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THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

"How does the water
Come down at Lodore!"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon, at the word;
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,

To second and third
The request of their brother;
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was laureate

To them and the king.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake,
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,

And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry,
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing

Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,

Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with
its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning.
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling,

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Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,

Fast

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and

steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping, and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending

All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,

And this way, the water comes down at Lodore.

roars;

flow thy waters on their sea

ward way

Through wider-spreading shores.

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I fear no care for gold,
Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,

The wings of swelling pride; Their fall is worst that from the height Of greatest honor slide.

Since sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear, I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame doth burn;

It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enragèd foe
Into a quiet friend.

And, taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe, That pampered would repine.

I envy not their hap

Whom favor doth advance;
I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain;
All states with others' ruin built
To ruin run amain.

No change of Fortune's calm

Can cast my comforts down:

When Fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.

And when, in froward mood,
She proved an angry foe,

Small gain, I found, to let her come
Less loss to let her go.

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