From hostile shores returning, glad I look On native scenes again; and first salute Thee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oft The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that Inviting to the hospitable arms Of Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the sign Of danger, and of ambush’d foes to warn The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France, Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind Some curved promontory, in hope to seize These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore Station’d, th’ associates of their lawless trade Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea Give the known signal; they with fearful haste Observant, put about the ship, and plunge Into concealing darkness. As a fox, That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ din Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away Forth from his cover, hopeful so t’ elude The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout Of eager or unpractised boy betray His meditated flight, back he retires To shelter him in the thick wood: so these Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast They venture) to the trackless deep they trust Their 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 arrive To land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d. But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky brow Wears, like a regal diadem, the round Of ancient 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 held Over their fellows, or the pomp of war, And be as thou forgotten, and their fame Cancell’d like thine! But thee in after times Reclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited, And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’d Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard Has with his gentle witchery so wrought Upon our sense, that we can see no more Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty, And purple robes of state with royal blood Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek, Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.