1788. Text below is from the 1827 edition.
Read by Wordsworth c. Nov-Dec 1795 while living at Racedown, Dorset, near Lewesdon Hill. For additional notes see below.
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 10 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! 20 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 30 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, 40 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 50 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 60 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. 70 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. 80 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 90 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 100 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 110 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, 120 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 130 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 140 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, 150 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, 160 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, 170 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 -- 180 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! 190 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 200 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 210 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! 220 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. 230 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, 240 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 250 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, 260 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? 270 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, 280 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 290 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, 300 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, 310 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! 320 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 330 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 340 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 350 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 360 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 370 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, 380 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, -- 390 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, 400 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 410 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, 420 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 430 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, 440 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 450 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 460 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 470 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 480 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 490 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, 500 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 510 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 520 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.
The Wordsworths moved to Racedown in Dorset at the end of September 1795, which is within about three mile's walk of Lewesdon Hill. Their friend Azariah Pinney sent Wordsworth a copy of Crowe's poem on November 20. Kenneth Johnston describes the poem as "a hill-by-hill Whiggish survey poem" (The Hidden Wordsworth 473). Duncan Wu describes "Its account of the 'prospect' from the top of Lewesdon Hill" as "a forerunner of the Wordsworthian view along the Wye" (Wordsworth's Reading 42). The poem was also read by Coleridge in 1795.
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Document prepared October 12th 2001/ Revised August 18th 2007