The Banks of Wye Part 5

'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 n.o.ble woods and dells, The hazel copse, the village bells, Charm'd more the pa.s.sing sultry hours Than HEREFORD, with all her towers.

Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer, But a far n.o.bler 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[A], shall from her vaults display John Barleycorn's resistless sway.

[Footnote A: The n.o.ble seat of--Hopton, Esq. which exhibits, in a striking manner, the real old English magnificence and hospitality of the last age.]

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 a.s.sail, 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 n.o.ble 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.[A]

[Footnote A: Prince Edward, son of Henry the Sixth, taken prisoner with his mother, Margaret of Anjou, at the battle of Tewkesbury, and murdered by the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard the Third.]

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[A], who should have been a king; [Footnote A: The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprisoned eight-and-twenty years by his own brother!]

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_"[B] declare his name.

[Footnote B: "Shrieks of an agonizing king."]

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 hoa.r.s.e 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 fas.h.i.+on'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 n.o.bly 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 n.o.bler 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.

THE END.