Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

The Glen of Loch Etive

“THIS land of rainbows spanning glens whose walls,
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored mists,
Of far-stretched meres whose salt flood never rests,
Of tuneful caves and playful waterfalls,
Of mountains varying momently their crests,—
Proud be this land! whose poorest huts are halls
Where fancy entertains becoming guests,
While native song the heroic past recalls.”
Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught,
The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide
Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of pride
Has been diverted, other lessons taught,
That make the patriot-spirit bow her head
Where the all-couquering Roman feared to tread.

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