Laid the first stone,-and in his native vale
It serves him for a peaceful monument,
'Mid the hill silence.
Now flows through all my veins:-old dreams revive;
And while an airy pleasure in my brain.
Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze,
Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,
On Thee delicious Fountain !
(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air
And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave,
A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring
Breathes with his April showers, The narrow lane
On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,
That from the roadside gently lead the eye
Up to thy bed,-Ah me! how rich a green,
Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!
With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,
Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,
Live on the little cell! The water there,
Variously dappled by the wreathed sand
That sleeps below in many an antic shape,
Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen
Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip
From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand
Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse
Tells of the living principle within,-
A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.
Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot Beyond this well :-it is inhabited
By an old shepherd during summer months,
And haply he may drink of the pure spring,
To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath morn
Going to pray, or as he home returns
At silent eve or traveller such as I,
Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,
Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst
Once in a season. Other visitants
It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,
When ice hath locked the rills, or wandering colt
Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.
Methinks, in such a solitary cave,
The fairy forms belated peasant sees,
Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring
On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire
To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe
Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.
A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here
Of loveliest colors, and of sweetest smell,
Native to these our hills, and ever seen
A fairest family by the happy side
Of their own parent spring;-and others too
Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,
Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,
Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.
Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,
Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans.
Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart
Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,
Like some fair virgin at the humble door
Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet
The way-bewildered traveller.
Long pleased to linger by this silent cave,
Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,
Pants for a loftier pleasure,-and forsakes,
Though surely with no cold ingratitude,
The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.
A voice calls on me from the mountain depths,
And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,
Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,
Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,
Wastwater blackens far beneath my feet,
She the storm-loving Lake.
Sweet Fount !-Farewell!
How wild and dim this Life appears!
One long, deep, heavy sigh!
When o'er our eyes, half-closed in tears,
The images of former years
Are faintly glimmering by!
And still forgotten while they go,
As on the sea-beach wave on wave
Dissolves at once in snow.
Upon the blue and silent sky
The amber-clouds one moment lie,
And like a dream are gone!
Though beautiful the moon-beams play,
On the lake's bosom bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away
We scarce believe it shone !
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell,
And we wish they ne'er may fade-
They cease! and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never played.
Dream follows dream through the long night-hours,
Each lovelier than the last
But ere the breath of morning flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past.
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Whose smiles of love and kindness speak,
Glides by us on this earth
While in a day we cannot tell
Where shone the face we loved so well
ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life embue,
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent;
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?
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