FROM Lewesdon Hill. LEWESDON HILL. ROM this proud eminence on all sides round The 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 southwest, Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine, Returning with their milky treasure home, Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now, Since that the spring hath decked anew the meads With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun Their foggy moistness drained; in wintry days Cold, vaporish, miry, wet, and to the flocks Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin To drench the spongy turf; but ere that time The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, Rechasing,' lest his tender ewes should coath In the dank pasturage. Let not the fields Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named Of the White Horse, its antique monument 1 Changing pasture. 2 Become distempered. Carved in the chalky bourn, for beauty and wealth This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream, How is it vanished in a hasty spleen, Which the strained vision tires itself to find. * * * * * But hark! the village clock strikes nine; the chimes Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make O wondrous power of modulated sound! - William Crowe. Lichfield. EPITAPH DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL, AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF THE FAMILY OF MISS SEWARD. A MID these aisles, where once his precepts showed The heavenward pathway which in life he trode, This simple tablet marks a father's bier, And those he loved in life in death are near; For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise, Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread, Sir Walter Scott. Lincolnshire. LINCOLN FENS. UT on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads BUT Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet. For on a rustic throne of dewy turf, With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, John Armstrong. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.. THE HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. Ply all your changes, all your swells, Men say it was a stolen tyde, The Lord that sent it, he knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, |