[The monument of ice here spoken of I observed while ascending the middle road of the three ways that lead from Rydal to Grasmere.[DC] It was on my right hand, and my eyes were upon it when it fell, as told in these lines.--I. F.] Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat; Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 5 And fear not lest an idle sound Of words unsuited to the place Disturb its solitude profound. I saw this Rock, while vernal air Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 10 Uphold a Monument as fair As church or abbey furnisheth. Unsullied did it meet the day, Like marble, white, like ether, pure; As if, beneath, some hero lay, 15 Honoured with costliest sepulture. My fancy kindled as I gazed; And, ever as the sun shone forth, The flattered structure glistened, blazed, And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 20 But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile Unsound as those which Fortune builds-- To undermine with secret guile, Sapped by the very beam that gilds. And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 25 Fell the whole Fabric to the ground; And naked left this dripping Rock, With shapeless ruin spread around! III "HAST THOU SEEN, WITH FLASH INCESSANT" [Where the second quarry now is, as you pass from Rydal to Grasmere, there was formerly a length of smooth rock that sloped towards the road on the right hand. I used to call it Tadpole Slope, from having frequently observed there the water-bubbles gliding under the ice, exactly in the shape of that creature.--I. F.] Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,[323] Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device? Such are thoughts!--a wind-swept meadow[324] 5 Mimicking a troubled sea, Such is life; and death a shadow From the rock eternity![325] IV NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE Troubled long with warring notions Long impatient of thy rod, I resign my soul's emotions Unto Thee, mysterious God! What avails the kindly shelter 5 Yielded by this craggy rent, If my spirit toss and welter On the waves of discontent? Parching Summer hath no warrant To consume this crystal Well; 10 Rains, that make each rill a torrent, Neither sully it nor swell. Thus, dishonouring not her station, Would my Life present to Thee, Gracious God, the pure oblation 15 Of divine tranquillity!