LEWESDON HILL.

Up to thy Summit,Lewesdon, to the browOf yon proud rising, where the lonely thornBends from the rude South-east with top cut sheerBy his keen breath, along the narrow track,By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascendUp to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb,—My morning exercise,—and thence look roundUpon the variegated scene, of hillsAnd woods and fruitful vales, and villagesHalf hid in tufted orchards, and the seaBoundless, and studded thick with many a sail.Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaledFrom earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the mornAscend as incense to the Lord of day,I come to breathe your odours; while they floatYet near this surface, let me walk embathedIn your invisible perfumes, to healthSo friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heathAnd russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloakTo bide the hoary frosts and dripping rainsOf chill December, and art gaily robedIn livery of the spring: upon thy browA cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neckMantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thickOf golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woodsAdown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh topsOf the young hazel join, to form thy skirtsIn many a wavy fold of verdant wreath:—So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee upAgainst the birth of May: and, vested so,Thou dost appear more gracefully array’dThan Fashion’s worshippers, whose gaudy shows,Fantastical as are a sick man’s dreams,From vanity to costly vanityChange ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,From sad to gay returning with the year,Shall grace thee still till Nature’s self shall change.These are the beauties of thy woodland sceneAt each return of spring: yet some[1]delightRather to view the change; and fondly gazeOn fading colours, and the thousand tintsWhich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf:I like them not, for all their boasted huesAre kin to Sickliness; mortal DecayIs drinking up their vital juice; that gone,They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praiseSuch false complexions, and for beauty takeA look consumption-bred? As soon, if grayWere mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,I’d call it beautiful variety,And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spyA beauty in that fruitful change, when comesThe yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the yearBrings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraiseThe pure and spotless form of that sharp time,When January spreads a pall of snowO’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fendsMy reed-roof’d cottage, while the wintry blastFrom the thick north comes howling: till the SpringReturn, who leads my devious steps abroad,To climb, as now, toLewesdon’sairy top.Above the noise and stir of yonder fieldsUplifted, on this height I feel the mindExpand itself in wider liberty.The distant sounds break gently on my sense,Soothing to meditation: so methinks,Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,Could I wear out this transitory beingIn peaceful contemplation and calm ease.But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,That awful voice within us, and the senseOf an Hereafter, wake and rouse us upFrom such unshaped retirement; which were elseA blest condition on this earthly stage.For who would make his life a life of toilFor wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;Or power, which base compliance must uphold;Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;Who for such perishable gaudes would putA yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,And gall himself with trammels and the rubsOf this world’s business; so he might stand clearOf judgment and the tax of idlenessIn that dread audit, when his mortal hours(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,And to remove, according to our power,The wants and evils of our brother’s state,’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,If by our sovereign Master we be foundAt last not profitless: for worldly meed,Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.From this proud eminence on all sides roundTh’ unbroken prospect opens to my view,On all sides large; save only where the headOf Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen:So call (still rendering to his ancient nameObservance due) that rival Height south-west,Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seenHerds ranging, or at rest beneath the shadeOf some wide-branching oak; there goodly fieldsOf corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kineReturning with their milky treasure homeStore the rich dairy: such fair plenty fillsThe pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meadsWith flowery vesture, and the warmer sunTheir foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry daysCold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocksUnfriendly, when autumnal rains beginTo drench the spungy turf: but ere that timeThe careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2]In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fieldsOfEvesham, nor that ample valley namedOf theWhite Horse, its antique monumentCarved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealthMight equal, though surpassing in extent,This fertile vale, in length fromLewesdon’sbaseExtended to the sea, and water’d wellBy many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the sideOfLewesdonsoftly welling forth, dost tripAdown the valley, wandering sportively.Alas, how soon thy little course will end!How soon thy infant stream shall lose itselfIn the salt mass of waters, ere it growTo name or greatness! Yet it flows alongUntainted with the commerce of the world,Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;But through sequester’d meads, a little space,Winds secretly, and in its wanton pathMay cheer some drooping flower, or ministerOf its cool water to the thirsty lamb:Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pureAs when it issued from its native hill.So to thine early grave didst thou run on,Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,Thine innocent and playful infancyWas swallowed up in death, and thy pure spiritIn that illimitable gulf which boundsOur mortal continent. But not there lost,Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,Who can talk much and learnedly of life,Who know our frame and fashion, who can tellThe substance and the properties of man,As they had seen him made,—aye and stood bySpies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourseWisely, to prove that what must be must be,And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brainBy a mechanical impulse; pushing onThe minds of us, poor unaccountables,To fatal resolution. Know they not,That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,We take the path that leads to good or evil,And therein find our bliss or misery?And this includes all reasonable endsOf knowledge or of being; farther to goIs toil unprofitable, and th’ effectMost perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:If there be none, this world is all a cheat,And the divine stability of Heaven(That assured seat for good men after death)Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fairTo cherish virtuous hope, but at our needEludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,Were it not better to be born a beast,Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scapeThe aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breastWith sore anxiety of what shall be—And all for nought? Since our most wicked actIs not our sin, and our religious aweDelusion, if that strong NecessityChains up our will. But that the mind is free,The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,Is feelingly convinced; nor to be movedBy subtle words, that may perplex the head,But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,That with false weapons of PhilosophyFights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!See how the Sun, here clouded, afar offPours down the golden radiance of his lightUpon the enridged sea; where the black shipSails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eyeWith piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry stormShatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,To gain the port within it, or at worstTo shun that harbourless and hollow coastFrom Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffsDash’d piteously, with all her precious freightWas lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jawsSwallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden shipOf spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sentTo the Philippines o’er the Southern mainFrom Acapulco, carrying massy gold,Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,And Beauty, and high Courage undismayedBy mortal terrors, and paternal LoveStrong, and unconquerable even in death—Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bareWith ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and trackOf many indenting wheels, heavy and light,That in their different courses as they pass,Rush violently down precipitate,Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,From Shipton’s[5]bottom to the lofty downWinds like a path of pleasure, drawn by artThrough park or flowery garden for delight.Nor less delightful this—if, while he mountsNot wearied, the free Journeyer will pauseTo view the prospect oft, as oft to seeBeauty still changing: yet not so contrivedBy fancy, or choice, but of necessity,By soft gradations of ascent to leadThe labouring and way-worn feet along,And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,Wave gently: at their roots a rustic benchInvites to short refreshment, and to tasteWhat grateful beverage the house may yieldAfter fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’dTheTraveller’s Rest. Welcome, embower’d seat,Friendly repose to the slow passengerAscending, ere he takes his sultry wayAlong th’ interminable road, stretch’d outOver th’ unshelter’d down; or when at lastHe has that hard and solitary pathMeasured by painful steps. And blest are they,Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pauseAfter a march of glory: yet not suchAs rise in causeless war, troubling the worldBy their mad quarrel, and in fields of bloodHail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earthKings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high HeavenThieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to theeBelongs such rest; who in the western world,Thine own deliver’d country, for thyselfHast planted an immortal grove, and there,Upon the glorious mount of LibertyReposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.And Thou, not less renown’d in like attemptOf high achievement, though thy virtue fail’dTo save thy little country, Patriot Prince,Hero, Philosopher—what more could theyWho wisely chose thee,Paoli, to blessThy native Isle, long struggling to be free?But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou reposeAfter thy glorious toil, secure of fameWell-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,Enjoys not rest or glory; with her preyGorged but not satisfied, and craving stillAgainst th’ intent of Nature. See Her nowUpon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,Plying[6]her monstrous labour unrestrained!A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,With towery shape and height, and armed headsUprising o’er the surge; and these between,Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rockProjected many a mile to rear her wallMidst the deep waters. She, the mighty workStill urging, in her arrogant attempt,As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes inA space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strengthThan in dimensions, giant-like in both,—On each side flank’d with citadels and towersAnd rocky walls, and arches massy proofAgainst the storm of war. Compared with thisLess[7]and less hazardous emprize achievedResistless Alexander, when he castThe strong foundations of that high-raised moundDeep in the hostile waves, his martial way,Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.Nor[8]aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from SalamisFlying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.Nor[9]yet that elder work (if work it were,Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,A thousand ships behind the vasty moleAll shelter’d) could with this compare, though builtIt seem’d, of greatness worthy to createEnvy in the immortals; and at lastNot overthrown without th’ embattled aidOf angry Neptune. So may He once moreRise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,Urged on to fury by contending winds,With horned violence to push and whelmThis pile, usurping on his watry reign!From hostile shores returning, glad I lookOn native scenes again; and first saluteThee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oftThe nightly blaze is kindled; further seenThan erst was that love-tended cresset, hungBeside the Hellespont: yet not like thatInviting to the hospitable armsOf Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the signOf danger, and of ambush’d foes to warnThe stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward boundFrom Havre or the Norman isles, with freightOf wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quellMany a light skiff and well-appointed sloopLies hovering near the coast, or hid behindSome curved promontory, in hope to seizeThese contraband: vain hope! on that high shoreStation’d, th’ associates of their lawless tradeKeep watch, and to their fellows off at seaGive the known signal; they with fearful hasteObservant, put about the ship, and plungeInto concealing darkness. As a fox,That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ dinRuns crafty down the wind, and steals awayForth from his cover, hopeful so t’ eludeThe not yet following pack,—if chance the shoutOf eager or unpractised boy betrayHis meditated flight, back he retiresTo shelter him in the thick wood: so theseRetiring, ply to south, and shun the landToo perilous to approach: and oft at seaSecure (or ever nigh the guarded coastThey venture) to the trackless deep they trustTheir forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,Together link’d upon their cable’s length,And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixtBy stony weights; till happier hour arriveTo land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky browWears, like a regal diadem, the roundOf ancient battlements and ramparts high,And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—Thou hast no name, no honourable note,No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,To testify what once thou wert, how great,How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,Who seek their greatness in dominion heldOver their fellows, or the pomp of war,And be as thou forgotten, and their fameCancell’d like thine! But thee in after timesReclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’dOf Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sireOf fair Elfrida; She, whose happy BardHas with his gentle witchery so wroughtUpon our sense, that we can see no moreHer mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,And purple robes of state with royal bloodInhospitably stain’d; but in their placePure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tellOf rural innocence and village love;Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,Who bosom’d in the vale below dost lookThis morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—I fable not, nor will with fabled namesVarnish a melancholy tale all true,—A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leavesAs in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweetAbove the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eyeOf a young villager, whose vows of loveSoon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,(Dian first rising after change was notMore delicate) betray’d her secret act,And grew to guilty fulness: then farewellHer maiden dignity, and comely pride,And virtuous reputation. But this lossWorse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreckOf what was left her yet of good, or fair,Or decent: now her meek and gentle voiceTo petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attireTo sluttish tawdry: her once timid eyeGrew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with thoseIt look’d on. Change detestable! For she,Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,Became a grievous darkness: but his heartEndured not long; all in despair he wentInto the chambers of the grave, to seekA comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.What then befell this daughter desolate?For He, the partner of her earliest fault,Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislikeOf her light carriage. What could then befall,What else, but of her self-injurious lifeThe too sad penance—hopeless penury,Loathsome disease unpitied, and theretoThe brand of all-avoided infamySet on her, like the fearful token o’erA plague-infested house:—at length to deathImpatient and distract she made bold way.Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hailThe ground where Hollis[12]lies; his choice retreat,Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he livedTo generous Virtue, and the holy loveOf Liberty, a dedicated spirit;And left his ashes there; still honouringThy fields, with title given of patriot names,But more with his untitled sepulchre.That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks onTo Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwellsInviolate, and fearless of thy curse,War-glutted Osmund,[13]superstitious Lord!Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody lifeMadest thy presumptuous bargain; giving moreThan thy just having to redeem thy guilt,And darest bid th’ Almighty to becomeThe minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fellWith sacred vengeance pointed on the headOf many a bold usurper: chief on thine(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),Accomplish’d[14]Raleigh! in that lawless dayWhen, like a goodly hart, thou wert besetWith crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but nowI saw the hoary pile cresting the topOf that north-western hill; and in this NowA cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulkBecomes annihilate, or if not, a spotWhich the strain’d vision tires itself to find.And even so fares it with the things of earthWhich seem most constant: there will come the cloudThat shall infold them up, and leave their placeA seat for Emptiness. Our narrow kenReaches too far, when all that we beholdIs but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seemTo foster what they touch, and mortal foolsRejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!For in that indefatigable flightThe multitudinous strokes incessantlyBruise all beneath their cope, and mark on allHis secret injury; on the front of manGray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds onHard and more hard his iron pennons beatWith ceaseless violence; nor overpass,Till all the creatures of this nether worldAre one wide quarry: following dark behind,The cormorant Oblivion swallows upThe carcasses that Time has made his prey.But, hark! the village clock strikes nine—the chimesMerrily follow, tuneful to the senseOf the pleased clown attentive, while they makeFalse-measured melody on crazy bells.O wond’rous Power of modulated sound!Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shapeThou makest thy slave), canst subtilly pervadeThe yielded avenues of sense, unlockThe close affections, by some fairy pathWinning an easy way through every ear,And with thine unsubstantial qualityHolding in mighty chains the hearts of all;All, but some cold and sullen-temper’d spirits,Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.Yet what is music, and the blended powerOf voice with instruments of wind and string?What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?’Tis past: and all that it has left behindIs but an echo dwelling in the earOf the toy-taken fancy, and beside,A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.But ill accords my verse with the delightsOf this gay month:—and see the VillagersAssembling jocund in their best attireTo grace this genial morn. Now I descendTo join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,That lift th’ expanded heart above this spotTo heavenly musing, these shall pass away(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.So passeth human life—our better mindIs as a Sunday’s garment, then put onWhen we have nought to do; but at our workWe wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:To-morrow for severer thought; but nowTo breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

Up to thy Summit,Lewesdon, to the brow

Of yon proud rising, where the lonely thorn

Bends from the rude South-east with top cut sheer

By his keen breath, along the narrow track,

By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascend

Up to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb,—

My morning exercise,—and thence look round

Upon the variegated scene, of hills

And woods and fruitful vales, and villages

Half hid in tufted orchards, and the sea

Boundless, and studded thick with many a sail.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaledFrom earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the mornAscend as incense to the Lord of day,I come to breathe your odours; while they floatYet near this surface, let me walk embathedIn your invisible perfumes, to healthSo friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled

From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the morn

Ascend as incense to the Lord of day,

I come to breathe your odours; while they float

Yet near this surface, let me walk embathed

In your invisible perfumes, to health

So friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,

Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heathAnd russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloakTo bide the hoary frosts and dripping rainsOf chill December, and art gaily robedIn livery of the spring: upon thy browA cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neckMantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thickOf golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woodsAdown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh topsOf the young hazel join, to form thy skirtsIn many a wavy fold of verdant wreath:—So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee upAgainst the birth of May: and, vested so,Thou dost appear more gracefully array’dThan Fashion’s worshippers, whose gaudy shows,Fantastical as are a sick man’s dreams,From vanity to costly vanityChange ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,From sad to gay returning with the year,Shall grace thee still till Nature’s self shall change.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!

Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath

And russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloak

To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains

Of chill December, and art gaily robed

In livery of the spring: upon thy brow

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick

Of golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woods

Adown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts

In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath:—

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up

Against the birth of May: and, vested so,

Thou dost appear more gracefully array’d

Than Fashion’s worshippers, whose gaudy shows,

Fantastical as are a sick man’s dreams,

From vanity to costly vanity

Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,

From sad to gay returning with the year,

Shall grace thee still till Nature’s self shall change.

These are the beauties of thy woodland sceneAt each return of spring: yet some[1]delightRather to view the change; and fondly gazeOn fading colours, and the thousand tintsWhich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf:I like them not, for all their boasted huesAre kin to Sickliness; mortal DecayIs drinking up their vital juice; that gone,They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praiseSuch false complexions, and for beauty takeA look consumption-bred? As soon, if grayWere mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,I’d call it beautiful variety,And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spyA beauty in that fruitful change, when comesThe yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the yearBrings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraiseThe pure and spotless form of that sharp time,When January spreads a pall of snowO’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fendsMy reed-roof’d cottage, while the wintry blastFrom the thick north comes howling: till the SpringReturn, who leads my devious steps abroad,To climb, as now, toLewesdon’sairy top.

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene

At each return of spring: yet some[1]delight

Rather to view the change; and fondly gaze

On fading colours, and the thousand tints

Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf:

I like them not, for all their boasted hues

Are kin to Sickliness; mortal Decay

Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone,

They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise

Such false complexions, and for beauty take

A look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray

Were mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,

I’d call it beautiful variety,

And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy

A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes

The yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the year

Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise

The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,

When January spreads a pall of snow

O’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,

And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends

My reed-roof’d cottage, while the wintry blast

From the thick north comes howling: till the Spring

Return, who leads my devious steps abroad,

To climb, as now, toLewesdon’sairy top.

Above the noise and stir of yonder fieldsUplifted, on this height I feel the mindExpand itself in wider liberty.The distant sounds break gently on my sense,Soothing to meditation: so methinks,Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,Could I wear out this transitory beingIn peaceful contemplation and calm ease.But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,That awful voice within us, and the senseOf an Hereafter, wake and rouse us upFrom such unshaped retirement; which were elseA blest condition on this earthly stage.For who would make his life a life of toilFor wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;Or power, which base compliance must uphold;Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;Who for such perishable gaudes would putA yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,And gall himself with trammels and the rubsOf this world’s business; so he might stand clearOf judgment and the tax of idlenessIn that dread audit, when his mortal hours(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,And to remove, according to our power,The wants and evils of our brother’s state,’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,If by our sovereign Master we be foundAt last not profitless: for worldly meed,Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

Above the noise and stir of yonder fields

Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind

Expand itself in wider liberty.

The distant sounds break gently on my sense,

Soothing to meditation: so methinks,

Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,

Could I wear out this transitory being

In peaceful contemplation and calm ease.

But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,

That awful voice within us, and the sense

Of an Hereafter, wake and rouse us up

From such unshaped retirement; which were else

A blest condition on this earthly stage.

For who would make his life a life of toil

For wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;

Or power, which base compliance must uphold;

Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;

Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;

Who for such perishable gaudes would put

A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,

And gall himself with trammels and the rubs

Of this world’s business; so he might stand clear

Of judgment and the tax of idleness

In that dread audit, when his mortal hours

(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)

Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,

And to remove, according to our power,

The wants and evils of our brother’s state,

’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,

If by our sovereign Master we be found

At last not profitless: for worldly meed,

Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

From this proud eminence on all sides roundTh’ unbroken prospect opens to my view,On all sides large; save only where the headOf Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen:So call (still rendering to his ancient nameObservance due) that rival Height south-west,Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seenHerds ranging, or at rest beneath the shadeOf some wide-branching oak; there goodly fieldsOf corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kineReturning with their milky treasure homeStore the rich dairy: such fair plenty fillsThe pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meadsWith flowery vesture, and the warmer sunTheir foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry daysCold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocksUnfriendly, when autumnal rains beginTo drench the spungy turf: but ere that timeThe careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2]In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fieldsOfEvesham, nor that ample valley namedOf theWhite Horse, its antique monumentCarved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealthMight equal, though surpassing in extent,This fertile vale, in length fromLewesdon’sbaseExtended to the sea, and water’d wellBy many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the sideOfLewesdonsoftly welling forth, dost tripAdown the valley, wandering sportively.Alas, how soon thy little course will end!How soon thy infant stream shall lose itselfIn the salt mass of waters, ere it growTo name or greatness! Yet it flows alongUntainted with the commerce of the world,Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;But through sequester’d meads, a little space,Winds secretly, and in its wanton pathMay cheer some drooping flower, or ministerOf its cool water to the thirsty lamb:Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pureAs when it issued from its native hill.

From this proud eminence on all sides round

Th’ unbroken prospect opens to my view,

On all sides large; save only where the head

Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen:

So call (still rendering to his ancient name

Observance due) that rival Height south-west,

Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.

There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen

Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade

Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields

Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine

Returning with their milky treasure home

Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills

The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,

Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meads

With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun

Their foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry days

Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks

Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin

To drench the spungy turf: but ere that time

The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,

Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2]

In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields

OfEvesham, nor that ample valley named

Of theWhite Horse, its antique monument

Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth

Might equal, though surpassing in extent,

This fertile vale, in length fromLewesdon’sbase

Extended to the sea, and water’d well

By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,

Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side

OfLewesdonsoftly welling forth, dost trip

Adown the valley, wandering sportively.

Alas, how soon thy little course will end!

How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself

In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow

To name or greatness! Yet it flows along

Untainted with the commerce of the world,

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;

But through sequester’d meads, a little space,

Winds secretly, and in its wanton path

May cheer some drooping flower, or minister

Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb:

Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure

As when it issued from its native hill.

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,Thine innocent and playful infancyWas swallowed up in death, and thy pure spiritIn that illimitable gulf which boundsOur mortal continent. But not there lost,Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,Who can talk much and learnedly of life,Who know our frame and fashion, who can tellThe substance and the properties of man,As they had seen him made,—aye and stood bySpies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourseWisely, to prove that what must be must be,And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brainBy a mechanical impulse; pushing onThe minds of us, poor unaccountables,To fatal resolution. Know they not,That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,We take the path that leads to good or evil,And therein find our bliss or misery?And this includes all reasonable endsOf knowledge or of being; farther to goIs toil unprofitable, and th’ effectMost perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:If there be none, this world is all a cheat,And the divine stability of Heaven(That assured seat for good men after death)Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fairTo cherish virtuous hope, but at our needEludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,Were it not better to be born a beast,Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scapeThe aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breastWith sore anxiety of what shall be—And all for nought? Since our most wicked actIs not our sin, and our religious aweDelusion, if that strong NecessityChains up our will. But that the mind is free,The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,Is feelingly convinced; nor to be movedBy subtle words, that may perplex the head,But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,That with false weapons of PhilosophyFights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,

Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,

Thine innocent and playful infancy

Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit

In that illimitable gulf which bounds

Our mortal continent. But not there lost,

Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,

Who can talk much and learnedly of life,

Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell

The substance and the properties of man,

As they had seen him made,—aye and stood by

Spies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourse

Wisely, to prove that what must be must be,

And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brain

By a mechanical impulse; pushing on

The minds of us, poor unaccountables,

To fatal resolution. Know they not,

That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,

We take the path that leads to good or evil,

And therein find our bliss or misery?

And this includes all reasonable ends

Of knowledge or of being; farther to go

Is toil unprofitable, and th’ effect

Most perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,

Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:

If there be none, this world is all a cheat,

And the divine stability of Heaven

(That assured seat for good men after death)

Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fair

To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need

Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,

Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,

Were it not better to be born a beast,

Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scape

The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast

With sore anxiety of what shall be—

And all for nought? Since our most wicked act

Is not our sin, and our religious awe

Delusion, if that strong Necessity

Chains up our will. But that the mind is free,

The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,

Is feelingly convinced; nor to be moved

By subtle words, that may perplex the head,

But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,

That with false weapons of Philosophy

Fights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar offPours down the golden radiance of his lightUpon the enridged sea; where the black shipSails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eyeWith piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry stormShatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,To gain the port within it, or at worstTo shun that harbourless and hollow coastFrom Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffsDash’d piteously, with all her precious freightWas lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jawsSwallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden shipOf spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sentTo the Philippines o’er the Southern mainFrom Acapulco, carrying massy gold,Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,And Beauty, and high Courage undismayedBy mortal terrors, and paternal LoveStrong, and unconquerable even in death—Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off

Pours down the golden radiance of his light

Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship

Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,

But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,

When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,

That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,

Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye

With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].

Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm

Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,

She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,

To gain the port within it, or at worst

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast

From Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],

Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.

But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,

In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:

And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs

Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws

Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship

Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent

To the Philippines o’er the Southern main

From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,

Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,

And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed

By mortal terrors, and paternal Love

Strong, and unconquerable even in death—

Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bareWith ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and trackOf many indenting wheels, heavy and light,That in their different courses as they pass,Rush violently down precipitate,Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,From Shipton’s[5]bottom to the lofty downWinds like a path of pleasure, drawn by artThrough park or flowery garden for delight.Nor less delightful this—if, while he mountsNot wearied, the free Journeyer will pauseTo view the prospect oft, as oft to seeBeauty still changing: yet not so contrivedBy fancy, or choice, but of necessity,By soft gradations of ascent to leadThe labouring and way-worn feet along,And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,Wave gently: at their roots a rustic benchInvites to short refreshment, and to tasteWhat grateful beverage the house may yieldAfter fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’dTheTraveller’s Rest. Welcome, embower’d seat,Friendly repose to the slow passengerAscending, ere he takes his sultry wayAlong th’ interminable road, stretch’d outOver th’ unshelter’d down; or when at lastHe has that hard and solitary pathMeasured by painful steps. And blest are they,Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pauseAfter a march of glory: yet not suchAs rise in causeless war, troubling the worldBy their mad quarrel, and in fields of bloodHail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earthKings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high HeavenThieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to theeBelongs such rest; who in the western world,Thine own deliver’d country, for thyselfHast planted an immortal grove, and there,Upon the glorious mount of LibertyReposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare

With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track

Of many indenting wheels, heavy and light,

That in their different courses as they pass,

Rush violently down precipitate,

Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.

Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,

From Shipton’s[5]bottom to the lofty down

Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art

Through park or flowery garden for delight.

Nor less delightful this—if, while he mounts

Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause

To view the prospect oft, as oft to see

Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived

By fancy, or choice, but of necessity,

By soft gradations of ascent to lead

The labouring and way-worn feet along,

And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,

Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,

O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,

Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench

Invites to short refreshment, and to taste

What grateful beverage the house may yield

After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’d

TheTraveller’s Rest. Welcome, embower’d seat,

Friendly repose to the slow passenger

Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way

Along th’ interminable road, stretch’d out

Over th’ unshelter’d down; or when at last

He has that hard and solitary path

Measured by painful steps. And blest are they,

Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pause

After a march of glory: yet not such

As rise in causeless war, troubling the world

By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood

Hail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earth

Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven

Thieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:

Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee

Belongs such rest; who in the western world,

Thine own deliver’d country, for thyself

Hast planted an immortal grove, and there,

Upon the glorious mount of Liberty

Reposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.

And Thou, not less renown’d in like attemptOf high achievement, though thy virtue fail’dTo save thy little country, Patriot Prince,Hero, Philosopher—what more could theyWho wisely chose thee,Paoli, to blessThy native Isle, long struggling to be free?But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou reposeAfter thy glorious toil, secure of fameWell-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,Enjoys not rest or glory; with her preyGorged but not satisfied, and craving stillAgainst th’ intent of Nature. See Her nowUpon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,Plying[6]her monstrous labour unrestrained!A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,With towery shape and height, and armed headsUprising o’er the surge; and these between,Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rockProjected many a mile to rear her wallMidst the deep waters. She, the mighty workStill urging, in her arrogant attempt,As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes inA space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strengthThan in dimensions, giant-like in both,—On each side flank’d with citadels and towersAnd rocky walls, and arches massy proofAgainst the storm of war. Compared with thisLess[7]and less hazardous emprize achievedResistless Alexander, when he castThe strong foundations of that high-raised moundDeep in the hostile waves, his martial way,Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.Nor[8]aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from SalamisFlying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.Nor[9]yet that elder work (if work it were,Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,A thousand ships behind the vasty moleAll shelter’d) could with this compare, though builtIt seem’d, of greatness worthy to createEnvy in the immortals; and at lastNot overthrown without th’ embattled aidOf angry Neptune. So may He once moreRise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,Urged on to fury by contending winds,With horned violence to push and whelmThis pile, usurping on his watry reign!

And Thou, not less renown’d in like attempt

Of high achievement, though thy virtue fail’d

To save thy little country, Patriot Prince,

Hero, Philosopher—what more could they

Who wisely chose thee,Paoli, to bless

Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free?

But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou repose

After thy glorious toil, secure of fame

Well-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,

Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,

Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey

Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still

Against th’ intent of Nature. See Her now

Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,

Plying[6]her monstrous labour unrestrained!

A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,

With towery shape and height, and armed heads

Uprising o’er the surge; and these between,

Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock

Projected many a mile to rear her wall

Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work

Still urging, in her arrogant attempt,

As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,

‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid

‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound

‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes in

A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,

Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strength

Than in dimensions, giant-like in both,—

On each side flank’d with citadels and towers

And rocky walls, and arches massy proof

Against the storm of war. Compared with this

Less[7]and less hazardous emprize achieved

Resistless Alexander, when he cast

The strong foundations of that high-raised mound

Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way,

Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.

Nor[8]aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,

At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,

Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,

Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from Salamis

Flying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,

Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.

Nor[9]yet that elder work (if work it were,

Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,

(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,

A thousand ships behind the vasty mole

All shelter’d) could with this compare, though built

It seem’d, of greatness worthy to create

Envy in the immortals; and at last

Not overthrown without th’ embattled aid

Of angry Neptune. So may He once more

Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,

Urged on to fury by contending winds,

With horned violence to push and whelm

This pile, usurping on his watry reign!

From hostile shores returning, glad I lookOn native scenes again; and first saluteThee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oftThe nightly blaze is kindled; further seenThan erst was that love-tended cresset, hungBeside the Hellespont: yet not like thatInviting to the hospitable armsOf Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the signOf danger, and of ambush’d foes to warnThe stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward boundFrom Havre or the Norman isles, with freightOf wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quellMany a light skiff and well-appointed sloopLies hovering near the coast, or hid behindSome curved promontory, in hope to seizeThese contraband: vain hope! on that high shoreStation’d, th’ associates of their lawless tradeKeep watch, and to their fellows off at seaGive the known signal; they with fearful hasteObservant, put about the ship, and plungeInto concealing darkness. As a fox,That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ dinRuns crafty down the wind, and steals awayForth from his cover, hopeful so t’ eludeThe not yet following pack,—if chance the shoutOf eager or unpractised boy betrayHis meditated flight, back he retiresTo shelter him in the thick wood: so theseRetiring, ply to south, and shun the landToo perilous to approach: and oft at seaSecure (or ever nigh the guarded coastThey venture) to the trackless deep they trustTheir forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,Together link’d upon their cable’s length,And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixtBy stony weights; till happier hour arriveTo land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.

From hostile shores returning, glad I look

On native scenes again; and first salute

Thee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oft

The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen

Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung

Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that

Inviting to the hospitable arms

Of Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the sign

Of danger, and of ambush’d foes to warn

The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound

From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight

Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,

Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell

Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop

Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind

Some curved promontory, in hope to seize

These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore

Station’d, th’ associates of their lawless trade

Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea

Give the known signal; they with fearful haste

Observant, put about the ship, and plunge

Into concealing darkness. As a fox,

That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ din

Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away

Forth from his cover, hopeful so t’ elude

The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout

Of eager or unpractised boy betray

His meditated flight, back he retires

To shelter him in the thick wood: so these

Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land

Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea

Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast

They venture) to the trackless deep they trust

Their forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,

Together link’d upon their cable’s length,

And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt

By stony weights; till happier hour arrive

To land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.

But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky browWears, like a regal diadem, the roundOf ancient battlements and ramparts high,And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—Thou hast no name, no honourable note,No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,To testify what once thou wert, how great,How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,Who seek their greatness in dominion heldOver their fellows, or the pomp of war,And be as thou forgotten, and their fameCancell’d like thine! But thee in after timesReclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’dOf Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sireOf fair Elfrida; She, whose happy BardHas with his gentle witchery so wroughtUpon our sense, that we can see no moreHer mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,And purple robes of state with royal bloodInhospitably stain’d; but in their placePure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky brow

Wears, like a regal diadem, the round

Of ancient battlements and ramparts high,

And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—

Thou hast no name, no honourable note,

No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,

To testify what once thou wert, how great,

How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,

Who seek their greatness in dominion held

Over their fellows, or the pomp of war,

And be as thou forgotten, and their fame

Cancell’d like thine! But thee in after times

Reclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,

And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’d

Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire

Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard

Has with his gentle witchery so wrought

Upon our sense, that we can see no more

Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,

And purple robes of state with royal blood

Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place

Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,

Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tellOf rural innocence and village love;Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,Who bosom’d in the vale below dost lookThis morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—I fable not, nor will with fabled namesVarnish a melancholy tale all true,—A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leavesAs in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweetAbove the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eyeOf a young villager, whose vows of loveSoon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,(Dian first rising after change was notMore delicate) betray’d her secret act,And grew to guilty fulness: then farewellHer maiden dignity, and comely pride,And virtuous reputation. But this lossWorse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreckOf what was left her yet of good, or fair,Or decent: now her meek and gentle voiceTo petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attireTo sluttish tawdry: her once timid eyeGrew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with thoseIt look’d on. Change detestable! For she,Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,Became a grievous darkness: but his heartEndured not long; all in despair he wentInto the chambers of the grave, to seekA comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.What then befell this daughter desolate?For He, the partner of her earliest fault,Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislikeOf her light carriage. What could then befall,What else, but of her self-injurious lifeThe too sad penance—hopeless penury,Loathsome disease unpitied, and theretoThe brand of all-avoided infamySet on her, like the fearful token o’erA plague-infested house:—at length to deathImpatient and distract she made bold way.

Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell

Of rural innocence and village love;

Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,

Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look

This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,

Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.

There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—

I fable not, nor will with fabled names

Varnish a melancholy tale all true,—

A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,

Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,

Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves

As in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweet

Above the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,

And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.

Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eye

Of a young villager, whose vows of love

Soon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,

Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,

Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,

(Dian first rising after change was not

More delicate) betray’d her secret act,

And grew to guilty fulness: then farewell

Her maiden dignity, and comely pride,

And virtuous reputation. But this loss

Worse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreck

Of what was left her yet of good, or fair,

Or decent: now her meek and gentle voice

To petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attire

To sluttish tawdry: her once timid eye

Grew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with those

It look’d on. Change detestable! For she,

Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,

Became a grievous darkness: but his heart

Endured not long; all in despair he went

Into the chambers of the grave, to seek

A comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.

What then befell this daughter desolate?

For He, the partner of her earliest fault,

Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislike

Of her light carriage. What could then befall,

What else, but of her self-injurious life

The too sad penance—hopeless penury,

Loathsome disease unpitied, and thereto

The brand of all-avoided infamy

Set on her, like the fearful token o’er

A plague-infested house:—at length to death

Impatient and distract she made bold way.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hailThe ground where Hollis[12]lies; his choice retreat,Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he livedTo generous Virtue, and the holy loveOf Liberty, a dedicated spirit;And left his ashes there; still honouringThy fields, with title given of patriot names,But more with his untitled sepulchre.That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks onTo Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwellsInviolate, and fearless of thy curse,War-glutted Osmund,[13]superstitious Lord!Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody lifeMadest thy presumptuous bargain; giving moreThan thy just having to redeem thy guilt,And darest bid th’ Almighty to becomeThe minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fellWith sacred vengeance pointed on the headOf many a bold usurper: chief on thine(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),Accomplish’d[14]Raleigh! in that lawless dayWhen, like a goodly hart, thou wert besetWith crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail

The ground where Hollis[12]lies; his choice retreat,

Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived

To generous Virtue, and the holy love

Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit;

And left his ashes there; still honouring

Thy fields, with title given of patriot names,

But more with his untitled sepulchre.

That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,

Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks on

To Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,

The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwells

Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse,

War-glutted Osmund,[13]superstitious Lord!

Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody life

Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more

Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,

And darest bid th’ Almighty to become

The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,

So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell

With sacred vengeance pointed on the head

Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine

(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),

Accomplish’d[14]Raleigh! in that lawless day

When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset

With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,

While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;

And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,

Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but nowI saw the hoary pile cresting the topOf that north-western hill; and in this NowA cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulkBecomes annihilate, or if not, a spotWhich the strain’d vision tires itself to find.

How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,

The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now

I saw the hoary pile cresting the top

Of that north-western hill; and in this Now

A cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulk

Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot

Which the strain’d vision tires itself to find.

And even so fares it with the things of earthWhich seem most constant: there will come the cloudThat shall infold them up, and leave their placeA seat for Emptiness. Our narrow kenReaches too far, when all that we beholdIs but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seemTo foster what they touch, and mortal foolsRejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!For in that indefatigable flightThe multitudinous strokes incessantlyBruise all beneath their cope, and mark on allHis secret injury; on the front of manGray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds onHard and more hard his iron pennons beatWith ceaseless violence; nor overpass,Till all the creatures of this nether worldAre one wide quarry: following dark behind,The cormorant Oblivion swallows upThe carcasses that Time has made his prey.

And even so fares it with the things of earth

Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud

That shall infold them up, and leave their place

A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken

Reaches too far, when all that we behold

Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,

Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings

(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)

Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem

To foster what they touch, and mortal fools

Rejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!

For in that indefatigable flight

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all

His secret injury; on the front of man

Gray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on

Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat

With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,

Till all the creatures of this nether world

Are one wide quarry: following dark behind,

The cormorant Oblivion swallows up

The carcasses that Time has made his prey.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine—the chimesMerrily follow, tuneful to the senseOf the pleased clown attentive, while they makeFalse-measured melody on crazy bells.O wond’rous Power of modulated sound!Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shapeThou makest thy slave), canst subtilly pervadeThe yielded avenues of sense, unlockThe close affections, by some fairy pathWinning an easy way through every ear,And with thine unsubstantial qualityHolding in mighty chains the hearts of all;All, but some cold and sullen-temper’d spirits,Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine—the chimes

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make

False-measured melody on crazy bells.

O wond’rous Power of modulated sound!

Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape

Thou makest thy slave), canst subtilly pervade

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock

The close affections, by some fairy path

Winning an easy way through every ear,

And with thine unsubstantial quality

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;

All, but some cold and sullen-temper’d spirits,

Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended powerOf voice with instruments of wind and string?What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?’Tis past: and all that it has left behindIs but an echo dwelling in the earOf the toy-taken fancy, and beside,A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.

Yet what is music, and the blended power

Of voice with instruments of wind and string?

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?

’Tis past: and all that it has left behind

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,

A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.

But ill accords my verse with the delightsOf this gay month:—and see the VillagersAssembling jocund in their best attireTo grace this genial morn. Now I descendTo join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,That lift th’ expanded heart above this spotTo heavenly musing, these shall pass away(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.So passeth human life—our better mindIs as a Sunday’s garment, then put onWhen we have nought to do; but at our workWe wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:To-morrow for severer thought; but nowTo breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

But ill accords my verse with the delights

Of this gay month:—and see the Villagers

Assembling jocund in their best attire

To grace this genial morn. Now I descend

To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,

To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,

That lift th’ expanded heart above this spot

To heavenly musing, these shall pass away

(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)

Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.

So passeth human life—our better mind

Is as a Sunday’s garment, then put on

When we have nought to do; but at our work

We wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:

To-morrow for severer thought; but now

To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

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