Thy very name a puzzle! Yet, I wis,
Scanning these flints, 't was "Castrum Silicis."
My books away, I vouch not how it is;
For heavy tomes of antiquarian lore
Burden the traveller much, if reader more.
In vain for cicerone round I seek;
Speak, ancient bulwarks! your own story speak:
Vexed heretofore by dilettanti lungs,
How often have I wished that stones had tongues!
Can he explain, stretched silent as his fold,
Perchance of Latin blood, yon shepherd old,
Himself a crumbling ruin of fourscore?
"The Romish folk," he says,
"dwelt here of yore";
'Tis all he knows, the learned scarce know more.
Slow I muse on, in idle question lost,
If knowledge or if mystery please the most.
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled:
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold,
And that inspiring hill, which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British hill is nobler far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
William Wordsworth.
SUMMIT OF SKIDDAW, JULY 7, 1838.
T length here stand we, wrapt as in the cloud In which light dwelt before the sun was born, When the great fiat issued, in the morn
Of this fair world; alone and in a shroud
Of dazzling mist, while the wind whistling loud
Buffets thy streaming locks; result forlorn
For us who up yon steep our way have worn,
Elate with hope, and of our daring proud.
Yet though no stretch of glorious prospect range
Beneath our vision, - neither Scottish coast
Nor ocean-island, nor the future boast
Of far-off hills descried, I would not change
For aught on earth this solitary hour
Of Nature's grandest and most sacred power.
DESCENT OF THE SAME.
LORY on glory greets our wondering sight
As we wind down these slopes; mountain and plain
Robed in rich sunshine, and the distant main
Lacing the sky with silver; and yon height,
So lately left in clouds, distinct and bright.
Anon the mist enwraps us; then again
Burst into view lakes, pastures, fields of grain,
And rocky passes, with their torrents white.
So on the head, perchance, and highest bent
Of thine endeavor, Heaven may stint the dower
Of rich reward long hoped; but thine ascent
Was full of pleasures, and the teaching hour
Of disappointment hath a kindly voice,
That moves the spirit inly to rejoice.
WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.
It was a dreadful day, when late I past and cloud
Each subject fell obscured, and rushing blast
To thee made darling music, wild and loud,
Thou Mountain Monarch! Rain in torrents played,
As when at sea a wave is borne to heaven,
A watery spire, then on the crew dismayed
Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.
I could have thought that every living form
Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,
So desolate the day. To me were given
Peace, calmness, joy; then to myself I said,
Can grief, time, chance, or elements control
Man's chartered pride, the liberty of soul?
Slaughden.
THE QUAY OF SLAUGHDEN.
YON is our square, for country use, bring down;
ON is our quay! those smaller hoys from town,
Those laden wagons, in return, impart
The country produce to the city mart.
Hark to the clamor in that miry road,
Bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load!
The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,
Package and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case:
While the loud seaman and the angry hind,
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,
Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:
See the long keel, which soon the waves must hide!
See the strong ribs which form the roomy side!
Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.
Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.
Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or in a boat purloined, with paddles play,
And grow familiar with the watery way:
Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village boy.
ERE, in the fruitful vales of Somerset,
Was Emma born, and here the maiden grew
To the sweet season of her womanhood,
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf
And bud and blossom all are beautiful.
In peacefulness her virgin years were passed;
And, when in prosperous wedlock she was given,
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away
She had her summer bower. "T was like a dream
Of old romance to see her when she plied
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake;
The roseate evening resting on the hills,
The lake returning back the hues of heaven,
Mountains and vales and waters, all imbued
With beauty, and in quietness; and she,
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude
A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy.
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