Yes, there shall be one spot in England still
    Spotless and pure, untainted, undefiled:
No stain shall come on Fairfield's silent hill,
    On Cassdale's tarn, or Thirlmere's valley wild.
Still Rydal's lake shall nestle in below
    Nab's rocky scaur; beneath the frowning fell
No engine's smoke shall rise, no furnace glow,
    To rob the glen of its enchantive spell.
He that would look on Nature's inner face
    Shall breast the hill afoot with pilgrim tread,
Brushing through beaded bracken, while the grace
    Of dawn still clings around each mountain head;
Shall linger on while morn wears on to noon,
    And noon declines to eve and mists arise,
And see the silver glistening of the moon,
    And watch the twinkling of heaven's myriad eyes;
Then pass to rest, and sleep the livelong night,
    Far from the toiling engine's roar and scream,
Without a sound to break his slumbers light,
    Save the stream's pattering heard as in a dream.
Already some before the hallowed shrine,
    Whose ears are deaf to Nature's sacred tone;
Shall more pollute the house of the Divine,
    The spot that God has chosen for His own?
Those that will humbly seek shall surely find;
    Those that will humbly listen, surely hear.
The eternal silence speaks in every wind
    With voice majestic, and in accents clear.
Those who profaned the Temple of the Lord
    With godless greed of gold in days of yore
Were driven from the shrine with scourge and cord:
    The same stern lesson must be taught once more.
Still there shall be one spot unconquered yet
    By the crowd's idol god -- its darling gain --
Free from the world's wild fever and hot feet:
    Ours are the mountains.  Keep ye to the plain.
Hardly a field is left for children's mirth.
    Ye fain would rob us e'en of sea and shore.
Ye have enough.  Foot after foot of earth
    God's priests have yielded; but we yield no more.