In the wild and majestic let Westmoreland glory;
But yours is the palm of more tranquil delight.
Not that robes of rich beauty, in which Nature dresses
Her features of boldness, your limits disown;
To him who could deem so, deep Lymouth’s recesses,
And Dart’s rocky borders, must all be unknown.
But your own proper boast is the Combe, neatly rounded,
Which preserves through all seasons its emerald hue;
Whilst the dews, o’er the uplands by which it is bounded,
Impart, in soft contrast, the mist’s tender blue;