IN THE SOUND OF MULL

By William Wordsworth

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, ghost-like, 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 thosefierce Men,

Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed

For patriarchal occupations, named

Yon towering Peaks, “Shepherds of Etive Glen? "