A Devonshire Hill

Oft have shepherds enamour'd, in pastoral lays,
Sweetly sung of the grove, grot, or fountain,
No scene that is rural but loudly its praise
They have echo'd from mountain to mountain.
Some delighted have been with a meadow or vale,
But with these my taste never could tally;
The meadow is pleasant, enchanting the dale,
But a hill I prefer to a valley.
For prospect extended, and landscape most rare,
With health-breathing breezes inviting,
No daisy-pied mead with a hill can compare,
No garden yield sweets more delighting;
As a mole-heap's excell'd by a mound that's raised high,
As a street may exceed a small alley,
Even so to my mind, when these objects are nigh,
Is the hill I prefer to a valley.
But the hill of all hills the most pleasing to me
Is famed Cotton, the pride of North Devon;
When its summit I climb, O, I then seem to be
Just as if I approach'd nearer heaven!
When with troubles depress'd, to this hill I repair,
My spirits then instantly rally;
It was near this bless'd spot I first drew vital air,
So — a hill I prefer to a valley.