MATLOCK.
It would be most ungrateful, not to speak,
Matlock of thee. Thy dwellings mid the cliffs,
Like a Swiss village, or the hanging nest
Of the wild bird, thy fairy glens scooped out
From the deep jaws of mountain fastnesses,
Thy pure, pure air, the luxury of thy baths,
Thy donkey rides amid the pine-clad hills,
Or o'er the beetling brow of bold Masson,
Spying perchance in some close-sheltered nook
The pale lutea and red briony,
Or infant waterfall, that leaps to cast
Its thread of silver to the vales below,
Thy long and dark descents to winding caves,
Where sleep the sparkling spars, the thousand forms,
Which art doth give them to allure the eye,
And decorate the mansion, lamp, and vase,
And pedestal, and toy, these all conspire
In sweet confusion to imprint thee deep
On memory's page.
But when the thunder rolls,
Yon silent cliffs forget their quietude,
