 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
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.
When Wind-Cliff's other half gave way?
53
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.
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;
54
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.
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.
55
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 ,
56
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!
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |