5 20 25 the Lake, just ruffled by the breeze, enough to shew it is alive, reflecting rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of mountains, with the white buildings of Keswick, Crosthwait church, and Skiddaw for a background at a distance. Oh! Doctor! I never wished more for you; and pray think, how the glass played its part in such a spot, which is called Carf-closereeds; I choose to set down these bar- 10 barous names, that any body may enquire on the place, and easily find the particu-. lar station, that I mean. This scene continues to Borrow-gate, and a little farther, passing a brook called Barrow-beck, 15 we entered Borrodale. The crags, named Lodoor-banks, now begin to impend terribly over your way; and more terribly, when you hear, that three years since an immense mass of rock tumbled at once from the brow, and barred all access to the dale (for this is the only road) till they could work their way through it. Luckily no one was passing at the time of this fall; but down the side of the mountain, and far into the lake lie dispersed the huge fragments of this ruin in all shapes and in all directions. Something farther we turned aside into a coppice, ascending a little in front of Lodoor 30 waterfall, the height appears to be about 200 feet, the quantity of water not great, though (these days excepted) it had rained daily in the hills for nearly two months before: but then the stream was nobly broken, leaping from rock to rock, and foaming with fury. On one side a towering crag, that spired up to equal, if not overtop, the neighboring cliffs (this lay all in shade and darkness) on the other 40 hand a rounder broader projecting hill shagged with wood and illumined by the sun, which glanced sideways on the upper part of the cataract. The force of the water wearing a deep channel in the 45 ground hurries away to join the lake. We descended again, and passed the stream over a rude bridge. Soon after we came under Gowder crag, a hill more formidable to the eye and to the apprehension 50 than that of Lodoor; the rocks a-top, deep-cloven perpendicularly by the rains, hanging loose and nodding forwards, seem just starting from their base in shivers; the whole way down, and the 55 road on both sides is strewed with piles of the fragments strangely thrown across each other, and of a dreadful bulk. The place reminds one of those passes in the 35 Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above, and bring down a mass, that would overwhelm a caravan. I took their counsel here and hastened on in silence. Walked leisurely home the way we came, but saw a new landscape: the features indeed were the same in part, but many new ones were disclosed by the midday sun, and the tints were entirely changed. Take notice this was the best or perhaps the only day for going up Skiddaw, but I thought it better employed: it was perfectly serene, and hot as mid summer. In the evening walked alone down to the Lake by the side of Crow-Park after sun-set and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hill-tops, the deep serene of the waters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance heard the murmur of many waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave. October 8. Past by the little chapel of Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congregation were then issuing. Past a beck near Dunmailraise and entered Westmoreland a second time, now begin to see Helm-crag distinguished from its rugged neighbors not so much by its height, as by the strange broken outline of its top, like some gigantic building demolished, and the stones that composed it flung across each other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imitate. The bosom of the mountains spreading here into a broad basin discovers in the midst Grasmere-water; its margin is hollowed into small bays with bold eminences: some of them rocks, some of soft turf that half conceal and vary the figure of the little lake they command. From the shore a low promontory pushes itself far into the water, and on it stands a white village with the parish-church rising in the midst of it, hanging enclosures, corn-fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees and hedges. and cattle fill up the whole space from the edge of the water. Just opposite to you is a large farm-house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn embosomed in old On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud Thy brows in many a murky cloud. Haste thee, nymph! and hand in hand, With thee lead a buxom band; Bring fantastic-footed Joy, 60 With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy: Leisure, that through the balmy sky Chases a crimson butterfly. Bring Health, that loves in early dawn To meet the milk-maid on the lawn: 65 Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace. Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess! And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring. Light, and forever on the wing, Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean 70 On river-margins, mossy green. But who is she, that bears thy train, Pacing light the velvet plain? The pale pink binds her auburn hair, Her tresses flow with pastoral air; 75 'Tis May, the Grace-confest she stands By branch of hawthorn in her hands: Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews, Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;1 With whom the pow'rs of Flora play, 80 And paint with pansies all the way. Oft when thy season, sweetest queen, And mists in spreading streams convey 90 As slow he winds in museful mood, Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood; Or o'er old Avon's magic edge, Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge, All playful yet, in years unripe, 95 To frame a shrill and simple pipe. There thro' the dusk but dimly seen, Sweet ev'ning-objects intervene : His wattled cotes the shepherd plants, Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants. 100 The woodman, speeding home, awhile Rests him at a shady stile. Nor wants there fragrance to dispense Refreshment o'er my soothed sense: Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom, 105 Nor grass besprent2 to breathe perfume: Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet To bathe in dew my roving feet: 1 colors of the rainbow 2 sprinkled over Nor wants there note of Philomel, Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell: 110 Nor lowings faint of herds remote, Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot: Rustle the breezes lightly borne O'er deep embattled ears of corn: Round ancient elm, with humming noise, 115 Full loud the chaffer-swarms1 rejoice. THE CRUSADE 1777 Bound for holy Palestine, O'er the wave our weapons play'd, 5 And made the dancing billows glow; High upon the trophied prow, Many a warrior-minstrel swung His sounding harp, and boldly sung: "Syrian virgins, wail and weep, 10 English Richard plows the deep! Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy From distant towers, with anxious eye, The radiant range of shield and lance Down Damascus' hills advance: 15 From Sion's turrets as afar Ye ken the march of Europe's war! From Albion's isle revenge we bring! 20 Though to the gale thy banners swell, On to victory we go, A vaunting infidel the foe." Blondel led the tuneful band, 30 And swept the wire with glowing hand. Cyprus, from her rocky mound, 35 And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd, Far along the smiling main Echoed the prophetic strain. Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth That gave a murder'd Saviour birth; 40 Heaven's favor'd hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow, We tread the Tyrian valleys now. From Carmel's almond-shaded steep We feel the cheering fragrance creep: 45 O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm 1 swarms of beetles In vain thy gloomy castles frown: Thy battering engines, huge and high, 70 In vain our steel-clad steeds defy; And, rolling in terrific state, On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp, Amid the moonlight vapors damp, 75 Thy necromantic forms, in vain, Haunt us on the tented plain: We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt, Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt! With many a demon, pale of hue, 80 Doom'd to drink the bitter dew That drops from Macon's sooty tree, 'Mid the dread grove of ebony. Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell, The Christian's holy courage quell. 85 Salem, in ancient majesty Arise, and lift thee to the sky! 90 Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!" SONNETS 1777 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, Of painful pedantry the poring child, Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, |