SKETCH FROM BOWDEN HILL AFTER SICKNESS. William Lisle Bowles Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
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. 219-222.

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SKETCH FROM BOWDEN HILL AFTER SICKNESS . How cheering are thy prospects , airy hill , To him who , pale and languid , on thy brow Pauses , respiring , and bids hail again The upland breeze , the comfortable sun , And all the landscape's hues ! Upon the point Of the descending steep I stand . How rich , How mantling in the gay and gorgeous tints Of summer ! far beneath me , sweeping on , From field to field , from vale to cultured vale , The prospect spreads its crowded beauties wide ! Long lines of sunshine , and of shadow , streak The farthest distance ; where the passing light Alternate falls , ' mid undistinguished trees , White dots of gleamy domes , and peeping towers , As from the painter's instant touch , appear . As thus the eye ranges from hill to hill , Here white with passing sunshine , there with trees Innumerable shaded , clustering more , As the long vale retires , the ample scene , Warm with new grace and beauty , seems to live . Lives ! all is animation ! beauty ! hope ! Snatched from the dark and dreamless grave , so late , Shall I pass silent , now first issuing forth , To feel again thy fragrance , to respire Thy breath , to hail thy look , thy living look , O Nature ! Let me the deep joy contrast , Which now the inmost heart like music fills , With the sick chamber's sorrows , oft from morn , Silent , till lingering eve , save when the sound Of whispers steal , and bodings breathed more low , As friends approach the pillow : so awaked From deadly trance , the sick man lifts his eyes , Then in despondence closes them on all , All earth's fond wishes ! Oh , how changed are now His thoughts ! he sees rich nature glowing round , He feels her influence ! languid with delight , And whilst his eye is filled with transient fire , He almost thinks he hears her gently say , Live , live ! O Nature , thee , in the soft winds , Thee , in the soothing sound of summer leaves , When the still earth lies sultry ; thee , methinks , Ev'n now I hear bid welcome to thy vales And woods again ! And I will welcome them , And pour , as erst , the song of heartfelt praise . From yonder line , where fade the farthest hills Which bound the blue lap of the swelling vale , On whose last line , seen like a beacon , hangs Thy tower , Sir Richard Hoare's tower at Stourhead . benevolent , accomplished Hoare , To where I stand , how wide the interval ! Yet instantaneous , to the hurrying eye Displayed ; though peeping towers and villages Thick scattered , ' mid the intermingling elms , And towns remotely marked by hovering smoke , And grass-green pastures with their herds , and seats Of rural beauty , cottages and farms , Unnumbered as the hedgerows , lie between ! Roaming at large to where the gray sky bends , The eye scarce knows to rest , till back recalled By yonder ivied cloisters Lacock Abbey . in the plain , Whose turret , peeping pale above the shade , Smiles in the venerable grace of years . As the few threads of age's silver hairs , Just sprinkled o'er the forehead , lend a grace Of saintly reverence , seemly , though compared With blooming Mary's tresses like the morn ; So the gray weather-stained towers yet wear A secret charm impressive , though opposed To views in verdure flourishing , the woods , And scenes of Attic taste , that glitter near . Bowood , Mr Dickenson's and Mr Methuen's magnificent mansion . O venerable pile , Lacock Abbey . though now no more The pensive passenger , at evening , hears The slowly-chanted vesper ; or the sounds Of " Miserere , " die along the vale ; Yet piety and honoured age The venerable Catholic Countess , who resides in the abbey . retired , There hold their blameless sojourn , ere the bowl Be broken , or the silver chord be loosed . Nor can I pass , snatched from untimely fate , Without a secret prayer , that so my age , When many a circling season has declined , In charity and peace may wait its close . Yet still be with me , O delightful friend , Soothing companion of my vacant hours , Oh , still be with me , Spirit of the Muse ! Not to subdue , or hold in moody spell , The erring senses , but to animate And warm my heart , where'er the prospect smiles , With Nature's fairest views ; not to display Vain ostentations of a poet's art , But silent , and associate of my joys Or sorrows , to infuse a tenderness , A thought , that seems to mingle , as I gaze , With all the works of God . So cheer my path , From youth to sober manhood , till the light Of evening smile upon the fading scene . And though no pealing clarion swell my fame , When all my days are gone ; let me not pass , Like the forgotten clouds of yesterday , Nor unremembered by the fatherless Of the loved village where my bones are laid .