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That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,

       But ‘twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,

       The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,

       With hanging islands of resplendent furze:

       And on a summit, distant a short space,

       By any who should look beyond the dell,

       A single mountain Cottage might be seen.

       I gaz’d and gaz’d, and to myself I said,

       ”Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,

       My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.”

      — Soon did the spot become my other home,

       My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.

       And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,

       To whom I sometimes in our idle talk

       Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,

       Years after we are gone and in our graves,

       When they have cause to speak of this wild place,

       May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.

      II.

      To JOANNA.

      Amid the smoke of cities did you pass

       Your time of early youth, and there you learn’d,

       From years of quiet industry, to love

       The living Beings by your own fireside,

       With such a strong devotion, that your heart

       Is slow towards the sympathies of them

       Who look upon the hills with tenderness,

       And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

       Yet we who are transgressors in this kind,

       Dwelling retired in our simplicity

       Among the woods and fields, we love you well,

       Joanna! and I guess, since you have been

       So distant from us now for two long years,

       That you will gladly listen to discourse

       However trivial, if you thence are taught

       That they, with whom you once were happy, talk

       Familiarly of you and of old times.

      While I was seated, now some ten days past,

       Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop

       Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,

       The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by

       Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask’d,

       ”How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!

       And when will she return to us?” he paus’d,

       And after short exchange of village news,

       He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,

       Reviving obsolete Idolatry,

       I like a Runic Priest, in characters

       Of formidable size, had chisel’d out

       Some uncouth name upon the native rock,

       Above the Rotha, by the forest side.

       — Now, by those dear immunities of heart

       Engender’d betwixt malice and true love,

       I was not both to be so catechiz’d,

       And this was my reply.—”As it befel,

       One summer morning we had walk’d abroad

       At break of day, Joanna and myself.

       —’Twas that delightful season, when the broom,

       Full flower’d, and visible on every steep,

       Along the copses runs in veins of gold.”

      Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks,

       And when we came in front of that tall rock

       Which looks towards the East, I there stopp’d short,

       And trac’d the lofty barrier with my eye

       From base to summit; such delight I found

       To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

       That intermixture of delicious hues,

       Along so vast a surface, all at once,

       In one impression, by connecting force

       Of their own beauty, imag’d in the heart.

      — When I had gaz’d perhaps two minutes’ space,

       Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

       That ravishment of mine, and laugh’d aloud.

       The rock, like something starting from a sleep,

       Took up the Lady’s voice, and laugh’d again:

       That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

       Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,

       And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth

       A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,

       And Fairfield answer’d with a mountain tone:

       Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

       Carried the Lady’s voice, — old Skiddaw blew

       His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds

       Of Glaramara southward came the voice;

       And Kirkstone toss’d it from his misty head.

       Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend

       Who in the hey-day of astonishment

       Smil’d in my face) this were in simple truth

       A work accomplish’d by the brotherhood

       Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch’d

       With dreams and visionary impulses,

       Is not for me to tell; but sure I am

       That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

       And, while we both were listening, to my side

       The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish’d

       To shelter from some object of her fear.

      — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons

       Were wasted, as I chanc’d to walk alone

       Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

       And silent morning, I sate down, and there,

       In memory of affections old and true,

       I chissel’d out in those rude characters

       Joanna’s name upon the living stone.

       And I, and all who dwell by my fireside

       Have call’d the lovely rock, Joanna’s Rock.

      III.

      There is an Eminence, — of these our hills

       The last that parleys with the setting sun.

       We can behold it from our Orchard seat.

       And, when at evening we pursue our walk

       Along the public way, this Cliff, so high

       Above us, and so distant in its height,

       Is visible, and often seems to send

       Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

       The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:

       The star of Jove, so beautiful and large

      

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