Sonnet Xix. Linn—cleeve, Linton, Devon.

This onward--deepening gloom,--this hanging path Over the Linn that soundeth mightily, Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath That ought should bar its passage to the sea, These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier Built darkly up into the very sky, Hung with thick woods, the native haunt of deer And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high,-- All half--unreal to my fancy seem; For opposite my crib, long years ago, Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream, With just this height above, and depth below; Even this jutting crag I seem to know:-- As when some sight calls back a half--forgotten dream.