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14
LEWESDON HILL.
The labouring and way-worn feet along,And make their toil less toilsome. Half way upOr nearer to the top, behold a cot,O'er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,Wave gently: at their roots a rustic benchInvites to short refreshment, and to tasteWhat grateful beverage the house may yieldAfter fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call'dThe Traveller's Rest. Welcome, embower'd seat,Friendly repose to the slow passengerAscending, ere he takes his sultry wayAlong th' interminable road, stretch'd outOver th' unshelter'd down; or when at lastHe has that hard and solitary pathMeasured by painful steps. And blest are they,Who in life's toilsome journey may make pauseAfter a march of glory: yet not suchAs rise in causeless war, troubling the worldBy their mad quarrel, and in fields of bloodHail'd victors, thence renown'd, and call'd on earthKings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high HeavenTheives, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:

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