ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT . INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD SOMERS . While summer airs scarce breathe along the tide , Oft pausing , up the mountain's craggy side We climb , how beautiful , how still , how clear , The scenes that stretch around ! The rocks that rear Their shapes , in rich fantastic colours dressed ; The hill-tops , where the softest shadows rest ; The long-retiring bay , the level sand , The fading sea-line , and the furthest land , That seems , as low it lessens from the eye , To steal away beneath the cloudless sky ! But yesterday , the misty morn was spread In dreariness on the bleak mountain's head ; No glittering prospect from the upland smiled , The driving squall came dark , the sea heaved wild , And , lost and lonely , the wayfarer sighed , Wet with the hoar spray of the flashing tide . How changed is now the circling scene ! The deep Stirs not ; the glancing roofs and white towers peep Along the margin of the lucid bay ; The sails , descried far in the offing gray , Hang motionless , and the pale headland's height Is touched as with sweet gleams of fairy light ! Oh , lives there on earth's busy-stirring scene , Whom Nature's tranquil charms , her airs serene , Her seas , her skies , her sunbeams , fail to move With stealing tenderness and grateful love ! Go , thankless man , to Misery's cave — behold Captivity , stretched in her dungeon cold ! Or think on those who , in yon dreary mine , A mine called the Wherry-Mine , beneath the surface of the sea near Penzance . Sunk fathoms deep beneath the rolling brine , From year to year , amid the lurid shade , O'er-wearied , ply their melancholy trade ; That thou may'st bless the glorious sun ; and hail Him who with beauty clothed the hill and vale ; Who bent the arch of the high heavens for thee , And stretched in amplitude the broad blue sea ! Now sunk are all its murmurs ; and the air But moves by fits the bents , that here and there Upshoot in casual spots of faded green : Here straggling sheep the scanty pasture glean , Or , on the jutting fragments that impend , Stray fearlessly , and gaze , as we ascend . Three or four sheep were seen rambling among the precipices , and picking here and there a blade of grass ; but in general the rock is naked , and extremely steep and craggy . Mountain , no pomp of waving woods hast thou , That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow ; No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread , No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed ! But thou canst boast thy beauties : ample views That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse ; Headlands around new-lighted ; sails , and seas , Now glassy-smooth , now wrinkling to the breeze ; And when the drisly Winter , wrapped in sleet , Goes by , and winds and rain thy ramparts beat , Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof , And frowning , bleak , and bare , and tempest-proof , Look as with awful confidence , and brave The howling hurricane , the dashing wave ; More graceful , when the storm's dark vapours frown , Than when the summer suns in pomp go down ! And such is he , who , clad in watchet weeds , And boasting little more than nature needs , Can wrap him in contentedness , and wear A port unchanged , in seasons rude or fair . His may be Fancy's sunshine , and the Muse May deck his visions with her fairest hues ; And he may lift his honest front , and say To the hard storm , that rends his locks of gray , I heed thee not ; — he unappalled may stand Beneath the cloud that shades a sinking land , While heedless of the storm that onward sweeps , Mad , impious Riot his loud wassail keeps , Pre-eminent in native worth ; nor bend , Though gathering ills on his bare head descend : And when the wasteful storm sweeps o'er its prey , And rends the kingdoms of the world away , He , firm as stands the rock's unshaken base , Yet panting for a surer resting-place , The human hurricane unmoved can see , And say , O God , my refuge is in Thee ! States , anchored deep , that far their shadow cast , Rock , and are scattered by the Almighty's blast ; As when , awakened from his horrid sleep , In fiery caves , a thousand fathoms deep , The Earthquake's Demon hies aloft ; he waits , Nigh some high-turreted proud city's gates , As listening to the mingled shouts and din Of the mad crowd that feast or dance within . Mean time sad Nature feels his sway , the wave Heaves , and low sounds moan through the mountain cave ; Then all at once is still , still as midnight , When not the lime-leaf moves : Oh , piteous sight ! For now the glittering domes crash from on high — And hark , a strange and lamentable cry ! It ceases , and the tide's departing roar Alone is heard upon the desert shore , That , as it sweeps with slow huge swell away , Remorseless mutters o'er its buried prey . So Ruin hurrieth o'er this shaken ball : He bids his blast go forth , and lo ! doth fall A Carthage or a Rome . Then rolls the tide Of deep Forgetfulness , whelming the pride Of man , his shattered and forsaken bowers , His noiseless cities , and his prostrate towers . Some columns , eminent and awful , stand , Like Egypt's pillars on the lonely sand ; We read upon their base , inscribed by Fame , A Homer's here , or here a Shakespeare's name ; Yet think not of the surge , that soon may sweep Ourselves unnumbered to the oblivious deep . Yet time has been , as mouldering legends say , Tradition reports that the rock was anciently connected by a large tract of land with the Isles of Scilly , and that the whole space between was inundated by an incursion of the sea . When all yon western tract , and this bright bay , Where now the sunshine sleeps , and wheeling white The sea-mew circles in fantastic flight , Was peopled wide ; but the loud storm hath raved , Where its green top the high wood whispering waved , And many a year the slowly-rising flood Raked , where the Druids ' uncooth altar stood . Thou only , aged mountain , dost remain , Stern monument amidst the deluged plain ! And fruitless the big waves thy bulwarks beat ; The big waves slow retire , and murmur at thy feet : It is only at high tide the rock is entirely surrounded by the sea ; at low water it is accessible by land . Thou , half-encircled by the refluent tide , As if thy state its utmost rage defied , Dost tower above the scene , as in thine ancient pride . Mountain ! the curious Muse might love to gaze On the dim record of thy early days ; Oft fancying that she heard , like the low blast , The sounds of mighty generations past . Thee the Phœnician , as remote he sailed Along the unknown coast , exulting hailed , And when he saw thy rocky point aspire , Thought on his native shores of Aradus or Tyre . Distained with many a ghastly giant's blood , Upon thy height huge Corineus One of the supposed followers of Brutus , to whom Cornwall was allotted . The rather by him liked , says Milton , for that the hugest giants in rocks and caves were said to lurk there ; which kind of monsters to deal with was his old exercise . stood , And clashed his shield ; whilst , hid in caves profound , His monstrous foe cowered at the fearful sound . Hark to the brazen clarion's pealing swell ! The shout at intervals , the deepening yell ! Long ages speed away , yet now again The noise of battle hurtles on the plain ! Behold the dark-haired warriors ! — down thy side , O mountain ! sternly terrible , they stride ! Ev'n now , impatient for the promised war , They rear their axes At the bottom of this mountain , as they were digging for tin , they found spear-heads , axes , et cet . — Camden . huge , and shouting , cry to Thor . The sounds of conflict cease — at dead of night A voice is heard : Prepare the Druid rite ! And hark ! the bard upon thy summit rings The deep chords of his thrilling harp , and sings To Night's pale Queen , that through the heavens wide , Amidst her still host list'ning seems to ride ! Slow sinks the cadence of the solemn lay , And all the sombrous scenery steals away — The shadowy Druid throng , the darksome wood , And the hoar altar , wet with human blood ! Marked ye the Angel-spectre that appeared ? By other hands the holy fane A convent built on the top of the rock , where the apparition of St Michael was said to have appeared . is reared High on the point , where , gazing o'er the flood , Confessed , the glittering apparition stood . And now the sailor , on his watch of night , Sees , like a glimmering star , the far-off light ; Or , homeward bound , hears on the twilight bay The slowly-chanted vespers die away ! These scenes are fled and passed , yet still sublime , And wearing graceful the gray tints of Time , Upon the steep rock's craggy eminence The embattled castle sits , surveying thence The villages that strew the subject plain , And the long winding of the lucid main : Meantime the stranger marks its turrets high , And muses on the tale of changeful years gone by . Of this no more : lo ! here our journey ends ; Wide and more wide the arch of heaven extends , And on this topmost fragment as we lean , We feel removed from dim earth's distant scene . Lift up the hollow trump A speaking-trumpet lying on the ground . that on the ground Is cast , and let it , rolling its long sound , Speak to the surge below , that we may gain Tidings from those who traverse the wide main . Or tread we now some spot of wizard-land , And mark the sable trump , that may command The brazen doors to fly , and with loud call Scare the grim giant in his murky hall ! Hail , solitary castle ! that dost crown This desert summit , and supreme look down On the long-lessening landscape stretched below ; Fearless to trace thy inmost haunts we go ! We climb the steps : — No warning signs are sent , No fiery shapes flash on the battlement . We enter ; the long chambers without fear We traverse ; no strange echoes meet the ear ; No time-worn tapestry spontaneous shakes , No spell-bound maiden from her trance awakes , But Taste's fair hand arrays the peaceful dome , And hither the domestic virtues come ; Pleased , while to this secluded scene they bear Sweets that oft wither in a world of care . Castle ! no more thou frownest on the main In the dark terror of thy ancient reign ; No more thy long and dreary halls affright , Swept by the stoled spirits of the night ; But calm , and heedless of the storms that beat , Here Elegance and Peace assume their seat ; And when the night descends , and Ocean roars , Rocking without upon his darkened shores , These vaulted roofs to gentle sounds reply , The voice of social cheer , or song of harmony . This and the foregoing reflections were suggested by seeing instruments of music , books , et cet . , in an apartment , elegantly but appropriately fitted up . So fade the modes of life with slow decay , And various ages various hues display ! Fled are the grimly shadows of Romance — And , pleased , we see in beauteous troop advance New arts , new manners , from the Gothic gloom Escaped , and scattering flowers that sweetlier bloom ! Refinement wakes ; before her beaming eye Dispersed , the fumes of feudal darkness fly . Like orient Morning on the mountain's head , A softer light on life's wide scene is shed ; Lapping in bliss the sense of human cares , Hark ! Melody pours forth her sweetest airs ; And like the shades that on the still lake lie , Of rocks , or fringing woods , or tinted sky , Painting her hues on the clear tablet lays , And her own beauteous world with tender touch displays ! Then Science lifts her form , august and fair , And shakes the night-dews from her glittering hair ; Meantime rich Culture clothes the living waste , And purer patterns of Athenian Taste Invite the eye , and wake the kindling sense ; And milder Manners , as they play , dispense , Like tepid airs of Spring , their genial influence ! Such is thy boast , Refinement . But deep dyes Oft mar the splendour of thy noontide skies : Then Fancy , sick of follies that deform The face of day , and in the sunshine swarm ; Sick of the fluttering fopperies that engage The vain pursuits of a degenerate age ; Sick of smooth Sophistry's insidious cant , Or cold Impiety's defying rant ; Sick of the muling sentiment that sighs O'er its dead bird , while Want unpitied cries ; Sick of the pictures that pale Lust inflame , And flush the cheek of Love with deep , deep shame ; Would fain the shade of elder days recall , The Gothic battlements , the bannered hall ; Or list of elfin harps the fabling rhyme , Or wrapped in melancholy trance sublime , Pause o'er the working of some wond'rous tale , Or bid the spectres of the castle hail ! Oh , might I now , amid the frowning storm , Behold , great Vision of the Mount ! thy form , Such and so vast as thou wert seen of yore , When looking steadfast to Bayonna's shore , Thou sattest awful on the topmost stone , Making the rock thy solitary throne ! For up the narrow steps , winding with pain , The watch-tower's loftiest platform now we gain . Departed spirit ! fruitless is the prayer , We see alone thy long-deserted chair ; On the highest turret of the castle is a place called St Michael's Chair . And never more , or in the storm of night , Or by the glimmering moon's illusive light , Or when the flash , with red and hasty glance , Sudden illumes the sea's remote expanse , The shores , the cliffs , the mountain , till again Deep darkness closes on the roaring main , Shalt thou , dread Angel , with unaltered mien , Sublime upon thy cloudy seat be seen ! Yet , musing much on wild tradition's lore , And many a phantom tale , believed of yore , Chiefly remembering the sweet song ( whose strain Shall never die ) of him who wept in vain For his loved Lycidas , in the wide sea Whelmed , when he cried , great Angel , unto thee , The fabled scene of thy renown we trace , And hail , with thronging thoughts , thy hallowed resting-place ! The stealing Morn goes out — here let us end Fitliest our song , and to the shore descend . Yet once more , azure ocean , and once more , Ye lighted headlands , and thou stretching shore , Down on the beauties of your scenes we cast A tender look , the longest and the last ! Amid the arch of heaven , extended clear , Scarce the thin flecks of feathery clouds appear ; Beyond the long curve of the lessening bay The still Atlantic stretches its bright way ; The tall ship moves not on the tranquil brine ; Around , the solemn promontories shine ; No sounds approach us , save , at times , the cry Of the gray gull , that scarce is heard so high ; The billows make no noise , and on the breast Of charmed Ocean , Silence sinks to rest ! Oh , might we thus from heaven's bright battlements Behold the scene Humanity presents ; And see , like this , all harmonised and still , And hear no far-off sounds of earthly ill ! Wide landscape of the world , in purest light Arrayed , how fair , how cheering were the sight ! Alas ! we think upon this seat of care , And ask , if peace , if harmony be there . We hear the clangours and the cries that shake The mad world , and their dismal music make ; We see gaunt Vice , of dread , enormous size , That fearless in the broad day sweltering lies , And scorns the feeble arrow that assails His Heaven-defying crest and iron scales ; His brows with wan and withered roses crowned , And reeling to the pipe's lascivious sound , We see Intemperance his goblet quaff ; And mocking Blasphemy , with mad loud laugh , Acting before high Heaven a direr part , Sport with the weapons that shall pierce his heart ! If o'er the southern wave Alluding to the cruelties committed in France . we turn our sight , More dismal shapes of hideous woe affright : Grim-visaged War , that ruthless , as he hies , Drowns with his trumpet's blast a brother's cries ; And Massacre , by yelling furies led , With ghastly grin and eye-balls rolling red ! O'er a vast field , wide heaped with festering slain , Hark ! how the Demon Passions shout amain , And cry , exulting , while the death-storm lowers , Hurrah ! the kingdoms of the world are ours ! O God ! who madest man , I see these things , And wearied wish for a fleet angel's wings , That I might fly away , and hear no more The surge that moans along this mortal shore ! But Joy's unclouded sunshine may not be , Till , Father of all worlds , we rest with Thee ! Then Truth , uplifting from thy works the pall , Shall speak : In wisdom hast Thou made them all ; Then angels and archangels , as they gaze , And all the acclaiming host of heaven , shall raise The loud hosannah of eternal praise ! Here all is mixed with sorrow ; and the clouds Hang awfully , whose shade the dim earth shrouds ; Therefore I mourn for man , and sighing say , As down the steep I wind my homeward way , Oh , when will Earth's long muttering tempests cease , And all be sunshine ( like this scene ) and peace !