Page:Lewesdon Hill, a poem (IA lewesdonhillpoem00crowiala).pdf/36

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LEWESDON HILL.
I saw the hoary pile cresting the topOf that north-western hill; and in this NowA cloud hath past on it, and its dim bulkBecomes annihilate, or if not, a spotWhich the strain'd vision tires itself to find.
And even so fares it with the things of earthWhich seem most constant: there will come the cloudThat shall infold them up, and leave their placeA seat for Emptiness. Our narrow kenReaches too far, when all that we beholdIs but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth)Are plumed in front so downy soft they seemTo foster what they touch, and mortal foolsRejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!For in that indefatigable flightThe multitudinous strokes incessantlyBruise all beneath their cope, and mark on allHis secret injury; on the front of manGray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds onHard and more hard his iron pennons beat

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