Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/29

Here he puffs upon his spade,
And digs up cabbage in the shade:95
His tatter'd rags are sable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown;
The dying sap descends apace,
And leaves a wither'd hand and face.
Up Grongar Hill I labour now,100
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh! how fresh, how pure, the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I descry
Thy magazine before me lie.105
Temples!—and towns!—and towers!—and woods!—
And hills!—and vales!—and fields!—and floods!
Crowding before me, edg'd around
With naked wilds and barren ground.
See, below, the pleasant dome,110
The poet's pride, the poet's home,
Which the sunbeams shine upon
To the even from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terrace walks, 115
Her wildernesses, fragrant brakes,
Her gloomy bow'rs and shining lakes.
Keep, ye Gods! this humble seat
For ever pleasant, private, neat.
See yonder hill, uprising steep, 120
Above the river slow and deep;
It looks from hence a pyramid,
Beneath a verdant forest hid;
On whose high top there rises great
The mighty remnant of a seat, 125
An old green tow'r, whose batter'd brow
Frowns upon the vale below.