WRITTEN AT ULLESWATER.

The tide is rippling to my very feet,

The mountains are before me, and around,

Stretching in misty grandeur till they meet

In one dim bourne, their hoary summits crown'd

With cloudy chaplets, such as might have bound

The new-born Thunderer when Saturn fell,

All wonder-stricken, from his mighty throne.

The sun is shining upon wooded slopes,

And distant headlands, with faint shadows thrown

Amid its brightness like the shatter'd hopes

Of a young noontide, and its golden light

Crests the upheaving waters till each swell

Is tremulous with glory, and the sight

Pictures strange fancies which no tongue can tell.