LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE.
BY DELTA.
I.
Ere yet dim twilight brighten'd into day, Or waned the silver morning-star away, Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile, Above the mountain-tops of far Argyle; Ere yet the solan's wing had brush'd the sea, Or issued from its cell the mountain bee; As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone, Thy northern slope, Byrone, From Ascog's rocks, o'erflung with woodland bowers, With scarlet fuschias, and faint myrtle flowers, My steps essay'd; brushing the diamond dew From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue. Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing, And soar'd away, to sing A farewell to the severing shades of night, A welcome to the morning's aureate light. Thy summit gain'd, how tranquilly serene, Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene Of continent and isle, and lake and sea, And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree, And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst, Half-seen, half-hidden by the lazy mist, Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound The far off hills around, And now roll'd downwards; till on high were seen, Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green.
II.
There, save when all, except the lark, was mute, Oh, beauty-breathing Bute On thee entranced I gazed; each moment brought A new creation to the eye of thought: The orient clouds all Iris' hues assumed, From the pale lily to the rose that bloom'd, And hung above the pathway of the sun, As if to harbinger his course begun; When, lo! his disk burst forth—his beams of gold Seem'd earth as with a garment to enfold, And from his piercing eye the loose mists flew, And heaven with arch of deep autumnal blue Glow'd overhead; while ocean, like a lake, Seeming delight to take In its own halcyon-calm, resplendent lay, From Western Kames to far Kilchattan bay. Old Largs look'd out amid the orient light, With its grey dwellings, and, in greenery bright, Lay Coila's classic shores reveal'd to sight; And like a Vallombrosa, veil'd in blue, Arose Mount Stuart's woodlands on the view; Kerry and Cowall their bold hill-tops show'd, And Arran, and Kintire; like rubies glow'd The jagged clefts of Goatfell; and below, As on a chart, delightful Rothesay lay, Whence sprang of human life the awakening sound, With all its happy dwellings, stretching round The semicircle of its sunbright bay.
III.
Byrone, a type of peace thou seemest now, Yielding thy ridges to the rustic plough, With corn-fields at thy feet, and many a grove Whose songs are but of love; But different was the aspect of that hour, Which brought, of eld, the Norsemen o'er the deep, To wrest yon castle's walls from Scotland's power, And leave her brave to bleed, her fair to weep; When Husbac fierce, and Olave, Mona's king,[5] Confederate chiefs, with shout and triumphing, Bade o'er its towers the Scaldic raven fly, And mock each storm-tost sea-king toiling by!— Far different were the days, When flew the fiery cross, with summoning blaze, O'er Blane's hill, and o'er Catan, and o'er Kames, And round thy peak the phalanx'd Butesmen stood,[6] As Bruce's followers shed the Baliol's blood, Yea! gave each Saxon homestead to the flames!