Part 1

LEWESDON HILL.

LEWESDON HILL, WITH OTHER POEMS.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE, PUBLIC ORATOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Χαιρ’ ω πεδον αγχιαλον, Και μ’ ευπλοιᾳ πεμψον αμεμπτως Ενθ’ ἡ μεγαλη μοιρα κομιζει, ——χῳ πανδαματωρ Δαιμων, ος ταυτ’ επεκρανεν.

SOPH.

Farewell thy printless sands and pebbly shore! I hear the white surge beat thy coast no more, Pure, gentle source of the high, rapturous mood!— —Where’er, like the great Flood, by thy dread force Propell’d—shape Thou my calm, my blameless course, Heaven, Earth, and Ocean’s Lord!—and Father of the Good!

***

A CORRECTED AND MUCH ENLARGED EDITION, WITH NOTES.

LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. 1827.

LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hill which gives title to the following Poem is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages to which they refer. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins’s History of Dorsetshire, (vol. i. p. 366), what is there said of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson): “This and Pillesdon Hill surmount all the hills, though very high, between them and the sea. Mariners call them the _Cow and Calf_, in which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who sail upon the coast.”

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

TO THE

RIGHT REV. FATHER IN GOD JONATHAN,

LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH, WHO, IN A LEARNED, FREE, AND LIBERAL AGE, IS HIMSELF MOST HIGHLY DISTINGUISHED BY EXTENSIVE, USEFUL, AND ELEGANT LEARNING, BY A DISINTERESTED SUPPORT OF FREEDOM, AND BY A TRULY CHRISTIAN LIBERALITY OF MIND,

THIS POEM,

WITH ALL RESPECT, IS DEDICATED BY HIS LORDSHIP’S MOST OBLIGED AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR.

_Jan. 1788._

CONTENTS.

Page

LEWESDON HILL 1

Notes 41

Inscribed beneath the picture of an ass 61

Ode to the Lyric Muse. Spoken in the Theatre at the installation of Lord North, chancellor of the university of Oxford 64

Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre to the Duke of Portland, at his installation as chancellor of the university of Oxford, in the year 1793 70

On the Death of Captain Cook 75

Elegy to the memory of Dr. W. Hayes, professor of music in the university of Oxford 80

The World. Intended as an apology for not writing. By a Lady 82

The British Theatre. Written in 1775 84

On two Publications, entitled Editions of two of our Poets 89

The Spleen 92

Lines written with a pencil in a lady’s almanac 98

To a young gentlewoman, with Thomson’s Seasons, doubled down at the story of Palemon and Lavinia 101

Sonnet 103

Sonnet to Petrarch 105

To a lady, who desired some specimens of the author’s poetry 107

Epitaph on a child who died of a scarlet fever in the fifteenth month of his age, 1802 108

Epitaph on Sir Charles Turner, bart. in the family mausoleum at Kirk Leatham, Yorkshire 109

Lines written at the tomb of William of Wykeham, in Winchester cathedral 111

Translation of a Greek inscription upon a fountain 112

From Lucretius

sæpius olim Religio peperit scelerosa.—Lib. I. v. 83. 114

From Lucretius

Suave, mari magno turbantibus.—Lib. II. v. 1. 117

From Lucretius

Avia Pieridum peragro loca.—Lib. IV. v. 1. 119

Psalm LXXII. abridged, and adapted to a particular tune 120

Midnight Devotion. Written in the great storm, 1822 123

Silbury Hill 125

To the Daisy 127

Fragment 129

From Purchase’s Pilgrimage, versified and designed as a motto to “Voyages for the Discovery of a N. W. Passage” 131

Fragment 133

The rape of Proserpine 135

Sonnet 137

Song 139

Song 141

Song 142

To a lady going to her family in Ireland 143

To the Sun 144

Song 146

To a lady, fortune-telling with cards 148

Epigram 150

On two English poets, who flourished in the former half of the last century, and published complimentary verses on each other 152

Verses to the honour of the London Pastrycook, who marked “No popery” on his pies, &c. 154

On the funeral of ⸺, in a hearse and six, followed by a mourning coach and four 157

Parody on Dryden’s “Three poets,” &c. 160

Epigram 161

An expostulatory supplication to Death, after the decease of Dr. Burney 162

On the decease of Horne Tooke 163

Inscription for the granite sarcophagus brought from Alexandria to the British Museum 164

Inscription for a statue of field-marshal Suworow 166

On field-marshal Suworow. A dialogue 169

On F. W. the king of Prussia’s ineffectual attempt on Warsaw 171

Political advice to the members of the French Convention. A dialogue 176

Written when Buonaparte was altering the governments of Germany 178

Suggested by reading Dryden’s Britannia Rediviva, a poem on the prince born on the 10th of June, 1688 179

Succession 183

Epigram 186

On the increase of human life 188

Ode to the king of France. 1823 189

Verses spoken in the Theatre, Oxford, at the installation of the chancellor, Lord Grenville, July 10, 1810, by Henry Crowe, a commoner of Wadham College 193

Ad Musas 198

Ηως Εργων ἡγητειρα, βιου προπολε θνητοισιν—Or. Hym. 199

Jepthæ Votum 202

Palmyra 204

Ad Hyacinthum. 1791 206

Romulus. Scriptus 1803 208

Helena Insula 215

On Captain Sir M. Murray, wounded at the Westminster election 221

Amnestia Infida 222

Psalm CXIV. 223

Psalm CXXXIII. 225

Psalm CXXXVII. 226

In obitum senis academici, Thomæ Pryor, Armigeri 228

In obitum J. N. Oxoniensis, 1783 229

Bene est cui Deus dederit Parca quod satis est manu.—Hor. Lib. 3. Od. 16. 230

ΕΙΣ ΚΟΣΣΥΦΟΝ 232

Inscriptio in Horto auctoris apud Alton in com. Wilt. 234

Epicedium 237

De Seipso, mandatum auctoris 239

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[1] 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[2] 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[3]. 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[4], 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[5] 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.