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, exhaled
From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the
Ascend as incense to the lord of day,
[morn
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 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 dress'd thee up
Against the birth of May: and, vested so,
Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd
Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows,
Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams,
From vanity to costly vanity
Change oftener 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 scéne
At each return of spring: yet some '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 mix'd 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 of 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 the' 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,
to Lewesdon's airy top.
Through Towey's vale winds velvet soft and green.
The year is in its waning autumn glow,
But the warm sun with all his summer love
Hangs o'er this gentle valley, loath to part
From the blue stream that to his amorous beams
Now her cool bosom spreads, now coyer slides
Under her alder shade, whose umbrage green,
Glancing and breaking the fantastic rays,
The deep dark mirror frets with mazy light.
A day that seems in its rich noon to blend
All seasons' choice deliciousness, high hung
On Dinevaur and Carreg Cennon rude,
And on bold Drusslyn gleam'd the woods their hues,
Changeful and brilliant, as their leaves had drunk
The sun's empyreal fountains; not more bright
The groves of those Atlantic isles, where rove
(Dream'd elder poesy such fancies sweet)
The spirits of the brave, stern Peleus' son,
And Diomede, through bowers that the blue air
Arch'd with immortal spring of fragrant gold.
The merry birds, as though they had o'erdream'd
The churlish winter, spring tide virelays
Carolling, pruned their all-forgotten plumes.
Upon the sunny shallow lay the trout,
Kindling the soft gems of its skin; the snake
As fresh and wanton in its green attire
Wound its gay rings along the flowery sward.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN UNDER THE RUINS OF RUFUS'S CASTLE, AMONG THE REMAINS OF THE ANCIENT CHURCH ON THE ISLE OF PORTLAND.
CHAOTIC pile of barren stone,
That Nature's hurrying hand has thrown,
Half finish'd, from the troubled waves;
On whose rude brow the rifted tower
Has frown'd through many a stormy hour,
On this drear site of tempest-beaten graves;
Sure Desolation loves to shroud
His giant form within the cloud
That hovers round thy rugged head;
And as through broken vaults beneath,
The future storms, low-muttering, breathe,
Hears the complaining yoices of the dead.
Here marks the fiend with eager eyes,
Far out at sea the fogs arise
That dimly shade the beacon'd strand,
And listens the portentous roar
Of sullen waves as on the shore
Monotonous they burst, and tell the storm at
Northward the Demon's eyes are cast
O'er yonder bare and sterile waste,
Where, born to hew and heave the block,
Man, lost in ignorance and toil,
Becomes associate to the soil,
And his heart hardens like his native rock.
On the bleak hills, with flint o'erspread,
No blossoms rear the purple head;
No shrub perfumes the zephyr's breath;
But o'er the cold and cheerless down
Grim Desolation seems to frown,
Blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death.
Here the scathed trees, with leaves half-dress'd, Shade no soft songster's secret nest,
Whose spring-notes soothe the pensive ear; But high the croaking cormorant flies, And mews and hawks with clamorous cries Tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear.
Perchance among the ruins gray
Some widow'd mourner loves to stray,
Marking the melancholy main
Where once afar she could discern
O'er the white waves his sail return,
Who never, never now returns again!
On these lone tombs, by storms up-torn,
The hopeless wretch may lingering mourn,
Till from the ocean, rising red,
The misty Moon with lurid ray
Lights her, reluctant, on her way,
To steep in tears her solitary bed.
Hence the dire spirit oft surveys
The ship that to the western bays
With favouring gales pursues its course;
Then calls the vapour dark that blinds
The pilot-calls the felon winds
That heave the billows with resistless force.
|