I. 
Far in the chambers of the west, 
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
But pale, and soon to disappear. 
The thin grey clouds wax dimly light 
On Brusleton and Houghton height; 
And the rich dale, that eastward lay, 
Waited the wakening touch of day, 
To give its woods and cultured plain, 
And towers and spires, to light again. 
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar; 
While, as a livelier twilight falls, 
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls 
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, 
The sovereign of the lovely vale. 

II. 
What prospects, from his watch-tower high, 
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye! 
Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
Down his deep woods the course of Tees, 
And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
Of summer vapours from the stream; 
And ere he pace his destined hour 
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, 
These silver mists shall melt away, 
And dew the woods with glittering spray. 
Then in broad luster shall be shown 
That mighty trench of living stone, 
And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, 
Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 
Wears with his rage no common foe; 
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, 
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 

III. 
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; 
But many a tributary stream 
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam: 
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, 
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers; 
The rural brook of Egliston, 
And Balder, named from Odin's son; 
And Greta, to whose banks ere long 
We lead the lovers of the song; 
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, 
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, 
And last and least, but loveliest still, 
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd, 
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade? 
Who, wandering there, hath sought to change 
Even for that vale so stern and strange, 
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, 
Through her green copse like spires are sent? 
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, 
Thy scenes and story to combine! 
Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays, 
List to the deeds of other days; 
Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the cave, 
The refuge of thy champion brave; 
Giving each rock its storied tale, 
Pouring a lay for every dale, 
Knitting, as with a moral band, 
Thy native legends with thy land, 
To lend each scene the interest high 
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. 

IV. 
Bertram awaited not the sight 
Which sunrise shows from Barnard's height, 
But from the towers, preventing day, 
With Wilfrid took his early way, 
While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, 
Still mingled in the silent dale. 
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone, 
The southern bank of Tees they won; 
Their winding path then eastward cast, 
And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd 
Each on his own deep visions bent, 
Silent and sad they onward went. 
Well may you think that Bertram's mood, 
To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude; 
Well may you think bold Risingham 
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; 
And small the intercourse, I ween, 
Such uncongenial souls between. 

V. 
Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way, 
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, 
And, skirting high the valley's ridge, 
They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge. 
Descending where her waters wind 
Free for a space and unconfined, 
As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood glen, 
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound, 
Raised by that Legion long renown'd, 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, 
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
'Stern sons of war!' sad Wilfrid sigh'd, 
'Behold the boast of Roman pride! 
What now of all your toils are known? 
A grassy trench, a broken stone!' 
This to himself; for moral strain 
To Bertram were address'd in vain. 

VI. 
Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high 
Were northward in the dawning seen 
To rear them o'er the thicket green. 
O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd 
Beside him through the lovely glade, 
Lending his rich luxuriant glow 
Of fancy, all its charms to show, 
Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 
As captive set at liberty, 
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, 
And clamouring joyful on her road; 
Pointing where, up the sunny banks, 
The trees retire in scatter'd ranks, 
Save where, advanced before the rest, 
On knoll or hillock rears his crest,