| |
| CALL the strange spirit that abides unseen | |
| In wilds and wastes and shaggy solitudes, | |
| And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes | |
| That burst immense around! By mountains, glens, | |
| And solitary cataracts that dash | 5 |
| Through dark ravines; and trees, whose wreathéd roots | |
| O’erhang the torrent’s channelled course; and streams, | |
| That far below, along the narrow vale | |
| Upon their rocky way wind musical. | |
| Stranger! if Nature charm thee, if thou lovest | 10 |
| To trace her awful steps, in glade or glen, | |
| Or under covert of the rocking wood, | |
| That sways its murmuring and massy boughs | |
| Above thy head; now, when the wind at times | |
| Stirs its deep silence round thee, and the shower | 15 |
| Falls on the sighing foliage, hail her here | |
| In these her haunts; and, rapt in musings high, | |
| Think that thou boldest converse with some Power | |
| Invisible and strange; such as of yore | |
| Greece in the shades of piny Menelaus, | 20 |
| The abode of Pan, or Ida’s hoary caves, | |
| Worshipped; and our old Druids, mid the gloom | |
| Of rocks and woods like these, with muttered spell | |
| Invoked, and the loud ring of choral harps. * * * * * | |
| Now wind we up the glen, and hear below | 25 |
| The dashing torrent, in deep woods concealed, | |
| And now again white-flashing on the view, | |
| O’er the huge craggy fragments. Ancient stream, | |
| That murmurest through the mountain solitudes, | |
| The time has been when no eye marked thy course | 30 |
| Save His who made the world! Fancy might dream | |
| She saw thee thus bound on from age to age | |
| Unseen of man, whilst awful Nature sat | |
| On the rent rocks, and said: “These haunts be mine. | |
| How Taste has marked thy features; here and there | 35 |
| Touching with tender hand, but injuring not, | |
| Thy beauties; whilst along thy woody verge | |
| Ascends the winding pathway, and the eye | |
| Catches at intervals thy varied falls.” | |
| But loftier scenes invite us; pass the hill, | 40 |
| And through the woody hanging, at whose feet | |
| The tinkling Ellen winds, pursue thy way. | |
| Yon bleak and weather-whitened rock, immense, | |
| Upshoots amidst the scene, shaggy and steep, | |
| And like some high-embattled citadel, | 45 |
| That awes the low plain shadowing. Half-way up | |
| The purple heath is seen, but bare its brow, | |
| And deep intrenched, and all beneath it spread | |
| With massy fragments riven from its top. * * * * * | |
| How through the whispering wood | 50 |
| We steal, and mark the old and mossy oaks | |
| Emboss the mountain slope; or the wild ash, | |
| With rich red clusters mantling; or the birch | |
| In lonely glens light-wavering, till, behold! | |
| The rapid river shooting through the gloom | 55 |
| Its lucid line along; and on its side | |
| The bordering pastures green, where the swinked ox | |
| Lies dreaming, heedless of the numerous flies | |
| That, in the transitory sunshine, hum | |
| Round his broad breast; and further up the cot, | 60 |
| With blue, light smoke ascending;—images | |
| Of peace and comfort! * * * * * | |
| Pass on to the hoar cataract, that foams | |
| Through the dark fissures of the riven rock; | |
| Prone-rushing it descends, and with white whirl, | 65 |
| Save where some silent shady pool receives | |
| Its dash; thence bursting, with collected sweep | |
| And hollow sound, it hurries, till it falls | |
| Foaming in that wild stream that winds below. | |
| Dark trees, that to the mountain’s height ascend, | 70 |
| O’ershade with pendant boughs its massy course, | |
| And, looking up, the eye beholds it flash | |
| Beneath the incumbent gloom, from ledge to ledge | |
| Shooting its silvery foam, and far within | |
| Wreathing its curve fantastic. If the harp | 75 |
| Of deep poetic inspiration, struck | |
| At times by the pale minstrel, whilst a strange | |
| And beauteous light filled his uplifted eye, | |
| Hath ever sounded into mortal ears, | |
| Here I might think I heard its tones, and saw | 80 |
| Sublime amidst the solitary scene, | |
| With dimly gleaming harp, and snowy stole, | |
| And cheek in momentary frenzy flushed, | |
| The great musician stand. * * * * * | |
| And now a little onward, where the way | 85 |
| Ascends above the oaks that far below | |
| Shade the rude steep, let Contemplation lead | |
| Our footsteps; from this shady eminence | |
| ’T is pleasant and yet fearful to look down | |
| Upon the river roaring, and far off | 90 |
| To see it stretch in peace, and mark the rocks, | |
| One after one, in solemn majesty | |
| Unfolding their wild reaches; here with wood | |
| Mantled, beyond abrupt and bare, and each | |
| As if it strove with emulous disdain | 95 |
| To tower in ruder, darker amplitude. | |
| Pause, ere we enter the long craggy vale; | |
| It seems the abode of solitude. So high | |
| The rock’s bleak summit frowns above our head, | |
| Looking immediate down, we almost fear | 100 |
| Lest some enormous fragment should descend | |
| With hideous sweep into the vale, and crush | |
| The intruding visitant. No sound is here, | |
| Save of the stream that shrills, and now and then | |
| A cry as of faint wailing, when the kite | 105 |
| Comes sailing o’er the crags, or straggling lamb | |
| Bleats for its mother. * * * * * | |
| Scenes of retired sublimity, that fill | |
| With fearful ecstasy and holy trance | |
| The passing mind! we leave your awful gloom, | 110 |
| And lo! the footway plank, that leads across | |
| The narrow torrent, foaming through the chasm | |
| Below; the rugged stones are washed and worn | |
| Into a thousand shapes, and hollows scooped | |
| By long attrition of the ceaseless surge, | 115 |
| Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn, | |
| In their hard forms. Here let us sit, and watch | |
| The struggling current burst its headlong way, | |
| Hearing the noise it makes, and musing much | |
| On the strange chances of this nether world. | 120 |
| How many ages must have swept to dust | |
| The still succeeding multitudes that “fret | |
| Their little hour” upon this restless scene, | |
| Or ere the sweeping waters could have cut | |
| The solid rock so deep! As now its roar | 125 |
| Comes hollow from below, methinks we hear | |
| The noise of generations as they pass, | |
| O’er the frail arch of earthly vanity, | |
| To silence and oblivion. The loud coil | |
| Ne’er ceases; as the remaining river sounds | 130 |
| From age to age, though each particular wave | |
| That made its brief noise as we hurried on, | |
| Even whilst we speak, is past, and heard no more; | |
| So ever to the ear of Heaven ascends | |
| The long, loud murmur of the rolling globe; | 135 |
| Its strifes, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same! * * * * * | |
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