WRITTEN AT ULLESWATER.

The tide is rippling to my very feet, The mountains are before me, and around, Stretching in misty grandeur till they meet In one dim bourne, their hoary summits crown'd With cloudy chaplets, such as might have bound The new-born Thunderer when Saturn fell, All wonder-stricken, from his mighty throne. The sun is shining upon wooded slopes, And distant headlands, with faint shadows thrown Amid its brightness like the shatter'd hopes Of a young noontide, and its golden light Crests the upheaving waters till each swell Is tremulous with glory, and the sight Pictures strange fancies which no tongue can tell.