LXXXVIII.GRISEDALE TARN.
I
Were I a man upon whose life
An awful, untold sin did weigh,
And Heaven vouchsafed not pain or strife
Enough to do that guilt away,
And it were well in mine old age
To build myself an hermitage,—
II
I would not choose a savage place
Where, all the heavenly seasons round,
I should read anger in the face
Of nature's bleak and joyless ground;
And winds and streams have voices rude,
Wherewith to mar the solitude.
III
No; for the many sins that stain me
Barren and lonely should it be,
High up where nature might unchain me
With her strong mountain liberty,
With charms that would, through sin-born fears,
Keep fresh and free the source of tears.
IV
In yon pale hollow would I dwell,
Where waveless Grisedale meekly lies,
And the three clefts of grassy fell
Let in the blueness of the skies;
And lowland sounds come travelling up
To echo in that mountain cup.
V
The morning light on mottled stones,
The unfledged ravens' clamorous mirth,
The broken gush and hollow moans
Of waters struggling in the earth,
And the white lines of bleating sheep
Crossing, far up, the dewy steep;
VI
These, with the storms and calms, mayhap
Enough of sight and sound would make
For one in mountain nature's lap,
A dweller by her loneliest lake;
While banners bright of kindled mist
Above his head might hang and twist.
VII
Where from the tarn the shallow brook
By rough Helvellyn shapes its way,
The window of my cell should look
Eastward upon the birth of day;
Nor should the place disfigured be
By garden-plot or favorite tree.
VIII
One blame would I incur, nor fear
To wound the stranger's curious eye;
Some sceptral foxgloves I would rear
Upon the yellow turf hard by:
They might to an ascetic serve
As types and teachers of reserve.
IX
From wanton summer's broadest sun
Their perfect splendour they withhold;
The regal blossoms, one by one,
In single, separate pomp unfold,
Shedding their frail red bells away
In patient, gradual decay.
X
See with what pleasant slowness there,
When hedge and wood are past their prime,
Late summer with her fertile air
Is forced that kingly stalk to climb;
As though the world should read therein
The Christian way deep truths to win.
XI
In every cleft a kneeling-place
And cushion of dead fern should lie;
From three such loop-holes I might trace
Meanings and shapes in earth and sky;
Huge emblems would they make for me
Of the Most Holy Trinity!
