Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a
window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting
for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day,
and in consequence of a recent perusal of _Belinda_, a Novel, by Miss
Broughton, whose absence is regretted.
HOW solemn is the front of this Hotel,
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’
Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,
Here _Sara_ flirted with whoever list,
_Belinda_ loved not wisely but too well,
And _Mr. Ford_ played the Philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,
And all our hearts go forth into the cry,
Would that the teller of the tale were here!