In discourse more sweet;

For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense.

Others apart sat on a hill retir'd,

In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high

Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,

Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute;

And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 555.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;

For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): The Exile of Erin.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall, shall linger near.

Samuel Rogers (1763-1855): A Wish.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill

Which rises o'er the source of Dee,

And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree.

John Lowe (1750-1798): Mary's Dream.

Look here, upon this picture, and on this,

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

See, what a grace was seated on this brow:

Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;

A station like the herald Mercury

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill,—

A combination and a form indeed,

Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. 4.

The King of France went up the hill

With twenty thousand men;

The King of France came down the hill,

And ne'er went up again.

Pigges Corantoe, or Newes from the North.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree:

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 28.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down,

Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,

With here and there a violet bestrewn,

Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave!

James Beattie (1735-1803): The Minstrel. Book ii. Stanza 17.

So have I heard, and do in part believe it.

But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,

Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 1.