath,
Each lazy undulation of the deep
Changed like a pigeon's neck. Afar, the house
Sat like a white shell on the low green shore,
And storm-worn cliffs, though inland many a mile,
Came out above its head. As on we sailed,
And as the azure night, which gathered fast
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Stole the sleek splendour from the indolent wave,
Drew o'er the world a veil of dewy grey,
The boatmen sang the music of the land;
And, in its sad and low monotony,
There lived the desolation of the waste,
The bitter outcry of the sweeping blast,
The sob of ocean round the iron shores.
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