APOLOGY

Nay! Stranger! smile not at this little dome,

Albeit quaint, and with no nice regard

To highest rules of grace and symmetry,

Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand

‘ Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it seem

A vain intruder in the quiet heart

Of this majestic Lake, that like an arm

Of Ocean, or some Indian river vast,

In beauty floats amid its guardian hills?

Haply it may: yet in this humble tower,

The mimicry of loftier edifice,

There lives a silent spirit, that confers

A lasting charter on its sportive wreath

Of battlements, amid the mountain-calm

To stand as proudly, as you giant rock

That with his shadow dims the dazzling lake!

Then blame it not: for know‘ twas planted here,

In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth,

By onewho meant to Nature's sanctity

No cold unmeaning outrage. He was one

Who often in adventurous youth had sail'd

O'er the great waters, and he dearly loved

Their music wild; nor less the gallant souls

Whose home is on the Ocean:— so he framed

This jutting mole, that like a natural cape

Meets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point,

Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge,

Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome,

Seen up and down the lake, a monument

Sacred to images of former days.

See! in the playfulness of English zeal

Its low walls are emblazon'd! there thou read'st

Howe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier name

Whom death has made immortal.— Not misplaced

On temple rising from an inland sea

Such venerable names, though ne'er was heard

The sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores,

Save when it peal'd to waken in her cave

The mountain echo: yet this chronicle,

Speaking of war amid the depths of peace,

Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air.

It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice,

A voice creating elevated thoughts,

Into the hearts of our bold peasantry

Following the plough along these fertile vales,

Or up among the misty solitude

Beside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen,

Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade,

Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars,

And bless the heroes: Idling in the joy

Of summer sunshine, as in light canoe

The stranger glides among these lovely isles,

This little temple to his startled soul

Oft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crews

In fierce joy cheering as they onwards bear

To break the line of battle, meteor-like

Long ensigns brightening on the towery mast,

And sails in awful silence o'er the main

Lowering like thunder-clouds!—

Then, stranger! give

A blessing on this temple, and admire

The gaudy pendant round the painted staff

Wreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds,

Even like a serpent bright and beautiful,

Streaming its burnished glory on the air.

And whether silence sleep upon the stones

Of this small edifice, or from within

Steal the glad voice of laughter and of song,

Pass on with alter'd thoughts, and gently own

That Windermere, with all her radiant isles

Serenely floating on her azure breast,

Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robe

This monument, to heroes dedicate,

Nor Nature feel her holy reign profaned

By work of art, though framed in humblest guise,

When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul.