Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;

And through the trees I view the embattled tower,
Whence all the music. I again perceive

The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,

Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.

The way to the Alcove from the rustic Bridge is admirably and correctly described.

Hence, ancle-deep in moss and flowery thyme,

We mount again, and feel at every step

Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,
Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures Earth: and, plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,

That may record the mischiefs he has done.

Having attained the eminence, and entered the Alcove,

Now roves the eye;

And, posted on this speculative height,

Exults in its command.

The south-east prospect is particularly interesting; here is seen the other extremity of the grove, which commences at the rustic Bridge, and the Brook just emerging from the shady valley. Here also appear the tops of firs and pines, which form the plantation standing between the Peasants' Nest and the Colonnade: and towering from among the foliage like a lofty obelisk, is seen the spire of Olney Church, beyond which are the hills in the neighbourhood of Clifton. The proprietor of the grounds has very judiciously caused a gap to be kept open in the plantation of pines, in order to afford a view of the spire, which would otherwise soon be obscured by the growth of trees. Directly in front of this elegant retreat we obtain a glimpse of Weston Hall.

E

Behold the proud alcove !

Yet not all its pride secures

The grand retreat from injuries impressed
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name,
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself

Beats in the breast of man, that even a few

Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,

And even to a clown.

The practice which Cowper thus laments is still continued; but the Poet's genius so far presides here, that many sprightly and appropriate lines are occasionally inscribed on the walls. Leaving the Alcove, and advancing to the Avenue, which is composed of a fine grove of limes, the declivity is

sharp and short,

And such the re-ascent; between them weeps

A little Naiad her impoverished urn

All summer long, which winter fills again.

The little Naiad so agreeably introduced here is nothing more than a narrow watercourse between