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Poem by William Leighton Glencoe MOUNTAIN-TOP o’er mountain rising, Crag o’er crag, and steep o’er steep; Rugged scenes, the heart surprising With an awe profound and deep; Mountain streamlets gliding onward With a swift unceasing flow,— Rushing, pouring, hurrying downward To the rivulet below, Which in mellow music surges All its rocky channels through; And along the mountain gorges Frequent peeps of heavenly blue. All around the waving heather, And the rocks so stern and brown; Somewhere from the far-off ether Dulcet lark-notes dropping down: On yon crag a raven perching; And a mist-cloud, wave on wave, Brooding like some ghostly arching O’er the mouth of Ossian’s cave. And I sit and watch the gushing Of the little rivulet, With its crystal waters rushing On in ceaseless foam and fret; Beetling crags o’erhanging lonely Caverns wrapt in thunder-gloom, Where the mountain-eagle only In their shadow finds a home; Rocks upraised like stately columns; Passes where the wild wind plays;— I can read them all like volumes Filled with tales of vanished days. ’T is a morning in September, And a breeze steals down the hill, Sending all at once a chill Through the frame, and I remember I am sitting in Glencoe,— With its scenery enchanting, With its crags and streamlets haunting,— And my fancy wanders back To that morning long ago, When, across the frozen snow, Echoed o’er the mountains black Warriors’ curses uttered plainly, Women’s voices pleading vainly, Yells and shouts and frantic crying, Clanging shocks of angry steel, And, dealt above the dead and dying, Blows which strong arms only deal! * * * * * Slumberous peace and awful silence Brood above this valley now, As if never sounds of violence Thrilled its echoing gorges through; Gone the clang of warfare glorious! Hushed the pibroch in the glen! Perished all the wild uproarious Noise and tramp of arméd men! Desolation without measure! No sweet homestead here and there; No fair cottage with its azure Smoke-wreath rising through the air! No home sounds to follow after Wild goat’s bleat or eaglet’s wail,— Childhood’s voice or girlish laughter Echoing through the quiet vale! In one spot the ruins only Of the homes of murdered men, Make the loneliness more lonely, Add a weirdness to the glen: And vague thoughts of awful mystery Overwhelm me like a blast, Blowing from the page of History All the horrors of the Past,— As I view the phantoms flitting From their graves of long ago, And remember I am sitting In the valley of Glencoe. William Leighton Poem Theme: Glencoe (Scotland) William Leighton's other poems: Poems of the other poets with the same name: 1200 Views |
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