In spiral clouds, through holly’s green

In spiral clouds, through holly’s green, The meadow-hamlet’s smoke I spy, As hastening, ere the fall of e’en, To Preston’s sacred shades I fly; While playful in my path appears The house-dog pricking up his ears, And rosy boys that struggling seek Who first a parent’s name may speak; And, as expression warms each face, Rush fondly to their sire’s embrace.

Short greetings were as shortly made, When winding by the river’s shade, Where fertile pastures shine, I stood by Baldred’s noisy wheel, Where, serpent-like, the waters steal Bright, through the groves of Tyne. I sought in Preston’s holy fane, But all my search was given in vain To find his sacred shrine; Here wakes no midnight anthem’s swell, No croslet mark remains to tell Where the saint’s relics lie; For time, alas! long since has thrown Oblivion o’er the moulder’d stone, And veil’d it from the eye! The moralist may homeward turn, The futile works of man to mourn; If mean and lowly be his lot, The great alike will be forgot! If earthly glory dims his eyes, Here let him ponder, and be wise!