THE

BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK I.

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

"ROUSE from thy slumber, Pleasure calls, arise, Quit thy half-rural bower, a while 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 dared to sing. When sickness weigh'd thee down, and strength declined;

When dread eternity absorb'd thy mind,

Flow'd the predicting verse, by gloom o'erspread, That Cambrian mountains' thou shouldst 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 raptured 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 siren Pleasure caroll'd and prevail'd; Soon the deep dell appear'd, and the clear brow Of ULEY BURY* smiled o'er all below, O'er mansion, 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 STINCHCOMBE'S greenwood side
Heaves in the van of highland pride,

Scour'd the broad vale of Severn; where

The foes of verse shall never dare

Genius to scorn, or bound its power,

There blood-stain'd BERKELEY'S turrets lower,
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 FRAMILODE,
Before us DEAN's black forest spread,
And MAY HILL, with his tufted bead,
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,
Curved his bright line, and bore along
The mingled Avon, pride of song.

The trembling steeds soon ferried o'er,
Neigh'd loud upon the forest shore;

Bury, or Burg, the Saxon name for a hill, particularly for one wholly or partially formed by art.

Domains that once, at early morn,

Rang to the hunter's bugle horn,

When barons proud would bound away;
And even kings would hail the day,

When crested chiefs their bright-arm'd train
Of javelin'd horsemen roused amain,
And chasing wide the wolf or boar,
Bade the deep woodland valleys roar.
But we no dang'rous chase pursued ;
Sound wheels and hoofs their tasks renew'd;
Behind roll'd SEVERN, gleaming far,
Around us roar'd no sylvan war,

'Mid depths of shade, gay sunbeams broke
Through noble FLAXLEY'S bow'rs of oak
And many a cottage, trim and gay,
Whisper'd delight through all the way;
On hills exposed, in dells unseen,
To patriarchal MITCHEL DEAN.
Rose-cheek'd Pomona here was queen,
Though Ceres edged her fields between,
And on each hill-top, mounted high,
Her sickle waved in ecstasy;

Till, Ross, thy charms all hearts confess
Thy peaceful walks, thy hours of rest
And contemplation. Here the mind
(Its usual luggage left behind)
Feels all its dormant fires revive,
And sees "the Man of Ross" alive;
And hears the Twick'nham Bard again
TO KYRLE's high virtues lift his strain;
Whose own hand clothed this far-famed hill
With rev'rend elms, that shade us still;
Whose mem'ry shall survive the day
When elms and empires feel decay.
KYRLE die, by BARD ennobled ?
The Man of Ross shall live for ever;
And long that spire shall time defy,
To grace the flow'ry-margin'd WYE,

Never :

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
Ne'er beam'd upon a lovelier sky;
Imagination instant brought,

And dash'd amidst the train of thought,
Tints of the bow. The boatman stript;
Glee at the helm exulting tript,
And waved her flower-encircled wand,
Away, away, to Fairy Land"

Light dipt the oars; but who can name
The various objects dear to fame,

That changing, doubling, wild, and strong,
Demand the noblest powers of song?
Then, O forgive the vagrant Muse,
Ye who the sweets of Nature choose;
And thou, whom destiny hath tied
To this romantic river's side,
Down gazing from each close retreat,
On boats that glide beneath thy feet,
Forgive the stranger's meagre line,
That seems to slight that spot of thine;
For he, alas! could only glean
The changeful outlines of the scene;
A momentary bliss; and here

Links memory's power with rapture's tear.

WHO curb'd the barons' kingly power*?
Let hist'ry tell that fateful hour
At home, when surly winds shall roar,
And prudence shut the study door.

Henry the Seventh gave an irrevocable blow to the dangerous privileges assumed by the barons, in abolishing liveries and retainers, by which every malefactor could shelter himself from the law, on assuming a nobleman's livery, and attending his person.

DE WILTONS here, of mighty name,

The whelming flood, the summer stream,
Mark'd from their towers.-The fabric falls,
The rubbish of their splendid halls
Time in his march hath scatter'd wide,
And blank oblivion strives to hide *.
A while the grazing herd was seen,
And trembling willow's silver green,
Till the fantastic current stood

In line direct for PENCRAIG WOOD;
Whose bold green summit welcome bade,
Then rear'd behind his nodding shade.
Here, as the light boat skimm'd along,
The clarionet, and chosen song,
(That mellow, wild, Eolian lay,
"Sweet in the Woodlands,") roll'd away
Their echoes down the stream, that bore
Each dying close to every shore,
And forward cape, and woody range,
That form the never-ceasing change,
To him who floating, void of care,

Twirls with the stream, ho knows not where.
Till bold, impressive, and sublime,

Gleam'd all that's left by storms and time
Of GOODRICH TOWERS. The mould'ring pile
Tells noble truths,-but dies the while.
O'er the steep path, through brake and brier,
His batter'd turrets still aspire,

In rude magnificence. 'Twas here
LANCASTRIAN HENRY spread his cheer,
When came the news that HAL was born,
And MONMOUTH hail'd th' auspicious morn :
A boy in sports, a prince in war,

Wisdom and valour crown'd his car

Of France the terror, England's glory,
As Stratford's bard has told the story.

The ruins of Wilton Castle stand on the opposite side of the river, nearly fronting the town of Ross.