Margaret (Junkin) Preston (1820–1897)

WITHIN the church I knelt, where many a year

Wordsworth had worshipped, while his musing eye

Wandered o’er mountain, fell, and scaur, and sky,

That rimmed the silver circle of Grasmere,

Whose crystal held an under-world as clear

As that which girt it round; and questioned why

The place was sacred for his lifted sigh,

More than the humble dalesman’s kneeling near.

Strange spell of Genius!—that can melt the soul

To reverence tenderer than o’er it falls

Beneath the marvellous heavens which God hath made,

And sway it with such human-sweet control

That holier henceforth seem these simple walls,

Because within them once a poet prayed!