: The Banks of Wye: A Poem by Bloomfield Robert - Wye River (Wales and England) Poetry; Wales South Poetry

@FreeBooks

Posted in: #FreeBooks #FreeBooksIndia #FreeBooksApp #gg

Vote Up Vote Down   0 Reactions

Login to give Reaction!

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.

Free books android app tbrJar TBR JAR Read Free books online gutenberg

(0)

Login to post a comment!