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THE

HE Hill which gives title to the following Poem

is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a Subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages where they are inserted. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins’s History of Dorsetshire, (Vol. I. p. 366.) what is there faid of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson) · This and Pillesdon Hill,

furmount all the hills, though very high, between them ' and the sea. Mariners call them the Cow and Calf, in ' which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who fail upon the coast.'

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

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LEWESDON HILL.

UP to thy fummit, 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
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 fail.

B

Ye

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled From earth, young herbs and Powers, 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, Administring sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill I
Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath
And rufset 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 Mowery hawthorn, and thy neck
Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick
Of golden bloom : nor lack thee tufted woods
Adown thy fides : Tall oaks of lusty green,
The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops
of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts

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