... To nature's pride, Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide: The Muse who trod th' enchanted ground, Who sailed the wondrous lake around, With you will haste once more to hail The beauteous brook of Borrodale. * * * * * Let other streams rejoice to roar Down the rough rocks of dread Lodore, Rush raving on with boisterous sweep, And foaming rend the frighted deep; Thy gentle genius shrinks away From such a rude unequal fray; Through thine own native dale where rise Tremendous rocks amid the skies, Thy waves with patience slowly wind, Till they the smoothest channel find, Soften the horrors of the scene, And through confusion flow serene. Horrors like these at first alarm, But soon with savage grandeur charm, And raise to noblest thought the mind: Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined, The craggy cliff, impendent wood, Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood, The gloomy clouds which solemn sail, Scarce lifted by the languid gale. * * * * * Channels by rocky torrents torn, Rocks to the lake in thunder borne, Or such as o'er our heads appear, Suspended in their mid-career, To start again at his command Who rules fire, water, air, and land, I view with wonder and delight, A pleasing, though an awful sight. * * * * * And last, to fix our wandering eyes, Thy roofs, O Keswick, brighter rise The lake and lofty hills between, Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene. Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail! To whom all Britain sinks a vale! Lo, his imperial brow I see From foul usurping vapours free! 'Twere glorious now his side to climb, Boldly to scale his top sublime, And thence--My Muse, these flights forbear, Nor with wild raptures tire the fair. JANE ELLIOT THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day: But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning; The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning; The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.