Lines Written On Oak Island, Killarney Poem by John Wilson

Far in the heart of Island-solitude
Our tent was pitched, beneath a grove of oaks.
A scene more solemn never hermit chose
For penitence and prayer; nor pensive bard
Wept over, dreaming of his dying hour
And the happy stillness of a sylvan grave.
That ancient wood was breathless as a tomb,
Save when the stockdove in his central haunt
Awakening suddenly a loud deep song,
Startled the silence, ev'n as with a peal
Of faint and far-off thunder. From the door
Of our lone tent, thus wildly-canopied,
Down to the lake-side, gently sloped a bank,
Like the heaved bosom of the sea-green wave;
Where the pure waters of a crescent bay
Kissed with a murmuring joy the fragrant heath,
Impurpled with its bloom. On either side,
As emulous of that refulgent bank,
Hills brightly-girdled with green arbutus-groves
Rose up to heaven; yet bowed their lofty heads
In homage to that mountain [1] where the Bird
Of Jove abides. Right in the front he spread
His cliffs, his caverns, and his streamy glens,
Flinging an air of wild sublimity
O'er beauty's quiet home! Yet, not exiled
Was that fair spirit from the home she loved.
Her sweet smile trembled on the o'ershadowed wave
Even at the mountain's foot; like dew it lay
On the relenting sternness of the rocks;
The black and sullen entrances of caves
Dropped wild-flowers at her bidding; ere it reached
Her ear, the tumult of the cataract
Was pleasant music; but her perfect bliss
Came from the clear blue sky, and from the clouds
That seemed eternal in their depth of rest.
I closed mine eye, that, undisturbed by sense
Of outward objects, I might gaze and gaze
On that transcendent landscape, as it lay
Dreamily imaged in my happy soul.
But all seemed wavering as the restless sea,
Or the white morning-mist. Soon darkness veiled
The far-withdrawing vision, and a blank
Like blindness or decay of memory
Brooded where all those glorious things had shone.
Up started fancy from her dreamless sleep!
For lo! the loveliest of all earthly lakes
(And let me breathe thy name so beautiful,
Winander!) lay before me, in the light
Of the sweet harvest-moon. She, gracious Queen,
Hung motionless above the liquid vale,
To her as dear as her own native heaven!
The cliffs that tower round that romantic shore
Seemed jealous of her love, and gave their breasts
To meet her tender smiles: each shaded bay,
Bright with the image of its guardian star,
To catch one glimpse seemed opening its fair trees;
Delighting in her mild and placid eye
The whispering islands softly hymned her praise:
Gladly had all the woods revealed their depths
To the spirit glimmering on their topmost boughs;
And the far mountains that by day appear
So stern and frowning, by her power subdued,
Flung down their mighty bulks into repose
Like Genii by enchantment lulled asleep!
Then, as if wafted on an angel's wing,
Wondering I found myself beneath the shade
Of my own sycamore, that from its heart
Did sing a mournful and pathetic strain,
Gladsome withal! a strain that lowly breathed
'Welcome, O Wanderer! welcome to thy home!'
A light was in my cottage—I beheld
A shadow move across it—then I heard
A soft step gently stealing through the gloom.
Long was the silence that enchained our souls!
For by his own sweet fire, a husband sat
Once more! sat gazing on his first-born child,
Who on his sinless mother's happy breast
An emblem seemed of innocence in heaven!