The Banks of Wye; A Poem. In Four Books, 1811, 1813, 1823.

PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales,

Untainted fly your summer gales;²

Health, thou from cities lov'st to roam,

O make the Monmouth hills thy home!

Great spirits of her bards of yore, 5

While harvests triumph, torrents roar,

Train her young shepherds, train them high

To sing of mountain liberty:

Give them the harp and modest maid;

Give them the sacred village shade. 10

Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy,

Names that import a rural joy;

Known to our fathers, when May-day

Brush'd a whole twelvemonth's care away.

Oft on the lisping infant's tongue 15

Reluctant information hung,³

Till,⁴ from a belt of woods full grown,

Arose immense thy turrets brown,

Majestic RAGLAND! Harvests wave

Where thund'ring hosts their watch-word gave, 20

When cavaliers, with downcast eye,

Struck the last flag of loyalty:⁵

Then, left by gallant WORC'STER'S band,

To devastation's cruel hand

The beauteous fabric bow'd, fled all 25

The splendid hours of festival.

No smoke ascends; the busy hum

Is heard no more; no rolling drum,

No high-toned clarion sounds alarms,

No banner wakes the pride of arms; 30

But ivy, creeping year by year,

Of growth enormous, triumphs here.⁶

Each dark festoon⁷ with pride upheaves

Its glossy wilderness of leaves

On sturdy limbs, that, clasping, bow 35

Broad o'er the turrets' utmost brow,

Encompassing, by strength alone,

In fret-work bars, the sliding stone,

That tells how years and storms prevail,

And spreads its dust upon the gale. 40

The man who could unmov'd⁸ survey

What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away;

Works of the pow'rful and the brave,

All sleeping in the silent grave;

Unmov'd⁹ reflect, that here were sung 45

Carols of joy, by beauty's tongue,

Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam,

And hardly fit––to stay at home.

Spent here¹⁰ in peace, one¹¹ solemn hour

'Midst¹² legends of the YELLOW TOWER, 50

Truth and tradition's mingled stream,

Fear's start, and superstition's dream¹³

Is pregnant with a thousand joys,

That distance, place, nor time destroys;

That with exhaustless stores supply 55

Food for reflection till we die.

ONWARD the rested steeds pursu'd¹⁴

The cheerful route, with strength renew'd,

For onward lay the gallant town,

Whose name old custom hath clipp'd down, 60

With more of music left than many,

So handily to ABERGANY.¹⁵

And as the sidelong, sober light

Left valleys darken'd, hills less bright,

Great BLORENGE rose to tell his tale; 65

And the dun peak of PEN-Y-VALE

Stood like a sentinel, whose brow

Scowl'd on the sleeping world below;

Yet even sleep itself outspread

The mountain paths we meant to tread, 70

'Midst fresh'ning gales all unconfin'd,¹⁶

Where USK'S broad valley shrinks behind.

JOYOUS the crimson morning rose,

As joyous from the night's repose

Sprung the light heart. The glancing eye 75

Beheld, amidst the dappl'd¹⁷ sky,

Exulting PEN-Y-VALE. But how

Could females climb his gleaming brow,

Rude toil encount'ring? how defy

The wintry¹⁸ torrent's course, when dry, 80

A rough-scoop'd bed of stones? or meet

The powerful force of August heat?

Wheels might assist, could wheels be found

Adapted to the rugged ground:

'Twas done; for prudence bade us start 85

With three Welch¹⁹ ponies, and a cart;

A red-cheek'd mountaineer, a wit,

Full of rough shafts, that sometimes hit,²⁰

Trudg'd²¹ by their side, and twirl'd his thong,

And cheer'd his scrambling team along. 90

At ease to mark a scene so fair,

And treat their steeds with mountain air,

Some rode apart, or led before,

Rock after rock the wheels upbore;

The careful driver slowly sped, 95

To many a bough we duck'd the head,

And heard the wild inviting calls

Of summer's tinkling waterfalls,

In wooded glens below; and still,

At every step the sister hill, 100

BLORANGE, grew greater; half unseen

At times from out our bowers of green,

That telescopic landscapes made,

From the arch'd windows of its shade;

For woodland tracts begirt us round; 105

The vale beyond was fairy ground,

That verse can never paint. Above

Gleam'd, something²² like the mount of Jove,

(But²³ how much, let the learned say,

Who take Olympus in their way) 110

Gleam'd the fair, sunny, cloudless peak

That simple strangers ever seek.

And are they simple? Hang the dunce

Who would not doff his cap at once

In extasy, when, bold and new, 115

Bursts on his sight a mountain-view.

Though vast the prospect here became,

Intensely as the love of fame

Glow'd the strong hope, that strange desire,

That deathless wish of climbing higher, 120

Where heather clothes his graceful sides,

Which many a scatter'd rock divides,

Bleach'd by more years than hist'ry knows,

Mov'd²⁴ by no power but melting snows,

Or gushing springs, that wash away 125

Th' embedded earth that forms their stay.

The heart distends, the whole frame feels,

Where, inaccessible to wheels,

The utmost storm-worn summit spreads

Its rocks grotesque, its downy beds; 130

Here no false feeling²⁵ sense belies,

Man lifts the weary foot, and sighs;

Laughter is dumb; hilarity

Forsakes at once th' astonish'd eye;

E'en the clos'd²⁶ lip, half useless grown, 135

Drops but a word, 'Look down; look down.'

GOOD Heav'ns! must scenes like these expand,

Scenes so magnificently grand,

And millions breathe, and pass away,

Unbless'd,²⁷ throughout their little day, 140

With one short glimpse? By place confin'd,²⁸

Shall many an anxious²⁹ ardent mind,

Sworn to the Muses, cow'r³⁰ its pride,

Doom'd but to sing with pinions tied?

SPIRIT of BURNS! the daring child 145

Of glorious freedom, rough and wild,

How have I wept o'er all thy ills,

How blest thy Caledonian hills!

How almost worshipp'd in my dreams

Thy mountain haunts,––thy classic streams! 150

How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire,

To mark thy giant strength aspire

In patriot themes! and tun'd³¹ the while

Thy 'Bonny Doon,'³² or 'Balloch Mile.'³³

Spirit of BURNS! accept the tear 155

That rapture gives thy mem'ry here

On the bleak mountain top. Here thou

Thyself had rais'd³⁴ the gallant brow

Of conscious intellect, to twine

Th' imperishable verse of thine, 160

That charm'st³⁵ the world. Or can it be,

That scenes like these were nought to thee?

That Scottish hills so far excel,

That so deep sinks the Scottish dell,

That boasted PEN-Y-VALE had been, 165

For thy loud northern lyre too mean;

Broad-shoulder'd BLORANGE a mere knoll,

And SKYRID, let him smile or scowl,

A dwarfish bully, vainly proud,

Because he breaks the passing cloud? 170

If even so, thou bard of fame,

The consequences rest the same:

For, grant that to thy infant sight

Rose mountains of stupendous height;

Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught 175

'Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought;

Grant that old TALLIESSIN flung

His thousand raptures, as he sung

From huge PLYNLIMON'S awful brow,

Or CADER IDRIS, capt with snow; 180

Such Alpine scenes with them or thee

Well suited.––These are Alps to me.

LONG did we, noble BLORENGE,³⁶ gaze

On thee, and mark the eddying haze

That strove to reach thy level crown, 185

From the rich stream, and smoking town;

And oft, old SKYRID, hail'd thy name,

Nor dar'd³⁷ deride thy holy fame.³⁸

Long follow'd with untiring eye

Th' illumin'd³⁹ clouds, that o'er the sky 190

Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped,

Dipping to every mountain's head,

Dark-mingling,⁴⁰ fading, wild, and thence,

Till admiration, in suspense,

Hung on the verge of sight. Then sprung, 195

By thousands known, by thousands sung,

Feelings that earth and time defy,

That cleave to immortality.

A light gray haze inclosed us round;

Some momentary drops were found, 200

Borne on the breeze; soon all dispell'd;

Once more the glorious prospect swell'd

Interminably fair. Again

Stretch'd the BLACK MOUNTAIN'S dreary chain!

When eastward turn'd the straining eye, 205

Great MALVERN met the cloudless sky:⁴¹

Southward arose th' embattled shores,⁴²

Where Ocean in his fury roars,

And rolls abrupt his fearful tides,

Far still from MENDIP'S fern-clad sides; 210

From whose vast range of mingling blue,⁴³

The weary, wand'ring sight withdrew,

O'er fair GLAMORGAN'S woods and downs,

O'er glitt'ring streams, and farms, and towns,

Back to the TABLE ROCK, that lours⁴⁴ 215

O'er old CRICKHOWEL'S ruin'd towers.

Here perfect stillness reign'd. The breath

A moment hush'd, 'twas mimic death.

The ear, from all assaults released,

As motion, sound, and life, had ceased. 220

The beetle rarely murmur'd by,

No sheep-dog sent his voice so high,

Save when, by chance, far down the steep,

Crept a live speck, a straggling sheep;

Yet one lone object, plainly seen, 225

Curv'd⁴⁵ slowly, in a line of green,

On the brown heath: no demon fell,

No wizard foe, with magic spell,

To chain the senses, chill the heart,

No wizard guided POWEL'S cart; 230

He of our nectar had the care,

All our ambrosia rested there.

At leisure, but reluctant still,

We join'd him by a mountain rill;

And there, on springing turf, all seated, 235

Jove's guests were never half so treated;

Journies they had, and feastings many,

But never came to ABERGANY;

Lucky escape:––the wrangling crew,

Mischief to cherish or to brew, 240

Was all their sport:⁴⁶ and when, in rage,

They chose 'midst warriors to engage,

'Our chariots of fire,'⁴⁷ they cried,

And dash'd th' gates of heaven⁴⁸ aside,

Whirl'd through the air, and foremost stood 245

'Midst mortal passions, mortal blood,⁴⁹

Celestial power with earthly mix'd;⁵⁰

Gods by the arrow's point transfix'd!

Beneath us frown'd no deadly war,

And POWEL'S wheels were safer far; 250

As on them, without flame or shield,

Or bow to twang, or lance to wield,

We left the heights of inspiration,

And relish'd a mere mortal station;

Our object, not to fire a town, 255

Or aid a chief, or knock him down;

But safe to sleep, from war and sorrow,

And drive to BRECKNOCK on the morrow.

HEAVY and low'ring, crouds on crouds,⁵¹

Drove adverse hosts of dark'ning clouds 260

Low o'er the vale, and far away,

Deep gloom o'erspread the rising day;

No morning beauties caught the eye,

O'er mountain top, or stream, or sky,

As round the castle's ruin'd tower 265

We mus'd⁵² for many a solemn hour;

And, half-dejected, half in spleen,

Computed idly, o'er the scene,

How many murders there had dy'd

Chiefs and their minions, slaves of pride; 270

When perjury, in every breath,

Pluck'd the huge falchion from its sheath,

And prompted deeds of ghastly fame,

That hist'ry's self might blush to name.⁵³

At length, through each retreating shower, 275

Burst, with a renovating power,

Light, life, and gladness; instant fled

All contemplations on the dead.

Who hath not mark'd, with inward joy,

The efforts of the diving boy; 280

And, waiting while he disappear'd,

Exulted, trembled, hop'd,⁵⁴ and fear'd?

Then felt his heart, 'midst cheering cries,

Bound with delight to see him rise?

Who hath not burnt with rage, to see 285

Falsehood's vile cant, and supple knee;

Then hail'd, on some courageous brow,

The power that works her overthrow;

That, swift as lightning, seals her doom,

With, 'Miscreant!⁵⁵ vanish!––truth is come?' 290

So PEN-Y-VALE upheav'd⁵⁶ his brow,

And left the world of fog below;

So SKYRID, smiling, broke his way

To glories of the conqu'ring day;

With matchless grace, and giant pride, 295

So BLORENGE turn'd the clouds aside,

And warn'd us, not a whit too soon,

To chase the flying car of noon,

Where herds and flocks unnumber'd fed,

Where USK her wand'ring mazes led. 300

Here on the mind, with powerful sway,

Press'd the bright joys of yesterday;

For still, though doom'd no more t'inhale

The mountain air of PEN-Y-VALE,

His broad dark-skirting woods o'erhung 305

Cottage and farm, where careless sung

The labourer, where the gazing steer

Low'd to the mountains, deep and clear.

SLOW less'ning BLORENGE, left behind,

Reluctantly his claims resign'd, 310

And stretch'd his glowing front entire,

As forward peep'd CRICKHOWEL spire;

But no proud castle's turrets gleam'd;

No warrior Earl's gay banner stream'd;⁵⁷

E'en of thy palace, grief to tell!⁵⁸ 315

A tower without⁵⁹ a dinner bell;

An arch where⁶⁰ jav'lin'd sentries bow'd

Low to their chief, or fed the croud,⁶¹

Are all that mark where once a train

Of barons grac'd⁶² thy rich domain, 320

Illustrious PEMBROKE!⁶³ drain'd thy bowl,

And caught the nobleness of soul⁶⁴

The harp-inspir'd,⁶⁵ indignant blood

That prompts to arms and hardihood.

To muse upon the days gone by, 325

Where desolation meets the eye,

Is double life;⁶⁶ truth, cheaply bought,

The nurse of sense, the food of thought,

Whence judgment, ripen'd, forms, at will,

Her estimates of good or ill; 330

And brings contrasted scenes to view,

And weighs the old rogues with the new;

Imperious tyrants, gone to dust,

With tyrants whom the world hath curs'd⁶⁷

Through modern ages. By⁶⁸ what power 335

Rose the strong walls of old TRE TOWER?⁶⁹

Deep in the valley; whose clear rill

Then stole through wilds, and wanders still

Through village shades, unstain'd with gore

Where war-steeds bathe their hoofs no more.⁷⁰ 340

Empires have fallen, armies bled,

Since yon old wall, with upright head,

Met the loud tempest; who can trace

When first the rude mass, from its base,

Stoop'd in that dreadful form? E'en thou, 345

JANE, with the placid silver brow,

Know'st not the day, though thou hast seen

A hundred⁷¹ springs of cheerful green,

A hundred winters' snows increase

That brook, the⁷² emblem of thy peace. 350

Most venerable dame! and shall

The plund'rer, in his gorgeous hall,

His fame,⁷³ with Moloch-frown prefer,

And scorn thy harmless character?⁷⁴

Who scarcely hear'st of his renown, 355

And never sack'd or burnt a town?

But should he crave, with coward cries,

To be Jane Edwards when he dies,

Thou'lt⁷⁵ be the CONQUEROR, old lass,

So take thy alms, and let us pass. 360

FORTH, from the calm sequester'd shade,

Once more approaching twilight, bade;

When, as the sigh of joy arose,

And while e'en fancy sought repose,

One vast transcendant object sprung, 365

Arresting every eye and tongue.

Strangers, fair BRECON,⁷⁶ wondering, scan

The peaks of thy stupendous Vann:

But how can strangers, chain'd by time,

Through floating clouds his summit climb? 370

Another day had almost fled;

A clear horizon, glowing red,

Its promise on all hearts impress'd,

Bright sunny hours, and Sabbath rest.

The Banks of Wye; A Poem. In Four Books, 1811, 1813, 1823. 1

The Banks of Wye; A Poem. In Four Books, 1811, 1813, 1823. ¹