 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
Grasmere
We thought of Wordsworth—how his memory fillsThe peaceful vale, and haunts its leafy shades,
And never from its circling summits fades—
A lingering glory on the silent hills;—
When all at once a silvery music thrills
The bosom of the waters, and pervades
Each nook and corner of the woods and glades,
And everywhere a holy grace distils.
Morning and evening from that grey Churchtower,
Which through the centuries unchanged abides,
Comes the sweet call to prayer with soothing power;
While, like a brook from his loved mountainsides,
The Bard's pure strains are murmured hour by hour,
As by his quiet grave the Rothay glides.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |