Lewesdon Hill

by William Crowe

LEWESDON HILL

 

A POEM.

 

 

Χαιρ' ω ῶεδον αγχιαλον,Και μ' ευπλοιᾳ ῶεμψον αμεμπτωςΕνθ' ἡ μεγαλη μοιρα κομιζει,————χῳ ῶανδαματωρΔαιμων, ος ταυτ' επεκρανεν.Soph.

 

Farewell thy printless sands and pebbly shore!I hear the white surge beat thy coast no more,Pure, gentle source of the high, rapturous mood!——————Where'er, like the great Flood, by thy dread forcePropell'd—shape Thou my calm, my blameless course,Heaven, Earth, and Ocean's Lord!—and Father of the Good!*** 

 

 

OXFORD:

AT THE CLARENDON PRESS, MDCCLXXXVIII.
SOLD BY D. PRINCE AND J. COOKE, OXFORD:
J. F. AND C. RIVINGTON,
T. CADELL, AND R. FAULDER, LONDON.

TO THERIGHT REVEREND FATHER IN GOD

JONATHAN

LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH

WHO IN A LEARNED FREE AND LIBERAL AGEIS HIMSELF MOST HIGHLY DISTINGUISHEDBY EXTENSIVE USEFUL AND ELEGANT LEARNINGBY A DISINTERESTED SUPPORT OF FREEDOMAND BY A TRULY CHRISTIAN LIBERALITY OF MIND

THIS POEM

WITH ALL RESPECT IS DEDICATEDBY HIS LORDSHIP'S MOST OBLIGEDAND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT

THE AUTHOR.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hill which gives title to the following Poem is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a Subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages where they are inserted. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins's History of Dorsetshire, (Vol. I. p. 366.) what is there said of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson) 'This and Pillesdon Hill, surmount all the hills, though very high, between them and the sea. Mariners call them the Cow and Calf, in which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who sail upon the coast.'

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

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LEWESDON HILL.

 

 

Up to thy summit, Lewesdon, to the browOf yon proud rising, where the lonely thornBends from the rude South-east, with top cut sheerBy his keen breath, along the narrow trackBy which the scanty-pastured sheep ascendUp to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb;My morning exercise; and thence look roundUpon the variegated scene, of hills,And woods, and fruitful vales, and villagesHalf-hid in tufted orchards, and the seaBoundless, and studded thick with many a sail.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaledFrom earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the mornAscend as incense to the Lord of day,I come to breathe your odours; while they floatYet near this surface, let me walk embathedIn your invisible perfumes, to healthSo friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heathAnd russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloakTo bide the hoary frosts and dripping rainsOf chill December, and art gaily robedIn livery of the spring: upon thy browA cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neckMantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thickOf golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woodsAdown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh topsOf the young hazel join, to form thy skirts In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath.So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee upAgainst the birth of May; and, vested so,Thou dost appear more gracefully array'dThan Fashion's worshippers; whose gaudy shows,Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams,From vanity to costly vanityChange ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,From sad to gay returning with the year,Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change.

These are the beauties of thy woodland sceneAt each return of spring: yet some delightRather to view the change; and fondly gazeOn fading colours, and the thousand tintsWhich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf.I like them not: for all their boasted huesAre kin to Sickliness; mortal DecayIs drinking up their vital juice; that gone,They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praiseSuch false complexions, and for beauty takeA look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray 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, Could I wear out this transitory beingIn peaceful contemplation and calm ease.But conscience, which still censures on our acts,That awful voice within us, and the senseOf an hereafter, wake and rouse us upFrom such unshaped retirement; which were elseA blest condition on this earthly stage.For who would make his life a life of toilFor wealth, o'erbalanced with a thousand cares;Or power, which base compliance must uphold;Or honour, lavish'd most on courtly slaves;Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;Who for such perishable gaudes would putA yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,And gall himself with trammels and the rubsOf this world's business; so he might stand clearOf judgment and the tax of idlenessIn that dread audit, when his mortal hours(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,And to remove, according to our power,The wants and evils of our brother's state, 'Tis meet we justle with the world; content,If by our sovereign Master we be foundAt last not profitless: for worldly meed,Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

From this proud eminence on all sides roundTh' unbroken prospect opens to my view;On all sides large; save only where the headOf Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen:So call (still rendering to his ancient nameObservance due) that rival Height south-west,Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seenHerds, ranging, or at rest beneath the shadeOf some wide-branching oak; there goodly fieldsOf corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kineReturning with their milky treasure homeStore the rich dairy: such fair plenty fillsThe pleasant vale of Marshwood; pleasant now,Since that the Spring has deck'd anew the meadsWith flowery vesture, and the warmer sunTheir foggy moistness drain'd; in wintry days Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocksUnfriendly, when autumnal rains beginTo drench the spungy turf: but ere that timeThe careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath^[1]In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fieldsOf Evesham, nor that ample valley namedOf the White Horse, its antique monumentCarved in the chalky bourne, for beauty' and wealthMight equal, though surpassing in extent,This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's baseExtended to the sea, and water'd wellBy many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the sideOf Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip Adown the valley, wandering sportively.Alas, how soon thy little course will end!How soon thy infant stream shall lose itselfIn the salt mass of waters, ere it growTo name or greatness! Yet it flows alongUntainted with the commerce of the world,Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;But through sequester'd meads, a little space,Winds secretly, and in its wanton pathMay cheer some drooping flower, or ministerOf its cool water to the thirsty lamb:Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pureAs when it issued from its native hill.

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,Thine innocent and playful infancyWas swallowed up in death, and thy pure spiritIn that illimitable gulf which boundsOur mortal continent. But not there lost,Not there extinguish'd, as some falsely teach,Who can talk much and learnedly of life, Who know our frame and fashion, who can tellThe substance and the properties of man,As they had seen him made; aye and stood bySpies on Heaven's work. They also can discourseWisely, to prove that what must be must be,And shew how thoughts are jogg'd out of the brainBy a mechanical impulse; pushing onThe minds of us, poor unaccountables,To fatal resolution. Know they not,That in this mortal life, whate'er it be,We take the path that leads to good or evil,And therein find our bliss or misery?And this includes all reasonable endsOf knowledge or of being; farther to goIs toil unprofitable, and th' effectMost perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure;Where Freedom is not, there no Virtue is:If there be none, this world is all a cheat,And the divine stability of Heaven(That assured seat for good men after death)Is but a transient cloud; display'd so fairTo cherish virtuous hope, but at our need Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,Were it not better to be born a beast,Only to feel what is, and thus to scapeThe aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breastWith sore anxiety of what shall be;And all for nought? Since our most wicked actIs not our sin, and our religious aweDelusion; if that strong NecessityChains up our will. But that the mind is free,The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,Is feelingly convinced; nor to be movedBy subtle words, that may perplex the head,But ne'er persuade the heart. Vain Argument,That with false weapons of PhilosophyFights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature's strength!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar offPours down the golden radiance of his lightUpon the enridged sea; where the black shipSails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm, When forth for India sail'd, in evil timeThat Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,Fill'd every breast with horror, and each eyeWith piteous tears; so cruel was the loss.^[2]Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry stormShatter'd and driven along past yonder Isle,She strove, her latest hope, by strength or artTo gain the Port within it, or at worstTo shun that harbourless and hollow coast From Portland eastward to the ^[3]Promontory,Where still St. Alban's high-built chapel stands.But art nor strength avail her: on she drives,In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;And there 'mong rocks and high-o'erhanging cliffsDash'd piteously, with all her precious freightWas lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jawsSwallow'd up quick! The richliest-laden shipOf spicy Ternate, or that annual, sentTo the Philippines o'er the Southern mainFrom Acapulco, carrying massy gold,Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,And Beauty, and high Courage undismay'dBy mortal terrors, and paternal Love Strong, and unconquerable even in death—Alas, they perish'd all, all in one hour!

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bareWith ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and trackOf many' indenting wheels, heavy and light,That violently rush with unsafe speed,Or slowly turn, oft-resting, up the steep.Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,From ^[4]Shipton's bottom to the lofty downWinds like a path of pleasure, drawn by artThrough park or flowery garden for delight.Nor less delightful this; if, while he mountsNot wearied, the free Journeyer will pauseTo view the prospect oft, as oft to seeBeauty still changing: yet not so contrivedBy fancy' or choice, but of necessity,By soft gradations of ascent to lead 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: Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to theeBelongs such rest; who in the western world,Thine own deliver'd country, for thyselfHast planted an immortal grove, and there,Upon the glorious mount of LibertyReposing, sit'st beneath the palmy shade.

And Thou, not less renown'd in like attemptOf high atchievement, though thy virtue fail'dTo save thy little country, Patriot Prince,Hero, Philosopher (what more could theyWho wisely chose Thee, Paoli, to blessThy native Isle, long struggling to be free?But Heaven allow'd not) yet may'st thou reposeAfter thy glorious toil, secure of fameWell-earn'd by virtue: while ambitious France,Who stretch'd her lawless hand to seize thine isle,Enjoys not rest or glory; with her preyGorged but not satisfied, and craving stillAgainst th' intent of Nature. See Her nowUpon the adverse shore, her Norman coast, ^[5]Plying her monstrous labour unrestrain'd;A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,With towery shape and height, and armed headsUprising o'er the surge; and these between,Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rockProjected many a mile to rear her wallMidst the deep waters. She, the mighty workStill urging, in her arrogant attempt,As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,'Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid'The raging of thy waves; within this bound'Be all my haven:' and therewith takes inA space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,Won from the straiten'd main: nor less in strengthThan in dimensions; giant-like in both:On each side flank'd with citadels and towersAnd rocky walls, and arches massy proofAgainst the storm of war. Compared with this,^[6]Less, and less hazardous emprize atcheived Resistless Alexander, when he castThe strong foundations of that high-raised moundDeep in the hostile waves, his martial way;Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.^[7]Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,At Athos or the fetter'd Hellespont,Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,Xerxes,—but ere he turn'd from SalamisFly'ing through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.^[8]Nor yet that elder work (if work it were,Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,A thousand ships behind the vasty moleAll shelter'd) could with this compare, though builtIt seem'd, of greatness worthy to createEnvy in the immortals; and at lastNot overthrown without th' embattled aidOf angry Neptune. So may He once moreRise from his troubled bed, and send his waves, Urged on to fury by contending winds,With horned violence to push and whelmThis pile, usurping on his watry reign!

From hostile shores returning, glad I lookOn native scenes again; and first saluteThee, ^[9]Burton, and thy lofty cliff, where oftThe nightly blaze is kindled; further seenThan erst was that love-tended cresset, hungBeside the Hellespont: yet not like thatInviting to the hospitable armsOf Beauty' and Youth, but lighted up, the signOf danger, and of ambush'd foes to warnThe stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward boundFrom Havre or the Norman isles, with freightOf wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quellMany a light skiff and well-appointed sloop Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behindSome curved promontory, in hope to seizeThese contraband: vain hope! on that high shoreStation'd, th' associates of their lawless tradeKeep watch, and to their fellows off at seaGive the known signal; they with fearful hasteObservant, put about the ship, and plungeInto concealing darkness. As a fox,That from the cry of hounds and hunters' dinRuns crafty down the wind, and steals awayForth from his cover, hopeful so t'eludeThe not yet following pack,—if chance the shoutOf eager or unpractised boy betrayHis meditated flight, back he retiresTo shelter him in the thick wood: so theseRetiring, ply to south, and shun the landToo perilous to approach: and oft at seaSecure (or ever nigh the guarded coastThey venture) to the trackless deep they trustTheir forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,Together link'd upon their cable's length,And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt By stony weights; till happier hour arriveTo land it on the vacant beach unrisk'd.

But what is yonder ^[10]Hill, whose dusky browWears, like a regal diadem, the roundOf antient battlements and ramparts high;And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not.Thou hast no name, no honourable note,No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,To testify what once thou wert, how great,How glorious, and how fear'd. So perish all, Who seek their greatness in dominion heldOver their fellows, or the pomp of war;And be as thou forgotten, and their fameCancell'd like thine! But thee in after timesReclaim'd to culture, Shepherds visited,And call'd thee Orgarston; so thee they call'dOf Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sireOf fair Elfrida; She, whose happy BardHas with his gentle witchery so wroughtUpon our sense, that we can see no moreHer mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,And purple robes of state with royal bloodInhospitably stain'd; but in their placePure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hailThe ground where ^[11]Hollis lies; his choice retreat, Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he livedTo generous Virtue, and the holy loveOf Liberty, a dedicated spirit:And left his ashes there; still honouringThy fields, with title given of patriot names,But more with his untitled sepulchre.That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight;Which, passing o'er thy place north-east, looks onTo Sherburne's ancient towers and rich domains,The noble Digby's mansion; where he dwellsInviolate, and fearless of thy curse,War-glutted ^[12]Osmund, superstitious Lord! Who with Heaven's justice for a bloody lifeMadest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,And daredst bid th' Almighty to becomeThe minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fellWith sacred vengeance pointed on the headOf many a bold usurper: chief on thine(Favourite of Fortune once but last her thrall)Accomplish'd^[13] Raleigh! in that lawless day When, like a goodly hart, thou wert besetWith crafty blood-hounds lurching for thy lifeWhileas they feign'd to chace thee fairly down:And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing king,Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen,The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now 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 With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,Till all the creatures of this nether worldAre one wide quarry: following dark behind,The cormorant Oblivion swallows upThe carcasses that Time has made his prey.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine; the chimesMerrily follow, tuneful to the senseOf the pleased clown attentive, while they makeFalse-measured melody on crazy bells.O wondrous Power of modulated sound!Which like the air (whose all-obedient shapeThou makest thy slave) canst subtilly pervadeThe yielded avenues of sense, unlockThe close affections, by some fairy pathWinning an easy way through every ear,And with thine unsubstantial qualityHolding in mighty chains the hearts of all;All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits,Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended powerOf voice with instruments of wind and string? 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.

1. To coath, Skinner says, is a word common in Lincolnshire, and signifies, to faint. He derives it from the Anglo-Saxon coðe, a disease. In Dorsetshire it is in common use, but it is used of sheep only: a coathed sheep is a rotten sheep; to coath is to take the rot. Rechasing is also a term in that county appropriated to flocks: to chase and rechase is to drive sheep at certain times from one sort of ground to another, or from one parish to another.
   The Author having ventured to introduce some provincial and other terms, takes this occasion to say, that it is a liberty in which he has not indulged himself, but when he conceived them to be allowable for the sake of ornament or expression.
2. The distressful condition of the Halswell here alluded to is thus circumstantially described in the narrative of her loss, p. 13.
   "Thursday the 5th, at two in the morning the wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the weather was very thick: at noon Portland was seen, bearing N. by E. distance two or three leagues; at eight at night it blew a strong gale at S. and at this time the Portland lights were seen, bearing N. W. distance four or five leagues, when they wore ship, and got her head to the westward; but finding they lost ground upon that tack, they wore again, and kept stretching on eastward, in hopes to have weathered Peverel-point, in which case they intended to have anchored in Studland Bay: at 11 at night it cleared, and they saw St. Alban's-head a mile and a half to the leeward of them; upon which they took in sail immediately, and let go the small bower anchor, which brought up the ship at a whole cable, and she rode for about an hour, but then drove; they now let go the sheet anchor and wore away a whole cable, and the ship rode for about two hours longer, when she drove again.—They were then driving very fast on shore, and might expect every moment to strike!"
3. 'Not far from this (Encombe) stands St. Aldene's Chapel: which took name from the dedication to St. Adeline, the first bishop of Sherbourne in this shire: but now it serves for a sea-mark.' Coker's Survey of Dorsetsh. p. 47.
   Near the sea is the high land of St. Aldhelm's, commonly called St. Alban's, a noted sea-mark. The cliff here is 147 yards perpendicular. On this promontory, about a mile S. of Worth, stands a chapel of the same name.' Hutchins's Dorsetsh. Vol. I. p. 228. But this headland is not marked by name in Hutchins's map. 'The very utter part of St. Aldhelm's point is five miles from Sandwich (Swanwich). Lel. Itin. Vol. III. p. 53.
4. Shipton is a hill, which, according to common report, is so called from its shape; the top of it being formed like a ship with the keel upwards. It stands three miles from Bridport on the road towards London; which road passes by the foot of it to the North.
5. A detail of this vast project is given at the conclusion of this Poem.
6. Quint. Curt. lib. 4, cap. 2, 3.
7. Juv. Sat. X. v. 173. 186.
8. Hom. Il. VII. v. 436. 463. et Il. XII. v. 1, 33.
9. Burton is a village near the sea, lying S. E. from Lewesdon, and about two miles S. of Shipton-hill beforementioned. The Cliff is among the loftiest of all upon that coast; and Smugglers often take advantage of its height for the purpose related in the poem.
10. 'Eggardon Hill is a very high hill, and gives name to the Hundred. Mr. Coker says it is uncertain whether it takes its name from Edgar, king of the West Saxons, or from Orgarus, Earl of Cornwall: and indeed this last derivation is the truest; there being little reason to doubt that it is the old Orgarestone. The camp on the brow of this hill is a large and strong fortification, and seems to be Roman.'—Hutchins's Dorset, Vol. I. p. 289; where there is an engraving of this camp. But Hutchins has misrepresented Mr. Coker, who indeed prefers the derivation from Orgar. His words are these: 'That it takes name from Edgar, the West Saxon king, I dare not affirm, having nothing to prove it but the nearnesse of the name. It better likes me to think this the place, which in Doomsday-book is called Orgareston, but whether it take name from Orgareus, Earl of Cornwall, I know not; though I think I should run into no great error to believe it. Coker's Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 26.
11. 'Mr. Hollis, in order to preserve the memory of those heroes and patriots for whom he had a veneration, as the assertors and defenders of his country, called many of the farms and fields in his estate at Corscombe by their names; and by these names they are still distinguished. In the middle of one of those fields, not far from his house, he ordered his corps to be deposited in a grave ten feet deep; and that the field should be immediately ploughed over, that no trace of his burial place might remain.' Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. vol. I. p. 481.
12. Of the strange curse belonging to Shireburne-Castle. From a MS. of the late Bishop of Ely (Bp John More) now in the Royal Library at Cambridge.
    'Osmund a Norman knight (who had served William Duke of Normandy from his youth, in all his wars against the French king, and the Duke's (William's) subjects, with much valour and discretion) for all his faithful service (when his Master had by conquest obteyned the crown of England) was rewarded with many great gifts; among the which was the Earldome of Dorsett, and the gift of many other Possessions, whereof the Castle and Baronie of Sherburne were parcell. But Osmund, in the declyninge of his age, calling to mynde the great effusion of blood, which, from his infancie, he had shedd; he resolved to leave all worldly delights, and betake himself to a religious life, the better to contemplate on his former sinnes and to obteyn Pardon for them. And, with much importunitie, having gotten leave of the Kinge (who was unwilling to want the assistance of so grave and worthy a Counsellor) to resign his temporall honors; and having obteyned the bishoprick of Sarum, he gave Sherburne with other lands to the Bishoprick. To which gift he annexed this curse,
    That whosoever should take those Lands from the Bishoprick, or diminish them in great or in small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but also in the world to come; unless in his life-time he made restitution thereof. And so he died bishop of Sarum.
    Those lands continued in the possession of his successors till the reign of King Stephen, who took them away; 'whereupon (says this Account) his prosperity forsook him.' King Stephen being dead, 'these lands came into the hands of some of the Montagues (after Erles of Sarum) who whilest they held the same, underwent many disasters. For one or other of them fell by misfortune. And finally, all the males of them became extinct, and the Earldome received an end in their name. So ill was their success.
    After this the lands were restored to the Bishoprick; but were taken away a second time by the Duke of Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI; 'when the Duke, being hunting in the Parke of Sherburne, he was sent for presently unto the Kinge (to whome he was Protector) and at his coming up to London, was forthwith committed unto the Tower, and. shortly after, lost his head.' The lands then, in a suit at law, were adjudged to the Bishop of Sarum; and so remained, 'till Sir Walter Raleigh procured a grant of them; he afterwards unfortunately lost them, and at last his head also. Upon his attainder they came, by the King's gift, to Prince Henry; who died not long after the possession thereof. After Prince Henry's death, the Erle of Somersett (Carr) did possesse them. Finally, he lost them, and many other fortunes.' Peck's Desid. Cur. Lib. 14. No. 6.
13. 'How Dr. John Coldwell, of a Physitian, became a Bishop I have heard by more than a good many; and I will briefly handle it, and as tenderly as I can; bearing myself equal between the living (Sir Walter Raleigh) and the dead (Bishop Coldwell). Yet the manifest judgements of God on both of them I may not pass over with silence. And to speak first of the Knight, who carried off the Spolia opima of the Bishoprick. He, having gotten Sherborne Castle, Park, and Parsonage, was in those days in so great favour with the Queen, as I may boldly say, that with less suit than he was fain to make to her e'er he could perfect this his purchase, and with less money than he bestowed since in Sherborne (in building, and buying out leases, and in drawing the river through rocks into his garden) he might, very justly, and without offence of either Church Or State, have compassed a much better purchase. Also, as I have been truly informed, he had a presage before he first attempted it, which did foreshew it would turn to his ruin, and might have kept him from meddling with it,—Si mens non læva fuisset: For, as he was riding post between Plymouth and the Court [as many times he did upon no small employments) this Castle being right in the way, he cast such an eye upon it as Ahab did upon Naboth's Vineyard. And, once above the rest, being talking of it (of the commodiousness of the place, of the strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the Bishopric) suddenly over and over came his horse, that his very face (which was then thought a very good face) plowed up the earth where he fell. This fall was ominous I make no question; and himself was apt to construe it so. But his brother Adrian would needs have him interpret it as a conqueror, that his fall presaged the quiet possession of it. And accordingly for the present it so fell out. So that with much labor, cost, envy, and obloquy he got it habendum et tenendum to him and his heirs. But see what became of him. In the public joy and jubile of the whole realm (when favor, peace, and pardon, were offered even to offenders) he who in wit, in wealth, in courage was inferior to few, fell suddenly (I cannot tell how) into such a downfall of despair; as his greatest enemy would not have wished him so much harm, as he would have done himself. Can any man be so wilfully blind, as not to see and say, Digitus Dei hic est!" Harrington's Breif View, p. 88.