Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR Poet's Biography First Line: Ere yet dim twilight brighten'd into day Last Line: Thy rothesay's lovely bay. Alternate Author Name(s): Delta Subject(s): Islands; Poetry & Poets | ||||||||
I. ERE yet dim twilight brighten'd into day, Or waned the silver morning star away, Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile, Above the mountain-tops of far Argyll; Ere yet the solan's wing had brush'd the sea, Or issued from its cell the mountain bee; As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone,' Thy northern slope, Byrone, From Ascog's rocks, o'erflung with woodland bowers, With scarlet fuschias, and faint myrtle flowers, My steps essay'd; brushing the diamond dew From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue. Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing, And soar'd away, to sing A farewell to the severing shades of night, A welcome to the morning's earliest light. Thy summit gain'd, how tranquilly serene, Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene Of continent and isle, and lake and sea, And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree, And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst, Half-seen, half-hidden by the lazy mist, Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound The far-off hills around, And now roll'd downwards; till on high were seen, Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green. II. There, there when all except the lark was mute, O beauty-breathing Bute, On thee entranced I gazed; each moment brought A new creation to the eye of thought: The orient clouds all Iris' hues assumed, From the pale lily to the rose that bloom'd, And hung above the pathway of the sun, As if to harbinger his course begun; When, lo! his disc burst forthhis beams of gold Seem'd earth as with a garment to enfold, And from his piercing eye the loose mists flew, And heaven with arch of deep autumnal blue Glow'd overhead; while ocean, like a lake, Seeming delight to take In its own halcyon-calm, resplendent lay, From Western Kames to far Kilchattan bay. Old Largs look'd out amid the orient light, With its grey dwellings, and, in greenery bright, Lay Coila's classic shores reveal'd to sight; And like a Vallombrosa, veil'd in blue, Arose Mount-Stuart's woodlands on the view; Kerry and Cowal their bold hill-tops show'd, And Arran, and Kintyre; like rubies glow'd The jagged clefts of Goatfell; and below, As on a chart, delightful Rothesay lay, Whence sprang of human life the awakening sound, With all its happy dwellings, stretching round The semicircle of its sunbright bay. III. Byrone, a type of peace thou seemest now, Yielding thy ridges to the rustic plough, With corn-fields at thy feet, and many a grove Whose songs are but of love; But different was the aspect of that hour, Which brought, of eld, the Norsemen o'er the deep, To wrest yon castle's walls from Scotland's power, And leave her brave to bleed, her fair to weep; When Husbac fierce, and Olave, Mona's king, Confederate chiefs, with shout and triumphing, Bade o'er its towers the Scaldic raven fly, And mock each storm-tost sea-king toiling by! Far different were the days, When flew the fiery cross, with summoning blaze, O'er Blane's hill, and o'er Catan, and o'er Kames, And round thy peak the phalanx'd Butesmen stood, As Bruce's followers shed the Baliol's blood, Yea! gave each Saxon homestead to the flames! IV. Proud palace-home of kings! what art thou now? Worn are the traceries of thy lofty brow! Yet once in beauteous strength like thee were none, When Rothesay's Duke was heir to Scotland's throne; Ere Falkland rose, or Holyrood, in thee The barons to their sovereign bow'd the knee: Now, as to mock thy pride, The very waters of thy moat are dried; Through fractured arch and doorway freely pass The sunbeams, into halls o'ergrown with grass; Thy floors, unroof'd, are open to the sky, And the snows lodge there when the storm sweeps by; O'er thy grim battlements, where bent the bow Thine archers keen, now hops the chattering crow; And where the beauteous and the brave were guests, Now breed the bats, the swallows build their nests! Lost even the legend of the bloody stair, Whose steps went downward to thy house of prayer; Gone is the priest, and they who worshipp'd seem Phantoms to usa dream within a dream; Earth hath o'ermantled each memorial stone, And from their tombs the very dust is gone; All perish'd, all forgotten, like the ray Which gilt yon orient hill-tops yesterday; All nameless, save mayhap one stalwart knight, Who fell with Græme in Falkirk's bloody fight Bonkill's stout Stewart, whose heroic tale Oft circles yet the peasant's evening fire, And how he scorn'd to fly, and how he bled He, whose effigies in St Mary's choir, With planted heel upon the lion's head, Now rests in marble mail. Yet still remains the small dark narrow room, Where the third Robert, yielding to the gloom Of his despair, heart-broken, laid him down, Refusing food, to die; and to the wall Turn'd his determined face, unheeding all, And to his captive boy-prince left his crown. Alas! thy solitary hawthorn tree, Four-centuried, and o'erthrown, is but of thee A type, majestic ruin: there it lies, And annually puts on its May-flower bloom, To fill thy lonely precincts with perfume, Yet lifts no more its green head to the skies; The last lone living thing around that knew Thy glory, when the dizziness and din Of thronging life o'erflow'd thy halls within, And o'er thy top St Andrew's banner flew. V. Farewell! Elysian island of the west, Still be thy gardens brighten'd by the rose Of a perennial spring, and winter's snows Ne'er chill the warmth of thy maternal breast! May calms for ever sleep around thy coast, And desolating storms roll far away, While art with nature vies to form thy bay, Fairer than that which Naples makes her boast! Green link between the High-lands and the Low Thou gem, half claim'd by earth, and half by sea May blessings, like a flood, thy homes o'erflow, And health, though elsewhere lost, be found in thee! May thy bland zephyrs to the pallid cheek Of sickness ever roseate hues restore, And they who shun the rabble and the roar Of the wild world, on thy delightful shore Obtain that soft seclusion which they seek! Be this a stranger's farewell, green Byrone, Who ne'er hath trod thy heathery heights before, And ne'er may see thee more After yon autumn sun hath westering gone; Though oft, in pensive mood, when far away, 'Mid city multitudes, his thoughts will stray To Ascog's lake, blue-sleeping in the morn, And to the happy homesteads that adorn Thy Rothesay's lovely bay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR |
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