 | The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber |  |
BOW-MEETING SONG.
We find it well observ'd by an ancient learned Rabbin,
The man was raving mad who first to sea would go,
Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,
And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh!
Yet since your bard is bent to try
The fervours of an eastern sky,
And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow,
While yet the northern gale
Fans his cheek and swells his sail,
Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!
The man was raving mad who first to sea would go,
Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,
And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh!
Yet since your bard is bent to try
The fervours of an eastern sky,
And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow,
While yet the northern gale
Fans his cheek and swells his sail,
Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!
404
Dear scenes of unrepented joy, our nature's best physician,
Can all Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow?
Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition,
Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!
Oft, oft, will he be telling
Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin,
Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow,
Oft, oft recall the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling,
Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow!
Can all Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow?
Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition,
Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!
Oft, oft, will he be telling
Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin,
Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow,
Oft, oft recall the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling,
Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow!
Oh when the dog-star rides on high, how oft shall memory wander
Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars throw;
And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool meander
Steals, like a silver snake, through the copse below!
Where many a mild and matron grace
Adorn the mother's gentle face,
And --- in beauteous garland blow,
And proved in many a martial fray
Their sire holds sylvan holiday,
And flings his well worn sword away
To bend the British bow!
Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars throw;
And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool meander
Steals, like a silver snake, through the copse below!
Where many a mild and matron grace
Adorn the mother's gentle face,
405
And proved in many a martial fray
Their sire holds sylvan holiday,
And flings his well worn sword away
To bend the British bow!
The bard is gone, and other bards shall wake the call of pleasure
That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek its glow,
And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure,
And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego!
But yet, though many a sweeter song
Shall float th' applauding tent along,
And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow,
Forget not them, who, doomed to part,
Will keep engraven on their heart
The sons and the daughters of the British bow!
That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek its glow,
And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure,
And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego!
But yet, though many a sweeter song
Shall float th' applauding tent along,
And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow,
Forget not them, who, doomed to part,
Will keep engraven on their heart
The sons and the daughters of the British bow!
| The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber | |