Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
-"Now whether" (said I to our cordial Friend,
Who in the heyday of astonishment

Smiled in my face) “this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses

To me alone imparted, sure I am

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
And while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.

And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone: And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."

Wordsworth

BUGLE SONG.

HE splendor falls on castle walls

THE

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Tennyson

LOCH LOMOND.

HEY oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene!

TH

And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene! O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled, And rocked them on skies of a far nether world. "Ettrick Shepherd."

AIREY-FORCE VALLEY.

OT a breath of air

NOT

Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.

From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees
Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself,
Old as the hills that feed it from afar,
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
Where all things else are still and motionless.
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,
But to its gentle touch how sensitive

Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes

A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,

Powerful almost as vocal harmony

To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.

Wordsworth.

YEW-TREES.

`HERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

TH

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loath to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane;

a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially, beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow; — there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie and listen to the mountain-flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Wordsworth.

BORRODAILE.

HE gulfs of Borrodaile!

TH

My soul delights

In these drear deserts. Now methinks a sense Of something mightier than the common world Runs trembling through the heart. A spirit born Of mountain solitudes and sights sublime, Of earth and sky, and the wild-wandering air, Is present here. Unlike the royal power Of Skiddaw, or Helvellyn crowned with clouds, Or Kirkstone, guardian of the mountain way, Here vague and barren grandeur spreads abroad, And darkness and dismay and danger dwell. No grassy sward of green is nourished here, Like that which (as old song proclaims) sprang freshly On shore Sicilian and in Tempe's vale;

Nor streams of silver, such as echo once

Haunted, or on whose banks the wood-nymphs played, Or pensive pale Narcissus loved to lie.

But here a wilful, riotous torrent comes

Mad from the mountains, and when July drought
Scorches the hills, here all subdued yet wild

The muttering river drags its lazy course,

And makes hoarse discord with the rocks and stones.
No solitary tree puts forth its head,

Nor flowering shrub: the “palmy fern" has left
A place so desolate; and the clinging moss,

The last friend of the desert, here has died!

Bryan Walier Procter.