Classic Poem

Young Sylvia was an active child,
She clomb the tree like squirrel wild,
And skipping in her frock of green
The fern and foxglove-bells between,
While feathery birches round her trembled
A grass-hopper she much resembled.
Her chirping blithe, her merry tune
Was like the insect's voice at noon.
One day with Dora she was roaming
Where Rydal's mountain beck was foaming;
To hear the rooks in Rydal-grove,
And trace that changeful brook they rove,
That brook which now an emerald seems,
Now shows the sapphire's azure gleams,
Betwixt its glistening rocky setting
Which blue and lilac buds are fretting.
" By yonder cliff my way I'll take!"
Cried Sylvia. " Then your neck you'll break!"
So said the mirthful dimpling Dora,
With looks as gay and fresh as Flora:
With blossoms crowned with blossoms laden
Like Flora looked the bonny maiden.
But Sylvia's on a slender ledge
And gathering bluebells o'er its edge:
Now to proceed is her intent,
And so to aid the hard ascent
She seizes on a jutting stone
Which giving way she's roughly thrown
Close to the deep and bubbling well
Below the Force of Rydal Fell.
The waterfall is roaring loud:
The spray is like a glittering cloud;
But now there sounds a noisier din
The fallen damsel's brain within
And mists before her eyes are swimming
Than spray more thick and sight-bedimming.
Sweet Dora who had stood aghast
While all this wild adventure past
Now trembled like that trembling spray,
Or reeds on which the breezes play:
And white was gentle Dora's cheek
Which lately showed so bright a streak,
Fair likeness of the dashing stream,
Fair contrast to the rosy gleam
Of those bright wreaths of eglantine
Which now her power-less hands resign.
But Dora's cheek regains its bloom:
This is not Sylvia's day of doom:
And dimples 'mid her roses play
When Sylvia laughs her fears away.
" Dora!" she cried, " cast off your trance;
You see I've scaped my two-fold chance;
I'm neither drenched in Rydal-pool,
Nor lamed too much to play the fool".
So on they wandered by the rill
Their hands and laps with flow'rets fill:
And Dora's love was somewhat wiser
Than that of many an old adviser:
Her joy she showed at Sylvia's 'scape,
Nor said " I warned you of the scrape";
She thought a bruise and sudden shock
Would keep her from the dangerous rock
And make the giddiest pate more wary
Without a wordy commentary.