As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine,
Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine
When the soul centred in the heart's recess
Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness,
Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay
       &nbspAnd fain would thirst again, again to quaff;
Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way,
       &nbspFills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh—
In that sweet mood of sad and humorous thought
A form within me rose, within me wrought
With such strong magic, that I cried aloud,
'Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud,
And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep,
And by their shadows that for ever sleep,
       &nbspBy yon small flaky mists that love to creep
       &nbspAlong the edges of those spots of light,
       &nbspThose sunny islands on thy smooth green height,
       &nbspAnd by yon shepherds with their sheep,
       &nbspAnd dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd,
       &nbspThat rush e'en now with clamour loud
       &nbspSudden from forth thy topmost cloud,
       &nbspAnd by this laugh, and by this tear,
       &nbspI would, old Skiddaw, she were here!
       &nbspA lady of sweet song is she,
       &nbspHer soft blue eye was made for thee!
       &nbspO ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
       &nbspI would, I would that she were here!'


Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,
       &nbspIn sullen majesty replying,
Thus spake from out his helm of cloud
(His voice was like an echo dying!):—
       &nbsp'She dwells belike in scenes more fair,
And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.'


I only sigh'd when this I heard,
Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd
That all my heart was faint and weak,
       &nbspSo sorely was I troubled!
No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,
But O the tears were doubled!
       &nbspBut ancient Skiddaw green and high
Heard and understood my sigh;
And now, in tones less stern and rude,
As if he wish'd to end the feud,
Spake he, the proud response renewing
(His voice was like a monarch wooing):—
'Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
       &nbspThe pinions of her soul how strong!
But many a stranger in my height
       &nbspHath sung to me her magic song,
       &nbsp       &nbspSending forth his ecstasy
       &nbsp       &nbspIn her divinest melody,
       &nbspAnd hence I know her soul is free,
       &nbspShe is where'er she wills to be,
       &nbspUnfetter'd by mortality!
Now to the "haunted beach" can fly,
       &nbspBeside the threshold scourged with waves,
       &nbspNow where the maniac wildly raves,
"Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!"
       &nbspNo wind that hurries o'er my height
       &nbspCan travel with so swift a flight.
       &nbsp       &nbspI too, methinks, might merit
       &nbsp       &nbspThe presence of her spirit!
       &nbsp       &nbspTo me too might belong
       &nbspThe honour of her song and witching melody,
       &nbsp       &nbspWhich most resembles me,
       &nbsp       &nbspSoft, various, and sublime,
       &nbsp       &nbspExempt from wrongs of Time!'


Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh:—
Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
I would, I would that she were here!'