The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
 |
|
 |
THE FIRE ON THE MOOR. |
|
|
 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
207
THE FIRE ON THE MOOR.
The sun is setting. On the hill
A smoke-wreath clinging to the furze
Lies in its light serene and still,
It sleeps and never stirs.
A smoke-wreath clinging to the furze
Lies in its light serene and still,
It sleeps and never stirs.
The stars are out—the sun is gone;
Some ghastly rents of yellow light
Are in the cloud through which he shone,
And darkly falls the night.
Some ghastly rents of yellow light
Are in the cloud through which he shone,
And darkly falls the night.
The hill is dark as indigo;
But where the smoke at sunset lay,
A steady light is burning slow,
We could not see by day.
But where the smoke at sunset lay,
A steady light is burning slow,
We could not see by day.
208
And though the vale is ten miles wide,
We see it through its cloudy wreath—
That red spot on the mountain side,
The fire upon the heath!
We see it through its cloudy wreath—
That red spot on the mountain side,
The fire upon the heath!
The hen-grouse sits upon her nest,
She starts at times with vague alarm;
Beneath her wings her callows rest,
Their bed is soft and warm.
She starts at times with vague alarm;
Beneath her wings her callows rest,
Their bed is soft and warm.
She hears a crackling sound—she sees
White smoke drive thickly overhead,
Like a poor savage when the trees
Burn round her children's bed.
White smoke drive thickly overhead,
Like a poor savage when the trees
Burn round her children's bed.
She feels a suffocating heat,
The air grows denser—hotter still;
The scorching flames blown off their feet
Come roaring up the hill!
The air grows denser—hotter still;
The scorching flames blown off their feet
Come roaring up the hill!
One maddening moment still she clings
To that poor nest; then with a cry
Of torture flaps her burning wings,
And leaves her brood to die.
To that poor nest; then with a cry
Of torture flaps her burning wings,
And leaves her brood to die.
She shoots like lightning through the cloud,
Her young ones flutter in the fire:
The night is dark—the wind is loud—
The flames are creeping higher.
Her young ones flutter in the fire:
The night is dark—the wind is loud—
The flames are creeping higher.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |