Lines Written At A Little Well By The Roadside, Langdale Poem by John Wilson

Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!
Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,
Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side
From which thou hadst thy birth, I bless thy gleam
Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt joy
As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine;
And as I bow to bathe my freshened heart
In thy restoring radiance, from my lips
A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep
A gentle tremor!
Nor must I forget
A benison for the departed soul
Of him who, many a year ago, first shaped
This little Font,—imprisoning the spring
Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone,
Now in the beauteous colouring of age
Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock.
In blessèd hour the solitary man.
Laid the first stone,—and in his native vale
It serves him for a peaceful monument,
'Mid the hill silence.
Renovated life
Now flows through all my veins:—old dreams revive;
And while an airy pleasure in my brain
Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze,
Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,
On Thee, delicious Fountain!
Thou dost shed
(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air
And parch the yellow hills), all round thy cave,
A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring
Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane
On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,
That from the roadside gently lead the eye
Up to thy bed,—Ah me! how rich a green,
Still brightening, wantons o'er its moistened grass!
With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,
Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,
Live on the little cell! The water there,
Variously dappled by the wreathèd sand
That sleeps below in many an antic shape,
Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen
Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip
From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand
Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse
Tells of the living principle within,—
A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.
Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot
Beyond this well:—it is inhabited
By an old shepherd during summer months,
And haply he may drink of the pure spring,
To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn
Going to pray,—or as he home returns
At silent eve: or traveller such as I,
Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,
Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst
Once in a season. Other visitants
It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,
When ice hath locked the rills, or wandering colt
Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.
Methinks, in such a solitary cave,
The fairy forms belated peasant sees,
Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring
On the smooth mountain-sward, might here retire
To lead their noontide revels, or to bathe
Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.
A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here
Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,
Native to these our hills, and ever seen
A fairest family by the happy side
Of their own parent spring;—and others too,
Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,
Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,
Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.
Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,
Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans
Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart
Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,
Like some fair virgin at the humble door
Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet
The way-bewildered traveller.
But my soul
Long-pleased to linger by this silent cave,
Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,
Pants for a loftier pleasure,—and forsakes,
Though surely with no cold ingratitude,
The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.
A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,
And it must be obeyed: Yon ledge of rocks,
Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,
Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,
Wastwater blackens far beneath my feet,
She, the storm-loving lake.
Sweet Fount!—Farewell!