William Wordsworth

IX. Address to Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe

CHILD of loud—throated War! the mountain Stream
         Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
         Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
         Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
         Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
         Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
         That touch each other to the quick in modes
         Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
         No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
         Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,                
         Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
         And in dimension, such that thou might’st seem
         But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
         Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
         Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
         Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
         To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
         All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
         All that he holds in common with the stars,
         To the memorial majesty of Time                          
         Impersonated in thy calm decay!
         Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
         Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
         Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
         Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
         Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
         Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
         To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
         In willing admiration and respect,
         Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called          
         Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,
         Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
         The chronicle were welcome that should call
         Into the compass of distinct regard
         The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
         Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
         Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
         Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
         To the perception of this Age, appear
         Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued                
         And quieted in character—the strife,
         The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
         Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803

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