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Lewesdon Hill.

LEWESDON HILL.
FROM
VROM this proud eminence on all sides round

The unbroken prospect opens to my view,
On all sides large; save only where the head
Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdoui's lofty Pen:
So call (still rendering to his ancient name
Observance due) that rival height southwest,
Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath.
There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen
Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade
Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields
Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine,
Returning with their milky treasure home,
Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills
The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,
Since that the spring hath decked anew the meads
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun
Their foggy moistness drained; in wintry days
Cold, vaporish, miry, wet, and to the flocks
Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin
To drench the spongy turf; but ere that time
The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,
Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath a
In the dank pasturage. Let not the fields
Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named
Of the White Horse, its antique monument
1 Changing pasture.

2 Become distempered.

Carved in the chalky bourn, for beauty and wealth
Might equal, though surpassing in extent,
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base
Extended to the sea, and watered well
By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,
Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side
Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip
Adown the valley, wandering sportively.

*

How is it vanished in a hasty spleen,
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top
Of that northwestern hill; and in this Now
A cloud hath passed on it, and its dim bulk
Becomes annihilate, or, if not, a spot
Which the strained vision tires itself to find.

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But hark! the village clock strikes nine; the chimes
Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense
Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make
False-measured melody on crazy bells.
O wondrous power of modulated sound !
Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape
Thou mak'st thy slave), canst subtilely pervade
The yielded avenues of sense, unlock
The close affections, by some fairy path
Winning an easy way through every ear,
And with thine unsubstantial quality
Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all,
All but some cold and sullen-tempered spirits
Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

William Crowe,

Lichfield.

EPITAPH

DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL, AT

THE BURIAL-PLACE OF THE FAMILY OF MISS SEWARD.

MID these aisles, where once his precepts showed A

The heavenward pathway which in life he trode, This simple tablet marks a father's bier, And those he loved in life in death are near; For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise, Memorial of domestic charities. Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread, In female grace the willow droops her head; Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smothered here in dust Till waked to join the chorus of the just, – Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies, Honored, beloved, and mourned, here Seward lies! Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say, Go seek her genius in her living lay.

Sir Walter Scott.

Lincolnshire.

LINCOLN FENS.

BUT
UT on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads

Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet.
For on a rustic throne of dewy turf,
With baneful fogs her aching temples bound,
Quartana there presides : a meagre fiend
Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force
Compressed the slothful Naiad of the Fens.
From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest
With feverish blasts subdues the sickening land :
Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest,
Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains
That sting the burdened brows, fatigue the loins,
And rack the joints and every torpid limb;
Then parching heat succeeds, till copious sweats
O’erflow: a short relief from former ills.

John Armstrong.

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571. ·

THE

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,

The ringers ran by two, by three;
“Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth he.
Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells !

66

Ply all your changes, all your swells,

Play appe, ‘The Brides of Enderby'!”

Men say it was a stolen tyde,

The Lord that sent it, he knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall : And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied,

By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

“ Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !” calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
“Cusha! Cusha!” all along,
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song.

“ Cusha! Cusha ! Cusha !” calling,
“For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

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