Lines written for an auspicious occasion, by Nicholas Fowler
(The following effusion is by Nicholas Fowler, eighteenth century poet, scientist, philosopher, wit and owner of Coswold, a splendid and renowned estate, who was miraculously reincarnated in June 2013 for the sole purpose of writing it.) The summons having woken me, I hied, Caring no whit for time or even tide, Toward the north, where Solway runs its course Through Scotia's windy plains where lies its source, Where Devil's Porridge boils, where fields are bleak And Burns the ploughman makes his rough verse speak. My spirits droop as further still I tread, When suddenly, like Lazarus from his bed, They rise, as Gretna's purlieus do me face. For here a miracle I see, a blessed place, A sanctuary, alive with tree and flower, With many a bubbling stream and bosky bower, Colourful, lush, abundant, leafy, ferny, Another Hidcote, Sissinghurst, Giverny. Nature and man together made this scene. What beauty now? What barb'rousness has been? ...