And that each naked precipice, Sable ravine, and dark abyss, Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show And copse on Cruchan-Ben; But here,-above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, As if were here denied The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, That clothe with many a varied hue The bleakest mountain-side. XV. And wilder, forward as they wound, Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. Huge terraces of granite black Afforded rude and cumber'd track; For from the mountain hoar, Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay, A mass no host could raise, In Nature's rage at random thrown, On its precarious base. The evening mists, with ceaseless change, Now clothed the mountains' lofty range, Now left their foreheads bare, And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, Or on the sable waters curl'd, Or, on the eddying breezes whirl'd, Dispersed in middle air. And oft, condensed, at once they lower, When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower And when return the sun's glad beams, Leap from the mountain's crown. XVI. "This lake," said Bruce, દ whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer, Yielding no track for goat or deer, Save the black shelves we tread, How term you its dark waves? and how That to the evening sun uplifts Which seam its shiver'd head?"- Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, By sportive names for scenes like these. I would old Torquil were to show His maidens with their breasts of snow, Or that my noble Liege were nigh To hear his Nurse sing lullaby (The Maids-tall eliffs with breakers white, The Nurse-a torrent's roaring might,.) Or that your eye could see the mood Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood 'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, For scenes so stern, fantastic names." XVII. Answer'd The Bruce, " And musing mind Might here a graver moral find. These mighty cliffs, that heave on high Their naked brows to middle sky, Indifferent to the sun or snow, Where nought can fade, and nought can blow, May they not mark a Monarch's fate, Raised high 'mid storms of strife and state, Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed, His soul a rock, his heart a waste? O'er hope and love and fear aloft High rears his crowned head-But soft! Look, underneath yon jutting crag Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag. Who may they be? But late your said No steps these desart regions tread ?” |