John Wilson Poems

Beside her Babe, who sweetly slept,
A widowed mother sat and wept
O'er years of love gone by;
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There is a lake hid far among the hills,
That raves around the throne of solitude,
Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,
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I wandered lonely, like a pilgrim sad,
O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;
Yet, my hushed heart, with Nature's beauty glad,
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Though oft in Britain's Isle the breathing bust
To fame consign the patriot-hero's dust,
And conquerors waked to mimic life again
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Is this the lake, the cradle of the storms,
Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,
Where poets fear their self-created forms,
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Methought beneath a Castle huge I stood,
That seemed to grow out of a rock sublime,
Through the dominion of its solitude
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With laughter swimming in thine eye,
That told youth's heartfelt revelry;
And motion changeful as the wing
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When by God's inward light, a happy child,
I walked in joy, as in the open air,
It seemed to my young thought the Sabbath smiled
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List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice!
—The storms are up; and from yon sable cloud
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Gentle as dew, a summer shower
In beauty bathed tree, herb, and flower,
And told the stream to murmur on
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