The Poems of Robert Bloomfield :: :: University of Virginia Library

Henry the Fifth—Morning on the Water—Landoga—Ballad, “The Maid of Landoga”—Tintern Abbey—Wind-Cliff— Arrival at Chepstow—Persfield—Ballad, “Morris of Persfield” —View from Wind-Cliff—Chepstow Castle by Moonlight.

Harry of Monmouth, o'er thy page,
Great chieftain of a daring age!
The stripling soldier burns to see
The spot of thy nativity;
His ardent fancy can restore
Thy castle's turrets, (now no more);

See the tall plumes of victory wave,
And call old valour from the grave;
Twang the strong bow, and point the lance,
That pierced the shatter'd hosts of France,
When nations, in the days of yore,
Shook at the rampant lion's roar.

Ten hours were all we could command;
The boat was moor'd upon the strand;
The midnight current, by her side,
Was stealing down to meet the tide;
The wakeful steersman ready lay,
To rouse us at the break of day:
It came—how soon! and what a sky,
To cheer the bounding traveller's eye!
To make him spurn his couch of rest,
To shout upon the river's breast,

Watching by turns the rosy hue
Of early cloud, or sparkling dew.
These living joys the verse shall tell:
Harry, and Monmouth, fare-ye-well.

On upland farm, and airy height,
Swept by the breeze, and clothed in light,
The reapers, early from their beds,
Perhaps were singing o'er our heads.
For, stranger, deem not that the eye
Could hence survey the eastern sky;
Or mark the streak'd horizon's bound,
Where first the rosy sun wheels round.
Deep in the gulf beneath were we,
Whence climb'd blue mists o'er rock and tree;
A mingling, undulating crowd,
That form'd the dense or fleecy cloud;
Slow from the darken'd stream upborne,
They caught the quickening gales of morn;

There bade their parent Wye good day,
And, tinged with purple, sail'd away.

The Munno join'd us all unseen.
Troy House, and Beaufort's bowers of green,
And nameless prospects, half defined,
Involved in mist, were left behind.
Yet as the boat still onward bore,
The ramparts of the eastern shore
Cower'd the high crest to many a sweep,
And bade us o'er each minor steep
Mark the bold Kymin's sunny brow,
That, gleaming o'er our fogs below,
Lifted amain, with giant power,
E'en to the clouds his Naval Tower ;

Proclaiming to the morning sky
Valour, and fame, and victory.

The river Munno, or Mynnow, falls into the Wye, near Monmouth.

The Kymin Pavilion, erected in honour of the British admirals, and their unparalleled victories.

The air resign'd its hazy blue,
Just as Landoga came in view.
Delightful village! one by one,
Thy climbing dwellings caught the sun.
So bright the scene, the air so clear,
Young Love and Joy seem'd station'd here;
And each with floating banners cried,
“Stop, friends, you'll meet the rushing tide.”

Rude fragments, torn, disjointed, wild,
High on the Glo'ster shore are piled.
No mouldering fane, the boast of years,
Unstain'd by time, the wreck appears:
With pouring wrath, and hideous swell,
Down foaming from a woodland dell,

A summer flood's resistless pow'r
Raised the grim ruin in an hour!
When that o'erwhelming tempest spread
Its terrors round the guilty head,
When earth-bound rocks themselves gave way,
When crash'd the prostrate timbers lay,
O, it had been a noble sight,
Crouching beyond the torrent's might,
To mark th' uprooted victims bow,
The grinding masses dash below,
And hear the long deep peal the while
Burst over Tintern's roofless pile!
Then, as the sun regain'd his power,
When the last breeze from hawthorn bower,
Or Druid oak, had shook away
The rain-drops 'midst the gleaming day,
Perhaps the sigh of hope return'd,
And love in some chaste bosom burn'd,

And softly trill'd, the stream along,
Some rustic maiden's village song.

THE MAID OF LANDOGA.

Return, my Llewellyn! the glory
That heroes may gain o'er the sea,
Though nations may feel
Their invincible steel,
By falsehood is tarnish'd in story;
Why tarry, Llewellyn, from me?

Thy sails, on the fathomless ocean,
Are swell'd by the boisterous gale:
How rests thy tired head
On the rude rocking bed?
While here not a leaf is in motion,
And melody reigns in the dale.

The mountains of Monmouth invite thee;
The Wye, O how beautiful here!
This woodbine, thine own,
Hath the cottage o'ergrown.
O what foreign shore can delight thee,
And where is the current so clear?

Can lands, where false pleasure assails thee,
And beauty invites thee to roam;
Can the deep orange grove
Charm with shadows of love?
Thy love at Landoga bewails thee;
Remember her truth and thy home.

Adieu, Landoga, scene most dear.
Farewell we bade to Ethell's Wier;
Round many a point then bore away,
Till morn was changed to beauteous day:

And forward on the lowland shore,
Silent, majestic ruins, wore
The stamp of holiness; this strand
The steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land.
Sudden the change; at once to tread
The grass-grown mansions of the dead!
Awful to feeling, where, immense,
Rose ruin'd, gray magnificence;
The fair-wrought shaft all ivy-bound,
The towering arch with foliage crown'd,
That trembles on its brow sublime,
Triumphant o'er the spoils of time.
Here, grasping all the eye beheld,
Thought into mingling anguish swell'd,
And check'd the wild excursive wing,
O'er dust or bones of priest or king;

Or raised some blood-stain'd warrior's ghost
To shout before his banner'd host.
But all was still.—The chequer'd floor
Shall echo to the step no more;
Nor airy roof the strain prolong
Of vesper chant or choral song.

There is shown here a mutilated figure, which they call the famous Earl Strongbow; but it appears from Coxe that he was buried at Gloucester.

Tintern, thy name shall hence sustain
A thousand raptures in my brain;
Joys, full of soul, all strength, all eye,
That cannot fade, that cannot die.
No loitering here, lone walks to steal;
Ours was the early hunter's meal;

For time and tide, stern couple, ran
Their endless race, and laugh'd at man;
Deaf, had we shouted, “turn about,”
Or, “wait awhile, till we come out:”
To humour them we check'd our pride,
And ten cheer'd hearts stow'd side by side,
Push'd from the shore with current strong,
And “Hey for Chepstow,” steer'd along.

Amidst the bright expanding day,
The solemn, deep, dark shadows lay
Of that rich foliage, tow'ring o'er
Where princely abbots dwelt of yore.
The mind, with instantaneous glance,
Beholds his barge of state advance.
Borne proudly down the ebbing tide,
She sweeps the waving boughs aside;

She winds with flowing pendants drest;
And as the current turns south-west,
She strikes her oars, where, full in view,
Stupendous Wind-Cliff greets her crew.
But, Fancy, let thy day-dreams cease;
With fallen greatness be at peace.
Enough; for Wind-Cliff still was found
To hail us as we doubled round.

Bold in primeval strength he stood;
His rocky brow, all shagg'd with wood,
O'erlook'd his base, where, doubling strong,
The inward torrent pours along;
Then ebbing turns, and turns again,
(To meet the Severn and the Main)
Beneath the dark shade sweeping round
Of beetling Persfield's fairy ground,

By buttresses of rock upborne,
The rude Apostles all unshorn .

Long be the slaught'ring axe defied:
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.

Twelve projecting rocks so named, fringed with foliage nearly to the water's edge.

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 , light, trembling, high,
Strides like a spider o'er the Wye;

When, for the joys the morn had giv'n,
Our thankful hearts were raised to Heav'n?
Never:—that moment shall be dear,
While hills can charm, or sun-beams cheer.

“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.”

Pollett, farewell! Thy dashing oar
Shall lull us into peace no more;
But where Kyrle 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 outrun the goal it seeks.
Not so when ev'ning's purpling hours
Hied us away to Persfield's 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,
YON 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,
Which, smiling at the chisel's power,
Makes better monsters every 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 raised their hands in ecstasy.
Impending cliffs hung overhead;
The rock-path sounded to the tread,
Where twisted roots, in many a fold,
Through moss, disputed room for hold.

An immense giant of stone, who, to say the best of him, occupies a place where such personages are least wanted, or wished.

The stranger who thus 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,
Calls not this paradise his home,
Can ne'er, with dull unconscious eye,
Leave them behind without a sigh.
Thy tale of truth then, Sorrow, tell,
Of him who bade this home farewell;
Morris of Persfield.—Hark, the strains!
Hark! 'tis some hoary bard complains!
The decds, 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 with a spirit so free,
And fed the distress'd 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 control?

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.

'Twas true that another might feel;
That poverty still might be fed;
Yet long we 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 felt it—and 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 .

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: Stinchcombe's brow,
With Berkeley-Castle crouch'd below;

And stranger spires on either hand,
From Thornbury, on the Glo'ster strand,
With black-brow'd woods, and yellow fields,
(The boundless wealth that summer yields,)
Detain'd the eye, that glanced again
O'er Kingroad anchorage to the main.

Or was the bounded view preferr'd,
Far, far beneath, the spreading herd
Low'd, as the cow-boy stroll'd along,
And cheerly sung his last new song.
But cow-boy, herd, and tide, and spire
Sunk into gloom.—The tinge of fire,
As westward roll'd the setting day,
Fled like a golden dream away.
Then Chepstow's ruin'd fortress caught
The mind's collected store of thought;
A dark, majestic, jealous frown
Hung on his brow, and warn'd us down.

'Twas well; for he has much to boast,
Much still that tells of glories lost,
Though rolling years have form'd the sod,
Where once the bright-helm'd warrior trod
From tower to tower, and gazed around,
While all beneath him slept profound.
E'en on the walls where paced the brave,
High o'er his crumbling turrets wave
The rampant seedlings.—Not a breath
Pass'd through their leaves; when, still as death,
We stopp'd to watch the clouds—for night
Grew splendid with increasing light,
Till, as time loudly told the hour,
Gleam'd the broad-front of Marten's Tower ,

Bright silver'd by the moon.—Then rose
The wild notes sacred to repose;
Then the lone owl awoke from rest,
Stretch'd his keen talons, plumed his crest,
And, from his high embattled station,
Hooted a trembling salutation.
Rocks caught the “halloo” from his tongue,
And Persfield back the echoes flung
Triumphant o'er th'illustrious dead,
Their history lost, their glories fled.

Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the death-warrant of Charles the First, finished his days here in prison. Marten lived to the advanced age of seventy-eight, and died by a stroke of apoplexy, which seized him while he was at dinner, in the twentieth year of his confinement. He was buried in the chancel of the parish church at Chepstow. Over his ashes was placed a stone with an inscription, which remained there until one of the succeeding vicars declaring his abhorrence that the monument of a rebel should stand so near the altar, removed the stone into the body of the church!