|
|
|
|
|
|
|
title page |
|
|
|
|
|
|
previous page
next page |
|
|
|
Page 86:-
the church of Carlisle lands in Lorton, with a mill there,
and all its rights and appendages, namely the miller,
his wife, and children; this they say was in
the time of Richard the I. What they made of the miller, his
wife, and children, they say nothing about; we are certain
they hold the manor at this day, and that it is customary
paying a four-penny fine certain at the death of a tenant or
alienation, but the lord never dies.
|
picturesque beauty
|
|
The rocks and mountains about Buttermere are truly awful and
romantic; but, as I said before, the same kind of views may
be seen where the roads are better, and the valleys more
inhabited. The landscape-painter will find variety of
excellent stations here, as in many other places with
stupendous amphitheatres of broken-toped mountains, whose
bases are scattered with woods; and as every station adds a
fresh view, the greatest connoisseur can hardly distinguish
the best. Descending to Lorton, you meet with as rich and
beautiful a vale of inclosures, with a serpentine river
through them, as any I ever saw, (the valley of Wharff near
Otley in Yorkshire only excepted;) there indeed you have not
the high Cumbrian mountains to contrast the scenes of
cultivation, but much richer pastures, with many noble
mansions, such as Maud, Esq; Faux, Esq; Sir W. Vavasour, Sir
James Ibbetson, Sir W. Middleton, Lord Grantly, the Duke of
Devonshire, &c. all seen at one view, with the
serpentine river Wharff winding the whole length; but this
is out of my line.
|
poem
Harvest
|
|
I shall here introduce a Pastoral Poem, wrote by a person
who signs his name RUSTICUS.
HARVEST. A Poem.
THE maiden star now rules the varied year,
And o'er the fields the golden sheaves appear;
Chaste Luna gently darts a languid ray,
To light the sun-burnt reaper on his way.
As to his lonely cot he speeds with joy,
No goading cares his happy hours annoy;
Whilst he with pleasure views his lisping race,
Who round him cling to snatch the fond embrace;
With innocence their little tales impart,
Unheedful of the polish'd rules of art,
As on the table smokes the homely food,
Serv'd up in humble bowls of ashen wood;
No massy plate attracts the roving eye;
No luscious cates the appetite destroy;
No costly beverage to fire the brain,
And spread a raging heat through ev'ry vein;
'This simply plain, kind Nature's call relieves,
And to the body health and spirit gives.
Let wealth and pomp behold, with scornful eye,
But ask if they such real sweets enjoy?
What tho' on beds of down, stretch'd out at ease,
Where art and nature both combine to please;
What tho' soft music charms the' enraptur'd ear,
Its strains can't sooth the pangs of dire despair.
If regal honours in profusion roll,
They nought avail to him whose tortur'd soul
Is rack'd with conscience, whose unerring dart
Will ever sting the guilty wretch's heart.
|
|
But
|
|
|
|
gazetteer links
|
|
|
-- "Buttermere" -- Buttermere
|
|
|
-- Lorton Vale
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
next page |
|
|
|
|
|
|
