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Page 132:-
The road continues winding through a glade, along the side of a
rapid brook, that tumbles down a stony channel with water as
clear as crystal. At the hedge-row tree under Rawlingend (a
brawny mountain) turn, and have a new and pleasant view of the
vale of Keswick. The road has then a gentle ascent, and the
rivulet is heard murmuring below. At the upper end of the
cultivated part of the vale, a green pyramidal hill, divided into
waving inclosures, looks down the vale upon Keswick, &c. The
verdant hills on each side terminate in rude and awful mountains,
that tower to the skies in a variety of grotesque forms, and on
their murky furrowed sides hang many a torrent. Above Keskadale,
the last houses in Newland, no traces of human industry appear.
All is naked solitude and simple nature. The vale now becomes a
dell, and the road a path. The lower parts are pastured with a
motley herd; the middle tract is assumed by the flocks; the upper
regions (to man inaccessible) are abandoned to the birds of Jove.
Here untamed nature holds her reign in solemn silence, amidst the
gloom and grandeur of dreary solitude [1]. The morning
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[1]
And here the following exclamation of young Edwin may be properly
recalled to the reader's remembrance;
Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose, Can passion's wildest
uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes!
Here innocence may wander safe from foes,
And contemplation soar on seraph wings;
O solitude, the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur
springs.
Beattie's Minstrel, B. 2d.
X.
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