POTTER FELL TARN, WESTMORELAND.
MERE of the Moorland Boulder-environed, Lost in this secret Dip of the Fell, Desolate art thou, Severed from all things, All thy horizon Heather and ling.
From the height yonder Distant a stone's throw Fair to the view lie River and plain; Blue curls the smoke from Hamlet and homestead ; Far to the westward Glimmers the sea.
But, like a spirit Cloistered austerely, Shut in the narrow Walls of a creed, Thou in thy prison Sternly contented, Seemest a scorner Of the Beyond. Here in thy fastness Thou bast familiars; Round thee are voices Mystic and strange : Muttering cries of Grouse from the heather Weirdly recall the Speech of the Prime.
Often the wistful Note of the curlew Mingles in music Hope and despair; Poor were fruition After such yearning, Therefore he pleadeth Ever in vain.
Mere of the Moorland Hear my recanting ; Rashly I called thee Desolate, lone.
On the still evenings Leap not the trout like Gold-flashing thoughts from Depths in thy heart ?
Though thou art grimly Set here in durance Why should'st thou pine for Visions afar ?
Ever thy waters Look to the Heaven; Ever thy bosom Mirrors the skies!
R. II. Law.
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