LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE,

ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING ABEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

Far from all human dwelling: what if here

No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;

Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,

That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind

By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

--Who he was

That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

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