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His eye could see the hidden spring,
And how the current was to flow;
The fatal end of Scotland’s King,
And all that hopeless overthrow.
But not in wars did he delight,
This Clifford wished for worthier might;
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,—
Most happy in the shy recess
Of Barden’s humble quietness.
And choice of studious friends had he
Of Bolton’s dear fraternity;
Who, standing on this old church tower,
In many a calm propitious hour,
Perused, with him, the starry sky ;—
Or in their cells with him did pry
For other lore,—through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire:
