How fair amid the depth of summer green
Spread forth thy walls, Carlisle! Thy castled heights
Abrupt and lofty; thy cathedral dome
Majestic and alone; thy beauteous bridge
Spanning the Eden, where the angler sits
Patient so long, and marks the browsing sheep
Like sprinkled snow amid the verdant vales.
Old Time hath hung upon thy misty walls
Legends of festal and of warlike deeds,—
King Arthur's wassail-cup; the battle-axe
Of the wild Danish sea-kings; the fierce beak
Of Rome's victorious eagle: Pictish spear
And Scottish claymore in confusion mixed
With England's clothyard arrow. Every helm
And dinted cuirass hath some stirring tale,—
Yet here thou sitt'st as meekly innocent
As though thine eager lip had never quaffed
Hot streams of kindred blood.
