 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
'Twas noon, when o'er thy mountain stream,
The carriage roll'd, each pow'rful gleam
Struck on thy surface, where, below,
Spread the deep heaven's azure glow;
And water-flowers, a mingling crowd,
Waved in the dazzling silver cloud.
Again farewell! The treat is o'er!
For me shall Cambria smile no more;
Yet truth shall still the song sustain,
And touch the springs of joy again.
The carriage roll'd, each pow'rful gleam
Struck on thy surface, where, below,
Spread the deep heaven's azure glow;
100
Waved in the dazzling silver cloud.
Again farewell! The treat is o'er!
For me shall Cambria smile no more;
Yet truth shall still the song sustain,
And touch the springs of joy again.
Hail! land of cyder, vales of health!
Redundant fruitage, rural wealth;
Here, did Pomona still retain
Her influence o'er a British plain,
Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly
Round the capricious deity;
Or autumn sacrifices bound,
By myriads, o'er the hallow'd ground,
And deep libations still renew
The fervours of her dancing crew.
Land of delight! let mem'ry strive
To keep thy flying scenes alive;
Thy grey-limb'd orchards, scattering wide
Their treasures by the highway side;
Thy half-hid cottages, that show
The dark green moss, the resting bough,
At broken panes, that taps and flies,
Illumes and shades the maiden's eyes
At day-break, and, with whisper'd joy,
Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy:
These, with thy noble woods and dells,
The hazel copse, the village bells,
Charm'd more the passing sultry hours
Than Hereford, with all her towers.
Redundant fruitage, rural wealth;
Here, did Pomona still retain
Her influence o'er a British plain,
Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly
Round the capricious deity;
Or autumn sacrifices bound,
By myriads, o'er the hallow'd ground,
And deep libations still renew
The fervours of her dancing crew.
Land of delight! let mem'ry strive
To keep thy flying scenes alive;
101
Their treasures by the highway side;
Thy half-hid cottages, that show
The dark green moss, the resting bough,
At broken panes, that taps and flies,
Illumes and shades the maiden's eyes
At day-break, and, with whisper'd joy,
Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy:
These, with thy noble woods and dells,
The hazel copse, the village bells,
Charm'd more the passing sultry hours
Than Hereford, with all her towers.
Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer,
But a far nobler scene was near;
And when the morrow's noon had spread,
O'er orchard stores, the deep'ning red,
Behind us rose the billowy cloud,
That dims the air to city crowd.
But a far nobler scene was near;
And when the morrow's noon had spread,
O'er orchard stores, the deep'ning red,
Behind us rose the billowy cloud,
That dims the air to city crowd.
102
And deem not that, where cyder reigns
The beverage of a thousand plains,
Malt, and the liberal harvest horn,
Are all unknown, or laugh'd to scorn;
A spot that all delights might bring,
A palace for an eastern king,
Canfrome , shall from her vaults display
John Barleycorn's resistless sway.
To make the odds of fortune even,
Up bounced the cork of “seventy-seven,”
And sent me back to school; for then,
Ere yet I learn'd to wield the pen;
(The pen that should all crimes assail,
The pen that leads to fame—or jail;)
Then steam'd the malt, whose spirit bears
The frosts and suns of thirty years!
The beverage of a thousand plains,
Malt, and the liberal harvest horn,
Are all unknown, or laugh'd to scorn;
A spot that all delights might bring,
A palace for an eastern king,
Canfrome , shall from her vaults display
John Barleycorn's resistless sway.
To make the odds of fortune even,
Up bounced the cork of “seventy-seven,”
And sent me back to school; for then,
Ere yet I learn'd to wield the pen;
(The pen that should all crimes assail,
The pen that leads to fame—or jail;)
103
The frosts and suns of thirty years!
Through Ledbury, at decline of day,
The wheels that bore us roll'd away
To cross the Malvern Hills. 'Twas night;
Alternate met the weary sight
Each steep, dark, undulating brow,
And Worc'ster's gloomy vale below.
Gloomy no more, when eastward sprung
The light that gladdens heart and tongue;
When morn glanced o'er the shepherd's bed,
And cast her tints of lovely red
Wide o'er the vast expanding scene,
And mix'd her hues with mountain green;
Then, gazing from a height so fair,
Through miles of unpolluted air,
Where cultivation triumphs wide,
O'er boundless views on every side,
Thick planted towns, where toils ne'er cease,
And far spread silent village peace;
As each succeeding pleasure came,
The heart acknowledged Malvern's fame.
The wheels that bore us roll'd away
To cross the Malvern Hills. 'Twas night;
Alternate met the weary sight
Each steep, dark, undulating brow,
And Worc'ster's gloomy vale below.
Gloomy no more, when eastward sprung
The light that gladdens heart and tongue;
When morn glanced o'er the shepherd's bed,
And cast her tints of lovely red
Wide o'er the vast expanding scene,
And mix'd her hues with mountain green;
Then, gazing from a height so fair,
Through miles of unpolluted air,
Where cultivation triumphs wide,
O'er boundless views on every side,
104
And far spread silent village peace;
As each succeeding pleasure came,
The heart acknowledged Malvern's fame.
Oft glancing thence to Cambria still,
Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill,
Delightful Pen-y-Vale! Nor shall
Great Malvern's high imperious call
Wean me from thee, or turn aside
My earliest charm, my heart's strong pride.
Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill,
Delightful Pen-y-Vale! Nor shall
Great Malvern's high imperious call
Wean me from thee, or turn aside
My earliest charm, my heart's strong pride.
Boast, Malvern, that thy springs revive
The drooping patient, scarce alive;
Where, as he gathers strength to toil,
Not e'en thy heights his spirit foil,
But nerve him on to bless, t'inhale,
And triumph in the morning gale;
Or noon's transcendent glories give
The vigorous touch that bids him live.
Perhaps e'en now he stops to breathe,
Surveying the expanse beneath;
Now climbs again, where keen winds blow,
And holds his beaver to his brow;
Waves to the Wrecken his pale hand,
And, borrowing Fancy's magic wand,
Skims over Worc'ster's spires away,
Where sprung the blush of rising day;
And eyes with joy sweet Hagley Groves,
That taste reveres and virtue loves;
And stretch'd upon thy utmost ridge,
Marks Severn's course, and Upton-bridge,
That leads to home, to friends, or wife,
And all thy sweets, domestic life:
While starts the tear, his bosom glows,
That consecrated Avon flows
Down the blue distant vale, to yield
Its stores by Tewkesbury's deadly field,
And feels whatever can inspire,
From history's page or poet's fire.
The drooping patient, scarce alive;
Where, as he gathers strength to toil,
Not e'en thy heights his spirit foil,
But nerve him on to bless, t'inhale,
And triumph in the morning gale;
Or noon's transcendent glories give
The vigorous touch that bids him live.
105
Surveying the expanse beneath;
Now climbs again, where keen winds blow,
And holds his beaver to his brow;
Waves to the Wrecken his pale hand,
And, borrowing Fancy's magic wand,
Skims over Worc'ster's spires away,
Where sprung the blush of rising day;
And eyes with joy sweet Hagley Groves,
That taste reveres and virtue loves;
And stretch'd upon thy utmost ridge,
Marks Severn's course, and Upton-bridge,
That leads to home, to friends, or wife,
And all thy sweets, domestic life:
While starts the tear, his bosom glows,
That consecrated Avon flows
Down the blue distant vale, to yield
Its stores by Tewkesbury's deadly field,
106
From history's page or poet's fire.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |