 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
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.
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;
46
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.”
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |