Or trod thy green islands, and call’d them our own,
And built, ’mid the hills that encircle thy breast
A bower and a home in the wilds of the West.
But sorrow has darken’d the noon of our day,
And peril and doubt have encompass’d our way;
My heart’s only love in captivity lies,
And thy glory, O Derwent, is dimm’d in mine eyes.
Sad lake of the mountains, through dangers I roam,
With a pang in my heart and a blight on my home,
To dream of the joys that shall bless me no more,