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

 Here he puffs upon his spade, And digs up cabbage in the shade: 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, 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. 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, 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, 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, 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, An old green tow'r, whose batter'd brow Frowns upon the vale below.