 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
408
BOSTON CHURCH
Majestic pile thy rich & splendid tower
Oerlooks the ocean with aspiring pride
Dareing the insults rude of wind & shower
& greeting time with presence dignified
Firm as a rock yet seems thy massy power
Though thou hast seen prides mightiest thrust aside
& ages crumble at thy feet in dust
& the proud sea claim as her rightful dower
Wrecks of its thousand ships to hold in trust
As dark oblivions harvests of the storm
Yet waves may lash & the loud hurricane
Threaten thy cloud crowned dwelling—& deform
The sky in glooms around thee—all is vain
Empires may pass away but thoult remain
Oerlooks the ocean with aspiring pride
Dareing the insults rude of wind & shower
& greeting time with presence dignified
Firm as a rock yet seems thy massy power
Though thou hast seen prides mightiest thrust aside
& ages crumble at thy feet in dust
& the proud sea claim as her rightful dower
Wrecks of its thousand ships to hold in trust
As dark oblivions harvests of the storm
Yet waves may lash & the loud hurricane
Threaten thy cloud crowned dwelling—& deform
The sky in glooms around thee—all is vain
Empires may pass away but thoult remain
Smiling in sunshine as the storm frowns bye
Whose dreadful rage seemed to thy quiet thrall
As small birds twitterings that beneath thee flye
Winds call aloud & they may louder call
For deaf to dangers voice sublime & grand
Thou towerest in thy old majesty oer all
Tempests that break the tall mast like a wand
Howl their rage weary round thee & no more
Impression makes than summer winds that bow
The little trembling weeds upon thy wall
Lightenings have seared their centurys round thy brow
& left no footmarks—so in shadows hoar
Time decks & spares thee till that doom is hurled
That sears the ocean dry & wrecks the world
Whose dreadful rage seemed to thy quiet thrall
As small birds twitterings that beneath thee flye
Winds call aloud & they may louder call
For deaf to dangers voice sublime & grand
Thou towerest in thy old majesty oer all
Tempests that break the tall mast like a wand
Howl their rage weary round thee & no more
Impression makes than summer winds that bow
The little trembling weeds upon thy wall
Lightenings have seared their centurys round thy brow
& left no footmarks—so in shadows hoar
Time decks & spares thee till that doom is hurled
That sears the ocean dry & wrecks the world
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |