Old castles on the cliffs arise,
  Proudly towering in the skies! 
  Rushing from the woods, the spires
  Seem from hence ascending fires! 
  Half his beams Apollo sheds
  On the yellow mountain-heads! 
  Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
  And glitters on the broken rocks!

  Below me trees unnumbered rise,
  Beautiful in various dyes: 
  The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
  The yellow beech, the sable yew,
  The slender fir, that taper grows,
  The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
  And beyond the purple grove,
  Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! 
  Gaudy as the opening dawn,
  Lies a long and level lawn
  On which a dark hill, steep and high,
  Holds and charms the wandering eye!

  Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood,
  His sides are clothed with waving wood,
  And ancient towers crown his brow,
  That cast an awful look below;
  Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
  And with her arms from falling keeps;
  So both a safety from the wind
  On mutual dependence find.

  ’Tis now the raven’s bleak abode;
  ‘Tis now th’ apartment of the toad;
  And there the fox securely feeds;
  And there the poisonous adder breeds
  Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds: 
  While, ever and anon, there falls
  Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
  Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
  And level lays the lofty brow,
  Has seen this broken pile complete,
  Big with the vanity of state;
  But transient is the smile of fate! 
  A little rule, a little sway,
  A sunbeam in a winter’s day,
  Is all the proud and mighty have
  Between the cradle and the grave.

  And see the rivers how they run,
  Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
  Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
  Wave succeeding wave, they go
  A various journey to the deep,
  Like human life to endless sleep! 
  Thus is nature’s vesture wrought,
  To instruct our wandering thought;
  Thus she dresses green and gay,
  To disperse our cares away.

  Ever charming, ever new,
  When will the landscape tire the view! 
  The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow,
  The woody valleys warm and low;
  The windy summit, wild and high,
  Roughly rushing on the sky;
  The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
  The naked rock, the shady bower;

  The town and village, dome and farm,
  Each gives each a double charm,
  As pearls upon an Aethiop’s arm.

  See, on the mountain’s southern side,
  Where the prospect opens wide,
  Where the evening gilds the tide;
  How close and small the hedges lie! 
  What streaks of meadows cross the eye! 
  A step methinks may pass the stream,
  So little distant dangers seem;
  So we mistake the future’s face,
  Eyed through Hope’s deluding glass;
  As yon summits soft and fair
  Clad in colours of the air,
  Which to those who journey near,
  Barren, brown, and rough appear;
  Still we tread the same coarse way;
  The present’s still a cloudy day.