We left behind the clamour of the town,
And northwards through a sunny land we sped:
Cots brownly thatched, old halls with gables red
Peeped through the elms and orchards newly-blown.
Thence through a world where, ere the blade was grown,
’Neath sulphurous skies the corn was pale and dead,
Where grimy labour, clamorous for bread,
Cursed the black fields wherein its seed was sown.
Last to the hills we came,—the quiet steep
Of Froswick rose, the Langdale lions kept
The same silent watch, and in the silent west
Those great twin mountain-brothers leaned at rest.*
Forth from the train invigorate I stept,
New-made already in the home of sleep.
*Coniston Old Man and Wetherlam
(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 40)