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by Gavin Herbertson


  We had about eleven miles to travel before we came to our lodging, and had gone five or six, almost always descending, and still in the same vale, when we saw a small lake before us after the vale had made a bending to the left; it was about sunset when we came up to the lake; the afternoon breezes had died away, and the water was in perfect stillness. One grove-like island, with a ruin that stood upon it overshadowed by the trees, was reflected on the water. This building, which, on that beautiful evening, seemed to be wrapped up in religious quiet, we were informed had been raised for defence by some Highland chieftain. All traces of strength, or war, or danger are passed away, and in the mood in which we were we could only look upon it as a place of retirement and peace. The lake is called Loch Dochart. We passed by two others of inferior beauty, and continued to travel along the side of the same river, the Dochart, through an irregular, undetermined vale,—poor soil and much waste land.

  At that time of the evening when, by looking steadily, we could discover a few pale stars in the sky, we saw upon an eminence, the bound of our horizon, though very near to us, and facing the bright yellow clouds of the west, a group of figures that made us feel how much we wanted in not being painters. Two herdsmen, with a dog beside them, were sitting on the hill, overlooking a herd of cattle scattered over a large meadow by the river-side. Their forms, looked at through a fading light, and backed by the bright west, were exceedingly distinct, a beautiful picture in the quiet of a Sabbath evening, exciting thoughts and images of almost patriarchal simplicity and grace. We were much pleased with the situation of our inn, where we arrived between eight and nine o’clock. The river was at the distance of a broad field from the door; we could see it from the upper windows and hear its murmuring; the moon shone, enlivening the large corn fields with cheerful light. We had a bad supper, and the next morning they made us an unreasonable charge; and the servant was uncivil, because, forsooth! we had no wine.

  N.B.—The travellers in the morning had spoken highly of this inn.

  Monday, September 5th.—After drinking a bason of milk we set off again at a little after six o’clock—a fine morning—eight miles to Killin—the river Dochart always on our left. The face of the country not very interesting, though not unpleasing, reminding us of some of the vales of the north of England, though meagre, nipped-up, or shrivelled compared with them. There were rocks, and rocky knolls, as about Grasmere and Wytheburn, and copses, but of a starveling growth; the cultivated ground poor. Within a mile or two of Killin the land was better cultivated, and, looking down the vale, we had a view of Loch Tay, into which the Dochart falls. Close to the town, the river took up a roaring voice, beating its way over a rocky descent among large black stones: islands in the middle turning the stream this way and that; the whole course of the river very wide. We crossed it by means of three bridges, which make one continued bridge of a great length. On an island below the bridge is a gateway with tall pillars, leading to an old burying-ground belonging to some noble family. It has a singular appearance, and the place is altogether uncommon and romantic—a remnant of ancient grandeur: extreme natural wildness—the sound of roaring water, and withal, the ordinary half-village, half-town bustle of an every-day place.

  The inn at Killin is one of the largest on the Scotch road: it stands pleasantly, near the chapel, at some distance from the river Dochart, and out of reach of its tumultuous noise; and another broad, stately, and silent stream, which you cannot look at without remembering its boisterous neighbour, flows close under the windows of the inn, and beside the churchyard, in which are many graves. That river falls into the lake at the distance of nearly a mile from the mouth of the Dochart. It is bordered with tall trees and corn fields, bearing plentiful crops, the richest we had seen in Scotland.

  After breakfast we walked onwards, expecting that the stream would lead us into some considerable vale; but it soon became little better than a common rivulet, and the glen appeared to be short; indeed, we wondered how the river had grown so great all at once. Our horse had not been able to eat his corn, and we waited a long time in the hope that he would be better. At eleven o’clock, however, we determined to set off, and give him all the ease possible by walking up the hills, and not pushing beyond a slow walk. We had fourteen miles to travel to Kenmore, by the side of Loch Tay. Crossed the same bridge again, and went down the south side of the lake. We had a delightful view of the village of Killin, among rich green fields, corn and wood, and up towards the two horns of the vale of Tay, the valley of the Dochart, and the other valley with its full-grown river, the prospect terminated by mountains. We travelled through lanes, woods, or open fields, never close to the lake, but always near it, for many miles, the road being carried along the side of a hill, which rose in an almost regularly receding steep from the lake. The opposite shore did not much differ from that down which we went, but it seemed more thinly inhabited, and not so well cultivated. The sun shone, the cottages were pleasant, and the goings-on of the harvest—for all the inhabitants were at work in the corn fields—made the way cheerful. But there is an uniformity in the lake which, comparing it with other lakes, made it appear tiresome. It has no windings: I should even imagine, although it is so many miles long, that, from some points not very high on the hills, it may be seen from one end to the other. There are few bays, no lurking-places where the water hides itself in the land, no outjutting points or promontories, no islands; and there are no commanding mountains or precipices. I think that this lake would be the most pleasing in spring-time, or in summer before the corn begins to change colour, the long tracts of hills on each side of the vale having at this season a kind of patchy appearance, for the corn fields in general were very small, mere plots, and of every possible shade of bright yellow. When we came in view of the foot of the lake we perceived that it ended, as it had begun, in pride and loveliness. The village of Kenmore, with its neat church and cleanly houses, stands on a gentle eminence at the end of the water. The view, though not near so beautiful as that of Killin, is exceedingly pleasing. Left our car, and turned out of the road at about the distance of a mile from the town, and after having climbed perhaps a quarter of a mile, we were conducted into a locked-up plantation, and guessed by the sound that we were near the cascade, but could not see it. Our guide opened a door, and we entered a dungeon-like passage, and, after walking some yards in total darkness, found ourselves in a quaint apartment stuck over with moss, hung about with stuffed foxes and other wild animals, and ornamented with a library of wooden books covered with old leather backs, the mock furniture of a hermit’s cell. At the end of the room, through a large bow-window, we saw the waterfall, and at the same time, looking down to the left, the village of Kenmore and a part of the lake—a very beautiful prospect.

  William Wordsworth

  Stepping Westward

  “What, you are stepping westward?”—“ Yea.“

  ’Twould be a wildish destiny,

  If we, who thus together roam

  In a strange Land, and far from home,

  Were in this place the guests of Chance:

  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

  Though home or shelter he had none,

  With such a sky to lead him on?

  The dewy ground was dark and cold;

  Behind, all gloomy to behold;

  And stepping westward seemed to be

  A kind of heavenly destiny:

  I liked the greeting; ’twas a sound

  Of something without place or bound;

  And seemed to give me spiritual right

  To travel through that region bright.

  The voice was soft, and she who spake

  Was walking by her native lake:

  The salutation had to me

  The very sound of courtesy:

  Its power was felt; and while my eye

  Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

  The echo of the voice enwrought


  A human sweetness with the thought

  Of travelling through the world that lay

  Before me in my endless way.

  The Solitary Reaper

  Behold her, single in the field,

  Yon solitary Highland Lass!

  Reaping and singing by herself;

  Stop here, or gently pass!

  Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

  And sings a melancholy strain;

  O listen! for the Vale profound

  Is overflowing with the sound.

  No Nightingale did ever chaunt

  More welcome notes to weary bands

  Of travellers in some shady haunt,

  Among Arabian sands:

  A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

  Breaking the silence of the seas

  Among the farthest Hebrides.

  Will no one tell me what she sings?—

  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

  For old, unhappy, far-off things,

  And battles long ago:

  Or is it some more humble lay,

  Familiar matter of to-day?

  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

  That has been, and may be again?

  Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

  As if her song could have no ending;

  I saw her singing at her work,

  And o’er the sickle bending;—

  I listened, motionless and still;

  And, as I mounted up the hill,

  The music in my heart I bore,

  Long after it was heard no more.

  To the Cuckoo

  O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

  I hear thee and rejoice.

  O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

  Or but a wandering Voice?

  While I am lying on the grass

  Thy twofold shout I hear,

  From hill to hill it seems to pass,

  At once far off, and near.

  Though babbling only to the Vale,

  Of sunshine and of flowers,

  Thou bringest unto me a tale

  Of visionary hours.

  Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

  Even yet thou art to me

  No bird, but an invisible thing,

  A voice, a mystery;

  The same whom in my school-boy days

  I listened to; that Cry

  Which made me look a thousand ways

  In bush, and tree, and sky.

  To seek thee did I often rove

  Through woods and on the green;

  And thou wert still a hope, a love;

  Still longed for, never seen.

  And I can listen to thee yet;

  Can lie upon the plain

  And listen, till I do beget

  That golden time again.

  O blessed Bird! the earth we pace

  Again appears to be

  An unsubstantial, faery place;

  That is fit home for Thee!

  I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils;

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  Continuous as the stars that shine

  And twinkle on the milky way,

  They stretched in never-ending line

  Along the margin of a bay:

  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

  Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

  The waves beside them danced; but they

  Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

  A poet could not but be gay,

  In such a jocund company:

  I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

  What wealth the show to me had brought:

  For oft, when on my couch I lie

  In vacant or in pensive mood,

  They flash upon that inward eye

  Which is the bliss of solitude;

  And then my heart with pleasure fills,

  And dances with the daffodils.

  To the Supreme Being

  The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed

  If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:

  My unassisted heart is barren clay,

  That of its native self can nothing feed:

  Of good and pious works thou art the seed,

  That quickens only where thou say’st it may.

  Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way

  No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.

  Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind

  By which such virtue may in me be bred

  That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;

  The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,

  That I may have the power to sing of thee,

  And sound thy praises everlastingly.

  To a Sky-Lark

  Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

  For thy song, Lark, is strong;

  Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

  Singing, singing,

  With clouds and sky about thee ringing,

  Lift me, guide me till I find

  That spot which seems so to thy mind!

  I have walked through wildernesses dreary,

  And to-day my heart is weary;

  Had I now the wings of a Faery,

  Up to thee would I fly.

  There is madness about thee, and joy divine

  In that song of thine;

  Lift me, guide me high and high

  To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

  Joyous as morning,

  Thou art laughing and scorning;

  Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,

  And, though little troubled with sloth,

  Drunken Lark! thou would’st be loth

  To be such a traveller as I.

  Happy, happy Liver,

  With a soul as strong as a mountain river

  Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,

  Joy and jollity be with us both!

  Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,

  Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;

  But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

  As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

  I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

  And hope for higher raptures, when life’s day is done.

  Louisa

  I met Louisa in the shade,

  And, having seen that lovely Maid,

  Why should I fear to say

  That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong,

  And down the rocks can leap along

  Like rivulets in May?

  She loves her fire, her cottage-home;

  Yet o’er the moorland will she roam

  In weather rough and bleak;

  And, when against the wind she strains,

  Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains

  That sparkle on her cheek.

  Take all that’s mine “beneath the moon,”

  If I with her but half a noon

  May sit beneath the walls

  Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

  When up she winds along the brook

  To hunt the waterfalls.

  Admonition

  Well may’st thou halt—and gaze with brightening eye!

  The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

  Hath stirred thee deeply; w
ith its own dear brook,

  Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

  But covet not the Abode;—forbear to sigh,

  As many do, repining while they look;

  Intruders—who would tear from Nature’s book

  This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.

  Think what the Home must be if it were thine,

  Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,

  The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

  The roses to the porch which they entwine:

  Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

  On which it should be touched, would melt away.

  “Beloved Vale!” I Said, “When I Shall Con”

  “Beloved Vale!” I said, “when I shall con

  Those many records of my childish years,

  Remembrance of myself and of my peers

  Will press me down: to think of what is gone

  Will be an awful thought, if life have one.”

  But, when into the Vale I came, no fears

  Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;

  Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.

  By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost

  I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

  So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!

  A Juggler’s balls old Time about him tossed;

  I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all

  The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

  Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake

  Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars

  Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled

  By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield

  A vivid repetition of the stars;

  Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars

  Amid his fellows beauteously revealed

  At happy distance from earth’s groaning field,

 

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