| |
| FROM yon dark-tufted hill yet clothed in shade, | |
| Which, like a giant helm with its black plumes, | |
| Frowns o’er the velvet seat of its repose, | |
| We may behold, in many a shining bend, | |
| The silver Trent, slow wandering on and on, | 5 |
| Till it is lost amid the far-off vales, | |
| Still robed in fleecy shadows of dim purple. * * * * * | |
| Now gaze around you,—lo! what scenes of beauty | |
| Spread their gay flood of transport on the eye, | |
| And from the eye spring rapturous to the heart! | 10 |
| Cold, deadly cold, must be that dark-hued spirit | |
| That burns not with delight at Nature’s charms, | |
| With grace luxuriant fraught, and softest bliss,— | |
| Thus decked with smiles of passionate tenderness, | |
| As if appealing to his heart’s best love! | 15 |
| |
| There is the village-church, serenely seated | |
| Amidst its shadowy elms,—its lofty spire | |
| Tapering majestic mid the azure skies. | |
| Now doth a snowy cloud of gorgeous lustre | |
| Throw its dark outline clearly on the eye; | 20 |
| And we may trace the starling’s wheeling flight | |
| Round each small ventage of that slender steeple. | |
| Near it, still shadowed in deep foliage, | |
| A mingled grove of elms and limes and chestnuts, | |
| The antique Priory Hall, with its gray chimneys, | 25 |
| Telling of other days, rears its broad pile, | |
| Reflected in the sleeping lake below. * * * * * | |
| Seest thou beyond, amid that azure range | |
| Of low-browed hills receding to the west, | |
| The crumbling towers of ancient Tutbury, | 30 |
| Once the stern prison of the Scottish Queen! | |
| Around, for many a mile, the forest-shades | |
| Of royal Needwood spread their dusky pomp; | |
| Now, like that hoary ruin, stript and bare, | |
| Yet smiling with their majesty of yore, | 35 |
| As in contempt of Time’s oppressive hate! | |
| |
| Nor miss those nearer towers, of kindred grace, | |
| Soft-rising o’er yon green hill’s wooded crest; | |
| Reared by a hand that grouped, with skilful aim, | |
| The frowning shadows of the feudal past | 40 |
| With the gay sunbeams of more modern art: | |
| Fair, pastoral Newton,—Trent’s embosomed pride! | |
| Abode of hospitality and worth! | |
| Still shall the hours of unreturning mirth | |
| Oft shared, of old, amid thy festive bowers, | 45 |
| Live, brightly registered on Memory’s page! | |
| Now gaze upon those cottage roofs below, | |
| From whose embowered chimneys the blue smoke | |
| Slowly up-curls: the day is now begun; | |
| The cock’s shrill clarion hath at length aroused | 50 |
| Man to his varied task of customed labor. | |
| It is a scene of soft, sequestered beauty; | |
| Gently our eye descends a sunny slope | |
| Of brightest verdure, bounded by rich meads | |
| Through which a silvery trout-stream rippling winds; | 55 |
| The hedge-rows garnished with tall, spreading elms, | |
| Whose dark and massive foliage well contrasts | |
| With the light poplars ranged along the brook. | |
| Lo! many an antique gable courts the eye, | |
| O’erspread with vines; and many a cloistered nook | 60 |
| Of sweetest shade. No habitation there | |
| But hath its well-stored orchard, or fair croft, | |
| Descending, in its quiet solitude, | |
| To the clear rill that murmurs at its feet. | |
| The hill beyond, which crowns this fairy vision, | 65 |
| Is one wide range of sylvan loveliness,— | |
| Groves, orchards, mingling in confused delight! | |
| |
