Nothing could damp th'awaken' d joy...

Nothing could damp th'awaken' d joy,

Not e'en thy fate, ingenuous boy;

The great, the grand of Nature strove,

To lift our hearts to life and love.

HAIL! COLDWELL ROCKS; frown, frown away;

Thrust from your woods your shafts of gray:

Fall not, to crush our mortal pride,

Or stop the stream on which we glide.

Our lives are short, our joys are few;

But, giants, what is time to you?

Ye who erect, in many a mass,

Rise from the scarcely dimpled glass,

That with distinct and mellow glow,

Reflect your monstrous forms below;

Or in clear shoals, in breeze or sun,

Shake all your shadows into one;

Boast ye o'er man in proud disdain,

An everlasting silent reign?

Bear ye your heads so high in scorn

Of names that puny man hath borne?

Would that the Cambrian bards had here

Their names carv'd deep, so deep, so clear,

That such as gaily wind along,

Might shout and cheer them with a song;

Might rush on wings of bliss away,

Through Fancy's boundless blaze of day!

Not nameless quite ye lift your brows,

For each the navigator knows;

Not by King Arthur, or his knights,

Bard faim'd in lays, or chief in fights:

But former tourists, just us free,

( Tho’ surely not so blest as we,)

Mark'd towering BEARCROFT'S ivy crown,

And grey VANSITTART'S waving gown:

And who's that giant by his side?

“SERGEANT ADAIR,” the boatman cried.

Strange may it seem, however true,

That here, where law has nought to do,

Where rules and bonds are set aside,

By wood, by rock, by stream defy'd;

That here, where nature seems at strife

With all that tells of busy life,

Man should by names be carried still,

To Babylon against his will.

But how shall memory rehearse,

Or dictate the untoward verse

That truth demands? Could he refuse

Thy unsought honours, darling Muse,

He who in idle, happy trim,

Rode just where friends would carry him?

Truth, I obey.— The generous band,

That spread his board and grasp'd his hand,

In native mirth, as here they came,

Gave a bluff rock his humble name:

A yew-tree clasps its rugged base;

The boatman knows its reverend face;

And with his memory and his fee,

Rests the result that time shall see.

Yet e'en if time shall sweep away

The fragile whimsies of a day;

Or travellers rest the dashing oar,

To hear the mingled echoes roar;

A stranger's triumph — he will feel

A joy that death alone can steal.

And should he cold indifference feign,

And treat such honours with disdain,

Pretending pride shall not deceive him,

Good people all, pray do n't believe him;

In such a spot to leave a name,

At least is no opprobrious fame;

This rock perhaps uprear'd his brow,

Ere human blood began to flow.

And let not wandering strangers fear

That WYE is ended there or here;

Though foliage close, though hills may seem

To bar all access to a stream,

Some airy height he climbs amain,

And finds the silver eel again.

No fears we form'd, no labours counted,

Yet SYMMON'S YAT must be surmounted;

A tower of rock that seems to cry,

‘ Go round about me, neighbour WYE .’

On went the boat, and up the steep

Her straggling crew began to creep,

To gain the ridge, enjoy the view,

Where the the pure gales of summer blew.

The gleaming WYE, that circles round

Her four-mile course, again is found;

And crouching to the conqueror's pride,

Bathes his huge cliffs on either side;

Seen at one glance, when from his brow,

The eye surveys twin gulphs below.

Whence comes thy name? What Symon he,

Who gain'd a monument in thee?

Perhaps a rude woodhunter, born

Peril, and toil, and death, to scorn;

Or warrior, with his powerful lance,

Who scal'd the cliff to gain a glance;

Or shepherd lad, or humble swain,

Who sought for pasture here in vain;

Or venerable bard, who strove

To tune his harp to themes of love;

Or with a poet's ardent flame,

Sung to the winds his country's fame?

Westward GREAT DOWARD, stretching wide,

Upheaves his iron-bowel'd side;

And by his everlasting mound,

Prescribes th’ imprison'd river's bound,

And strikes the eye with mountain force:

But stranger mark thy rugged course

From crag to crag, unwilling, slow,

To NEW WIER forge that smokes below.

Here rush'd the keel like lightning by;

The helmsman watch'd with anxious eye;

And oars alternate touch'd the brim,

To keep the flying boat in trim.

Hush! not a whisper! Oars, be still!

Comes that soft sound from yonder hill?

Or is it close at hand, so near

It scarcely strikes the list'ning ear?

E'en so; for down the green bank fell,

An ice-cold stream from Martin's Well,

Bright as young beauty's azure eye,

And pure as infant chastity,

Each limpid draught, suffus'd with dew,

The dipping glass's crystal hue;

And as it trembling reach'd the lip,

Delight sprung up at every sip.

Pure, temperate joys, and calm, were these;

We tost upon no Indian seas;

No savage chiefs, of various hue,

Came jabbering in the bark canoe

Our strength to dare, our course to turn;

Yet boats a South Sea chief would burn ,

Sculk'd in the alder shade. Each bore,

Devoid of keel, or sail, or oar,

An upright fisherman, whose eye,

With Bramin-like solemnity,

Survey'd the surface either way,

And cleav'd it like a fly at play;

And crossways bore a balanc'd pole,

To drive the salmon from his hole;

Then heedful leapt, without parade,

On shore, as luck or fancy bade;

And o'er his back, in gallant trim,

Swung the light shell that carried him;

Then down again his burden threw,

And launch'd his whirling bowl anew;

Displaying, in his bow'ry station,

The infancy of navigation.

Soon round us spread the hills and dales,

Where GEOFFREY spun his magic tales,

And call'd them history. The land

Whence ARTHUR sprung, and all his band

Of gallant knights. Sire of romance,

Who led the fancy's mazy dance,

Thy tales shall please, thy name still be,

When Time forgets my verse and me.

Low sunk the sun, his ev'ning beam

Scarce reach'd us on the tranquil stream;

Shut from the world, and all its din,

Nature's own bonds had clos'd us in;

Wood, and deep dell, and rock, and ridge,

From smiling Ross to Monmouth Bridge;

From morn, till twilight stole away,

A long, unclouded, glorious day.