Above the noise and stir of yonder fields Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind Expand itself in wider liberty. The distant sounds break gently on my sense, Soothing to meditation: so methinks, Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world, Could I wear out this transitory being In peaceful contemplation and calm ease. But Conscience, which still censures on our acts, That awful voice within us, and the sense Of an Hereafter, wake and rouse us up From such unshaped retirement; which were else A blest condition on this earthly stage. For who would make his life a life of toil For wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares; Or power, which base compliance must uphold; Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves; Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world; Who for such perishable gaudes would put A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit, And gall himself with trammels and the rubs Of this world’s business; so he might stand clear Of judgment and the tax of idleness In that dread audit, when his mortal hours (Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by) Must all be counted for? But, for this fear, And to remove, according to our power, The wants and evils of our brother’s state, ’Tis meet we justle with the world; content, If by our sovereign Master we be found At last not profitless: for worldly meed, Given or withheld, I deem of it alike. From this proud eminence on all sides round Th’ unbroken prospect opens to my view, On all sides large; save only where the head Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen: So call (still rendering to his ancient name Observance due) that rival Height south-west, Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath. There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine Returning with their milky treasure home Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now, Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meads With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun Their foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry days Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin To drench the spungy turf: but ere that time The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2] In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields Of _Evesham_, nor that ample valley named Of the _White Horse_, its antique monument Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth Might equal, though surpassing in extent, This fertile vale, in length from LEWESDON’S base Extended to the sea, and water’d well By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream, Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side Of LEWESDON softly welling forth, dost trip Adown the valley, wandering sportively.