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).
SCAWFELL
I stood upon the mountain, whose vast brow
Looks down his four concentrate vales below;
Here Esk smiles coyly thro' his woody glade;
There Wastdale's chaos flings its length of shade;
Next in bright contrast with that gloomy vale,
The life and loveliness of Borrowdale;
And last, that wild and deep and swampy dell,
Where Langdale's summits frown upon Bowfell.
Storm on Scawfell,
T. E. HANKINSON.
