The Banks of Wye | Page 5

form'd, no labours counted,?Yet SYMMON'S YAT must be surmounted;?A tower of rock that seems to cry,?'Go round about me, neighbour WYE[A].'?[Footnote A: This rocky isthmus, perforated at the base, would measure not more than six hundred yards, and its highest point is two thousand feet above the water. If this statement, taken from Coxe's History of Monmouthshire, and an Excursion down the Wye, by C. Heath, of Monmouth, is correct, its elevation is greater than that of the "Pen-y-Vale," or the "Sugar-Loaf Hill," near Abergavenny. Yet it has less the appearance of a mountain, than the river has that of an excavation.]?On went the boat, and up the steep?Her straggling crew began to creep,?To gain the ridge, enjoy the view,?Where the the pure gales of summer blew.?The gleaming WYE, that circles round?Her four-mile course, again is found;?And crouching to the conqueror's pride,?Bathes his huge cliffs on either side;?Seen at one glance, when from his brow,?The eye surveys twin gulphs below.
Whence comes thy name? What Symon he,?Who gain'd a monument in thee??Perhaps a rude woodhunter, born?Peril, and toil, and death, to scorn;?Or warrior, with his powerful lance,?Who scal'd the cliff to gain a glance;?Or shepherd lad, or humble swain,?Who sought for pasture here in vain;?Or venerable bard, who strove?To tune his harp to themes of love;?Or with a poet's ardent flame,?Sung to the winds his country's fame?
Westward GREAT DOWARD, stretching wide,?Upheaves his iron-bowel'd side;?And by his everlasting mound,?Prescribes th' imprison'd river's bound,?And strikes the eye with mountain force:?But stranger mark thy rugged course?From crag to crag, unwilling, slow,?To NEW WIER forge that smokes below.?Here rush'd the keel like lightning by;?The helmsman watch'd with anxious eye;?And oars alternate touch'd the brim,?To keep the flying boat in trim.
[Illustration: NEW WEAR on the WYE]
Hush! not a whisper! Oars, be still!?Comes that soft sound from yonder hill??Or is it close at hand, so near?It scarcely strikes the list'ning ear??E'en so; for down the green bank fell,?An ice-cold stream from Martin's Well,?Bright as young beauty's azure eye,?And pure as infant chastity,?Each limpid draught, suffus'd with dew,?The dipping glass's crystal hue;?And as it trembling reach'd the lip,?Delight sprung up at every sip.
Pure, temperate joys, and calm, were these;?We tost upon no Indian seas;?No savage chiefs, of various hue,?Came jabbering in the bark canoe?Our strength to dare, our course to turn;?Yet boats a South Sea chief would burn[A],?[Footnote A: In Caesar's Commentaries, mention is made of boats of this description, formed of a raw hide, (from whence, perhaps, their name Coricle,) which were in use among the natives. How little they dreamed of the vastnss of modern perfection, and of the naval conflicts of latter days!]?Sculk'd in the alder shade. Each bore,?Devoid of keel, or sail, or oar,?An upright fisherman, whose eye,?With Bramin-like solemnity,?Survey'd the surface either way,?And cleav'd it like a fly at play;?And crossways bore a balanc'd pole,?To drive the salmon from his hole;?Then heedful leapt, without parade,?On shore, as luck or fancy bade;?And o'er his back, in gallant trim,?Swung the light shell that carried him;?Then down again his burden threw,?And launch'd his whirling bowl anew;?Displaying, in his bow'ry station,?The infancy of navigation.
Soon round us spread the hills and dales,?Where GEOFFREY spun his magic tales,?And call'd them history. The land?Whence ARTHUR sprung, and all his band?Of gallant knights. Sire of romance,?Who led the fancy's mazy dance,?Thy tales shall please, thy name still be,?When Time forgets my verse and me.
Low sunk the sun, his ev'ning beam?Scarce reach'd us on the tranquil stream;?Shut from the world, and all its din,?Nature's own bonds had clos'd us in;?Wood, and deep dell, and rock, and ridge,?From smiling Ross to Monmouth Bridge;?From morn, till twilight stole away,?A long, unclouded, glorious day.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
THE BANKS OF WYE
BOOK II
CONTENTS OF BOOK II.
Henry the Fifth.--Morning on the Water.--Landoga.--Ballad, "The Maid of Landoga."--Tintern Abbey.--Wind-Cliff.--Arrival at Chepstow.--Persfield.-- Ballad, "Morris of Persfield."--View from Wind-Cliff.--Chepstow Castle by Moonlight.
BOOK II.
HARRY of MONMOUTH, o'er thy page,?Great chieftain of a daring age,?The stripling soldier burns to see?The spot of thy nativity;?His ardent fancy can restore?Thy castle's turrets, now no more;?See the tall plumes of victory wave,?And call old valour from the grave;?Twang the strong bow, and point the lance,?That pierc'd the shatter'd hosts of France,?When Europe, in the days of yore,?Shook at the rampant lion's roar.
Ten hours were all we could command;?The Boat was moor'd upon the strand,?The midnight current, by her side,?Was stealing down to meet the tide;?The wakeful steersman ready lay,?To rouse us at the break of day;?It came--how soon! and what a sky,?To cheer the bounding traveller's eye!?To make him spurn his couch of rest,?To shout upon the river's breast;?Watching by turns the rosy hue?Of early cloud, or sparkling dew;?These living joys the verse shall tell,?Harry, and Monmouth, fare-ye-well.
On upland farm, and airy height,?Swept by the breeze, and cloth'd in light,?The reapers, early from their beds,?Perhaps were