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.

RUINS of greatness, all farewell;

No Chepstows here, no Raglands tell,

By mound, or foss, or mighty tower,

Achievements high in hall or bower;

Or give to fancy's vivid eye,

The helms and plumes of chivalry.

CLIFFORD has fall'n, howe'er sublime,

Mere fragments wrestle still with time;

Yet as they perish, sure and slow,

And rolling dash the stream below,

They raise tradition's glowing scene,

The clue of silk, the wrathful queen,

And link, in mem'ry' s firmest bond,

The love-lorn tale of Rosamond.

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.

Hail! land of cyder, vales of health!

Redundant fruitage, rural wealth;

Here, did Pomona still retain,

Her influence o'er a British plain,

Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly,

Round the capricious deity;

Or autumn sacrifices bound,

By myriads, o'er the hallow'd ground,

And deep libations still renew

The fervours of her dancing crew.

Land of delight! let mem'ry strive

To keep thy flying scenes alive;

Thy grey-limb'd orchards, scattering wide

Their treasures by the highway side;

Thy half-hid cottages, that show

The dark green moss, the resting bough,

At broken panes, that taps and flies,

Illumes and shades the maiden's eyes

At day-break, and, with whisper'd joy,

Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy:

These, with thy noble woods and dells,

The hazel copse, the village bells,

Charm'd more the passing sultry hours

Than HEREFORD, with all her towers.

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.

And deem not that, where cyder reigns

The beverage of a thousand plains,

Malt, and the liberal harvest horn,

Are all unknown, or laugh'd to scorn;

A spot that all delights might bring,

A palace for an eastern king,

CANFROME , shall from her vaults display

John Barleycorn's resistless sway.

To make the odds of fortune even,

Up bounc'd the cork of “seventy-seven,”

And sent me back to school; for then,

Ere yet I learn'd to wield the pen;

The pen that should all crimes assail,

The pen that leads to fame — or jail;

Then steem'd the malt, whose spirit bears

The frosts and suns of thirty years!

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.

Boast MALVERN, that thy springs revive

The drooping patient, scarce alive;

Where, as he gathers strength to toil,

Not e'en thy heights his spirit foil,

But nerve him on to bless, t'inhale,

And triumph in the morning gale;

Or noon's transcendent glories give

The vigorous touch that bids him live.

Perhaps e'en now he stops to breathe,

Surveying the expanse beneath?

Now climbs again, where keen winds blow.

And holds his beaver to his brow;

Waves to the Wrecken his white hand,

And, borrowing Fancy's magic wand,

Skims over WORC'STER' S spires away,

Where sprung the blush of rising day;

And eyes, with joy, sweet Hagley Groves,

That taste reveres and virtue loves;

And stretch'd upon thy utmost ridge,

Marks Severn's course, and UPTON-bridge,

That leads to home, to friends, or wife,

And all thy sweets, domestic life;

He drops the tear, his bosom glows,

That consecrated Avon flows

Down the blue distant vale, to yield

Its stores by TEWKESBURY'S deadly field,

And feels whatever can inspire,

From history's page or poet's fire.

Bright vale of Severn! shall the song

That wildly devious roves along,

The charms of nature to explore,

On history rest, or themes of yore?

More joy the thoughts of home supply,

Short be the glance at days gone by,

Though gallant TEWKESBURY, clean and gay,

Hath much to tempt the traveller's stay,

Her noble abbey, with its dead,

A powerful claim; a silent dread,

Sacred as holy virtue springs

Where rests the dust of chiefs and kings;

With his who by foul murder died,

The fierce Lancastrian's hope and pride,

When brothers brothers could destroy

Heroic Margaret's red-rose boy.

Muse, turn thee from the field of blood,

Rest to the brave, peace to the good;

Avon, with all thy charms, adieu!

For CHELTENHAM mocks thy pilgrim crew;

And like a girl in beauty's power,

Flirts in the fairings of an hour.

Queen of the valley! soon behind

Gleam'd thy bright fanes, in sun and wind,

Fair Glo'ster. Though thy fabric stands,

The boast of Severn's winding sands

If grandeur, beauty, grace, can stay

The traveller on his homeward way.

There rests the Norman prince who rose

In zeal against the Christian's foes,

Yet doom'd at home to pine and die,

Of birthright rob'd, and liberty;

Foil'd was the lance he well could fling,

Robert , who should have been a king;

His tide of wrongs he could not stem,

His brothers filch'd his diadem.

There sleeps the king who aim'd to spurn

The daring Scots, at Bannockburn,

But turn'd him back, with humbled fame,

And Berkley's “shrieks " declare his name.

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.

Who so unfeeling, who so bold,

To judge that fictions, idly told,

Deform the verse that only tries

To consecrate realities?

If e'er th’ unworthy thought should come,

Let strong conviction strike them dumb.

Go to the proof; your steed prepare,

Drink nature's cup, the rapture share;

If dull you find your devious course,

Your tour is useless — sell your horse.

Ye who, ingulph'd in trade, endure

What gold alone can never cure;

The constant sigh for scenes of peace,

From the world's trammels free release,

Wait not, for reason's sake attend,

Wait not in chains till times shall mend;

Till the clear voice, grown hoarse and gruff,

Cries, “Now I'll go, I'm rich enough;”

Youth, and the prime of manhood, seize,

Steal ten days absence, ten days ease;

Bid ledgers from your minds depart;

Let mem'ry' s treasures cheer the heart;

And when your children round you grow,

With opening charms and manly brow,

Talk of the WYE as some old dream,

Call it the wild, the wizard stream;

Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest,

And youth shall smile to see you bless'd.

Artists, betimes your powers employ,

And take the pilgrimage of joy;

The eye of genius may behold

A thousand beauties here untold;

Rock, that defies the winter's storm;

Wood, in its most imposing form,

That climbs the mountain, bows below,

Where deep th’ unsullied waters flow.

Here Gilpin's eye transported scan'd

Views by no tricks of fancy plan'd;

Gray here, upon the stream reclin'd,

Stor'd with delight his ardent mind.

But let the vacant trifler stray

From thy enchantments far away;

For should, from fashion's rainbow train,

The idle and the vicious vain,

In sacrilege presume to move

Through these dear scenes of peace and love,

The spirit of the stream would rise

In wrathful mood, and tenfold size,

And nobly guard his COLDWELL SPRING,

And bid his inmost caverns ring;

Loud thund'ring on the giddy crew,

“My stream was never meant for you.”

But ye, to nobler feelings born,

Who sense and nature dare not scorn.,

Glide gaily on, and ye shall find

The blest serenity of mind

That springs from silence; or shall raise

The hand, the eye, the voice of praise.

Live then, sweet stream! and henceforth be

The darling of posterity;

Lov'd for thyself, for ever dear,

Like beauty's smile and virtue's tear,

Till time his striding race give o'er,

And verse itself shall charm no more.