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LEWESDON HILL.
What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?Tis past: and all that it has left behindIs but an echo dwelling in the earOf the toy-taken fancy, and besideA void and countless hour in life's brief day.
But ill accords my verse with the delightsOf this gay month: and see the VillagersAssembling jocund in their best attireTo grace this genial morn. Now I descendTo join the worldly croud; perchance to talk,To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,That lift th' expanded heart above this spotTo heavenly musing, these shall pass away(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.So passeth human life; our better mindIs as a sunday's garment, then put onWhen we have nought to do; but at our workWe wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:To-morrow for severer thought; but nowTo breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

THE END.

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