However trivial, if you thence are taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chisseled out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. -Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered betwixt malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:-" As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself.
-'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, And traced the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. -When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again : That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag Was ready with her cavern: Hammar-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone:
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the Lady's voice, old Skiddaw blew His speaking trumpet; -back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
- Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses
To me alone imparted, sure I am
That there was a loud uproar in the hills: And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear. -And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chisseled out in those rude characters
Joanna's name upon the living stone.
And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, Have called the lovely rock, JoANNA'S ROCK."
Note. - In Cumberland and Westmorland are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudeness of the Workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynander. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the country are called Dungeons. Most of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.
THERE is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our Orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. "Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me,
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.
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