How changed is thy appearance, beauteous Hill! Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath And russet fern, thy seemly-colour'd cloak, To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains
Of chill December, and art gaily robed In livery of the spring: upon thy brow A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick Of golden bloom; nor lack thee tufted woods Adown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green, The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath: So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up Against the birth of May; and, vested so, Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows, Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams, From vanity to costly vanity
Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress, From sad to gay returning with the year,
Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change.
These are the beauties of thy woodland scene At each return of Spring: yet some delight Rather to view the change; and fondly gaze On fading colours, and the thousand tints Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: I like them not, for all their boasted hues Are kin to sickliness; mortal decay
Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone, They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise Such false complexions, and for beauty take A look consumption-bred? As soon, if grey Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown, I'd call it beautiful variety,
And therefore doat on her. A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes The yellow Autumn, and the hopes o' the year Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,
When January spreads a pall of snow
O'er the dead face of th' undistinguish'd earth. Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,
And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast From the thick North comes howling; till the Spring Return, who leads my devious steps abroad, To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top.
From this proud eminence on all sides round Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view, On all sides large; save only where the head Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen: So call (still rendering to his ancient name Observance due) that rival Height south-west, 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 deck'd anew the meads
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun Their foggy moistness drain'd; in wintry days Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks. Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin.
To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named Of the White Horse, its antique monument Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth Might equal, though surpassing in extent,
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base
Extended to the sea, and water'd 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.
Alas! how soon thy little course will end! How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow To name or greatness! Yet it flows along Untainted with the commerce of the world.
Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men; But through sequester'd meads, a little space, Winds secretly, and in its wanton path May cheer some drooping flower, or minister Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb: Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure As when it issued from its native hill.
How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen, The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now I saw the hoary pile cresting the top Of that north-western hill; and in this Now A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. And even so fares it with the things of earth Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud That shall enfold them up, and leave their place A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken Reaches too far, when all that we behold
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,
Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings (Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem To foster what they touch, and mortal fools Rejoice beneath their hovering: Woe the while! For in that indefatigable flight
The multitudinous strokes incessantly
Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all
His secret injury: on the front of man
Grey hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on, Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat
With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,
Till all the creatures of this nether world
Are one wide quarry; following dark behind,
The cormorant Oblivion swallows up The carcases that Time has made his prey.
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