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TITLE: THE BANKS OF WYE
AUTHOR: ROBERT BLOOMFIELD
EBOOK: E06498 (O'Briens Book Cellar)
LANGUAGE: ENGLISH

[Illustration: View of the Wye through a Gateway at Crickhowel.]

THE BANKS OF WYE;

A POEM.

In Four Books.

By ROBERT BLOOMFIELD,

Author of _The Farmer's Boy_.

London:
Printed for the Author; Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe, Poultry;
and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster Row;

1811.

Printed by T. Hood and Co., St. John's Square, London.

To THOMAS LLOYD BAKER, ESQ.
Of Stout's Hill, Uley, And His Excellent Lady;
And
ROBERT BRANSBY COOPER, ESQ.
Of Ferwey Hill, Dursley, In The County Of Gloucester,
And All The Members Of His Family,
THIS JOURNAL IS DEDICATED,
With Sentiments Of High Esteem,
And A Lively Recollection Of Past Pleasures,
By Their Humble Servant,
THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

In the summer of 1807, a party of my good friends in Gloucestershire
proposed to themselves a short excursion down the Wye, and through part of
South Wales.

While this plan was in agitation, the lines which I had composed on
"Shooter's Hill," during ill health, and inserted in my last volume,
obtained their particular attention. A spirit of prediction, as well as
sorrow, is there indulged; and it was now in the power of this happy party
to falsify such predictions, and to render a pleasure to the writer of no
common kind. An invitation to accompany them was the consequence; and the
following Journal is the result of that invitation.

Should the reader, from being a resident, or frequent visitor, be well
acquainted with the route, and able to discover inaccuracies in distances,
succession of objects, or local particulars, he is requested to recollect,
that the party was out but ten days; a period much too short for correct
and laborious description, but quite sufficient for all the powers of
poetry which I feel capable of exerting. The whole exhibits the language
and feelings of a man who had never before seen a mountainous country; and
of this it is highly necessary that the reader should be apprized.

A Swiss, or perhaps a Scottish Highlander, may smile at supposed or real
exaggerations; but they will be excellent critics, when they call to mind
that they themselves judge, in these cases, as I do, by comparison.

Perhaps it may be said, that because much of public approbation has fallen
to my lot, it was unwise to venture again. I confess that the journey left
such powerful, such unconquerable impressions on my mind, that embodying
my thoughts in rhyme became a matter almost of necessity. To the parties
concerned I know it will be an acceptable little volume: to whom, and to
the public, it Is submitted with due respect.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

City Road, London,

June 30,1811

THE BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK I.

CONTENTS OF BOOK I.

The Vale of Uley.--Forest of Dean.--Ross.--Wilton Castle.--Goodrich
Castle.--Courtfield, Welch Bicknor, Coldwell.--Gleaner's Song.--Coldwell
Rocks.--Symmon's Yat.--Great Doward.--New Wier.--Arthur's Hall.--Martin's
Well.--The Coricle.--Arrival at Monmouth.

THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

BOOK I.

"Rouse from thy slumber, pleasure calls, arise,
Quit thy half-rural bower, awhile despise
The thraldom that consumes thee. We who dwell
Far from thy land of smoke, advise thee well.
Here Nature's bounteous hand around shall fling,
Scenes that thy Muse hath never dar'd to sing.
When sickness weigh'd thee down, and strength declin'd;
When dread eternity absorb'd thy mind,
Flow'd the predicting verse, by gloom o'erspread,
That 'Cambrian mountains' thou should'st never tread,
That 'time-worn cliff, and classic stream to see,'
Was wealth's prerogative, despair for thee.
Come to the proof; with us the breeze inhale,
Renounce despair, and come to Severn's vale;
And where the COTSWOLD HILLS are stretch'd along,
Seek our green dell, as yet unknown to song:
Start hence with us, and trace, with raptur'd eye,
The wild meanderings of the beauteous WYE;
Thy ten days leisure ten days joy shall prove,
And rock and stream breathe amity and love."

Such was the call; with instant ardour hail'd.
The syren Pleasure caroll'd and prevail'd;
Soon the deep dell appear'd, and the clear brow
Of ULEY BURY [A] smil'd o'er all below,
[Footnote A: Bury, or Burg, the Saxon name for a hill, particularly for
one wholly or partially formed by art.]
Mansion, and flock, and circling woods that hung
Round the sweet pastures where the sky-lark sung.
O for the fancy, vigorous and sublime,
Chaste as the theme, to triumph over time!
Bright as the rising day, and firm as truth,
To speak new transports to the lowland youth,
That bosoms still might throb, and still adore,
When his who strives to charm them beats no more!

One August morn, with spirits high,
Sound health, bright hopes, and cloudless sky,
A cheerful group their farewell bade
To DURSLEY tower, to ULEY'S shade;
And where bold STINCHCOMB'S greenwood side.
Heaves in the van of highland pride,
Scour'd the broad vale of Severn; there
The foes of verse shall never dare
Genius to scorn, or bound its power,
There blood-stain'd BERKLEY'S turrets low'r,
A name that cannot pass away,
Till time forgets "the Bard" of GRAY.

Quitting fair Glo'ster's northern road,
To gain the pass of FRAMELODE,
Before us DEAN'S black forest spread,
And MAY HILL, with his tufted head,
Beyond the ebbing tide appear'd;
And Cambria's distant mountains rear'd
Their dark blue summits far away;
And SEVERN, 'midst the burning day,
Curv'd his bright line, and bore along
The mingled _Avon_, pride of song.

The trembling steeds soon ferry'd o'er,
Neigh'd loud upon the forest shore;
Domains that once, at early morn,
Rang to the hunter's bugle horn,
When barons proud would bound away;
When even kings would hail the day,
And swell with pomp more glorious shows,
Than ant-hill population knows.
Here crested chiefs their bright-arm'd train
Of javelin'd horsemen rous'd amain,
And chasing wide the wolf or boar,
Bade the deep woodland vallies roar.

Harmless we past, and unassail'd,
Nor once at roads or tumpikes rail'd:
Through depths of shade oft sun-beams broke,
Midst noble FLAXLEY'S bowers of oak;
And many a cottage trim and gay,
Whisper'd delight through all the way;
On hills expos'd, in dells unseen,
To patriarchal MITCHEL DEAN.
Rose-cheek'd _Pomona_ there was seen,
And _Ceres_ edg'd her fields between,
And on each hill-top mounted high,
Her sickle wav'd in extasy;
Till Ross, thy charms all hearts confess'd,
Thy peaceful walks, thy hours of rest
And contemplation. Here the mind,
With all its luggage left behind,
Dame Affectation's leaden wares,
Spleen, envy, pride, life's thousand cares,
Feels all its dormant fires revive,
And sees "the _Man of Ross_" alive;
And hears the Twick'nham Bard again,
To KYRL'S high virtues lift his strain;
Whose own hand cloth'd this far-fam'd hill
With rev'rend elms, that shade us still;
Whose mem'ry shall survive the day,
When elms and empires feel decay.
KYRL die, by bard ennobled? Never;
"_The Man of Ross_" shall live for ever;
Ross, that exalts its spire on high,
Above the flow'ry-margin'd WYE,
Scene of the morrow's joy, that prest
Its unseen beauties on our rest
In dreams; but who of dreams would tell,
Where truth sustains the song so well?

The morrow came, and Beauty's eye

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