 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
148
THE WYE.
[_]
[It was on the banks of this beautiful river that Caractacus defeated the Romans. Old half crumbled towers and druidical stones are still to be seen, here and there, upon its banks.]
A river flowing, circling woods between,
Past many an ancient tower, long since the scene
Of battle 'tween the stern dwellers of the land,
And they, the eagle-bannered, who, with flaming brand,
Swept o'er the world like some dread hurricane,
Levelling the stately palace and the massive fane.
This old druid's stone, so grey and mossed with age,
The lifelong labour of some early sage,
In its rock cup has held libations of their blood;
Grim children of the Roman robber brood,
Nursed by the wolf, fed in a forest den,
With yet warm morsels of the flesh of men—
Men who great shrines to demon spirits raised,
And clanged their shields to the dread gods they praised.
Past many an ancient tower, long since the scene
Of battle 'tween the stern dwellers of the land,
And they, the eagle-bannered, who, with flaming brand,
Swept o'er the world like some dread hurricane,
Levelling the stately palace and the massive fane.
This old druid's stone, so grey and mossed with age,
The lifelong labour of some early sage,
In its rock cup has held libations of their blood;
Grim children of the Roman robber brood,
Nursed by the wolf, fed in a forest den,
With yet warm morsels of the flesh of men—
Men who great shrines to demon spirits raised,
And clanged their shields to the dread gods they praised.
Yet these rude crags that hem the river in,
Our mountain ramparts, heard of yore the din,
When blenched the legions from the British spear;
What time the cowering eagle, at the savage cheer,
Fled to his rocky nest, his ancient home,
Back to great Tyber's city, crowned Rome.
Sweet stream! whose ripple's whimpering tone
More cheers my ear than dying Roman's groan,
The Briton, leaning on his bronze axe shaft,
The while, all weary with the war, he quaff'd
Rich goblet of sweet mead or hydromel;
Such are the scenes thy voice, as by a spell,
Calls up, and fills the woods that, gathered high,
Seem like a silent multitude that gaze into the sky.
Our mountain ramparts, heard of yore the din,
When blenched the legions from the British spear;
What time the cowering eagle, at the savage cheer,
Fled to his rocky nest, his ancient home,
Back to great Tyber's city, crowned Rome.
Sweet stream! whose ripple's whimpering tone
More cheers my ear than dying Roman's groan,
The Briton, leaning on his bronze axe shaft,
The while, all weary with the war, he quaff'd
Rich goblet of sweet mead or hydromel;
Such are the scenes thy voice, as by a spell,
Calls up, and fills the woods that, gathered high,
Seem like a silent multitude that gaze into the sky.
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |