Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where restless Teign, with many a surge
Foams to his sacred Logan's height,
The rockstone, at the wood's dark verge,
Shook to the moon, array'd in light;
When, as a cloud far off, disparting, flew,
A shadowy form appear'd, majestic to my view.

“Child of the dust”—the Genius cried—
“To thee (no trivial boast) 'tis giv'n
“To hear with emulative pride,
“How Concord links the inspir'd of Heaven
“Not with the Muse's silken ties alone,
“But in that harmony which Friendship deems her own.

“'Twas Concord bade the Bards of old
“To Inspiration's numbers string
“Their sweet-ton'd harps of burnisht gold
“By sunny mount, or mossy spring—

“Bade them, where Echo loves the sylvan dell,
“The Druid's mystic pomp, the Hero's prowess tell.

“The soul-subduing strain was high!
“Still, still it vibrates in mine ear!
“I catch the holy minstrelsy
“To Devon's faery vallies dear—
“Tho' central oaks no more, in forest deep,
“Around the grey-stone cirque their twilight umbrage sweep.

“Snatcht from the altars of the East
“I see the fires of Danmon rise!
“To mark the new-moon's solemn feast,
“Behold, they lighten to the skies;
“And, as assembled clans in silence gaze,
“The distant Karnes draw near, and kindle to the blaze!

“Fast by yon chasmed hill that frowns
“Cleft by an elemental shock,
“As ashen foliage light embrowns
“Its rude side ribb'd with massy rock;

“Lo, on the pillar'd way the white-robe'd bands
“In long procession move, where proud the Cromlech stands.

“But see, where breaking thro' the gloom,
“Danmonium's warriour-genius speeds
“That scythed car, the dread of Rome!
“See, fiercer than the lightning, steeds
“Trampling the dead, their hoofs with carnage stain,
“Rush thro' the spear-strown field, and snort o'er heaps of slain.

“Such was the heart-inspiring theme
“Of Bards who sung each recent deed;
“Whether amid the mailed gleam
“Of war, they saw the hero bleed;
“Or whether, in the Druid's circling fane,
“They hymn'd to dreadful rites, the deep mysterious strain.

“No more to boast a spotless green,
“Erelong their garlands deck'd the dead;
“As, fading from the sight, the scene
“Of oriental glory fled!

“Then written verse for oral numbers came,
“And lays of little worth were consecrate to fame.

“Then Saxon Poets swept their lyres,
“But harsh was their untutor'd song:
“Then Norman minstrels vaunted fires
“That ill to Phœbus' train belong;
“Not that the Bard of Isca's elder'd vale
“Told to the sparkling stream an inharmonious tale.

“And still, along the waste of years
“Devonia mark'd some scatter'd rhymes;
“But oft, her eyes suffus'd with tears,
“Wistful, she look'd to ancient times—
“Ah! few, monastic Tavy's banks beside,
“Few were the Brownes that trac'd the silver-winding tide.

“And tho' of fancy and of taste
“A Rowe, the first-begotten child,
“By dark romantic woods embrac'd,
“Warbled his native carols wild;
“'Twas from the lonely copse that high o'erhung
“The Tamar's haunted wave, his ditty sweet he sung!

“Tho' Gay attun'd his Dorian oat,
“Such as beseems a simple swain;
“He only pip'd a rustic note
“To cheer the solitary plain—
“Where, since the Bards of old, hath social love
“Assenting Genius woo'd, to grace the Muse's grove?

“Where, as in Danmon's myrtle bowers
“The race of Iran caught the flame,
“Exerting their congenial powers,
“Not envious of a rival's name;
“Where now, in close fraternal union meet
“Spirits that court the Muse by friendship doubly sweet?

“E'n now they live! E'en here they hail
“Their reddening cliffs, in strains sublime;
“Embosom'd in the vermeil dale,
“Nurst by the rosy-breathing clime!
“Here many a letter'd minstrel, more refin'd
“Than Bards of other times, displays the ingenuous mind.

“Behold, where lingering Isca laves
“The turrets on her sloping banks,
“While, far reflected by the waves
“Rise her rich elms in tufted ranks,
“The wreaths of Genius and of Taste adorn
“Those whom with partial smile I greet in Devon born.

“What tho' the Bards shall harp no more
“To wondering ears their magic lays;
“Yet shall my chosen tribe restore
“The long-lost fame of other days—
“Rapt with diviner energies, aspire
“E'en to empyreal worlds, and catch the seraph's fire!”

He ceas'd: and to the faultering sound
The Spirit of the rock replied:
The old oaks bending kiss'd the ground
Then wav'd their boughs with conscious pride;
While, borne on his translucent shell, hoar Teign
Joy'd that two sons were his, to rival Isca's reign.