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Poem by James Payn Lake-Land ALL our haunts have graceful titles. Silver-sounding Windermere, With its Brathay and its Rothay, Falls like music soft and clear; Out from under noble Kirkstone, All adown the mountain-side, Like a swift yet gentle motion, ’Lights the white-walled Ambleside; Freshly wave the woods of Rydal, Our Grasmere may all men know For a haunt of peace and pleasure Whose eyes have ne’er seen Silver How, Sought the happy glen of Easedale, Or Seat-Sandal’s height explored, Or looked upon our own Helvellyn Over all things mountain-lord; Glaramara, home of thunder, Little Langdale fair to see, Heights of awe or scenes of beauty Seem to tell us what they be; Whether Dungeon Ghyll the gloomy Or the lofty lone Red Tarn, Or Troutbeck vale or Elterwater, These can beckon, those can warn: Save one nursling, no true daughter, Wrynose, set amidst the south, A hideous child that was deserted By its mother Cockermouth. James Payn James Payn's other poems: 1177 Views |
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