Bowden Hill The Banks Of The Wye; Cadland, Southampton River. By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles |
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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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