 | Bowden Hill |  |
From yonder line, where fade the farthest Hills
Which bound the blue lap of the swelling Vale,
On whose last line, seen solitary, hangs
Thy tow'r, benevolent, accomplish'd Hoare,
To where I stand, how wide the Interval!
Yet instantaneous, to the hurrying Eye
Display'd; though peeping Tow'rs and Villages
Thick scatter'd, mid' the intermingling Elms,
And Towns remotely mark'd by hovering Smoke
And grass-green Pastures with their Herds, and Seats
Of rural Beauty, Cottages and Farms,
Unnumber'd as the Hedgerows, lie between!
Which bound the blue lap of the swelling Vale,
On whose last line, seen solitary, hangs
Thy tow'r, benevolent, accomplish'd Hoare,
To where I stand, how wide the Interval!
Yet instantaneous, to the hurrying Eye
Display'd; though peeping Tow'rs and Villages
Thick scatter'd, mid' the intermingling Elms,
And Towns remotely mark'd by hovering Smoke
And grass-green Pastures with their Herds, and Seats
Of rural Beauty, Cottages and Farms,
Unnumber'd as the Hedgerows, lie between!
Roaming at large to where the grey Sky bends,
The Eye scarce knows to rest, till back recall'd
By yonder Ivied Cloisters in the Plain,
Whose Turret peeping pale above the Shade,
Smiles in the venerable Grace of Years.
As the few threads of Age's silver hairs,
Just sprinkled o'er the Forehead, lend a Grace
Of saintly Reverence, seemly, though compar'd
With young Belinda's clust'ring Tresses brown;
So the grey weather-stained Tow'rs yet wear
A secret Charm impressive; though oppos'd
To Views in verdure flourishing, the Woods,
And Scenes of attic Taste, that glitter near.
The Eye scarce knows to rest, till back recall'd
By yonder Ivied Cloisters in the Plain,
5
Smiles in the venerable Grace of Years.
As the few threads of Age's silver hairs,
Just sprinkled o'er the Forehead, lend a Grace
Of saintly Reverence, seemly, though compar'd
With young Belinda's clust'ring Tresses brown;
So the grey weather-stained Tow'rs yet wear
A secret Charm impressive; though oppos'd
To Views in verdure flourishing, the Woods,
And Scenes of attic Taste, that glitter near.
O! Venerable Pile,
though now no more
The pensive Passenger, at Evening, hears
The slowly chanted Vesper; or the Sounds
Of “Miserere,” die along the Vale;
Yet Piety and Honour'd Age retired,
There hold their blameless Sojourn, ere the Bowl
“Be broken, or the silver Chord be loos'd.”
The pensive Passenger, at Evening, hears
The slowly chanted Vesper; or the Sounds
Of “Miserere,” die along the Vale;
Yet Piety and Honour'd Age retired,
There hold their blameless Sojourn, ere the Bowl
“Be broken, or the silver Chord be loos'd.”
Nor can I pass, snatch'd from untimely Fate,
Without a secret Pray'r, that so my Age
May wait its close,—so honour'd so rever'd!
Without a secret Pray'r, that so my Age
May wait its close,—so honour'd so rever'd!
May I yet breathe, alive to Nature's Charms,
And though no pealing Clarion swell my Fame
When Life's brief Tale is told; let me not pass,
Like the forgotten Clouds of Yesterday,
Nor unremember'd by the fatherless,
In the poor Village where my Bones are laid.
And though no pealing Clarion swell my Fame
When Life's brief Tale is told; let me not pass,
Like the forgotten Clouds of Yesterday,
Nor unremember'd by the fatherless,
In the poor Village where my Bones are laid.
| Bowden Hill | |