Classic Poem

North-East from hence three Peakish Miles at least,
(Which who once measures will dread all the rest)
At th'instep of just such another Hill,
There creeps a Spring that makes a little Rill,
Which at first sight to curious Visiters,
So small, and so contemptible appears,
They'd think themselves abus'd, did they not stay
To see wherein the wonder of it lay.
This Fountain is so very very small,
Th'Observer hardly can perceive it crawl
Thorough the sedg, which scarcely in their beds
Confess a Current by their waving heads.
I'th'Chinks through which it issues to the day,
It stagnant seems, and makes so little way,
That Thistle-down without a breeze of Air,
May lie at Hull , and be becalmed there;
Which makes the wary Owner of the ground,
For his Herds use the tardy Waves impound,
In a low Cistern of so small content
As stops so little of the Element
For so important use, that when the Cup
Is fullest crown'd, a Cow may drink it up.
Yet this so still, so very little Well,
Which thus beheld seems so contemptible,
No less of real Wonder does comprize,
Than any of the other Rarities :
For now and then, a hollow murmuring sound,
Being first heard remotely under ground,
The Spring immediately swells, and straight
Boils up through several pores to such a height,
As, overflowing soon the narrow Shoar ,
Below does in a little Torrent roar.
Whilst, near the Fountain mouth, the water sings
Thorough the secret Conduits of her Springs,
With such a harmony of various Notes,
As Grotto's yield, through narrow Brazen throats,
When, by weight of higher streams, the lower
Are upwards forc'd in an inverted shower.
But the sweet Musick's short, three minutes space
To highest mark this Oceanet does raise,
And half that time retires the ebbing waves,
To the dark windings of their frigid Caves .

To seek investigable Causes out,
Serves not to clear, but to increase a doubt,
And where the best of Natures Spies but grope,
For me, who worst can speculate, what hope
To find the secret cause of these strange Tides ?
Which an impenetrable Mountain hides
From all to view these Miracles that come,
In dark recesses of her spatious Womb.
And He who is in Nature the best read,
Who the best hand has to the wisest head,
Who best can think, and best his thoughts express
Does but, perhaps, more rationally guess,
When he his sense delivers of these things,
And Fancy sends to search these unknown Springs .

He tells us first, these flowing waters are
Too sweet, their Fluxes too irregular,
To owe to Neptune these fantastick turns;
Nor yet does Phaebe with her silver horns,
In these free-franchis'd, subterranean Caves
Push into crowded Tydes the frighted Waves,
But that the Spring swell'd by some smoaking shower
That teeming clouds on Tellus surface power,
Marches amain with the confederate Force ,
Until some straighter passage in its course,
Stops the tumultuous throng, which pressing fast,
And forc'd on still to more precipitous hast,
By the succeeding streams, lyes gargling there,
Till, in that narrow throat, th'obstructed Air,
Finding it self in too strict limits pent,
Opposes so th'invading Element ,
As first to make the half choakt gullet heave,
And then disgorge the stream it can't receive.

Than this, of this Peak-Wonder , I believe
None a more plausible account can give.
Though here it might be said, if this were so,
It never would, but in wet weather flow;
Yet in the greatest droughts the Earth abides,
It never fails to yield less frequent Tides ,
Which always clear and unpolluted are,
And nothing of the wash of Tempest share.
But whether this a Wonder be, or no:
'Twill be one, Reader, if thou seest it flow;
For having been there ten times, for the nonce,
I never yet could see it flow but once,
And that the last time too, which made me there
Take my last leave on't, as I now do here.

Hence two miles East , does a fourth Wonder lye,
Worthy the greatest curiosity,
Cal'd Elden-Hole ; but such a dreadful place,
As will procure a tender Muse her grace,
In the description if she chance to fail,
When my hand trembles, and my cheeks turn pale.
Betwixt a verdant Mountains falling flanks,
And within bounds of easie swelling banks,
That hem the Wonder in on either side,
A formidable Scissure gapes so wide,
Steep, black, and full of horror, that who dare.