Porlock

Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Recalls to memory, and the channel grey Circling its surges in thy level bay. Porlock! I shall forget thee not, Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; But often shall hereafter call to mind How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot To wear the lonely, lingering close of day, Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire, Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.