THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE
I WITHIN the mind strong fancies work. A deep delight the bosom thrills Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills: Where, save the rugged road, we find No appanage of human kind, Nor hint of man; if stone or rock Seem not his handywork to mock By something cognizably shaped; Mockery–or model roughly hewn, And left as if by earthquake strewn, Or from the Flood escaped: Altars for Druid service fit; (But where no fire was ever lit, Unless the glow-worm to the skies Thence offer nightly sacrifice) Wrinkled Egyptian monument; Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; Tents of a camp that never shall be razed– On which four thousand years have gazed! II Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes! Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned ‘mid the formal props Of restless ownership! Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall To feed the insatiate Prodigal! Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, All that the fertile valley shields; Wages of folly–baits of crime, Of life’s uneasy game the stake, Playthings that keep the eyes awake Of drowsy, dotard Time;– O care! O guilt!–O vales and plains, Here, ‘mid his own unvexed domains, A Genius dwells, that can subdue At once all memory of You,– Most potent when mists veil the sky, Mists that distort and magnify; While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze, Sigh forth their ancient melodies! III List to those shriller notes!–‘that’ march Perchance was on the blast, When, through this Height’s inverted arch, Rome’s earliest legion passed! –They saw, adventurously impelled, And older eyes than theirs beheld, This block–and yon, whose church-like frame Gives to this savage Pass its name. Aspiring Road! that lov’st to hide Thy daring in a vapoury bourn, Not seldom may the hour return When thou shalt be my guide: And I (as all men may find cause, When life is at a weary pause, And they have panted up the hill Of duty with reluctant will) Be thankful, even though tired and faint, For the rich bounties of constraint; Whence oft invigorating transports flow That choice lacked courage to bestow! IV My Soul was grateful for delight That wore a threatening brow; A veil is lifted–can she slight The scene that opens now? Though habitation none appear, The greenness tells, man must be there; The shelter–that the perspective Is of the clime in which we live; Where Toil pursues his daily round; Where Pity sheds sweet tears–and Love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound. –Who comes not hither ne’er shall know How beautiful the world below; Nor can he guess how lightly leaps The brook adown the rocky steeps. Farewell, thou desolate Domain! Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, Carols like a shepherd-boy; And who is she?–Can that be Joy! Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, Smoothly skims the meadows wide; While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, To hill and vale proclaims aloud, “Whate’er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, fair!” 1817.