Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling;
Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering
Through ice-built arches[432] radiant as heaven's bow;
I seek the birth-place of a native Stream.—[EW]
All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light!
Better to breathe at large on this clear height
Than toil[433] in needless sleep from dream to dream:
Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright,
For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme!