The Banks of Wye | Page 7

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. Coxe, "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 dashing 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 noble 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 noble 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 pass'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 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[1].?[Footnote 1: The author is equally indebted to Mr. Coxe'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