Whence the swart fairies of the mine below
Indignant dash'd the work of Roman pride,
A tower tho' thron'd in heaven

Too weak to awe the land.

Were I a flame-shaft of the northern * dawn

On Skiddaw's highth I'd take my glittering stand,
And wreathe with flickering fire

His murky brow sublime,

While Darkness still with her broad mantle wraps

The giant-limbs of his majestic form,

And Silence clasps his foot

Save where hoarse torrents rush.

Thence would I stretch my sword cherubic wide
O'er all thy kindling waters, and expand

A ruby sea of fire

Between thy mountains dun.

* Skiddawlies to the north of Keswic.

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Then quench the fervent blushes on thy cheek,
And chace the whitening splendor far away

To sparkle thro' the air

In many a fleecy flake.

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Yet wherefore dream? perchance when life recedes And woes have rid me of this mortal robe

That tempts my trammel'd step

To droil in earthly care,

The doom-fulfilling Angel shall conduct
My soul to mansions in the airy halls,

Above thy shining floor

That heave their sapphire roofs;

To my delighted spirit shall consign

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The rule of every vapour that ascends
Between thy rifted rocks,

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Or thro' thy bubbling wave:

Of every breeze that plays along thy breast, Or shakes the pattering foliage of thy trees, blast that howls

Of

every

Thy dark-brown hills among.

Then will I pall me in tempestuous gloom;
Athwart thy banks in sevenfold *thunders roll,
And heap thy billowing tide,

Black, rough, as lava-fields.

And (when I've learnt to sway destroying storms,
To line the lightning with impurpled flame,

And from unerring hand

To hurl the fiery doom,)

Yon froof, profaner of my realm, assail,
The gathered terrors of this red right arm
Thine isle of rock shall quake,

And every building fall;

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* From one situation on the lake an echo repeats seven times.

JOSEPH POCKLINGTON, Esq. has decorated an island in the lake of which he is owner, with stables in the form of a church, a mock fort neatly white-wash'd, a trim boat-house leaning on the remains of a Druidical Temple, whose central ftone is yearly painted with white lead and oil, &c.

The roaring surges from its shore shall dash
The painted traces of thy harlot-taste;

Thy hall wide-wasting flame

To shapeless ruin sear.

There, (as o'er slaughter-fields the Fiend of war
Broods smiling, while his swollen nostril drinks

The cloud of steaming blood

And agonizing groans,)

Awhile I'll lower o'er the crumbling wrack

Till the gusts slink anew to wombing dens,
The clouds uncurtain heaven,

The murmuring waters hush.

Then shall

my satiate ire no more forbid

The tears of twilight on the isle to gleam,

Or rainbow-girded showers

To kiss the flowery shore.

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I'll show the Elves where on its scented brink

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The purple violets drench their heads in dew,
The dawn-hued primrose blooms,
Or waves the eglantine.

The rifted oak with misletoe shall teem,
The vervain gad along the pathless soil,

And from the mossier walls,

Unfading ivy bow.

From cloudy exile will I then recall

The ghosts of Druids to their ring of stones,
And, when the white-robed choir
Their solemn round renew,

And from their golden harps melodious, pour
Aerial music down the listening vales,

(While thro' the streakless blue

Slow winds the full-orb'd moon,

And all the stars in living radiance bath'd,
Their cluster'd glories o'er the mountains roll,
Surveying in thy flood,

Keswic, their beamy locks,).

The dusky Fays of Borro's echoing cave

From their deep palace by the sound evok'd,

Shall on thy tawny sands

Their jetty tribute fling;

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