Sonnets XIII: The Mendip Hills over Wells

How grand beneath the feet that company
Of steep grey roofs and clustering pinnacles
Of the massy fane, brooding in majesty
Above the town that spreads among the dells!
Hark! the deep clock unrolls its voice of power;
And sweetly-mellowed sound of chiming bells
Calling to prayer from out the central tower
Over the thickly-timbered hollow dwells.
Meet worship-place for such a glorious stretch
Of sunny prospect — for these mighty hills,
And that dark solemn Tor, and all that reach
Of bright-green meadows, laced with silver rills,
Bounded by ranges of pale blue, that rise
To where white strips of sea are traced upon the skies,