# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Lake Winandermere

LAKE WINANDERMERE.
Оh, sweet Winandermere, how blest
Is he, who on thy marge may rest,
Rear his light bower 'neath summer's ray,
And from the loud world steal away;
And here, when twilight calm and pale
Spreads o'er thy mist a deeper veil,
List to the ripple on thy shore,
Or mark the lightly dripping oar,
Or sink to sleep, when eve shall cease,
Like thee, with all mankind at peace.
The angler here, with trolling line,
Doth muse from morn till day's decline,
And when brown autumn sets its seal,
How sharply rings the hunter's steel;
But I, with these no concert keep,
Nor aim to vex thy tranquil deep,
No barbed hook with pang and start
Would bury in the simple heart,
Nor work their woe, that wandering free
Fair lakes my own dear land can boast,
From inland glades to ocean coast,
Through woven copse or thicket green,
Their blue eyes deeply fringed are seen,
On hillock's side they scoop a nest,
Like dew-drop nursed in lily's breast,
By Seneca and lone St. Clair,
The mirrored maiden braids her hair,
And guileless to the searching sun
Turns crystal-breasted Horricon.
Yet couldst thou see our mighty chain
From red Algonquin to the main,
Those seas on seas, which thundering leap
O'er strong Niagara's mountain-steep,
And bid St. Lawrence hoarsely pour
Round Anticosti's trembling shore,
Thou, at their side, bright gem, wouldst be
Like timid brooklet to the sea,
And highest swoln and tempest-tost,
Still, as a noteless speck, be lost.
But o'er thy brow deep memories glide,
And spirit-voices stir thy tide,
For thou of her art pleased to tell
Queen of the lyre, who loved thee well,
And in the Dove's Nest by thy side,
Sought from the gazing throng to hide,
The laurel o'er her casement darkening,
The rose-tree for her footsteps hearkening.
I see her! though in dust she sleeps;
I hear her! though no lyre she sweeps;
And for her sake so fondly dear I love thee, sweet Winandermere.
Thursday, August 27, 1840.
A cottage in the neighborhood of Winandermere, called the "Dove's Nest," derives deep interest from having been the favored retreat of Mrs. Hemans, during a part of the summer of 1830. While on a visit to Wordsworth, she was struck with its retired beauty, and was delighted to find that she could engage rooms in it for herself and her boys, for the sojourn of a few weeks. From thence she wrote a friend:
"Henry is out with his fishing rod, Charles sketching, and Claude climbing the hill above the Dove's Nest. I cannot follow, for I have not strength yet. But in feeling, I think that I am more of a child than any of them. How shall I tell you of all the loveliness by which I am surrounded, of all the soothing, holy influences it seems to be shedding down into my inmost heart. I have sometimes feared within the last two years, that the effect of suffering and of adulation, of feelings too highly wrought and too severely tried, would have been to dry up within me the fountains of such pure and simple enjoyment. But now I know that ​
'Nature never did betray
 The heart that loved her.'
"I am so much delighted with the spot, that I scarcely know how I shall leave it. The situation is one of the deepest retirement; but the bright lake before me, with all its fairy barks and sails, glancing like things of life over its blue waters, prevents the solitude from being overshadowed by anything like sadness."
To connect the image of the sweetest of all poetesses with the scenery of Winandermere, was like adding a soul of music to a form of beauty. We fancied her seated in the alcove which she has described, as embosomed with the sweet brier and the moss rose-tree, her sons sporting around her, or listening to her sweet words, and regretted that our visit here should have been ten years too late.
Winandermere was much wrapped in mists and clouds while we were upon its banks. Yet we had some glimpses of its exceeding beauty. Sails were continually gliding over its surface. It has islands in its centre, and a background of distant mountains. It is ten miles in length, but so narrow that its circumference does not exceed twenty three miles. It abounds with fine fish, and is a favorite haunt for wild fowl. Long droughts, or protracted rains, but slightly vary its appearance, though it is said to be subject to strong agitation from winds and storms.
Americans, accustomed to the broad expanse of Erie ​and Ontario, or to those mighty inland seas, Huron and Superior, smile to hear the magnitude of Winandermere extolled, though they freely accord the meed of loveliness and beauty to this largest of English lakes.