Lo! how the orient morning sweetly lights The western side of Keswick's beauteous vale; And gilds, with yellow beams, the mountain tops; While on the east, the brown projecting rocks Cast a dark shade; majestically grand! Purpling the dale beneath; thro' which, the lake Spontaneous rolls along his silver tide. Where shall the eye find rest, in this wide scene Of beauteous horror? where th' o'erhanging cliff Threatens with ruin, all who are so bold, To pass beneath his darkly, low'ring brow. Here, mountains pil'd on mountains, meet the view, Upon whose cloud-envelop'd heights, the bird, Sacred to mighty Jove, her aery builds. The roaring water, down the rocky steep, Rushes impetuous, with resistless force; Now dashing on the broken crags, it foams And rages with redoubled violence: Now, falling in wide sheets from rock to rock, 'Till tumbling down some rugged precipice, It gains the bottom of the dale below; Then joins the shining flood, and gently flows. Behold the surface of the chrystal lake, Studded with islands of perpetual green; Within whose shady woods, the feather'd choir Chant their sweet songs, nor dread the arts of man. The halcyon here, recluse, sequester'd bird, Spreads her bright plumage to the view of Heav'n: Here, living groves of the Dodonean tree, Shade above shade, climb the adjacent hills; Upon whole sides, the yellow waving corn, A noble contrast forms to the dark oaks, And charms the sight with golden brilliancy. All round this lovely scene, the mountains raise Their spiry heads above the swelling clouds That rest upon their shoulders, and, sometimes, Driv'n by the winds with rudest violence, Against their fellow clouds with fury dash. Here, the god Æolus his empire holds, In hollow caves, and here he reigns supreme: Oft times his blust'ring subjects issue forth With deaf'ning roar, from some wide cavern's mouth, And make mock thunder echo thro' the rocks: Inflated by their breath, the turbid lake Swells high in heaving waves, and boldly threats The banks which stop its furious mad career— Horror magnificent! how shall I paint The majesty and grandeur of the scene? My pen's unequal to the task—I stop. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TREE OF SONG by SARA TEASDALE WHEN WILL LOVE COME? by PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY GOOD NIGHT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE by ALFRED TENNYSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: TO THE QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON GOOD-BYE MY FANCY! by WALT WHITMAN |