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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.

Kilchurn Castle

Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe

By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  • “From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view,—a ruined castle on an island (for an island the flood had made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a cove of the mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The castle occupied every foot of the island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water,—mists rested upon the mountain-side, with spots of sunshine; there was a wild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately,—not dismantled of turrets, nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin.”—Extract from the Journal of my Companion.

  • 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.

    O, 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 loath, in favor 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!