 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
85
Ye who religion's duty teach,
What constitutes a Sabbath breach?
Is it, when joy the bosom fills,
To wander o'er the breezy hills?
Is it, to trace around your home
The footsteps of imperial Rome?
Then guilty, guilty let us plead,
Who, on the cheerful rested steed,
In thought absorb'd, explored, with care,
The wild lanes round the silent Gaer ,
Where conqu'ring eagles took their stand;
Where heathen altars stain'd the land;
Where soldiers of Augustus pined,
Perhaps, for pleasures left behind,
And measured, from this lone abode,
The new-form'd, stony, forest road,
Back to Caerleon's southern train,
Their barks, their home, beyond the main:
Still by the Vann reminded strong
Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song,
The olive groves, the cloudless sky,
And golden vales of Italy.
What constitutes a Sabbath breach?
Is it, when joy the bosom fills,
To wander o'er the breezy hills?
Is it, to trace around your home
The footsteps of imperial Rome?
Then guilty, guilty let us plead,
Who, on the cheerful rested steed,
In thought absorb'd, explored, with care,
The wild lanes round the silent Gaer ,
86
Where heathen altars stain'd the land;
Where soldiers of Augustus pined,
Perhaps, for pleasures left behind,
And measured, from this lone abode,
The new-form'd, stony, forest road,
Back to Caerleon's southern train,
Their barks, their home, beyond the main:
Still by the Vann reminded strong
Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song,
The olive groves, the cloudless sky,
And golden vales of Italy.
With us 'twas peace, we met no foes;
With us far diff'rent feelings rose.
Still onward inclination bade:
The wilds of Mona's Druid shade,
Snowdon's sublime and stormy brow,
His land of Britons stretch'd below,
And Penman Mawr's huge crags, that greet
The thund'ring ocean at his feet,
Were all before us. Hard it proved
To quit a land so dearly loved;
Forego each bold terrific boast
Of northern Cambria's giant coast.
Friends of the harp and song, forgive
The deep regret that, whilst I live,
Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue:
Go, joys untasted! themes unsung!
Another scene, another land,
Hence shall the homeward verse demand.
Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain,
Till “farcwell Brecon' left a pain,
A pain that travellers may endure;
Change is their food, and change their cure.
Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away,
To recollect so bright a day!
Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love,
Their tumbling Usk, their Priory Grove,
View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright,
The freshness of a summer's night.
With us far diff'rent feelings rose.
87
The wilds of Mona's Druid shade,
Snowdon's sublime and stormy brow,
His land of Britons stretch'd below,
And Penman Mawr's huge crags, that greet
The thund'ring ocean at his feet,
Were all before us. Hard it proved
To quit a land so dearly loved;
Forego each bold terrific boast
Of northern Cambria's giant coast.
Friends of the harp and song, forgive
The deep regret that, whilst I live,
Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue:
Go, joys untasted! themes unsung!
Another scene, another land,
Hence shall the homeward verse demand.
Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain,
Till “farcwell Brecon' left a pain,
88
Change is their food, and change their cure.
Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away,
To recollect so bright a day!
Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love,
Their tumbling Usk, their Priory Grove,
View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright,
The freshness of a summer's night.
A road must have led from Abergavenny, through the Vale of the Usk, north-west to the “Gaer,” situated two miles north-west of Brecon, on a gentle eminence, at the conflux of the rivers Esker and Usk. Mr. Wyndham traced parts of walls, which he describes as exactly resembling those at Caerleon; and Mr. Lemon found several bricks, bearing the inscription of LEG. II. AVG. —Coxe.
In addition to the above, it may be acceptable to state, that Mr. Price, a very intelligent farmer on the spot, has in his possession several of the above kind of bricks, bearing the same inscription, done, evidently, by stamping the clay, while moist, with an instrument. These have been turned up by the plough, together with several small Roman lamps.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |