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.

CLEFT from the summit, who shall say

When WIND-CLIFF'S other half gave way?

Or when the sea-waves roaring strong,

First drove the rock-bound tide along?

To studious leisure be resign'd,

The task that leads the wilder'd mind

From time's first birth throughout the range

Of Nature's everlasting change.

Soon from his all-commanding brow,

Lay PERSFIELD'S rocks and woods below.

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.