Part 2

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[6] 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[7] 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[8] 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[9] 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[10], 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[11], 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[12] 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,[13] 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[14] 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.

NOTES.

Note 1, page 4, line 10.

_At each return of spring: yet some delight, &c._

An adventitious beauty, arising from that gradual decay, which loosens the withering leaf, gilds the autumnal landscape with a temporary splendor superior to the verdure of spring, or the luxuriance of summer. The infinitely various and ever-changing hues of the leaves at this season, melting into every soft gradation of tint and shade, have long engaged the imitation of the painter, and are equally happy ornaments in the description of the poet.—Aikin’s Essay on the Character of Thompson’s Seasons, prefixed to his edition of them, 1791.

Note 2, p. 10, line 7.

_Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath._

To _coath_, Skinner says, is a word common in Lincolnshire, and signifies, to _faint_. He derives it from the Anglo-Saxon coðe, a _disease_. In Dorsetshire it is in common use, but it is used of sheep only: a _coathed_ sheep is a _rotten_ sheep; to _coath_ is to _take the rot. Rechasing_ is also a term in that county appropriated to flocks: _to chase and rechase_ is to drive sheep at certain times from one sort of ground to another, or from one parish to another.

The author having ventured to introduce some provincial and other terms, takes this occasion to say, that it is a liberty in which he has not indulged himself, but when he conceived them to be allowable for the sake of ornament or expression.

Note 3, page 16, line 4.

_With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss._

The distressful condition of the Halswell here alluded to is thus circumstantially described in the narrative of her loss, p. 13.

“Thursday the 5th, at two in the morning, the wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the weather was very thick; at noon Portland was seen, bearing N. by E. distance two or three leagues; at eight at night it blew a strong gale at S. and at this time the Portland lights were seen bearing N. W. distance four or five leagues, when they wore ship, and got her head to the westward; but finding they lost ground upon that tack, they wore again, and kept stretching on eastward, in hopes to have weathered Peverel-point, in which case they intended to have anchored in Studland Bay: at 11 at night it cleared, and they saw St. Alban’s-head a mile and a half to the leeward of them; upon which they took in sail immediately, and let go the small bower anchor, which brought up the ship at a whole cable, and she rode for about an hour, but then drove; they now let go the sheet anchor, and wore away a whole cable, and the ship rode for about two hours longer, when she drove again. They were then driving very fast on shore, and might expect every moment to strike!”

Note 4, page 16, line 10.

_From Portland eastward to the Promontory._

“Not far from this (Encombe) stands _St. Aldene_’s Chapel; which took name from the dedication to St. Adeline, the first bishop of Sherbourne in this shire: but now it serves for a sea-mark.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 47.

“Near the sea is the high land of _St. Aldhelm_’s, commonly called _St. Alban_’s, a noted sea-mark. The cliff here is 147 yards perpendicular. On this promontory, about a mile south of _Worth_, stands a chapel of the same name.” Hutchins’s Dorsetsh. vol. i. p. 228. But this headland is not marked by name in Hutchins’s map. “The very utter part of _St. Aldhelm_’s point is five miles from _Sandwich_ (_Swanwich_).”—Lel. Itin. vol. iii. p. 53.

Note 5, page 18, line 6.

_From Shipton’s bottom to the lofty down._

Shipton is a hill, which, according to common report, is so called from its shape; the top of it being formed like a ship with the keel upwards. It stands three miles from Bridport on the road towards London; which road passes by the foot of it to the North.

Note 6, page 22, line 1.

_Plying her monstrous labour unrestrained._

The works now carrying on at Cherburgh, (A. D. 1787) to make a haven for ships of war, are principally the following. Of these however it is not intended to give a full description; but only to mention some particulars, from which an idea may be formed of the greatness of the scheme.

In the open sea, above a league from the town, and within half a mile west of a rock called _L’isle Pelée_, a pier is begun, with design of conducting it on to the shore somewhat beyond _Point Hommet_, about two miles westward of Cherburgh. In order to this, a strong frame of timber-work, of the shape of a truncated cone, having been constructed on the beach, was buoyed out, and sunk in a depth of water; which at lowest ebb is 35 feet, and where the tide rises near 20 feet. The diameter of this cone at bottom is about 60 yards, its height 70 feet; and the area on its top large enough to receive a battery of cannon, with which it is hereafter to be fortified. Its solid contents are 2500 French toises; which, in our measure (allowing the French foot to be to the English as 144 to 135), will amount to 24,250 cubic yards nearly. Several other cones, of equal dimensions, are sunk at convenient distances from each other, forming the line of the pier: their number, when complete, it is said, will be forty. As soon as any one of these is carried to its place, it is filled with stones, which are dug from mount _Rouille_ and other rocks near the coast, and brought on horses to the shore: whence they are conveyed to the cones in vessels of forty, sixty, or eighty tons burden. In like manner, but with much greater labour and expense, the spaces between the cones are filled up with stones thrown loosely into the sea, till the heap is raised above the water. On this mass, as on a foundation, a wall of masonry-work is to be erected. The length of the whole is near five miles. On _L’isle Pelée_ and _Point Hommet_ before-mentioned large fortifications are constructed bomb-proof, to defend the haven and pier. It is the opinion of some persons that this stupendous mole may be injured or destroyed by what is called a ground-sea, _i. e._ a sea when the waters are agitated to the bottom: and this happens when a strong wind, after having put the waves in motion, suddenly shifts to the opposite quarter. The description given in the Poem of this vast undertaking closes with an allusion to this opinion.

Note 7, page 23, lines 5 and 6.

_Less and less hazardous emprize achieved_ _Resistless Alexander._ Quint. Curt. lib. 4, cap. 2, 3.

Note 8, page 23, line 10.

_Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful._

——creditur olim Velificatus Athos— Densa cadavera prora. JUV. Sat. x. v. 173. 186.

Note 9, page 24, line 2.

_Nor yet that elder work._

——τειχος εδειμαν,—— ——αμαλδυνηται Αχαιων. HOM. IL. vii. v. 436. 463.

Ὡσ ὁ μεν εν κλισιησι,— ——καλλιροον ὑδωρ. IL. xii. v. 1, 33.

Note 10, page 25, line 3.

_Thee, Burton, and thy lofty cliff._

Burton is a village near the sea, lying S. E. from Lewesdon, and about two miles S. of Shipton hill before mentioned. The cliff is among the loftiest of all upon that coast; and smugglers often take advantage of its height for the purpose related in the poem.

Note 11, page 27, line 11.

_But what is yonder Hill, whose dusky brow._

“Eggardon Hill is a very high hill, and gives name to the hundred. Mr. Coker says it is uncertain whether it takes its name from Edgar, king of the West Saxons, or from Orgarus, earl of Cornwall: and indeed this last derivation is the truest; there being little reason to doubt that it is the old _Orgarestone_. The camp on the brow of this hill is a large and strong fortification, and seems to be Roman.”—Hutchins’s Dorset, vol. i. p. 289; where there is an engraving of this camp. But Hutchins has misrepresented Mr. Coker, who indeed prefers the derivation from Orgar. His words are these: “That it takes name from Edgar, the West Saxon king, I dare not affirm, having nothing to prove it but the nearnesse of the name. It better likes me to think this the place which in Doomsday-book is called Orgareston; but whether it take name from Orgareus, earl of Cornwall, I know not; though I think I should run into no great error to believe it.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 26.

Note 12, page 33, line 2.

_The ground where Hollis lies; his choice retreat._

“Mr. Hollis, in order to preserve the memory of those heroes and patriots for whom he had a veneration, as the assertors and defenders of his country, called many of the farms and fields in his estate at Corscombe by their names; and by these names they are still distinguished. In the middle of one of those fields, not far from his house, he ordered his corpse to be deposited in a grave ten feet deep; and that the field should be immediately ploughed over, that no trace of his burial-place might remain.”—Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. vol. i. p. 481.

Note 13, page 34, line 1.

_War-glutted Osmund, superstitious lord!_

Of the strange curse belonging to Shireburne-Castle. From a MS. of the late Bishop of Ely (Bishop John More) now in the Royal Library at Cambridge.

“Osmund, a Norman knight, who had served _William_ Duke of _Normandy_ from his youth, in all his wars against the French king, and the duke’s (_William_’s) subjects, with much valour and discretion, for all his faithful service (when his master had by conquest obteyned the crown of England) was rewarded with many great gifts; among the which was the earldome of _Dorsett_, and the gift of many other possessions, whereof the castle and baronie of _Sherburne_ were parcell. But Osmund, in the declyninge of his age, calling to mynde the great effusion of blood which, from his infancie, he had shedd; he resolved to leave all worldly delights, and betake himself to a religious life, the better to contemplate on his former sinnes, and to obteyn pardon for them. And, with much importunitie, having gotten leave of the kinge (who was unwilling to want the assistance of so grave and worthy a counsellor) to resign his temporal honors; and having obteyned the bishoprick of _Sarum_, he gave _Sherburne_, with other lands, to the bishoprick. To which gift he annexed this curse:—

“‘That whosoever should take those lands from the bishoprick, or diminish them in great or in small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but also in the world to come; unless in his life-time he made restitution thereof.’ And so he died bishop of Sarum.”

Those lands continued in the possession of his successors till the reign of King Stephen, who took them away: “whereupon (says this account) his prosperity forsook him.” King Stephen being dead, “these lands came into the hands of some of the _Montagues_ (after earles of _Sarum_), who whilest they held the same, underwent many disasters. For one or other of them fell by misfortune. And finally, all the males of them became extinct, and the earldome received an end in their name. So ill was their success.”

After this the lands were restored to the bishoprick; but were taken away a second time by the Duke of Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI.; “when the duke, being hunting in the parke of _Sherburne_, he was sent for presently unto the kinge (to whome he was protector) and at his coming up to _London_, was forthwith committed unto the _Tower_, and shortly after lost his head.” The lands then, in a suit at law, were adjudged to the Bishop of Sarum; and so remained, “till Sir Walter Raleigh procured a grant of them; he afterwards unfortunately lost them, and at last his head also. Upon his attainder they came, by the king’s gift, to Prince _Henry_; who died not long after the possession thereof. After Prince _Henry_’s death, the Earle of _Somerset_ (_Carr_) did possesse them. Finally, he lost them, and many other fortunes.”—Peck’s Desid. Cur. Lib. 14. No. 6.

Note 14, page 34, line 11.

_Accomplish’d Raleigh! in that lawless day._