James Payn

Lake-Land

ALL our haunts have graceful titles.
  Silver-sounding Windermere,
With its Brathay and its Rothay,
  Falls like music soft and clear;
Out from under noble Kirkstone,
  All adown the mountain-side,
Like a swift yet gentle motion,
  ’Lights the white-walled Ambleside;
Freshly wave the woods of Rydal,
  Our Grasmere may all men know	
For a haunt of peace and pleasure
  Whose eyes have ne’er seen Silver How,
Sought the happy glen of Easedale,
  Or Seat-Sandal’s height explored,
Or looked upon our own Helvellyn
  Over all things mountain-lord;
Glaramara, home of thunder,
  Little Langdale fair to see,
Heights of awe or scenes of beauty
  Seem to tell us what they be;	
Whether Dungeon Ghyll the gloomy
  Or the lofty lone Red Tarn,
Or Troutbeck vale or Elterwater,
  These can beckon, those can warn:
Save one nursling, no true daughter,
  Wrynose, set amidst the south,
A hideous child that was deserted
  By its mother Cockermouth.