 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
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.
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;
44
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 .
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,
45
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.
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.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |