ELEGY WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS, BRISTOL, JULY, 1789. William Lisle Bowles Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Bowles, William Lisle, 1762-1850. The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. I. With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes by George Gilfillan. Edinburgh James Nichol, 9 North Bank Street... 1855 pp. 32-35.

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ELEGY WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS , BRISTOL , JULY , 1789. INSCRIBED TO THE REV. W. HOWLEY . Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury . The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray , The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold , Prone from the cliff the falcon wheels her way , And long and loud the bell's slow chime is tolled . The reddening light gains fast upon the skies , And far away the glistening vapours sail , Down the rough steep the accustomed hedger hies , And the stream winds in brightness through the vale . Mark how those riven rocks on either shore Uplift their bleak and furrowed fronts on high ; How proudly desolate their foreheads hoar , That meet the earliest sunbeams of the sky ! Bound for yon dusky mart , Bristol . with pennants gay , The tall bark , on the winding water's line , Between the riven cliffs slow plies her way , And peering on the sight the white sails shine . Alas ! for those by drooping sickness worn , Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray ; And feel the fragrance of the tepid morn Round their torn breasts and throbbing temples play ! From a latin prize poem , by W. Jackson — " Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes . " Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn ; Whilst every breeze seems , as it whispers by , To breathe of comfort never to return . Yet oft , as sadly thronging dreams arise , Awhile forgetful of their pain they gaze , A transient lustre lights their faded eyes , And o'er their cheek the tender hectic plays . The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam The cliff's tall crest , the waving woods that ring With songs of birds rejoicing in the beam , Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string . Then at sad Meditation's silent hour A thousand wishes steal upon the heart ; And , whilst they meekly bend to Heaven's high power , Ah ! think 'tis hard , 'tis surely hard to part : To part from every hope that brought delight , From those that loved them , those they loved so much ! Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight , And softens every scene at every touch . Sweet as the mellowed woods beneath the moon , Remembrance lends her soft-uniting shades ; " Some natural tears she drops , but wipes them soon : " — The world retires , and its dim prospect fades ! Airs of delight , that soothe the aching sense ; Waters of health , that through yon caverns glide ; Oh ! kindly yet your healing powers dispense , And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide ! Perhaps to these gray rocks and mazy springs Some heart may come , warmed with the purest fire ; For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings , And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre . Some orphan Maid , deceived in early youth , Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress ; Who dream of faith , of happiness , and truth , Of love — that Virtue would protect and bless . Some musing Youth in silence there may bend , Untimely stricken by sharp Sorrow's dart ; For friendship formed , yet left without a friend , And bearing still the arrow at his heart . Such was lamented Russell's The Rev. Thomas Russell , Fellow of New College , Oxford , author of some beautiful sonnets , died at the Hotwells 1788 , in the twenty-sixth year of his age . His poems were first published by Mr Howley , with whom we wooed the Muses together on the banks of Itchen . Headley was a pupil of Dr Parr . early doom , The gay companion of our stripling prime ; Ev'n so he sank unwept into the tomb , And o'er his head closed the dark gulph of time . Hither he came , a wan and weary guest , A softening balm for many a wound to crave ; And wooed the sunshine to his aching breast , Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave ! He heard the whispering winds that now I hear , As , boding much , along these hills he passed ; Yet ah ! how mournful did they meet his ear On that sad morn he heard them for the last ! So sinks the scene , like a departed dream , Since late we sojourned blythe in Wykeham's bowers , Winchester College . Or heard the merry bells by Isis ' stream , And thought our way was strewed with fairy flowers ! Of those with whom we played upon the lawn Of early life , in the fresh morning played ; Alas ! how many , since that vernal dawn , Like thee , poor Russell , ' neath the turf are laid ! Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand , By friendship led along the springtide plain ; How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland , And on the lids the glistening tear detain ! I yet survive , now musing other song , Than that which early pleased my vacant years ; Thinking how days and hours have passed along , Marked by much pleasure some , and some by tears ! Thankful , that to these verdant scenes I owe That he The Rev. Dr Howley , afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury . whom late I saw all drooping pale , Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe , Now lives with me these mantling views to hail . Thankful , that still the landscape beaming bright , Of pendant mountain , or of woodland gray , Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight , And charm a while my solitary way . Enough : — through the high heaven the proud sun rides , My wandering steps their silent path pursue Back to the crowded world where fortune guides : Clifton , to thy white rocks and woods adieu !