THE
Farewell to Cottenham.
“Oh! should it please the world's eternal King
“That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing,
“Or that my corse should on some desert strand
“Lie, stretched beneath the Simoom's blasting hand;
“Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,
“My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom,
“Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,
“Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,
“Sit, a lone spectre, on yon well-known grave,
“And mix its moanings with the desert wave.”
Henry Kirke White.
“Clifton Grove.”
[_]
NOTE.
This Poem was written at Islington, 11th March 1819.
The Elm, the Waterfall, &c. are not fictionary objects,
but really indigenous to Tottenham, or its neighbourhood.
— Iseldon is the antient name of Islington.
I
Why bends the Bard on yonder hill,
Beside that beneficial flood,
Regardless of its music still,
Of sky, and field, and distant wood?
Why looks he there regardless on
The prospect fair, as fair may be?
Oh! 'mid the charms of Iseldon,
Fair Toteham! he remembers thee!
II
Though seldom all the day my roam
Might measure o'er thy meads, and eye
The Morning spring, the Evening bloom,
And Noon reign monarch in the sky —
Though long the way, and cold and drear,
We travelled with departing light,
To reach thy rural dwelling, where
In purer air we breathed the night —
III
Yet — when much-varying Fate was kind,
Those hours were sweet, wherein I sprang,
Like Lark restored to wing the wind,
Over the fields, and freelier sang!
I marked the Rainbow in the sky,
More lovely still than e'er before,
And blessed the blended arch on high,
Between the sun and sunny shower.
IV
And aye, the ivied Elm surveyed,
Leafless and hoar, athwart the path,
Upheld but by his fellow's shade,
That saved his fall when winds were wroth;
And still the winds his root assail,
And still their rage he doth deride;
Howe'er he threateneth soon to fail,
With heavy crash, and ruin wide!
V
'Twas sweet to hear the Waterfall,
The liquid sounds of music wild —
These scenes and sounds are sweet to all,
But sweeter to Poetic Child!
And, things wherein the vulgar mind
Finds nought to love but all to fear,
He triumphs in the roaring wind,
The thunder, and the levin glare!
VI
Ay, when the wintery blast was high,
And mist and night the road we paced,
The Minstrel's soul heard Harmony,
Saw Grandeur in the gloomy waste,
Exulting in the darkling storms,
Rude Nature in her rudest wrath!
Oh! to embrace her dreadful charms,
I'd meet her in her fiercest path!
VII
And I, on Fancy's loom have wove,
A wizard song of Wood and Well,
And wrought the mystic zone of Love,
To deck the Hermit's hallowed Cell,
And loitered 'mong the Sisters Seven,
“At the top or entrance of Page Green, on the East
side of the high road, stands a remarkably large and
handsome clump of seven elm-trees, planted in a circular
form, and called the Seven Sisters, in the middle of
which there stood a walnut-tree, which, it is said, never
increased in size, though it continued annually to bear
leaves. The prevailing opinion in Bedwell's time was,
that some one suffered martyrdom on this spot; but of
this there is no authentic account, nor is there any thing
satisfactory as to the original planting of these trees to
be met with; but it appears they were at their full growth
in Bedwell's time, and may be considered to be upwards
of 300 years old.”
Robinson.
There is a tradition relating to these trees, which is told in the two first
Stanzas of the second Canto of my Poem of Tottenham.
That have three hundred winters brooked,
Deep-musing, till the flash of Heaven
The soul's electric seeds evoked.
VIII
Farewell! fair Toteham! — busy Trade,
For ever my pursuer there,
Compels me from thy rural shade,
Thy walks, thy fields, thy skies, thine air!
To Rainbow, Elm, and Waterfall,
To Grove, to Wood, to Hermit's Cell; —
Ye birds, ye brooks — ye pleasures all —
Fair Toteham! — yet again farewell!
IX
Why bends the Bard on yonder hill,
Beside that beneficial flood,
Regardless of its music still,
Of sky, and field, and distant wood?
Why looks he there regardless on
The prospect fair, as fair may be? —
Oh! 'mid the charms of Iseldon,
Fair Toteham! he remembers thee!
