The English Lake District Part 1

The English Lake District.

by Various.

LAKELAND ONCE MORE

Mere under mountain lone, like a moat under lowering ramparts; Garrulous petulant beck, sinister laughterless tarn; Haunt of the vagabond feet of my fancy for ever reverting, Haunt of this vagabond heart, c.u.mbrian valleys and fells; You that enchant all ears with the manifold tones of silence, You that around me, in youth, magical filaments wove; You were my earliest possession, and when shall its fealty falter?

Ah, when Helvellyn is low! ah, when Winander is dry!

WILLIAM WATSON.

My thanks are due to the following authors and publishers who have kindly granted permission for the inclusion of copyright poems and extracts: to Mr William Watson, for extracts from "Wordsworth's Grave"

and "Lakeland Once More"; to Messrs Macmillan & Co., Ltd., for lines by Matthew Arnold on "Wordsworth's Grave" and an extract from his poem ent.i.tled "Resignation"; to the Ruskin Literary Trustees and their publishers, Messrs George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., for two extracts from "Modern Painters"; to Mrs W. G. Collingwood and Messrs Methuen & Co., Ltd., for an extract from "The Life of John Ruskin"; to Mrs F. W. H.

Myers and Messrs Longmans, Green & Co., for a poem from "Fragments of Prose and Poetry" by F. W. H. Myers; and also to Messrs Longmans, Green & Co., for an extract from the "Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey" by the Rev. C. Southey.

J. B. R.

DOVE COTTAGE

This was the home of Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy from December 1799 to May 1808. When Wordsworth left the cottage for two months in 1802 on the occasion of his honeymoon he wrote "A Farewell," which begins:--

"Farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The lovliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

De Quincey also lived at Dove Cottage from 1809-1816. He has described it as follows:--

Let the cottage be a real cottage, in fact (for I must abide by the actual scene), a white cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon the walls, and cl.u.s.tering round the windows through all months of spring, summer, and autumn--beginning, in fact, with May roses, and ending with jasmine.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE]

GRASMERE

There are many descriptions in Dorothy Wordsworth's journal of Grasmere and Rydal Waters of which the following extracts are typical:--

SAt.u.r.dAY, 26th (December 1801)....

We walked to Rydale. Grasmere Lake a beautiful image of stillness, clear as gla.s.s, reflecting all things. The wind was up, and the waters sounding. The lake of a rich purple, the fields a soft yellow, the island yellowish-green, the copses red-brown, the mountains purple, the church and buildings how quiet they were!

Sunday, 31st (January 1802).... We walked round the two lakes.

Grasmere was very soft, and Rydale was extremely beautiful from the western side. Nab Scar was just topped by a cloud which, cutting it off as high as it could be cut off, made the mountain look uncommonly lofty. We sate down a long time with different plans. I always love to walk that way, because it is the way I first came to Rydale and Grasmere, and because our dear Coleridge did also. When I came with Wm., 6 and years ago, it was just at sunset. There was a rich yellow light on the waters, and the islands were reflected there. To-day it was grave and soft but not perfectly calm.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GRASMERE--EVENING SUN.]

GRASMERE CHURCH

In the churchyard are the graves of Wordsworth, his wife, son, daughter, and two children who died in infancy, as well as of his sister Dorothy.

The old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here; Beneath its shadow high-born Rotha flows; Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near, And with cool murmur lulling his repose.

Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near.

His hills, his lakes, his streams are with him yet.

Surely the heart that reads her own heart clear Nature forgets not soon: 'tis we forget.

_Wordsworth's Grave_, WILLIAM WATSON.

Keep fresh the gra.s.s upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave, Sing him thy best! for few or none Hear thy voice right, now he is gone.

_Memorial Verses_, MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GRASMERE CHURCH.]

A LAKELAND WALK

A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road.

The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge.

Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past-- Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores; All past! and through the trees we glide, Emerging on the green hill-side.

There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread!

Mid hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells.

Some two hours' march with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes.

_Resignation_, MATTHEW ARNOLD.