Page:Lewesdon Hill, a poem (IA lewesdonhillpoem00crowiala).pdf/14

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LEWESDON HILL.
Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown,I'd call it beautiful variety,And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spyA beauty in that fruitful change, when comesThe yellow Autumn and the hopes o' the yearBrings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraiseThe pure and spotless form of that sharp time,When January spreads a pall of snowO'er the dead face of th'undistinguish'd earth.Then stand I in the hollow comb beneathAnd bless this friendly mount, that weather-fendsMy reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blastFrom the thick north comes howling: till the SpringReturn, who leads my devious steps abroad,To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top.
Above the noise and stir of yonder fieldsUplifted, on this height I feel the mindExpand itself in wider liberty.The distant sounds break gently on my sense,Soothing to meditation: so methinks,Even so, sequester'd from the noisy world,

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