Then in broad lustre shall be shewn

That mighty trench of living stone,

And each huge trunk that, from the side, Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,

Where Tees, full many a fathom low,

Wears with his rage no common foe ;
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career,
Condemned to mine a channelled way,
O'er solid sheets of marble grey.

III.

Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,

Shall rush upon the ravished sight;

But many a tributary stream

Each from its own dark dell shall gleam:
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers,
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;
The rural brook of Eglistone,

And Balder, named from Odin's son ;

And Greta, to whose banks ere long

We lead the lovers of the song ;
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild,
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
And last and least, but loveliest still,
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.

Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed,

Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade?

Who, wandering there, hath sought to change Even for that vale so stern and strange,

Where Cartland's crags, fantastic rent,

Through her green copse like spires are sent ? Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine,

Thy scenes and story to combine !

Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays,

List to the deeds of other days;

'Mid Cartland's crags thou showest the cave,

The refuge of thy champion brave ;

Giving each rock its storied tale,

Pouring a lay for every dale,

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Knitting, as with a moral band,

Thy native legends with thy land,

To lend each scene the interest high
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye.

IV.

Bertram awaited not the sight

Which sun-rise shews from Barnard's height, But from the towers, preventing day,

With Wilfrid took his early way,

While misty dawn, and moon-beam pale,
Still mingled in the silent dale.

By Barnard's bridge of stately stone,
The southern bank of Tees they won ;

Their winding path then eastward cast,
And Eglistone's grey ruins past;

Each on his own deep visions bent,

Silent and sad they onward went.

Well may you think that Bertram's mood

To Wilfrid savage seemed and rude ;

Well may you think, bold Risingham
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame ;
And small the intercourse, I ween,

Such uncongenial souls between.

V.

Stern Bertram shunned the nearer way,
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay,
And, skirting high the valley's ridge,
They crossed by Greta's ancient bridge,
Descending where her waters wind

Free for a space and unconfined,

As, 'scaped from Brignal's dark wood glen,
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den.
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound,
Raised by that Legion long renowned,
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim,
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame,
"Stern sons of war !" sad Wilfrid sighed,
"Behold the boast of Roman pride!

What now of all your toils are known?
A grassy trench, a broken stone !"
This to himself; for moral strain

To Bertram were addressed in vain.

VI.

Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high
Were northward in the dawning seen
To rear them o'er the thicket green.

O then, though Spenser's self had strayed
Beside him through the lovely glade,
Lending his rich luxuriant glow

Of fancy, all its charms to show,

Pointing the stream rejoicing free,
As captive set at liberty,

Flashing her sparkling waves abroad,
And clamouring joyful on her road;
Pointing where, up the sunny banks,
The trees retire in scattered ranks,