The Banks of Wye: A Poem

by Robert Bloomfield

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 woe.

Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil'd
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.

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.
CLIFFORD 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 clue of silk, the wrathful queen,
And link, in mem'ry's firmest bond,
The love-lorn tale of Rosamond[1].
[Footnote 1: Clifford Castle is supposed to have been the birth place of
Fair Rosamond.]

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 unknown,
Seaward for ever rambling down!
Here, then, how sweet, pelucid, chaste;
'Twas this bright current bade us taste
The fulness of its joy. 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 woe,
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,
Launch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away,
Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below,
Or climb 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 waterfall,
Till the expanse should fairly give
The bow'ring 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
Long-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,
And mock their overbearing pride;
Then vanish by some magic spell,
And shout, "Delicious WYE, farewell!"

'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 noble woods and dells,
The hazel copse, the village bells,
Charm'd more the passing sultry hours
Than HEREFORD, with all her towers.

Sweet 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,
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 noble 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 assail,
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 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,
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 hoarse 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 fashion'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 nobly 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 nobler 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.