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XV. From this deep chasm --- where quivering sunbeams play Upon its loftiest crags—mine eyes behold A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold; A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey; In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, Some Statue, placed amid these regions old For tutelary service, thence had rolled, Startling the flight of timid Yesterday! Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weary slaves Of slow endeavour! or abruptly cast Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast Tempestuously let loose from central caves ? Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge pass'd ?
XVI. - AMERICAN TRADITION.
XVII. — RETURN. A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew, Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks ; Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes Departed ages, shedding where he flew Loose fragments of wild wailing, that bestrew The clouds, and thrill the chambers of the rocks, And into silence hush the timorous flocks, That, calmly couching while the nightly dew Moistened each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height, t Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars: Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame Tardily sinking by its proper weight Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it came !
* See Humboldt's Personal Narrative. + See note, p. 28.
XVIII. — SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. SACRED Religion, “ mother of form and fear," Dread Arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; If one strong wish may be embosomed here, Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days When this low Pile * a Gospel Teacher knew, Whose good works formed an endless retinue: Such Priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
XIX. - TRIBUTARY STREAM. My frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good, That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood Of yon pure waters, from their aëry height Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; Who, 'mid a world of images imprest On the calm depth of his transparent breast, Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all! And seldom hath ear listened to a tune More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, Swoln by that voice – whose murmur musical Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.
* See note, p. 32.
XX.—THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE.
XXI. WHENCE that low voice? — A whisper from the heart, That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light; And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall On gales that breathe too gently to recal Aught of the fading year's inclemency!
XXII. - TRADITION. " A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime Derives its name, reflected as the chime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: The starry treasure from the blue profound She longed to ravish; — shall she plunge, or climb The humid precipice, and seize the guest Of April, smiling high in upper air? Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought? — Upon the steep rock's breast The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom!
XXIII. — SHEEP-WASHING.
Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — the fervour of the year,