The Banks of Wye.

by Robert Bloomfield.

PREFACE.

In the summer of 1807, a party of my good friends in Gloucestershire proposed to themselves a short excursion down the Wye, and through part of South Wales.

While this plan was in agitation, the lines which I had composed on "Shooter's Hill," during ill health, and inserted in my last volume, obtained their particular attention. A spirit of prediction, as well as sorrow, is there indulged; and it was now in the power of this happy party to falsify such predictions, and to render a pleasure to the writer of no common kind. An invitation to accompany them was the consequence; and the following Journal is the result of that invitation.

Should the reader, from being a resident, or frequent visitor, be well acquainted with the route, and able to discover inaccuracies in distances, succession of objects, or local particulars, he is requested to recollect, that the party was out but ten days; a period much too short for correct and laborious description, but quite sufficient for all the powers of poetry which I feel capable of exerting. The whole exhibits the language and feelings of a man who had never before seen a mountainous country; and of this it is highly necessary that the reader should be apprized.

A Swiss, or perhaps a Scottish Highlander, may smile at supposed or real exaggerations; but they will be excellent critics, when they call to mind that they themselves judge, in these cases, as I do, by comparison.

Perhaps it may be said, that because much of public approbation has fallen to my lot, it was unwise to venture again. I confess that the journey left such powerful, such unconquerable impressions on my mind, that embodying my thoughts in rhyme became a matter almost of necessity. To the parties concerned I know it will be an acceptable little volume: to whom, and to the public, it Is submitted with due respect.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

City Road, London,

June 30,1811

THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

BOOK I.

"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 cla.s.sic 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 [A] smil'd o'er all below, [Footnote A: Bury, or Burg, the Saxon name for a hill, particularly for one wholly or partially formed by art.]

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 pa.s.s away, Till time forgets "the Bard" of GRAY.

Quitting fair Glo'ster's northern road, To gain the pa.s.s of FRAMELODE, Before us DEAN'S black forest spread, And MAY HILL, with his tufted head, Beyond the ebbing tide appear'd; And Cambria's distant mountains rear'd Their dark blue summits far away; And SEVERN, 'midst the burning day, Curv'd his bright line, and bore along The mingled _Avon_, pride of song.

The trembling steeds soon ferry'd o'er, Neigh'd loud upon the forest sh.o.r.e; 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 hors.e.m.e.n rous'd amain, And chasing wide the wolf or boar, Bade the deep woodland vallies roar.

Harmless we past, and una.s.sail'd, Nor once at roads or tumpikes rail'd: Through depths of shade oft sun-beams broke, Midst n.o.ble FLAXLEY'S bowers of oak; And many a cottage trim and gay, Whisper'd delight through all the way; On hills expos'd, in dells unseen, To patriarchal MITCHEL DEAN.

Rose-cheek'd _Pomona_ there was seen, And _Ceres_ edg'd her fields between, And on each hill-top mounted high, Her sickle wav'd in extasy; Till Ross, thy charms all hearts confess'd, Thy peaceful walks, thy hours of rest And contemplation. Here the mind, With all its luggage left behind, Dame Affectation's leaden wares, Spleen, envy, pride, life's thousand cares, Feels all its dormant fires revive, And sees "the _Man of Ross_" alive; And hears the Twick'nham Bard again, To KYRL'S high virtues lift his strain; Whose own hand cloth'd this far-fam'd hill With rev'rend elms, that shade us still; Whose mem'ry shall survive the day, When elms and empires feel decay.

KYRL die, by bard enn.o.bled? Never; "_The Man of Ross_" shall live for ever; Ross, that exalts its spire on high, Above the flow'ry-margin'd WYE, Scene of the morrow's joy, that prest Its unseen beauties on our rest In dreams; but who of dreams would tell, Where truth sustains the song so well?

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 n.o.blest 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[A]?

[Footnote A: Henry the Seventh gave an irrevocable blow to the dangerous privileges a.s.sumed by the barons, in abolishing liveries and retainers, by which every malefactor could shelter himself from the law, on a.s.suming a n.o.bleman's livery, and attending his person. And as a finishing stroke to the feudal tenures, an act was pa.s.sed, by which the barons and gentlemen of landed interest were at liberty to sell and mortgage their lands, without fines or licences for the alienation.]

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 sh.o.r.e, 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bles come, And this be England's royal home."

Vain hope! for on the Gwentian sh.o.r.e, 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 [Footnote: The boatman.] 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 [A] made A paradise of mingled shade [Footnote A: A seat belonging to the family of Vaughan, which is not unnoticed in the pages of history. According to tradition, it is the place where Henry the Fifth was nursed, under the care of the Countess of Salisbury, from which circ.u.mstance the original name of Grayfield is said to have been changed to Courtfield. (This is probably an erroneous tradition; for Court was a common name for a manor-house, where the lord of the manor held his court.--_Core's Monmouth_.)]

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 impa.s.sion'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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sing the while?

For love knows the blessing Of ardent caressing, When virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone.