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. [Illustration: STEPPING STONES, FAR EASEDALE, GRASMERE.] DUNGEON GHYLL FORCE This spot is the scene of the lamb's rescue described by Wordsworth in the "Idle Shepherd-boys." It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go; Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall. With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan-- Again!--his heart within him dies-- His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. * * * * * When he had learnt what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry; I ween The boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. * * * * * And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round. [Illustration: DUNGEON GHYLL FORCE.] MOUNTAIN TARNS There is a power to bless In hill-side loneliness, In tarns and dreary places, A virtue in the brook, A freshness in the look Of mountain's joyless faces. * * * * * And so when life is dull, Or when my heart is full Because coy dreams have frowned, I wander up the rills To stones and tarns and hills,-- I go there to be crowned. F. W. FABER. Ye mountains and ye lakes, And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds That dwell among the hills where I was born, If in my youth I have been pure in heart, If, mingling with the world I am content With my own modest pleasures, and have lived With God and Nature communing, removed From little enmities and low desires-- The gift is yours. _The Prelude_, WORDSWORTH.