Lichfield, an Elegy

Distinguish'd city!—round thy lofty spires
Bellona's spears, and Phoebus' golden lyres,
Threw gleams of glory, whose unfading flame,
Amidst thy country's annals, gilds thy name.

Has Beauty made thee its peculiar care,
Bade thee arise pre-eminently fair?
Or do remember'd days, that swiftly flew,
When life and all her blooming joys were new,
To my thrill'd spirit emulously bring
Elusions brighter than the shining Spring?

Yet, independent of their glowing spell,
Around thy spires exclusive graces dwell;
For there alone the blended charms prevail
Of city stateliness, and rural dale.
High o'er proud towns where Gothic structures rise,
How rare the freshness of unsullied skies!
Oft cling to choral walls the mansions vile,
Unseemly blots upon the graceful pile!
Here not one squalid, mouldering cell appears,
To mar the splendid toil of ancient years;
But, from the basis to the stately height,
One free and perfect whole it meets the sight,
Adorn'd, yet simple, though majestic, light;
While, as around that waving basis drawn,
Shines the green surface of the level lawn,
Full on its breast the spiral shadows tall,
Unbroken, and in solemn beauty, fall.

Near fanes, superb as these, how seldom found
Exemption from the city's mingled sound;
The iron rattling in the heavy drays,
The rumbling coaches, and the whirling chaise;
The clank of weary steeds, released the rein,
That slowly seek the neighbouring pond, or plain;
The town-cries, dinning from the crowded mart,
And the loud hammers of assiduous art!
Here (only when the organ's solemn sound
Shall swell, or sink, the vaulted roofs around,
While, from the full-voiced choir, the echoes bear
The pealing anthem through the circling air,)
No ruder voice the noon-day silence knows,
Than birds soft warbling 'mid luxuriant boughs.
For now in graceful freedom flow the trees,
That skirt the lawn, and wanton in the breeze.
Their light arcades in soft perspective throw
Stowe's sheltered fields, that gently slope below;—
Th' embosom'd lake, that, curling to the gale,
Shines, the clear mirror of the sylvan vale;
While on its bank, to humble virtue kind,
Where still the poor man's prayers acceptance find,
The mouldering tower, that 'mid the shade appears,
Green with the gather'd moss of countless years.
There his pale corse may quiet shelter crave,
As swells th' unequal turf with many a grave;
And there the suns of summer-evening look,
There tinge the waters of its huddling brook.

We mark the villa, rising near the lake,
And fairer she, that 'midst the verdant brake,
From sultry gleam, and wintry tempest shrill,
Stands softly curtain'd on the eastern hill;
The suburb-cots, that to the right extend,
And, half embower'd in village-semblance, bend
Towards the lone, rustic spire, that stands serene
Upon the south-hill top, and awes the smiling scene; 
While, save that to the left, o'er sloping fields,
Her soft, blue glimpse the distant country yields,
Closed are the gentle hills, that curve around,
And form the beauteous valley's early bound;
Throw every single feature it displays
Distinct and forward on the placid gaze;
Where nought disturbs, as soft the landscape glows,
Its silent graces in their sweet repose.

Now blends the liberal Spring thro' all the scene
The blossoms, silvering 'mid their tender green;
With king-cups gay each swelling mead she fills,
And strews them yellow o'er the circling hills.
Yet more majestic fanes may meet my gaze,
And vallies, winding in a richer maze,
But ah! 'tis those remember'd days that flew,
When life and all her golden joys were new,
That, beaming o'er the thrill'd remembrance, bring
Illusions brighter than the lucid Spring.
Compared with them, May's rosy morning spreads
No poignant sweetness from her violet beds;
Dim her bright noon, and rude her softest gale,
And June's purpureal evening cold and pale.