The Poetical Works of C. B. Ash

Front matter

THE POETICAL WORKS ui C. B. AS H, 01- ADBASTON. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. Perchance the tenor of my mourning verse May leade some pilgrim to my tomblesse grave, Where neither marble monument, nor hearse The passenger's attentive view may crave ; Such honours now the meanest persons have, But well is me, where ere my ashes lie, If one teare drop from some religious eie. Stoker's Life of Wolsey-. LONDON: LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 1831. MARKET-DRAYTON : PRINTED AT THE ALBION PRESS, S. SILVESTER, HIGH STREET. THE

Preface

. There is nothing, perhaps, more ridiculous than the awkward apology of a Writer, that his Book is not more entertaining, or that it has not been better written, with various other excuses of the like nature, that have been handed down by verse-men, and prose-men, from the good old time of Geofpry Chaucer, to this redoubted age of the march of intellect. Much, therefore, as the Author of these Volumes may stand in need of such apology, he deems it best to leave the Reader to make his own comment. If a work be totally destitute of merit, the finest flourishes can never give lustre to it; and the most perfect Composition would receive but little additional splendour from high-sounding words, and laboured periods. It has been remarked by Mr. Locke, in his celebrated Essay on the Under standing, that, "Things in print must stand or fall by their own worth, or the Reader's Fancy."

There is a deal of truth in the latter part of this observation, and I believe an Author is often in danger of failing to please, as much from the peculiar tone of his Reader's mind, as from any want of ability in himself, or pre-disposition to amuse him. If a Reader be sad or disconsolate, he will turn, most probably, from the page that is lively or jocose, as impertinent, and out of place; — if he be jocular and merry, and it is the Author's unfortunate fate to present him with an Elegy, or some lamentable ditty, he will as naturally dis card it as he would avoid a lethargic companion, or the sounds of discord and impor tunity ; and the consequence is, in either case, the Volume is thrown down as being dull, or too light, and the Writer condemned as a trifler, or a stupid enthusiast.

PREFACE.

. "To please every one, would be a new thing, » says one of our English Poets, " and to write so as to please nobody would be as new ; "—for this reason, the Author of these Volumes, has endeavoured to mingle with his serious pro ductions, a few of a lighter nature, in the hope, that, should the Reader not be inclined for mirth, he may find something in a serious mood, that may soothe his melancholy, or -" Suit the gloomy habit of his soul." If, on the contrary, retirement and solitude, and the wailings of sorrow and despondence are his aversion, he may turn over the leaves, and possibly light upon a strain better fitted to his fancy ; but whether he laughs or smiles, or is pleased at all, will depend, perhaps, more upon himself, than any thing really humourous or otherwise that he meets with. — In fine, as the writer cannot anti cipate the temper of his Reader, he begs leave to refer him to the Table of Contents, and if, after all, he finds nothing either serious or gay that can en tertain him, it is ten to one but he is a stupid fellow himself, or that the n march of intellect " has so much got the ascendancy in the upper region, that, in his estimation, nothing but the eagle flight of nobility can reach the summit of Par nassus, and that the simple dirge of one " Unknown to fortune or to fame," can be deserving of no better fate than to be contemned and disregarded.

If the latter be the case, he recommends him to close the Volumes at once, and seek elsewhere, for nobler entertainment. But if he is contented to be a partaker of a simple and humble repast, and approaches with a determination to make himself welcome, the Author, at least, promises him a hearty reception, and whatever the viands may want in flavour or high-seasoning, he will endea vour to supply by variety. Several of the Trifles, it is true, have been brought forward, in the bustle, as a garnish, or merely to fill up a vacant space upon the table, which had better have remained in the vestibule or elsewhere, or been given, perhaps, as Horace would say, to the hogs at once, but the real gentleman will never fall out with his host for exposing a dish that was never intended to be placed before him, whether it was brought in through mistake, from want of taste, or the imperious call of necessity.

PREFACE.

. V Some there are print only a few favourite pieces, that have taken a life of the lime labor, in order that they may be produced to the world with a superior polish. Others print all or none, and swell out their Volumes, if not " to the crack of doom," to that of the Book-binder's leather. If Authors, in general, would, like Thomson, commit every year, their trifles, and minor pieces, to the flames, it might prevent the soiling of much paper, aud of the Reader's patience being put to a test, which no apology whatever can atone for. But when a mul tiplicity of pieces have, from time to time, through the greater part of a man's Life, been turned over, and still hoarded up without being destroyed, they seem to gain ground upon his weakness ; insomuch, that, when, at last, he comes to make a selection of them, from a kind of unweaning attachment, he is totally at a loss, like a simple, but affectionate father, which, amongst all the numerous pro geny, must be discarded, and for ever lost sight of.

It has been with some such feeling as this, that many scraps have crept into these Volumes, which might better " Have patch'd a wall t'expel the winter's flaw." Yet, after all, though a Writer may be censured for want of judgment in thus unmasking to the Reader all his faults and foibles, he may not be entirely hope less on the point of candour; for every fair and generous Reader will not be biassed by a weak or puerile attempt, but, like an upright and merciful judge, he will cast the bad and the good into the balance, and try them upon "the weights" with justice and impartiality. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. PASK. ADBASTON; OR DAYS OF YOUTH 1 — Notes 59 THE HEATH GIRL; A TALE ... 67 THE HERMIT OF HAWKSTONE: A DESCRIPTIVE POEM .. 87 —Notes 147 POEMATA MISCELLANEA, VIZ. To a. Parent, on the Anniversary of her Birthday 103 To a Red-breast; near the Sea Shore ... 16* An Evening Walk from the Town after a Disappointment . . 109 On Finding a Dead Starling ... 173 On Presenting a Locket . . 175 On Receiving a Locket .... id Acrostic ... 176 Epithalamium . . - 177 To Serina ; on her Retirement ... 180 To the Same ; on the Birth of her Son 183 Sonnet ; to the Same ■ ■ 184 To the Memory ot a Departed Friend 185 Elegy on the Death of an Infant ... 187 On the Death of a Lady, Aged 95 189 Epitaph on Mr Thomas Heaford . . 192 To the Memory of Admiral Lord Nelson ... 193 Epitaph on Mr. Bernard Kegeler ... 195 on a Friend . . 196 On a Favourite Dog ; Written at the request of a Sportsman . . 197 Elegy on the Death of a Cock Robin; Written by a Father to please his 1 > 198 Children J To the best, and dearest friend of life . . 200 The Two Daisies . . 204 On Beauty • * 2l0 CONTENTS.

VIII 274 ■2*J 28G Prologue ; spoken by one of the pupil, at a Provincial Grammar School . . 213 Introductory Address spoken at the same School, previous to the Reckons 215 .. 219 Rolla's Address ; paraphrased for the same occasion 222 Epistle to a Young Friend on his leaving School Songs, Ballads, &c. .. 227 Henry and Louisa . . 230 Woman .... • « • • The Mansion of Peace and the Home of Content 233 The Farewell Jane of Ardenvale •••• Song, Set to Music by John Pindar, Esq. of Bath .... ■ • • ■ . . 237 Anacreontique Comic Sketches. The Broken Pipe . . 241 Reflections on a Punch Bowl .... • • "iJ6 Parody ; The Unfortunate Actor ■ • 'M4 SyrWynkyn; ATale.... .... ■■•• • • 458 To a Drunken Cobler .... ■ • • ■ . . 264 The Miller and the Sweep . . 266 The Cockney in Ireland .... .... • ■ 273 The Loves of Phœbe Flint and Simon Steele . . 274 On the River Wye .... ..283 On the River Tern . . 484 Lines on his Friend Humphrey .... • • 485 Ode Written at the request of a Lady whose Favourite Bird had been 1 V 487 killed by a Tortoishell Cat J Burlesque Ode 48S The Invitation . . 492 Epistle to a Friend on his calling when the Author was from home .... 495 The Decision .... >a 297 Tranlation of a Germau Epigram .... # . t , . . id The Miser ... ..... .... , , # ADBASTON; OR DAYS OF YOUTH.

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM. SECOND EDITION. Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine cunctoe Ducit et immemores non sinit esse sui. Otid. -The spirit culls Unfaded amaranth when wild it strays Thro' the old garden-ground of boyish days. Kxats. b TO HIS VERY WORTHY AND RESPECTED FRIEND, THOMAS DEAKIN, ESQUIRE, OP ADBASTON; IN GRATEFUL RETURN FOR MANY MARKS OF HOSPITALITY, AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE, THIS NEW EDITION OF A WORK DESCRIPTIVE OF THE SCENERY, IN THE MIDST OF WHICH HE HAS, FOR SO MANY YEARS RESIDED, UNIVERSALLY ESTEEMED, IS HUMBLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR

ADVERTISEMENT.

. The Scene of this Poem lies on the Western Borders of Stafford shire, and in Doomsday-book is called Elbaldestone. Perhaps, a more retired spot is not to be found in Nature ; and if the Traveller, on visiting it, be inclined to express his surprize that it should ever have been made the subject of a Poem, I can only reply to him with Ovid, in the Title-page; "There is a peculiar sweetness that attracts "us all to the place which gave us birth, and neither time, nor dis "tance, can erase it from our recollection." Since this Poem was first printed at Bath in 1814, it has been revised, and several alterations have been made in it, for which I am chiefly indebted to the friendly suggestions of Mr. Coleridge, Author of "The Remorse" and other Works, who, in the kindest manner, not only gave me considerable encouragement, but, entirely without my knowledge or solicitation, took much trouble in making many mar ginal notes in a copy, that, afterwards, fell into my hands by accident, from which, it is hoped, advantage has been gained.

I should be doing injustice to the best feelings of my nature, if I did not also express my grateful acknowledgments to the Conductors of "The Critical Review," for the very flattering notice they gave this Poem, in their Publication for April, 1814 ; — a notice, which my most sanguine hopes had never aspired to. For a young Author, in his first Publication, to have his name coupled with that of Goldsmith,

ADVERTISEMENT.

. XIV whatever may be said, by the cynical or fastidious on the score of arrogance, or vanity, will make an impression upon the mind, even of humility itself, not easily to be erased or forgotten; but whether the world should be reminded of this circumstance may be questionable, and a sensation comes over me at this moment, that causes me to shrink abashed and confounded. A note which accompanied the first Edition, witli regard to several passages in this Poem, which bear a degree of similarity to "The "Deserted Village" of that inimitable Writer, and "The Choice" of Pomfret, I have thought proper to retain in this. The greater part of this Work was written at a very early period of my life, and at a time when those admired Compositions first came into my hands, with which I remember to have been very much delighted.

On a re vision of it, I found those passages so interwoven with its texture, that I conceived an acknowledgment of this kind would be the best way of atoning for imperfections, in the stead of which it might not now be in my power, perhaps, to present any alteration for the better. If I have no greater imperfections than the following of good exam ples, I shall think myself happy. RECOMMENDATORY LINES; ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR ON READING ADBASTON, A LADY. Oh ! blest by genius with the happy art To please the fancy, and to touch the heart, The feeling Reader hangs upon the tale, That paints the beauties of your native vale ; And joins the wish that, life's rough perils past, Yon there may taste of happiness at last. Within the cot by fancy's magic rear'd, May sounds of joy, and peace alone be heard ; May your lov'd partner equal pleasure find In all that charms your cultivated mind ; And list, with raptur'd ear, whilst you rehearse The lofty numbers of our Shakspeare's verse, And heave a sigh, and drop a tender tear, O'er Juliet's woes, and her sad lover's bier.

A garden deck'd with Nature's choicest sweets, Secnr'd from Winter's winds, and Summer's heats, Where roses shed their richest perfume round, And fragrant vi'lets blossom o'er the ground. A book-case fill'd with all the Muse's store, Of modern learning, and of classic lore ; Where ev'ry volume new delight imparts To contemplative minds, and feeling hearts. May these be yours, when, tir'd of all the strife Attendant ever on an active life, For rural joys, and wisdom's gifted page, You quit the gaudy pageants of the Stage. But oh ! till youth be spent, and manhood's prime Bends to the sure, unfailing hand of time, Continue still to cultivate the art, Whose magic soothes, delights, or rends the heart ; For, blest with feeling, dignity, and ease, You have the power, as well as wish, to please.

Bristol: October, 1814. ID B ADBASTON; OR, DAYS OF YOUTH. While laurel'd bards attune the sounding strings, And tell of battles, and the courts of kings, On other themes the pensive muse would pore, And cast a thought on days that are no more. Ye who, in revels at the midnight hour, Ne'er feel a rapture but from pride or pow'r ; Who seek for pleasure in the city's din, And shun retirement as a pest or sin, Charm 'd with more humble, and congenial flights, For you the Muse no lofty verse endites ; ADBASTON; 2 IS 20 '25 But ye who love the shady woods — the dales, The brooks that straggle through your native vales — To you with joy the simple reed I raise To gain your smiles; — I seek no other praise. And Thou, who past and future know'st to scan, And tell the destinies of mortal man, — Whose mighty pow'r protects the city's walls, Yet o'er the wildest track of nature falls, — Illume with some bright, vivifying ray, My first dark, trembling, and incondite lay.

Ye peaceful shades ! where first my breath I drew, Hail'd the gay morn, each childhood pleasure knew, Where nature smil'd in all her loveliest charms, Safe from the thunder of dread war's alarms, Whilst in this breast a vital spark remains, I still shall hold you dear, my native plains ! Sequester'd fields ! at ev'ry glance I find Some well-remember'd spot, that brings to mind 4o Departed hours, and joys that now are past, Like shadows fleeting in the northern blast. There on the calm retreat I fondly gaze, Where my lov'd parent, in my infant days, With anxious wish, and mother's tend'rest care, First taught my tongue to lisp its ev'ning pray'r. The moss-grown barn, now tott'ring with decay, 35 Once own'd a master of superior sway : Then Plenty with a pleasing, gen'rous mien, Smil'd all around, and cheer'd the lonely scene, And jocund Mirth with Industry combin'd ; No cares disturb'd the joyful peasant's mind ; — 40 From morn to eve his labours gaily pass'd, And well-fill'd garners crown'd the toil at last.

But now, nor Plenty o'er the landscape shines, Nor jocund Mirth with Industry combines ; No peasant-strain is heard along the vale, And scarce the milk-maid, with her snowy pail, ADBASTON; ■I 50 55 sis. Trills her rude ditty by the woodland side, Unconscious of her charms, and blooming pride ; And well forlorn may these lov'd plains appear, And droop with aspect desolate and drear, Their valu'd lord in sacred dust now lies, In hope of bliss that's promis'd in the skies ! The verdant croft, that lies below the fold, Recalls, at once, my various sports of old ; — There, with my fellows, at each rural game, Oft have I tried to gain the prize of fame, And when to me the vict'ry was decreed, How my heart beat triumphant as the deed ! But where are now those lov'd companions fled ? Some are far distant; — some, alas! are dead.

And thus the world, first op'ning on our sight, Displays, at morn, the radiant beams of light; But, ere our sun has pass'd the noon of day, Tempestuous clouds and storms obscure his way ! SO And now I view the well-known water's edge, 65 1 The fav'rite nook that's overgrown with sedge ! Where, patient, oft I've watch'd the nodding float, Whilst each harmonious — each discordant note, And distant cadences of rural sound, Charm'd all the sense, and cheer'd the landscape round. 70 2 Nor blue-topt Wreken, mingling with the sky, Escapes the notice of my wand'ring eye. Of all the various images that dwell Within the round of mem'ry 's magic cell, With fair, and lasting portraiture impress'd, The far-seen Wreken tow'rs above the rest. There was a time I yet remember well, When oft I've heard the weary reapers tell, That when at eve the Wreken's top was clear, Serene and bright the morning would appear, But when dark clouds his summit should deform, The day succeeding ever brought a storm : ADBASTON; 6 85 90 '» 95 100 And many an hour, by murm'ring brook or rill, I've, pensive, mark'd the distant Wreken hill, What time the ev'ning sun declin'd to rest, And ruddy streaks have ting'd the peaceful west ; Then homeward have I bent my lonely way, Musing, prophetic, on the coming day; And if, perchance, the coming day was fine, And bounteous Phœbus pour'd his rays divine, Or clouds, as I foretold, o'erspread the skies, How boyish fancy deem'd it wondrous wise !

The mazy brook that bounds my native plains, And sweetly wanders through these lov'd domains While rolling, swift, its brawling wave along, Shall be remember'd in my humble song. Meand'ring brook ! thy margin's daisy 'd bed Oft-time, at noon, sustain'd my drowsy head, When with Alendor, partner of my youth ! Friend of my soul, and friend of spotless truth ! — 110 115 120 Oh ! when with him I pass'd the hours away, With heartfelt joy I hail'd each rising day ; Each rising day brought pleasures ever new, The pleasures charm'd as we in friendship grew. Here on thy verge, delightful brook! we've stray'd, Follow'd thy course, and each lov'd scene survey 'd ; And now, methinks, upon thy limpid tide, I see our little barks contending ride : — The hulls of willow, and of rudest form, With rudders useless in the calm or storm ; A slender, tap' ring, hazle-twig the mast, The sails of paper, flapping in the blast, And streamers, bright with parti-colour'd gold, From Chanticleer, the herald of the fold.

And thus, upon the brook's pellucid face, They gave, by turns, the mimic warlike chace, While (dreadful fate to those upon the deck, The passive sufF'rers of a pigmy wreck ! ) Death stalk'd around with formidable shocks, — A rush was victory, and pebbles, rocks. ADBASTON; 8 spent, 125 130 135 Soft-flowing stream ! since thus the hours we When each amusement gave our hearts content, Thro' what variety of scenes I've past ! Yet near thy banks I still have hope at last, To close the remnant of my days in peace, When all my wand'rings shall for ever cease. Around the cheerful fire when winter scowls, And o'er our heads the churlish tempest howls, I yet have hope, with many a valu'd friend, To snatch one transport ere this life shall end. Deep in this shady undisturb'd retreat, Should rise, romantic, my secluded seat.

Far hence be splendour from the rural spot; — No grand majestic palace be my lot, With gaudy turrets pointing to the skies, While real happiness the mansion flies ! Yet fancy, tho' I ask not pomp of kings, Should with her bright, illuminated wings, > 145 150 155 Hover around my favourite abode, To catch the eye that wanders from the road. The grounds, tho' circumscrib'd their hawthorn bound Where May's fair virgin blossoms might be found, Should sweet variety throughout display, To charm at morn, or solemn close of day. And here an urn to Thomson's sacred shade ; To Avon's bard some tribute there be paid ; And He, who, erst, the Happy Garden sung, Should be remember'd, tho' with silent tongue. Far in some solitary path should stand A temple stor'd with all the classic band, Where oft I'd turn the tuneful pages o'er, And ramble in the labyrinths of lore.

And when no more the theme attention caught, And the bright hearth at ev'ning-tide I sought, Oh ! might some mild, some lovely, wedded fair Crown all my joys, and dissipate each care, Till Time, that fells the monarch and the slave, At last should lay us in one peaceful grave ! C ADBASTON; 10 160 165 170 175 Flow on, sweet brook ! till that blest morn shall rise, Till round my cot such bland enchantment flies, May no rude hand, with fell barbarian force, Dare to disturb thy solitary course ; But may thy wave for ever murm'ring roll To soothe, at eve, the muse's pensive soul ! Dear, native Adbaston ! — remote from care, Thy tranquil fields would mitigate despair ; In thy sweet vales a balsam I could find, When nought on earth could calm my troubled mind. Each wild, each trifling object that surrounds, Each lonely stile in thy sequester'd grounds ; — The ancient elm that shades the cottage door, The distant grange, the dusky, rush-grown moor, The echoing wood, that joins the neighb'ring farm, — Each hath, by turns, the magic pow'r to charm.

And yet, while thus the landscape I pursue, What sad sensations pierce my heart to view 185 190 Such change in ev'ry once frequented scene, That many a trace is fled of what has been. Remember'd trees, on which I've carv'd my name, Or hung the trophy of some boyish fame, Are seen no more ; — the axe, with well-aini'd blow, Long since has laid their leafy honours low ; Whilst others rise upon the tufted lawn, Which then were only in their sapling dawn. Thus mighty empires that have long sustain'd The shocks of time, and still, each day, have gain'd Superior pow'r, for boundless ages past, Must know a change a dreadful fall at last. O'er yonder moor, where moss and rushes grow, And deep-fed springs in trickling runnels flow, I mark, with joy, the homely clay-built cot, Where nought but labour is the poor man's lot ; — There dwells'RusARDAN, from the world apart, Stranger to wealth, yet grief ne'er touch'd his heart ADBASTON; 12 195 200 205 210 Long has he reign'd in these romantic plains,— Still lives the umpire of the lab'ring swains ; For well he knows the various kinds of soil, And many a day has borne each rustic toil.

Alike to him the harrow, or the plough, The rustling hay-stack, or the barley mow ; The stagnant pool that's cover'd o'er with sedge, The brambly ditch, the meadow's hawthorn hedge ; The well-ground axe that shakes the darksome woods, And loudly echoes from the reedy floods ; The curving sickle for the golden grain, The scythe that lays the verdure of the plain ; Nor is to him unknown the bounding flail, That breaks, with measur'd fall, the silence of the dale When sable night retires, and cheerful dawn Pours dappled streams upon th' extended lawn, Rusardan rises from his straw-made bed ;- No cygnet's down sustains his weary head : 225 230 Thelark salutes him as he leaves his home, With faithful Trudge, o'er furrow'd fields to roam; And now, while simplest notes he cheerly sings, He o'er his arm his hempen satchel flings ; His shoulder bears his keen-edg'd axe, and spade, His bending hook within his girdle's laid, His leathern mittens to his waist are bound, And with his well-nail'd clogs he shakes the solid ground Now the bright day-star rises from the main Large and refulgent, o'er the distant plain.

To sink the ditch,— the broken fence repair, Is all his toil — is all his daily care ; While Trudge, outstretch'd, upon his jacket lies, Where patches mix of all the rainbow's dies ; But first his cheek with Indian weed's supply 'd, Depriv'd of that, to him a world's deny'd ; Possess'd, he smiles when vivsd lightning shocks, Or awful thunder his drear cottage rocks. ADBASTON; 14 235 240 245 Perchance some passenger, with hasty stride, Pursues the path-way by the meadow side ; Watchful, his guard springs up with nimble bound, The tranquil scene reverberates around ; But soon, as, gradual, sinks the cannon's roar, Till e'en the distant murmur is no more, Stillness returns, and, through the vale, is heard Nought, save the waitings of some plaintive bird, That seeks a solitude apart the rest, Mourning its mate, or newly-pilfer'd nest.

At length succeeds, the welcome noon-tide hour, When, to some daisy 'd bank, or self-form'd bow'r, To take repast, which nature now requires, Rusardan, weary, from his toil retires. No sumptuous feast his homely store affords, No banquet, serv'd from rich, voluptuous hoards, A frugal meal is all it can supply ; — And yet, while patience marks his watchful eye. 255 260 265 Poor Trudge receives, at intervals, a share, The kind reward of vigilance and care ; For tho' keen want might prove his master's lot, His faithful dog would never be forgot. The homely, noon-tide meal, ere long, is o'er, And Plenty crowns the feast ; — he asks no more ; But thanks his God in rude, yet ardent phrase, Trusts heav'n accepts a poor man's heart-felt praise ; Resumes his task, and tunes again the song, While, peaceful, glide the passing hours along.

And thus he toils till all the day is spent, Yet still his heart is light — serene — content. The blackbird cheers him from th' adjoining bush, The woodlands echo with the warbling thrush, And, ever and anon, a pensive note The redbreast pours from his melodious throat Happiest of men ! than they, oh ! happier far, Who loll, supine, in fortunes splendid car : ADBASTON; 16 270 275 > 280 They never see the God of day arise, Diffusing gladness o'er the eastern skies ; They never hear the tuneful blackbird sing, Nor warbling thrush salute the joyful spring ; For them no redbreast pours his pensive lay, The mournful requiem to departing day ; But each long hour they're toss'd upon the tide Of fashion, folly, petulance, and pride. At eve, when o'er the hills the setting sun Slowly declines, his daily course now run, Rlsardan's labours till the morning cease; Cheerful he seeks his rude retreat of peace ; Whilst he is plodding o'er the rush-grown moor.

His children, playing at his cottage door, Behold their sire, and, down the primrose dale, They haste to tell their simple, prattling tale ; O'erjoy'd, he meets them at the woodland stile, And crowns his labours with a father's smile. , 290 295 300 A little onward, to the left, I view, Fading in soften'd tints of azure hue, 3 The rising spot where Cheswarden commands Delightful prospects of well cultur'd lands, And meadows green, where brooks, meand'ring slow Steal, in sweet murmurs, to the vales below. The tow'r, ascending o'er the distant scene, Chequer'd by various trees that intervene, Again reminds me of departed hours, When first I roam'd in Adbaston's lov'd bowers, And listen'd to the solemn curfew's toll, That strikes with awe the meditative soul. Oft, too, I've listen'd to its cheerful bells, Responsive from the hollow woods and dells : Borne on the breezy air, the sound now steals Upon the sense, in clear and swelling peals ; And now it sinks in gradual decay, Flies afar of, and, trembling, dies away ; Still it returns with a redoubled roar, Loud as the storm that shakes the sounding shore.

D ADBASTON; 18 310 315 320 Anon, the rapid cadences subside 4 In murmurs, jangling on th' etherial tide. And thus the softly-sweet Æolian strains, In mournful measures, tremble o'er the plains, Till scarce a whisper vibrates on the wind, To soothe the sorrows of the care-worn mind. And now upon my wand'ring vision rise 5 The far-extending Woods of mingled dies, Where scarce the sun, throughout the passing day, Can pierce the gloom, or shed a transient ray. When the loud chase the sportsman's bosom fires, For safety, here, the tim'rous hare retires, The prowling fox, with eye of sharpest ken, Holds, festal, here, his excavated den : And many a victim of the feather'd race Hath, here, amus'd his archly-smiling face ; But chief to gluttony he gives a loose, When, captive, home he tugs the sumptuous goose, 330 335 blood. 340 Regardless of the curse that loudly falls From ev'ry tongue within the plunder'd walls.