Page:A protest against the extension of railways in the Lake District - Somervell (1876).djvu/58

If Progress its far aims to reach, must fill
The air with poison, choke the babbling rill,
And dye the limpid river,
And such compulsion, as a rule, 'tis vain
To challenge, yet some haunts should sure remain,
Which wiser Man to Mammon's grasping reign
Will scarce deliver.

Seeing all-liberal Heaven has given you here
Vales soft as those of Tempè or Cashmere,
Still lakes and solemn mountains,
Spurn not such largess! Do not drive away
All Solitude's shy nymphs, whose hands array
My banks with bowers, and keep in joyous play
My floods and fountains.

I am the Lady of the Silver Lake;
I would not have my mountain echoes wake
To shriek and snort incessant.
And you whose steps have strayed along my marge
Would Steam-Fiend's roar, gush of foul mines' discharge,
Fit the still scene where my smooth-shining targe
Reflects the crescent?

Even to cold Utilitaria's self—
Sole regent in these days to thirst of pelf
Given by self-dedication,—
I make appeal! Prudence forbids to spoil
The few fair spots on your sea-straitened soil,
Where poet-passion and o'erburdened toil
Find consolation.