WASTWATER
There is a lake hid far among the hills,
That raves around the throne of solitude,
Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,
But headlong cataract and rushing flood.
There gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood,
No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side;
For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood,
And o'er the tempest heaved the mountains' pride.
Written, on the banks of Wastwater during a storm,
by CHRISTOPHER NORTH (Professor Wilson).