Poems (E. L. F.)/Loch long
ON SAILING ON LOCH LONG BY MOONLIGHT.
Evening shadows deeply fellOver mountain, flood, and dell,And a rich and roseate hueIts own gladness softly threwO'er a scene as brightly blestAs ever hushed my soul in rest. Then the pale moon in silence roseAmid that deep and calm repose,And smiles from heaven mildly bentAlong that spacious firmament;While stars of brightest beauty shone,Dazzling and fair to look upon,As if they felt a presence there,The spirit—passion of the air—A something holy, true, and good,Ruling that silent solitude. Oh! who could gaze on such a scene,Nor feel the power of Nature's sheen,Concentrating whole years of blissIn one deep moment passed like this?Loch Long in tranquil beauty lay,And calm each deep indented bay,And rocky fragments wildly threwTheir rude grey shadows o'er the deep,As if the darkness of each hueCould lull that water's life to sleep.And giant mountains towering high—Earth-born dwellers of the sky—In silent majesty looked down,While moonbeams kissed away each frown,Until they seemed in gladness thereThe treasured monarchs of the air.And gushing streams, in frantic play,Came leaping o'er that rocky bay,Gleaming beneath the moonlight pale,Like waking spirits of the vale,Until they reached that living deep,And found a home in Nature's keep. But yet another lake is there,Enshrined by mountains bleak and bare;Yet wild in grandeur is the scene,And beauty lingers there, I ween.Far on a promontory's keep,Laved by the waters of the deep,There stand, in ruined glory piled,The fragments of a fortress wild—A rude memorial of the past,That still through living years may last;And memory's enraptured gazeGives back the scenes of other days,—And Carrick Castle, bold and free,The land-mark of Loch Goil shall be. Oh! could I live in scenes of love,Or picture visions from aboveWith all the force of passion's powerIn Imag'ry's own magic hour,Thought could not paint, lip could not tell,The witchery of that evening spell. Upon that lake's calm bosom spedA tiny bark, whose sails were spread To catch each zephyr hovering nigh—The soft night-breeze of that pure sky,As ever and anon it came,Retiring yet, and still the same,As if it would for ever keepIts burden on that lonely deep. Hush! for the voice of song is there,A wild and melancholy air,Thrilling the hearts that bark doth bear:Soft o'er the deep its magic fell,Bearing a charmed, living spell,Leaving the heart that mellowed toneThat music gives, and gives alone.Again a voice in cadence roseOver that deep and still repose,And poesy gushed forth its truthFresh from the buoyanecy of youth;And tales of love and gladness wokeIn each heart's home; while that voice spokeFree from the heart, 'twas there to claimAn echo in each listener's frame.And well it told, for when 'twas o'er, A silence deeper than beforeO'er each fair presence gently came,The meetest tribute it could claim;For who in words could e'er expressThe fulness of deep joyousness? Oh! many a year may pass away,And hours of mirth and gladness playAround each heart that beat that day,But there will never come againAn hour of bliss less free from pain;Nor scenes of beauty e'er compareWith what we viewed, nay, worshipped there:In memory's life it will live for ever,While heart and soul beat on together.