 | Lays of the Highlands and Islands |  |
31
MULL.
A PSALM OF BEN MORE.
How beautiful upón the mountains, Lord,
Is Earth, thy world, how beautiful and grand!
Ofttimes with firm unwearied foot I clomb
The old grey Ben, whose peak serene look'd down
In glory on the light careering clouds
That swept the nearer heights; but never fill'd
My wondering eye such pomp of various view
As now, from thy storm-shatter'd brow, Ben More.
How fearful from this high sharp-riven rim
To look down thy precipitous forehead seam'd
With scars from countless storms, whence to the plain
In long grim lines the livid ruin falls,
And think how with a touch the involving blast
From the rude North might seize such thing as I,
And whirl me into dust in that black glen,
Sown with destruction! But such danger now
Touches not me, when in her gentle mood
Nature, all robed in light, and shod with peace,
Upon the old foundations of her strength
Sits like a queen. How glorious in the West
The sheen of ocean lies, the boundless breadth
Of gleaming waves that girdle in the globe
With their untainted virtue, strangely cut
By rocky terraces projecting far
In measured tiers, and long-drawn sprawling arms
Of huge-slabbed granite huddled into knobs,
And studded, far as the rapt eye can reach,
With isle and islet sown in sportive strength,
Even as the sky with stars—the sandy Coll
Tiree-tway-parted, and the nearer group
Of Ulva, Gometra, and Lunga's isle,
And the flat Pladda, and the steep Cairnburg,
Where erst the Norseman, monarch of the main,
His sea-girt castle kept; and stout Maclean
Cromwell's harsh might defied, and planted proud
The flag of Charles, and on the ill-starred clans
Brought loss and harm, and crown'd authority's
Retributive mace. But chiefly, thy dark mass
Enchains my view, in pillared beauty rare,
World-famous Staffa, by the dædal hand
Of Titan Nature piled in rhythmic state,
A fane for gods, and with the memory wreathed
Of Fingal, and the ancient hero-kings
Whom Ossian sang to the wild ringing notes
Of his old Celtic harp, when Celtic songs
Were mighty in the land, and stirred the soul
Of generous clanship in the men who strode
Their native hills with pride, a prosperous race,
Now few and poor by Saxon lords controlled,
Shorn of their glens, and dwindling fast away
Into a name. Nor less thy old grey line,
Iona, holds my gaze, where late I trod
The grave of kings, and by the figured cross
Stood reverent, raised by grateful piety
To the adventurous Saint, who launched his bark
From Erin's clerkly shore, nor looked behind,
Till he had made that harsh grey rock a school
For gentleness and tenderness and truth
And Gospel charms to tame mistempered souls
Through all the savage North. Hence veering round
Southward, Cantire's long arm, and Islay's heights
And lofty Jura's towering tops stand out
Majestic, and the quaint green-vested knolls
Of sheep-cropped Lorn, and Oban's quiet bay
Beloved of boats. And with more distant sweep
Eastward the strong sky-cleaving Grampians rise
From Arroquhar's heights to Cruachan's shapely peaks
And Buchaill's fair green cone, and thy huge bulk
Broad-breasted Nevis, and the mighty host
Of granite battlements that look sternly out
On savage Skye, and with her stiffly bear
The cuffs and buffets of the strong-armed blast
From the still-vexed Atlantic, mother of rains.
These be thy ramparts, Scotland, these the fence
Which Nature raised, to keep thy children free
From the invading Roman, and the pride
Of power aggressive. O! how lovely sleeps
The Sun upon each soft green-mantled glen,
By those grim bulwarks shielded, where the smoke
From lonely hut in odorous birchen bower
Signs the abode of men, the healthful home
Whence breezy Scotland sends her hardy sons
Far-venturing o'er the globe, to win much gold,
And fair approval, and high-throned command,
And all that Earth, a willing tribute, yields
To patient thought, strong will, prompt hand, and grasp
Tenacious. Nor the fervid spirit here
Fails, that beneath a cool impassive front
Nurses the sacred flame, which bursts with power
From Caledonian pulpits, strong to wake
The sting of conscience in lethargic souls
Long drugged to drowsy dullness, or enthralled
By base convention.
Is Earth, thy world, how beautiful and grand!
Ofttimes with firm unwearied foot I clomb
The old grey Ben, whose peak serene look'd down
In glory on the light careering clouds
That swept the nearer heights; but never fill'd
My wondering eye such pomp of various view
As now, from thy storm-shatter'd brow, Ben More.
How fearful from this high sharp-riven rim
To look down thy precipitous forehead seam'd
With scars from countless storms, whence to the plain
In long grim lines the livid ruin falls,
And think how with a touch the involving blast
From the rude North might seize such thing as I,
And whirl me into dust in that black glen,
32
Touches not me, when in her gentle mood
Nature, all robed in light, and shod with peace,
Upon the old foundations of her strength
Sits like a queen. How glorious in the West
The sheen of ocean lies, the boundless breadth
Of gleaming waves that girdle in the globe
With their untainted virtue, strangely cut
By rocky terraces projecting far
In measured tiers, and long-drawn sprawling arms
Of huge-slabbed granite huddled into knobs,
And studded, far as the rapt eye can reach,
With isle and islet sown in sportive strength,
Even as the sky with stars—the sandy Coll
Tiree-tway-parted, and the nearer group
Of Ulva, Gometra, and Lunga's isle,
And the flat Pladda, and the steep Cairnburg,
Where erst the Norseman, monarch of the main,
His sea-girt castle kept; and stout Maclean
Cromwell's harsh might defied, and planted proud
The flag of Charles, and on the ill-starred clans
Brought loss and harm, and crown'd authority's
Retributive mace. But chiefly, thy dark mass
33
World-famous Staffa, by the dædal hand
Of Titan Nature piled in rhythmic state,
A fane for gods, and with the memory wreathed
Of Fingal, and the ancient hero-kings
Whom Ossian sang to the wild ringing notes
Of his old Celtic harp, when Celtic songs
Were mighty in the land, and stirred the soul
Of generous clanship in the men who strode
Their native hills with pride, a prosperous race,
Now few and poor by Saxon lords controlled,
Shorn of their glens, and dwindling fast away
Into a name. Nor less thy old grey line,
Iona, holds my gaze, where late I trod
The grave of kings, and by the figured cross
Stood reverent, raised by grateful piety
To the adventurous Saint, who launched his bark
From Erin's clerkly shore, nor looked behind,
Till he had made that harsh grey rock a school
For gentleness and tenderness and truth
And Gospel charms to tame mistempered souls
Through all the savage North. Hence veering round
Southward, Cantire's long arm, and Islay's heights
34
Majestic, and the quaint green-vested knolls
Of sheep-cropped Lorn, and Oban's quiet bay
Beloved of boats. And with more distant sweep
Eastward the strong sky-cleaving Grampians rise
From Arroquhar's heights to Cruachan's shapely peaks
And Buchaill's fair green cone, and thy huge bulk
Broad-breasted Nevis, and the mighty host
Of granite battlements that look sternly out
On savage Skye, and with her stiffly bear
The cuffs and buffets of the strong-armed blast
From the still-vexed Atlantic, mother of rains.
These be thy ramparts, Scotland, these the fence
Which Nature raised, to keep thy children free
From the invading Roman, and the pride
Of power aggressive. O! how lovely sleeps
The Sun upon each soft green-mantled glen,
By those grim bulwarks shielded, where the smoke
From lonely hut in odorous birchen bower
Signs the abode of men, the healthful home
Whence breezy Scotland sends her hardy sons
Far-venturing o'er the globe, to win much gold,
And fair approval, and high-throned command,
35
To patient thought, strong will, prompt hand, and grasp
Tenacious. Nor the fervid spirit here
Fails, that beneath a cool impassive front
Nurses the sacred flame, which bursts with power
From Caledonian pulpits, strong to wake
The sting of conscience in lethargic souls
Long drugged to drowsy dullness, or enthralled
By base convention.
But I feel the keen
Uncustomed temper of the thin clear air
On this dry peak, where no hot steams are bred,
Creep with a gradual chillness through my frame;
And I must leave thy tale, thou mighty Ben,
Half sung: nor mine, in sooth, the learned skill
To chronicle the story of thy birth
Portentous, then when God's high call redeemed
The elements from chaos, and made Earth
Start from the seas, and bade the mountains rise
With giant fronts star-threatening, and deep glens
Sundered from glens, and mighty plains from plains
Remotely cast, abode with skill prepared
By toilsome Nature's patient alchemy
For man, proud flower and fruitage of her growth.
These grey-blue rocks in shattered fragments strewn
Upon thy aged crown, if they could speak,
Would tell a tale that science tempts in vain
With many a lofty guess, and name the hour
When the same chemic fire that smelts the bowels
Of hot Vesuvius, 'neath her rocky ribs
Mother of fertile ashes, heaved thy cones
From the tremendous depths of boiling seas
With subterranean thunders terrible,
And tremulous quakings of the tortured Earth
In her primeval throes; and say what tribes
Of monsters then first crawled in slimy beds
Unshapely, or with hideous flapping vans
Clove the thick air, and glared with great round eyes
Through the gross mists, that from the labouring Earth
Rose feverous. Thus stirred by Titan force
Sprang proud Ben More to being, what long space
Of centuried ages, ere sire Adam first
Greeted with glad surprise the genial day
I know not, nor much reck. Enough that here,
Last product of the slow-creating years,
Victors we stand, upon so vast a stage,
Where human work well linked to work divine
Creates new wonders daily; I'm content.
Let others probe the immense of Possibles
With proud conjectures, stamping with the seal
Of sacred truth each darling notion bred
Of green conceit, and plumed with windy pride;
Such fair fantastic triumphs I forego,
Sober to seek, and diligent to do
My human work in this my human plot
Of God's vast garden, all my joy to pluck
The noisome weeds, and rear the fragrant rose,
Not quarreling with its thorn.—Now fare thee well
Thou far-viewed Ben! and may the memoried pomp
Of thy great grandeur make my smallness great,
That in the strait and choking times of life
I still may wear thy presence in my soul,
And walk as in a kingly hall, hung round
With living pictures from the proud Ben More
Monarch of Mull, the fairest isle that spreads
Its green folds to the Sun in Celtic seas.
Uncustomed temper of the thin clear air
On this dry peak, where no hot steams are bred,
Creep with a gradual chillness through my frame;
And I must leave thy tale, thou mighty Ben,
Half sung: nor mine, in sooth, the learned skill
To chronicle the story of thy birth
Portentous, then when God's high call redeemed
The elements from chaos, and made Earth
Start from the seas, and bade the mountains rise
With giant fronts star-threatening, and deep glens
Sundered from glens, and mighty plains from plains
Remotely cast, abode with skill prepared
By toilsome Nature's patient alchemy
36
These grey-blue rocks in shattered fragments strewn
Upon thy aged crown, if they could speak,
Would tell a tale that science tempts in vain
With many a lofty guess, and name the hour
When the same chemic fire that smelts the bowels
Of hot Vesuvius, 'neath her rocky ribs
Mother of fertile ashes, heaved thy cones
From the tremendous depths of boiling seas
With subterranean thunders terrible,
And tremulous quakings of the tortured Earth
In her primeval throes; and say what tribes
Of monsters then first crawled in slimy beds
Unshapely, or with hideous flapping vans
Clove the thick air, and glared with great round eyes
Through the gross mists, that from the labouring Earth
Rose feverous. Thus stirred by Titan force
Sprang proud Ben More to being, what long space
Of centuried ages, ere sire Adam first
Greeted with glad surprise the genial day
I know not, nor much reck. Enough that here,
Last product of the slow-creating years,
37
Where human work well linked to work divine
Creates new wonders daily; I'm content.
Let others probe the immense of Possibles
With proud conjectures, stamping with the seal
Of sacred truth each darling notion bred
Of green conceit, and plumed with windy pride;
Such fair fantastic triumphs I forego,
Sober to seek, and diligent to do
My human work in this my human plot
Of God's vast garden, all my joy to pluck
The noisome weeds, and rear the fragrant rose,
Not quarreling with its thorn.—Now fare thee well
Thou far-viewed Ben! and may the memoried pomp
Of thy great grandeur make my smallness great,
That in the strait and choking times of life
I still may wear thy presence in my soul,
And walk as in a kingly hall, hung round
With living pictures from the proud Ben More
Monarch of Mull, the fairest isle that spreads
Its green folds to the Sun in Celtic seas.
38
THE DUKE'S RETREAT.
Farewell the city's dust and din,
The laboured pomp, the splendid rattle,
The war without, the fret within,
The ceaseless tug of selfish battle!
I'll toss no more on seas of strife:
But, drifting to a lonely shore,
I'll slip into a peaceful life
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.
The laboured pomp, the splendid rattle,
The war without, the fret within,
The ceaseless tug of selfish battle!
I'll toss no more on seas of strife:
But, drifting to a lonely shore,
I'll slip into a peaceful life
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.
Green is Ben Tealladh's steepy side,
And soft the plash of waters sounding,
Where fair Loch Baa outspreads her pride,
With fringe of leafy trees surrounding:
There would I lie in careless ease,
Stretched on the green and grassy shore,
And nurse mild musings to the breeze
That pipes around the dark Ben More.
And soft the plash of waters sounding,
Where fair Loch Baa outspreads her pride,
With fringe of leafy trees surrounding:
There would I lie in careless ease,
Stretched on the green and grassy shore,
And nurse mild musings to the breeze
That pipes around the dark Ben More.
39
What though the dress of state be far—
Vain show to shallow thought appealing—
The crown, the coronet, and star—
The bait that lures the vulgar feeling!
Here, of all cumbrous trappings bare,
I wisely use my native store
Of happy thoughts and fancies fair
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.
Vain show to shallow thought appealing—
The crown, the coronet, and star—
The bait that lures the vulgar feeling!
Here, of all cumbrous trappings bare,
I wisely use my native store
Of happy thoughts and fancies fair
Beneath the shade of dark Ben More.
The brae, the billow, and the breeze,
Feed Meditation's quiet rapture;
Or from the scriptured rock at ease
I spell Creation's natal chapter.
The white mist folds its gentle wings
Around the green hill's summit hoar,
And all the power of growing things
Breathes fragrance down from huge Ben More.
Feed Meditation's quiet rapture;
Or from the scriptured rock at ease
I spell Creation's natal chapter.
The white mist folds its gentle wings
Around the green hill's summit hoar,
And all the power of growing things
Breathes fragrance down from huge Ben More.
And when I wish to rouse the brain
From Contemplation's dreamy pillow,
I strive with artful fly to gain
The speckled swimmer from the billow.
And in my rocking boat I sit,
With busy wand and lazy oar,
While shadows o'er the dark waves flit
From the broad brow of huge Ben More.
From Contemplation's dreamy pillow,
I strive with artful fly to gain
The speckled swimmer from the billow.
40
With busy wand and lazy oar,
While shadows o'er the dark waves flit
From the broad brow of huge Ben More.
Or, where the stag climbs there climb I,
And where the noon-day cloud floats lightly,
Number the green isles as they lie
On the broad ocean glancing brightly;
And note Iona's sacred strand,
Where Erin's venturous saint of yore,
With prayerful heart and sleepless hand,
Tamed the wild Heathens of Ben More.
And where the noon-day cloud floats lightly,
Number the green isles as they lie
On the broad ocean glancing brightly;
And note Iona's sacred strand,
Where Erin's venturous saint of yore,
With prayerful heart and sleepless hand,
Tamed the wild Heathens of Ben More.
And when the black squall from the hills
Bristles the soft lake to a Fury,
And down the steep the gathered rills,
Swelled to a torrent, madly hurry;
Then round the cheerly blazing fire
Flies the quick jest and merry roar,
The louder for the tempest's ire
That frowns on us from dark Ben More.
Bristles the soft lake to a Fury,
And down the steep the gathered rills,
Swelled to a torrent, madly hurry;
Then round the cheerly blazing fire
Flies the quick jest and merry roar,
The louder for the tempest's ire
That frowns on us from dark Ben More.
41
And thus I woo my Autumn ease,
From intrigue far, and wordy squabble
Of men, who vainly fret to please
The whim of the unreasoned rabble.
From courts and kings and camps aloof,
Upon a mountain-girdled shore,
I lurk beneath a lowly roof
At the green base of dark Ben More.
From intrigue far, and wordy squabble
Of men, who vainly fret to please
The whim of the unreasoned rabble.
From courts and kings and camps aloof,
Upon a mountain-girdled shore,
I lurk beneath a lowly roof
At the green base of dark Ben More.
42
SONNETS.
I.
BEN TEALLADH.
As sits a queen among her maids, so thou,
Ben Tealladh, mid thy cirque of subject hills,
Crowned not with mortal gold, but on thy brow
With deathless verdure fresh from sky-born rills.
Thou fairest vestal of the Western isles,
Hath no bard yet linked thee to famous lays;
And was it left for me to wander miles
And mar thy beauty with imperfect praise?
Come from your dim abodes, all men who pine
In grimy chambers and dark inky dens,
And look, and love this Queen of verdurous Bens!
Trust me, the primal father of our line
Saw no such Ben, from Eden's flowery girth,
To feed his eyes with wonder at his birth.
43
II.
LOCH BAA.
Lovely Loch Baa, had I, who spend my span
In the hot pressure of a feverish time,
Been born to tell my beads to churchly chime,
When life was tempered to a prayerful plan,
Here I had thatched my hut, secure of peace
By the strong cincture of thy grassy hills,
And by the vow whose chastening virtue kills
Ambition, that makes cankering cares increase;
But sith I am the man I am, and where
The Fate me planted, and the Will divine,
I may but greet thee with a chance-breathed prayer
And seal my homage with one loyal line—
If heaven be fairer than thou art this day
I know not, but with thee I'd rather stay.
44
III.
LOCH BAA: AGAIN.
“Lovely Loch Baa!” so said I yesterday,
Cradled and curtained by the soft green hills,
As on thy sloping beach I twined my lay
To the low murmur of thy tinkling rills.
But now, O Heavens, what gusty horror swells
Thy face, what blackness crowns thy fretful brow!
And, like a rout of demons from thy dells,
What battling blasts come headlong charging now!
How changed, and yet the same! how strange, and yet
How common! Nature hates perdurant peace,
And in the strife which winds and waves beget
From sweet somniferous sameness finds release;
Then marvel not, nor deem the times ajar,
If Celt with Teut, or Teut with Celt make war!
45
IV.
FAREWELL TO LOCH BAA.
Farewell, Loch Baa! the summer's gone, and I
Must go with it; thy heavens are dark and drear,
And the sad coronach of the widowed year,
With many a mournful groan and solemn sigh,
Trails through thy glens. Beneath sweet summer skies
Each delicate hue, each fair fine-shadowed form
Lived on thy face; but now the pitiless storm
Rakes thee with gashes, and thy beauty dies.
Farewell! Grief comes to all. I must depart.
Not even the gods may stop the wheels of change;
Thou hast the better half of my poor heart
Which loves thy bound, more than wide Nature's range.
Roll swift, ye murky months, whose cruel law
Takes light from Earth, and me from dear Loch Baa!
46
V.
BEN GREIG.
Why climb the mountains? I will tell thee why,
And, if my fancy jumps not with thy whim,
What marvel? there is scope beneath the sky
For things that creep, and fly, and walk, and swim.
I love the free breath of the broad-wing'd breeze,
I love the eye's free sweep from craggy rim,
I love the free bird poised at lofty ease,
And the free torrent's far-upsounding hymn;
I love to leave my littleness behind,
In the low vale where little cares are great,
And in the mighty map of things to find
A sober measure of my scanty state,
Taught by the vastness of God's pictured plan
In the big world how small a thing is man!
47
VI.
MULL WEATHER.
Weather!—why blame the weather? on the mountains
Storm with the sunshine weaves the shifting show,
While from the green braes leap the white-maned fountains
With lusty bicker to the vale below.
I'd have him whipt back to the reeking town,
Lord of some breezeless garret in the mews,
Who ducks for shelter when the rain comes down,
And picks his dainty path with shining shoes.
Not so old Ossian, Celtic bard sublime,
Who loved the floating mist and sailing gloom,
And the swoln ocean-wave's far-murmuring boom,
And in the hall of heroes piled a rhyme,
Which on some battered peak a man shall sing,
High-perched beneath the Eagle's stormy wing.
48
THE RUINED CLACHAN.
At Tobermory, o'er the hills
I wandered, when the noon was sunny,
Through oozy bogs and trickling rills,
And hum of bees that roamed for honey.
I wound my way through ferny maze,
A light and random path pursuing,
Till in the glen there met my gaze
A clump of cottages in ruin.
I wandered, when the noon was sunny,
Through oozy bogs and trickling rills,
And hum of bees that roamed for honey.
I wound my way through ferny maze,
A light and random path pursuing,
Till in the glen there met my gaze
A clump of cottages in ruin.
My heart grew sad, my heart grew warm,
The tears adown my cheeks came rolling,
And in my breast there rose a storm
That kicked at reason's cold controlling.
Full in my thought there flashed to view
The rare old life that here had vanished,
The lusty thew, the heart so true,
The love, the joy, the manhood banished!
The tears adown my cheeks came rolling,
And in my breast there rose a storm
That kicked at reason's cold controlling.
Full in my thought there flashed to view
The rare old life that here had vanished,
The lusty thew, the heart so true,
The love, the joy, the manhood banished!
49
Who drove them hence, O who was he
Of hoarded rents a stern exactor,
A titled loon of high degree,
Close-fisted laird, or hard-faced factor?
I may not know: but I disburse
My bile on him, that ruthless actor,
And curse him with a hearty curse,
Close-fisted laird or hard-faced factor.
Of hoarded rents a stern exactor,
A titled loon of high degree,
Close-fisted laird, or hard-faced factor?
I may not know: but I disburse
My bile on him, that ruthless actor,
And curse him with a hearty curse,
Close-fisted laird or hard-faced factor.
Yes, cursed be he, and cursed be all
Who live for gold and counted pennies,
Selling their souls to Satan's thrall,
Who hooks his prey with glancing guineas,
Who cheats the eye with glittering gains,
The painted pomp of life bestowing,
But leaves the blood within thy veins
With frosted fountain feebly flowing.
Who live for gold and counted pennies,
Selling their souls to Satan's thrall,
Who hooks his prey with glancing guineas,
Who cheats the eye with glittering gains,
The painted pomp of life bestowing,
But leaves the blood within thy veins
With frosted fountain feebly flowing.
And curst be all who keep the Bens
For sheep and antlered rangers only,
And leave the green and sheltered glens
All houseless, tenantless, and lonely;
Who love no men, who rear no race
To serve their country, when we need them,
Who for the land that knows their face
Will draw the sacred sword of freedom!
For sheep and antlered rangers only,
And leave the green and sheltered glens
All houseless, tenantless, and lonely;
50
To serve their country, when we need them,
Who for the land that knows their face
Will draw the sacred sword of freedom!
If I had land, as I have none,
The people round me I would gather,
And every lad I'd call my son,
And every lass should call me father;
And to each kilted cotter I
Would say, with word so kind and clannish
God bless you all to multiply,
And Earth with Celtic seed replenish!
The people round me I would gather,
And every lad I'd call my son,
And every lass should call me father;
And to each kilted cotter I
Would say, with word so kind and clannish
God bless you all to multiply,
And Earth with Celtic seed replenish!
But I'm just what I am; and so
Will cease to dream of what I might be:
From right beginning all did flow,
And in the end all things will right be.
A human tear is all I can,
A human curse, though scarcely civil,
A tear for all the oppressed of man,
A curse for all that serve the devil!
Will cease to dream of what I might be:
From right beginning all did flow,
And in the end all things will right be.
A human tear is all I can,
A human curse, though scarcely civil,
A tear for all the oppressed of man,
A curse for all that serve the devil!
| Lays of the Highlands and Islands | |