From Indian shore deep-laden stretch their wings
Athwart the shadowy main, yon low-hung clouds
O'er hamlets faint, and dim-discover'd meads,
And village towers above the encircling trees
Peering obscure, in pomp of darkness float,

And lurid purple chills the expanse beneath.
There, where in curves now lost, now traced again,
A wandering lustre, as from rippling streams
Reflected, plays ambiguous, oft the heron,

Posted in Dove's rich meads, with patient guile
And pale grey plumes with watery blue suffused
Stands like a shadow; then with out-strech'd neck,
While near with sidelong gait the fowler creeps,
Rises, and, steering to the distant fen,

Shrieks from on high, and flaps her solemn wing.
Hence northward to yon ridgy heights the eye
Glances at large. Lo their magnetic tops

Have seized the passing cloud: the torrent rain
Smokes on their deluged sides. The shower drives on:
Hill after hill successive disappears

Before the encroaching vapour. Lost awhile,
They mingle with the sky: now far behind.
Gradual emerge, obscurely through the rear
Of the spent storm discern'd: now glimmer faint
With watery beams; now through the freshen'd air
Swell on the sight, and laugh in cloudless day.
There, mid disjointed cliffs and tranquil shades,
Low in his native dale, with stream as pure

As melts from Alpine snow Dove laves his rocks
Wild as by magic planted, yet with grace
Of symmetry arranged; now foaming darts
Along the stony channel, tufted isles

Now circles, now with glassy surface calm
Reflects the impending glories of his hills,

* "From the description given of Dovedale, even by men of taste, "we had conceived it to be a scene rather of curiosity than of beauty. "We supposed the rocks were formed into the most fantastic shapes; "and expected to see a gigantic display of all the conic sections. "But we were agreeably deceived. The whole composition is chaste, "and picturesquely beautiful, in a high degree." Mr. Gilpin's Observations on the Mountains and Lakes of Cumberland, &c. vol. ii. P. 228.

There Contemplation at the fall of eve,

By gurgling waters lull'd, with downcast gaze
Pores on each insect form, that skims the deep,
Each grassy blade, that vibrates in the stream:
Then the green slopes, the craggy barrier views,
And sylvan gloom sequester'd: then to heaven
Lifts an adoring glance, and thinks on Thee,
Maker of all that lives, of all that, void

Of life, with beauty charms, with grandeur awes,
Dims with admiring gratitude the eye,

With holy rapture swells the kindling heart.
Or turn we southward, where on yonder cliff,

Dove, o'er thy ampler wave projecting shine

Those ivy-mantled towers *; towers once with sighs Sadden'd of captive Mary, jocund once

With minstrelsy, when Lancaster convened

The throng of barons in his festive hall.

*Tutbury Castle, once the prison of Mary Queen of Scots; and in earlier times the residence of John of Gaunt.

Stretch'd in her cell with pallid cheek the Queen,
And tears fast dropping from her beamless eyes,
Wore the long months of grief. With anguish faint.

If ever the fresh gale she sought to breathe;
The sullen portal thundering as it closed,

The huge portcullis rushing from above,

The frowning battlement and guarded wall,
Prescribed her limits. Through the stony chink,
Wont on the near approaching foe to pour

The arrowy storm, on these wild banks she gaz'd:
While fancy, minister of woe, with hand
Officious to her view presented still

Gay troops of forest deer unprison'd air

Inhaling, and as frolic sport inspir'd

Bounding unfetter'd. To new dungeon tost

From dungeon her unpitying rival's ear

With fruitless prayer she plied. The cold excuse,

The taunt, the studied silence of neglect,

Silence than cold evasion and than taunt

More keen, she bore: yet dreams of brighter hours

H

Still cherish'd; and still hoped, and hoped anew, To burst the chains which envious hate had twin'd;

Till Freedom on the sable scaffold's height

Stood hand in hand with all-subduing Death,

To end her bondage. Other scenes the bard
Crown'd with high harpings; when unnumber'd lights
Illumed the fretted roof, the pendent arms

That deck'd the wall; and glowing through the rows
Of adverse windows, where the crystal plain
Art's richest tracery spread, proclaim'd afar

The princely feast of Lancaster. He rose:
Mirth ceased her tumult; every sound was hush'd;
All from their seats bent forward. Age and youth,
Warriors, and gorgeous dames enraptur'd heard
The tale of ancient years, the tale of arms
In glorious cause triumphant: then allured

To sadder themes, with misty eye-balls learn'd

Of youths before an aged parent's face

In their first onset slain; or, from the sword

Of hostile inroad while on foamy steeds