MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1814
III. EFFUSION
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1814
WHAT He–who, ‘mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms! What! Ossian here–a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; To serve–an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art; 10 Head, harp, and body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing; One loud cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snow– Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, 20 That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood. What pains to dazzle and confound! What strife of colour, shape and sound In this quaint medley, that might seem Devised out of a sick man’s dream! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood! 30 O Nature–in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime– Ever averse to pantomime, Thee neither do they know nor us Thy servants, who can trifle thus; Else verily the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, 40 And Names that moulder not away, Had wakened some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured Spot; Recalled some feeling–to set free The Bard from such indignity! The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together prest, But sculptured out of living stone, 50 And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath–stern sentinel Intent to guard St. Robert’s cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain’s thronged to force From its dear home the Hermit’s corse, That in their keeping it might lie, 60 To crown their abbey’s sanctity. So had they rushed into the grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved retreat, Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the ‘Living’, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim Defeating, put the monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand 70 Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering NID is proud to show Reflected in the pool below. Thus, like the men of earliest days, Our sires set forth their grateful praise: Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare To seize whate’er, through misty air, A ghost, by glimpses, may present 80 Of imitable lineament, And give the phantom an array That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man– Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!– Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust, 90 More precious than a hermit’s dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused. What though the Granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans 100 Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend! Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds; 110 When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder–to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth, Of admiration sprung from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o’erflowing– To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart? Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of theatric taste, 120 O’erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.