The dying sunset kindled through a cleft;And even the gentle Charles Lamb, reluctantly torn from London streets to visit Wordsworth and Coleridge at the English Lakes, could not escape this same circle of gigantic figures, and found them protecting and kindly as he looked from his window at night: “Glorious creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, etc.” There is so much that is personal in the
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay-
“Now stab and end the creature — to the heft!”
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