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The Central Mountain of the Peak of Derbyshire
KING of the Peak, Win-Hill! thou, throned and crowned, | |
| That reign’st o’er many a stream and many a vale! | |
| Star-loved, and meteor-sought, and tempest-found! | |
| Proud centre of a mountain-circle, hail! | |
| The might of man may triumph or may fail; | 5 |
| But, eldest brother of the Air and Light, | |
| Firm shalt thou stand when demigods turn pale! | |
| For thou, ere science dawned on reason’s night, | |
| Wast, and wilt be when mind shall rule all other might. | |
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| To be a crowned and sceptred curse, that makes | 10 |
| Immortals worms! a wolf, that feeds on souls! | |
| One of the names which vengeance whips with snakes, | |
| Whose venom cannot die! a king of ghouls, | |
| Whose drink is blood! To be clear-eyed as owls, | |
| Still calling darkness light, and winter spring! | 15 |
| To be a tiger-king, whose mercy growls! | |
| To be of meanest things the vilest thing! | |
| Throned asp o’er lesser asps! What grub would be a king? | |
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| But, crowned Win-Hill! to be a king like thee! | |
| Older than death! as God’s thy calm behest! | 20 |
| Only heaven-rivalled in thy royalty! | |
| Calling the feeble to thy sheltering breast, | |
| And shaking beauty from thy gorgeous vest, | |
| And loved by every good and happy thing! | |
| With naught beneath thee that thou hast not blessed, | 25 |
| And naught above thee but the Almighty’s wing! | |
| O, glorious godlike aim! Who would not be a king? | |
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| But, lo, the Inn! the mountain-girded Inn! | |
| Whose amber stream is worth all Helicon! | |
| To pass it fasting were a shame and sin; | 30 |
| Stop! for the gate hangs well that hinders none; | |
| Refresh, and pay, then stoutly travel on! | |
| Ay, thou hast need to pree the barley-wine; | |
| Steep is the ascent, O bard! thou look’st upon: | |
| To reach that cloud-capt seat and throne divine | 35 |
| Might try a stronger frame and younger limbs than thine. * * * * * | |
| High on the topmost jewel of thy crown, | |
| Win-Hill! I sit bareheaded, ankle-deep | |
| In tufts of rose-cupped bilberries; and look down | |
| On towns that smoke below, and homes that creep | 40 |
| Into the silvery clouds, which far off keep | |
| Their sultry state! and many a mountain stream, | |
| And many a mountain vale “and ridgy steep”; | |
| The Peak, and all his mountains, where they gleam | |
| Or frown, remote or near, more distant than they seem! | 45 |
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| There flows the Ashop, yonder bounds the Wye, | |
| And Derwent here towards princely Chatsworth trends; | |
| But, while the Nough steals purple from the sky, | |
| Lo! northward far, what giant’s shadow bends? | |
| A voice of torrents, hark! its wailing sends; | 50 |
| Who drives yon tortured cloud through stone-still air? | |
| A rush! a roar! a wing! a whirlwind rends | |
| The stooping larch! The moorlands cry, “Prepare! | |
| It comes! ye gore-gorged foes of want and toil, beware!” | |
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| It comes! Behold!—Black Blakelow hoists on high | 55 |
| His signals to the blast from Gledhill’s brow. | |
| Them, slowly glooming on the lessening sky, | |
| The bread-taxed exile sees (in speechless woe, | |
| Wandering the melancholy main below, | |
| Where round the shores of Man the dark surge heaves), | 60 |
| And while his children’s tears in silence flow, | |
| Thinks of sweet scenes to which his soul still cleaves, | |
| That home on Etherow’s side, which he forever leaves. | |
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| Now expectation listens, mute and pale, | |
| While, ridged with sudden foam, the Derwent brawls; | 65 |
| Arrow-like comes the rain, like fire the hail; | |
| And, hark! Mam-Tor on shuddering Stanage calls! | |
| See what a frown o’er castled Winnat falls! | |
| Down drops the death-black sky! and Kinderscout, | |
| Conscious of glory, laughs at intervals; | 70 |
| Then lifts his helmet, throws his thunders out, | |
| Bathes all the hills in flame, and hails their stormy shout. | |
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| Hark! how my Titan guards laugh kings to scorn! | |
| See what a fiery circle girds my state! | |
| Hail, mountains! River-Gatherers! Eldest born | 75 |
| Of Time and Nature, dreadful, dark, and great! | |
| Whose tempests, winged from brows that threaten fate, | |
| Cast shadows, blackened with intensest light, | |
| Like the despair of angels fallen, that wait | |
| On God’s long-sleeping wrath, till, roofed with night, | 80 |
| The seas shall burn like oil, and Death be waked with fright. * * * * * | |
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