Part The First

Harp of the Cumbrian! if presuming hand
May all unasked attune thy sacred string,
If he who wanders through thy fairy land
Should feel his heart to its enchantments cling,
If Fancy o'er him spread her radiant wing;
Deny not thou thy wildest, sweetest tone,
Nor chide the boldness of his lingering
Who calls the spirit of thy numbers down,
The fervour of his thoughts, with thy kind power, to crown.

No master's hand I boast, — no wizard's spell,
To rouse the tones which to thy chords belong,—
No minstrel touch, to wake the matchless swell
Of mighty harping or triumphant song,
Like his who moved the battle's madd'ning throng;
Yet may fair Derwent well deserve the lay
Thou oft hast poured his beauteous fields among,
And thus I crave thy soul-subduing sway,
With wonted strains, to cheer my long and toilsome way.

For thee, dear harp, a chaplet of young flowers
I glad would twine, in rapture gathered
'Mong thine own mountain shades and island bowers,
Where the rich year its varied gifts hath spread.
Oh! let the blessings of the Nine be shed
Upon my humble offering; nor deny
The wreath of song, to grace thy votary's head;
But let thy praise, in tempered strains, supply
Harmonious meed to him who craves thy minstrelsy!

The stars are twinkling in the midnight sky,
The moon is marching, in her full array,
Along the summit of the mountains high
That skirt the shepherd's solitary way;
Around is flung a shade of deepest gray,
O'er rocks which have withstood, in giant might,
The storms of ages, — save where frequent play
Swift fitful gleams, as of unholy light,
Now hid in passing gloom — now bursting on the sight.

No turret here is glittering in the beam
Of the bright heav'n, where feudal pomp and pride
Have raised their banner, its soft glances stream
Cheering the bark, on no wide-swelling tide;
But, through the awful gloom afar descried,
Mountains, on mountains heaped, alone are here,
And massy piles of rock, which well divide
The distant dwellings of the mountaineer:
These are no courts of state — but, citadels of fear!

In days of old, when robber-might was law,
Here did, perchance, some ruffian bandit dwell,—
And, from these seats of solitude and awe,
On the calm valley or th' untrodden fell
Come forth, the sounds of turbulence to quell
Of those who scorned his word; some patriot chief
Here, too, — Helvetia's boast! — unconquered Tell
Perchance hath rivaled, and, with summons brief,
Deep graved of tyrant's faith his zealous disbelief.

It is the hour when spirits are awake
And, on the moon-beams, gliding through the air,
And, o'er these realms, the elvish genii take
Their pastime, — or the lonely red-deer's lair,
Or eagle's lofty eyrie is their care;
And here they hold dominion in the wild
Which scorns the steps of drudging crowds to bear,
And where the hues of art have never smiled
Upon th' untutored hind, or desart's storm-worn child.

And I am standing in this mighty spot
Secure, unharmed, and midst a scene as rude
As eye of man hath seen; — the fabled grot
Old Merlin loved, encaved in solitude,
Could boast not charms which these bleak rocks include
In their domain, — and, though the air is still
And every spot undwelt in, yet, indued
With forms to win the stranger, each gray hill
Hath power with thoughts of joy the rapturous mind to fill.

For here a mirror to the stars is spread
And plenty hath unbound her choicest store,
Where yon small streamlet, like a silver thread,
Winds from the ridges of these mountains hoar.
Nature! oh, who to thy high courts shall soar?
Supreme in pure beneficence art thou!
And whether wandering on the fertile shore,
Where laden waves with freights of commerce flow,
Or, on the torrent's bank, to thee, entranced, we bow!—

And here the lovely Derwent first doth stray
In devious eddyings from its crystal well.
Child of the wilderness! whose winding way
Cheers the wide waste and the romantic dell,
Who shall the blessings of thy wanderings tell?
Cradled where storm and tempest hold their sway,
With smiling course thou comest, to dispel
Drearness and desolation, and display
On thy calm breast diffused compassion's heavenly ray.

Again, descending swift, its waters form
A silvery tarn, where, on the cloud-capt Stye
Are marks of many a rude and fearful storm:
Clear is the star-bespangled arch on high,
And clear this mirror of its majesty.
And here I gazed in silent thankfulness,
When on the mighty pass, rejoiced to see,
In dreary wilds, how Nature's hand can bless
The heart which owns her rule, with an unsought caress.

Bright image of yon blue and cloudless sky!
In these deep solitudes by man untrod,
Oh let the poet's moralizing eye
Muse on the wonders of Creation's God!
In the hot desart — in the verdant sod—
In the dark forest — there his marvels shine;
And, when earth trembles at his awful nod,
Prostrate man falls at the untainted shrine
Which Nature's hand hath reared with bountiful design.

But meditating on a scene like this,
If e'er devotion kindle in the breast;
If ever visions of substantial bliss
Burst on the sight; or, if the heart be blest
With feelings of enjoyment in its rest:
If intuition of hereafter be
Permitted unto mortals, manifest
In dreams; — here, may the mind those visions see,
And, gazing here, believe their forms with truth agree.

For calmness doth engirdle the wide heaven;
Emblem of peace hereafter, silence sleeps
Pillowed upon the hills; to earth is given
A deathlike stillness, and the rivulet creeps
Waveless and blue, amidst the flowery steeps;
Beauty hath cast her veil o'er all; the vale below
Dimly and indistinct, through distance peeps;
And all is placid, as the martyr's brow
Round which Religion loves her brightest hopes to throw.

The mist in many a playful volume twines
On the far Pikes, like virgin's burial pall,
And on its changing wreaths the moon-beam shines,
Like burnished armour on the trophied wall
Of some cathedral or ancestral hall;
And where the berried ash its arms doth raise
In the dim light, like shadows mystical,
With spangled leaves, up to the midnight blaze
Of thousand worlds, — what spirit is there, but obeys—

The call of objects, though inanimate,
Yet, eloquent of praise to Him who gave
The eye to see and mind to penetrate
The mysteries of Creation? Not a cave,
Through which meanders ocean's summer wave,
But speaks of Him, — and the unnoticed stone
Which sparkles in the brook His hands engrave
With lessons for man's practice, who alone
Scorns to do homage, due at his all-seeing throne—

Which is apparent in the grain of sand,
As in each beauteously compacted sphere
Wherein his visible glory doth command
An universal worship. And though here
In clouds and darkness wrapped our paths appear;
Still must enjoyment gratitude excite
To Him who shall our earthly prospect clear:
Though grovelling in the dust, or, in exalted might,
Each scene hath its own charms — each change should bring delight.

Oh! who can well refuse to join the wide
And silent homage which all creatures shew?—
Who will not bend from his too-jealous pride
Before the image of his God to throw
His prostrate form? when leaf and blossom glow
With characters imprest of praise; whilst wave
Trees, shrubs, and flowers, to Him who did bestow
Their beauty and their verdure — Him who gave
The clearness to the streams which their rich fruitage lave?

The mind that will devotion may extract
From rock, or river, mountain, herb or tree—
From the hoarse thunder of the cataract,
Or the sweet music of a stormless sea;
For Nature keeps perpetual jubilee—
And, in each lifeless, as each living thing,
This is their blest immutable decree,—
That offerings of unfeigned love should spring
To EARTH'S ALMIGHTY LORD and HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING.

—The pass is won, and by the dimpling stream
Lies not our path. With widely-foaming wave
Speeds the prone torrent, and the moon's pale glean
Beholds no more the image which it gave;
Hoarse down the steep the hurrying waters rave,
And now they leap, in gladness, far below,
And the firm base of their own mountains lave;
Till, winding onward with serener flow,
A wider stream they form, a deeper flood they grow.

Our way is rugged, but, at length, we pass
Close on the margin of the swelling flood
Which cleaves a passage, where wild brakes and grass
Weave a rich carpet in th' embowering wood,
Through which it pours in an ambitious mood
Its cataract to the dimly-opening vale;
Near the dark mine which lifts its drear abode
Far up those rocks, whence glead and eagle sail,
And wing their stormy course o'er frighted Borrodale.

Upon this bridge, whose ruined arch betrays
The deeds of wintry tempests, let us stay,
To watch the sun with his enkindling blaze
Illume the rosy portals of the day:
Upon the hills, the flocks untended stray;
From the deep vale the early mist is stealing;
Where wound, of late, our wild and cheerless way,
The dewy morn, ten thousand charms revealing,
Stirs in each joyous breast a calm and holy feeling.

The hamlets' peaceful cots are spread before,
With rustic porch and walls all-garlanded;
Upon the sward, the dalesman's humble store,
In undisturbed security, is spread:
Uncertain pathways to his venturous tread—
Lo! rise behind, around, in wondrous size
His guardian mountains, where, untutored
And all untainted by the world's emprise,
He hails his native cot, nor pants for distant skies.

Oh, thou! the passion which hath planted here
In rugged breasts, in minds untaught, thy throne,
Thee must each heart unstained by guilt revere,
The guardian genius of these vallies lone;—
Where'er the sun from his high course looks down
On the abodes of men, confest art thou,
Cheering the mountaineer with holy tone,
And wiping from the peasant's grief-worn brow
The cares which deep have sown an early winter's snow!

'Twas this which nerved the fathers of our land,
When conquest o'er them her red brand did wield:
'Twas this which made the rough barbarian stand
The sole defender of his native field;
A safer trust, than warrior's blood-stained shield,
It was a buckler for the heart, — and he
Who looked to see the unskilled savage yield
Beheld th' oppressor in his boasting flee,
And the despised foe possess the mastery.

Helvetia's hills have heard the deathless shout
Which roused the spirit of th' unconquered host,
And echoed strains whose thrilling tones sent out
Her brave defenders to their dangerous post;
Valour hath warbled been from many a coast;
And Greece hath many a stirring tale of old,
Such as the brave alone may make their boast,
When, from each mountain-glen and rocky hold,
Came forth the patriot bands, in conscious virtue bold.

The echo of that shout not yet hath died:
But, from the plains of Attica, it thrills,
And, borne afar on glory's ebbless tide,
Wakes in each breast the dauntless hope which fills
The heart of millions: on their native hills,
In all the pride which Asia's tyrant saw,
Yet arm the warriors, and, though faith instils
Respect for thrones and for reproachless law,
When blood calls forth the sword, 'tis sanctity to draw.

Oh, Greece! thou faery-land of school-boy hours—
Thou earthly paradise of youthful dreams—
How have I rambled through thy classic bowers,
And hung in fancy o'er thy fabled streams!
And now again the sun of glory gleams
From its pure heaven; and Victory's angel smiles;
And all that valour deems immortal beams
Around thy lovely vales and sunny isles;
And hosts are met again, in thy unstained defiles;—

And heroes, as of old, undaunted rise,
Called to the battle for thy hearths and fanes;
And banners float in thy unruffled skies,
And warlike music echoes from thy plains,
And swords leap forth at the inspiring strains:—
Who would not rush to combat for thy sake—
When she they love of foreign yoke complains?
Oh Europe! may thy valiant spirit wake
And the oppressor from his grasp of bondage shake!

But right must nerve the arm, not fancied wrongs,
Oppression only calls for such event;—
Thus much to thoughts of valiant deed belongs
And, with a hope for just success, are sent
These greetings from the mountains, where content
Hath spread her store and humble virtues dwell,—
From scenes, where the proud victor's monument
Hath never frowned upon the dale or fell,
And the awakened winds no tales of horror tell.

Upon the hills the smiles of morning rest;
Darkness is in the vales, but, soon will be
Lost in the day-beam, as the moon's high crest
Casts night's bright image o'er a tranquil sea;
The song of peace is rising merrily—
As we our pilgrimage rejoiced resume—
From the low cot and from the shady tree,
And, past away the night's concealing gloom,
The bird is soaring tip on his unfurled plume.

Confined within a rude and narrow bed
Winds the swift stream; on either side arise,
Like walls by giant hands upreared in dread,
Steeps that seem canopied by silken skies,
With forms, in mockery of man's rare device,
Turrets, and towers, and time-worn battlements,
And groves which clothe their sides, whose dwindled size
Shows like adornments on a tapestried tent,
Or imaged forms of old with decorations blent.

As a young lion, in its playful mood,
With wanton gambols, joins its wild compeers,
Lords of the forest; — so, the brother flood
Forth from the huge Bow-Fell majestic steers
Its turbulent course, and sparkling now appears
Midst rocks and trees which these defiles have graced,
And round the Eagle's lofty crag it veers,
Spreading a smile through each unsolaced waste,
As on its way it goes, in rioting and haste.

And here, amidst the hills together thrown,
Chaos of mountains! — let me mark thy height,
Thou aged rock, o'er whose huge peak looks down
The towering eagle in his dizzy flight,
Or whence with talon rude and ruthless might
He bears to his far eyrie his young prey!
Well mayst thou claim the wearied shepherd's sight,
Who, haply wandering in some trackless way,
Beholds thy summits lit by Cynthia's cheering ray!

Through many an arch its waters hurrying on,
Where Folly hath enregistered her deeds,
At length, the stream a widening course hath won
That unto Rosthwaite's fertile hamlet leads:
Here might the joyous pilgrim count his beads
And rest from toil, his care and dangers past;
But wilder prospect to these scenes succeeds,
And all that Nature hath conjoined of vast
And beautiful, to charm, we may behold amassed.

Salvator's pencil might have traced here,
In all the splendor which that pencil knew,
The mighty shades which majesty and fear
Upon his vast imagination threw;
He might have offered here the worship due
To scenes of wonderment, and seen around
Each magic grace, each imitateless hue,
In forest, rock, or flood, or blue profound
That ether casts o'er all serene and without bound.

And by the forms so wondrously upraised
Pass we along — but, not observeless all—
Where the sweet bard in mute entrancement gazed;
For Fancy here unto the mind doth call
To rouse its visions: shall strange thoughts enthral
The captive heart, whilst here such forms we find—
Whilst every mountain, cave, or waterfall
Hath found a name endearing to the mind
Which builds its joy on hopes ungoverned by mankind?

Speak forth, ye aged mountains, and declare
What hand hath sculptured with such giant skill
That mighty stone as if its form did bear
The stamp of some creative unchecked will!
Launched haply from its own paternal hill
With irresistless aim, behold it now!
Time hath not power to shake it; but, until
The stream of ages shall have ceased to flow,
Thus shall its wondrous shape unto the gazer show.

Or, did the hands who bore the Roman brand
Erect it as a trophied monument,
That their dominion nothing could withstand
Of rock or torrent? — from its quarry rent,
And in this gorge of gloomy grandeur pent,
Well could the eye of Phantasy explore
Through these defiles what countless legions went,
As on the Derwent's deeply darkened shore
The bird of Rome began his untried flight to soar.

Through pendent shores, where oft the oak-tree's shade,
Flings a soft screen above the crystal wave,
The Derwent hath a glistening passage made,
Where the deep quarry doth unsheltered brave
The western breeze; and, now, its waters lave
The foot of that vast pile which stands alone
The guardian rock of this wide chasm, where rave
The wintry tempests, as it were the throne
Round which each blast did pour his tributary moan.

There stands the Roman's time-worn citadel:—
Hill of the Castle! from thy crownless peak
The sons of Tiber to each neighbouring fell
Sent forth their warriors, not unskilled to wreak
The vengeance of the conqueror: thou canst speak
With a clear language to the mind of him
Who, from thy summit, sees the shadows break
Of objects which, in purple distance dim,
Yet seem on fancy's wave, in present pomp, to swim!

With lovely groves from base to summit clad,
The British oak hath rooted in the soil
Whence its proud victors in their boasting bade
The fiends of war go forth thy fields to spoil:
The hardy sons of Cumbria in their toil
Look with a sense of glory on thy form,
Which here beholds the river eddying boil
In its rough channel, as when first the swarm
Of Roman eagles braved the North's untempered storm!

As toiling up the rock-bestrewed way,
Glory calls forth her visions of old time,
And points to that long-vanished mighty day,
When foreign footsteps dared, unchecked, to climb
Each hoary steep and precipice sublime:—
Their pride has faded, and no trace remains
Which can recal those day's of warlike crime,
And desolation in their camp now reigns,
Where ply their humble task the still-unshackled swains.

The miner's hand hath wrought with frequent blast
Destruction stern; yet still the eye may roam
With joy, where groves and shades embowering cast
On scenes below a venerable gloom:
The mountain heights; the river's silvery foam;
The lovely flowers which on its margin grow;
The fleecy flocks; the shepherd's lowly home,
All gleaming in the sun's inspiring glow:
These are the charms which cheer the gladdened gaze below.

Past is the gate of terror, and a scene
Spreads out, in prospect, to the roving eye,
Where might have dwelt the forest's Goddess-Queen
Nor wept her distant shores of Italy.—
Derwent's clear wave, in music gliding by,
Would Arethusa to his waves have won,
And she, enshrined in such felicity,
His free embrace had never striv'n to shun,
But dwelt, for aye, in joy and sweet seclusion.

But lo! what beauty bursts upon the view,
Where thy small hamlet looks upon the stream,
Delightful Grange! — thy groves of beech and yew—
Thy cots all glittering in the solar beam—
The wave as still as childhood's placid stream—
The rustic bridge that spans the lingering flood—
The cliffs that as thy guardian genii seem,
Rich in the robes which Autumn in its mood
Of gladness hath cast o'er thy bowers of hanging wood!

Tired with the rugged wilds which wind afar
Up the dark dale, the mind recurs to thee,
As wearied sailor to the evening star,
When tost upon th' Atlantic's stormy sea:
Emblem of life and its uncertainty!
Oft doth the heart, amidst the haunts of care,
Light on an unexpected joy, as we
From mountains bleak and rude, and vallies bare,
Hail thy sweet scenes, and haste thy smiling peace to share!

Nursed in the lap of horror, beauteous lies
In tranquil sleep the brightly glowing lake,
Taking the glorious colourings of the skies;
Upon its shores th' autumnal wind doth shake
Its richest offerings: — the decaying brake;
The waving gold of the rich tints which shine
Where'er the yellow broom its root doth take;
The varied lychen, and the tendriled bine,
With fox-glove and the fern, a brilliant chaplet twine.

But here approach not, ye who cannot look
With thoughts of wonder on a scene of awe!—
Ye! who have conned in nature's sacred book
The world's allurements and its Maker's law!
In breathless expectation hither draw!—
For here, enshrined in its majestic might,
Is that dread power which gladdened Israel saw,
When Moses' arm the lofty rock did smite,
And from its bosom burst the living floods to light.

Approach uncalled, ye drowsy crews who dwell
In cities and in courts, of luxury's train!
And thou, who, in seclusion's silent cell,
Dost vex thy soul and trim thy lamp in vain—
Burst from the trammels of thy galling chain,
And to the pinnacles of grandeur fly!
And ye, who drag through life a load of pain,
Nor know the joys which nature can supply,
In her enchantments seek a painless remedy.

To east, or west, to north, or southward borne,
Stretch to far regions your unwearied wing;
With purple eve, or with the rosy morn,
To the high fountains of resplendence spring;
Yet, if your hearts to Albion's shores should cling,
If this dear land your patriot souls adore,
To these her mountains your swift pinions fling,
And, from this spot, behold the huge Lodore,
Burst, like an infant sea from Chaos, with wild roar!

Ascend that steep where with impetuous whirl
It clears its course, and in the deep profound
Behold the conflict: — lo! the waters hurl,
With irresistless force and deafening sound,
The rocks along, and, eddying fiercely round,
Shake the huge walls that sentinel its way:
Now hath it a wide broken channel found,
And boiling upwards comes the drenching spray,
An Iris beaming in the sun's meridian ray!

How yawns the dark and horrible abyss,—
With ruins, as by many an earthquake rent,
Round which the troubled waters rave and hiss,
Like damned spirits in imprisonment!
Gloom broods below, — above, wild birches, bent
As if in worship at the shrine of dread,
Trembling o'ershade the flood, whose fury spent
Rolls in a softer current from its bed,
As to the slumbering lake its calmed waters spread!

Each stone is glistening with a crystal gem—
Each blade of grass, that clothes with emerald hue
These lofty walls, and every branch and stem
And leafy spray, is studded with bright dew,
Which sparkle, as if magic o'er them threw
The diamond treasures of some faery-land;
As if some spirit did the dawn renew,
And night's last tears unkissed away did stand,
Staid on each weeping bough by some enchanter's wand!

And Barrow calls forth from its cultured steeps
To the loud thunder of the hoarse Lodore;
And many a rill its tinkling current keeps
In unison with his majestic roar:—
Niagara of England! which doth pour
Its flood's eternal force supremely free
In its unstained whiteness, as of yore,
And shall, whilst earth and heaven and all things be,
Vast as its Maker's power, boundless as Charity!

Now launch we from the shore: — the rising gale
That waves the varied garlands on the height,
With pleasant speed may urge our little sail
Which spreads like mountain-eagle in its flight;
And whilst the lake is gaining on the sight,
With all its rich entanglements of wood,
Cast we our eyes, where, soaring on the right
Hangs in dark majesty above the flood
The Falcon's towering crag, amidst its brotherhood.

Enchanting scene! Can soft Italia bring,
With all her myrtle groves and orange bowers,
A spot so worthy the unfettered string
Of poet's lyre? — Though garnished with flowers
Each fabled hill; — and though the fountain pours
Its floods of beauty, chastened and serene;
Though heaven, in rays of love, its blessings showers,
And earth but wears one universal green;
Yet ne'er displayed to man was such a glorious scene.

Here too the isle, upborne by wond'rous power
From the deep caverns of the eastern wave,
May claim attention, for a passing hour,
From charms which their engrafted image have
In the rapt mind: thus did the waters lave
Of the Aegean gulph — that fabled isle,
Where he who to the lyre its sweetness gave
Beheld rocks, woods, and lakes around him smile,
And heaven itself rejoice in brightening day the while.

Blow swift, fair breeze, and soon our little prow
The shore where blooms the lily far behind—
Shall near the cliff, where unenfostered grow
The native groves, around the paths that wind
Up the steep rock which memory hath enshrined;
Where love and danger bade a female seek
A refuge from the shackles of mankind:
Thou, lofty crag, with a clear tone canst speak
To him who stands sublime on Walla's loftiest peak!

Where yon small speck of gray and moss-clad stone
Breaks from the verdant drapery which is flung
Around the wall of rock, tradition's throne
Hath been erected: many an harp hath sung
The wondrous tale which to that spot hath clung;
And many an heart hath joyed that spot to see;
And many a stranger o'er that height hath hung,
In dangerous daring, as a spot where he
Might freely revel in his wild credulity.

Oh! what hath History with her thousand tales
Of bold adventure or undaunted deed,
Like to the magic name which here prevails
Of one, whose high endeavourings did exceed
Fame's proud attainments! — here we need
No objects of deep import to excite
The mind to sympathy. Let them who read
In 'sunned romance' of firm betrothed plight,
From fabled climes of song, here bend their magic flight.

Here let them gaze, until the scenes recur
Which shall undoubted, though untold by fame,
Hand to far ages the high deed of her
Who to this rock hath left a deathless name.
Let Pity some kind reconcilement claim;
Though Justice bade what Mercy could not hide;
Though o'er Renown did come unworthy shame;
Though Honour chose Corruption for its guide,
And Loyalty and Power in Treason did confide.

Her's was a deed which might have won the brow
Of Vengeance to a soft and pitying smile,
And eyes that looked austerely on their foe
To own the witcheries of affection's wile;
It might have bid the heart its fears exile,
And made the sword of Justice to its sheath
Leap back again, and Bigotry's hot pile
Have quenched, high spired with all the flames of death,
Or charmed to harmless air th' infected victim's breath.

In these late ages we may look abroad
And ponder on the woes of days gone by,
Nor dread, lest wisdom should the mind applaud
Which can rejoice in such a scrutiny;
And to our thoughts this spot should well supply
Meet contemplation, for full many an hour;
Since woman's name must be the tender tie,
And beauty doth delusions freely shower,
Where we had deemed the clouds of darkest skies would lour.

Yet why should we the veil of fable tear
From the recesses of its peace aside?
Why should we scorn the mystic garb to wear—
Or, on Imagination's boundless tide
In History's unexploring bark confide?
Why call in Truth, when Fiction hath its charm?
Why bid Philosophy o'er hearts preside,
When e'en the thoughts they cherish but disarm,
By their seducing ways, capacity of harm?

Therefore, to thee who, nursed in lordly state,
In all the feudal pomp which wealth could bring,
In all the soft allurements which create
Hope for the suitor, theme for minstrel's string,
Or prize for chivalry — didst feel the sting
Of a reversed fortune; we record
Praise for the heart which felt its hopes to cling,
Through all vicissitudes, to its true lord,
Whom no assailments could of pledged faith defraud.

Yes! in the scrolls of fame thy deed shall be
Enregistered example for far years,
And hung thy name on heraldry's high tree,
Emblazoned forth amidst thy proud compeers;
And whilst such thought of interest adheres
To names, round which the world's desires have met,
Still shall thy fate, endeared by thousand tears,
Rouse the sweet feelings of profound regret;
Since thy unclouded day in wrath and blood did set.

The towers are vanished which thy rank did tell—
The bowers that graced thy island state are low—
The walls that guarded, or that did repel,
Their site or place, but wizard's ken may know:
Wild weeds above thy courts of greatness grow,
And twined boughs of many a lofty tree
Wave o'er their ruins, solemnly and slow,
As if they bowed in silent mockery
O'er glory's vanished pomp, — o'er man's absurd decree.

But let our thoughts to calmness be resigned,
Whilst musing on St. Herbert's holy shore,
In whose sweet shades may contemplation find
Subject for praise — remembrance to adore.
There may we learn a wiser, better lore,
And an example take from him who dwelt
In loneliness and peace. Though loud did roar
The tempest round his narrow cell, he felt
No fear, but fear of God, to whom he meekly knelt.

And fondly is his memory cherished here
In latter times, when superstition flies
Before conviction, like a coward fear.
—Did he not gaze upon these vaulted skies—
Each distant hill and nearer precipice—
The guardian waters of this lonely lake—
Until devotion in his heart did rise,
And here Religion did her temple make,
And Virtue reigned secure for his unspotted sake?

At noon — at fragrant morn — at dewy eve;
By the sun's beam, or morn's serener ray—
When calmness did her web of beauty weave,
Or storms rolled darkly o'er the arch of day—
By star-light pale, or lightning's fitful play;—
On lake — on shore — on hill, or verdant plain—
On tree and bud — he mused, till man's decay,
Life's ebb and flow — the future's bliss and pain,
The present, and the past, and death's phantasmal train

Came on his mind like visions of the night.—
Here lived the hermit: here, his lowly cell
Of rude materials sculptured was dight;
And here did he, in his seclusion, dwell
With holy book, and rosary, and bell,
And cross, on which his stainless Saviour died,—
In russet garb, with shoon and scallop shell,
His floor with moss and weeds and rushes spread,
His diet of the wave and pure and humble bread.

And thus he dwelt through wondrous length of life,
Far from the busy world — its joys and pain,—
Far from its doubtful smiles — its envious strife
Its follies sinful, and allurements, vain
Its proud aspiring, and unholy gain:
And thus he died — his faith and hopes secure,
From Christ assured of his unending reign.
Oh! were their souls as white, their hearts as pure,
Who would o'er men, like this, the wrath of Heaven adjure!

Let us learn wisdom from our fathers' fault,
Let us learn virtue from our fathers' sin;—
Let us the vile debase — the good exalt,
And keep our lives without, our souls within
Spotless as his, who thug his crown did win:
And, if the world would lure us from our path,
And in our way to faulter we begin,
Let us retire from such redeemless scath,
And in our chambers pray for God's averted wrath.

There may be, who do deem the world more wise,
Its children better than their sires of yore;
But not so — if they knew not, to despise
The creature's passions and the tempter's lore:—
This is, what must be — what hath been, before—
And man is still the being of a day;
Still doth he dare unseemly themes explore,
Neglectful of his own too — slippery way—
Of dangers that beset — temptations that betray.

And though despised the inmate of this spot,
Though, for his creed, by bigot minds pursued
With fancied horrors in his future lot,
Because his faith with error was imbued;
Yet was his conscience pure, his soul endued
With heavenly revelations from on high;
And he will feel his soul to be renewed,
And 'his reward will have,' though fools deny;
Since, firm the promise is, on which he did rely.

Yet, from such theme, 'tis meet that we recal
Our wandering thoughts, whilst round us is arrayed
All that of nature holdeth festival;
Heaven, water, earth; hill, champaign, light and shade;
Bud, blossom, branch, trunk, leaf, and bush, and blade;
Fountains and falls, whose silvery tinkling wakes
Echo and song, in forest and in glade;
And lingering bird whose gentle, warbling shakes
Harmoniously the bower, where his coy nest he makes.

Pass we the isles again, and let us rove
Where sweet seclusion hath her shady grot
Upon the western shore, where hanging grove
And bay, and cove well consecrate the spot
Which taste hath chosen, — with what happy lot,
Let him declare who here hath seen the bloom
Of flower and tree, around wall, bower, and cot,
Upon the hills behind the golden broom,
Or boughs that kiss the wave and shed an holy gloom!

Oh, Gordon! be it thine, through many a year,
Here to behold the Eden thou hast made
Amidst these northern hills, — and thine, to hear
The voice of forest-bird in sunny glade,
With lonely wail or jocund serenade!
Long may thine eye upon thy mountains gaze
Whose solemn lines these rural coverts shade,
And from still night — or noon's unruffled blaze—
Or morn's majestic march, or evening's pensive rays

Drink in delight! — I do not envy thee
This blest retirement from the haunts of men,
(Far from this spot should envious passions be,)
Yet may I hope to view it once again;
For I have wandered through each happy glen,
And stood upon each mountain's topmost height,
And seen the lake expand beneath me, when
All heaven and earth seemed mellowing into light,
And quietude around did throw the veil of night.

Well I remember, when the frosty Wain
Or 'free Bootes' o'er the hills did rise,—
When Luna held o'er all her golden reign
And looked serenely from the silent skies,—
That I have strayed, in meditative guise,
In these same scenes, and thought of friends afar,
Of home, and kindred, and the thousand ties
Of life and love, that sooth the bosom's war,
And light up in the mind contentment's beacon star.

Yes! I do love thee, for those happy times,
And shall remember thee, for each dear thought
Thou once did'st consecrate, though distant climes—
Though fate — misfortunes — sickness — sorrows, fraught
With all that anguish hath to mortal wrought,
Oppose or thrall; still will my mind to thee,
When those I love are to my visions brought,
Sweet spot! recur, and I shall feel as free,
As when I wandered here in calm felicity!

These are the charms which deck thy glassy face,
Unmatched lake, and chain the footsteps down
To thy fair scenes! — But, let us also trace
The height and majesty of hills which crown
The embattled shores that guard thee! — Upward thrown
To where thy peaks, Parnassian Skiddaw! rise,
A more sublimed delight doth vision own,
And fain I seek the bold, yet glad, emprise,
And, with thy mighty name, my verse immortalise!

In my young day's of guileless infancy,
When the mind's joys are of ideal things,
How have I listened at the name of thee!
And robed thee, in my wild imaginings,
With endless storms, with darkness — such as flings
A veil of everlasting gloom around
The shores of which the holy minstrel sings,
'Twixt which the sea that scorneth stay or bound
Illimitably roars, in vastness how profound!

But, when I saw thee, in thy summer pride,
Clothed in each soft and richly-varied dye,
And viewed upon thy green and even side
The snowy flocks; whilst gazed my ardent eye,
With admiration's fixed intensity,
Upon thy graceful curves, and saw thee stand
Amidst that valley calm as summer's sea,—
Thyself how calm! — My heart could not demand
A more enchanting scene from fancy's magic wand.

The awe that through my bosom once had thrilled
Sunk in delight. — I gazed, until each shade
Which day cast o'er thee my conception filled,
And of thy form my mind a spirit made
To worship: — I beheld each leaf and blade,
That clothed thee with their greenest drapery,
Thick peopled with ideal forms which bade
Me own, how vast the hand must be
Which thus could make the bold and beautiful agree!

Ne'er can I wonder, in the ancient times,
Ere Revelation guided Reason's way,
In the blest regions of the eastern climes,
That human hearts should own the powerful sway
Of Nature's calm magnificent array;
That, to the vaulted heaven, the knee should bow;
Or to the lofty hill, or glorious day,
The song of praise and melody should flow,
When ev'n my soul is lit with such devotion now.

Mountains are altars raised to God, by hands
Omnipotent, and man must worship there:
On their aspiring summits glad he stands
And near to heaven: the lowly plain may bear
Subject for pleasure; but, on them we share
A more intense delight and nobler, till,
In our excess of consciousness, we dare
In them to worship ev'n the wondrous skill
Which formed unnumbered worlds, and yet formed nothing ill.

I love the mountain, in its lordly pride
Robed in the tempest, or in day's bright beam,—
Th' impervious forest on its rugged side,
Or washed by some clear brook, or purling stream
Meand'ring on through flowers: — the eaglet's scream
Or the sweet music of the songster's lay—
The dark'ning cloud, or lightning's lurid gleam—
Are varied scenes; but who hath heart to say
They lend no potent charm where all is grand or gay?

Fragments on fragments heaped — a chaos wild—
I've rambled through, in many a lonely dell,
Have seen where, in such desolation, smiled
One lonely flower — the heath or mountain bell;
Nor could I then the inspiration tell
Which led my mind to worship, nor declare
The thoughts which bade my heart with rapture swell,
As, gazing on that scene of wonder there,
I saw the mighty arm of majesty laid bare.

Well might the Grecian with supreme delight
Gaze on Parnassus, till his mind became
With every gem of ancient story bright,
And all his soul had kindled into flame;
He looked upon the steeps, where mortal fame
Shrank from the eye, and faith displayed alone
(Whilst sunk each human fabric to a name)
The great Creator's unassailed throne;
He gazed, until in song his spirit found a tone.

The mountains were to him endued with awe
Such as no tongue or language could express,
And, in those giant monuments, he saw
Man's bounded skill and feeble littleness:
He sang the deeds of heaven, nor deemed he less
Than some high Being did therein reside,
Else how had earth such potency to bless?
He cast mortality's dark veil aside,
And looked, in hope, on high, for some immortal guide.

Boeotia's consecrated hills have heard
The deathless tones of many a master's lyre,
What time the minstrel would his brows engird
With wreaths of endless glory: to aspire
To everlasting fame, and holy fire
From altars undecaying, did he string
Each instrument of song; whilst glory's quire,
As every lovely stream he rose to sing,
Re-echoed with sweet strains his harp's deep murmuring.

Thence did he deem, that, welcomed by the Nine,
In their high temples he received should be
Through endless years, mid sainted bards to shine
And all the host renowned by Poesie;
Thence, too, he deemed, from fragrant Castalie
Sprang rills all sparkling with historic lore,
Nor owned within himself the mighty sea
Which him to fame's proud fane undaunted bore,
Or soul that lent him wings, to heavenly heights to soar.

Were not the mountains sacred, from the birth
Of Time and Nature, to the mind of man?
Are they not records of a former earth
Whose course and age no mortal mind may scan?
Were they not holds to many a warlike clan?
Were they not hallowed by Creation's Lord?
Have they not witnessed many a mighty plan
To save and free mankind? — the patriot's sword,
On them, hath freedom gained, and burst the tyrant's chord.

In the protection of some holy mount,
Deem not them wrong who raised the votive fane,
Nor their poor offering, as despised, account.
Oh! deem not such unfeigned worship vain:
—They saw the moon in mid-heaven wax and wane,
Then sink behind their hills; they saw the sun
With his first beams their misty ridges gain,
And, thence, his cheering course rejoicing run,
Or, on their summits rest, when his bright goal was won:

They saw the tempest's desolating sway
Hang on their mountains, with its brooding wing:—
They saw the lightning's coruscations play
Round their tall heads, and, dimly hovering,
From his high nest the unharmed eagle spring;
The living thunder round each kindled peak
Was heard to roll, and every breathing thing,
As tempest-born, did from its covert break:
And as they gazed, they worshipped. — Were their feelings weak?

They saw — they worshipped — and confessed the arm,
Though all unseen, was strong, which thus could sway
The fiery elements with wondrous charm—
Which thus could make the stormy winds obey:
They felt a pure, an undefined ray
Burn in their breasts, and each inspired heart
Clung to its beams, as to some mighty stay:—
—That charm — those bonds, Religion, still thou art,
Who, from created things, such glorious beams dost dart!

What are man's works, or all the skill of art
Compared with thine, oh Nature! — The proud dome
Which eyes have gazed on, till th' o'erflowing heart
Hath found in contemplation a calm home,
May be the mightiest of scenes to some
Who deem of man too nobly; but, to those
Who oft have gazed on thine, man's deeds become
Worthless and charmless, as the weed which grows
In some rank pool, when matched with spring-tide's earliest rose.

To him who, haply wandering o'er the scene
Which thou hast chosen as thy own retreat,
Hath seen the vales arrayed in vest of green—
Hath heard the voice of floods or streamlet sweet—
Hath on the mountain stood with stranger feet,
And seen it rear unto the azure sky
Its glorious form — his spirit well may greet
Thee, with a joy unknown to him whose eye
Hath fed on fading charms its deepest extasy!

The towers which frowned upon a haughty foe;
The gates which opened to a conqueror's car;
The dungeon which beheld the monarch's woe,
Whose name, recorded in the trophied war,
Made nations tremble, till his fading star
Set on his glories: — these shall fade away;
And though their names be blazoned from afar,
And beauty their remediless decay
Should gild; yet shall they fade, as mists before the day.

Pride of Ephesian Dian! where art thou?
Where are the wonders of thy matchless fane?
Sage goddess of the Greek! — all sunk and low
The broken column strews th' encumbered plain;
Time o'er thy walls hath held his ruthless reign;
And crumbling into dust, the mighty shrine
Mere minstrel-warriors raised th' exulting strain—
Where priests and prophets taught their lore divine—
Claims but a passing tear, for majesty's decline!

But those huge hills which, mighty fabrics all,
An amphitheatre of grandeur stand,
Unchanged — unchanging still — amid the fall
Of towers and temples in Athena's land,
Untouch'd by stern destruction's iron hand,
Still range in pristine beauty to the skies,—
As if they could the powers of Time command,
And all his bold irruptions did despise;
Oh! who can gaze thereon, nor feel his spirit rise?

What were the shores of Greece without the mount
Of Pindus, or Parnassus, or the hill,
Whence wound the streams from Helicon's high fount
In many a faery tide and golden rill?
But with their scenes her land is lovely still,
And he who wandereth through her heavenly clime
Feels a rich strain of joy his bosom fill,
As, meditating on those forms sublime,
Glows, in his captive soul, 'the poetry of Time.'

Skiddaw! once more my mind recurs to thee
With all the admiration song can bring.
Here let me gaze on thy serenity,
And to thy praise strike up a grateful string!
Oh! that to me were given the eagle wing
Which bore the Theban to th' aerial height
Of hallowed Pindus, and 'twere mine to sing
Unchecked thy glories: then should burst to light
Visions which ne'er before were giv'n to mortal sight!

Yet, in his quiet and endeared retreat,
One bard hath reared to thee his shrine of song,
And oft hath laid his tribute at thy feet,
With all the charms which to his muse belong,
And in retirement hid, thy shades among,
Hath wooed thee through long years, and led the way
For many a votary of Apollo's throng;
His temples decked with laurel and with bay,
How shall I dare, with him, my weak and humble lay!

Yet will I on thy Derwent's varied shore
Send forth my song of heartfelt gratitude;
For me, full oft, hast thou unbound thy store,
With faery buds my path of danger strewed;
And oft thy charms did many a care delude,
What time I dwelt delighted by thy lake
And visions of eternal beauty viewed,
Or roamed, whence streams their crystal windings take
And Echo's holy voice for ever is awake.

Calm is thy front, and peaceful, as the brow
Where sits contentment and unchequered ease,
And when the noon-tide sun's untempered glow
Looks o'er the lake, unruffled by the breeze,
How sweetly beautiful! the boatman sees,
Reflected in its clear and glassy tide
And gaining on the waters by degrees,
Thy grassy sides, impendent in their pride
And imaged in the waves, o'er which thou dost preside.

I've gazed upon thee, when the envious cloud
Hath spread o'er thee a black and gloomy pall,—
When pelting storm and warring winds were loud,
And darkness seemed o'er heaven and earth to fall;
Then, like a tried and ocean-beaten wall,
Secure amidst the tempest's rage, stoodst thou,
And, bared to every wind which loud did call,
Spurnedst the rack, and from thy haughty brow
Didst toss the volumed mist which rolled in wrath below!

Blen-Cathra eyes thee from his rugged throne,
With rival glance, and bears the deafning jar
Of elements combined, which round thee moan
Amid the thunders of the midnight war:
Helvellyn looks unto thee, from afar,
Up the sweet vista of the vale St. John;
Full many a broken cliff and winding scar,
Around the dales, the eye may rest upon;
But none, like thy blue top, such earnest graze hath won.

But what can match the scenes of peace below
To gazer from thy proudly-towering peak?
Match it, bright goddess of the silver bow!
In land of mountain Swiss or caverned Greek:
In the wild regions of Andes seek
For one so rich, so varied, or so fair;
Their scenes are bold, but ah! too feebly weak,
To thee, resemblance, lovely vale! to bear,
And beggared would they be by such unmeet compare.

Arcadia's hills and vallies have been sung
By deathless bards, and many a laurelled lyre
To strains of wondrous daring have been strung,
With all the ardour of poetic fire;
And thou, too, Skidddaw! canst such tones inspire;
Whilst gazing on thee must the mind expand
Till speculation her full powers acquire,
To see thee in thy solemn grandeur stand
The fairest, proudest hill of Anglia's matchless land.

Thy summit rising in as clear a sky,
The veil of beauty o'er the vallies spread,
That at thy foot, in tranquil verdure, lie,
With tree, and bridge, and building, varied,
And many a streamlet, o'er its rocky bed
Winding in silvery mazes, — these are thine.
Who that hath seen the day its glories shed,
In floods of brightness, o'er thee, can define
The glow which warms his breast with extasy divine?

Thy name hath sounded from a nobler shell
Than that which now is warbling to thy praise;
Thy glens have echoed to a nobler swell
Than that which now my tuneful hand obeys;
But let me here my humble offering raise,
Though all unworthy its exalted theme;
And though my soul is fired not with the rays
Which poets' brows surround; yet may I deem
My lowly verse with thanks acceptable may teem.

This do I plead, if all unpractised
I have into the garden of the Nine,
With a rude step, intruded: — thither led
By the fair prospect: at their loftiest shrine
Humbly I bend, — and be it ever mine
To prove the homage which to them I owe!
And thus, though failing clearly to define
The streams of joy which through my bosom flow,
A gleam of consolation may surround my brow.

—The day is done, and on the hills afar
Rests the last glimmering of the sun alone;
Yet, in his place, is many a splendent star,
And thousand worlds, for one, look smiling down:
All heaven is sown with worlds which, like a zone,
Girdle the firmament, and pave the sky
With lustre, borrowed from each costly stone
Which gems the gates of those fair courts on high
Which but the spirits just and God's own saints espy.

The moon is up on huge Helvellyn's brow,
And glows with splendour every mountain head.
How dart her bright beams o'er the vales below,
In nature's softest colourings bespread!
And now Blen-Cathra's rugged ridge is red,
And Grizedal seems a pyramid of light,
And Greta, foaming o'er his rocky bed,
Doth gladly murmur to this lovely night
A choral song of joy, for such delightful sight!

And Derwent's lake is brightening into flame,
And o'er its face ten thousand riplings shine;—
See where yon glance of tremulous lustre came,
Sparkling along in an illumined line,
And spangling the dark top of distant pine,
And oak, and ash, that in th' horizon rise—
And, as it coasts the hermit's island shrine,
How to the wake of yon white skiff it flies,
And lends to the glad waves the brillance of the skies!

And silence reigns, save, where the loud Lodore
Pours his deep thunder on the startled ear;
Or the sweet music, of the splashing oar
Doth meditation's placid musings cheer:
Now is the hour to superstition dear,
When every rock is robed with shadows gray,
And spirits walk, and forms and phantoms drear
Are seen, amid th' uncertain gloom, to stray,
Which shunned the piercing look and scrutiny of day.

Now every object with gigantic height
Spreads on the faded landscape, till the mind
Scarce trusts the faery forms which throng the sight,
And seeks in phantasy belief to find:
And all is still — save, where some vagrant wind
Bears the last call of huntsman from the glade,
Or bleat of flocks upon the hills reclined,—
Or the wild song of some forsaken maid
Resounds, in plaintive strains, from her embowered shade.

But, hark! there comes a sound unto the ear
Of Music's holy voice, from yon green isle
Glowing with all the luxuries of the year,—
A sound of sweetness — which would well beguile
The heart from sorrow to the virgin's wile,
Whose captives trembling in their glad distress
Look up in fear, — yet, with a pleased smile,
As feeling she alone had power to bless,
Whose mighty spell had wrought a prison's wretchedness.

Sweet charmer of the cottage and the throne—
The desart and the crowded city's throngs—
Oh! let me hear thee, whilst I stand alone
Among the green hills, captive to thy songs!—
Or when amid the world's unfeeling wrongs
I dwell a prisoner or when o'er me roll
The mists of fancy; yet to thee belongs
To chain to imaged scenes my gladdened soul,
And to unbosom thoughts beyond the world's control!

For thou, Oh Music! canst assuage the pain,
And heal the wound, which hath defied the skill
Of sager comforters: — thou dost restrain
Each wild emotion at thy wondrous will;
Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill,
Or lightest up the flames of soft desire,
As through the mind thy plaints harmonious thrill,
And thus a magic doth surround the lyre,
A power divine doth dwell amid the sacred quire!

Thou call'st the soldier to the field of fame,
When drum and trumpet peal the cry of war;
Thou bid'st him glory's meed ambitious claim,
And spreadest his unsullied fame afar;
And when, beneath the evening's placid star,
The lover clasps the form of her he loves,
Thou dost descend on night's aerial car
And hov'rest o'er them in the vocal groves,
And hear'st each whispered vow Affection's ear approves!

Unto devotion thou dost furnish wings,
Making it soar above the things of earth;
With thee, the soul unto the fountain springs,
Which shall renew it with a second birth:
God, and his power, and his unbounded worth
Thou hallowedst, when light from chaos sprang,
And heaven's high host were jubilant in mirth,
And the wide firmament with harping rang,
And listening star, to star, in their staid courses, sang!

Nature is full of thee: — the summer bower
Respondeth to the songster's morning lay;
The bee his concert keeps from flower to flower,
As forth he sallies on his honied way;
Brook calls to brook as down the hills they stray;
The isles resound with song, from shore to shore;
Whilst 'viewless minstrels' on the wings that play
Consorted strains, in liquid measures, pour,
To thunder's deep-toned voice, or Ocean's sullen roar.

But music never is so chastely sweet,
As at the hour when heaven and earth do sleep;
When gentle tones, in soft gradation, meet,
And Echo sits upon some moon-lit steep;
When song is whispered o'er the waveless deep,
And, from some 'ladie-bower,' the harp doth thrill,—
Or bugle-call, from castle's guarded keep,—
Or strains, as sweet as these whose murmurings fill
The listening ear of night, whilst all around is still.

Fancy leaps up, and, frantic at the sound,
Recals the hours of goodness, when, of yore,
The holy tenant of this rich domain
Was wont to mingle with the torrent's roar
The solemn numbers of the hymn which bore
His heart to heaven; when his unsolaced cell
But hearkened his devotion, and the shore,
Which now is trembling with the rustic swell,
Heard the deep-muttered toll of his lone vesper-bell.

Rock answers rock, and through the woody dell
Flies the rich confluence: bending from her throne,
As if some witchcraft with entrancing spell
Bound her to earth, the light-ensphered moon,
With softened splendour, tenderly looks down;
The stars which round her glistening orb are set
The soft dominion of the numbers own,
And every gem in night's bright coronet
Gleams with a purer ray, where'er those tones have met.

—The sounds have ceased, and all, again, is still
As is the eye of wonder; — silence sleeps,
Once more, upon the lake, and on the hill
Midnight the tones which speak of rapture steeps
In dark oblivion: so, when Beauty weeps
Away her grief, the lone forsaken breast
Feels soft repose, and o'er her sorrow creeps
A blest contentment, and, in such calm vest
As clothes this lonely scene, she feels her spirit rest.

But night is changed, and o'er the chequered sky
That late, so glorious, shone with every gem
Which heaven can offer unto mortal eye,—
As gazing on fair Cynthia's diadem—
Pass the quick clouds; their deep'ning shadows hem,
In one thick darkness, the wide concave round,
And the pale stars, like to the barks which stem
The wintry storms, to ports far distant bound,
Reel through the gathering gloom of that convulsed profound!

Darkness is in the heavens; but morn will soon
Resume her reign of light, and here display
Its robe of brightness. — To the veiled moon
Chant we, in peace, our evening's latest lay:
The morrow shall behold our footsteps stray,
Refreshed, along the shore where Derwent spreads,
In undiminished glory, to the day
His crystal current, where th' enamelled meads
With wanton fragrance woo his windings as he speeds.

Yet ere we sleep — oh! waft, thou balmy wind!
A farewell carol to each distant friend—
Oh! bear to them the salutation kind,
And heartfelt greeting, which, by thee, we send!
Calm be their slumbers! — may repose defend,
And every dream be hallowed with delight!—
Spirits unseen that walk the earth attend!—
Guard them, ye stars! in your etherial flight,
And angels good that keep the watches of the night!