A MORNING ON ALP LUSGEN. 



THE sun has cleared the peaks and quenched the flush 

 Of orient crimson with excess of light. 

 The tall grass quivers in the rhythmic air 

 Without a sound: yet each particular blade 

 Trembles in song, had we but ears to hear. 

 The hot rays smite us, but a quickening breeze 

 Keeps languor far away. Unslumbering, 

 The soul enlarged takes in the mighty scene. 



The plummet from this height must sink afar 



To reach yon rounded mounds which seem so small. 



They shrink in the embrace of vaster forms, 



Though, placed amid the pomp of Cumbrian Fells, 



These hillock crests would overtop them all. 



Steep fall the meadows to the vale in slopes 



Of freshest green, scarred by the humming streams, 



And flecked by spaces of primeval pine. 



Unplanted groves ! whose pristine seeds, they say, 



Were sown amid the flames of nascent stars 



How came ye thence and hither? Whence the craft 



Which shook these gentian atoms into form, 



And dyed the flower with azure deeper far 



That that of heaven itself on days serene? 



What built these marigolds? What clothed these 



knolls 



With fiery whortle leaves ? What gave the heath 

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