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height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible gra`ndeur; some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy s'ides, where mortal fo'ot/ never yet approached. On these dreadful he'ights/ the e'agles build their ne'sts; a variety of wa'ter-falls/ is seen pouring from their sum'mits, and tum'bling (in vast sheets) from ro'ck to ro`ck/ in ru ́de and terrible mag'nificence; while on all sides of this immense amphitheatre, the lofty mountains rise around, piercing the clouds in sha'pes/ as sp'iry and fantastic/ as the very rocks. of Dovedale. To th'is/ I must ad'd the frequent and bold projection of the cliffs into the la'ke, forming noble b'ays and promontories in other parts/ they finely reti're-from-it, and often o'pen/ in abrupt chasm's or cle'fts/, through which, at han'd, you see rich and cultivated vales; and beyond the'se (at various di'stance) mountain rising over mountain; among wh’ich, new prospects present themselves in mi'st, till the eye is lo`st/ in an agreeable perplexity

Where active fan'cy/ travels beyond sense,

And pictures thi'ngs/ unsee'n

Were I to analyze the two places in their constituent pr'inciples, I should te'll-you, that the fu'll perfection of Ke'swick/ consists of three circumstances-beauty, horror, and imm ́ensity, uni'ted; (the second of which alo'ne/ is found in Do^vedale.) Of beauty/ it has lit'tle, (nature having left it almost a de'sert); neither its small exten't, nor the diminutive and lifeless form of the hills/, admits magnificence; but/ to give you a completeidea of these three perfe'ctions (as they are joined in Keswick) would require the united powers of Cla'ude, Salvator, and Pous'sin. The first/ should throw his delicate su'nshine over the cultivated va`les, the scattered co'ts, the gro'ves, the lak`e, and wooded i'slands: the se'cond/ should dash out the horror of the rugged cliffs, the stee'ps, the hanging wo`ods, and foaming water-falls; while the grand pencil of Pou'ssin/ should crown the whole/ with the majesty of the impending mountains.

So much for what I could call the pe'rmanent-beauties of this aston'ishing-scene. Were I not afraid of being tire'some, I could now dwell as long on its varying or accide^ntal-beauties. I would sail round the la'ke, anchor in every b'ay, and land you on every promontory and is'land. I would point out the perpetual cha'nge of pro'spect; the wo'ods, ro`cks, cli'ffs, and mountains, by turns va'nishing or rising into view; now

gaining on the sight, hanging over our he'ads/ in their full dimen'sions, beautifully dreadful; and no'w (by a change of situation) assuming new romantic shap'es; retiring and les'sening on the e'ye, and insensibly losing the'mselves in an azure mis't. I would remark the contrast of light and shade, produced by the mo'rning and evening-sun; the on'e/ gilding the western, the other/ the e^astern-side of this immense amphitheatre; while the vast sha'dow/ projected by the mountains/buries the opposite part/ in a deep and purple glo'om, which the e'ye can hardly penetrate. The natural variety of c'olouring/ which the several objects produce, is no less won'derful than pleasing; the ruling tints in the valley/ being those of a'zure, green, and go'ld; yet ever various, arising from an intermixture of the la'ke, the wo ́ods, the gra ́ss and corn-fields: the ́se/ are finely contrasted by the grey roc`ks and cliffs and the whole/ heightened by the yellow streams of light, the purple hues and misty a'zure of the mountains. Sometimes/ a serene air and clear sky/ disclose the tops of the highest hills; at other-times/ you see the clouds involving their su`mmits, re'sting on their si'des, or descending to their b'ase, and ro'lling/ among the v'alleys/ as in a vast furnace. When the winds are high, they roar among the cliffs and caverns/ like peals of thunder; th ́en,-too, the clouds are seen in vast bo'dies/ sweeping along the hills in gloomy greatness, while the la^ke/ joi'ns the tu'mult, and tos'ses like a s'ea. But in călm-weather, the whole scene becomes ne'w; the la'ke is a perfect mirror, and the landscape/ is in all its beauty: isla'nds, fi'elds, woo'ds, rocks, and mountains, are seen inv'erted, and floating on its surface. I will now carry you to the top of a cliff, wh'ere (if you dare approach the r'idge) a new scene of astonishment/ presents itself; where the v'alley,* lak'e, and i̇'slands, seem lying at your feet; where this expanse of wa'ter/ appears diminished to a little po'ol (amidst the vast and immeasurable o'bjects/ that surround it); for here/ the sum'mits of more distant hi'lls/ appear beyond tho'se you have already se'en; a'nd, rising behind each other/ in successive ranges and azure groups-of craggy and broken-steeps, form an immense and awful pic ́ture, which can only be expre'ssed/ by the image of a tempes

* Though giving "valley" the rising slide may be considered a departure from rule, I feel persuaded the euphony is not diminished by it.-ED.

tuous s'ea of mountains. Let me now conduct you down to the valley, and conclude with one circumstance more; which is', th'at/ when I walk by still mo'on-light (at which time the distant water-falls are heard in all the variety of sound/ among these enchanting-dales), it opens such scenes of d'elicate beau'ty, rep'ose, and sole'mnity, as exceed a'll description.



Young Celadon

And his Amelia/ were a matchless pair';
With equal virtue formed and equal grace
The same, distinguished by their sex'/ alone':
Hers' the mild lus'tre of the blooming morn',
And his the ra'diance of the risen day'.

They loved; but, such their guileless pas'sion was,
As in the dawn of time/ informed the heart
Of in'nocence and undissembling truth'.

'Twas friendship, height'ened by the mutual wish':
The enchanting hope', and sympathetic glow',
Beamed from the mutual eye'. Devoting all'
To love', each was to each' a dearer self';
Supremely happy/ in the awakened pow'er
Of giving joy. Alo`ne, amid the shades,
(Still in harmonious in'tercourse) they lived
The rural day', and talked the flowing heart,
Or sigh'ed/ and look'ed-un'utterable things'.
So passed their life', (a cle'ar, un`ited stream,
By care unruffled); till, in evil hour',
The tempest caught them/ on the tender walk',
Heedless how far, and whe^re its mazes stray'ed,
While', with each other blest', creative love'
Still bade eternal E'den/ smile around'.
Presaging instant fate', her bo'som heav'ed
Unwon'ted sighs; a'nd, stealing oft a look
Towards the big gloom', on Celadon/ her eye
Fell tearful, wetting her disordered cheek'.
In vain assuring love', and confidence

In Heaven, repressed her fea'r; it grew', and shook

Concluding tone.

Her frame/ near dissolution. He perceived
The unequal con'flict, a'nd (as* angels look
On dying saints') his eyes compas'sion shed',
With love illumined high'. "Fear not," (he said)
"Sweet in'nocence! thou stran'ger to offence'
"And inward storm'! He', who yon skies/ involves
"In frowns of dark'ness, e`ver-smiles on thee'
"With kind regard'. O'er th'ee/ the secret shaft/
That wastes at mid'night, or the undreaded hour
"Of no^on, flies har'mless; and, that very vo'ice,
"(Which thunders terror through the guilty heart',)
"With tongues' of seraphs/ whispers peace to thine'.
"'Tis safety/ to be near thee sure', and thus'/


"To clasp perfec`tion !" From his void embrace',
(Mysterious Heaven !) that mo`ment to the ground/,
A blackened corse' was struck' the beauteous maid'.
But, wh'o can paint the lover as he stood',
Pierced by severe amazement, hating life',
Speech'less, and fixed in all the death' of wo'?
So', (faint resemblance !) on the marble tomb',
The well-dissembled mourn'er, stooping stands',
For ever si'lent, and for e'ver sad'.



MOST po'tent, grave', and reverend Sig'niors,
My very noble, and approv'ed-good mas'ters,
That I have ta'en away'/ this old man's daugh'ter,
It is most true; true', I have married her :
The very head' and front' of my offend'ing/
Hath this extent; no more'. Ru'de am I in sp'eech,
And little ble'ssed/ with the set phrase of peace';
Fo`r/ since these arms of mi`ne/ had seven years' pith',

A simile or comparison should be pronounced in a lower tone of voice-something in the way of a parenthesis.

†This mighty master of "The Passions"-this prince of dramatic poets" whom no age or nation can pretend to equal"-died at Stratfordupon-Avon (which had the honour of giving birth to the immortal bard) on the 23rd of April, 1616, aged 52.

Till now' (some nine moons wast'ed) they have used
Their dearest ac'tion/ in the tented field':
And little of this great world'/ can I speak',
More than pertains' to feats' of bro'ils and bat'tles;
And, therefore, little shall I gra'ce my cause,
In spea'king for myself. Yet', by your patience,
I will a round', unvar`nished-tale deliver

Of my whole course of love'; what drugs', what charms',
What conjuration, and what mighty mu'gic,

(For such proceed'ings/ I am charged withal',)

w'on his daughter with.

Her fa'ther lo'ved me; o'ft invited me ;

Still questioned me the story of my life',

From year to year'; the bat'tles, sieges', for tunes,
That I have pass'ed.

I ran it through', even from my bo`yish days,
To the very mo'ment/ that he ba^de-me-tell-it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chan'ces,
Of moving accidents, by flood' and field';

Of hair-breadth 'scapes', in the im'minent, dea'dly breach';
Of being ta'ken/ by the insolent foe',

And sold to slavery; of my redemp ́tion thence';
Of battles, bravely, hardly-fought; of victories
For which the conqueror mo'urn'd/ so many fell' :
Sometimes I told the story of a siege',

Where'in/ I had to com'bat plagues' and fa`mine;
Sol'diers/unpaid'; fear'ful to fight',

Yet bold' in dangerous mu'tiny. All these to hear
Would Desdemo'na/ seriously incli'ne.

But still the house-affairs/ would draw her thence',
Whi'ch/ ever as she could/ with haste dispatch'
She'd come again', and, with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse': which', I observ'ing,
Took once a pliant hour', and found good means'
To draw from her/ a prayer of earnest heart',
That I would all my pilgrimage dila'te;
Where'of/ by par'cels/ she had something he'ard
But no't distinctively. I did consent',
And often did beguile her of her tears',
When I did speak of some distress'ful stroke'
That my y'outh suffered. My story being done',
She gave me/ for my pains/ a world' of sighs';

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