The morn was fresh; and ere we won
The famous Valley of Saint John,
For many a rood our thoughts had plann'd
The scenery of that magic land.
We pictured bowers where ladies fair
Had breathed of old enchanted air;
Groves where Sir Knights had uttered vows
To Genii through the silvery boughs;
Piles of the pride of ages gone
Cleft between night and morning's sun,
Or veiled by mighty Merlin's power;
And her, too, Britain's peerless flower--
Her, chained in slumbering beauty fast
While generations rose and pass'd,
Gyneth 'mid the Wizard's dens,
King Arthur's child and Guendolen's!
So, led by many a wandering gleam
From youth and poetry's sweet dream,
We climbed the old created hills,
And cross'd the everlasting rills,
Which lay between us and the unwon
But glorious Valley of Saint John.
The morn was fresh, and bright the sun
Burst o'er the drowsy mountains dun.
A moment's pause for strength renewed,
And we our pleasant march pursued.
Blythely we scaled the steep, surpass'd
By steeps each loftier than the last;
O'er rocks and heaths and wilds we follow
The vapoury path from height to hollow;
And through the winding vale below,
Where yellowing fields with plenty glow;
And, scattered wide and far between,
Lay white-walled farms and orchards green;
The hedge-rows with their verdure crowned
Hemming the little plots of ground;
The happy kine for pastures lowing;
The rivulets through the meadows flowing;
The sunshine glittering on the slopes;
The white lambs on the mountain tops;
No vision and no gleam to call
Enchantment from her airy hall;
But beauty through all seasons won
From Nature and her parent sun,
There brightening as through ages gone,
Lay round us as our hearts sped on
To reach the Valley of Saint John.
The noon was past; the sun's bright ray
Sloped slowly down his westering way
With mellower light; the sobering gleams
Touched Glenderamakin's farthest streams;
Flung all the richness of their charms
Round lonely Threlkeld's wastes and farms:
And high beyond fired with their glow
Blencathra's steep and lofty brow;
When suddenly--as if by power
Of Magic wrought in that bright hour--
Shone out, with all the circumstance
And splendour of restored Romance,
Southwards afar behind us spread,
With its grey fortress at its head,
The Valley, spell-bound as of old,
In all its mingling green and gold;
In all the glory of the time
When Uther's son was in his prime,
And chivalry ranged every clime;
And peaceful as when Gyneth, kept
In Merlin's halls, beneath it slept.
There had we roamed the live-long day
Saint John's fair fields and winding way,
With hearts unconsciously beguiled
By witcheries and enchantment wild!
And not till steps that toiled no more
It's utmost bound had vanish'd o'er,
Knew youth's wild thought our hearts had won,
And thrid the Valley of Saint John.