The pointed spire, the hall, the pasture-plain, 

 The russet fallow, and the golden grain ; 

 The breezy lake that sheds a gleaming light, 

 'Til all the fading picture fails the sight. 



Each to his task : all different ways retire ; 

 Cull the dry stick ; call forth the seeds of fire ; 

 Deep fix the nettle's props, a fork}^ row ; 

 Or give with fanning hat one breeze to blow. 



Whence is this taste, the furnish'd hall forgot. 

 To feast in gardens, or th' unhandy grot? 

 Or novelty with some new charms surprises; 

 Or from our very shifts some joy arises. 



Hark, while below the village bells ring round. 

 Echo, sweet Nymph, returns the soften'd sound : 

 But if gusts rise, the rushing forests roar, 

 Like the tide tumbling on the pebbly shore. 

 Adown the vale, in lone sequester'd nook. 

 Where skirting woods imbrown the dimpling brook. 

 The ruin'd Abbey lies: here wont to dwell * 

 The lazy monk within his cloister'd cell ; 

 While papal darkness brooded o'er the land ; 

 Ere Reformation made her glorious stand : 

 Still oft at eve belated shepherd-swains 

 See the cowl'd spectre skim the folded plains. 



To the high Temple would my stranger go, f 

 Whose mountain-brow commands the groves below? 



* The ruins of a Priory founded by Peter de Rupibus, Bishop ot 

 Winton. 



f The remains of a supposed lodge belonging to the Knights 

 Templars. 



