William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Gougane BarraSir Aubrey de Vere (1788–1846)
N
Not grace that wins, no charm of form or love,
Dwelt with that scene. Sternly upon my view
And slowly—as the shrouding clouds awhile
Disclosed the beetling crag and lonely isle—
From their dim lake the ghostly mountains grew,
Lit by one slanting ray. An eagle flew
From out the gloomy gulf of the defile,
Like some bad spirit from Hades. To the shore
Dark waters rolled, slow-heaving, with dull moan;
The foam-flakes hanging from each livid stone
Like froth on deathful lips; pale mosses o’er
The shattered cell crept, as an orphan lone
Clasps his cold mother’s breast when life is gone.