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.
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 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.
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.
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