Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn,

Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf

With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view!
Till in the distant north it melts away,

And mingles indiscriminate with clouds:

But if the eye could reach so far, the mart
Of England's capital, its domes and spires
Might be perceived-Yet hence the distant range

Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze;

And nearer, undulate the wooded heights,

And airy summits, that above the mole

Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge

Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude

Like a dark island from the vale; its brow

Catching the last rays of the evening sun

That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks,

D

Then lighten up the river, and make prominent

The portal, and the ruin'd battlements

Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time
The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought,
Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land.

But now a tiller of the soil dwells there,

And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls

Has made an humbler homestead-Where he sees,

Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze

Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks

At evening from the upland driv'n to fold

In such a castellated mansion once

A stranger chose his home; and where hard by In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses,

Among the ruins, often he would muse

His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont

To wander forth, listening the evening sounds
Of rushing milldam, or the distant team,

Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind

Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit
On the hill top so late: they from the coast

Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load,
Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man

Cross on their way: but village maidens thought

His senses injur'd; and with pity say

That he, poor youth! must have been cross'd in love

For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf

With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd

Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange,

Some little space within the vale below,

They heard him, as complaining of his fate,

And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect
And baffled hope he told.-The peasant girls
These plaintive sounds remember, and even now
Among them may be heard the stranger's songs.

Were I a Shepherd on the hill

And ever as the mists withdrew

Could see the willows of the rill
Shading the footway to the mill

Where once I walk'd with you

And as away Night's shadows sail,

And sounds of birds and brooks arise,

Believe, that from the woody vale

I hear

your voice upon the gale

In soothing melodies;

And viewing from the Alpine height,
The prospect dress'd in hues of air,

Could say, while transient colours bright
Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light,

"Tis, that her eyes are there!

I think, I could endure my lot

And linger on a few short years,

And then, by all but you forgot,

Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot

May claim some pitying tears.