>“On Skiddaw and Derwentwater”
Skiddaw! upon thy cliffs the sun shines bright;
Yet only for a moment; then gives place
Unto a playful cloud, which on thy brow
Sports wantonly, soon melting into air;
But shadowing first thy side of broken green,
And making more intense the sunʼs return.
Then, in the morning, on thy head, those clouds
Rest, as upon a couch, and give fair scope
To fancyʼs play: and airy fortresses,
Towers, banners, spears, and battlements appear,
Chasing each other off; a and in their turn
Are vanquished too, dissolving like the mould
Thatʼs trampled by the foot of urchin boy; b
And, rolling down, though once so firmly bound
By roots tenacious, while the upward spoiler
Climbs on to invade the hidden eagleʼs nest. c
Skiddaw! majestic, giant‐natureʼs work,
Though less than Andes, or the Alpine heights, 1
Yet pyramids 2 to thee are nothing, they at best
Are but gigantic tombs,—the work of art.
Proud nature makes no tombs, save where the snow
The fleecy locks of winter fall around,
A Mausoleum for the careless swain; d
Or where the ocean swallows navies down,
Or yawning earthquake covers cities vast,
Shroudless, engulfed, without a knell or tear;
Or where another Herculaneum falls; 3
Or the great day of fire the general grave.
These are the tombs she makes, and buries all
Beneath them, but the soul; that . . . scorns the dust. e
Now Derwentwater comes, f a looking‐glass
Wherein reflected are the mountainʼs heights;
For thouʼrt a mirror framed in rocks and woods.
Upon thee, seeming mounts arise, and trees,
And seeming rivulets, that charm the eye;
All on thee painted by a master hand,
Which not a critic can well criticise.
But to disturb thee oft bluff Eolus
Descends upon thy heath‐top with his breath;
Thy polished surface is a boy at play,
Who labours at the snow to make a man,
And when heʼs made, he strikes it into ruin. g
So when thouʼst made a picture, thou dost play
At tearing it to pieces. Trees do first
Tremble as if a monstrous heart of oak
Were but an aspen leaf, and then, as if
It were a cobweb in the tempest.
Thus like Penelope thou weavʼst a web.
And then thou dost undo it; thouʼrt like her
Because thouʼrt fair and full of labour too. 4
Yet only for a moment; then gives place
Unto a playful cloud, which on thy brow
Sports wantonly, soon melting into air;
But shadowing first thy side of broken green,
System generated line number
5And making more intense the sunʼs return.
Then, in the morning, on thy head, those clouds
Rest, as upon a couch, and give fair scope
To fancyʼs play: and airy fortresses,
Towers, banners, spears, and battlements appear,
System generated line number
10Chasing each other off; a and in their turn
Are vanquished too, dissolving like the mould
Thatʼs trampled by the foot of urchin boy; b
And, rolling down, though once so firmly bound
By roots tenacious, while the upward spoiler
System generated line number
15Climbs on to invade the hidden eagleʼs nest. c
Skiddaw! majestic, giant‐natureʼs work,
Though less than Andes, or the Alpine heights, 1
Yet pyramids 2 to thee are nothing, they at best
Are but gigantic tombs,—the work of art.
System generated line number
20Proud nature makes no tombs, save where the snow
The fleecy locks of winter fall around,
A Mausoleum for the careless swain; d
Or where the ocean swallows navies down,
Or yawning earthquake covers cities vast,
System generated line number
25Shroudless, engulfed, without a knell or tear;
Or where another Herculaneum falls; 3
Or the great day of fire the general grave.
These are the tombs she makes, and buries all
Beneath them, but the soul; that . . . scorns the dust. e
System generated line number
30Now Derwentwater comes, f a looking‐glass
Wherein reflected are the mountainʼs heights;
For thouʼrt a mirror framed in rocks and woods.
Upon thee, seeming mounts arise, and trees,
And seeming rivulets, that charm the eye;
System generated line number
35All on thee painted by a master hand,
Which not a critic can well criticise.
But to disturb thee oft bluff Eolus
Descends upon thy heath‐top with his breath;
Thy polished surface is a boy at play,
System generated line number
40Who labours at the snow to make a man,
And when heʼs made, he strikes it into ruin. g
So when thouʼst made a picture, thou dost play
At tearing it to pieces. Trees do first
Tremble as if a monstrous heart of oak
System generated line number
45Were but an aspen leaf, and then, as if
It were a cobweb in the tempest.
Thus like Penelope thou weavʼst a web.
And then thou dost undo it; thouʼrt like her
Because thouʼrt fair and full of labour too. 4
System generated line number
50