Verses written on the Alameda at Ampthill Park :: :: University of Virginia Library

Verses written on the Alameda at Ampthill Park

By J. H. Wiffen

Wiffen, Jeremiah Holmes (1792-1836)

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[dedication]

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VERSES ON THE ALAMEDA AT AMPTHILL PARK.

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VERSES ON THE ALAMEDA AT AMPTHILL PARK.

------ Pia et alterius studiis operata Minervæ,
(Nam tenui donat victura volumina libro),
Stat Philyra; haud omnes formosior altera surgit
Inter Hamadryadas; mollissima, candida, lævis,
Et viridante comâ et beneolenti flore superba,
Spargit odoratam latè atque æqualiter umbram.
Couleii Plantarum, lib. vi.

I

Unquestioned let the column soar,
The vaulted temple rise to tell
Of deeds which after-times adore—
Where patriots lived, or freemen fell;
To meditative minds a spell
Is in the slightest record placed
To honour loved or laurelled names,
In duty to the generous aims
Of genius and of taste.

II

The piles by our first Edward reared,
In grief for his connubial loss;
The urn to Shenstone's heart endeared,
And brave Philippa's trophied Cross;
Sweet Pembroke's Pillar, gray with moss,
In sound of Eamont's murmuring fall;
And Clifford's fountain,—are to me
Like haunted shrines—there's poesy
And pathos in them all!

III

But towers, but temples have their own
Mute griefs, besieged by lorn decay;
And if Heaven's thunder spares the stone,
'Tis mined by envious Eld away.
Nature alone subdues to play
The warring churl,—her forests fade,
But to renew for him who loves
The influence of the breathing groves,
Life, music, flowers, and shade.

IV

Thus, Holland, shall thy verdant limes,
Though oft seared rudely, flourish still,
And, raised, transmit to distant times
The image of thy frank good-will!
There, let but Fancy have her fill
Of thought, and thou shalt hear the talk
Of groups blithe-hearted as the best
That charm, when Vesper tints the west,
Seville's own elmin-walk.

V

There Mirth, there Wit shall lance his shaft,
And when their wilder voice is mute,
Mild echo to thy halls shall waft
The warblings of some Doric flute;
No warm debate, no harsh dispute,
Shall vex the Dryads' ears, beyond
Ingenuous Beauty's tones, that chide
The kiss, half granted, half denied,
To lips as pure as fond.

VI

There Youth shall urge his vacant sport,
There Age relax his thoughtful brow,
And harassed Toil indulgence court,
And Care grow glad, unconscious how;
And if, as elder bards avow,
Scenes where the vanished Great have strayed,
Still claim their gentle spirits, there,
In the still twilight, shall repair
Full many a storied shade.

VII

Forms that in olden time adorned
The jewelled court, the tented camp,
That life for nobler virtue scorned,
Or watched by fancy's charmed lamp;—
De Mowbray, with his Red-cross stamp,
Who won, by Pity's generous lure,
The lion to his leash in fight;
And, with his princely bride, the Knight
That fought at Azincour.

VIII

Beauchamp and amorous Seynt-Amand,
Whose knightly scutcheon none could blot,
Borne pure in many a dauntless stand
'Gainst Gascon Earl and stalwart Scot:
Well knew the archer as he shot,
From far, Sir Almaric's gifted glove,
And taxed the bezants on his shield,
To prove how well the shafts could yield
Praise to his ladye-love.

IX

Nor last, that wondrous Youth, to whom
The lute was lovely as the sword,
Who found on Zutphen's plains his doom,
By an admiring world deplored;
And at his side, the Friend that scored
Such numbers with his curtelax grim,
That the foe shunned it as the mace
Of that Unearthly One, whose face
Heaven's bolts have rendered dim.

X

Yes, they shall come, and with them glide
The Sweet and Sad of other days;
Sidney's dear Sister, the fond pride
Of Spenser's strains, and Jonson's praise;
And, soothed perchance by Walpole's lays,
And Ossory's Pillar that prolongs
Her fame, there Katharine too shall rove,
And lose, in thine Elysian Grove,
All memory of her wrongs.

XI

What though for her there pass not by
The proud and portly alguazil,
The water-carrier's languid cry,
Or mantled Matador's appeal,
Nor touched guitar, nor seguidille
Danced to the clinking castanet,—
No veiled Señora's flirting fan,
Nor sun-kissed fruit-girl's darted scan
From eyes of sparkling jet;—

XII

Yet groups and customs shall ye trace
Of happier arts and brighter times,
And courtesies that give not place
To the forced growth of warmer climes;
For ne'er beneath thy shading limes
Shall the hired Bravo stand, to aim
At patriot worth, nor Monk command
Deeds such as now make Spanish land
A synonym for Shame.

XIII

No, ne'er! but in their stead the wise
And dauntless lineage of the free,—
Some Foscolo, whose lettered sighs
Are all for bleeding liberty;
Or olive-crowned Arguelles,—he
Whose image like a key unlocks
The portal of proud thoughts and aims,
Glorious as to our theme the names
Of Mackintosh and Fox.

XIV

Some mild Licentiate, whom thine arm
Has saved perchance from bigots' cells;
Some Bard, in whose pure breast the charm
Of memory's evening sunshine dwells;
Whilst, listening to the distant bells
That sound from Milbrook's rural tower,
By Wit, by Song, by Loveliness
Made blithe, Thou too ofttimes shalt bless
The beauty of the bower!

XV

For fresh with ripening years, and green
The boughs shall spread, the umbrage fall,
As in poetic page is seen,
Within the' alluring Castle-wall,
Where lavish Idlesse deals to all
Delicious ease, divine repose;
And rosy dreams that none may tell,
But they that walk thy woods or dwell
In happy Vallombrose.

XVI

No fairer Grove shall have o'erspread
The crowd that to the Laughing Sage
Gave ear, or bowed the approving head
O'er Theophrast's didactic page;
Not that, where Plato would engage
His guests on themes, pure, grave, and high;
Nor where sweet Clio with her Style
Prompted Thucydides to smile
On deeds that ne'er can die.

XVII

No lovelier Grove, if Poet's vow
Still float to deep Dodona's shrine,
Shall song to earth call down, than now
My tuneful prayers create of thine;
Its Guardians be the sacred Nine!
Its voice by night, its guest by day,
The warbling nightingale and dove;
Its spirit peace, its look be love,
Its breath perpetual May!

XVIII

Farewell! in childhood's careless prime
It soothed to list the hum of bees,
To pluck wild flowers, and lisp wild rhyme
Beneath thine immemorial trees,
Sweet Ampthill! and for joys like these
'Tis fit I strike an idle chord,
To sing these rising Groves of thine,
And in thy grateful service twine
One laurel for thy Lord!

Vide Thomson's “Castle of Indolence.”