Not a mountain rears its head unsung.”
Oh ! who would think, in cheerless solitude,1
Who o’er these twilight waters glided slow,2
That genius, with a time-surviving glow,3
These wild lone scenes so proudly hath embued !4
Or that from “ ‘ hum of men” so far remote,5
Where blue waves gleam, and mountains darken round,6
And trees with broad boughs shed a gloom profound,7
A poet here should from his tractless thought8
Elysian prospects conjure up, and sing9
Of bright achievements in the olden days,10
When chieftain valour sued for Beauty’s praise,11
And magic virtues charmed St Fillan’s spring ;12
Until in worlds, where Chilian mountains raise13
Their cloud-capt heads, oak souls should wing14
Hither their flight to wilds, whereon I gaze.15
No one can feel sufficient indignation at the outrage against nature, which has recently
been committed in the sale and destruction of the wood on the Trosachs. For a few
paltry pounds, one of Scotland’s classic scenes, and one of her most romantic, has been
defaced. Public subscription would have given ten times as much to have saved it.