Rydal Water.Addressed to Wordsworth.
Addressed to Wordsworth.
How fair beneath the noontide light,In splendour rests this silver lake,Engirt by many a mountain height,High soaring rock, and purple peak.Yon central isle, of sombre pines,With dark green hue, and spreading bough,Reflected in the water shines,A softer vision seen below!Around, unnumbered fairy islesIn rich luxuriant verdure lie,Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,Or bright clouds on a summer sky.Fair, spreading trees along the shoreAdorn each lofty headland steep;Or on the marge their branches laveAmidst the shining crystal deep.Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,Sublime in hue, or rich and brightAs through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,Reveal a vision of delight;A scene so glorious and grand,We well might deem that He whose wordCreated all things, o’er this landHad primal paradise restored.Can man such loveliness behold,So wondrous fair in every part,And not as incense give to heavenThe adoration of his heart.O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,How oft the Rydal Bard on theeHath glanced his eye’s poetic light,Till song gushed forth like torrents free.The soft and gentle summer breeze,As fairy-like it wanders round,With deep-toned music midst the trees,Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.Each mountain soars in richer hues,Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,And streams in murmurs sweet diffuseThe gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,More glorious feeling in us wakeOr brighter dreams to fancy bring?Amid a scene so rich and fairHow does my spirit long to dwell,And quit the world, with all its care,And bid its noisy haunts farewell.My heart was never framed to toilWith Commerce on his crowded mart,From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,But, oh! they love the poets’ art.How sweet to me the woodland glade,The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,The noontide sun, the evening shade,And all that nature gives to view.And sweet to see them pictured brightUpon the bard’s immortal page,Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,To charm the world from age to age.Harp of the ancient British Bards!Had I but skill to tune thy strings,Entranced by thy delicious notes,My heart would leave all meaner things.Thy music owns a magic spellTo thrill my breast with glowing love;Each rising throb of anguish quellAnd make my pulse enraptured move!No hoards of classic lore are mine;Few treasures of historic truth;No ancient themes my thoughts refine,And past’s the sunshine of my youth.Thus boding sadness chills my heart,And bows my hopeless spirit down;In vain I woo the poets’ art,—The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!
How fair beneath the noontide light,In splendour rests this silver lake,Engirt by many a mountain height,High soaring rock, and purple peak.Yon central isle, of sombre pines,With dark green hue, and spreading bough,Reflected in the water shines,A softer vision seen below!Around, unnumbered fairy islesIn rich luxuriant verdure lie,Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,Or bright clouds on a summer sky.Fair, spreading trees along the shoreAdorn each lofty headland steep;Or on the marge their branches laveAmidst the shining crystal deep.Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,Sublime in hue, or rich and brightAs through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,Reveal a vision of delight;A scene so glorious and grand,We well might deem that He whose wordCreated all things, o’er this landHad primal paradise restored.Can man such loveliness behold,So wondrous fair in every part,And not as incense give to heavenThe adoration of his heart.O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,How oft the Rydal Bard on theeHath glanced his eye’s poetic light,Till song gushed forth like torrents free.The soft and gentle summer breeze,As fairy-like it wanders round,With deep-toned music midst the trees,Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.Each mountain soars in richer hues,Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,And streams in murmurs sweet diffuseThe gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,More glorious feeling in us wakeOr brighter dreams to fancy bring?Amid a scene so rich and fairHow does my spirit long to dwell,And quit the world, with all its care,And bid its noisy haunts farewell.My heart was never framed to toilWith Commerce on his crowded mart,From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,But, oh! they love the poets’ art.How sweet to me the woodland glade,The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,The noontide sun, the evening shade,And all that nature gives to view.And sweet to see them pictured brightUpon the bard’s immortal page,Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,To charm the world from age to age.Harp of the ancient British Bards!Had I but skill to tune thy strings,Entranced by thy delicious notes,My heart would leave all meaner things.Thy music owns a magic spellTo thrill my breast with glowing love;Each rising throb of anguish quellAnd make my pulse enraptured move!No hoards of classic lore are mine;Few treasures of historic truth;No ancient themes my thoughts refine,And past’s the sunshine of my youth.Thus boding sadness chills my heart,And bows my hopeless spirit down;In vain I woo the poets’ art,—The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!
How fair beneath the noontide light,In splendour rests this silver lake,Engirt by many a mountain height,High soaring rock, and purple peak.
How fair beneath the noontide light,
In splendour rests this silver lake,
Engirt by many a mountain height,
High soaring rock, and purple peak.
Yon central isle, of sombre pines,With dark green hue, and spreading bough,Reflected in the water shines,A softer vision seen below!
Yon central isle, of sombre pines,
With dark green hue, and spreading bough,
Reflected in the water shines,
A softer vision seen below!
Around, unnumbered fairy islesIn rich luxuriant verdure lie,Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,Or bright clouds on a summer sky.
Around, unnumbered fairy isles
In rich luxuriant verdure lie,
Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,
Or bright clouds on a summer sky.
Fair, spreading trees along the shoreAdorn each lofty headland steep;Or on the marge their branches laveAmidst the shining crystal deep.
Fair, spreading trees along the shore
Adorn each lofty headland steep;
Or on the marge their branches lave
Amidst the shining crystal deep.
Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,Sublime in hue, or rich and brightAs through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,Reveal a vision of delight;
Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,
Sublime in hue, or rich and bright
As through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,
Reveal a vision of delight;
A scene so glorious and grand,We well might deem that He whose wordCreated all things, o’er this landHad primal paradise restored.
A scene so glorious and grand,
We well might deem that He whose word
Created all things, o’er this land
Had primal paradise restored.
Can man such loveliness behold,So wondrous fair in every part,And not as incense give to heavenThe adoration of his heart.
Can man such loveliness behold,
So wondrous fair in every part,
And not as incense give to heaven
The adoration of his heart.
O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,How oft the Rydal Bard on theeHath glanced his eye’s poetic light,Till song gushed forth like torrents free.
O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,
How oft the Rydal Bard on thee
Hath glanced his eye’s poetic light,
Till song gushed forth like torrents free.
The soft and gentle summer breeze,As fairy-like it wanders round,With deep-toned music midst the trees,Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.
The soft and gentle summer breeze,
As fairy-like it wanders round,
With deep-toned music midst the trees,
Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.
Each mountain soars in richer hues,Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,And streams in murmurs sweet diffuseThe gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.
Each mountain soars in richer hues,
Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,
And streams in murmurs sweet diffuse
The gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.
O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,More glorious feeling in us wakeOr brighter dreams to fancy bring?
O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,
Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,
More glorious feeling in us wake
Or brighter dreams to fancy bring?
Amid a scene so rich and fairHow does my spirit long to dwell,And quit the world, with all its care,And bid its noisy haunts farewell.
Amid a scene so rich and fair
How does my spirit long to dwell,
And quit the world, with all its care,
And bid its noisy haunts farewell.
My heart was never framed to toilWith Commerce on his crowded mart,From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,But, oh! they love the poets’ art.
My heart was never framed to toil
With Commerce on his crowded mart,
From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,
But, oh! they love the poets’ art.
How sweet to me the woodland glade,The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,The noontide sun, the evening shade,And all that nature gives to view.
How sweet to me the woodland glade,
The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,
The noontide sun, the evening shade,
And all that nature gives to view.
And sweet to see them pictured brightUpon the bard’s immortal page,Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,To charm the world from age to age.
And sweet to see them pictured bright
Upon the bard’s immortal page,
Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,
To charm the world from age to age.
Harp of the ancient British Bards!Had I but skill to tune thy strings,Entranced by thy delicious notes,My heart would leave all meaner things.
Harp of the ancient British Bards!
Had I but skill to tune thy strings,
Entranced by thy delicious notes,
My heart would leave all meaner things.
Thy music owns a magic spellTo thrill my breast with glowing love;Each rising throb of anguish quellAnd make my pulse enraptured move!
Thy music owns a magic spell
To thrill my breast with glowing love;
Each rising throb of anguish quell
And make my pulse enraptured move!
No hoards of classic lore are mine;Few treasures of historic truth;No ancient themes my thoughts refine,And past’s the sunshine of my youth.
No hoards of classic lore are mine;
Few treasures of historic truth;
No ancient themes my thoughts refine,
And past’s the sunshine of my youth.
Thus boding sadness chills my heart,And bows my hopeless spirit down;In vain I woo the poets’ art,—The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!
Thus boding sadness chills my heart,
And bows my hopeless spirit down;
In vain I woo the poets’ art,—
The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!