And so we turned,
And through romantic glades pursued our way,
Where Rydal-Water spends its thundering force,
And through the dark gorge makes a double plunge
Abruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock,
And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foam,
All exquisitely blent, while deafening sound
Of torrents, battling with their ruffian foes,
Filled the admiring gaze with awe, and wrought
A dim forgetfulness of all beside.
Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan dell,
Whose music thrilled my heart, when life was new,
Wordsworth! mid cliff and stream and cultured rose,
In love with Nature's self, and she with thee.
Thy ready hand, that from the landscape culled
Its long familiar charms, rock, tree, and spire,
With kindness half paternal, leading on
My stranger footsteps through the garden walk,
Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew;
The group of dear ones gathering round thy board,
She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved,
The daughter, sweet companion, — sons mature,
And favorite grandchild, with his treasured phrase,
The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locks
And ample brow fell fitfully, and touched
Thy lifted eye with earnestness of thought,
Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fade,
Till death shall darken all material things.
