time,
(Preserv’d in Cumbria’s rude, romantic clime)
When nature smil’d, and o’er the landscape threw
Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue,
A blithe and blooming Forester explor’d
Those loftier scenes SALVATOR’S soul ador’d;
The rocky pass half hung with shaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o’er the flood;
Nor shunn’d the path, unknown to human tread,
That downward to the night of caverns led;
Some antient cataract’s deserted bed. 
   High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, [c]
And blew his shrill blast o’er perennial snows
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gaz’d on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar;
And thro’ the rifted cliffs, that scal’d the sky,
Derwent’s clear mirror charm’d his dazzled eye. [d]
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Thro’ morn’s gray mist its melting colours gave;
And, o’er the cygnet’s haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 
   Light as the breeze that brush’d the orient dew: 
From rock to rock the young adventurer flew;
And day’s last sunshine slept along the shore,
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. 
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veil’d the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye;
Save when a bright and momentary gleam
Glanc’d from the white foam of some shelter’d stream. 
   O’er the still lake the bell of evening toll’d,
And on the moor the shepherd penn’d his fold;
And on the green hill’s side the meteor play’d;
When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro’ the shade. 
It ceas’d—­yet still in FLORIO’S fancy sung,
Still on each note his captive spirit hung;
Till o’er the mead a cool, sequester’d grot
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. 
A crystal water cross’d the pebbled floor,
And on the front these simple lines it bore: 
        Hence away, nor dare intrude! 
        In this secret, shadowy cell
        Musing memory loves to dwell,
        With her sister Solitude. 
        Far from the busy world she flies,
        To taste that peace the world denies. 
        Entranc’d she sits; from youth to age,
        Reviewing Life’s eventful page;
        And noting, ere they fade away,
        The little lines of yesterday. 
   Florio had gain’d a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat! 
Fair was her form—­but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel-face? 
Can Virgil’s verse, can RAPHAEL’S touch impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend’rer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world’s contagious climate die? 
   She left the cave, nor mark’d the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air
Had breath’d a soft enchantment o’er his soul! 
In every nerve he felt her blest controul! 
What pure and white-wing’d agents of the sky,