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From some cold rock in woody covert hid,
Clear springing forth with pure unsullied drops,
Or bubbling out, with soft and tuneless fall
From the drear bosom of some barren wild,
Remote, and hopeless of the mower's toil
Or waving Ceres; where the bending waste
From the bleak summits of two neighbouring hills
Forms a rude plain; the river comes, at first
Distinguish'd only by the tufted rush,
Or wat'ry cresses, that its course denote
Seen verdant mid the rigid desart brown,
And seldom seen but by the Fowler. He,
With vent'rous foot, the yielding surface treads
From tuft to tuft—he knows the place alone
And shuns the faithless green, that hides below
A treacherous abyss; while as he toils
With measured step and slow, his faithful dog
Careful amid the marshy covert tries,
And plunges often in,—up springs the snipe,
And whirrs on rapid pinion 'gainst the breeze,
Sole habitant of these neglected swamps,
Except the Heron, who perhaps at times
Attracted here for prey, far down the glen
Beside a clump of flags, silent and still,
Scarcely distinguished by his slender form,
Stands lonely; startled at the deadly sound
With outstretch'd neck, he rises o'er the fen
With heavy beating wing, unwieldy, slow,
A doubtful burthen on the mountain air,
And then, his lengthened neck into a curve
Contracting, wheels into the middle sky,
And far away he floats, screaming aloft,
Complaining of the bold intruder, man.

As yet a slender urn the River pours;
A little nameless rill, that trickles down
Obscure amid its rudely channel'd bed;
Divided oft in many a slender vein
By the heaped ruin of the mountain flood,
Through which it drips; till with collected stream
It spouts from ridge to ridge, then sinks again
And chafes and murmurs, 'till a smoother bed
Spreads it abroad a silver current clear,
Dimpling along round many a pointed stone
And shews a lengthen'd train of broken light;
Then sudden falls into a yawning rift,
And thence escaping, glances rapid down
Compact and smooth; and now on either side
Receives the offer'd tributes of the hills,
That trickling fall from many a pendent rock
Mid tangling brambles that begin to clothe
Its mossy sides, and oft discoloured seen
By min'ral dross from the adjacent ore,
That in the secret chambers of the hill
Lies far and deep.—Here where the frequent drop,
Has scooped a hollow in the neighbouring rock,
Of old repute the healing spring is found,
Abstergent, whose unfailing pow'r subdues
The slow consuming malady, and lifts
When other med'cines fail, the wasting wretch
From death.—------

Now see beyond yon ivied arch where wide
Over its sandy floor the river spreads,
Into a shoal, and ripples in its course.
There the mute angler o'er the pebbly brim,
Close where the shallowing river forms a strand,
Stands patient, hopeful of the scaly prize,
Eying the gilded fraud with skilful glance
While from his hand bends the long pliant rod,
Artfully tremulous; rewarding well
His toil, if Phœbus hide his burning head
In friendly clouds; but if with ardent beam
He furious shine, and brighten every rill,
Vain task indeed, to whip the spangling stream
With fruitless line toss'd idly.

------ Close on the velvet marge,
On a rich glebe, reflected from the deep,
Embraced with shadowy elms and sycamore
With ivy bound, a venerable pile
Lifts its sharp pointed ruins, once the seat
Of monkish ease, and dark religious pomp.
There many an antique monument is found,
Illegible and faithless to its charge,
That deep insculped once held in measured phrase
The mighty acts of those who lie below,
And many an uncouth shapeless figure grim,
Rude effigies of heroes dead of yore,
Or sage and letter'd saints whose pious hands
Those ponderous masses raised.—forgotten now
They and their monuments alike repose.—
—Ah'! what avails
The arch sublime, or graceful colonade,
The marble porch or, heav'n-aspiring dome,
That art its powers exhausted to adorn?.

------ All the pride of rule
The pomp of triumph and the laurel wreath
Pluck'd in the sanguin'd field, ev'n in the roar
Of half a world's applause, at last must fail
Though every hero had a muse to sing,
And to his valour raise an epic strain.
Where are your trophies all, ye mighty men
Banners and 'scutcheons, cenotaphs, and arms
Wrested from foes in battle! do they lie
Oft in a corner of some ruin'd pile.
—Yes poor Ephemera
This is the end of all your hoped applause
To lie forgotten—yet be not appal'd
The world can give no more, its gifts are sands
That fly as veers the blast—
—Dare to be virtuous then
And look above this perishable mass,
—Despise what earth can give
And fix upon that crown a steady eye
That patient suffering and unshaken faith
Receive above the clouds, ------

Or should we eastward bend our varying course
To where the Nile his fruitful current rolls
Proud in the ponderous ruins that enrich
His venerable course, whose Naiads late
Hid their affrighted heads, with terror fill'd
At Brontii thund'ring in Britannia's cause.—
But stay my reed, this proud exulting strain,
Another mood befits our alter'd state,
Low on his funeral bed the victor lies,
Embalmed and bathed in a nation's tears
O! victory too dear, O! conquest won
With too much price, that cost a Nelson's life.
Sad Trafalgar beheld him from her cliffs,
Beheld him conquer, and beheld him fall,
While every white wave all bedrop'd with gore
That roll'd with boding murmurs to her strand
Brought some ill omen of the dreadful fight
That sunk the naval hopes of France and Spain.
What could they do? 'twas Nelson gave the word
And at the sound pale horror from the poop
Of every hostile ship that stood the brunt
Of British fire, and Britain's hearts of oak,
With trembling hand let fall the staff of war
To grace the laurell'd ship that bore him home.
And see the Victory, with sails that bear
The tatter'd records of that fatal day,
Nears with her charge Britannia's sadden'd shore,
And views her ports with mourning faces throng'd
While on his sun-burnt cheek the gallant tar
Wipes the involuntary, silent tear.
What sound is that, by every crooked coast
And hollow rock and every sandy bay
Repeated shrill, from off the heaving main?
It is the genius of the green sea flood,
That mourns with Albion for her darling son,
Making her moan to every hanging crag,
And bleak protruding cape that round her isles
Whitens contending with the ocean spray:
And every wave that curls his azure head,
From Calpe's rock or Gades' votive isle,
To Kilda's solitary shore, and thence
To Labrador, or from the stormy cape
Of Terra del Fuego to the coast
Of Coromandel and her towns conveys
These mingled tidings, wide from coast to coast,
Great Britain conquers, gallant Nelson dies.