University of Virginia Library

How gladly would the Muse—were this fit place—
Search out thy birth, tho' trac'd 'mid days unblest,
When wolves, amid the labyrinth of woods,
Prowl'd freely, and the doe scarce found still lair
To hide her fawn new-dropt. Might now the song
Pursue thy growth, would it not tell of times,
When British archers bold, unquestion'd, twang'd
The yew in forest chase? and following up
Thy strength, recount of Normans, whose harsh yoke
Fell on the woodlands, when thy branches rang'd
O'er antler'd herds at rest:—that age gone by,
How note that here and there the cot peep'd up,
When on the spreading rind the shepherd lad
His rude mark scarr'd, or 'gainst thy trunk reclin'd,
Shap'd his green reed, and in rude minstrelsy
Pip'd to the flock at pasture:—then point out,
Wild after wild uprooted, where the ox
Sore-labour'd: and how roof crept close to roof,
And neighb'ring hamlets rose, and the sweet chime
Of the church-bell was heard, when, 'neath the shade
Of thy luxuriant prime, at yearly feast,
Gather'd the jocund reapers, when the sheaf
Was garner'd. Gambols then, laughter and dance,
And merrily the rival songsters troll'd
Their roundelay, and many a chaplet deck'd
The victor's prize, thy boughs.—Far other theme
Now waits me: underneath earth's flow'ry lap
To trace the show'rs that search her secret depths,
And from dark caves, and pregnant mines gush forth
In gifted waters.

Hail, salubrious springs,
In moor and mount! and ye, whose rills endow
Proud cities: or, in fring'd dells cleave the rock!
Flow on! and ever o'er your currents hear
The shout of adoration; such as shook
Thy porch, Bethesda! when the Angel, seen
Of mortal eye, at certain time, came down
Troubling the water. Where beholds not earth
The crippled leap, and the suspended crutch
Hang o'er the healing fount? Who has not heard
Of marble-paved Prusa, and fam'd springs
From Pyrenean heights? nor flow thy streams,
My native isle, lov'd Albion! of far realms
Unhonour'd. Pure thy springs, where'er they lead,
Fair Hope: and with delightful scenery cheer
The sufferer: whether to thy verdant brow,
Sun-circled Malvern! severing yon expanse
Of meads, along whose range Sabrina winds
Her yellow waters, from that fairy land,
Changeful of hill and dale, which blossom'd o'er
Of orchards, all the pleasant spring-time make
A flow'ry garden redolent; or, on
To woo the tepid fountains, welling up
'Mid crystal waterfalls, and woods which root
Their tangles in the veins of starting rocks,
That hang o'er the green glen, where Matlock smiles
Imparadis'd:—or, to thy flow'ry meads,
Fair structur'd Bath! and fount, of pow'r to heal
Him hopeless, like that Syrian chief, who left,
Tho' loth, for Jordan's flood, his native streams,
His Pharphar and Abuna, and went back
Like one new born.

Such Albion boasts. I pass
The rest in silence by. So might I pass
One, which to name I linger: linger, long
Reluctant, pausing on the bosom griefs
That will have way. Yet, far the spring renown'd,
And Health ('tis said) of Clifton's fountain fills
Her chalice. Yet, ah, happier thou, than I,
Ah, happier far, whoe'er, on whose fond arm
One well belov'd to life and bliss restor'd,
Has hung, and there with salutation sweet,
Bade farewell to each lovely haunt, on down,
Green slope, or by the river's brawling maze,
That, under glittering cliffs, seeks the still combs
That whisper peace: but not to me: to me
Woe, and fond thoughts of those, who sought the fount
But thence return'd no more;—of thee, there laid,
Thy duties done: thou! on whose nurturing breast
I hung; and from whose lip (oh, patient Spirit!)
First drew celestial truth. So were but mine
Thy suavity, and gentleness of heart,
Kind mother! and those jocund spirits light,
That, unrepress'd by troubles, not unwept,
Rose bright with hope: as, after storm, the flow'r
Springs renovate, and, looking on the sun,
Throws from its opening leaves the chill drops off.