How was the Stuart fall'n, when thou
Didst brave his power with dauntless brow:
How rais'd, when Falkland by him stood,
As great as thou, as wise, as good!
O who, by equal fame misled,

Who shall the righteous cause decide,
When for his King, Lord Falkland bled,
When Hampden for his country died!

IX.

Yet, field of blood! though Time has now
Shed Fame's bright glories on thy brow;
Though for the bones in whitening heaps,
The Peasant guiltless harvests reaps;
Yet, field of blood, in thee I see
Naught but thy gory victory:
And joyful turn from targe and helm
To thy calm precincts, sweet Ewelm;
Turn, joyful turn, from warring Man
To think on thee, benignest Anne *!
Here wert thou wont to dwell, mild Queen!
Pious, and happy, and serene!

Rever'd, though oft by faction tost;
Lov'd, though by faithless ingrates crost;
Victress, where'er thy armies roam,

But chiefly conqueror at home.

A truth most rare thy urn might tell,
"Her people lov'd Queen Anna well!"
And Almshouses thy pity lent,

And Churches form thy monument.

* Queen Anne had a palace at Ewelm: and the almshouses, which still remain there, were founded by her munificence.

How boldly yonder cloud so bright
Throws out that clump of trees;
Scarce, till it crost th' ethereal light,
Like the wren's plume on snow-ridge white,
The keenest eye that wood could seize.
"Tis distant Farringdon, I deem;
And far below, Thames' silver stream
Thrids through the fair romantic bridge
Of Wallingford's old town;

And high above, the Whittenham ridge
Seems the gay scene to crown.
But what is that which, to the right,
Upon th' horizon's utmost verge,
A fairy picture glitters bright,

1

Like sea-foam on the crested surge?

Is it the varying fleecy cloud
That takes in sport the figure proud,
Where domes and turrets seem to rise,
And spiry steeples mock our eyes?
No; real is that lovely scene!

'Tis England's boast! 'Tis Learning's Queen!

'Tis Oxford !-Not th' unletter'd maid

May dare approach her hallow'd shade;

Nor chant a requiem to each name

That waken'd there to deathless fame;
Nor bid the Muse's blessing rest
For ever in her honour'd breast.

XI.

Oh, when I dared the Muse to name,
Did it not wake my spirit's flame!

3

Did it not guide my eye, my soul,
To yonder distant shadowy knoll,
And whisper in each joyous thrill,
'Tis Milton's home, 'tis Forest Hill*!

*The following letter of Sir William Jones gives the fullest and most interesting account of this delightful village, from which Milton married his first wife, Miss Mary Powel. Its length is indeed disproportioned to the other notes; but from such a man, and on such a subject, no one, it is presumed, will think it too long.

"To Lady Spencer.

"7th Sept. 1769.

"The necessary trouble of correcting the first printed sheets of my history, prevented me to-day from paying a proper respect to the memory of Shakespeare, by attending his jubilee. But I was resolved to do all the honour in my power to as great a poet, and set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place, where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all probability, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a small village, situated on a pleasant hill, about three miles from Oxford, and called Forest Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet chose this place of retirement after his first marriage; and he describes the beauties of his retreat in that fine passage of his L'Allegro :

Sometime walking, not unseen,

*

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green.
* * *
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land;
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe;
And every shepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures:

Russet lawns, and fallows grey,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast

The labouring clouds do often rest;

Yes; there he liv'd, and there he sung,
When life and hope and love were young;
There, Grace and Genius at his side,
He won his half-disdainful bride;

Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees.
* * * *

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks, &c.

It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the day to hear all the rural sounds, and see all the objects mentioned in this description; but, by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, with the music of the mower and his scythe; we saw the ploughman intent upon his labour, and the milk-maid returning from her country employment.

"As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot, whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images; it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect an all sides: the distant mountains, that seemed to support, the clouds, the villages and turrets, partly shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that surrounded them: the dark plains and meadows of a greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large; in short, the view of the streams and rivers, convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above-mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to the village.

"The poet's house was close to the church; the greatest part of it has been pulled down, and what remains belongs to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers in Milton's own

And there the lark, "in spite of sorrow,"
Still at his "window bade good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
"Or the twisted eglantine."

66

O happy hill! thy summer vest
Lives in his richest colouring drest;
O happy hill! thou saw'st him blest.
Thou saw'st him blest, the greatest man
That ever trod life's grovelling span ;-

hand were found by the gentleman, who was last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current among the villagers: one of them shewed us a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber; and I was much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him by the title of The Poet.

"It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the Pensieroso. Most of the cottage windows are overgrown with sweetbriars, vines, and honey-suckles; and that Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good-morrow,

Thro' the sweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine;

for it is evident, that he meant a sort of honey-suckle by the eglantine; though that word is commonly used for the sweet-briar, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet.

"If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford in the summer, I shall be inclined to hire and repair to this venerable mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends in honour of Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an honour will be less splendid, but more sincere and respectful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon.

"I have the honour, &c.

"W. JONES."

Lord Teignmouth's Edition of Sir William Jones's Works,

Vol. I. p. 118.