Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail The ground where Hollis[12] lies; his choice retreat, Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived To generous Virtue, and the holy love Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit; And left his ashes there; still honouring Thy fields, with title given of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 on To Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains, The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwells Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse, War-glutted Osmund,[13] superstitious Lord! Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody life Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt, And darest bid th’ Almighty to become The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell, So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell With sacred vengeance pointed on the head Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine (Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall), Accomplish’d[14] Raleigh! in that lawless day When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life, While as they feign’d to chase 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 top Of that north-western hill; and in this Now A cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulk Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot Which the strain’d vision tires itself to find. And even so fares it with the things of earth Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud That shall infold them up, and leave their place A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken Reaches too far, when all that we behold Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings (Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth) Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem To foster what they touch, and mortal fools Rejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while! For in that indefatigable flight The multitudinous strokes incessantly Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all His secret injury; on the front of man Gray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat With ceaseless violence; nor overpass, Till all the creatures of this nether world Are one wide quarry: following dark behind, The cormorant Oblivion swallows up The carcasses that Time has made his prey.