 | The British Months |  |
Water Excursions. The Isis and Cherwell. Oxford. The Wye. The Monnow. Monmouthshire. Raglan. The Marquis of Worcester. The British Nobleman.
And now's the season, when the bright
Calm days with fearlessness invite,
To float on some smooth river's tide,
Whose waters through fair landscapes glide,
Through rural scenes, and woodland bowers,
Rocks, and romantick cliffs, and towers,
Which lift their crests aloft, and throw
Rich umbrage on the flood below.
Calm days with fearlessness invite,
To float on some smooth river's tide,
Whose waters through fair landscapes glide,
Through rural scenes, and woodland bowers,
Rocks, and romantick cliffs, and towers,
Which lift their crests aloft, and throw
Rich umbrage on the flood below.
O who will bear me to the meads,
Where Isis, classick river, leads
Her silver current, broad and fleet:
And Cherwell glides hard by, to meet
Her course with narrow stream and slow?
There the bright water-lilies blow,
Their stems with gorgeous blossoms crown'd,
'Mid shield-like leaves that float around.
There many an oar, with feathery play
Quick-glancing, on the dripping spray
Reflects the sunbeams: many a sail
Shines white before the bellying gale:
And mellow o'er the water swells
The musick of thy pealing bells,
O Wykeham, name rever'd! and nigh,
His, who with graceful symmetry
Rais'd the fair tow'r of Magdalene,
In the clear crystal twofold seen,
Rich pinnacle, with vane and fret;
Window, and pannel'd parapet:
And near, but with a graver air,
Like mother by her daughter fair,
Low Merton, 'mid her tufted grove;
And Christchurch' Norman pile above
The long line of her elm-trees tall,
Her gatehouse tow'r, and window'd hall;
And Attic Radcliffe's vaulted dome;
And rising o'er my whilome home,
My own lov'd Oriel,—(though of grace
But small to see to, yet in place
Not mean 'mong Oxford's sons, nor slight
Her honour;)—there of structure light
Emerging from its cluster rich
Of crocket, canopy, and niche,
Corbel and statue, leaf and flower,
That crown its decorated tower,
With sculpture's elfin broidery graced,
Itself with simple beauty chaste
Ascends o'er buttress, nave, and choir,
Saint Mary's tall and taper spire.
Where Isis, classick river, leads
Her silver current, broad and fleet:
And Cherwell glides hard by, to meet
Her course with narrow stream and slow?
There the bright water-lilies blow,
Their stems with gorgeous blossoms crown'd,
'Mid shield-like leaves that float around.
There many an oar, with feathery play
Quick-glancing, on the dripping spray
Reflects the sunbeams: many a sail
Shines white before the bellying gale:
And mellow o'er the water swells
The musick of thy pealing bells,
266
His, who with graceful symmetry
Rais'd the fair tow'r of Magdalene,
In the clear crystal twofold seen,
Rich pinnacle, with vane and fret;
Window, and pannel'd parapet:
And near, but with a graver air,
Like mother by her daughter fair,
Low Merton, 'mid her tufted grove;
And Christchurch' Norman pile above
The long line of her elm-trees tall,
Her gatehouse tow'r, and window'd hall;
And Attic Radcliffe's vaulted dome;
And rising o'er my whilome home,
My own lov'd Oriel,—(though of grace
But small to see to, yet in place
Not mean 'mong Oxford's sons, nor slight
Her honour;)—there of structure light
Emerging from its cluster rich
Of crocket, canopy, and niche,
Corbel and statue, leaf and flower,
That crown its decorated tower,
With sculpture's elfin broidery graced,
Itself with simple beauty chaste
Ascends o'er buttress, nave, and choir,
Saint Mary's tall and taper spire.
Or who will bear me, where the Wye
Deep 'mid her woodland scenery,
And doubling like the volum'd snake,
Winds onward her romantick track:
By Goodrich' hold, and Kymin's hill,
Augmented thence by that slow rill,
Which gives yon ancient town its name,
Proud of its old historian's fame,
Proud of its monarch's, from the fort
Surnam'd and field of Agincourt;
To Tintern's lofty-window'd fane
Stript of each gorgeous storied pane,
Her roofless, arch'd, and pillar'd nave;
And Piersfield's rocks, and woods that wave
Impervious o'er the strait abyss,
Sheer from the embattled precipice;
And Chepstow proudly looking down,
Where tow'rds his old romantick town
Wye glides beneath his towered steep,
Long terras'd wall, and tottering keep!
Deep 'mid her woodland scenery,
And doubling like the volum'd snake,
Winds onward her romantick track:
By Goodrich' hold, and Kymin's hill,
Augmented thence by that slow rill,
267
Proud of its old historian's fame,
Proud of its monarch's, from the fort
Surnam'd and field of Agincourt;
To Tintern's lofty-window'd fane
Stript of each gorgeous storied pane,
Her roofless, arch'd, and pillar'd nave;
And Piersfield's rocks, and woods that wave
Impervious o'er the strait abyss,
Sheer from the embattled precipice;
And Chepstow proudly looking down,
Where tow'rds his old romantick town
Wye glides beneath his towered steep,
Long terras'd wall, and tottering keep!
To please the mind with visions fair,
To blunt the bitter sting of care,
Such scenes possess a magick power;
And once and more, for many an hour
Of bliss, such bliss as here we know,
To thee a debt of thanks I owe,
O Monmouth, and thy wandering Wye!
With much besides, that memory's eye
Still holds in wakeful trance; the scene,
Where Blorenge soars with lofty mien
Abrupt from sweet Gavenny's vale;
And close Lantony's abbey'd dale;
And that star-pointing heath-clad cone,
'Mid the broad plain in grandeur lone;
And Skyrrid's cloven pyramid;
And by the creeping ivy hid,
Baronial Raglan's portal'd wall,
Her spacious courts, and stately hall,
Imperial Charles's lov'd resort,
Tow'rs, bastions, moat, and massive fort.
Raglan, whom storying scrolls record
In concert with her loyal Lord,
Worcester's good earl, who nobly dar'd,
When England like a caitiff far'd
Crush'd by rebellion's iron wing,
To love his Church and serve his King!
And sure in history's living page,
The records of a by-gone age,
It glads the very heart to see
Fast faith, and generous loyalty,
Still unseduc'd, unterrified;
And careless of all thought beside,
Save to maintain the plighted vow,
And bear untarnish'd on the brow,
Howe'er by evil days beset,
The British noble's coronet!
To blunt the bitter sting of care,
Such scenes possess a magick power;
And once and more, for many an hour
Of bliss, such bliss as here we know,
To thee a debt of thanks I owe,
O Monmouth, and thy wandering Wye!
With much besides, that memory's eye
Still holds in wakeful trance; the scene,
Where Blorenge soars with lofty mien
Abrupt from sweet Gavenny's vale;
And close Lantony's abbey'd dale;
And that star-pointing heath-clad cone,
'Mid the broad plain in grandeur lone;
And Skyrrid's cloven pyramid;
And by the creeping ivy hid,
Baronial Raglan's portal'd wall,
Her spacious courts, and stately hall,
268
Tow'rs, bastions, moat, and massive fort.
Raglan, whom storying scrolls record
In concert with her loyal Lord,
Worcester's good earl, who nobly dar'd,
When England like a caitiff far'd
Crush'd by rebellion's iron wing,
To love his Church and serve his King!
And sure in history's living page,
The records of a by-gone age,
It glads the very heart to see
Fast faith, and generous loyalty,
Still unseduc'd, unterrified;
And careless of all thought beside,
Save to maintain the plighted vow,
And bear untarnish'd on the brow,
Howe'er by evil days beset,
The British noble's coronet!
| The British Months | |