| |
* * * * * FROM this proud eminence on all sides round | |
| The 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 | 5 |
| Observance due) that rival height southwest, | |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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 hath decked anew the meads | 15 |
| With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun | |
| Their foggy moistness drained; in wintry days | |
| Cold, vaporish, miry, wet, and to the flocks | |
| Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin | |
| To drench the spongy turf; but ere that time | 20 |
| The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, | |
| Rechasing, 1 lest his tender ewes should coath 2 | |
| In the dank pasturage. Let not the fields | |
| Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named | |
| Of the White Horse, its antique monument | 25 |
| Carved in the chalky bourn, for beauty and wealth | |
| Might equal, though surpassing in extent, | |
| This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon’s base | |
| Extended to the sea, and watered well | |
| By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream, | 30 |
| Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side | |
| Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip | |
| Adown the valley, wandering sportively. * * * * * | |
| How is it vanished in a hasty spleen, | |
| The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now | 35 |
| I saw the hoary pile cresting the top | |
| Of that northwestern hill; and in this Now | |
| A cloud hath passed on it, and its dim bulk | |
| Becomes annihilate, or, if not, a spot | |
| Which the strained vision tires itself to find. * * * * * | 40 |
| 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 wondrous power of modulated sound! | 45 |
| Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape | |
| Thou mak’st thy slave), canst subtilely pervade | |
| The yielded avenues of sense, unlock | |
| The close affections, by some fairy path | |
| Winning an easy way through every ear, | 50 |
| And with thine unsubstantial quality | |
| Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all,— | |
| All but some cold and sullen-tempered spirits | |
| Who feel no touch of sympathy or love. | |
