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

50 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.