 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
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.”
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.
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,
38
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,
39
Some rustic maiden's village song.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |