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Poem by William Crowe
Lewesdon Hill
Up to thy Summit, LEWESDON, to the brow
Of yon proud rising, where the lonely thorn
Bends from the rude South-east with top cut sheer
By his keen breath, along the narrow track,
By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascend
Up to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb,—
My morning exercise,—and thence look round
Upon the variegated scene, of hills
And woods and fruitful vales, and villages
Half hid in tufted orchards, and the sea
Boundless, and studded thick with many a sail.
Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled
From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the morn
Ascend as incense to the Lord of day,
I come to breathe your odours; while they float
Yet near this surface, let me walk embathed
In your invisible perfumes, to health
So friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,
Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.
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’s worshippers, 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 gray
Were mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,
I’d call it beautiful variety,
And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy
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.
Above the noise and stir of yonder fields
Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind
Expand itself in wider liberty.
The distant sounds break gently on my sense,
Soothing to meditation: so methinks,
Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,
Could I wear out this transitory being
In peaceful contemplation and calm ease.
But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,
That awful voice within us, and the sense
Of an Hereafter, wake and rouse us up
From such unshaped retirement; which were else
A blest condition on this earthly stage.
For who would make his life a life of toil
For wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;
Or power, which base compliance must uphold;
Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;
Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;
Who for such perishable gaudes would put
A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,
And gall himself with trammels and the rubs
Of this world’s business; so he might stand clear
Of judgment and the tax of idleness
In that dread audit, when his mortal hours
(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)
Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,
And to remove, according to our power,
The wants and evils of our brother’s state,
’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,
If by our sovereign Master we be found
At last not profitless: for worldly meed,
Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.
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 has 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.
So to thine early grave didst thou run on,
Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,
Thine innocent and playful infancy
Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit
In that illimitable gulf which bounds
Our mortal continent. But not there lost,
Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,
Who can talk much and learnedly of life,
Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell
The substance and the properties of man,
As they had seen him made,—aye and stood by
Spies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourse
Wisely, to prove that what must be must be,
And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brain
By a mechanical impulse; pushing on
The minds of us, poor unaccountables,
To fatal resolution. Know they not,
That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,
We take the path that leads to good or evil,
And therein find our bliss or misery?
And this includes all reasonable ends
Of knowledge or of being; farther to go
Is toil unprofitable, and th’ effect
Most perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,
Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:
If there be none, this world is all a cheat,
And the divine stability of Heaven
(That assured seat for good men after death)
Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fair
To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need
Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,
Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,
Were it not better to be born a beast,
Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scape
The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast
With sore anxiety of what shall be—
And all for nought? Since our most wicked act
Is not our sin, and our religious awe
Delusion, if that strong Necessity
Chains up our will. But that the mind is free,
The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,
Is feelingly convinced; nor to be moved
By subtle words, that may perplex the head,
But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,
That with false weapons of Philosophy
Fights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!
See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off
Pours down the golden radiance of his light
Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship
Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,
When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,
That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,
Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye
With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.
Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm
Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,
She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,
To gain the port within it, or at worst
To shun that harbourless and hollow coast
From Portland eastward to the Promontory,
Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.
But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:
And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs
Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight
Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws
Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent
To the Philippines o’er the Southern main
From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,
Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,
And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed
By mortal terrors, and paternal Love
Strong, and unconquerable even in death—
Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!
Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare
With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track
Of many indenting wheels, heavy and light,
That in their different courses as they pass,
Rush violently down precipitate,
Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.
Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,
From Shipton’s bottom to the lofty down
Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art
Through park or flowery garden for delight.
Nor less delightful this—if, while he mounts
Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause
To view the prospect oft, as oft to see
Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived
By fancy, or choice, but of necessity,
By soft gradations of ascent to lead
The labouring and way-worn feet along,
And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,
Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,
O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,
Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench
Invites to short refreshment, and to taste
What grateful beverage the house may yield
After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’d
The TRAVELLER’S REST. Welcome, embower’d seat,
Friendly repose to the slow passenger
Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way
Along th’ interminable road, stretch’d out
Over th’ unshelter’d down; or when at last
He has that hard and solitary path
Measured by painful steps. And blest are they,
Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pause
After a march of glory: yet not such
As rise in causeless war, troubling the world
By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood
Hail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earth
Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven
Thieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:
Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee
Belongs such rest; who in the western world,
Thine own deliver’d country, for thyself
Hast planted an immortal grove, and there,
Upon the glorious mount of Liberty
Reposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.
And Thou, not less renown’d in like attempt
Of high achievement, though thy virtue fail’d
To save thy little country, Patriot Prince,
Hero, Philosopher—what more could they
Who wisely chose thee, PAOLI, to bless
Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free?
But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou repose
After thy glorious toil, secure of fame
Well-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,
Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,
Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey
Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still
Against th’ intent of Nature. See Her now
Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,
Plying her monstrous labour unrestrained!
A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,
With towery shape and height, and armed heads
Uprising o’er the surge; and these between,
Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock
Projected many a mile to rear her wall
Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work
Still urging, in her arrogant attempt,
As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,
‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid
‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound
‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes in
A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,
Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strength
Than in dimensions, giant-like in both,—
On each side flank’d with citadels and towers
And rocky walls, and arches massy proof
Against the storm of war. Compared with this
Less and less hazardous emprize achieved
Resistless Alexander, when he cast
The strong foundations of that high-raised mound
Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way,
Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.
Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,
At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,
Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,
Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from Salamis
Flying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,
Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.
Nor yet that elder work (if work it were,
Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,
(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,
A thousand ships behind the vasty mole
All shelter’d) could with this compare, though built
It seem’d, of greatness worthy to create
Envy in the immortals; and at last
Not overthrown without th’ embattled aid
Of angry Neptune. So may He once more
Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,
Urged on to fury by contending winds,
With horned violence to push and whelm
This pile, usurping on his watry reign!
From hostile shores returning, glad I look
On native scenes again; and first salute
Thee, Burton, and thy lofty cliff, where oft
The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen
Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung
Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that
Inviting to the hospitable arms
Of Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the sign
Of danger, and of ambush’d foes to warn
The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound
From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight
Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,
Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell
Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop
Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind
Some curved promontory, in hope to seize
These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore
Station’d, th’ associates of their lawless trade
Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea
Give the known signal; they with fearful haste
Observant, put about the ship, and plunge
Into concealing darkness. As a fox,
That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ din
Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away
Forth from his cover, hopeful so t’ elude
The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout
Of eager or unpractised boy betray
His meditated flight, back he retires
To shelter him in the thick wood: so these
Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land
Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea
Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast
They venture) to the trackless deep they trust
Their forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,
Together link’d upon their cable’s length,
And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt
By stony weights; till happier hour arrive
To land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.
But what is yonder Hill, whose dusky brow
Wears, like a regal diadem, the round
Of ancient battlements and ramparts high,
And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—
Thou hast no name, no honourable note,
No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,
To testify what once thou wert, how great,
How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,
Who seek their greatness in dominion held
Over their fellows, or the pomp of war,
And be as thou forgotten, and their fame
Cancell’d like thine! But thee in after times
Reclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,
And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’d
Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire
Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard
Has with his gentle witchery so wrought
Upon our sense, that we can see no more
Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,
And purple robes of state with royal blood
Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place
Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,
Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.
Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell
Of rural innocence and village love;
Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,
Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look
This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,
Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.
There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—
I fable not, nor will with fabled names
Varnish a melancholy tale all true,—
A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,
Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,
Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves
As in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweet
Above the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,
And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.
Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eye
Of a young villager, whose vows of love
Soon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,
Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,
Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,
(Dian first rising after change was not
More delicate) betray’d her secret act,
And grew to guilty fulness: then farewell
Her maiden dignity, and comely pride,
And virtuous reputation. But this loss
Worse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreck
Of what was left her yet of good, or fair,
Or decent: now her meek and gentle voice
To petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attire
To sluttish tawdry: her once timid eye
Grew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with those
It look’d on. Change detestable! For she,
Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,
Became a grievous darkness: but his heart
Endured not long; all in despair he went
Into the chambers of the grave, to seek
A comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.
What then befell this daughter desolate?
For He, the partner of her earliest fault,
Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislike
Of her light carriage. What could then befall,
What else, but of her self-injurious life
The too sad penance—hopeless penury,
Loathsome disease unpitied, and thereto
The brand of all-avoided infamy
Set on her, like the fearful token o’er
A plague-infested house:—at length to death
Impatient and distract she made bold way.
Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail
The ground where Hollis lies; his choice retreat,
Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived
To generous Virtue, and the holy love
Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit;
And left his ashes there; still honouring
Thy fields, with title given of patriot names,
But more with his untitled sepulchre.
That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,
Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks on
To Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,
The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwells
Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse,
War-glutted Osmund, superstitious Lord!
Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody life
Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more
Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,
And darest bid th’ Almighty to become
The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,
So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell
With sacred vengeance pointed on the head
Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine
(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),
Accomplish’d Raleigh! in that lawless day
When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset
With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,
While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;
And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,
Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.
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 infold 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 outspread 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
Gray 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 carcasses that Time has made his prey.
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 wond’rous Power of modulated sound!
Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape
Thou makest thy slave), canst subtilly 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-temper’d spirits,
Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.
Yet what is music, and the blended power
Of voice with instruments of wind and string?
What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?
’Tis past: and all that it has left behind
Is but an echo dwelling in the ear
Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,
A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.
But ill accords my verse with the delights
Of this gay month:—and see the Villagers
Assembling jocund in their best attire
To grace this genial morn. Now I descend
To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,
To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,
That lift th’ expanded heart above this spot
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.
So passeth human life—our better mind
Is as a Sunday’s garment, then put on
When we have nought to do; but at our work
We wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:
To-morrow for severer thought; but now
To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.
William Crowe
William Crowe's other poems:
- Inscribed beneath the Picture of an Ass
- Ode to the Lyric Muse
- Merlin's Glass
- On the Death of Captain Cook
- Elegy to the Memory of Dr. W. Hayes, Professor of Music in the University of Oxford
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