SONNET VII.
WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.
It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd
O'er thy dim vastness, Skiddaw!—Mist and cloud
Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast
To thee made darling music, wild and loud,
Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,
As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,
A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd
Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.
I could have thought that every living form
Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,
So desolate the day. To me were given
Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,
Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul
Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?
SONNET VIII.
I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad,
O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;
Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad,
Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.
Romantic vales stole winding to my eye
In gradual loveliness, like rising dreams;
Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky
Rocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.
How strange, methought, I should have lived so near,
Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!
Strange! say not so—hid from the world and thee,
Though in the midst of life their spirits move,
Thousands enjoy in holy liberty
The silent Eden of unenvied Love!