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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

B

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

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