A PORTRAIT. I HONOUR him, who stands in calm reliance And, fearing no man, dares his God to fear: Of that misnamed expediency; but he Deems that expedient which is just and fair; Pronounces that most safe which ought to be; And cries, "Let man have right, for God hath made him. free." SUMMIT OF THE GREAT GAVEL.* AT the furthermost end of Borrowdale There riseth a giant hill; It beareth the name of the great Gavel: And few who are able will. There throned aloft, in visible form, I have kenned the Spirit of the storm, This mountain "is remarkable for a well of pure water on the very summit. This is not a spring issuing in the common way out of the earth; but is supplied immediately from the atmosphere, in the shape of rain and dews. It is a triangular receptacle in the rock, six inches deep, capable of holding about two gallons; and by containing water in the dryest seasons, shows how slight a degree of evaporation is carried on at this altitude." OTWAY'S GUIDE TO THE LAKES. Tossing his dark locks far and wide Over the mountain's shadowy side: He talks to his kindred friends that dwell All along Wastdale's gloomy dell, On a gusty autumn even. But it was not of these I meant to speak : In the solid slate of that awful peak, Filled from the fount of Heaven, Is scooped a small triangular basin,—— As he stops for a moment to rest thereon Ere he lies down to his curtained rest In the golden chambers of the West: The sheer and seamless stone; Yet never doth the water shrink Below the basin's rocky brink; For it ever condescends to drink From the skies-from the skies alone: The crystal lymph, which sparkles there, Is brought by Genii of the air From the clouds that are braided with purple and amber, And it may be at times they have snatched a gem Thus, sometimes may you find the man Musing, 'mid sternly kindred things, At home 'mid Nature's rudest forms, You may haply meet, like gem enchased, Amid the bleak and barren waste, A font of Heaven's own blessed dew, Clear, sparkling, to refresh your view. That draws its waters from on high. The cistern may be roughly hewed By Nature in her wildest mood; But the water is pure as th' untrodden snow That wept bright tears in days gone by For the sacred urn of Castaly. All lovely colours are blended there, Born in the azure depths of air,— Fancy and Feeling their hues have shed, Like the braided purple and gold and red, That canopy the day-god's bed; And Hope a livelier lustre flings From the plumage of her rainbow wings. * Parnassus. A village high up the mountain still retains the name of Liakoura. |