 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
46
CLIFTON GROVE.
OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO THE SCENE OF H. K. WHITE'S POEM OF THAT NAME.
How rich is the season, how soothing the time!
For summer looks forth in its fulness and prime—
As through thy recesses, blest Clifton, I stray,
Where solitude slumbers in varied array:
How lovely these valleys that round me expand,—
The sylvan and soft, with the gloomy and grand,
Where rocks, woods, and waters harmoniously blent
Give beauty and peace to the banks of the Trent.
For summer looks forth in its fulness and prime—
As through thy recesses, blest Clifton, I stray,
Where solitude slumbers in varied array:
How lovely these valleys that round me expand,—
The sylvan and soft, with the gloomy and grand,
Where rocks, woods, and waters harmoniously blent
Give beauty and peace to the banks of the Trent.
Meek evening broods o'er the landscape, and flings
A spell of repose from its dew-dropping wings:
No sound from the city disturbs the pure calm,
And the sigh of the zephyr comes mingled with balm:
No vestige remains of the sunset, that gave
A tremulous glow to the breast of the wave;
With the tears of the twilight the woodbine is bent,
As I tread with devotion the banks of the Trent.
A spell of repose from its dew-dropping wings:
No sound from the city disturbs the pure calm,
And the sigh of the zephyr comes mingled with balm:
No vestige remains of the sunset, that gave
A tremulous glow to the breast of the wave;
With the tears of the twilight the woodbine is bent,
As I tread with devotion the banks of the Trent.
How warmly, yet vainly, I yearn for the fire
That lit up the soul of that child of the lyre—
The student of science, of wisdom and song,
Who fled to your shades from the snares of the young!
Aloof from the heartless, the selfish and proud,
From the mirth of the million, unmeaning and loud,
With the fervour of feeling which Nature had lent,
He sought your enchantments, sweet banks of the Trent.
That lit up the soul of that child of the lyre—
The student of science, of wisdom and song,
Who fled to your shades from the snares of the young!
47
From the mirth of the million, unmeaning and loud,
With the fervour of feeling which Nature had lent,
He sought your enchantments, sweet banks of the Trent.
Steal on, placid river; thy freshness diffuse
Through scenes rendered fair by the tints of the Muse;
Where tradition hath cast a mysterious glance,
And fancy created the forms of romance.
Oh, would that my hand with success could assume
The harp of your Minstrel who sleeps in the tomb!
A share of my life and my skill should be spent
In singing your beauties, sweet banks of the Trent!
Through scenes rendered fair by the tints of the Muse;
Where tradition hath cast a mysterious glance,
And fancy created the forms of romance.
Oh, would that my hand with success could assume
The harp of your Minstrel who sleeps in the tomb!
A share of my life and my skill should be spent
In singing your beauties, sweet banks of the Trent!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |