 | Bowden Hill |  |
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Bowden Hill.
Inscribed to the Marchioness of Lansdowne.
HOW cheering are thy prospects, airy Hill,
To him who, cold and languid on thy brow,
Pauses, respiring! winding through the shade
Of woods, that sweep with mazy track the verge
Of Lansdowne's proud domain, upon the point
Of the descending steep I stand!
To him who, cold and languid on thy brow,
Pauses, respiring! winding through the shade
Of woods, that sweep with mazy track the verge
Of Lansdowne's proud domain, upon the point
Of the descending steep I stand!
So Rich,
So mantling in the gay and gorgeous hues
Of Summer; far beneath me, spreading wide
From Field to Field from Vale to cultur'd Vale;
Here, white with passing Sunshine; There, with trees
Innumerable speckled, till they blend,
Lost in the azure Distance, lives the Scene!
So mantling in the gay and gorgeous hues
Of Summer; far beneath me, spreading wide
From Field to Field from Vale to cultur'd Vale;
Here, white with passing Sunshine; There, with trees
Innumerable speckled, till they blend,
Lost in the azure Distance, lives the Scene!
Lives! all is Life, all Beauty! from the Grave
Whose sleep is dark and dreamless, snatch'd so late,
Shall I pass silent, now first issuing forth,
To taste again thy Beauties, to respire
Thy Breath; to hail thy look, thy living look,
O Nature? let me the deep Joy contrast,
(Which now the inmost Breast, like Music, fills,)
With the sick Chamber's Sorrows, oft from morn,
Silent, till lingering Eve, save when the sound
Of whispers steal, and bodings breath'd more low
As friends approach the Pillow; so awak'd
From deadly Trance, the sick Man lifts his Eyes,
Then in Despondence closes them on all,
All Earth's fond wishes! O how chang'd are now,
His Thoughts! he sees rich Nature kindling round,
He feels her Influence! languid with delight,
(And whilst his Eye is fill'd with transient Fire,)
He almost thinks he hears her gently say,
Live, Live! Oh Nature, Thee in the soft winds,
Thee, in the soothing sound of Summer leaves,
When the still Earth lies sultry; Thee, methinks,
Ev'n now I hear bid “Welcome” to thy Vales
And Woods again!
Whose sleep is dark and dreamless, snatch'd so late,
Shall I pass silent, now first issuing forth,
To taste again thy Beauties, to respire
Thy Breath; to hail thy look, thy living look,
O Nature? let me the deep Joy contrast,
(Which now the inmost Breast, like Music, fills,)
With the sick Chamber's Sorrows, oft from morn,
Silent, till lingering Eve, save when the sound
Of whispers steal, and bodings breath'd more low
As friends approach the Pillow; so awak'd
From deadly Trance, the sick Man lifts his Eyes,
Then in Despondence closes them on all,
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His Thoughts! he sees rich Nature kindling round,
He feels her Influence! languid with delight,
(And whilst his Eye is fill'd with transient Fire,)
He almost thinks he hears her gently say,
Live, Live! Oh Nature, Thee in the soft winds,
Thee, in the soothing sound of Summer leaves,
When the still Earth lies sultry; Thee, methinks,
Ev'n now I hear bid “Welcome” to thy Vales
And Woods again!
And I will welcome them
And pour, as erst the Song of heart-felt Praise.
And pour, as erst the Song of heart-felt Praise.
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,
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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.
June 10, 1806.
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THE BANKS OF THE WYE.
To Miss Morrison.
THE sunshine of summer the hills was adorning,
And languor and sickness and pain seem'd to fly,
As cheer'd by the beams and the incense of morning,
I wander'd, so pale, on the banks of the Wye:
O still, lovely Wye, when, with sighs unavailing,
We think of the health and the strength that is failing,
May'st thou sooth him who slow on thy bosom is sailing,
Forgetful of all, but the scenes of the Wye.
And languor and sickness and pain seem'd to fly,
As cheer'd by the beams and the incense of morning,
I wander'd, so pale, on the banks of the Wye:
O still, lovely Wye, when, with sighs unavailing,
We think of the health and the strength that is failing,
May'st thou sooth him who slow on thy bosom is sailing,
Forgetful of all, but the scenes of the Wye.
Beside the vast mountain, yet drooping in danger,
I pour'd the cold waters of Malvern in vain;
Was sad in the crowd, where each heart was a stranger,
And cast my eyes aching o'er all the proud plain:
Then oh, lovely Wye, to the spirit how cheering,
Thy meads and thy woods how delightful appearing,
To him, who no longer the Phantom is fearing,
Which vanish'd, like night, on the waves of the Wye!
I pour'd the cold waters of Malvern in vain;
Was sad in the crowd, where each heart was a stranger,
And cast my eyes aching o'er all the proud plain:
Then oh, lovely Wye, to the spirit how cheering,
Thy meads and thy woods how delightful appearing,
To him, who no longer the Phantom is fearing,
Which vanish'd, like night, on the waves of the Wye!
With hope and delight while the bosom is burning,
But one tender wish claims a share in my heart,
That they too may find health and pleasure returning,
From whom I was sorry (how sorry!) to part:
With ardor and joy while the heart thus is swelling,
The thoughts on the distant with tenderness dwelling,
Nor Fancy the gloom of the Future foretelling,
How pleasant the scenes on the banks of the Wye!
But one tender wish claims a share in my heart,
That they too may find health and pleasure returning,
From whom I was sorry (how sorry!) to part:
With ardor and joy while the heart thus is swelling,
The thoughts on the distant with tenderness dwelling,
Nor Fancy the gloom of the Future foretelling,
How pleasant the scenes on the banks of the Wye!
Monmouth, July 24, 1806.
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Written at Cadland,
Southampton River.
To Andrew Drummond, esq.
IF ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has lov'd
To pass delighted from her green abode,
And seated on a summer bank, to sing
No earthly music: in a spot like this,
Fancy might think she heard her, as she dry'd
Her golden Hair, yet dripping from the main,
In the slant sun-beam:
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has lov'd
To pass delighted from her green abode,
And seated on a summer bank, to sing
No earthly music: in a spot like this,
Fancy might think she heard her, as she dry'd
Her golden Hair, yet dripping from the main,
In the slant sun-beam:
So the pensive Bard
Might shadow, warm'd with this enchanting scene,
Th'Ideal Form; but, tho' such things are not,
He, who has ever felt a thought refin'd;
He, who has wander'd on the sea of Life,
Forming delightful visions of a Home,
Of beauty and repose;—He, who has lov'd,
With filial warmth his country, will not pass
Without a look of more than tenderness
On all the scene; from where the pensile Birch
Bends on the Bank, amid the cluster'd group
Of the dark Hollies; to the woody shore
That steals diminish'd, to the distant spires
Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave.
White in the sun, beneath the edging shade,
Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity,
As she goes onward in her glittering trim,
Amid the glances of life's transient morn,
Calling on all to view her.
Might shadow, warm'd with this enchanting scene,
Th'Ideal Form; but, tho' such things are not,
He, who has ever felt a thought refin'd;
He, who has wander'd on the sea of Life,
Forming delightful visions of a Home,
Of beauty and repose;—He, who has lov'd,
With filial warmth his country, will not pass
Without a look of more than tenderness
On all the scene; from where the pensile Birch
Bends on the Bank, amid the cluster'd group
Of the dark Hollies; to the woody shore
That steals diminish'd, to the distant spires
Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave.
White in the sun, beneath the edging shade,
Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity,
As she goes onward in her glittering trim,
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Calling on all to view her.
Vectis there,
That slopes its green-sward to the lambent wave,
And shows thro' softest haze its woods and domes,
With grey St. Catharine's creeping to the sky,
Seems like a modest Fair, who charms the more,
Concealing half her beauties.
That slopes its green-sward to the lambent wave,
And shows thro' softest haze its woods and domes,
With grey St. Catharine's creeping to the sky,
Seems like a modest Fair, who charms the more,
Concealing half her beauties.
To the East,
Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm,
With masts innumerable throng'd, and hulls
Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark,
Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm,
Waits but the word, to thunder and flash DEATH
On HIM, who dares approach, to violate
The shores and living scenes that smile secure
Beneath its Dragon-Watch!
Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm,
With masts innumerable throng'd, and hulls
Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark,
Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm,
Waits but the word, to thunder and flash DEATH
On HIM, who dares approach, to violate
The shores and living scenes that smile secure
Beneath its Dragon-Watch!
LONG MAY THEY SMILE!
And long, majestic Albion, (while the sound
From East to West, from Albis to the Po,
Of dark contention hurtles,) mayst thou rest,
As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene,
Looks on the refluent wave that steals below.
And long, majestic Albion, (while the sound
From East to West, from Albis to the Po,
Of dark contention hurtles,) mayst thou rest,
As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene,
Looks on the refluent wave that steals below.
Sept. 21, 1806.
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