What numbers there already lie, Now sleeping at its feet; Waiting the great and awful day, When they their Judge must meet.
Their dust then joins its better part, I hope in realms above; And all its dross be pressed away, By the Redeemer's love.
The fine Hotels I next remarked, The walks and lawns so gay, Where gentry their amusements take, In this sweet month of May.
To Solomon's Temple I repaired, To take a wider view; And as I was a stranger there, All things appeared new.
How dare the wicked infidel Say that there is no God? These mountains high and these firm rocks May crumble at His nod.
In Him I live, in Him I move, In Him I have my being; In Him I on this mount now stand And paint this beauteous scene.
Brierlow and Foxlow I remark'd, Haddon and Croome likewise; But Axedge overcap'd them all, And struck me with surprise.
The Lover's Leap likewise I view'd, Shootingslow did appear; The Cat-and-Fiddle I have seen But I was never there.
Chee Tor, Bakewell, and Matlock too, Likewise the Diamond Hill; The Shivering Tor for to describe Is far beyond my skill.
Now from this mount I do descend Into the vale below, From whence the River Wye doth spring, And sweetly on doth flow.
For to describe the beauties all, Display'd in Derbyshire; Instead of musing for one day, Methinks 'twould take a year.
Having seen seventy years and three, My days are not a few; I may expect in a short time, To bid this world adieu.
May blessings rest on all your heads, Ye rich, likewise ye poor; Something forebodes within my mind, I must see these Derby Hills no more.
Having given some lines on "Derbyshire Hills," by a "Wandering poet" totally unknown to fame, it will be well to follow it by others on "Derbyshire Dales," by one whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the land--Eliza Cooke.
I sigh for the land where the orange-tree flingeth Its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below; Where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier singeth, And clear waters take up the strain as they go.
Oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision That stirs up my soul over Italy's tales; But the _present_ was bright as the _far-off_ Elysian, When I roved in the sun-flood through Derbyshire Dales.
There was joy for my eye, there was balm for my breathing; Green branches above me--blue streams at my side: The hand of Creation seemed proudly bequeathing The beauty reserved for a festival tide.