Grassmere and Rydal Water

O vale of Grassmere! tranquil, and shut outFrom all the strife that shakes a jarring world,How quietly thy village roofs are bower'dIn the cool verdure, while thy graceful spireGuardeth the ashes of the noble dead,And, like a fix'd and solemn sentinel,Holm-Crag looks down on all.And thy pure lake,Spreading its waveless breast of crystal out'Tween thee and us, pencil, nor lip of manMay fitly show its loveliness. The soulDoth hoard it as a gem, and, fancy-led,Explore its curving shores, its lonely isle,That like an emerald clasp'd in crystal, sleeps.

Ho, stern Helvellyn! with thy savage cliffsAnd dark ravines, where the rash traveller's feetToo oft have wander'd far and ne'er return'd,Why dost thou press so close yon margin green,Like border-chieftain seeking for his brideSome cottage-maiden? Prince amid the hills,That each upon his feudal seat maintainsStrict sovereignty, hast thou a tale of loveFor gentle Grassmere, that thou thus dost droopThy plumed helmet o'er her, and peruseWith such a searching gaze her mirror'd brow?

She listeneth coyly, and her guileless depthsAre troubled at a tender thought from thee.And yet methinks some speech of love should dwellIn scenes so beautiful. For not in vain,Nor with a feeble voice, doth He who spreadSuch glorious charms bespeak man's kindlinessFor all whom He hath made, bidding the heartGrasp every creature, with a warm embraceOf brotherhood.Lo! what fantastic forms,In sudden change, are traced upon the sky.The sun doth subdivide himself, and shineOn either side of an elongate cloud,Which, like an alligator huge and thin,Pierceth his disk. And then an ostrich seem'dStrangely to perch upon a wreath of foam,And gaze disdainful on the kingly orb,That lay o'erspent and weary. But he rousedUp as a giant, and the welkin glow'dWith rushing splendour, while his puny foesVanish'd in air. Old England's oaks outstretch'dTheir mighty arms, and took that cloudless glanceInto their bosoms, as a precious thingTo be remember'd long.And so we turn'd,And through romantic glades pursued our way,Where Rydal Water spends its thundering force,And through the dark gorge makes a double plungeAbruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock,And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foamAll exquisitely blent, while deafening soundOf torrents battling with their ruffian foes

Fill'd the admiring gaze with awe, and wroughtA dim forgetfulness of all beside.Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan home,Whose music thrill'd my heart when life was new,Wordsworth! with wild enchantment circled round,In love with Nature's self, and she with thee.Thy ready hand, that from the landscape cull'dIts long familiar charms, rock, tree, and spire,With kindness half paternal leading onMy stranger footsteps through the garden walk,Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew;The group of dear ones gathering round thy board—She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved—The daughter, sweet companion—sons mature,And favourite grandchild, with his treasured phrase—The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locksAnd ample brow fell fitfully, and touch'dThy lifted eye with earnestness of thought,Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fadeTill death shall darken all material things.