Read Ebook: The Banks of Wye: A Poem by Bloomfield Robert

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The Vale of Uley.--Forest of Dean.--Ross.--Wilton Castle.--Goodrich Castle.--Courtfield, Welch Bicknor, Coldwell.--Gleaner's Song.--Coldwell Rocks.--Symmon's Yat.--Great Doward.--New Wier.--Arthur's Hall.--Martin's Well.--The Coricle.--Arrival at Monmouth.

THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

"Rouse from thy slumber, pleasure calls, arise, Quit thy half-rural bower, awhile despise The thraldom that consumes thee. We who dwell Far from thy land of smoke, advise thee well. Here Nature's bounteous hand around shall fling, Scenes that thy Muse hath never dar'd to sing. When sickness weigh'd thee down, and strength declin'd; When dread eternity absorb'd thy mind, Flow'd the predicting verse, by gloom o'erspread, That 'Cambrian mountains' thou should'st never tread, That 'time-worn cliff, and classic stream to see,' Was wealth's prerogative, despair for thee. Come to the proof; with us the breeze inhale, Renounce despair, and come to Severn's vale; And where the COTSWOLD HILLS are stretch'd along, Seek our green dell, as yet unknown to song: Start hence with us, and trace, with raptur'd eye, The wild meanderings of the beauteous WYE; Thy ten days leisure ten days joy shall prove, And rock and stream breathe amity and love."

Such was the call; with instant ardour hail'd. The syren Pleasure caroll'd and prevail'd; Soon the deep dell appear'd, and the clear brow Of ULEY BURY smil'd o'er all below, Mansion, and flock, and circling woods that hung Round the sweet pastures where the sky-lark sung. O for the fancy, vigorous and sublime, Chaste as the theme, to triumph over time! Bright as the rising day, and firm as truth, To speak new transports to the lowland youth, That bosoms still might throb, and still adore, When his who strives to charm them beats no more!

One August morn, with spirits high, Sound health, bright hopes, and cloudless sky, A cheerful group their farewell bade To DURSLEY tower, to ULEY'S shade; And where bold STINCHCOMB'S greenwood side. Heaves in the van of highland pride, Scour'd the broad vale of Severn; there The foes of verse shall never dare Genius to scorn, or bound its power, There blood-stain'd BERKLEY'S turrets low'r, A name that cannot pass away, Till time forgets "the Bard" of GRAY.

The trembling steeds soon ferry'd o'er, Neigh'd loud upon the forest shore; Domains that once, at early morn, Rang to the hunter's bugle horn, When barons proud would bound away; When even kings would hail the day, And swell with pomp more glorious shows, Than ant-hill population knows. Here crested chiefs their bright-arm'd train Of javelin'd horsemen rous'd amain, And chasing wide the wolf or boar, Bade the deep woodland vallies roar.

The morrow came, and Beauty's eye Ne'er beam'd upon a lovelier sky; Imagination instant brought, And dash'd amidst the train of thought, Tints of the bow. The boatman stript; Glee at the helm exulting tript, And way'd her flower-encircled wand, "Away, away, to Fairy Land." Light dipt the oars; but who can name The various objects dear to fame, That changing, doubting, wild, and strong, Demand the noblest powers of song? Then, O forgive the vagrant Muse, Ye who the sweets of Nature choose; And thou whom destiny hast tied To this romantic river's side, Down gazing from each close retreat, On boats that glide beneath thy feet, Forgive the stranger's meagre line, That seems to slight that spot of thine; For he, alas! could only glean The changeful outlines of the scene; A momentary bliss; and here Links memory's power with rapture's tear.

Who curb'd the barons' kingly power? Let hist'ry tell that fateful hour At home, when surly winds shall roar, And prudence shut the study door. DE WILTON'S here of mighty name, The whelming flood, the summer stream, Mark'd from their towers.--The fabric falls, The rubbish of their splendid halls, Time in his march hath scatter'd wide, And blank oblivion strives to hide.

Awhile the grazing herd was seen, And trembling willow's silver green, Till the fantastic current stood, In line direct for PENCRAIG WOOD; Whose bold green summit welcome bade, Then rear'd behind his nodding shade. Here, as the light boat skimm'd along, The clarionet, and chosen song, That mellow, wild, Eolian lay, "Sweet in the Woodlands," roll'd away, In echoes down the stream, that bore Each dying close to every shore, And forward Cape, and woody range, That form the never-ceasing change, To him who floating, void of care, Twirls with the stream, he knows not where; Till bold, impressive, and sublime, Gleam'd all that's left by storms and time Of GOODRICH TOWERS. The mould'ring pile Tells noble truths,--but dies the while; O'er the steep path, through brake and briar, His batter'd turrets still aspire, In rude magnificence. 'Twas here LANCASTRIAN HENRY spread his cheer, When came the news that HAL was born, And MONMOUTH hail'd th' auspicious morn; A boy in sports, a prince in war, Wisdom and valour crown'd his car; Of France the terror, England's glory, As Stratford's bard has told the story.

No butler's proxies snore supine, Where the old monarch kept his wine; No Welch ox roasting, horns and all, Adorns his throng'd and laughing hall; But where he pray'd, and told his beads, A thriving ash luxuriant spreads.

No wheels by piecemeal brought the pile; No barks embowel'd Portland Isle; Dig, cried experience, dig away, Bring the firm quarry into day, The excavation still shall save Those ramparts which its entrails gave. "Here kings shall dwell," the builders cried; "Here England's foes shall low'r their pride; Hither shall suppliant nobles come, And this be England's royal home." Vain hope! for on the Gwentian shore, The regal banner streams no more! Nettles, and vilest weeds that grow, To mock poor grandeur's head laid low, Creep round the turrets valour rais'd, And flaunt where youth and beauty gaz'd.

Here fain would strangers loiter long, And muse as Fancy's woof grows strong; Yet cold the heart that could complain, Where POLLETT struck his oars again; For lovely as the sleeping child, The stream glides on sublimely wild, In perfect beauty, perfect ease; The awning trembled in the breeze, And scarcely trembled, as we stood For RUERDEAN Spire, and BISHOP'S WOOD. The fair domains of COURTFIELD made A paradise of mingled shade Round BICKNOR'S tiny church, that cowers Beneath his host of woodland bowers.

But who the charm of words shall fling, O'er RAVEN CLIFF and COLDWELL Spring, To brighten the unconscious eye, And wake the soul to extasy?

Noon scorch'd the fields; the boat lay to; The dripping oars had nought to do, Where round us rose a scene that might Enchant an ideot--glorious sight! Here, in one gay according mind, Upon the sparkling stream we din'd; As shepherds free on mountain heath, Free as the fish that watch'd beneath For falling crumbs, where cooling lay The wine that cheer'd us on our way. Th' unruffled bosom of the stream, Gave every tint and every gleam; Gave shadowy rocks, and clear blue sky, And double clouds of various dye; Gave dark green woods, or russet brown, And pendant corn-fields, upside down.

A troop of gleaners chang'd their shade, And 'twas a change by music made; For slowly to the brink they drew, To mark our joy, and share it too. How oft, in childhood's flow'ry days, I've heard the wild impassion'd lays Of such a group, lays strange and new, And thought, was ever song so true? When from the hazel's cool retreat, They watch'd the summer's trembling heat; And through the boughs rude urchins play'd, Where matrons, round the laughing maid, Prest the long grass beneath! And here They doubtless shar'd an equal cheer; Enjoy'd the feast with equal glee, And rais'd the song of revelry: Yet half abash'd reserv'd, and shy, Watch'd till the strangers glided by.

GLEANER'S SONG

Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stor'd, With the joys of some bride, and the wealth of her lord. Of her chariots and dresses, And worldly caresses, And servants that fly when she's waited upon: But what can she boast if she weds unbelov'd? Can she e'er feel the joy that one morning I prov'd, When I put on my new gown and waited for John?

These fields, my dear Ellen, I knew them of yore, Yet to me they ne'er look'd so enchanting before; The distant bells ringing, The birds round us singing, For pleasure is pure when affection is won; They told me the troubles and cares of a wife; But I lov'd him; and that was the pride of my life, When I put on my new gown and waited for John.

He shouted and ran, as he leapt from the stile; And what in my bosom was passing the while? For love knows the blessing Of ardent caressing, When virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone. The sunshine of Fortune you say is divine; True love and the sunshine of Nature were mine, When I put on my new gown and waited for John.

Never could spot be suited less To bear memorials of distress; None, cries the sage, more fit is found, They strike at once a double wound; Humiliation bids you sigh, And think of immortality.

Nothing could damp th'awaken'd joy, Not e'en thy fate, ingenuous boy; The great, the grand of Nature strove, To lift our hearts to life and love. HAIL! COLDWELL ROCKS; frown, frown away; Thrust from your woods your shafts of gray: Fall not, to crush our mortal pride, Or stop the stream on which we glide. Our lives are short, our joys are few; But, giants, what is time to you? Ye who erect, in many a mass, Rise from the scarcely dimpled glass, That with distinct and mellow glow, Reflect your monstrous forms below; Or in clear shoals, in breeze or sun, Shake all your shadows into one; Boast ye o'er man in proud disdain, An everlasting silent reign? Bear ye your heads so high in scorn Of names that puny man hath borne? Would that the Cambrian bards had here Their names carv'd deep, so deep, so clear, That such as gaily wind along, Might shout and cheer them with a song; Might rush on wings of bliss away, Through Fancy's boundless blaze of day!

And let not wandering strangers fear That WYE is ended there or here; Though foliage close, though hills may seem To bar all access to a stream, Some airy height he climbs amain, And finds the silver eel again. No fears we form'd, no labours counted, Yet SYMMON'S YAT must be surmounted; A tower of rock that seems to cry, 'Go round about me, neighbour WYE.' On went the boat, and up the steep Her straggling crew began to creep, To gain the ridge, enjoy the view, Where the the pure gales of summer blew. The gleaming WYE, that circles round Her four-mile course, again is found; And crouching to the conqueror's pride, Bathes his huge cliffs on either side; Seen at one glance, when from his brow, The eye surveys twin gulphs below.

Westward GREAT DOWARD, stretching wide, Upheaves his iron-bowel'd side; And by his everlasting mound, Prescribes th' imprison'd river's bound, And strikes the eye with mountain force: But stranger mark thy rugged course From crag to crag, unwilling, slow, To NEW WIER forge that smokes below. Here rush'd the keel like lightning by; The helmsman watch'd with anxious eye; And oars alternate touch'd the brim, To keep the flying boat in trim.

Hush! not a whisper! Oars, be still! Comes that soft sound from yonder hill? Or is it close at hand, so near It scarcely strikes the list'ning ear? E'en so; for down the green bank fell, An ice-cold stream from Martin's Well, Bright as young beauty's azure eye, And pure as infant chastity, Each limpid draught, suffus'd with dew, The dipping glass's crystal hue; And as it trembling reach'd the lip, Delight sprung up at every sip.

Pure, temperate joys, and calm, were these; We tost upon no Indian seas; No savage chiefs, of various hue, Came jabbering in the bark canoe Our strength to dare, our course to turn; Yet boats a South Sea chief would burn, Sculk'd in the alder shade. Each bore, Devoid of keel, or sail, or oar, An upright fisherman, whose eye, With Bramin-like solemnity, Survey'd the surface either way, And cleav'd it like a fly at play; And crossways bore a balanc'd pole, To drive the salmon from his hole; Then heedful leapt, without parade, On shore, as luck or fancy bade; And o'er his back, in gallant trim, Swung the light shell that carried him; Then down again his burden threw, And launch'd his whirling bowl anew; Displaying, in his bow'ry station, The infancy of navigation.

Soon round us spread the hills and dales, Where GEOFFREY spun his magic tales, And call'd them history. The land Whence ARTHUR sprung, and all his band Of gallant knights. Sire of romance, Who led the fancy's mazy dance, Thy tales shall please, thy name still be, When Time forgets my verse and me.

Low sunk the sun, his ev'ning beam Scarce reach'd us on the tranquil stream; Shut from the world, and all its din, Nature's own bonds had clos'd us in; Wood, and deep dell, and rock, and ridge, From smiling Ross to Monmouth Bridge; From morn, till twilight stole away, A long, unclouded, glorious day.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

THE BANKS OF WYE

BOOK II

Henry the Fifth.--Morning on the Water.--Landoga.--Ballad, "The Maid of Landoga."--Tintern Abbey.--Wind-Cliff.--Arrival at Chepstow.--Persfield.-- Ballad, "Morris of Persfield."--View from Wind-Cliff.--Chepstow Castle by Moonlight.

HARRY of MONMOUTH, o'er thy page, Great chieftain of a daring age, The stripling soldier burns to see The spot of thy nativity; His ardent fancy can restore Thy castle's turrets, now no more; See the tall plumes of victory wave, And call old valour from the grave; Twang the strong bow, and point the lance, That pierc'd the shatter'd hosts of France, When Europe, in the days of yore, Shook at the rampant lion's roar.

Ten hours were all we could command; The Boat was moor'd upon the strand, The midnight current, by her side, Was stealing down to meet the tide; The wakeful steersman ready lay, To rouse us at the break of day; It came--how soon! and what a sky, To cheer the bounding traveller's eye! To make him spurn his couch of rest, To shout upon the river's breast; Watching by turns the rosy hue Of early cloud, or sparkling dew; These living joys the verse shall tell, Harry, and Monmouth, fare-ye-well.

On upland farm, and airy height, Swept by the breeze, and cloth'd in light, The reapers, early from their beds, Perhaps were singing o'er our heads. For, stranger, deem not that the eye Could hence survey the eastern sky; Or mark the streak'd horizon's bound, Where first the rosy sun wheels round; Deep in the gulf beneath were we, Whence climb'd blue mists o'er rock and tree; A mingling, undulating crowd, That form'd the dense or fleecy cloud; Slow from the darken'd stream upborne, They caught the quick'ning gales of morn; There bade their parent WYE good day, And ting'd with purple sail'd away.

The MUNNO join'd us all unseen, TROY HOUSE, and BEAUFORT'S bowers of green, And nameless prospects, half defin'd, Involv'd in mist, were left behind. Yet as the boat still onward bore, These ramparts of the eastern shore Cower'd the high crest to many a sweep, And bade us o'er each minor steep Mark the bold KYMIN'S sunny brow, That, gleaming o'er our fogs below, Lifted amain with giant power, E'en to the clouds his NAVAL TOWER; Proclaiming to the morning sky, Valour, and fame, and victory.

The air resign'd its hazy blue, Just as LANDOGA came in view; Delightful village! one by one, Its climbing dwellings caught the sun. So bright the scene, the air so clear, Young Love and Joy seem'd station'd here; And each with floating banners cried, "Stop friends, you'll meet the slimy tide."

Rude fragments, torn, disjointed, wild, High on the Glo'ster shore are pil'd; No ruin'd fane, the boast of years, Unstain'd by time the group appears; With foaming wrath, and hideous swell, Brought headlong down a woodland dell, When a dark thunder-storm had spread Its terrors round the guilty head; When rocks, earth-bound, themselves gave way, When crash'd the prostrate timbers lay. O, it had been a noble sight, Crouching beyond the torrent's might, To mark th' uprooted victims bow, The grinding masses dash below, And hear the long deep peal the while Burst over TINTERN'S roofless pile! Then, as the sun regain'd his power, When the last breeze from hawthorn bower, Or Druid oak, had shook away The rain-drops 'midst the gleaming day, Perhaps the sigh of hope return'd And love in some chaste bosom burn'd, And softly trill'd the stream along, Some rustic maiden's village song.

The Maid of Landoga.

Thy sails, on the fathomless ocean, Are swell'd by the boisterous gale; How rests thy tir'd head On the rude rocking bed? While here not a leaf is in motion, And melody reigns in the dale.

The mountains of Monmouth invite thee; The WYE, O how beautiful here! This woodbine, thine own, Hath the cottage o'ergrown, O what foreign shore can delight thee, And where is the current so clear?

Can lands where false pleasure assails thee, And beauty invites thee to roam; Can the deep orange grove Charm with shadows of love? Thy love at LANDOGA bewails thee; Remember her truth and thy home.

Adieu, LANDOGA, scene most dear, Farewell we bade to ETHEL'S WIER; Round many a point then bore away, Till morn was chang'd to beauteous day: And forward on the lowland shore, Silent majestic ruins wore The stamp of holiness; this strand The steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land.

SUDDEN the change; at once to tread The grass-grown mansions of the dead! Awful to feeling, where, immense, Rose ruin'd, gray magnificence; The fair-wrought shaft all ivy-bound, The tow'ring arch with foliage crown'd, That trembles on its brow sublime, Triumphant o'er the spoils of time. Here, grasping all the eye beheld, Thought into mingling anguish swell'd. And check'd the wild excursive wing, O'er dust or bones of priest or king; Or rais'd some STRONGBOW warrior's ghost To shout before his banner'd host. But all was still.--The chequer'd floor Shall echo to the step no more; Nor airy roof the strain prolong, Of vesper chant or choral song.

TINTERN, thy name shall hence sustain A thousand raptures in my brain; Joys, full of soul, all strength, all eye, That cannot fade, that cannot die.

No loitering here, lone walks to steal, Welcome the early hunter's meal; For time and tide, stern couple, ran Their endless race, and laugh'd at man; Deaf, had we shouted, "turn about?" Or, "wait a while, till we come out;" To humour them we check'd our pride, And ten cheer'd hearts stow'd side by side; Push'd from the shore with current strong, And, "Hey for Chepstow," steer'd along.

Amidst the bright expanding day, Solemnly deep, dark shadows lay, Of that rich foliage, tow'ring o'er Where princely abbots dwelt of yore. The mind, with instantaneous glance, Beholds his barge of state advance, Borne proudly down the ebbing tide, She turns the waving boughs aside; She winds with flowing pendants drest, And as the current turns south-west, She strikes her oars, where full in view, Stupendous WIND-CLIFF greets his crew. But, Fancy, let thy day-dreams cease, With fallen greatness be at peace; Enough; for WIND-CLIFF still was found To hail us as we doubled round.

Long be the slaught'ring axe defy'd; Long may they bear their waving pride; Tree over tree, bower over bower, In uncurb'd nature's wildest power; Till WYE forgets to wind below, And genial spring to bid them grow.

And shall we e'er forget the day, When our last chorus died away? When first we hail'd, then moor'd beside Rock-founded CHEPSTOW'S mouldering pride? Where that strange bridge, light, trembling, high, Strides like a spider o'er the WYE; When, for the joys the morn had giv'n, Our thankful hearts were rais'd to heav'n? Never;--that moment shall be dear, While hills can charm, or sun-beams cheer.

Pollett, farewell! Thy dashing oar Shall lull us into peace no more; But where Kyrl trimm'd his infant green, Long mayst thou with thy bark be seen; And happy be the hearts that glide Through such a scene, with such a guide.

The verse of gravel walks that tells, With pebble rocks and mole-hill swells, May strain description's bursting cheeks, And far out-run the goal it seeks. Not so when ev'ning's purpling hours, Hied us away to Persfield bowers: Here no such danger waits the lay, Sing on, and truth shall lead the way; Here sight may range, and hearts may glow, Yet shrink from the abyss below; Here echoing precipices roar, As youthful ardour shouts before; Here a sweet paradise shall rise At once to greet poetic eyes. Then why does he dispel, unkind, The sweet illusion from the mind, That giant, with the goggling eye, Who strides in mock sublimity? Giants, identified, may frown, Nature and taste would knock them down: Blocks that usurp some noble station, As if to curb imagination, That, smiling at the chissel's pow'r, Makes better monsters erery hour.

Beneath impenetrable green, Down 'midst the hazel stems was seen The turbid stream, with all that past; The lime-white deck, the gliding mast; Or skiff with gazers darting by, Who rais'd their hands in extasy. Impending cliffs hung overhead; The rock-path sounded to the tread, Where twisted roots, in many a fold, Through moss, disputed room for hold.

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