YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS
IN THE SOUND OF MULL
Touring late in the season in Scotland is an uncertain
speculation. We were detained a week by rain at Bunaw on Loch
Etive in a vain hope that the weather would clear up and allow me
to show my daughter the beauties of Glencoe. Two days we were at
the isle of Mull, on a visit to Major Campbell; but it rained
incessantly, and we were obliged to give up our intention of going
to Staffa. The rain pursued us to Tyndrum, where the Eleventh
Sonnet was composed in a storm.
TRADITION, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue
On rock and ruin darkening as we go,--
Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives to show
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;
From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,
What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.
Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed
By civil arts and labours of the pen,
Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men,
Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed
For patriarchal occupations, named
Yon towering Peaks, "Shepherds of Etive Glen?"
14 In Gaelic, "Buachaill Eite."