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, On whose last line, seen like a beacon, hangs Thy tower,[146] 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[147] 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.[148] O venerable pile,[149] 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[150] 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
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