 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
High o'er the town, in morning smiles,
The blue Vann heaved his deep defiles;
And ranged, like champions for the fight,
Basking in sun-beams on our right,
Rose the Black Mountains, that surround
That far-famed spot of holy ground,
Llanthony, dear to monkish tale,
And still the pride of Ewais Vale.
No road-side cottage smoke was seen,
Or rarely, on the village green:
No youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress,
In ardent play, or idleness.
Brown waved the harvest, dale and slope
Exulting bore a nation's hope;
Sheaves rose as far as sight could range,
And every mile was but a change
Of peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still,
And climbing many a distant hill.
Some talk'd, perhaps, of spring's bright hour,
And how they piled, in Brunless Tower ,
The full-dried hay. Perhaps they told
Tradition's tales, and taught how old
The ruin'd castle? False or true,
They guess'd it—just as others do.
The blue Vann heaved his deep defiles;
And ranged, like champions for the fight,
Basking in sun-beams on our right,
Rose the Black Mountains, that surround
That far-famed spot of holy ground,
Llanthony, dear to monkish tale,
And still the pride of Ewais Vale.
89
Or rarely, on the village green:
No youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress,
In ardent play, or idleness.
Brown waved the harvest, dale and slope
Exulting bore a nation's hope;
Sheaves rose as far as sight could range,
And every mile was but a change
Of peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still,
And climbing many a distant hill.
Some talk'd, perhaps, of spring's bright hour,
And how they piled, in Brunless Tower ,
The full-dried hay. Perhaps they told
Tradition's tales, and taught how old
The ruin'd castle? False or true,
They guess'd it—just as others do.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |