Through Rydal's lake, with placid stream,
You, murmuring, in the valley gleam;
And, at the neighbouring water's fall,
Pass your Fleming's stately hall;
For, O 'tis your delight to boast
The falls down Rydal's mountains tost;
The high cascade[1], with dashing spray,
O'er rugged rocks maintains its way,
With stubbed trees, by storms despoil'd -
A scene most picturesquely wild,
Sublime the next cascade appears,
The lower, softer features wears.

Such scenes nor Poussin could, nor Claude,
In living canvas e'er afford;
For nature ev'ry effort tried
To form your Fleming's wat'ry pride.
- Nor be forgot thy force, Stock-gill,
Rushing from the shatter'd hill,
Down in frothy torrents tost,
Till in the dark abysm lost,
And foaming through the woody glen,
Thund'ring from rock to rock amain,
You seek a refuge in the plain.

O Rothay! yours, and Brathay's stream,
Enfold (Well worth the Muse's theme)
A spot where Art with Nature vies
To catch the enraptur'd poet's eyes.
But be it most his pride to tell,
There Elegance and Virtue dwell;
There Hospitality is found
Dealing delight to all around, /