 | Dunluce Castle, A Poem |  |
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I. PART I.
I.
Perplex'd in wild amazement's trance,The stranger roam'd on Antrim's shore;
And now had fed his raptured glance
From Fairhead Point to Cape Bengore.
Enthusiast! he had often sigh'd
Those rude romantic scenes to view;
For there, in days of Erin's pride,
The Red-Branch of his fathers grew.
Proud, towering o'er the angry main,
Bleak Fairhead frowns in high disdain;
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As daring heaven's empyreal brunt.
Against his scarr'd and cragged breast
A thousand fractured columns rest;
But not a plant that drinks the air
Relieves their greyness chill and bare.
Beneath, his steady feet sustain
An everlasting hurricane:
For there, in wildest fury frantic,
For ever roars the vast Atlantic.
II.
More west, the varying cliffs increaseTheir fantasy of shape;
And Nature with some new caprice
Has fashioned every cape.
There, bravely shooting from the rock,
A ship seems launching from its stock;
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As bearing homage to the sky.
There giant pillars form a range,
That seems some Gothic ruin strange,
And draw, from him who gazes on,
A sigh for ages that are gone.
There, dungeon of tyrannic power,
Appears a melancholy tower;
From whence, to pitying Fancy's ear,
Come sounds of wail, and woe, and fear.
There, rob'd in venerable gloom,
Seems model of monastic dome,
Where Seraphim of highest class
Descend at morning hour of mass.
And yonder column's long array
Seems order of Franciscans Gray;
Who down the mount's terrific slope,
In slow procession move;
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Huge rocks project above:
Dread forms of Colossean stature,
Whose fall would shake the throne of Nature!
III.
But nearer still, what wilder traitsThe eye with painful pleasure shock,
Around—below—that flings its gaze,
From Pleaskin's adamantine rock!
O Nature! thou sublime magician!
Thou wondrous matchless architect!
What strange fantastic coalition,
Of Horror's savage exhibition,
With charm and smile and beauty deck'd,
Thy wildly scattered spells reflect!
Here, cast in Fancy's every plasm,
The headlong steep and yawning chasm
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Might well appal the boldest eye;
But for the hue, the touch, of grace,
That blends with every harsher trace,
And steals insensibly away
The half of their majestic sway.
IV.
And when at noon the Eye of LightThrows on Bengore a shower of beams;
'Tis then that every column bright
In all its glory streams.
For Beauty there the mountain woos,
Rich in a hundred brilliant hues;
The mellow brown and vermil dye
With every rival ochre vie;
And all so well the contest bear,
That each appears a victor there.
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Arming grotesque the mountain side,
Seems every threatening colonnade
A battle phalanx fierce array'd,
Yet graceful in embroidery bright,
And strange accoutrements of fight.
In every intermediate space,
Half-pleas'd, black Horror shews his face,
Save where in laughing green brocade,
The Shamrock shoots his triple blade,
And waves his honours, fairly won,
In welcome to the summer sun.
V.
In thrice ten thousand columns pil'd,The Giant's pavement spreads below,
In peristyles so chastely wild,
It mocks the wandering sense to know
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Perform'd the Statuary's part!
And sure (but that the vast design,
Which all the schemes of men defies;
Great Nature, stamps it proudly thine!)
It well might cheat the keenest eyes,
To think that human hand had laid
That sea-invading Esplanade;
Its polygons so perfect are,
And vertically regular:
And yet so dark, so fierce they seem,
That might imagination deem,
(Each upward set without its wain)
'Twas even hell's artillery train,
Thus plac'd by demons, with intent
To blast the chrystal firmament.
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VI.
But at the influx of the tide,A fairer aspect they display;
With thousand searching streams supplied,
That glitter to the cheerful ray;
And o'er their heads empurpled glide,
And then, as they decline away,
Run filtering down on every side,
And scatter round their diamond spray,
And murmur o'er their fluted tracts,
Unnumber'd petty cataracts.
Thus, canopied with heaven's pure blue,
Each mountain ting'd with every hue,
And cliff, and precipice, and cape,
Diverging into every shape;
Isles, towërs, colonnades, and rocks,
Inwreath'd with verdure's laughing locks;
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And speck'd with many a distant sail:
And all in radiation boon,
Scintillant to the summer noon—
Well might the prospect most delight
At mid-day the Beholder's sight,
Though every sense was fain surrender,
O'er-dazzled with the burst of splendour.
VII.
And yet not such the Stranger's choice:He better lov'd the scene,
When in the bosom, Evening's voice
Breathes impulses serene.
When shrinks the mind, instinctive taught,
From toil, and noise, and bustle;
And through the busy bower of thought
Romantic fancies rustle.
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'Twas then the sweetest hour he deem'd;
When every grey majestic column
She kist, with lip of langour, solemn.
At such an hour he lov'd to rove
By cliff, and precipice, and cove;
Thrilling at every glance successive
With pleasure almost too oppressive;
Without a friend but moonlight fairy,
To guide his footstep slow and wary;
That paus'd at every shadiest screen,
Where scarce a ray was creeping;
Least it disturb'd the couch of green,
Where Solitude was sleeping.
VIII.
And pausing thus, with pleasure grave,He'd watch the placid ocean-tide;
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That sparkled while it sigh'd.
Or to yon distant Organ turning,
His heart with wild expectance burning,
He'd gaze, till Fancy quickly heated,
And with its own chimeras cheated,
He thought he heard the lofty strain
Adown the mountain float:
Then murmur o'er the rocks again,
In modulated note:
And then with echo sweetly mingle,
In every creek, and cleft, and dingle:
Then breezy voice, and whispering wave,
Their low but dulcet answer gave:
Till, over rock, and cliff, and knoll,
The music of enchantment stole,
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The fondly listening Stranger stood,
In magic ring, unconscious all,
The King of Fancy's airy hall.
IX.
The Stranger far hath rov'd away,Beyond the cave of Port-Cohun;
But what majestic towers are they,
That yonder greet the moon?
And wherefore as the Stranger now
Hath clamber'd up the rocky brow,
And, from beneath yon ponderous arch,
Throws round a look of fond research;
Say, wherefore is that look so fraught
With the dim dew of mournful thought,
As if a sudden shooting pang
That moment on his bosom wrang?
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A Stranger of his peace beguile?
The mighty wreck of elder years,
Can that demand a Stranger's tears?
That Stranger stands within the hall,
Where once his ancient fathers stood;
He gazes on the shatter'd wall,
That drank of yore his fathers' blood:
And in that dear deserted place
No spot of earth his foot can trace,
But that, to Fancy's fond conjecture,
'Tis haunted with some kindred spectre;
In every breeze around him flying,
He hears some kindred spirit sighing;
For Fancy can redeem to-day
The hues of ages past away;
Restoring Time each pristine colour,
Howe'er so long 'twas growing duller:
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What Retrospection waken'd woe,
And dim'd his eye with sudden tear;
He'll find the bitter answer here.
| Dunluce Castle, A Poem | |