CLIFTON
HILL
.
Written
in
January
1785.
In
this
lone
hour
,
when
angry
storms
descend
,
And
the
chill'd
soul
deplores
her
distant
friend
;
When
all
her
sprightly
fires
inactive
lie
,
And
gloomy
objects
fill
the
mental
eye
;
When
hoary
Winter
strides
the
northern
blast
,
And
Flora's
beauties
at
his
feet
are
cast
;
Earth
by
the
grisly
tyrant
desert
made
,
The
feather'd
warblers
quit
the
leafless
shade
;
Quit
those
dear
scenes
where
life
and
love
began
,
And
,
cheerless
,
seek
the
savage
haunt
of
man
;
How
mourns
each
tenant
of
the
silent
grove
!
No
soft
sensation
tunes
the
heart
to
love
;
No
fluttering
pulse
awakes
to
Rapture's
call
;
No
strain
responsive
aids
the
water's
fall
.
The
Swain
neglects
his
Nymph
,
yet
knows
not
why
;
The
Nymph
,
indifferent
,
mourns
the
freezing
sky
;
Alike
insensible
to
soft
desire
,
She
asks
no
warmth
—
but
from
the
kitchen
fire
;
Love
seeks
a
milder
zone
;
half
sunk
in
snow
,
Lactilla
,
shivering
,
tends
her
fav'rite
cow
;
The
bleating
flocks
now
ask
the
bounteous
hand
,
And
crystal
streams
in
frozen
fetters
stand
.
The
beauteous
red-breast
,
tender
in
her
frame
,
Whose
murder
marks
the
fool
with
treble
shame
,
Near
the
low
cottage
door
,
in
pensive
mood
,
Complains
,
and
mourns
her
brothers
of
the
wood
.
Her
song
oft
wak'd
the
soul
to
gentle
joys
,
All
but
his
ruthless
soul
whose
gun
destroys
.
For
this
,
rough
clown
,
long
pains
on
thee
shall
wait
,
And
freezing
want
avenge
their
hapless
fate
;
For
these
fell
murders
may'st
thou
change
thy
kind
,
In
outward
form
as
savage
as
in
mind
;
Go
,
be
a
bear
of
Pythagorean
name
,
From
man
distinguish'd
by
thy
hideous
frame
.
Tho'
slow
and
pensive
now
the
moments
roll
,
Successive
months
shall
from
our
torpid
soul
Hurry
these
scenes
again
;
the
laughing
hours
Advancing
swift
,
shall
strew
spontaneous
flowers
;
The
early-peeping
snowdrop
,
crocus
mild
,
And
modest
violet
,
grace
the
secret
wild
;
Pale
primrose
,
daisy
,
maypole-decking
sweet
,
And
purple
hyacinth
together
meet
:
All
Nature's
sweets
in
joyous
circle
move
,
And
wake
the
frozen
soul
again
to
love
.
The
ruddy
swain
now
stalks
along
the
vale
,
And
snuffs
fresh
ardour
from
the
flying
gale
;
The
landscape
rushes
on
his
untaught
mind
,
Strong
raptures
rise
,
but
raptures
undefin'd
;
He
louder
whistles
,
stretches
o'er
the
green
,
By
screaming
milk-maids
,
not
unheeded
,
seen
;
The
downcast
look
ne'er
fixes
on
the
swain
,
They
dread
his
eye
,
retire
,
and
gaze
again
.
'Tis
mighty
Love
—
Ye
blooming
maids
,
beware
,
Nor
the
lone
thicket
with
a
lover
dare
.
No
high
romantic
rules
of
honour
bind
The
timid
virgin
of
the
rural
kind
;
No
conquest
of
the
passions
e'er
was
taught
,
No
meed
e'er
given
them
for
the
vanquish'd
thought
.
To
sacrifice
,
to
govern
,
to
restrain
,
Or
to
extinguish
,
or
to
hug
the
pain
,
Was
never
theirs
;
instead
,
the
fear
of
shame
Proves
a
strong
bulwark
,
and
secures
their
fame
;
Shielded
by
this
,
they
flout
,
reject
,
deny
,
With
mock
disdain
put
the
fond
lover
by
;
Unreal
scorn
,
stern
looks
,
affected
pride
,
Awe
the
poor
swain
,
and
save
the
trembling
bride
.
As
o'er
the
upland
hills
I
take
my
way
,
My
eyes
in
transport
boundless
scenes
survey
:
Here
the
neat
Clifton
Church
.
In
this
church-yard
the
Author's
Mother
was
buried
.
dome
where
sacred
raptures
rise
,
From
whence
the
contrite
groan
shall
pierce
the
skies
;
Where
sin-struck
souls
bend
low
in
humble
prayer
,
And
waft
that
sigh
which
ne'er
is
lost
in
air
.
Ah
!
sacred
turf
!
here
a
fond
Parent
lies
,
How
my
soul
melts
while
dreadful
scenes
arise
!
The
past
!
Ah
!
shield
me
,
Mercy
!
from
that
thought
,
My
aching
brain
now
whirls
,
with
horror
fraught
.
Dead
!
can
it
be
?
'twas
here
we
frequent
stray'd
,
And
these
sad
records
mournfully
survey'd
.
I
mark'd
the
verse
,
the
skulls
her
eye
invite
,
Whilst
my
young
bosom
shudder'd
with
affright
!
My
heart
recoil'd
,
and
shun'd
the
loathsome
view
;
"
Start
not
,
my
child
,
each
human
thought
subdue
,
"
She
calmly
said
;
"
this
fate
shall
once
be
thine
,
My
woes
pronounce
that
it
shall
first
be
mine
.
"
Abash'd
,
I
caught
the
awful
truths
she
sung
,
And
on
her
firm
resolves
one
moment
hung
;
Vain
boast
—
my
bulwark
tumbles
to
the
deep
,
Amaz'd
—
alone
I
climb
the
craggy
steep
;
My
shrieking
soul
deserted
,
sullen
views
The
depths
below
,
and
Hope's
fond
strains
refuse
;
I
listen'd
not
—
She
louder
struck
the
lyre
,
And
love
divine
,
and
moral
truths
conspire
.
The
proud
It
is
supposed
this
word
is
derived
,
though
not
very
legitimately
,
from
Croesus
.
Croesean
crew
,
light
,
cruel
,
vain
,
Whose
deeds
have
never
swell'd
the
Muse's
strain
,
Whose
bosoms
others
sorrows
ne'er
assail
,
Who
hear
,
unheeding
,
Misery's
bitter
tale
,
Here
call
for
satire
,
would
the
verse
avail
.
Rest
,
impious
race
!
—
The
Muse
pursues
her
flight
,
Breathes
purer
air
on
Vincent's
rugged
height
;
Here
nibbling
flocks
of
scanty
herbage
gain
A
meal
penurious
from
the
barren
plain
;
Crop
the
low
niggard
bush
;
and
,
patient
,
try
The
distant
walk
,
and
every
hillock
nigh
:
Some
bask
,
some
bound
,
nor
terrors
ever
know
,
Save
from
the
human
form
,
their
only
foe
.
Ye
bleating
innocents
!
dispel
your
fears
,
My
woe-struck
soul
in
all
your
troubles
shares
;
'Tis
but
Lactilla
—
fly
not
from
green
:
Long
have
I
shar'd
with
you
this
guiltless
scene
.
'Tis
mine
to
wander
o'er
the
dewy
lawn
,
And
mark
the
pallid
streak
of
early
dawn
;
Lo
!
the
grey
dusk
that
fill'd
the
vacant
space
,
Now
fleets
,
and
infant
light
pursues
the
chace
;
From
the
hill
top
it
seeks
the
valley
low
;
Inflam'd
,
the
cheeks
of
morn
with
blushes
glow
;
Behold
it
'whelm'd
in
a
bright
flood
of
day
,
It
strives
no
more
,
but
to
the
God
gives
way
.
Ye
silent
,
solemn
St.
Vincent
's
rocks
,
between
which
flows
the
River
Avon
.
,
strong
,
stupendous
heights
,
Whose
terror-striking
frown
the
school-boy
frights
From
the
young
daw
;
whilst
in
your
rugged
breast
The
chattering
brood
,
secured
by
Horror
,
rest
.
Say
,
Muse
,
what
arm
the
low'ring
brothers
cleft
,
And
the
calm
stream
in
this
low
cradle
left
?
Coëval
with
Creation
they
look
down
,
And
,
sunder'd
,
still
retain
their
native
frown
.
Beneath
those
heights
,
lo
!
balmy
springs
The
Hot
Wells
.
arise
,
To
which
pale
Beauty's
faded
image
flies
;
Their
kindly
powers
life's
genial
heat
restore
,
The
tardy
pulse
,
whose
throbs
were
almost
o'er
,
Here
beats
a
livelier
tune
.
The
breezy
air
,
To
the
wild
hills
invites
the
languid
fair
:
Fear
not
the
western
gale
,
thou
tim'rous
maid
,
Nor
dread
its
blast
shall
thy
soft
form
invade
;
Tho'
cool
and
strong
the
quick'ning
breezes
blow
,
And
meet
thy
panting
breath
,
'twill
quickly
grow
More
strong
;
then
drink
the
odoriferous
draught
,
With
unseen
particles
of
health
'tis
fraught
.
Sit
not
within
the
threshold
of
Despair
,
Nor
plead
a
weakness
fatal
to
the
fair
;
Soft
term
for
Indolence
,
politely
given
,
By
which
we
win
no
joy
from
earth
or
heaven
.
Foul
Fiend
!
thou
bane
of
health
,
fair
Virtue's
bane
,
Death
of
true
pleasure
,
source
of
real
pain
!
Keen
exercise
shall
brace
the
fainting
soul
,
And
bid
her
slacken'd
powers
more
vigorous
roll
.
Blame
not
my
rustic
lay
,
nor
think
me
rude
,
If
I
avow
Conceit's
the
grand
prelude
To
dire
disease
and
death
.
Your
high-born
maid
,
Whom
fashion
guides
,
in
youth's
first
bloom
shall
fade
;
She
seeks
the
cause
,
th'effect
would
fain
elude
,
By
Death's
o'erstretching
stride
too
close
pursu'd
,
She
faints
within
his
icy
grasp
,
yet
stares
,
And
wonders
why
the
Tyrant
yet
appears
—
Abrupt
—
so
soon
—
Thine
,
Fashion
,
is
the
crime
,
Fell
Dissipation
does
the
work
of
time
.
How
thickly
cloth'd
,
yon
Leigh
Wood
.
rock
of
scanty
soil
,
Its
lovely
verdure
scorns
the
hand
of
Toil
.
Here
the
deep
green
,
and
here
the
lively
plays
,
The
russet
birch
,
and
ever-blooming
bays
;
The
vengeful
black-thorn
,
of
wild
beauties
proud
,
Blooms
beauteous
in
the
gloomy-chequer'd
crowd
:
The
barren
elm
,
the
useful
feeding
oak
,
Whose
hamadryad
ne'er
should
feel
the
stroke
Of
axe
relentless
,
'till
twice
fifty
years
Have
crown'd
her
woodland
joys
,
and
fruitful
cares
.
The
pois'nous
reptiles
here
their
mischiefs
bring
,
And
thro'
the
helpless
sleeper
dart
the
sting
;
The
toad
envenom'd
,
hating
human
eyes
,
Here
springs
to
light
,
lives
long
,
and
aged
dies
.
The
harmless
snail
,
slow-journeying
,
creeps
away
,
Sucks
the
young
dew
,
but
shuns
the
bolder
day
.
(
Alas
!
if
transmigration
should
prevail
,
I
fear
Lactilla's
soul
must
house
in
snail
.
)
The
long-nosed
mouse
,
the
woodland
rat
is
here
,
The
sightless
mole
,
with
nicely-pointed
ear
;
The
timid
rabbit
hails
th'impervious
gloom
,
Eludes
the
dog's
keen
scent
,
and
shuns
her
doom
.
Various
the
tenants
of
this
tangled
wood
,
Who
skulk
all
day
,
all
night
review
the
flood
,
Chew
the
wash'd
weed
driven
by
the
beating
wave
,
Or
feast
on
dreadful
food
,
which
hop'd
a
milder
grave
.
Hail
,
useful
channel
!
Commerce
spreads
her
wings
,
From
either
pole
her
various
treasure
brings
;
Wafted
by
thee
,
the
mariner
long
stray'd
,
Clasps
the
fond
parent
,
and
the
sighing
maid
;
Joy
tunes
the
cry
;
the
rocks
rebound
the
roar
;
The
deep
vibration
quivers
'long
the
shore
;
The
merchant
hears
,
and
hails
the
peeping
mast
,
The
wave-drench'd
sailor
scorns
all
peril
past
;
Now
love
and
joy
the
noisy
crew
invite
,
And
clumsy
music
crowns
the
rough
delight
.
Yours
be
the
vulgar
dissonance
,
while
I
Cross
the
low
stream
,
and
stretch
the
ardent
eye
O'er
Nature's
wilds
;
'tis
peace
,
'tis
joy
serene
,
The
thought
as
pure
as
calm
the
vernal
scene
.
Ah
,
lovely
meads
!
my
bosom
lighter
grows
,
Shakes
off
her
huge
oppressive
weight
of
woes
,
And
swells
in
guiltless
rapture
;
ever
hail
,
The
tufted
grove
,
and
the
low-winding
vale
!
Low
not
,
ye
herds
,
your
lusty
Masters
bring
The
crop
of
Summer
;
and
the
genial
Spring
Feels
for
your
wants
,
and
softens
Winter's
rage
,
The
hoarded
hay-stack
shall
your
woes
assuage
;
Woes
summ'd
in
one
alone
,
'tis
Nature's
call
,
That
secret
voice
which
fills
creation
all
.
Beneath
this
stack
The
beautiful
unfortunate
Louisa
,
fugitive
Foreigner
,
lived
three
years
in
a
state
of
distraction
under
this
hay-stack
,
without
going
into
a
house
.
She
once
confessed
,
in
a
lucid
interval
,
that
she
had
escaped
from
a
Convent
,
in
which
she
had
been
confined
by
her
father
,
on
refusing
a
marriage
of
his
proposing
,
her
affections
being
engaged
to
another
man
.
Louisa's
dwelling
rose
,
Here
the
fair
Maniac
bore
three
Winters
snows
.
Here
long
she
shiver'd
,
stiffening
in
the
blast
,
The
lightnings
round
their
livid
horrors
cast
;
The
thunders
roar
,
while
rushing
torrents
pour
,
And
add
new
woes
to
bleak
affliction's
hour
;
The
heavens
lour
dismal
while
the
storm
descends
,
No
Mother's
bosom
the
soft
maid
befriends
;
But
,
frighten'd
,
o'er
the
wilds
she
swiftly
flies
,
And
drench'd
with
rains
,
the
roofless
hay-stack
tries
.
The
morn
was
fair
,
and
gentle
—
sought
These
lonely
woodlands
,
friends
to
sober
Thought
;
With
Solitude
,
the
slow-pac'd
maid
is
seen
Tread
the
dark
grove
,
and
unfrequented
green
,
Well
—
knew
their
lurkings
;
Phoebus
shone
,
While
,
musing
,
she
pursued
the
track
alone
.
O
,
thou
kind
friend
!
whom
here
I
dare
not
name
,
Who
to
Louisa's
shed
of
misery
came
,
Lur'd
by
the
tale
,
sigh'd
o'er
her
beauteous
form
,
And
gently
drew
her
from
the
beating
storm
,
Stand
forth
—
defend
,
for
well
thou
canst
,
the
cause
Of
Heaven
,
and
justify
its
rigid
laws
;
Yet
own
that
human
laws
are
harshly
given
,
When
they
extend
beyond
the
will
of
Heaven
.
Say
,
can
thy
pen
for
that
hard
duty
plead
,
By
which
the
meek
and
helpless
maid's
decreed
To
dire
seclusion
?
Snatch'd
from
guiltless
joys
,
To
where
corroding
grief
the
frame
destroys
;
Monastic
glooms
,
which
active
virtue
cramp
,
Where
horrid
silence
chills
the
vital
lamp
;
Slowly
and
faint
the
languid
pulses
beat
,
And
the
chill'd
heart
forgets
its
genial
heat
;
The
dim
sunk
eye
,
with
hopeless
glance
,
explores
The
solemn
aisles
,
and
death-denouncing
doors
,
Ne'er
to
be
past
again
.
—
Now
heaves
the
sigh
,
Now
unavailing
sorrows
fill
the
eye
:
Fancy
once
more
brings
back
the
long-lost
youth
To
the
fond
soul
,
in
all
the
charms
of
Truth
;
She
welcomes
the
lov'd
image
;
busy
Thought
Pourtrays
the
past
,
with
guiltless
pleasures
fraught
;
'Tis
momentary
bliss
,
'tis
rapture
high
,
The
heart
o'erflows
,
and
all
is
extacy
.
Memory
!
I
charge
thee
yet
preserve
the
shade
,
Ah
!
let
not
yet
the
glittering
colours
fade
!
Forbear
the
cruel
future
yet
to
view
,
When
the
sad
soul
must
bid
a
long
adieu
,
E'en
to
its
fancied
bliss
—
Ah
!
turn
not
yet
Thou
wretched
bankrupt
,
that
must
soon
forget
This
farewel
draught
of
joy
:
lo
!
Fancy
dies
,
E'en
the
thin
phantom
of
past
pleasure
flies
.
Thought
sinks
in
real
woe
;
too
poor
to
give
Her
present
bliss
,
she
bids
the
future
live
;
The
spirit
soon
quits
that
fond
clasp
,
for
see
,
The
future
offers
finish'd
misery
.
Hope
quite
extinct
,
lo
!
frantic
thro'
the
aisles
She
raves
,
while
Superstition
grimly
smiles
.
Th'exhausted
mourner
mopes
,
then
wildly
stalks
Round
the
drear
dome
,
and
seeks
the
darkest
walks
.
The
glance
distracted
each
sad
sister
meets
,
The
sorrow-speaking
eye
in
silence
greets
Each
death-devoted
maid
;
Louisa
here
Runs
thro'
each
various
shape
of
sad
despair
;
Now
swells
with
gusts
of
hope
,
now
sick'ning
dies
;
Alternate
thoughts
of
death
and
life
arise
Within
her
panting
soul
;
the
firm
resolve
,
The
new
desire
,
in
stronger
fears
dissolve
.
She
starts
—
then
seiz'd
the
moment
of
her
fate
,
Quits
the
lone
cloyster
and
the
horrid
grate
,
Whilst
wilder
horrors
to
receive
her
wait
;
Muffled
,
on
Freedom's
happy
plains
they
stand
,
And
eager
seize
her
not
reluctant
hand
;
Too
late
to
these
mild
shores
the
mourner
came
,
For
now
the
guilt
of
flight
o'erwhelms
her
frame
:
Her
broken
vows
in
wild
disorder
roll
,
And
stick
like
serpents
in
her
trembling
soul
;
Thought
,
what
art
thou
?
of
thee
she
boasts
no
more
,
O'erwhelm'd
,
thou
dy'st
amid
the
wilder
roar
Of
lawless
anarchy
,
which
sweeps
the
soul
,
Whilst
her
drown'd
faculties
like
pebbles
roll
,
Unloos'd
,
uptorn
,
by
whirlwinds
of
despair
,
Each
well-taught
moral
now
dissolves
in
air
;
Dishevel'd
,
lo
!
her
beauteous
tresses
fly
,
And
the
wild
glance
now
fills
the
staring
eye
;
The
balls
,
fierce
glaring
in
their
orbits
move
,
Bright
spheres
,
where
beam'd
the
sparkling
fires
of
Love
,
Now
roam
for
objects
which
once
fill'd
her
mind
,
Ah
!
long-lost
objects
the
must
never
find
.
Ill
starr'd
Louisa
!
Memory
,
'tis
a
strain
,
Which
fills
my
soul
with
sympathetic
pain
.
Remembrance
,
hence
,
give
thy
vain
struggles
o'er
,
Nor
swell
the
line
with
forms
that
live
no
more
.