And now the mountain tops are seen
Frowning amidst the blue serene;
The variegated groves appear,
Deck'd in the colours of the waning year;
And as new beauties they unfold,
Dip their skirts in beaming gold.
Thee, savage Wyburn, now I hail,
Delicious Grasmere's calm retreat,
And stately Windermere I greet,
And Keswick's sweet fantastic vale:-
But let her naiads yield to thee,
And lowly bend the subject knee,
Imperial lake of Patrick's dale! [1]
For neither Scottish Lomond's pride,
Nor smooth Killarney's silver tide,
Nor ought that learned Poussin drew,
Or dashing Rosa flung upon my view,
Shall shake thy sovereign undisturbed right,
Great scene of wonder and sublime delight!

Hail to thy beams, O Sun! - for this display,
What, glorious orb, can I repay?
Not Memnon's costly shrine,
Not the white coursers of imperial Rome,
Nor the rich smoke of Persia's hecatomb;
Such proud oblations are not mine;
Nor thou my simple tribute shall refuse,
The thanks of an unprostituted muse;
And may no length of still-returning day,
Strike from my forehead one refulgent ray:
But let each tuneful, each attendant sphere,
To latest time thy stated labours cheer,
And with new Poeans crown the finish'd year.