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.

Quitting fair Glo'ster' s northern road,

To gain the pass 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 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.

Harmless we past, and unassail'd,

Nor once at roads or tumpikes rail'd:

Through depths of shade oft sun-beams broke,

Midst noble 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 ennobled? 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 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.

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 impassion'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 grass 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.