 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
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BOW HILL .
Cloudless and lovely is the night, the stars are bright on high,
The full-orb'd Moon in glorious light shines from the vaulted sky;
There's not a breath of wind to move the pine-tree's tufted crest;
But all around, and all above, seems hush'd in silent rest.
Methinks it were no vulgar bliss, could I my dream fulfil,
To climb in such an hour as this the summit of Bow Hill.
The full-orb'd Moon in glorious light shines from the vaulted sky;
There's not a breath of wind to move the pine-tree's tufted crest;
But all around, and all above, seems hush'd in silent rest.
Methinks it were no vulgar bliss, could I my dream fulfil,
To climb in such an hour as this the summit of Bow Hill.
It was a lovely Summer's day, when last I wander'd there,
Nor has the picture pass'd away which then appear'd so fair;
On Memory's faithful tablet trac'd, its featuresoft arise,
Perchance with added beauty graced by fancy's magic dyes:
Though when beheld, I thought no hue of Mind's creative skill
Could with a heighten'd charm imbue the landscape from Bow Hill.
Nor has the picture pass'd away which then appear'd so fair;
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Perchance with added beauty graced by fancy's magic dyes:
Though when beheld, I thought no hue of Mind's creative skill
Could with a heighten'd charm imbue the landscape from Bow Hill.
The birds were singing sweetly round, the sun in heaven shone bright,
And there was music in the sound, and beauty in the light;
That glancing light on Ocean's breast diffus'd a richer glow,
That music rose with sweetest zest from Kingley's depths below:
And many a flow'ret's simple bloom there flourish'd wild at will,
Decking each ancient sea-king's tomb who fell on proud Bow Hill.
And there was music in the sound, and beauty in the light;
That glancing light on Ocean's breast diffus'd a richer glow,
That music rose with sweetest zest from Kingley's depths below:
And many a flow'ret's simple bloom there flourish'd wild at will,
Decking each ancient sea-king's tomb who fell on proud Bow Hill.
Fair was the landscape then! and now with fancy's aid I scale
At midnight's hour that summit's brow, and view that peaceful vale:
Though beautiful when I was there the prospect round might seem,
She paints it to my mind more fair by moonlight's silent gleam;
Its charms might then delight impart which woke a livelier thrill,
But, Oh! how soothing to the heart night's silence on Bow Hill.
At midnight's hour that summit's brow, and view that peaceful vale:
Though beautiful when I was there the prospect round might seem,
She paints it to my mind more fair by moonlight's silent gleam;
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But, Oh! how soothing to the heart night's silence on Bow Hill.
How bright, in tints of moonlight drest, looks each fierce sea-king's tomb,
While massy shadows darkly rest around the Yewtrees' gloom!
How does the distant glimm'ring light dance on the restless main,
Or clothe in splendour palely bright the wide extended plain!
While whispering leaves just faintly stirr'd, soft as a murm'ring rill,
At intervals alone, are heard, by night upon Bow Hill.
While massy shadows darkly rest around the Yewtrees' gloom!
How does the distant glimm'ring light dance on the restless main,
Or clothe in splendour palely bright the wide extended plain!
While whispering leaves just faintly stirr'd, soft as a murm'ring rill,
At intervals alone, are heard, by night upon Bow Hill.
Past is my vision! lingers yet the charm that woke my lay,
And owns a more enduring debt than verse can ever pay:
The Danish tombs, the shadowy grove, the distant main I see,
But charms their beauty far above endear that scene to me;
And feelings absence cannot change, and distance cannot chill,
Must oft compel my thoughts to range with pleasure on Bow Hill.
And owns a more enduring debt than verse can ever pay:
The Danish tombs, the shadowy grove, the distant main I see,
But charms their beauty far above endear that scene to me;
And feelings absence cannot change, and distance cannot chill,
Must oft compel my thoughts to range with pleasure on Bow Hill.
Bow Hill is an eminence near Chichester. For an interesting account of it, as well as for a very pleasing description of the beautiful and extensive prospect from its summit, the author refers his readers to the opening chapter of Maria Hack's “English Stories.”—Kingley Bottom, the subject of the following Sonnet, is situated at the foot of Bow Hill.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |