Across its waters; and, within the gloom
Of mountain shade, the lonely dwelling-place,
Upon whose lonely roof each flitting trace
Of sunbeam fades like smiles beside a tomb.
And were you long to linger there and muse
In chilling loneliness, 'twould make you shiver,
Submerge your brightest fancies in the blues,
Mar much enjoyment, and derange your liver.
PLAIN AND PIKES.
It is no longer, nor has it been, for many years, a “treeless nook,” for the “one abode” is now shaded by a sycamore or two, and the hill-side beyond the tarn is covered with Mr Wordsworth’s most especial aversion, an extensive plantation of fine larches, which were planted, I suppose, by Dr Watson, the venerated Bishop of Llandaff, in the possession of whose representatives the place still remains. For miles hereabouts the scenery partakes largely of the Blea-tarn character, and were it not for the house, the road, the little fields and the intruding larches, there were nothing to indicate that the hand or foot of man has been there. It is not until you are descending a steep hill towards Wall-end, that the fertile meadows, the flourishing trees, the hedge-rows and the homesteads of Great Langdale, and the magnificent Pikes towering beyond them, neutralize the effect of the dreary scene you are emerging from. But in introducing you to Great Langdale, I am glad to resign my office to a much more efficient and eloquent cicerone—so attend to him:—“Promise not to lift your eyes from your ponies' ears, till we cry 'eyes forward'! We wish you to enjoy the soul-uplifting emotion of instantaneous magnificence. There, honest Jonathan, hold the gate open till the cavalry get through; and now,——behold the Vale of Great Langdale! There is no lake in that depth profound—the glittering sunshine hides a cloud of rich enclosures, scattered over with single trees; and, immediately below your feet, a stately sycamore-grove shrouding the ancient dwelling of Wall-end. Ay, your dazzled eyes begin now to discern the character of the vale, gradually forming itself into permanent order out of the wavering confusion. That thread of silver is a stream! Yonder seeming wreath of snow a waterfall! No castles are these built by hands, but the battlements of the eternal cliffs! There you behold the mountains, from their feet resting on the vale as on a footstool, up to their crests in the clear blue sky! And what a vast distance from field to cloud! You have been in Italy, and Spain, and Switzerland,—say, then, saw ye ever mountains more sublime than the Langdale Pikes?”