Lewesdon Hill

by William Crowe

LEWESDON HILL

 

A POEM.

 

 

Χαιρ' ω ῶεδον αγχιαλον,
Και μ' ευπλοιᾳ ῶεμψον αμεμπτως
Ενθ' ἡ μεγαλη μοιρα κομιζει,
————χῳ ῶανδαματωρ
Δαιμων, ος ταυτ' επεκρανεν.
Soph.

 

Farewell thy printless sands and pebbly shore!
I hear the white surge beat thy coast no more,
Pure, gentle source of the high, rapturous mood!———
———Where'er, like the great Flood, by thy dread force
Propell'd—shape Thou my calm, my blameless course,
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean's Lord!—and Father of the Good!
*** 

 

 

OXFORD:

AT THE CLARENDON PRESS, MDCCLXXXVIII.
SOLD BY D. PRINCE AND J. COOKE, OXFORD:
J. F. AND C. RIVINGTON,
T. CADELL, AND R. FAULDER, LONDON.

TO THE
RIGHT REVEREND FATHER IN GOD

JONATHAN

LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH

WHO IN A LEARNED FREE AND LIBERAL AGE
IS HIMSELF MOST HIGHLY DISTINGUISHED
BY EXTENSIVE USEFUL AND ELEGANT LEARNING
BY A DISINTERESTED SUPPORT OF FREEDOM
AND BY A TRULY CHRISTIAN LIBERALITY OF MIND

THIS POEM

WITH ALL RESPECT IS DEDICATED
BY HIS LORDSHIP'S MOST OBLIGED
AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT

THE AUTHOR.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hill which gives title to the following Poem is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a Subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages where they are inserted. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins's History of Dorsetshire, (Vol. I. p. 366.) what is there said of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson) 'This and Pillesdon Hill, surmount all the hills, though very high, between them and the sea. Mariners call them the Cow and Calf, in which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who sail upon the coast.'

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

---

---

 

LEWESDON HILL.

 

 

Up to thy summit, Lewesdon, to the brow
Of yon proud rising, where the lonely thorn
Bends from the rude South-east, with top cut sheer
By his keen breath, along the narrow track
By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascend
Up to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb;
My morning exercise; and thence look round
Upon the variegated scene, of hills,
And woods, and fruitful vales, and villages
Half-hid in tufted orchards, and the sea
Boundless, and studded thick with many a sail.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled
From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the morn
Ascend as incense to the Lord of day,
I come to breathe your odours; while they float
Yet near this surface, let me walk embathed
In your invisible perfumes, to health
So friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,
Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!
Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath
And russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloak
To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains
Of chill December, and art gaily robed
In livery of the spring: upon thy brow
A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck
Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick
Of golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woods
Adown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,
The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops
Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts
In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath.
So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up
Against the birth of May; and, vested so,
Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd
Than Fashion's worshippers; whose gaudy shows,
Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams,
From vanity to costly vanity
Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,
From sad to gay returning with the year,
Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change.

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene
At each return of spring: yet some delight
Rather to view the change; and fondly gaze
On fading colours, and the thousand tints
Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf.
I like them not: for all their boasted hues
Are kin to Sickliness; mortal Decay
Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone,
They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise
Such false complexions, and for beauty take
A look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray
Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown,
I'd call it beautiful variety,
And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy
A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes
The yellow Autumn and the hopes o' the year
Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise
The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,
When January spreads a pall of snow
O'er the dead face of th'undistinguish'd earth.
Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath
And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends
My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast
From the thick north comes howling: till the Spring
Return, who leads my devious steps abroad,
To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top.

Above the noise and stir of yonder fields
Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind
Expand itself in wider liberty.
The distant sounds break gently on my sense,
Soothing to meditation: so methinks,
Even so, sequester'd from the noisy world,
Could I wear out this transitory being
In peaceful contemplation and calm ease.
But conscience, which still censures on our acts,
That awful voice within us, and the sense
Of an hereafter, wake and rouse us up
From such unshaped retirement; which were else
A blest condition on this earthly stage.
For who would make his life a life of toil
For wealth, o'erbalanced with a thousand cares;
Or power, which base compliance must uphold;
Or honour, lavish'd most on courtly slaves;
Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;
Who for such perishable gaudes would put
A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,
And gall himself with trammels and the rubs
Of this world's business; so he might stand clear
Of judgment and the tax of idleness
In that dread audit, when his mortal hours
(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)
Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,
And to remove, according to our power,
The wants and evils of our brother's state,
'Tis meet we justle with the world; content,
If by our sovereign Master we be found
At last not profitless: for worldly meed,
Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

From this proud eminence on all sides round
Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view;
On all sides large; save only where the head
Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen:
So call (still rendering to his ancient name
Observance due) that rival Height south-west,
Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.
There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen
Herds, ranging, or at rest beneath the shade
Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields
Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine
Returning with their milky treasure home
Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills
The pleasant vale of Marshwood; pleasant now,
Since that the Spring has deck'd anew the meads
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun
Their foggy moistness drain'd; in wintry days
Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks
Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin
To drench the spungy turf: but ere that time
The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,
Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath^[1]
In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields
Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named
Of the White Horse, its antique monument
Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty' and wealth
Might equal, though surpassing in extent,
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base
Extended to the sea, and water'd well
By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,
Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side
Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip
Adown the valley, wandering sportively.
Alas, how soon thy little course will end!
How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself
In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow
To name or greatness! Yet it flows along
Untainted with the commerce of the world,
Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;
But through sequester'd meads, a little space,
Winds secretly, and in its wanton path
May cheer some drooping flower, or minister
Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb:
Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure
As when it issued from its native hill.

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,
Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,
Thine innocent and playful infancy
Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit
In that illimitable gulf which bounds
Our mortal continent. But not there lost,
Not there extinguish'd, as some falsely teach,
Who can talk much and learnedly of life,
Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell
The substance and the properties of man,
As they had seen him made; aye and stood by
Spies on Heaven's work. They also can discourse
Wisely, to prove that what must be must be,
And shew how thoughts are jogg'd out of the brain
By a mechanical impulse; pushing on
The minds of us, poor unaccountables,
To fatal resolution. Know they not,
That in this mortal life, whate'er it be,
We take the path that leads to good or evil,
And therein find our bliss or misery?
And this includes all reasonable ends
Of knowledge or of being; farther to go
Is toil unprofitable, and th' effect
Most perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure;
Where Freedom is not, there no Virtue is:
If there be none, this world is all a cheat,
And the divine stability of Heaven
(That assured seat for good men after death)
Is but a transient cloud; display'd so fair
To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need
Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,
Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,
Were it not better to be born a beast,
Only to feel what is, and thus to scape
The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast
With sore anxiety of what shall be;
And all for nought? Since our most wicked act
Is not our sin, and our religious awe
Delusion; if that strong Necessity
Chains up our will. But that the mind is free,
The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,
Is feelingly convinced; nor to be moved
By subtle words, that may perplex the head,
But ne'er persuade the heart. Vain Argument,
That with false weapons of Philosophy
Fights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature's strength!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off
Pours down the golden radiance of his light
Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship
Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,
When forth for India sail'd, in evil time
That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,
Fill'd every breast with horror, and each eye
With piteous tears; so cruel was the loss.^[2]
Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm
Shatter'd and driven along past yonder Isle,
She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art
To gain the Port within it, or at worst
To shun that harbourless and hollow coast
From Portland eastward to the ^[3]Promontory,
Where still St. Alban's high-built chapel stands.
But art nor strength avail her: on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;
And there 'mong rocks and high-o'erhanging cliffs
Dash'd piteously, with all her precious freight
Was lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jaws
Swallow'd up quick! The richliest-laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that annual, sent
To the Philippines o'er the Southern main
From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,
Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,
And Beauty, and high Courage undismay'd
By mortal terrors, and paternal Love
Strong, and unconquerable even in death—
Alas, they perish'd all, all in one hour!

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare
With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track
Of many' indenting wheels, heavy and light,
That violently rush with unsafe speed,
Or slowly turn, oft-resting, up the steep.
Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,
From ^[4]Shipton's bottom to the lofty down
Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art
Through park or flowery garden for delight.
Nor less delightful this; if, while he mounts
Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause
To view the prospect oft, as oft to see
Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived
By fancy' or choice, but of necessity,
By soft gradations of ascent to lead
The labouring and way-worn feet along,
And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up
Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,
O'er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,
Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench
Invites to short refreshment, and to taste
What grateful beverage the house may yield
After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call'd
The Traveller's Rest. Welcome, embower'd seat,
Friendly repose to the slow passenger
Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way
Along th' interminable road, stretch'd out
Over th' unshelter'd down; or when at last
He has that hard and solitary path
Measured by painful steps. And blest are they,
Who in life's toilsome journey may make pause
After a march of glory: yet not such
As rise in causeless war, troubling the world
By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood
Hail'd victors, thence renown'd, and call'd on earth
Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven
Theives, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:
Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee
Belongs such rest; who in the western world,
Thine own deliver'd country, for thyself
Hast planted an immortal grove, and there,
Upon the glorious mount of Liberty
Reposing, sit'st beneath the palmy shade.

And Thou, not less renown'd in like attempt
Of high atchievement, though thy virtue fail'd
To save thy little country, Patriot Prince,
Hero, Philosopher (what more could they
Who wisely chose Thee, Paoli, to bless
Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free?
But Heaven allow'd not) yet may'st thou repose
After thy glorious toil, secure of fame
Well-earn'd by virtue: while ambitious France,
Who stretch'd her lawless hand to seize thine isle,
Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey
Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still
Against th' intent of Nature. See Her now
Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,
^[5]Plying her monstrous labour unrestrain'd;
A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,
With towery shape and height, and armed heads
Uprising o'er the surge; and these between,
Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock
Projected many a mile to rear her wall
Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work
Still urging, in her arrogant attempt,
As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,
'Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid
'The raging of thy waves; within this bound
'Be all my haven:' and therewith takes in
A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,
Won from the straiten'd main: nor less in strength
Than in dimensions; giant-like in both:
On each side flank'd with citadels and towers
And rocky walls, and arches massy proof
Against the storm of war. Compared with this,
^[6]Less, and less hazardous emprize atcheived
Resistless Alexander, when he cast
The strong foundations of that high-raised mound
Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way;
Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.
^[7]Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,
At Athos or the fetter'd Hellespont,
Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,
Xerxes,—but ere he turn'd from Salamis
Fly'ing through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,
Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.
^[8]Nor yet that elder work (if work it were,
Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,
(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,
A thousand ships behind the vasty mole
All shelter'd) could with this compare, though built
It seem'd, of greatness worthy to create
Envy in the immortals; and at last
Not overthrown without th' embattled aid
Of angry Neptune. So may He once more
Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,
Urged on to fury by contending winds,
With horned violence to push and whelm
This pile, usurping on his watry reign!

From hostile shores returning, glad I look
On native scenes again; and first salute
Thee, ^[9]Burton, and thy lofty cliff, where oft
The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen
Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung
Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that
Inviting to the hospitable arms
Of Beauty' and Youth, but lighted up, the sign
Of danger, and of ambush'd foes to warn
The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound
From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight
Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,
Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell
Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop
Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind
Some curved promontory, in hope to seize
These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore
Station'd, th' associates of their lawless trade
Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea
Give the known signal; they with fearful haste
Observant, put about the ship, and plunge
Into concealing darkness. As a fox,
That from the cry of hounds and hunters' din
Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away
Forth from his cover, hopeful so t'elude
The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout
Of eager or unpractised boy betray
His meditated flight, back he retires
To shelter him in the thick wood: so these
Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land
Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea
Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast
They venture) to the trackless deep they trust
Their forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,
Together link'd upon their cable's length,
And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt
By stony weights; till happier hour arrive
To land it on the vacant beach unrisk'd.

But what is yonder ^[10]Hill, whose dusky brow
Wears, like a regal diadem, the round
Of antient battlements and ramparts high;
And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not.
Thou hast no name, no honourable note,
No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,
To testify what once thou wert, how great,
How glorious, and how fear'd. So perish all,
Who seek their greatness in dominion held
Over their fellows, or the pomp of war;
And be as thou forgotten, and their fame
Cancell'd like thine! But thee in after times
Reclaim'd to culture, Shepherds visited,
And call'd thee Orgarston; so thee they call'd
Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire
Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard
Has with his gentle witchery so wrought
Upon our sense, that we can see no more
Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,
And purple robes of state with royal blood
Inhospitably stain'd; but in their place
Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,
Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail
The ground where ^[11]Hollis lies; his choice retreat,
Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived
To generous Virtue, and the holy love
Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit:
And left his ashes there; still honouring
Thy fields, with title given of patriot names,
But more with his untitled sepulchre.
That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight;
Which, passing o'er thy place north-east, looks on
To Sherburne's ancient towers and rich domains,
The noble Digby's mansion; where he dwells
Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse,
War-glutted ^[12]Osmund, superstitious Lord!
Who with Heaven's justice for a bloody life
Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more
Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,
And daredst bid th' Almighty to become
The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,
So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell
With sacred vengeance pointed on the head
Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine
(Favourite of Fortune once but last her thrall)
Accomplish'd^[13] Raleigh! in that lawless day
When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset
With crafty blood-hounds lurching for thy life
Whileas they feign'd to chace thee fairly down:
And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing king,
Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen,
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top
Of that north-western hill; and in this Now
A cloud hath past on it, and its dim bulk
Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find.

And even so fares it with the things of earth
Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud
That shall infold them up, and leave their place
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken
Reaches too far, when all that we behold
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,
Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings
(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth)
Are plumed in front so downy soft they seem
To foster what they touch, and mortal fools
Rejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!
For in that indefatigable flight
The multitudinous strokes incessantly
Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all
His secret injury; on the front of man
Gray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on
Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat
With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,
Till all the creatures of this nether world
Are one wide quarry: following dark behind,
The cormorant Oblivion swallows up
The carcasses that Time has made his prey.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine; the chimes
Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense
Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make
False-measured melody on crazy bells.
O wondrous Power of modulated sound!
Which like the air (whose all-obedient shape
Thou makest thy slave) canst subtilly pervade
The yielded avenues of sense, unlock
The close affections, by some fairy path
Winning an easy way through every ear,
And with thine unsubstantial quality
Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;
All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits,
Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended power
Of voice with instruments of wind and string?
What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?
Tis past: and all that it has left behind
Is but an echo dwelling in the ear
Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside
A void and countless hour in life's brief day.

But ill accords my verse with the delights
Of this gay month: and see the Villagers
Assembling jocund in their best attire
To grace this genial morn. Now I descend
To join the worldly croud; perchance to talk,
To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,
That lift th' expanded heart above this spot
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.
So passeth human life; our better mind
Is as a sunday's garment, then put on
When we have nought to do; but at our work
We wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:
To-morrow for severer thought; but now
To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

THE END.

1. To coath, Skinner says, is a word common in Lincolnshire, and signifies, to faint. He derives it from the Anglo-Saxon coðe, a disease. In Dorsetshire it is in common use, but it is used of sheep only: a coathed sheep is a rotten sheep; to coath is to take the rot. Rechasing is also a term in that county appropriated to flocks: to chase and rechase is to drive sheep at certain times from one sort of ground to another, or from one parish to another.
   The Author having ventured to introduce some provincial and other terms, takes this occasion to say, that it is a liberty in which he has not indulged himself, but when he conceived them to be allowable for the sake of ornament or expression.
2. The distressful condition of the Halswell here alluded to is thus circumstantially described in the narrative of her loss, p. 13.
   "Thursday the 5th, at two in the morning the wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the weather was very thick: at noon Portland was seen, bearing N. by E. distance two or three leagues; at eight at night it blew a strong gale at S. and at this time the Portland lights were seen, bearing N. W. distance four or five leagues, when they wore ship, and got her head to the westward; but finding they lost ground upon that tack, they wore again, and kept stretching on eastward, in hopes to have weathered Peverel-point, in which case they intended to have anchored in Studland Bay: at 11 at night it cleared, and they saw St. Alban's-head a mile and a half to the leeward of them; upon which they took in sail immediately, and let go the small bower anchor, which brought up the ship at a whole cable, and she rode for about an hour, but then drove; they now let go the sheet anchor and wore away a whole cable, and the ship rode for about two hours longer, when she drove again.—They were then driving very fast on shore, and might expect every moment to strike!"
3. 'Not far from this (Encombe) stands St. Aldene's Chapel: which took name from the dedication to St. Adeline, the first bishop of Sherbourne in this shire: but now it serves for a sea-mark.' Coker's Survey of Dorsetsh. p. 47.
   Near the sea is the high land of St. Aldhelm's, commonly called St. Alban's, a noted sea-mark. The cliff here is 147 yards perpendicular. On this promontory, about a mile S. of Worth, stands a chapel of the same name.' Hutchins's Dorsetsh. Vol. I. p. 228. But this headland is not marked by name in Hutchins's map. 'The very utter part of St. Aldhelm's point is five miles from Sandwich (Swanwich). Lel. Itin. Vol. III. p. 53.
4. Shipton is a hill, which, according to common report, is so called from its shape; the top of it being formed like a ship with the keel upwards. It stands three miles from Bridport on the road towards London; which road passes by the foot of it to the North.
5. A detail of this vast project is given at the conclusion of this Poem.
6. Quint. Curt. lib. 4, cap. 2, 3.
7. Juv. Sat. X. v. 173. 186.
8. Hom. Il. VII. v. 436. 463. et Il. XII. v. 1, 33.
9. Burton is a village near the sea, lying S. E. from Lewesdon, and about two miles S. of Shipton-hill beforementioned. The Cliff is among the loftiest of all upon that coast; and Smugglers often take advantage of its height for the purpose related in the poem.
10. 'Eggardon Hill is a very high hill, and gives name to the Hundred. Mr. Coker says it is uncertain whether it takes its name from Edgar, king of the West Saxons, or from Orgarus, Earl of Cornwall: and indeed this last derivation is the truest; there being little reason to doubt that it is the old Orgarestone. The camp on the brow of this hill is a large and strong fortification, and seems to be Roman.'—Hutchins's Dorset, Vol. I. p. 289; where there is an engraving of this camp. But Hutchins has misrepresented Mr. Coker, who indeed prefers the derivation from Orgar. His words are these: 'That it takes name from Edgar, the West Saxon king, I dare not affirm, having nothing to prove it but the nearnesse of the name. It better likes me to think this the place, which in Doomsday-book is called Orgareston, but whether it take name from Orgareus, Earl of Cornwall, I know not; though I think I should run into no great error to believe it. Coker's Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 26.
11. 'Mr. Hollis, in order to preserve the memory of those heroes and patriots for whom he had a veneration, as the assertors and defenders of his country, called many of the farms and fields in his estate at Corscombe by their names; and by these names they are still distinguished. In the middle of one of those fields, not far from his house, he ordered his corps to be deposited in a grave ten feet deep; and that the field should be immediately ploughed over, that no trace of his burial place might remain.' Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. vol. I. p. 481.
12. Of the strange curse belonging to Shireburne-Castle. From a MS. of the late Bishop of Ely (Bp John More) now in the Royal Library at Cambridge.
    'Osmund a Norman knight (who had served William Duke of Normandy from his youth, in all his wars against the French king, and the Duke's (William's) subjects, with much valour and discretion) for all his faithful service (when his Master had by conquest obteyned the crown of England) was rewarded with many great gifts; among the which was the Earldome of Dorsett, and the gift of many other Possessions, whereof the Castle and Baronie of Sherburne were parcell. But Osmund, in the declyninge of his age, calling to mynde the great effusion of blood, which, from his infancie, he had shedd; he resolved to leave all worldly delights, and betake himself to a religious life, the better to contemplate on his former sinnes and to obteyn Pardon for them. And, with much importunitie, having gotten leave of the Kinge (who was unwilling to want the assistance of so grave and worthy a Counsellor) to resign his temporall honors; and having obteyned the bishoprick of Sarum, he gave Sherburne with other lands to the Bishoprick. To which gift he annexed this curse,
    That whosoever should take those Lands from the Bishoprick, or diminish them in great or in small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but also in the world to come; unless in his life-time he made restitution thereof. And so he died bishop of Sarum.
    Those lands continued in the possession of his successors till the reign of King Stephen, who took them away; 'whereupon (says this Account) his prosperity forsook him.' King Stephen being dead, 'these lands came into the hands of some of the Montagues (after Erles of Sarum) who whilest they held the same, underwent many disasters. For one or other of them fell by misfortune. And finally, all the males of them became extinct, and the Earldome received an end in their name. So ill was their success.
    After this the lands were restored to the Bishoprick; but were taken away a second time by the Duke of Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI; 'when the Duke, being hunting in the Parke of Sherburne, he was sent for presently unto the Kinge (to whome he was Protector) and at his coming up to London, was forthwith committed unto the Tower, and. shortly after, lost his head.' The lands then, in a suit at law, were adjudged to the Bishop of Sarum; and so remained, 'till Sir Walter Raleigh procured a grant of them; he afterwards unfortunately lost them, and at last his head also. Upon his attainder they came, by the King's gift, to Prince Henry; who died not long after the possession thereof. After Prince Henry's death, the Erle of Somersett (Carr) did possesse them. Finally, he lost them, and many other fortunes.' Peck's Desid. Cur. Lib. 14. No. 6.
13. 'How Dr. John Coldwell, of a Physitian, became a Bishop I have heard by more than a good many; and I will briefly handle it, and as tenderly as I can; bearing myself equal between the living (Sir Walter Raleigh) and the dead (Bishop Coldwell). Yet the manifest judgements of God on both of them I may not pass over with silence. And to speak first of the Knight, who carried off the Spolia opima of the Bishoprick. He, having gotten Sherborne Castle, Park, and Parsonage, was in those days in so great favour with the Queen, as I may boldly say, that with less suit than he was fain to make to her e'er he could perfect this his purchase, and with less money than he bestowed since in Sherborne (in building, and buying out leases, and in drawing the river through rocks into his garden) he might, very justly, and without offence of either Church Or State, have compassed a much better purchase. Also, as I have been truly informed, he had a presage before he first attempted it, which did foreshew it would turn to his ruin, and might have kept him from meddling with it,—Si mens non læva fuisset: For, as he was riding post between Plymouth and the Court [as many times he did upon no small employments) this Castle being right in the way, he cast such an eye upon it as Ahab did upon Naboth's Vineyard. And, once above the rest, being talking of it (of the commodiousness of the place, of the strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the Bishopric) suddenly over and over came his horse, that his very face (which was then thought a very good face) plowed up the earth where he fell. This fall was ominous I make no question; and himself was apt to construe it so. But his brother Adrian would needs have him interpret it as a conqueror, that his fall presaged the quiet possession of it. And accordingly for the present it so fell out. So that with much labor, cost, envy, and obloquy he got it habendum et tenendum to him and his heirs. But see what became of him. In the public joy and jubile of the whole realm (when favor, peace, and pardon, were offered even to offenders) he who in wit, in wealth, in courage was inferior to few, fell suddenly (I cannot tell how) into such a downfall of despair; as his greatest enemy would not have wished him so much harm, as he would have done himself. Can any man be so wilfully blind, as not to see and say, Digitus Dei hic est!" Harrington's Breif View, p. 88.