THE YOUTH OF NATURE.
Raised are the dripping oars,
Silent the boat! The lake,
Lovely and soft as a dream,
Swims in the sheen of the moon.
The mountains stand at its head
Clear in the pure June-night,
But the valleys are flooded with haze.
Rydal and Fairfield are there;
In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead.
So it is, so it will be for aye.
Nature is fresh as of old,
Is lovely; a mortal is dead.
The spots which recall him survive,
For he lent a new life to these hills.
The Pillar still broods o'er the fields
Which border Ennerdale Lake,
And Egremont sleeps by the sea.
The gleam of The Evening Star
Twinkles on Grasmere no more,
But ruined and solemn and gray
The sheepfold of Michael survives;
And far to the south, the heath
Still blows in the Quantock coombs,
By the favorite waters of Ruth.
These survive! Yet not without pain,
Pain and dejection to-night,
Can I feel that their poet is gone.
He grew old in an age he condemned.
He looked on the rushing decay
Of the times which had sheltered his youth;
