And the smooth green of many a pendent field, One chimney smoking and its azure wreath, What wonder, at this hour of stillness deep, If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood, And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts. And let us utter thanks for blessings sown Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, Startling us all, dispersed my reverie; Such shout as, many a sportive echo meeting, Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb; With door left open makes a gloomy spot, Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain, An area level as a Lake, and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where, sheltered from the north and bleak north west, Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride. Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, Never retiring, in thy large, dark eyes,Dark, but to every gentle feeling true, As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue. Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved Of Heaven in pity visiting the place. I leave unsearched enough that memory clings, More could my pen report of grave or gay That through our gypsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done." Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet: : FAREWELL. Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Dianæ as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes, as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written, Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there. It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIR TY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION. SOON did the Almighty Giver of all rest here a summer retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardness which need not be particularized. |