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the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole falls into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from moft points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.
There is an Eminence,—of these our hills
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough,
Each on the other heap'd along the line
Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd
By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
Close to the surface of the lake that lay
Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,
In all its sportive wanderings all the while
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place