 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
Slow less'ning Blorenge, left behind,
Reluctantly his claims resign'd,
And stretch'd his glowing front entire,
As forward peep'd Crickhowel spire;
But no proud castle's turrets gleam'd;
No warrior Earl's gay banner stream'd.
E'en of thy palace, (grief to tell!)
A tower—without a dinner bell;
An arch—where jav'lin'd sentries bow'd
Low to their chief, or fed the crowd,
Are all that mark where once a train
Of Barons graced thy rich domain,
Illustrious Pembroke ! drain'd thy bowl,
And caught the nobleness of soul—
The harp-inspired, indignant blood
That prompts to arms and hardihood.
Reluctantly his claims resign'd,
And stretch'd his glowing front entire,
As forward peep'd Crickhowel spire;
But no proud castle's turrets gleam'd;
No warrior Earl's gay banner stream'd.
E'en of thy palace, (grief to tell!)
A tower—without a dinner bell;
78
Low to their chief, or fed the crowd,
Are all that mark where once a train
Of Barons graced thy rich domain,
Illustrious Pembroke ! drain'd thy bowl,
And caught the nobleness of soul—
The harp-inspired, indignant blood
That prompts to arms and hardihood.
To muse upon the days gone by,
Where desolation meets the eye,
Is double life: truth, cheaply bought,
The nurse of sense, the food of thought,
Whence judgment, ripen'd, forms, at will,
Her estimates of good or ill;
And brings contrasted scenes to view,
And weighs the old rogues with the new;
Imperious tyrants, gone to dust,
With tyrants whom the world hath cursed
Through modern ages.—By what power
Rose the strong walls of old Tre Tower
Deep in the valley; whose clear rill
Then stole through wilds, and wanders still
Through village shades, unstain'd with gore
Where war-steeds bathe their hoofs no more.
Where desolation meets the eye,
Is double life: truth, cheaply bought,
The nurse of sense, the food of thought,
Whence judgment, ripen'd, forms, at will,
Her estimates of good or ill;
And brings contrasted scenes to view,
And weighs the old rogues with the new;
79
With tyrants whom the world hath cursed
Through modern ages.—By what power
Rose the strong walls of old Tre Tower
Deep in the valley; whose clear rill
Then stole through wilds, and wanders still
Through village shades, unstain'd with gore
Where war-steeds bathe their hoofs no more.
Empires have fallen, armies bled,
Since yon old wall, with upright head,
Met the loud tempest; who can trace
When first the rude mass, from its base,
Stoop'd in that dreadful form? E'en thou,
Jane, with the placid silver brow,
Know'st not the day, though thou hast seen
A hundred springs of cheerful green,
A hundred winters' snows increase
That brook,—the emblem of thy peace.
Most venerable dame! and shall
The plund'rer, in his gorgeous hall,
His fame with Moloch-frown prefer,
And scorn thy harmless character,
Who scarcely hear'st of his renown,
And never sack'd or burnt a town?
But should he crave, with coward cries,
To be Jane Edwards when he dies,
Thou'lt be the Conqueror, old lass,
So take thy alms, and let us pass.
Since yon old wall, with upright head,
Met the loud tempest; who can trace
When first the rude mass, from its base,
Stoop'd in that dreadful form? E'en thou,
Jane, with the placid silver brow,
Know'st not the day, though thou hast seen
A hundred springs of cheerful green,
80
That brook,—the emblem of thy peace.
Most venerable dame! and shall
The plund'rer, in his gorgeous hall,
His fame with Moloch-frown prefer,
And scorn thy harmless character,
Who scarcely hear'st of his renown,
And never sack'd or burnt a town?
But should he crave, with coward cries,
To be Jane Edwards when he dies,
Thou'lt be the Conqueror, old lass,
So take thy alms, and let us pass.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |