Poem by George Gilfillan

Dunmore

          (From Night)

I LIE, in vision, on thy top, Dunmore,—
Dearest to me of all old Scotland’s hills,—
And see not the well-known delicious view,
The little village with its peaceful spire,
The rivers three, piercing the plain and woods,
To meet and marry at yon simple bridge;
Abruchill Castle, like a silver spot
Spilt by the sun among the night-like hills,
And, shining there in light unquenchable,
The gorge of terror where a fiend inclosed
In “hell of waters” howls forevermore,
Amid thick woods and torture-riven chasms;
Glenlednick’s deep and solitary glen
Returning ever a wild torrent’s voice,
Protesting ’gainst the Caldron’s agony,
To which resistlessly ’t is hurried on;
The long-loved vale through which Kilmeny went
Alone, through flowery heath and feathered birch,
To meet the visions of celestial day.
Loch Earn seen scarcely at the utmost edge,
Like a blue breach amidst the clouds of eve,
And over it, at twilight, huge Benmore,
A purple pillar propping the red sky.

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