William Wordsworth

On the Frith of Clyde

ARRAN! a single-crested Teneriffe,
A St. Helena next,—in shape and hue
Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue;
Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff
Built for the air, or wingéd Hippogriff,
That he might fly, where no one could pursue,
From this dull monster and her sooty crew;
And, as a god, light on thy topmost cliff?
Impotent wish! which reason would despise
If the mind knew no union of extremes,
No natural bond between the boldest schemes
Ambition frames and heart-humilities.
Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies,
And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams.