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

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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.

MORRIS OF PERSFIELD

Who was lord of yon beautiful seat; Yon woods which are tow'ring so high? Who spread the rich board for the great, Yet listen'd to pity's soft sigh?

Who gave alms with a spirit so free? Who succour'd distress at his door? Our Morris of Persfield was he, Who dwelt in the hearts of the poor.

But who e'en of wealth shall make sure, Since wealth to misfortune has bow'd? Long cherish'd untainted and pure, The stream of his charity flow'd. But all his resources gave way, O what could his feelings controul? What shall curb, in the prosperous day, Th' excess of a generous soul?

He bade an adieu to the town, O, can I forget the sad day? When I saw the poor widows kneel down, To bless him, to weep, and to pray.

Though sorrow was mark'd in his eye, This trial he manfully bore; Then pass'd o'er the bridge of the WYE, To return to his PERSFIELD no more.

Yet surely another may feel, And poverty still may be fed; I was one who rung out the dumb peal, For to us noble MORRIS was dead. He had not lost sight of his home, Yon domain that so lovely appears, When he heard it, and sunk overcome; He could feel, and he burst into tears.

The lessons of prudence have charms, And slighted, may lead to distress; But the man whom benevolence warms, Is an angel who lives but to bless.

If ever man merited fame, If ever man's failings went free, Forgot at the sound of his name, Our Morris of Persfield was he.

Back over MONMOUTH who could trace The WYE'S fantastic mountain race? Before us, sweeping far and wide. Lay out-stretch'd SEVERN'S ocean tide, Through whose blue mists, all upward blown, Broke the faint lines of heights unknown; And still, though clouds would interpose, The COTSWOLD promontories rose In dark succession: STINCHCOMB'S brow, With BERKLEY CASTLE crouch'd below; And stranger spires on either hand, From THORNBURY, on the Glo'ster strand; With black-brow'd woods, and yellow fields, The boundless wealth that summer yields, Detain'd the eye, that glanc'd again O'er KINGROAD anchorage to the main.

Or was the bounded view preferr'd, Far, far beneath the spreading herd Low'd as the cow-boy stroll'd along, And cheerly sung his last new song. But cow-boy, herd, and tide, and spire, Sunk Into gloom, the tinge of fire, As westward roll'd the setting day, Fled like a golden dream away. Then CHEPSTOW'S ruin'd fortress caught The mind's collected store of thought, And seem'd, with mild but jealous frown, To promise peace, and warn us down. Twas well; for he has much to boast, Much still that tells of glories lost, Though rolling years have form'd the sod, Where once the bright-helm'd warrior trod From tower to tower, and gaz'd around, While all beneath him slept profound. E'en on the walls where pac'd the brave, High o'er his crumbling turrets wave The rampant seedlings--Not a breath Past through their leaves; when, still as death, We stopp'd to watch the clouds--for night Grew splendid with encreasing light, Till, as time loudly told the hour, Gleam'd the broad front of MARTEN'S TOWER,

Bright silver'd by the moon.--Then rose The wild notes sacred to repose; Then the lone owl awoke from rest, Stretch'd his keen talons, plum'd his crest, And from his high embattl'd station, Hooted a trembling salutation. Rocks caught the "halloo" from his tongue, And PERSFIELD back the echoes flung Triumphant o'er th' illustrious dead, Their history lost, their glories fled.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

Departure for Ragland.--Ragland Castle.--Abergavenny.--Expedition up the "Pen-y-Vale," or Sugar-Loaf Hill.--Invocation to the Spirit of Burns.-- View from the Mountain.--Castle of Abergaveuny.--Departure for Brecon.-- Pembrokes of Crickbowel--Tre-Tower Castle.--Jane Edwards.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales, Untainted fly your summer gales; Health, thou from cities lov'st to roam, O make the Monmouth hills your home! Great spirits of her bards of yore, While harvests triumph, torrents roar, Train her young shepherds, train them high To sing of mountain liberty: Give them the harp and modest maid; Give them the sacred village shade. Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy, Names that import a rural joy; Known to our fathers, when May-day Brush'd a whole twelvemonth's cares away.

Oft on the lisping infant's tongue Reluctant information hung, Till, from a belt of woods full grown, Arose immense thy turrets brown, Majestic RAGLAND! Harvests wave Where thund'ring hosts their watch-word gave, When cavaliers, with downcast eye, Struck the last flag of loyalty: Then, left by gallant WORC'STER'S band, To devastation's cruel hand The beauteous fabric bow'd, fled all The splendid hours of festival. No smoke ascends; the busy hum Is heard no more; no rolling drum, No high-ton'd clarion sounds alarms, No banner wakes the pride of arms; But ivy, creeping year by year, Of growth enormous, triumphs here. Each dark festoon with pride upheaves Its glossy wilderness of leaves On sturdy limbs, that, clasping, bow Broad o'er the turrets utmost brow, Encompassing, by strength alone, In tret-work bars, the sliding stone, That tells how years and storms prevail, And spreads its dust upon the gale.

The man who could unmov'd survey What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away; Works of the pow'rful and the brave, All sleeping in the silent grave; Unmov'd reflect that here were sung Carols of joy, by beauty's tongue, Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam, And hardly fit--to stay at home. Spent here in peace one solemn hour, 'Midst legends of the YELLOW TOWER, Truth and tradition's mingled stream, Fear's start, and superstition's dream Is pregnant with a thousand joys, That distance, place, nor time destroys; That with exhaustless stores supply Food for reflection till we die.

ONWARD the rested steeds pursu'd The cheerful route, with strength renew'd, For onward lay the gallant town, Whose name old custom hath clipp'd down, With more of music left than many, So handily to ABERGANY. And as the sidelong, sober light Left valleys darken'd, hills less bright, Great BLORENGE rose to tell his tale; And the dun peak of PEN-Y-VALE Stood like a centinel, whose brow Scowl'd on the sleeping world below; Yet even sleep itself outspread The mountain paths we meant to tread, 'Midst fresh'ning gales all unconfin'd, Where USK'S broad valley shrinks behind.

Joyous the crimson morning rose, As joyous from the night's repose Sprung the light heart, the glancing eye Beheld, amidst the dappl'd sky, Exulting PEN-Y-VALE. But how Could females climb his gleaming brow, Rude toil encount'ring? how defy The wintry torrent's course, when dry, A rough-scoop'd bed of stones? or meet The powerful force of August heat? Wheels might assist, could wheels be found Adapted to the rugged ground: 'Twas done; for prudence bade us start With three Welch ponies, and a cart; A red-cheek'd mountaineer, a wit, Full of rough shafts, that sometimes hit, Trudg'd by their side, and twirl'd his thong, And cheer'd his scrambling team along.

At ease to mark a scene so fair, And treat their steeds with mountain air, Some rode apart, or led before, Rock after rock the wheels upbore; The careful driver slowly sped, To many a bough we duck'd the head, And heard the wild inviting calls Of summer's tinkling waterfalls, In wooded glens below; and still, At every step the sister hill, BLORENGE, grew greater, half unseen At times from out our bowers of green. That telescopic landscapes made, From the arch'd windows of its shade; For woodland tracts begirt us round; The vale beyond was fairy ground, That verse can never paint. Above Gleam'd something like the mount of Jove, Gleam'd the fair, sunny, cloudless peak That simple strangers ever seek. And are they simple? Hang the dunce Who would not doff his cap at once In extasy, when, bold and new, Bursts on his sight a mountain-view.

Though vast the prospect here became, Intensely as the love of fame Glow'd the strong hope, that strange desire, That deathless wish of climbing higher, Where heather clothes his graceful sides, Which many a scatter'd rock divides, Bleach'd by more years than hist'ry knows, Mov'd by no power but melting snows, Or gushing springs, that wash away Th' embedded earth that forms their stay. The heart distends, the whole frame feelsr Where, inaccessible to wheels, The utmost storm-worn summit spreads Its rocks grotesque, its downy beds; Here no false feeling sense belies, Man lifts the weary foot, and sighs; Laughter is dumb; hilarity Forsakes at once th' astonish'd eye; E'en the clos'd lip, half useless grown, Drops but a word, "Look down; look down."

A light gray haze enclos'd us round; Some momentary drops were found, Borne on the breeze; soon all dispell'd; Once more the glorious prospect swell'd Interminably fair. Again Stretch'd the BLACK MOUNTAIN'S dreary chain! When eastward turn'd the straining eye, Great MALVERN met the cloudless sky: Southward arose th'embattled shores, Where Ocean in his fury roars, And rolls abrupt his fearful tides, Far still from MENDIP'S fern-clad sides; From whose vast range of mingling blue, The weary, wand'ring sight withdrew, O'er fair GLAMORGAN'S woods and downs, O'er glitt'ring streams, and farms, and towns, Back to the TABLE ROCK, that lours O'er old CRICKHOWEL'S ruin'd towers.

Here perfect stillness reign'd. The breath A moment hush'd, 'twas mimic death. The ear, from all assaults releas'd, As motion, sound, and life, had ceas'd. The beetle rarely murmur'd by, No sheep-dog sent his voice so high, Save when, by chance, far down the steep, Crept a live speck, a straggling sheep; Yet one lone object, plainly seen, Curv'd slowly, in a line of green, On the brown heath: no demon fell, No wizard foe, with magic spell, To chain the senses, chill the heart, No wizard guided POWEL'S cart; He of our nectar had the care, All our ambrosia rested there. At leisure, but reluctant still, We join'd him by a mountain rill; And there, on springing turf, all seated, Jove's guests were never half so treated; Journies they had, and feastings many, But never came to ABERGANY; Lucky escape:--the wrangling crew, Mischief to cherish, or to brew, Was all their sport: and when, in rage, They chose 'midst warriors to engage, "Our chariots of fire," they cried, And dash'd the gates of heav'n aside, Whirl'd through the air, and foremost stood 'Midst mortal passions, mortal blood, Celestial power with earthly mix'd; Gods by the arrow's point transfix'd! Beneath us frown'd no deadly war, And POWEL'S wheels were safer far; As on them, without flame or shield, Or bow to twang, or lance to wield, We left the heights of inspiration, And relish'd a mere mortal station; Our object, not to fire a town, Or aid a chief, or knock him down; But safe to sleep from war and sorrow, And drive to BRECKNOCK on the morrow.

HEAVY and low'ring, crouds on crouds, Drove adverse hosts of dark'ning clouds Low o'er the vale, and far away, Deep gloom o'erspread the rising day; No morning beauties caught the eye, O'er mountain top, or stream, or sky, As round the castle's ruin'd tower, We mus'd for many a solemn hour; And, half-dejected, half in spleen, Computed idly, o'er the scene, How many murders there had dy'd Chiefs and their minions, slaves of pride; When perjury, in every breath, Pluck'd the huge falchion from its sheath, And prompted deeds of ghastly fame, That hist'ry's self might blush to name.

At length, through each retreating shower, Burst, with a renovating power, Light, life, and gladness; instant fled All contemplations on the dead.

Who hath not mark'd, with inward joy, The efforts of the diving boy; And, waiting while he disappear'd, Exulted, trembled, hop'd, and fear'd? Then felt his heart, 'midst cheering cries, Bound with delight to see him rise? Who hath not burnt with rage, to see Falshood's vile cant, and supple knee; Then hail'd, on some courageous brow, The power that works her overthrow; That, swift as lightning, seals her doom, With, "Miscreant vanish!--truth is come?" So PEN-Y-VALE upheav'd his brow, And left the world of fog below; So SKYRID, smiling, broke his way To glories of the conqu'ring day; With matchless grace, and giant pride. So BLORENGE turn'd the clouds aside, And warn'd us, not a whit too soon, To chase the flying car of noon, Where herds and flocks unnumber'd fed, Where USK her wand'ring mazes led.

Here on the mind, with powerful sway, Press'd the bright joys of yesterday; For still, though doom'd no more t'inhale The mountain air of PEN-Y-VALE, His broad dark-skirting woods o'erhung Cottage and farm, where careless sung The labourer, where the gazing steer Low'd to the mountains, deep and clear.

FORTH from the calm sequester'd shade, Once more approaching twilight bade; When, as the sigh of joy arose, And while e'en fancy sought repose, One vast transcendent object sprung, Arresting every eye and tongue; Strangers, fair BRECON, wondering, scan The peaks of thy stupendous VANN: But how can strangers, chain'd by time, Through floating clouds his summit climb? Another day had almost fled; A clear horizon, glowing red, Its promise on all hearts impress'd, Bright sunny hours, and Sabbath rest.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

The Gaer, a Roman Station.--Brunless Castle.--The Hay.--Funeral Song, "Mary's Grave."--Clifford Castle.--Return by Hereford, Malvern Hills, Cheltenham, and Gloucester, to Uley.--Conclusion.

'Tis sweet to hear the soothing chime, And, by thanksgiving, measure time; When hard-wrought poverty awhile Upheaves the bending back to smile; When servants hail, with boundless glee, The sweets of love and liberty; For guiltless love will ne'er disown The cheerful Sunday's market town, Clean, silent, when his power's confess'd, And trade's contention lull'd to rest.

Seldom has worship cheer'd my soul With such invincible controul! It was a bright benignant hour, The song of praise was full of power; And, darting from the noon-day sky, Amidst the tide of harmony, O'er aisle and pillar glancing strong, Heav'ns radiant light inspir'd the song. The word of peace, that can disarm Care with its own peculiar charm, Here flow'd a double stream, to cheer The Saxon and the Mountaineer, Of various stock, of various name, Now join'd in rites, and join'd in fame.

YE who religion's duty teach, What constitutes a Sabbath breach? Is it, when joy the bosom fills, To wander o'er the breezy hills? Is it, to trace around your home The footsteps of imperial Rome? Then guilty, guilty let us plead, Who, on the cheerful rested steed, In thought absorb'd, explor'd, with care, The wild lanes round the silent GAER, Where conqu'ring eagles took their stand; Where heathen altars stain'd the land; Where soldiers of AUGUSTUS pin'd, Perhaps, for pleasures left behind, And measur'd, from this lone abode, The new-form'd, stoney, forest road, Back to CAERLEON'S southern train, Their barks, their home, beyond the main; Still by the VANN reminded strong Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song, The olive groves, and cloudless sky, And golden vales of Italy.

With us 'twas peace, we met no foes; With us far diff'rent feelings rose. Still onward inclination bade; The wilds of MONA'S Druid shade, SNOWDON'S sublime and stormy brow, His land of Britons stretch'd below, And PENMAN MAWR'S huge crags, that greet The thund'ring ocean at his feet, Were all before us. Hard it prov'd, To quit a land so dearly lov'd; Forego each bold terrific boast Of northern Cambria's giant coast. Friends of the harp and song, forgive The deep regret that, whilst I live, Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue; Go, joys untasted, themes unsung, Another scene, another land, Hence shall the homeward verse demand. Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain, Till "farewell BRECON" left a pain; A pain that travellers may endure, Change is their food, and change their cure. Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away, To recollect so bright a day! Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love, Their tumbling USK, their PRIORY GROVE, View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright, The freshness of a summer's night.

HIGH o'er the town, in morning smiles, The blue VANN heav'd his deep defiles; And rang'd, like champions for the fight, Basking in sun-beams on our right, Rose the BLACK MOUNTAINS, that surround That far-fam'd spot of holy ground, LLANTHONY, dear to monkish tale, And still the pride of EWAIS VALE. No road-side cottage smoke was seen, Or rarely, on the village green No youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress, In ardent play, or idleness. Brown way'd the harvest, dale and slope Exulting bore a nation's hope; Sheaves rose as far as sight could range, And every mile was but a change Of peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still, And climbing many a distant hill. Some talk'd, perhaps, of spring's bright hour, And how they pil'd, in BRUNLESS TOWER , The full-dried hay. Perhaps they told Tradition's tales, and taught how old The ruin'd castle! False or true, They guess it, just as others do.

Lone tower! though suffer'd yet to stand, Dilapidation's wasting hand Shall tear thy pond'rous walls, to guard The slumb'ring steed, or fence the yard; Or wheels shall grind thy pride away Along the turnpike road to HAY, Where fierce GLENDOW'R'S rude mountaineers Left war's attendants, blood and tears, And spread their terrors many a mile, And shouted round the flaming pile. May heav'n preserve our native land From blind ambition's murdering hand; From all the wrongs that can provoke A people's wrath, and urge the stroke That shakes the proudest throne! Guard, heav'n. The sacred birth-right thou hast given; Bid justice curb, with strong controul, The desp'rate passions of the soul.

Here ivy'd fragments, lowering, throw Broad shadows on the poor below, Who, while they rest, and when they die, Sleep on the rock-built shores of WYE.

What if a father buried here His earthly hope, his friend most dear, His only child? Shall his dim eye, At poverty's command, be dry? No, he shall muse, and think, and pray, And weep his tedious hours away; Or weave the song of woe to tell, How dear that child he lov'd so well.

MARY'S GRAVE.

No child have I left, I must wander alone, No light-hearted Mary to sing as I go, Nor loiter to gather bright flowers newly blown, She delighted, sweet maid, in these emblems of woe.

Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil'd O'er its rock-bed unceasing, and still it goes free; But her infant life was arrested, unsoil'd As the dew-drop when shook by the wing of the bee.

Sweet flowers were her treasures, and flowers shall be mine; I bring them from Radnor's green hills to her grave; Thus planted in anguish, oh let them entwine O'er a heart once as gentle as heav'n e'er gave. Oh, the glance of her eye, when at mansions of wealth I pointed, suspicious, and warn'd her of harm; She smil'd in content, 'midst the bloom of her health, And closer and closer still hung on my arm.

What boots it to tell of the sense she possess'd, The fair buds of promise that mem'ry endears? The mild dove, affection, was queen of her breast, And I had her love, and her truth, and her tears; She was mine. But she goes to the land of the good, A change which I must, and yet dare not deplore; I'll bear the rude shock like the oak of the wood, But the green hills of Radnor will charm me no more.

How placid, how divinely sweet, The flow'r-grown brook that, by our feet, Winds on a summer's day; e'en where Its name no classic honours share, Its springs untrac'd, its course unknown, Seaward for ever rambling down! Here, then, how sweet, pelucid, chaste; 'Twas this bright current bade us taste The fulness of its joy. Glide still, Enchantress of PLYNLIMON HILL, Meandering WYE! Still let me dream, In raptures, o'er thy infant stream; For could th' immortal soul forego Its cumbrous load of earthly woe, And clothe itself in fairy guise, Too small, too pure, for human eyes, Blithe would we seek thy utmost spring, Where mountain-larks first try the wing; There, at the crimson dawn of day, Launch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away, Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below, Or climb the green transparent prow, Stooping where oft the blue bell sips The passing stream, and shakes and dips; And when the heifer came to drink, Quick from the gale our bark would shrink, And huddle down amidst the brawl Of many a five-inch waterfall, Till the expanse should fairly give The bow'ring hazel room to live; And as each swelling junction came, To form a riv'let worth a name, We'd dart beneath, or brush away Long-beaded webs, that else might stay Our silent course; in haste retreat, Where whirlpools near the bull-rush meet; Wheel round the ox of monstrous size; And count below his shadowy flies; And sport amidst the throng; and when We met the barks of giant men, Avoid their oars, still undescried, And mock their overbearing pride; Then vanish by some magic spell, And shout, "Delicious WYE, farewell!"

'Twas noon, when o'er thy mountain stream, The carriage roll'd, each pow'rful gleam Struck on thy surface, where, below, Spread the deep heaven's azure glow; And water-flowers, a mingling croud, Wav'd in the dazzling silver cloud. Again farewell! The treat is o'er; For me shall Cambria smile no more; Yet truth shall still the song sustain, And touch the springs of joy again.

Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer, But a far nobler scene was near; And when the morrow's noon had spread, O'er orchard stores, the deep'ning red, Behind us rose the billowy cloud, That dims the air to city croud.

Through LEDBURY, at decline of day, The wheels that bore us, roll'd away, To cross the MALVERN HILLS. 'Twas night; Alternate met the weary sight Each steep, dark, undulating brow, And WORC'STER'S gloomy vale below: Gloomy no more, when eastward sprung The light that gladdens heart and tongue; When morn glanc'd o'er the shepherd's bed, And cast her tints of lovely red Wide o'er the vast expanding scene, And mix'd her hues with mountain green; Then, gazing from a height so fair, Through miles of unpolluted air, Where cultivation triumphs wide, O'er boundless views on every side, Thick planted towns, where toils ne'er cease, And far-spread silent village peace, As each succeeding pleasure came, The heart acknowledg'd MALVERN'S fame.

Oft glancing thence to Cambria still, Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill, Delightful PEN-Y-VALE! Nor shall Great MALVERN'S high imperious call Wean me from thee, or turn aside My earliest charm, my heart's strong pride.

Cease, cease the lay, the goal is won, But silent memory revels on; Fast clos'd the day, the last bright hour, The setting sun, on DURSLEY tower, Welcom'd us home, and forward bade, To ULEY valley's peaceful shade.

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