PART, III.
Ere Night withdraws her starry train,
I print long traces o’er the plain,
And bend my eyes to yon bright east
To meet the Morning’s radiant guest,
As o’er the hill his golden rays
Burst thro’ the thicket in a blaze.
Now from my foot the startled fawn
Bounds to its parent on the lawn;
And the wak’d lark exulting springs,
Hangs high in air on quivering wings,
Chaunts his loud transports o’er the heath,
And eyes his list’ning loves beneath.
Oft shall my Talbot hither stray,
And friendship give new joys to day;
On him his blooming bride attend,
Hither her graceful footsteps bend,
Fresh life her brighter beauties fling
O’er the young dawn, and blossom’d spring.
They come! their eddying wheels resound,
The harness’d coursers proudly bound,
The light-hung chariot floats in air,
And laughing Hymen wreaths the pair!
As o’er the daisy’d lawns they move
By glittering rill or dusky grove,
Old Needwood calls his softest gale,
Bids all his fragrant buds exhale:
His gazing herds around them throng,
His plighted birds suspend their song,
Each on her urn his Naiads lean,
And Wood-nymphs peep from allies green.
Where this gay mount o’er-looks the wood,[[12]]
Charm’d with the scene a monarch stood,
Call’d these fair plains the richest gem,
That deck’d his triple diadem,
Awhile the cares of state forgot,
And with it’s name adorn’d the spot.
Down yon meridian fields afar
When Mercia led her chiefs to war,
Fell in one hour three monarchs brave,
And Lichfield’s bower protects their grave.[[13]]
Her stately spires amidst the skies
Ting’d by the orient sun arise,
With golden vanes invite the gale.—
Triumphant ladies of the vale!
Down yon mid-vale the british Nile,[[14]]
Fair Dove, comes winding many a mile;
And from his copious urn distils
The fatness of a thousand hills.
Swell, generous river, leave thy banks,
The thirsty soil shall give thee thanks!—
The generous river swells, and leads
His waters o’er impoverish’d meads,
And lays his ample treasure down,
Rich emblem of thy bounty, Brown![[15]]
Pleas’d on yon high abode I gaze,
Whence C’andish foaming Dove surveys:[[16]]
And where those humbler vales extend
Of thine, Fitzherbert, chearful friend.[[17]]
Or mark upon yon round ascent
The social flag and open tent,[[18]]
Where life’s smooth paths with sweets are strown,
And mirth makes every hour it’s own.
Where spreads this grove it’s umbrage wide
Late the bold Outlaw fought and died.[[19]]
Oft in it’s dark recess the oak
Had fall’n beneath his secret stroke,
Full many a deer the night’s dim ray
Beheld his silent arrow slay,
Deep furze conceal’d the fawns in vain,
And lust of lucre thinn’d the plain.
Here, by no power before controll’d,
He met a forester as bold;
O’er the fierce conflict frown’d the wood,
And drank with thirsty roots his blood.
Yon bank demands a pitying look,
Where life a gentler breast forsook;[[20]]
Sole comfort of an aged pair!
The true-love of a damsel fair!—
At prime of dawn he stepp’d away;
Long was the journey, short the day;
The wint’ry blast blew loud and chill;
Night caught him on the unshelter’d hill;
Fatigu’d he fell; no help came nigh;
His faithful dog alone was by;
Who, as he fondly lick’d his cheek,
Heard his expiring master speak.
“Heap not for me thy cottage-fire;
“Cold grows my heart, unhappy sire!
“But turn to my unfinish’d loom,
“And weave the web, and bear it home!
“Prepare not, dame, my evening meal;
“But bid them ring my passing peal!
“Deck not thyself, dear maid, to meet
“Thy love; but bring his winding sheet!
“I come not to your festive cheer;
“Ye comrades, place me on my bier!—”
—The morrow found him stiff and pale:
Mournful the Muse recounts his tale.
Her stately tower there Hanbury rears,
Which proudly looks o’er distant shires;
Down the chill slope and darken’d glade
Projects afar it’s length of shade;
Assails the skies with giant force,
And checks the whirlwind in it’s course;
Or, when black clouds involve the pole,
Disarms the thunders, as they roll!—
Beneath how Nature throws around
Grand inequalities of ground,
While down the dells and o’er the steeps
The wavy line of Paphos creeps!—
With awful sorrow I behold
Yon cliff, that frowns with ruins old;[[21]]
Stout Ferrers there kept faithless ward,[[22]]
And Gaunt perform’d his Castle-guard.[[23]]
There captive Mary look’d in vain[[24]]
For Norfolk, and her nuptial train;
Enrich’d with royal tears the Dove,
But sigh’d for freedom, not from love.
’Twas once the seat of festive state,
Where high born dames and nobles sat;
While minstrels, each in order heard,[[25]]
Their venerable songs preferr’d.
False memory of it’s state remains
In the rude sport of brutal swains.[[26]]
Now serpents hiss, and foxes dwell
Amidst the mould’ring citadel;
And time but spares those broken towers
In mockery of human powers.
Yon hill, that glows with southern rays,[[27]]
All-conscious of superior praise,
Swells her smooth top and pastures green,
And of her sisters seems the queen;
Proud from her ancient seats to trace
The lineage of a generous race.
“That generous race,” fair Sudbury cries,
“Is mine,” and bids her turrets rise,
Lifts from the lap of peace her dome,
Where finds Munificence a home;
Then wide her shining lake she leads
Through blossom’d groves and emerald meads,
Cloaths with dark woods the distant scene,
And pours her dappled herds between.
—Ah me! what sudden sadness lowers
O’er her fair front and vernal bowers!
There sinks to her untimely tomb
A virgin flower in beauty’s bloom!
O thou wast all that youth admires,
A parent loves, or friend desires!
I knew thee well! my sorrowing heart
Bears in thy loss a bitter part!—
Whilst the sad Muse in plaintive verse
Strews all her flowers around thy hearse,
Let Pity quit thy grave, and go
A mourner to yon house of woe.
There from thy father’s bosom break
Sighs, which too eloquently speak:
Thy mother weeps, but weeps resign’d,
In all things noble, most in mind:
Pale griefs thy sisters’ cheeks invade;
And one, alas, too tender maid!
Holds a long melancholy strife
Betwixt her sorrows and her life:
Thy manly brothers strive to cure
In vain, the pangs themselves endure.
Fair Saint! a happier lot is thine
Repos’d beneath the silent shrine!
Now let me seek in pensive mood
The rude recesses of the wood;
And, where congenial gloom extends,
Think of lost hopes and distant friends;
Of scenes, whose pleasures fled too fast,
And hours most valued now they’re past!
Beside me lies a dingle deep,[[28]]
With shaggy banks abrupt and steep;
Through vistas wild my course I bend,
Till day-light opens at the end:
Where from intoxicating height
Bursts the wide prospect on my sight.
The terrace bold, on which I stand,
Steps broad and forward on the land;
Rude hills compose the side-long scene,
With crofts and cottages between:
The various landscape onward spreads
O’er cultur’d plains and verdant meads;
And seats, and towns, and hamlets rise,
Where yon smoke curls into the skies,
And spires, that pierce thro’ tufted trees;
Till, faintly fading by degrees,
Beyond, in wild confusion tost,
The hills blue tops in clouds are lost.
Yes, Eaton-Banks, in vain I strive[[29]]
To hide the grief your oaks revive.—
Bow thy tall branches, grateful wood!
Afford me blossom, leaf, and bud!
He, for whose memory these I blend,
Thy late-lost master, was my friend!—
Fall, gentle dews! fresh zephyrs, breathe!
Spread, cooling shades! preserve my wreath!—
Alas, it withers ere its time!—
So faded he in manly prime!—
But Virtue, scorning friendship’s aid,
Rears her own palms, which never fade!