Condemned to stem the world's rude tide, You may not linger by the side; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, And Passion ply the sail and oar. Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain, and the rill; But, well I hope, without a sigh, On the free hours that we have spent, Together, on the brown hill's bent. When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain, It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impressed. But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, "Twixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone St. Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed might lie; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness And silence aids-though these steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills; In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil, If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage, On the broad lake, and mountain's side, To say, "Thus pleasures fade away; And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, "Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, To sit the Wizard's grave; upon That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust From company of holy dust; On which no sun-beam ever shines (So superstition's creed divines,) Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, Heave her broad billows to the shore; And mark the wild swans mount the gale, Their bosoms on the surging wave: Then, when against the driving hail No longer might my plaid avail, Back to my lonely home retire, And light my lamp, and trim my fire: |