Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
NEEDWOOD FOREST.
LICHFIELD:
Printed by John Jackson, M.DCC.LXXVI.
NEEDWOOD FOREST.
PART, I.
Needwood! if e’er my early voice
Hath taught thy echoes to rejoice;
If e’er my hounds in opening cry
Have fill’d thy banks with ecstacy;
If e’er array’d in cheerful green
Our train hath deck’d thy wintry scene;
Ere yet thy wood-wild walks I leave,
My tributary verse receive:
With thy own wreath my brows adorn,
And to thy praises tune my horn!
What green-rob’d Nymph, all loose her hair,
With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare,
Steps lightly down the turfy glades,
And beckons tow’rd yon opening shades?—
No harlot-form, dissembling guile
With wanton air and painted smile,
Lures to enchanted halls or bowers,
Where festive Vice consumes his hours.
Her mild and modest looks dispense
The simple charm of innocence:
And a sweet wildness in her eye
Sparkles with young sincerity.—
Lead on, fair guide, ere wakes the dawn,
With thee I’ll climb the steepy lawn,
With thee the leafy labyrinths trace,
Where dwells the Genius of the place.—
His large limbs press a prim-rose bed,
A moss-grown root sustains his head,
And, list’ning to a Druid’s rhimes,
He bends his eye on distant times:
While troops of sylvan Vassals meet
To cast their garlands at his feet,
And pipe and frisk in rings about,
Or parly with the Hunter’s shout.
And now a fragrant show’r he throws
Of blossoms from his curled brows,
And rising waves his oaken wand,
And bids yon magic scenes expand!—
First blush the hills with orient light,
And pierce the sable veil of night,
Green bends the waving shade above,
And glist’ring dew-drops gem the grove:
Next shine the shelving lawns around,
Bright threads of silver net the ground;
And down, the entangled brakes among,
The white rill sparkling winds along:
Then, as the pausing zephyrs breathe,
The billowy mist recedes beneath;
Slow, as it rolls away, unfold
The vale’s fresh glories green and gold;
Dove[[1]] laughs, and shakes his tresses bright,
And trails afar a line of light.
Now glows the illumin’d landscape round!
Ye Vulgar hence!—’tis sacred ground!
Hence to the flimsy walks of art,
That lull, but not transport the heart.
Nature, O Muse, here sits alone,
And marks these regions for thy own;
Here her variety of joys
Nor season bounds, nor change destroys:
Be mine the pride, tho’ weak my strains,
That first I woo’d thee to these plains;
Where Spring, in all her beauty drest,
But promises a brighter guest:
Where Summer yields her greens and flowers
To Autumn’s variegated bowers:
Smiles Winter, as their honours fall,
And bids his hollies shame them all.[[2]]
Ye sage Professors of design,
Whom system’s stubborn rules confine,
Can science here one blemish show?
Or one deficient grace bestow?
Emes,[[3]] who yon desart wild explor’d,
And to it’s name the scene restor’d;
Whose art is nature’s law maintain’d,
Whose order negligence restrain’d,
Here, fir’d by native beauty, trac’d
The foot-steps of the Goddess, Taste:
Won from her coy retreats she came,
And led him up these paths to fame.
Here ev’ry flower improves the gale
From the meek violet of the vale
To her, who flaunts in air sublime,
The woodbine, queen of summer’s prime:
While each delicious shade may vie
With those of boasted Arcady.
There sweet varieties appear
Of thickets, shap’d by nibbling Deer,
Of hills, that swell with gradual ease,
Wood-skirted lawns, and scatter’d trees;
Of vallies seen down distant glades,
That break the mass of mingling shades;
While nature’s attribute, extent,
Crowns each inferior ornament!—
On this green unambitious brow,
Fair Mistress of the vale below,
With sloping hills enclos’d around,
Their heads with oaks and hollies crown’d,
With lucky choice, by happy hands,
Plac’d in good hour, my dwelling stands;
And draws the distant trav’ler’s eye,
Enamour’d of it’s scenery;
Where all things give, what all express,
Content and rural happiness.
Where far retir’d from life’s dull form
Comes no intruder but the storm;
The storm, that with contrasted low’r
Endears the fair the silent hour.
Thus their wise days our fathers led,
Fleet ran their hounds, their arrows sped,
And jocund Health with rosy smile
Look’d on, companion of their toil:
Till tyrant Law usurp’d the land,
Stretch’d o’er the woods his iron hand,
Forbad the echoing horn to blow,
Maim’d the staunch hound, and snapp’d the bow.[[4]]
Here with fair peace and modest fame[[5]]
They dwelt, who boasted Bagot’s name,—
Go, Bagot, plead your country’s cause,
While senates listen with applause,
With fearless truth and manly sense
Detecting specious eloquence:
Great talents to the world are due,
Retirement were a crime in you.
Go, and receive your oaken crown!
Here, with no title to renown,
Leave me to loiter at my door
Beneath the spreading sycamore,
That canopies the sloping lawn;
And view the deer at early dawn
In troops come winding down the hill
To taste fresh herbage near the rill;
Or count at noon their slumb’ring heaps;
At evening watch their playful leaps;
Or hear the quiring of the grove
Give breath to harmony and love;
Or listen to the hum profound,
In the still air that floats around;
Or mark yon hills extended side,
Where turf and shade the space divide;—
Here the wood straggles tow’rd the plain,
The pasture there prevails again;
The heifer grazes on it’s brow,
Clamours the rook on trees below;
Gay golden furze and purple ling
Around their mixt embroidery fling,
O’er all, irregularly join’d,
Th’ according outline waves behind.
No dusky Cares o’er-hang the bower,
No Passions wreck the halcyon hour;
Nurs’d in the shade Reflection springs,
Smooths her white plumes, and tries her wings.
No leaf of autumn falls in vain;
No flower-bell droops beneath the rain,
No bubble down the current flows,
But life’s uncertain tenure shows.
Those thorns protect the forest’s hopes;
That tree the slender ivy props:
Thus rise the mighty on the mean!
Thus on the strong the feeble lean!
In yonder holly—blush mankind!—
A rare fidelity I find;
Like yours tho’ summer’s flatteries end,
My winter here hath found a friend.—
Hail faithful fav’rite tree! to you
The Muse shall pay observance due:
Whether in horrent files you stand
Round sapling oaks a guardian band;
Or form aloft a shelt’ring bower
Impervious to the sun or shower;
Whether to yon hill-side you throng
Ranging in various groups along;
Or on the plain, maturely grown,
You boldly brave the storm alone,
Or tapering high, with woodbines hid,
Rise in a fragrant pyramid;
Your vigorous youth with upright shoots,
Your verdant age, your glowing fruits,
Your glossy leaves, and columns gray
Shall live the favorites of my lay!
Alas! in vain with warmth and food
You cheer the songsters of the wood,
The barbarous boy from you prepares
On treacherous twigs his viscous snares.
Yes, the poor bird, you nurs’d, shall find
Destruction in your rifled rind.
Thus good and ill too often meet,
And bitter mingles with the sweet!
—Ye pedagogues! let truant youth
Imbibe from you this gen’rous truth;
That one humane, one tender thought
Is worth the whole, that schools have taught.
PART, II.
With what fond gaze my eye pursues,
NEEDWOOD, thy sweetly-varying views!
Satyr, or Nymph, or sylvan God
A fairer circuit never trod!
Charm’d, as I turn, thy pictures seem
The golden fabricks of a dream.
Where Fiction stands with prism bright,
Rays forth her many-colour’d light,
Dyes the green herb, and purple flower,
Gives glittering lustres to the shower;
Then gilds with livelier tints the sky,
Or bends her radiant bow on high.
To scenes so elegantly wild
Fancy, of old, her darling child
From Avon’s flowery margin brought,
And Arden boasts what Needwood taught.[[6]]
Such shades by mazy paths perplex’d,
Where strays the traveller inly vex’d,
Inspir’d the Muse of Spencer’s pen;
The wandering wood, and Errors den,[[7]]
Dwarfs, Palfreys, Dames, and Giants rise
Full on Imaginations eyes!
See, See the Sarazin advance!
The red-cross Knight hath couch’d his lance!
They meet, the Christian wins the field,
And bears away the faithless shield![[8]]
With such companions fond to rove,
I venerate each hill and grove,
To Phœbus as to Dian dear,
And find a new Parnassus here.
Here might the sacred sisters dwell
By pebbly brook, or gushing well:
O let me listen, as they sing,
In some close vale beside a spring,
Whose stream the intruding alder chides,
Where the wild-bee her treasure hides!—
Or sit in high imbowering shade
With Contemplation, heav’n-ey’d maid,
Where the scant sun through branches thin
Chequers the dark green floor within;
Where ev’ry leaf is wisdom’s page,
And each gray trunk a hoary sage.
Nor motion, human form, or noise
This solemn pause of life destroys;
Save where the playful squirrel bounds,
Or ring-dove pours her plaintive sounds,
Or lurking peasant lops an oak
Restraining half his pilfering stroke,
Or with his faggot stoops to rest
Both by his years and burthen prest.
Here, seen of old, the elfin race
With sprightly vigils mark’d the place;
Their gay processions charm’d the sight,
Gilding the lucid noon of night;
Or, when obscure the midnight hour,
With glow-worm lantherns hung the bower.
—Hark!—the soft lute! along the green
Moves with majestic step the queen!
Attendant Fays around her throng,
And trace the dance or raise the song;
Or touch the shrill reed, as they trip,
With finger light and ruby lip.
High, on her brow sublime, is born
One scarlet wood-bine’s tremulous horn;
A gaudy bee-bird’s triple plume[[9]]
Sheds on her neck its waving gloom;
With silvery gossamer entwin’d
Stream the luxuriant locks behind.
Thin folds of tangled network break
In airy waves adown her neck:
Warp’d in his loom, the spider spread
The far-diverging rays of thread,
Then round and round with shuttle fine
Inwrought the undulating line.
One rose-leaf forms her crimson vest,
The loose edge crosses o’er her breast.
And one translucent fold, which fell
From the tall lily’s ample bell,
Forms with sweet grace her snowy train,
Flows, as she steps, and sweeps the plain.
Silence and Night inchanted gaze,
And Hesper hides his vanquish’d rays!—
Now the wak’d reed-birds swell their throats,
And night-larks trill their mingled notes:
Yet hush’d in moss with writhed neck
The black-bird hides his golden beak;
Charm’d from his dream of love, he wakes,
Opes his gay eye, his plumage shakes,
And stretching wide each ebon wing,
First in low whispers tries to sing;
Then sounds his clarion loud, and thrills
The moon-bright lawns, and shadowy hills.
Silent the choral Fays attend,
And then their silver voices blend,
Each shining thread of sound prolong,
And weave the magic woof of song.
Pleas’d Philomela takes her stand
On high, and leads the fairy band,
Pours sweet at intervals her strain,
And guides with beating wing the train.