The Banks of Wye Part 2

The Maid of Landoga.

Return, my Llewellyn, the glory That heroes may gain o'er the sea, Though nations may feel Their invincible steel, By 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.

The mountains of Monmouth invite thee; The WYE, O how beautiful here!

This woodbine, thine own, Hath the cottage o'ergrown, O what foreign sh.o.r.e can delight thee, And where is the current so clear?

Can lands where false pleasure a.s.sails 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 dear, Farewell we bade to ETHEL'S WIER; Round many a point then bore away, Till morn was chang'd to beauteous day: And forward on the lowland sh.o.r.e, Silent majestic ruins wore The stamp of holiness; this strand The steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land.

SUDDEN the change; at once to tread The gra.s.s-grown mansions of the dead!

Awful to feeling, where, immense, Rose ruin'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[A] warrior's ghost To shout before his banner'd host.

[Footnote A: They shew here a mutilated figure, which they call the famous Earl Strongbow; but it appears from c.o.xe that he was buried at Gloucester.]

But all was still.--The chequer'd floor Shall echo to the step no more; Nor airy roof the strain prolong, Of vesper chant or choral song.

TINTERN, thy name shall hence sustain A thousand raptures in my brain; 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; Push'd from the sh.o.r.e 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; Enough; for WIND-CLIFF still was found To hail us as we doubled round.

Bold in primeval strength he stood; His rocky brow, all s.h.a.gg'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 b.u.t.tresses of rock upborne, The rude APOSTLES all unshorn.

Long be the slaught'ring axe 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[1], light, trembling, high, Strides like a spider o'er the WYE; [Footnote 1: "On my arrival at Chepstow," says Mr. c.o.xe, "I walked to the bridge; it was low water, and I looked down on the river ebbing between forty and fifty feet beneath; six hours after it rose near forty feet, almost reached the floor of the bridge, and flowed upward with great rapidity. The channel in this place being narrow in proportion to the Severn, and confined between perpendicular cliffs, the great rise and fall of the river are peculiarly manifest."]

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 das.h.i.+ng oar Shall lull us into peace no more; But where 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 guide.

The verse of gravel walks that tells, With pebble rocks and mole-hill swells, May strain description's bursting cheeks, And far out-run 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 glow, 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.

Then why does he dispel, unkind, The sweet illusion from the mind, That giant, with the goggling eye, Who strides in mock sublimity?

Giants, identified, may frown, Nature and taste would knock them down: Blocks that usurp some n.o.ble station, As if to curb imagination, That, smiling at the chissel's pow'r, Makes better monsters erery hour.

Beneath impenetrable green, Down 'midst the hazel stems was seen The turbid stream, with all that past; The lime-white deck, the gliding mast; Or skiff with gazers darting by, Who rais'd their hands in extasy.

Impending cliffs 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 n.o.ble cliffs, thy wildwood joys, Nature's own work that never cloys, Who, while reflection bids him roam, Exclaims not, "PERSFIELD is my _home_"

Can ne'er, with dull unconscious eye, Leave them behind without a sigh.

Thy tale of truth then, Sorrow, tell, Of one who bade _this 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.

MORRIS 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 Morris 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 charity flow'd.

But all his resources gave way, O what could his feelings controul?

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?

When I saw the poor widows kneel down, To bless him, to weep, and to pray.

Though sorrow was mark'd in his eye, This trial he manfully bore; Then pa.s.s'd o'er the bridge of the WYE, To return to his PERSFIELD 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 n.o.ble 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[1].

[Footnote 1: The author is equally indebted to Mr. c.o.xe's County History for this anecdote, as for the greater part of the notes subjoined throughout the Journal.]

CLEFT from the summit, who shall say _When_ WIND-CLIFF'S other half gave way?

Or when the sea-waves roaring strong, First drove the rock-bound tide along?

To studious leisure be resign'd, The 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.

Back over MONMOUTH who could trace The WYE'S fantastic mountain race?

Before us, sweeping far and wide.

Lay 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, With 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 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 westward roll'd the setting day, Fled like a golden dream away.