f HISTORY OP BISHOP AUCKLAND. And quick sosception of accordant sounds, Attunes your minds to luurmony diyine ! Thrice happy ye, whose golden harps the muse Will not refuse with skilful hand to string % MsLPOMENB, thou swoetly singing maid, Be present here-— be present heaVnly muse 1 In gentle numbers give my lines to flow, Where the soft landscape lies o'er yonder lawn ; Or in description rise to bolder strains, Where hanging forests crown the toVring rocks. Behold those yellow cliffs, whose shaken sides With threat'ning greatness please, — save where the wood. With verdant foliage, veils their ragged fronts : A varied scene of oak, of ash, and beech. Shade above shade in ample order spread. When Spring advancing clothes the laughing grove In robes of green, emboss'd with blossoms pale : When autumn tinctures eVry fading leaf With vivid dyes, from tiie refulgent gold To the full bodied tint of russet brown ; Say, can tiie pencil's warmest touch convey The varied richness of the glowing scene % How sweetly doth the crystal stream pour forth It's dimpled current o'er tiie velvet coats Of mossy pebbles, — soft the tinkling sound, Where 'twixt the rocks it bubbles, — ^whilst the dove Coos to her distant mate in plaintive strain. 61 As from this eminence I overlook The groves that hang on each declining steep, And shade the purling rivulet that flows Thro' grassy plains, meandering and slow, As if reluctant to depart the vale : The far extended prospect charms the eye ; High on the right, the woodlands clothe the lull In front, just breaking from the op'ning copse, A mansion rises of monastic form, And imitative of some cloistered dome. Where our religious sires, in sober weeds. Their vOws perf orm'd, and liVd an holy life : There, whilst the storm that howls thro' wintry skieBy Deforms the sadden'd year, the deer retire. And in the arch'd piazza shelter find. The verdant mount on which this fabric standsy Without the camp, in Roman times was giVn To Libitina's rites ; — ^the funeral pile Here rear'd its pitchy beams, and here the torch, With face averted, to his cheftian's pyre The weeping soldier yielded, — whilst the pipe, In mournful notes, his obit prodaim'd. And the green sod drank in tiie purple blood Of dying gladiators ; — ^here are found The sacred monuments of heroes dead ; The mould'ring urns of those, whose peaceful sleep Oblivion has held a thousand yeazs, «««♦«♦ Digitized by Google ^
