PR 4149 
 .B6 B3 
 1812 
 Copy 1 
 
THE 
 
 BANKS OF WYE; 
 A POEM. /^ 
 
 IN FOUR BOOKS. 
 
 BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE FARMER's BOY. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 |bLISHED by BRADFORD AND INSKEEP; 
 
 VnD INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEWYORK. 
 
 J. Maxwell, Printer, 
 i 1812. 
 
,\ 
 
 u' 
 
 
rt TO 
 
 THOMAS LLOYD BAKER, ESQ. 
 
 OF stout's hill, uley, 
 
 AND HIS EXCELLENT LADY; 
 
 AND 
 
 ROBERT BRANSBY COOPER, ESQ. 
 
 OF FERXEY HILL, DURSLEY, 
 
 IN THE COUNTY OF GLOUCESTER, 
 
 AND ALL THE :MEMBERS OF HIS FAMILY, 
 
 THIS JOURNAL 
 
 IS DEDICATED, 
 
 WITH SENTIMENTS OF HIGH ESTEEM, 
 
 AND A LIVELY RECOLLECTION 
 
 OF PAST PLEASURES, 
 
 > BY THEIR HUMBLE SERVANT, 
 
 ** THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IN the summer of 1807, a party of my good friends in 
 Gloucestershire proposed to themselves a sliort excursion 
 down the Wye, and through part of South Wales. 
 
 While this plan was in agitation, the lines which I had 
 composed on " Shooter's Hill," during ill health, and inserted 
 in my last volume, obtained their particular attention. A spirit 
 of prediction, as well as sorrow, is there indulged ; and it was 
 now in the power of this happy party to falsify such predic- 
 tions, and to render a pleasure to the w riter of no common 
 kind. An invitation to accompany tliem was the consequence; 
 and the follow iiig journal is the i-esult of that invitation. 
 
 Should tlie reader, from being a resident, or frequent visi- 
 ter, be w ell acquainted with the route, and able to discover in- 
 accuracies in distances, succession of objects, or local parti- 
 culars, he is requested to recollect, that the part) was out but 
 ten days; a period much too short for correct and laborious 
 description, but quite sufficient for all the powers of poetiy 
 which I feel capable of exerting. The whole exhil)its the lan- 
 guage and feelings of a man who had never before seen a 
 mountainous country; and of this it is highly necessary that 
 the reader should be apprized. 
 
 A Swiss, or p«trhaps a Scottish highlander, may smile at sup- 
 posed or real exaggerations; but they will be excellent critics 
 
viil PREFACE. 
 
 •when they call to mind tl»at they themselves judge, in these 
 cases, as I do, by comparison. 
 
 Perlia]»s it may be said, that because njuch of public ap- 
 probation has fallen to m\ lot, it was unwise to vejuure ?jgain. 
 I confess that the journey left such powerful, such uncon- 
 qutrable impressions on my mind, that imbodyuij^ my 
 ihou^lits in rhyme became a matter almost of ntcessity. To 
 the parties concerned I know it will be an acceptable little 
 vohunL: to whom and to the public, it is submitted with due 
 resjHct. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 City Road, I^ondon,7 
 JuneSO, ISIl. 5 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK I 
 
CONTENTS OF BOOK I. 
 
 The Vale of Uley.— Forest of Dean.— Ross.— Wilton Castle.— 
 Goodrich Castle.— Courtfield, Welch Bicknor, Coldwell.— 
 Gleaner's Song.— Coldwell Rocks.— Symmoii's Yat.— Great 
 Doward.— New Wier.— Arthur's Hall.— Martin's Well.— The 
 Coricle.— Arriyal at Momaouth. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ^* 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 de- 
 
 cUn*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 whei'e the Cotswold Hills are stretch 'd along. 
 Seek our green dell, as yet unknown to song: 
 
1 12 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 rStart hence Avith us, and trace, with raptiirM eye. 
 The wihl meanderings of the beauteous Wye; 
 jThy ten days leisure ten days joy shall prove, 
 [And rock and streana breathe amity and love " 
 
 Such was the call; with instant ardor hail'd, 
 ;The siren Pleasure caroll'd and prevail'd; 
 Soon the deep dell appear'd, and the clear brow 
 Of XJley Bury* smil'd o'er all below, 
 ^Mansion, and flock, and circling woods that hung 
 llound the sweet pastures where the sky-lark sung„ 
 O for the fancy, vigorous and sublime, 
 C'iiaste as the theme, to triumph over time! 
 Brijiht as the lising 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 splints high, 
 5ound health, bright hopes, and cloudless sky, 
 \ clieerful group their farewell bade 
 To Dursley tower, to Uley's shade; 
 \nd where bold Stinchcomb's greenwood side, 
 ■jleavcs in the van of highland pride, 
 Scour'd the broad vale of Severn; there 
 The foes of verse shall never dare 
 
 * Bui-y, or Burg, the Saxon name for a liill, particularly for 
 •nc wholly or partially formed by art. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 13 
 
 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 jiass of Fraraelode, 
 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 soonferry'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 valleys roar. 
 
 Harmless we past, and unassail'd. 
 Nor once at roads or turnpikes rail'd; 
 
14 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Through depths of shade oft sun-beams broke, 
 Midst noble Flaxley's bowers of oak; 
 And many a cottage trim and gay 
 Wliisper'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 ecstasy; 
 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 JMan of Bass'* alive; 
 And hears the Twick'nham bard again. 
 To Kyrl's high virtues lift his strain; 
 Whose own hand cloth'd this far-fara'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 forever; 
 Ross, that exalts its spire on high. 
 Above the flow'ry-raargin'd Wye, 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 15 
 
 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 wav'd her flower-incii'cled wand, 
 " Away, away, to Faiiy Land." 
 Light dipt the oars; but who can name 
 The various objects dear to fame, 
 That changing, doubling, 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. 
 
16 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Who curVd the barons* kingly power?* 
 Let history tell that fateful hour 
 At home, when surly winds shall roar, 
 And Prudence shut the study door. 
 De Wiltons 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 Avillow'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 skimmM along. 
 The clarionet, and chosen song. 
 That mellow, wild, Eolian lay, 
 *' Sweet in the Woodlands;" roll'd away, 
 
 * Henry the Seventh gave an irrevocable blow to the dan- 
 gerous privileges assumed by the barons, in abolishing liveries 
 and retainers, by which every malefactor could shelter him- 
 self from the law, on assuimng a nobleman's livery, and at- 
 tending his person. And as a finishing stroke to the feudal 
 tenures, an act was passed, by which tlie barons and gentle- 
 men of landed interest were at liberty to sell and mortgage 
 their lands, without fines or licenses for the alienation. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 17 
 
 In echoes down the stream, that bore 
 Each dying: close to every shore. 
 And forward Cape, and Avoody 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 bjr^torms and time 
 Of Gaodrieb. Towers, ' The mouldering pile 
 'Tells noble truths, — but dies the whilcj _, 
 ^f*?!" the steep path, through brake and brier, 
 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 terroi', 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 throngM 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; 
 a2 
 
18 THE BANKS OP WYE. 
 
 Dig-, cried Experience, dig away. 
 
 Bring the firm quarry into day, 
 
 The excavation still shall save 
 
 Those ramparts Avhichits entrails gave. 
 
 ** Here kings shall dwell," the builders cried; 
 
 " Here England's foes shall low'r their pinde; 
 
 ** Hither shall suppHant 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 Ioav, 
 
 Creep rou.id 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 sti'ong; 
 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 tx'embled in the breeze. 
 And scarcely trembled, as we stood 
 For Ruerdean Spire, and Bishop's Wood. 
 
 * The boatman. 
 
THK BANKS OF WYE. 19 
 
 ^ The fair domains of Couitfield* made 
 A paradise of mingled sliade 
 Round Bicknor's tiny church, that cowers 
 Beneath his host of Avoodlund bowers. 
 
 But who the charm of words shall fling 
 0*er Raven Cliff and Coldwell Spring, 
 To brigliten the unconscious eye. 
 And wake the soul to ecstasy? 
 
 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 idiot — glorious sight! 
 Here, in one gay according mind, 
 Upon the sparkling stream we din'tj; 
 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; 
 
 * A seat belonging to the familj' of Vatighan, which is not 
 unnoticed in the pages of history. According to tradition, it ix 
 the place where Henry the Fifth was nursed, under the care of 
 the countess of Salisbury, from which circumstance the origi- 
 nal name of Grayfield^is said to have been changed to Court- 
 fieldt 
 
 t This is probably an erroneous tradition; for Court was a 
 common name for a manor-house, wheie the lord of the ma- 
 nor hejd his court.— C«.re'f Mownoiah, 
 
20 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Gave shadowy rocks, and clear blue sky, 
 And double clouds of various dye; 
 Gave dark green woods, or russet brown. 
 And pendent 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'iy days, 
 I' ve heard the wild impassion'd lays 
 Of such a group, lays strange and ne^^'. 
 And thought, was ever song so time? 
 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. 
 
 GLEANER'S SONG. 
 
 Dear Ellen, yom- tales are all plenteously stor'd, 
 With the joys of some bxide, and the wealth of her 
 lord; 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 21 
 
 Of her chariots and dresses. 
 
 And worldly caresses, 
 And servants that fly when she's waited upon: 
 But what can she boast if she weds unbelov'd? 
 Can she e'er feel the joy that one morning I prov'd. 
 When I put on my neAv gOM n and waited for John? 
 
 These fields, ray dear Ellen, I knew them of yore, 
 Yet to me they ne'er look'd so enchantmg before; 
 
 The distant bells ringing, 
 
 The birds round us singing. 
 For pleasure is pure when affection is won; 
 Thev told me the troubles and cares of a wife; 
 But I lov'd him; and that was the pride of my life. 
 When I put on my new gown and waited for Johu. 
 
 He shouted and ran, as he leapt from the stde; 
 And what in my bosom was passing the whiter 
 
 For Love knows the blessing 
 
 Of ardent caressing. 
 When Virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone. 
 The sunshine of Fortune you say is diAnne; 
 True love and the sunshine of Nature were mine, 
 When I put on my new^ gown and waited for John. 
 
 Never could spot be suited less 
 To bear memorials of distress; 
 None, cries the sage, more fit is found. 
 
22 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 They strike at once a double wound; 
 flumiliation bids you sigh, 
 And think of immortality. 
 
 Close on the bank, and half o'ergrown. 
 Beneath a dark wood's sorabrous frown, 
 A monumental stone appears. 
 Of one who in his blooming years, 
 While bathing spurn'd the grassy shore, 
 And sunk, midst friends, to rise no more; 
 By parents witness'd. — Hark! their shrieks! 
 The dreadful language Horror speaks! 
 But why in verse attempt to tell 
 That tale the stone records so Avell?* 
 
 * Inscription on the side towards the water. 
 " Sacred to the memory of John Whitehead Wavre, who pe- 
 rished near this spot, whilst bathing in the river Wye, in 
 sight of his afflicted parents, brother, and sisters, on the 14th 
 of September, 1804, in the sixteenth year of his age. 
 
 GOD'S WILL BE DONE, 
 " Who, in his mercy, hath granted consolation to the parents 
 of the dear departed, in tlie reflection, that he possessed truth, 
 iimoeence, fihal piety, and fraternal affection, in the highest 
 degree. That, but a few moments before he was called to a 
 better life, he had (with a never to be forgotten piety) jouied 
 his family in joyful thanks to his Maker, for the restoration 
 of his mothei*'s health. His parents, injustice to his amiable 
 virtue, and excellent disposition, declare, that he was void of 
 offence towards them. With humbled hearts they bow to the 
 Almighty's dispensation: trusting, through the mediation of 
 his blessed Son, he will mercifully receive their child he so 
 suddenly took to himself. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. US 
 
 Nothing could damp th' awaken'd joy, 
 Not e'en thy fate, ingenuous boy; 
 The great, the grand of Nature strove. 
 To Hft our hearts to life and love. 
 
 Hail! Coldwell Rocks; frown, frown away; 
 Thrust from your woods your shafts of gray: 
 
 " This monument is here erected to warn parents and 
 others how they trust the deceitful stream; and particularly 
 to exhort them to learn and observe the directions of the Hu- 
 mane Society, for the recovery of persons apparently drown* 
 ed. Alas! it is with the extreniest sorrow hera comniemora- 
 ttd, what anguish is felt from a want of this knowledge. The 
 lamented swam vei*y well; was endowed with great bodily 
 strength and activit}'; and possibly, had proper application 
 been used, might have been saved from his untimely fate. He 
 was born at Oporto, in the kingdom of Portugal, on the 14th 
 of February, 1789; third son of James Wane, of London, and 
 of the county of Somerset, merchant, and Elinor, daughter of 
 Thomas Gregg, of Belfast, Esq. 
 
 " Passenger, whoever thou art, spare this tomb! It is erect- 
 ed for the benefit of the surviving, being but a poor record 
 of the grief of those wlio witnessed the sad occasion of it. 
 God pi'eserve jou and yours from such calamity: May you 
 not require their assistance; but if you should, the apparatus, 
 with directions for the application by tlie Humane Society, 
 for the saving of persons apparently drowned, are lodged at 
 the church of Coldwell." 
 
 0?i the opposite side is inscribed 
 
 "It is with gi-atitude acknowledged by the parents of the 
 deceased, that permission was gratuitously, and most obliging- 
 ly, granted for the erection of this monument, by William 
 Vaughan, Esq. of Courtfield." 
 
24 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Fall not, to crash our moi'tal pride, 
 Or stop the stream on which we ghde. 
 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. 
 Reflects your monstrous forms below; 
 Or in clear shoals, in breeze or sim. 
 Shakes 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 Cambriaii 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 fam'd in lays, or chief io fights; 
 But former tourists, just as free, 
 (Though surely not so blest as we,) 
 jMark'd towering Bearcroft's ivy crowiij- 
 And gray Vansittart's waving gown; 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 And who 's that spant 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 shovdd 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, dai'ling Muse, 
 He who in idle, happy trim. 
 Rode just where friends would carry him? 
 Truth, I obey. — Tbe generous hand, 
 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 hisyee, 
 Kests 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; 
 B 
 
26 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 A stranger's triumph — he w'Hi feel 
 A joy that death alone oan steal. 
 And should he cold indifference feign, 
 And treat such honours with disdain. 
 Pretending pride shall not deceive him. 
 Good people all, pray don'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 AVye 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.'* 
 
 * This rock)' isthmus, pei'forated at tlie hase, would mea- 
 sure not more than six hundred }'ards, and it» highest point 
 is two thousand feet above the water. If this statement, 
 taken from Coxe's History of Monmouthshire, and an Ex- 
 cursion down the Wye by C. Heath, of Monmouth, is cor- 
 rect, its elevation is greater tlian that of the " Pen y Vale," or 
 the " Sugar-Loaf Hill," near Abergavenny. Yet it has less the 
 appearance of a mountain, than the river has that of an ex- 
 cavation. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 27 
 
 * On went the boat, and up the steep 
 Her straggUngcrew began to creep. 
 To gain the ridge, enjoy the ■siew. 
 Where 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 fi'om his brow. 
 The eye surveys twin gulfs below. 
 
 Whence comes thy name? What Symmon 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 
 
JS THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Forward quick changing, changing still, 
 Again rose cliff, and wood, and liill. 
 Where mingling foliage seem'd to strive, 
 With dark-brown saplings, flay'd alive;* 
 Down to the gulf beneath, where oft 
 The toiling wood-boy dragg'd aloft 
 His stubborn faggot from the brim, 
 And gaz'd, and tugg'd with sturdy limb; 
 And where the mind repose would seek, 
 A barren, storm-defying peak, 
 The Little Doward Ufted high 
 His rocky crown of royalty. 
 
 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 listening ear? 
 E'en so; for down the green bank fell. 
 An ice-cold stream from Martin's Well, 
 
 * The custom is here alluded to, of stripping the bark fi-om 
 oaks while growing, which g^ves an almost undescribable 
 though not the most agreeable, effect to the landscape. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 29 
 
 Bright as young Beauty's azure eye, 
 
 And pure as infant Chastity, 
 
 Each Umpid draught, suffiis'd ^vith 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,* 
 Skulk'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; 
 
 • In Caesar's Commentaries, mention is made of boats of 
 this description, formed of a raw hide, (from whence, perhaps, 
 their name Coricle,) which were in use among the natives. 
 How little they dreamed of the vastness of modem perfec- 
 ^on, and of the naval conflicts of latter days! 
 
so THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 And o'er his back, in gallant trim, 
 Swung the light shell that carried him; 
 Then down again his burden threw, 
 And lanch'd his whirling bowl anew; 
 Displaying, in his bow'ry station. 
 The infancy of navigation. 
 
 Soon round us spread the hills and dales. 
 Where GeofFroy 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. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
CONTENTS OF BOOK II. 
 
 Henry the Fifth.— Morning on the Water.— Landoga. — Ballad, 
 " The Maid of Landoga."— Tintern Abbey.— Wind-Cliff.— 
 Arrival at Chepstow. — Persfield.— Ballad, " Morris of Pers- 
 fieId."~View from Wind-Cliff.— Chepstow Castle by Moon- 
 light. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 V -Harry of Monmouth, o'er thy page, 
 f9 ^-Sreat chieftain of a daring age. 
 The stripling soldier burns to see 
 The spot of thy nativity; 
 His ardent fancy can restore 
 Thy castle's turrets, now no more; 
 See the tall plumes of victory wave. 
 And call old Valour from the grave: 
 Twang the strong bow; and point the lance. 
 That pierc'd the shatter'd hosts of France, 
 When Eui'ope, in the days of yore. 
 Shook at the rampant lion's roar. 
 
 Ten hours were all we could command; 
 The boat was moor'd upon the strand, 
 The midnight current, by her side. 
 Was stealing down to meet the tide; 
 The wakeful steersman ready lay, 
 To rouse us at the break of day; 
 
34 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 It came— how soon! and •what a sky. 
 To cheer the bounding traveller's eye! 
 To make him spui'n his couch of rest. 
 To shout upon the river's breast; 
 Watching by turns the rosy hue 
 Of early cloud, or sparkling dew; 
 These hving joys tlie verse shall tell, 
 Hariy, and Monmouth, fare-ye-well. 
 
 On upland farm, and airy height. 
 Swept by the breeze, and cloth 'd in light. 
 The reapers, early from their beds, ^^ 
 
 Perhaps were singing o'er our heads. 
 For, sti'anger, deem not that the eye , 
 Could hence survey the eastern sky. 
 Or mark the streak'd horizon's bound. 
 Where first the rosy sun Avheels round; 
 Deep in the gulf beneath were we. 
 Whence climb'd blue mists o'er rock and tree; 
 A mingling, undulating crowd. 
 That form'd the dense or fleecy cloud; 
 Slow from the darken'd stream upborne. 
 They caught the quick'ning gales of morn; 
 There bade their parent Wye good day. 
 And ting'd with purple sail'd away. 
 
 The Mvmno join'd us all unseen, 
 '' Troy House, and Beaufort's bowers of green, 
 
 f 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 35 
 
 And nameless prospects, half defin*d, 
 
 Involv'd in mist, were left behind. 
 
 Yet as the boat still onward bore. 
 
 These ramparts of the eastern shore 
 
 Cower'd the high crest to many a sweep. 
 
 And bade us o'er each minor steep 
 
 Mark the bold Kymin's sunny brow, 
 
 That, gleaming o'er our fogs below. 
 
 Lifted amain, with giant poAver, 
 
 E'en to the clouds his Naval Tower;* 
 "T'j^roclaiming to the morning sky, 
 ' VaVour, and fame, and victory. 
 
 The air resign'd its hazy blue. 
 Just as Landoga came in view; 
 Delightful village! one by one, 
 Its climbing dwellings caught the sun. 
 So bright the scene, the air so clear. 
 Young Love and Joy seem'd statjon'd here; 
 And each with floating banners cried, 
 ** Stop, friends, you '11 meet the slimy tide." 
 
 Rude fragments, torn, disjointed, wild. 
 High on the Glo'ster shore are pil'd; 
 No ruin'd fane, the boast of years, 
 Unstain'd by time the group appears; 
 
 * The Kymin Pavilion, erected in honour of the Britisk 
 Admirals, and their unparalleled victories. 
 
30 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 With foaming wrath, and hideous swell. 
 
 Brought headlong down a woodland dell, 
 
 W^hen a dark thunder-storm had spread 
 
 Its terrors i-ound the guilty head; 
 
 When rocks, earth-bound, themselves gave way, 
 
 When crash'd the prostrate timbers lay. 
 
 O, it had been a noble sight 
 
 Crouching beyond the torrent's might. 
 
 To mark th' uprooted victims bow. 
 
 The grinding masses dash below, 
 
 And hear the long deep peal the while 
 
 Burst over Tintern's roofless pile! 
 
 Then, as the sun regain'd his power. 
 
 When the last breeze from haM'thorn bower, 
 
 Or Druid oak, had shook away 
 
 The rain-drops *midst the gleaming day, 
 
 Perhaps the sigh of hope return'd 
 
 And love in some chaste bosom burn*d. 
 
 And softly trill*d the stream along. 
 
 Some rustic maiden's village song. 
 
 THE MAID OFLANDOGA. 
 
 Return, my Llewellyn, the glory 
 That heroes may gain o'er the sea. 
 
 Though nations may feel 
 
 Their invincible steel. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 37 
 
 !fey falsehood is tarnish'd in story; 
 Why tarry, Llewellyn, from me? 
 
 Thy sails, on the fathomless ocean. 
 Are swell'd by the boisterous gale; 
 
 How rests thy tir'd head 
 
 On the rude rocking bed? 
 While here not a leaf is in motion. 
 And melody reigns in the dale. 
 
 /"'i^ mountains of Monmouth invite thee; 
 The Wye, O how beautiful here! 
 
 This woodbine, thine own. 
 
 Hath the cottage o'ergrown; 
 O what foreign shore can delight thee? 
 And where is the current so clear? 
 
 Can lands where false pleasure assails thee, 
 And beauty invites thee to roam; 
 
 Can the deep orange grove 
 
 Charm with shadows of love? 
 Thy love at Landoga bewails thee; 
 Remember her truth and thy home. 
 
 Adieu, Landoga, scene most deai', 
 Fai'ewell we bade to Ethel's Wier; 
 Sound many a point then bore away, 
 rill morn was chang'd to beauteous day: 
 
38 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 And forward on the lowland shore. 
 
 Silent majestic ruins Avore 
 
 The stamp of holiness; this strand 
 
 The steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land. 
 
 I 
 
 Sudden the change; at once to tread 
 The grass-grown mansions of the dead! 
 Awful to feeling, where, immense, 
 Rose rnin'd, gray magnificence; 
 The fair-wrought shaft all ivy-bound, -^ 
 
 The tow'ring arch with foliage crown'd, *^ 
 
 That trembles on its brow sublime, 
 Triumphant o'er the spoils of time. 
 Here, grasping all the eye beheld. 
 Thought into mingling anguish swell'd, 
 And check'd the wild excursive wing, 
 O'er dust or bones of priest or king; 
 Or rais'd some Strongbow* warrior's ghost 
 To shout before his banner'd host. 
 But all was still; — The checker'd floor 
 Shall echo to the step no more; 
 Nor airy roof the strain prolong 
 Of vesper chant or choi'al song. 
 
 Tintern, thy name shall hence sustain 
 A thousand raptures in my brain; 
 
 * They show here a mutilated figure, which they call th 
 famous earl Strongbow;but it appears from Coxe that he v/i 
 buried at Gloucester. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 30 
 
 Joys, full of soul, all strength, all eye. 
 That cannot fade, that cannot die. 
 
 No loitering here, lone walks to steal. 
 Welcome the early hunter's meal; 
 For Time and Tide, stern couple, ran 
 Their endless race, and laugh'd at man; 
 Deaf, had we shouted, "turn about?" 
 Or, " wait a while, till we come out;" 
 To humour them we check'd our pride. 
 And ten cheer'd hearts, stow'd side by side, 
 fash d from the shore with current strong. 
 And, " Hey for Chepstow," steer'd along. 
 
 Amidst the bright expanding day. 
 Solemnly deep, dark shadows lay. 
 Of that rich foliage, tow'ring o'er 
 Where princely abbots dwelt of yore. 
 The mind, with instantaneous glance, 
 Beholds his barge of state advance. 
 Borne proudly down the ebbing tide. 
 She turns the waving boughs aside; 
 She winds with flowing pendants drest. 
 And as the current turns south-west. 
 She strikes her oars, where full in view. 
 Stupendous Wind-Cliff greets his crew. 
 But, Fancy, let thy day-dreams cease. 
 With fallen greatness be at peace; 
 
40 THE BANKS OP WYE. 
 
 Enough; for Wind-ClifF still was found 
 To liail us as we doubled round. 
 
 Bold in primeval strength he stood; 
 His rocky brow, all shagg'd with wood, 
 O'er-look'd his base, where, doubling strong. 
 The inward torrent pours along; 
 Then ebbing turns, and turns again. 
 To meet the Severn and the Main, 
 Beneath the dark shade sweeping round, 
 Of beetling Persfield's fairy ground. 
 By buttresses of rock upborne, 
 The rude Apostles all unshoi'n. 
 
 Long be the slaught'ring ax defy'd; 
 Long may they bear their waving pride; 
 Tree over tree, bower over bower. 
 In uncurb'd nature's wildest power; 
 Till Wye forgets to wind below. 
 And genial spring to bid them grow. 
 
 And shall we e'er forget the day. 
 When our last chorus died away; 
 When first we hail'd, then moor'd beside 
 Rock-founded Chepstow's mouldering pride. 
 Where that strange bridge,* light, trembling, high. 
 Strides like a spider o'er the Wye; 
 
 * "On my airival at Chepstow," says Mr. Coxe, " I walked 
 to the bridge; it was low water, and I looked down on the ri- 
 ver ebbing between forty and fifty feet beneath; six hours af- 
 ter it rose near forty feet, almost reached the floor of the 
 bridge, and flowed upward with great rapidity. The channel 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 41 
 
 » When, for the joys the morn had giv'n. 
 Our thankful hearts were rais'd to heav'n? 
 Never; — that moment shall be dear, 
 While hills can charm, or sun -beams cheer. 
 Pollett, farewell! Thy dashing oar 
 
 J Shall lull us into peace no more; 
 
 But whei^e Kyrl trimm'd his infant green, 
 Long mayst thou with thy bark be seen; 
 And happy be the hearts that glide 
 Through such a scene, with such a goiide. 
 
 The verse of gravel walks that tells. 
 With pebble rocks and mole-hill swells. 
 May strain Description's bursting cheeks. 
 And far outrun the goal it seeks. 
 Not so when ev'ning's purpling hours 
 Hied us away to Persfield bowers: 
 Here no such danger waits the lay. 
 Sing on, and truth shall lead the way; 
 Here sight may range, and hearts may glovr, 
 Yet shrink from the abyss below; 
 Here echoing precipices roar. 
 As youthful ardour shouts before; 
 Here a sweet paradise shall rise 
 At once to greet poetic eyes. 
 
 in this place being narrow in proportion to the Severn, and 
 confined between perpendicxdar cliffs, the great rise and fall 
 of the river are peculiarly manifest." 
 B 2 
 
 # 
 
42 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Then why does he dispel, unkind. 
 
 The sweet illusion from the mind. 
 
 That giant, with the goggling eve, 
 
 Who strides in mock sublimity? 
 
 Giants, identified, may frown, 
 
 Nature and taste would knock them down; 
 
 Blocks that usurp some noble station, 
 
 As if to curb imagination. 
 
 That, smiling at the chisel's pow'r, 
 
 Makes better monsters every hour. 
 
 Beneath impenetrable green, 
 Down 'midst the hazel stems was seen 
 The turbid stream, with all that past; 
 The Ume-white deck, the gliding mast; 
 Or skiff with gazers darting by, 
 "Who rais'd their hands in ecstasy. 
 Impending cliifs hung overhead; 
 The rock-path sounded to the tread, 
 Where twisted roots, in many a fold. 
 Through moss, disputed room for hold. 
 
 The stranger thus who steals one hour 
 To trace thy walks from bower to bower, 
 Thy noble cliffs, thy Avildwood joys, 
 Nature's own work that never cloys. 
 Who, while reflection bids him roam. 
 Exclaims not, " Persfield is my home" 
 Can ne'er, vith dul! unconscious eye, 
 Leave them behind without a sigh. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYK. 43 
 
 Thy tale of truth then. Sorrow, tell, 
 Of one who bade tim home farewell; 
 Morris of Persfield. — Hark, the strains! 
 Hark! 'tis some Monmouth bard complains! 
 The deeds, the worth, he knew so well, 
 The force of nature bids him tell, 
 
 MOURIS 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 Montis 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 chainty flow'd. 
 But all his resources gave way, 
 
 O what could his feelings control? 
 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. 
 
44 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 When I saw the poor widows kneel down, 
 
 To bless him, to weep, and to pray J 
 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 Persiield 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.* 
 
 * The author is equally indebted to Mr. Coxe's County 
 History for this anecdote, as for the greater parts of the notes 
 subjoined throughout the Journal. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 45 
 
 * Cleft from the summit, who shall say 
 Wheii Wind-CUfF's other half gave way? 
 Or when the sea-waves roai'ing strong, 
 First drove the rock-bound tide along? 
 To studious leisure be resigned, 
 JThe 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, 
 '"^ack over Monmouth who cOuld trace 
 The Wye's fantastic mountain race? 
 Before us, sweeping far and wide, 
 Xay 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, 
 vVith 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 
 
?i6 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 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 Avestward roll'd the setting day. 
 
 Fled like a golden dream away. 
 
 Then Cliepstow's ruin'd fortress caught 
 
 The mind's collected store of thought. 
 
 And seem'd, Avith mild but jealous frown, 
 
 To pz'omise peace, and warn us down. 
 
 'TAvas Avell; for he has much to boast. 
 
 Much still that tells of glories lost. 
 
 Though rolling years have form'd the sod, 
 
 VVhei-e once Ihe brieht-helm'd warrior trod 
 
 From tOAver to tower, and gazM around. 
 
 While all beneath him slept profound. 
 
 E'en on the Avails Avhere pac'd the brave. 
 
 High o'er his crumbling turrets waA'e 
 
 The rampant seedlings. — Not a breath 
 
 Past through their leaves; Avhen, still as death. 
 
 We stopp'd to Avatch the clouds — for night 
 
 Grew splendid with increasing light, 
 
 Till, as time loudly told the hour, 
 
 (^Icam'd the broad front of Marten's ToAver,* 
 
 * Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the death* 
 warrant of Charles the First, finished his days here in prison. 
 Marten lived to the adA'anced age of seA'enty-eight, and died 
 by a stroke of apoplexy, Avhich seized him iwhile he was at 
 
 ^ 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 4r 
 
 Blight sllver'd by the moon. — Then rose 
 The wild notes sacred to repose; 
 Then the lone owl awoke from rest, 
 Stretch'd his keen talons, plumM his crest. 
 And from his high embattl'd station, 
 footed 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. 
 
 dinner, in the twentieth year of his confinement. He was 
 buried in the chancel of the parish church at Chepstow. 
 Over his ashes was placed a stone with an inscription, wliich 
 remained there until one of the succeeding vicars declaring 
 l*bis abhorrence that the monument of a rebel should stand so 
 I near the altar, removed the stone into the bod j- of the churcli; 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
CONTENTS OF BOOK III. I 
 
 Departure for Ragland.— Ragland Castle.— Abergavenny.— 
 Expedition up the " Pen-j-Vale," or Sugar-Loaf-Hill.— In- • 
 vocation to the Spirit of Bums.— View from the Mountain. — 
 Castle of Abergavenny.— Departure for Brecon.— Pembrokes 
 of CrickhoweL—Tre-Tower Castle.— Jane Edwards. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Jl EACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales, 
 ': Untainted fly your summer gales; 
 
 Health, thou from cities lov'st to roam, 
 I O make the Monmouth hills your home! 
 ^ Great spirits of her bards of yore, 
 i While harvests triumph, torrents roar, 
 ' Train her young shepherds, train them high 
 To sing of mountain liberty: 
 Give them the harp and modest maid; 
 Give them the sacred village shade. 
 Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy, 
 ; Names that import a i-ural joy; 
 Known to our fathers, when May -day 
 Brush'd a whole twelvemonth's cares away. 
 
 Oft on the lisping infant's tongue 
 Reluctant information hung. 
 Till, from a belt of woods full grown. 
 Arose immense thy turrets brown. 
 
52 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Majestic Ragland! Hat-vests wave 
 
 Where thund'ring hosts their vi^atch-word gave. 
 
 When cavaliers, with downcast eye, 
 
 Sti'uck the last flag of loyalty:* 
 
 Then, left by gallant Worcester's band. 
 
 To Devastation's cruel hand 
 
 The beauteous fabric bow'd, fled all 
 
 The splendid hours of festival. 
 
 No smoke ascends; the busy hum 
 
 Is heard no more; no rolling drum. 
 
 No high-ton'd clarion sounds alarms. 
 
 No banner wakes the pride of arms;")" 
 
 But ivy, creeping year by year, 
 
 Of growth enormous, triumphs here. 
 
 * This castle with a gan-ison commanded by the marquis of 
 Worcester, was the last place of strength which held out for 
 the unfortunate Charles the First. 
 
 t These magnificent ruins, including the citadel, occupy 
 a tract of ground not less than one-thii-d of a mile in circum- 
 ference. 
 
 " In addition to the injury the castle sustained from the 
 parliamentary army, considerable dilapidations have been oc- 
 casioned by the numerous tenants in the vicinity, who con- 
 veyed away the stone and other materials for the construor 
 lion of farm-houses, barns, and other buildings. No less than 
 twenty-three staircases were taken down by these devasta- 
 tors; but the present duke of Beaufort no sooner succeeded 
 to his estate, than he instantly gave orders that not a stone 
 should be moved from Its situation, and thus preserved these 
 noble ruins from destruction." 
 
 History of Monmouthshire, page 148 ; 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 53 
 
 g Each dark festoon with pride upheaves. 
 
 Its glossy wilderness of leaves 
 
 On sturdy limbs, that, clasping, bow 
 
 Broad o'er the turrets utmost brow. 
 
 Encompassing, by strength alone. 
 
 In fret-work bai'S, the sliding stone. 
 
 That tells how years and storms prevail. 
 
 And spreads its dust upon the gale. 
 The man who could unmov'd survey 
 ^ What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away; 
 
 Works of the pow'rful and the brave. 
 
 All sleeping in the silent grave; 
 
 Unmov'd reflect that here were sung 
 
 Carols of joy, by Beauty's tongue. 
 
 Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam, 
 
 And hardly fit — to stay at home. 
 
 Spent here in peace one solemn hour, 
 
 'Midst legends of the Yellow Tower, 
 
 Truth and Tradition's mingled stream. 
 
 Fear's stai't, and Superstition's dream* 
 
 Is pregnant with a thousand joys. 
 
 That distance, place, nor time destroys; 
 
 * A village woman, who very officiously pointed out all 
 that she knew respecting the former state of the castle, de- 
 sired us to remark the descent to a vault, apparently of large 
 dimensions, in which she had heard that no candle would 
 continue burning; "and," added she, " they say it is because 
 of the damps; but for my part, I tUmk^the devil is there." 
 
54 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 That vith exhaustless stores supply 
 Food for reflection till we die. 
 
 On-ward the rested steeds pursu'd 
 The cheerful route, with strength renewM, 
 For onward lay the gallant town, 
 Whose name old custom hath clipped down. 
 With more of music left than many, 
 So handily to Abergany 
 And as the sidelong, sober light 
 Left valleys darken'd, hills less bright, 
 Great Blorence rose to tell his tale; 
 And the dun peak of Pen-y-Vale 
 Stood like a sentinel, whose brow 
 Scowl'd on the sleeping world below; 
 Yet even sleep itself outspread 
 The mountain paths we meant to tread, 
 'Midst fresh'ning gales all unconfin'd. 
 Where Usk's broad valley shrinks behind. 
 
 Joyous the crimson morning rose. 
 As joyous from the night's repose 
 Sprung the light heart, the glancing eye 
 Beheld, amidst the dappl'd sky. 
 Exulting Pen-y-Vale. But how 
 Could females climb his gleaming brow, 
 Rude toil eneount'ring? how defy 
 The wintry torrent's course, when dry. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 55 
 
 A rough-scoop'd bed of stones? or meet 
 The powerful force of August heat? 
 Wheels might assist, could wheels be found 
 Adapted to the rugged ground: 
 'Twas done; for Prudence bade us start 
 With three Welch ponies, and a cart; 
 A red-check'd mountaineer;* a wit. 
 Full of rough shafts, that sometimes hit, 
 Trudg'd by their side, and twirl*d his thong, 
 And cheer'd his scrambling team along. 
 
 At ease to mark a scene so fair. 
 And treat their steeds with mountain air, 
 Some rode apart, or led before. 
 Rock after rock the wheels upbore; 
 The careful driver slowly sped. 
 To many a bough we duck'd the head. 
 And heard the wild inviting calls 
 Of summer's tinkling waterfalls. 
 In wooded glens below; and still. 
 At every step the sister hill, 
 Blorenge, grew greater, half unseen 
 At times from out our bowers of green. 
 That telescopic landscapes made. 
 From the arch'd windows of its shade; 
 
 * The driver, Powell, I believe, occupied a cottage, or 
 small fai'm, which we past duiing the ascent, and where 
 goat's milk was oflfered for reirethment. 
 
56 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 For woodland tracts begirt us round; 
 The vale beyond was fairy ground. 
 That verse can never paint. Above 
 Gleam'd something like the mount of Jove, 
 (But how much let the learned say 
 Who take Olympus in their way) 
 Gleam'd the fair, sunny, cloudless peak 
 That simple sti'angers ever seek. 
 And are they simple? Hang the dunce 
 Who could not doff his cap at once 
 In ecstasy, when, bold and new. 
 Bursts on his sight a mountain-view. 
 
 Though vast the prospect here becamcj 
 Intensely as the love of fame 
 Glow'd the strong hope, that strange desire. 
 That deathless wish of climbing higher. 
 Where heather clothes his graceful sides. 
 Which many a scatter'd rock divides, 
 Bleach'd by more years than hist'ry knows, 
 Mov'd by no power but melting snows. 
 Or gushing springs, that wash away 
 Th' embedded earth that forms their stay. 
 The heart distends, the whole frame feels. 
 Where, inaccessible to wheels. 
 The utmost storm-worn summit spreads 
 Its rocks grotesque, its downy beds; 
 Here no false feeling sense belies, 
 jNIan lifts the weary foot, and sighs; 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 57 
 
 Laughter is dumb; Hilarity 
 Forsakes at once th' astonish'd eye; 
 E'en the clos'd lip, half useless gi^own, 
 Drops but a word: " Look down; look down." 
 
 Good Heav'ns! must scenes like these expand. 
 Scenes so magnificently grand, 
 And millions breathe, and pass away, 
 Unbless'd, throughout their little day. 
 With one short glimpse? By place confin'd. 
 Shall many an anxious ardent mind. 
 Sworn to the Muses, cow'r its pride, 
 Doom'd but to sing with pinions tied? 
 
 Spirit of Burns! the daring child 
 Of glorious freedom, rough and wild. 
 How have I wept o'er all thy ills. 
 How blest thy Caledonian hills! 
 How almost Avorshipp'd in my di'eams 
 Thy mountain haunts, — thy classic streams! 
 How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire. 
 To mark thy giant strength aspire 
 In patriot themes! and tun'd the while 
 Thy " £o7iny Boon," or " JBalloch Mile:' 
 Spirit of Burns! accept the tear 
 That rapture gives thy mem'ry here 
 On the bleak mountain top. Here thou 
 Thyself had rais'd the gallant brow 
 
58 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Of conscious intellect, to twine 
 Th' imperishable verse of thine. 
 That charm'st the world. Or can it be, 
 That scenes like these were nought to thee? 
 That Scottish hills so far excel. 
 That so deep sinks the Scottish dell. 
 That boasted Pen-y-Vale had been,* 
 For thy loud northern lyre, too mean; 
 Broad-shoulder'd Blorenge a mere knoll, 
 And Skyrid, let him smile or scowl, 
 A dwarfish bully, vainly proud 
 Because he breaks the passing cloud? 
 If even so, thou bard of fame. 
 The consequences rest the same: 
 For, grant that to thy infant sight 
 Rose mountains of stupendous height; 
 Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught 
 'Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought; 
 Gr^nt that old Talliesin flung 
 His thousand raptures, as he sung 
 From huge Plynlimon's awful brow. 
 Or Cader Idris, capt with snow; 
 
 * The respective heights of these mountains above the 
 mouth of the Gavany, were taken baioinetrieally by general 
 Roy. 
 
 Feet. 
 The summit of the Sugar-Loaf . - 1852 
 Of the Blorenge ..... 1720 
 
 Of the Skyrid - ... 1493 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 5i) 
 
 ► Such Alpine scenes with them or thee 
 Well suited. — These are Aljjs to me. 
 
 Long did we, noble Blorenge, gaze 
 On thee, and mark, the eddying haze 
 That strove to reach thy level crown. 
 From the rich stream, and smoking town; 
 And oft, old Sky rid, hail'd thy name, 
 Nor dar'd deride thy holy fame.* 
 Long foUow'd with untiring eye 
 Th' illumin'd clouds, that o'er the sky 
 Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped, 
 Dipping to every mountain's head, 
 Dark-mingling, fading, wild, and thence. 
 Till Admii'ation, in suspense, 
 Hung on the verge of sight. Then sprung, 
 By thousands known, by thousands sung. 
 Feelings that earth and time defy. 
 That cleave to immortahty. 
 
 A light gray haze enclos'd us round; 
 Some momentary drops were found, 
 
 * There still remains, on the summit of the Skyrid, or, 
 St. MichaeKs Mount, the foundation of an ancient chapel 
 to which the inhabitants formerly ascended on Michaelmas 
 Eve, in a kind of pilgrimage. A prodigious cleft, or separa- 
 tion in the hill, tradition says, was caused by the earthquake 
 at the crucifixion, it was therefore termed the Holy Moun- 
 tain. 
 
60 THE BANKS OF WYE» 
 
 Borne on the breeze; soon all dispell'd; 
 Once more the glorious prospect swell'd 
 Interminably fair.* Again 
 Stretch'd the Black Mountain's dreary chain! 
 When eastwai'd turn'd the straining eye. 
 Great Malvern met the cloudless sky: 
 Southward arose th' embattled shores, 
 Whei'e Ocean in his fury roars, 
 And rolls abrupt his fearful tides. 
 Far still from Mendip's fern-clad sides; 
 Fi'om -whose vast range of mingling blue. 
 The weaiy, wand'ring sight withdrew. 
 O'er fair Glamorgan's woods and downs. 
 O'er glitt'ring streams, and farms, and towns. 
 Back to the Table Rock, that lowers 
 O'er old Crickhowel's ruin'd towers. 
 
 Here perfect stillness reign'd. The breath 
 A moment hush'd, 'twas mimic death. 
 The ear, from all assaults released. 
 As motion, sound, and life, had ceas'd. 
 The beetle rarely murmur'd by. 
 No sheep-dog sent his voice so high. 
 Save when, by chance, far down the steep, 
 Crept a live speck, a straggling sheep; 
 
 * This hill commands a view ot the counties of Radnor, 
 Salop, Brecknock, Glamorgan, Hevefoi-d, Worcester, Glou- 
 cester, Sottiersetj and Wilts. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 61 
 
 4 Yet one lone object, plainly seen, 
 
 Curv'd slowly, in a line of green, 
 
 On the brown heath: no demon fell. 
 
 No wizard foe, with magic spell. 
 
 To chain the senses, chill the heart. 
 
 No Avizard guided Powel's cai't; 
 
 He of our nectar had the care. 
 
 All our ambrosia rested there. 
 
 At leisure, but reluctant still. 
 
 We join'd him by a mountain rill; 
 
 And there, on springing turf, all seated, 
 
 Jove's guests were never half so treated; 
 
 Journeys they had, and feastings many, 
 
 But never came to Abergany; 
 ■ Lucky escape: — the wrangling crew. 
 
 Mischief to cherish, or to brew. 
 
 Was all their sport: and when, in rage. 
 
 They chose 'midst wari'iors to engage, 
 
 " Our chariots of fire," they cried, 
 , And dash'd the gates of heav'n aside, 
 
 Whirl'd through the air, and foremost stood 
 
 'Midst mortal passions, mortal blood. 
 
 Celestial power with earthly mix'd; 
 
 Gods by the arrow's point transfix'd! 
 
 Beneath us frown'd no deadly war. 
 
 And Powel's wheels were safer far; 
 
 As on them, without flame or shield, 
 
 Or bow to twang, or lance to wield. 
 
62 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 We left the heights of inspiration. 
 And relish'd a mere mortal station; 
 Our object, not to fire a town. 
 Or aid a chief, or knock him down; 
 But safe to sleep from war and sorrow. 
 And drive to Brecknock on the morrow. 
 
 Heavy and low'ring, crowds on crowds. 
 Drove adverse hosts of dark'ning clouds 
 Low o'er the vale, and far away. 
 Deep gloom o'erspread the rising day; 
 No morning beauties caught the eye. 
 O'er mountain top, or stream, or sky. 
 As round the castle's ruin'd tower. 
 We mus'd for many a solemn hour; 
 And, half-dejected, half in spleen. 
 Computed idly, o'er the scene, 
 How many murders there had dy'd 
 Chiefs and their minions, slaves of pride; • 
 When perjury, in every breath, 
 Pluck'd the huge falchion from its sheath. 
 And prompted deeds of ghastly fame. 
 That Hist'ry's self might blush to name.* 
 
 At length, through each retreating shower. 
 Burst, with a renovating power, 
 
 * In Jones's History of Brecknockshire, the castle of 
 Abergavenny is noticed as having been the scene of the most 
 shocking enormities. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 63 
 
 ♦ Light, life, and gladness; instant fled 
 
 All contemplations on the dead. 
 
 Who hath not mark'd, with inward joy, 
 
 The efforts of the diving boy; 
 
 And, waiting while he disappear'd, 
 ^Exulted, trembled, hop'd, and fear'd? 
 
 Then felt his heart, 'midst cheering cries, 
 
 Bound with delight to see him rise? 
 
 Who hath not burnt with rage, to see 
 
 Falsehood's vile cant, and supple knee; 
 
 Then hail'd, on some courageous brow. 
 
 The power that works her overthrow; 
 
 That, swift as lightning, seals her doom. 
 
 With, " Miscreant vanish! — truth is come?" 
 
 So Pen-y-Vale upheav'd his brow. 
 
 And left the world of fog below; 
 
 So Skyrid, smiling, broke his way 
 
 To glories of the conqu'ring day; 
 
 With matchless grace, and giant pride, 
 ■ So Blorenge turn'd the clouds aside. 
 
 And warn'd us, not a whit too soon. 
 
 To chase the flying car of noon. 
 
 Where herds and flocks unnumber'd fed. 
 
 Where Usk her wand'ring mazes led. 
 Here on the mind, with powerful sway, 
 
 Press'd the bright joys of yesterday; 
 
 For still, though doom'd no more t' inhale 
 
 The mountain air of Pen-y-Vale, 
 
64 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 His broad dark-3kirting woods o'erhung 
 Cottage and farm, -where careless sung 
 The labourer, whei'e the gazing steer 
 Low'd to the mountains, deep and cleai% 
 
 Slow less'ning Blorenge, left behind, 
 Reluctantly his claims resign'd. 
 And stretch'd his glowing front entire. 
 As forward peep'd Crickhowel spire; 
 But no proud castle turrets gleam'd; 
 No warrior earl's gay banner stream'd; 
 E'en of thy palace, grief to tell! 
 A tower without a dinner bell; 
 An arch where jav'lin'd Gentries bow'd 
 Low to their chief, or fed the crowd, 
 Are all that mark where once a train 
 Of baro7is grac'd thy rich domain. 
 Illustrious Pembroke!* drain'd thy bowl, 
 And caught the nobleness of soul 
 The harp-inspir'd, indignant blood 
 That prompts to arms and hardihood. 
 
 To muse upon the days gone by. 
 Where desolation meets the eye, 
 Is double life; truth, cheaply bought, 
 The nurse of sense, the food of thought, 
 
 * Part of the original palace of the powerful earls of Pem- 
 bvoke is still undemolisbed by time. 
 
THE BAlSiKS OF WYE. 05 
 
 *AVheiicc juOgmenI, ripen'd, forms, at uill, 
 Ilcr estimates of good or ill; 
 And brings contrasted scenes to view. 
 And weighs the old rogues with the new; 
 Irrtperious tyrants, gone to dust, 
 ^ With tyrants whom the world hath curs'd 
 Through modern ages. By what power 
 Rose the strong walls of old Tre-Tower? 
 Deep in the valley, whose clear rill 
 Then stole through wilds, and wandej's still 
 Through village shades, unstain'd with gore. 
 Where war-steeds bathe their hoofs no more. 
 
 Empires have fallen, armies bled. 
 Since yon old wall, with upright head. 
 Met the loud tempest; who can trace 
 When first the rude mass, from its base, 
 Stoop'd in that dreadful form? E'en thou, 
 Jane, with tlie placid silver brow, 
 Knovv'st not the day, though thou hast seen 
 I An hundred* springs of cheerful green. 
 An hundred Avinters' snows increase 
 That brook, the emblem of thy peace. 
 
 * Jane Edwards, or as she pronounced it, Etweirts, a tall, 
 bony, upright woman, leaning both hands on the head of her 
 stick, and in her manners venerably impressive, was then at 
 the age of one hundred. She was living in 1809, then one 
 hundred and two. 
 
 c 2 
 
66 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Most venerable dame! and shall 
 The plund'rer, in his gorgeous hall. 
 His fame, with Moloch-frown prefer. 
 And scorn thy harmless character? 
 Who scarcely hear'st of his renown. 
 And never sack'd nor burnt a town; 
 But should he crave, with cowai'd cries. 
 To be Jane Edwai^ds when he dies, 
 Thou'lt be the conqueror, old lass, 
 So take thy alms, and let us pass. 
 
 Forth from the calm sequester'd shade, 
 Once more approaching twilight bade; 
 W^hen, as the sigh of joy arose, 
 And Avhile e'en fancy sought repose. 
 One vast transcendent object sprung, 
 AiTCsting every eye and tongue; 
 Strangers, fair Brecon, wondering, scan 
 The peaks of thy stupendous Vann: 
 But how can strangers, chain'd by time, 
 Throvigh floating clouds his summit climb; 
 Another day had almost fled; 
 A clear horizon, glowing red. 
 Its promise on all hearts impress'd. 
 Bright sunny hours, and Sabbath rest. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD BOOK, 
 
THE BANKS OF ^YYE, 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
CONTENTS OF BOOK IV. 
 
 The Gael", a Roman Station.— Bi-unless Castle.— The Hay — 
 Funeral Song, " Mary's Graye.'"— Clifford Castle.— Return 
 by Ilerefoi-d, Malvern Hills, Cheltenham, and Gloucester, 
 to Uley.— Conclusion. 
 
THE BANKS OF AVYE. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 J- IS sweet to hear the soothing chime, 
 And, by thanksgi\ing, measure time; 
 When hard -wrought Poverty awhile 
 Upheaves the bending back to smile; 
 When servants hail, with boundless glee. 
 The sweets of love and liberty; 
 For guiltless love will ne'er disown 
 The cheerful Sunday's market town. 
 Clean, silent, when his power 's confess'd, 
 Xtid trade's contention lull'd to rest. 
 
 Seldom has Avorship cheer'd my soul 
 With such invincible control! 
 Tt was a bi'ight benignant hour. 
 The song of praise was full of power; 
 And, darting from the noon-day sky. 
 Amidst the tide of harmony. 
 O'er ile and pillar glancing strong, 
 Heav'ns radiant light inspir'd the soug. 
 
TO THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 The word of peace, that can disarm i) 
 
 Care with its own peculiar charm, 
 
 Here flowM a double stream, to chefer 
 
 The Saxon* and the mountaineer. 
 
 Of various stock, of various name. 
 
 Now join*d in rites, and join'd in fame. ^ 
 
 Ye who religion's duty teach. 
 What constitutes a Sabbath breach? 
 Is it, when joy the bosom fills. 
 To wander o'er the breezy liills? 
 Is it, to trace around your home 
 The footsteps of impei^ial Rome? 
 Then guilty, guilty let us plead. 
 Who, on the cheerful rested steed, * 
 
 In thought absorb'd, exploi'M with care. 
 The wild lanes round the silent Gaer.^j' 
 
 * Divine service is performed alternately in English and 
 Welsh. That they still call us Saxons, need hardly be men- 
 tioned. I observed the army to be equally as accommodating^ 
 as the church, for the posting-bills, for recruits, are printed 
 in both languages. 
 
 t A road must have led from Abergavenny through the 
 Vale of the Usk, north-west to the " Gaer," situated two miles 
 north-west of Brecon, on a gentle eminence, at the conflux ot 
 the rivers Esker and Usk. Mi-. Wyndham traced parts of walls, 
 which he describes as exactly resembling those at Caerleon; 
 and Mr. Lemon found several bricks bearing the inscription 
 of LEG. II. AVG.—Core. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 71 
 
 ^liere conquering eagles took their stand 
 Where heathen altars stain'd the land: 
 Where soldiers of Augustus pin'd. 
 Perhaps, for pleasures left behind. 
 And measur'd, fi'om this lone abode, 
 Ihe new-form'd, stoney, forest road, 
 Back to Caerleon's southern train, 
 Their barks, their home, beyond the main; 
 Still by the Vann reminded strong. 
 Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song 
 The olive groves, and cloudless sky. 
 And golden vales of Italy. 
 
 With us t'was peace, we met no foes; 
 With us far diff 'rent feelings rose. 
 Still onward inclination bade; 
 The wilds of Mona's Druid shade, 
 iSnowdon's sublime and stormy brow. 
 His laud of Britons stretch'd below, 
 I And Penman Mawr's huge crags, that greet 
 jfhe thund'ring ocean at his feet 
 Wei'e all before us. Hard it prov'd, 
 I To quit a land so dearly lov'd; 
 
 !In addition to the above, it may be acceptable to state 
 that Mr. Price, a very intelligent farmer on the spot, has m 
 his possession several of the above kind ot bricks, bearing the 
 same inscription, done, evidently, by stamping the clay, while 
 nioist, with an instrnment. These have been turned up by tlie 
 iplougb, together with several small Roraa^ lamps. 
 
i% THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Forego each bold terrific boast 
 
 Of northern Cambria's giant coast. 
 
 Friends of the harp and song, forgive 
 
 The deep regret that, whilst T live. 
 
 Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue; 
 
 Go, joys untasted, themes unsung. 
 
 Another scene, another land. 
 
 Hence sliall the homeward verse demand. 
 
 Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain. 
 
 Till "farewell Brecon" left a pain; 
 
 A pain that travellers may endure. 
 
 Change is their food, and change their cure. 
 
 Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away. 
 
 To recollect so bright a day! 
 
 Dream -like those scenes the townsmen love. 
 
 Their tumbling Usk, their Priory Grove, 
 
 View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright. 
 
 The freshness of a summer's night. 
 
 High o'er the town, in morning smiles. 
 The blue Vann heav'd his deep defiles; 
 And ran g'd, like champions for the fight, 
 Basking in sun-beams on our right. 
 Rose the Black Mountains, that surround 
 That far-fam'd spot of holy ground, 
 lilanthony, dear to monkish tale. 
 And still the pride of Ewais Vale. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 73 
 
 IS o road-side cottage smoke was seen. 
 Or rarely, on the village green 
 No youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress. 
 In ardent play, or idleness. 
 Brown wav'd the harvest, dale and slope 
 fpxulting bore a nation's hope; 
 Sheaves rose as far as sight could range. 
 And every mile was but a change 
 Of peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still, 
 And climbing many a distant hill. 
 Some talk'd, perhaps, of Spring's bright hour, 
 And how they pil'd, in Brunless Tower,* 
 The full-dried hay. Perhaps they told 
 Tradition's tales, and taught how old 
 The ruin'd castle! False or true. 
 They guess it, just as others do. 
 
 Lone tower! though suffer'd yet to stand. 
 Dilapidation's wasting hand 
 Shall tear thy pond'rous walls, to guard 
 The slumb'ring steed, or fence the yard; 
 Or wheels shall grind thy pride away 
 Along the turnpike road to Hay, 
 Where fierce Glendow'r's rude mountaineers 
 Left war's attendants, blood and tears, 
 
 * The only remaining tower of Brunless Castle now makes 
 an excellent hay-loft; and almost every building on the spot 
 is composed of fragments. 
 
 D 
 
74 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 And spread their terrors many a mile. 
 
 And shouted round the flaming pile. 
 
 May heav'n preserve our native land 
 
 From blind Ambition's murdering hand; 
 
 From all the wrongs that can provoke 
 
 A people's wrath, and urge the stroke 
 
 That shakes the pi'oudest throne! Guard, heav'n. 
 
 The sacred birth-inght thou hast given; 
 
 Bid Justice cui-b, with strong control. 
 
 The desp'rate passions of the soul. 
 
 Here ivy'd fragments, lowering, throw 
 Broad shadows on the poor below, 
 "Who, while they rest, and when they die. 
 Sleep on the rock-built shores of Wye. 
 
 To tread o'er nameless mounds of earth. 
 To muse upon departed worth. 
 To credit still the poor distress'd. 
 For feelings never half expsess'd. 
 Their hopes, their faith, their tender love. 
 Faith that sustain'd, and hope that strove. 
 Is sacred joy; to heave a sigh, 
 A debt to poor mortality. 
 Funereal rites are clos'd: 'tis done; 
 Ceas'd is the bell; the priest is gone; 
 What then if bust or stone denies 
 To catch the pensive loit'rer's eyes. 
 What course can Poverty pursue? 
 What can the poor pretend to do? 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 75 
 
 4i O boast not, quarries of your store: 
 
 Boast not, O man, of wealth or lore, 
 
 The flowers of nature here shall thrive. 
 
 Affection keep those flowers alive; 
 
 And they shall strike the melting heart, 
 _ Beyond the utmost power of art; 
 
 Planted on graves,* their stems entwine, 
 
 And every blossom is a line 
 
 Indelibly impress'd, that tends, 
 
 In more than language comprehends, 
 
 To teach us, in our solemn hours. 
 
 That we ourselves are dying flowers. 
 What if a father buried here 
 
 His earthly hope, his friend most dear, 
 • His only child? Shall his dim eye. 
 
 At Poverty's command, be dry? 
 
 No, he shall muse, and think, and pray 
 
 And weep his tedious hours away; 
 
 * To the custom of scattering flowers over the graves of 
 departed friends, David ap Gwillym beautifully alludes in one 
 of his odes. " O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender 
 sprays thick of leaves remain, I will pluck the roses from the 
 brakes, the flowerets of the meads, and gems of the wood; the 
 vivid trefoil, beauties of the ground, and the gaily-smiling 
 bloom of the verdant herbs, to be oflfered to the memory of a 
 chief of faii-est fame. Humbly will I lay them on the grave of 
 ' Ivor." 
 
 On a grave in the church-yard at Hay, or the Hay, as it is 
 i commonly spoken, flowers had evidently been planted, but 
 j only one solitary sprig of sweet-briar bad taken root. 
 
76 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Or weave the, song of wo to tell, 
 How dear that child he lov'd so well. 
 
 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 
 wo. 
 Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boiVd 
 
 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: 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 77 
 
 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. 
 Cliffoi'd 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 clew of silk, the wrathful queen. 
 And link, in Mem'ry's firmest bond. 
 The love-lorn tale of Rosamond.* 
 
 * Clifford Castle is supposed to have been the bivth-place 
 of F^ Rosamond. 
 
78 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 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 vmknown. 
 Seaward forever rambling down! 
 Here, then, how sweet, pellucid, chaste; 
 Twas this bright current bade us taste 
 The fulness of its joys. 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 wo. 
 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, 
 Lanch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away, 
 Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below. 
 Or cUmb 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 water-fall. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 79 
 
 "Till the expanse should fairly give 
 The bow'i'ing 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 
 WiOng-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, 
 lAnd mock their overbearing pride; 
 Then vanish by some magic spell, 
 And shout, " Dehcious Wye, farewell!" 
 
 'Twas noon, when o'er thy mountain stream. 
 The carriage roU'd, each powerful gleam 
 •Struck on thy surface, where below. 
 Spread the deep heaven's azure glow: 
 And water-flowers, a mingling crowd, 
 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 spring of joy again. 
 
80 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Hail! land of cider, 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 hallowed ground, 
 And deep libations stifll renew 
 The fervours of her dancing crew. 
 Land of delight! let mem'ry strive 
 To keep thy flying scenes aUve; 
 Thy gray-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. 
 
 SAveet 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. 
 
THE BANKS OF ^VYE. 81 
 
 \ 
 ^ Behind us rose the billowy cloud. 
 
 That dims the air to city crowd. 
 
 * And deem not that, where cider reigns 
 
 The beverage of a thousand plains. 
 
 Malt, and the Uberal harvest horn, 
 ^A.re 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 bounced 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! 
 Thi'ough Ledbury, at decline of day, 
 J 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 "VVorc'ster's gloomy vale below: 
 
 * The noble seat of Hopton, Esq. which exhibits, in a 
 
 striking manner, the real old English magnificence and hospi- 
 tality of the last age. 
 
 D 2 
 
8a THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 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 acknowledged Malvern's fame. 
 
 Oft glancing thence to Cambria still. 
 Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill. 
 Delightful Pen-y-Vale! Nor shall 
 Great Malvei-n'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^ 
 
THE BANKS OP WYE. 88 
 
 JPerhaps e'ea now he stops to breathe, 
 Surveying the expanse beneath! 
 Now cUmbs again, where keen winds blow> 
 And holds his beaver to his brow: 
 Waves to the Wrecken his white hand, 
 
 f.nd, borrowing Fancy's magic wand, 
 kirns 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-biidge, 
 
 That leads to home, to friends, or wife, 
 nAnd 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 fields 
 
 And feels whatever can inspire, 
 
 frrom 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 liistory rest, or themes of yore? 
 More joy the thoughts of home supply, 
 Short be the glance at days gone by. 
 
S4 THE BANKS OF WYE. 
 
 Though gallant Tcwkeshury, 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, 
 
 W^hen brothers brothers could destroy 
 
 Heroic Margaret's red-rose boy.* 
 
 Muse, turn thee from the field of blood, 
 
 Hest to the braA'c, peace to the good; 
 
 Avon, with all thy charms, adieu! 
 
 For Cheltenham mocks thy i>ilgrim crew; 
 
 And like a girl in beauty's power, 
 
 X'lirts in the fairings of an hour. 
 Queen of the valley! soon behind 
 
 Gleam'd thy bi-ight 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, 
 
 * Prince Edward, son of Henry the Sixth, taken pi-isone 
 with his mother, Margaret of Anjou, at the battle of Tewke; 
 bury, and murdered by the duke of Gloucester, afterward 
 Richard the Third. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 85 
 
 ^ Yet doom'd at home to pine and die, 
 
 Of birthright robb'd, and libei'ty; 
 
 Foil'd was the lance he well could fling-, 
 
 Robert* who should have been a king; 
 
 His tide of wrongs he could not stem, 
 A 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, 
 I Welcomed us home, and forward bade. 
 
 To Uley valley's peaceful shade. 
 
 Who so unfeeling, who so bold. 
 To judge that fictions, idly told, 
 1^ 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 pi'oof; your steed prepare. 
 Drink nature's cup, the rapture share; 
 
 • The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprison* 
 ed eight-and-twenty years by his own brotherl 
 + " Shrieks ofan agonizing king," 
 
 E 
 
86 tH£ BANKS OF WYE, 
 
 If dull you find your devious course. 
 Your tour is useless — sell your horse. 
 
 Ye who, ingulf 'd in trade, endure 
 What gold alone can never cure; 
 The constant sigh for scenes of peace, 
 From the world's tramels free release. 
 Wait not, for Reason's sake attend. 
 Wait not in chains till times shall mend; 
 Till the clear voice grown hoarse and gruflf^ 
 Cries, " Now I'll go, I'm rich enough;" 
 Youth, and the pride 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 gfrow. 
 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 your pilgrimage of joy; 
 The eye of Genius may behold 
 A thousand beauties here untold; 
 Rock, that defies the winters storm; 
 Wood, in its most imposing form. 
 That climbs the mountain, bows below. 
 Where deep th' unsullied waters flow. 
 
THE BANKS OF WYE. 87 
 
 I ^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 
 ^rom thy enchantments far away; 
 NFor should, from Fashion's rainbow train. 
 
 The idle and the vitious 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; 
 , JsLoud 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, 
 
 GUde gayly on, and ye shall find 
 ^The blest serenity of mind 
 I 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, forever dear. 
 
 Like Beauty's smile and Virtue's tear. 
 
 Till Time his striding race give o'er. 
 
 And Verse itself shall charm no more. 
 
 TH£ BNB. 
 
'T P"Oit G^ptOIILATroX 
 
 i 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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