m 
 
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 UNlVSRSITV OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAIM DIEGO 
 
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 POEMS OF PLACES
 
 MAP OF ENGLAND
 
 POEMS OF PLACES 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW 
 
 It is the Soul that sees ; the outward eyes 
 Present the object, but the Mind descries. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1877
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Madame de Stael has somewhere said, that 
 " travelling is the saddest of all pleasures." 
 But we all have the longing of Rasselas in our 
 hearts. We are ready to leave the Happy 
 Valley of home, and eager to see something of 
 the world beyond the streets and steeples of 
 our native town. To the young, travelling is 
 a boundless delight ; to the old, a pleasant 
 memory and a tender regret. 
 
 I have often observed that among travellers 
 there exists a kind of free-masonry. To have 
 visited the same scenes is a bond of sympathy 
 between those who have no other point of 
 contact. A vague interest surrounds the man 
 whom we have met in a foreign land, and even 
 reserved and silent people become communica-
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 tive when the conversation turns upon the 
 countries they have seen. 
 
 I have always found the Poets my best 
 travelhng companions. They see many things 
 that are invisible to common eyes. Like Or- 
 lando in the forest of Arden, they " hang odes 
 on hawthorns and elegies on thistles." They 
 invest the landscape with a human feeling, and 
 cast upon it. 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream." 
 
 Even scenes unlovely in themselves become 
 clothed in beauty when illuminated by the im- 
 agination, as faces in themselves not beautiful 
 become so by the expression of thought and 
 feeling. 
 
 This collection of Poems of Places has been 
 made partly for the pleasure of making it, and 
 partly for the pleasure I hope it may give to 
 those who shall read its pages. It is the voice 
 of the Poets expressing their delight in the 
 scenes of nature, and, like the song of birds, 
 surrounding the earth with music. For myself, 
 I. confess that these poems have an indescribable
 
 PREFACE. vH 
 
 charm, as showing how the affections of men 
 have gone forth to their favourite haunts, and 
 consecrated them for ever. 
 
 Great is the love of EngUsh poets for rural 
 and secluded places. Greater still their love 
 of rivers. In Drayton's Poly-Olbion the roar 
 of rivers is almost deafening ; and if more of 
 them do not run through the pages of this work, 
 it is from fear of changing it into a morass, 
 which, however beautiful with flowers and flags, 
 might be an unsafe footing for the wayfarer. 
 
 Of one or two names I have been a little 
 doubtful, not finding them in any map or gazet- 
 teer. They may be only pseudonymes. But 
 doubtless the poets had some place in mind as 
 they wrote, and the beauty of the verses must 
 be my apology for inserting them. 
 
 I remember to have read in some book of the 
 law, that, " if a man's land is not surrounded by 
 any actual fence, the law encircles it with an im- 
 aginary enclosure, to pass which is to break and 
 enter his close." In this work I fear the Poets 
 will regard me as a great trespasser. I certainly 
 have broken and entered their close ; but as I
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 have done it with no evil intent, I trust they 
 will pardon me. 
 
 The volumes now published will be followed 
 by others of a like character, descriptive of other 
 countries, till the " Voyage round the World," 
 sketched by Mr. Montgomery in the poem 
 which stands as Prelude, shall be brought to 
 a safe and happy end. 
 
 H. W. L. 
 
 Cambridge, March 17, 1876.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 A Voyage round the World . . J. Moiifgoinery 
 
 Introductory. 
 
 America to Great Britain . . W. Allstoji 
 
 The Lighthouse . . . . H. IV. Longfellow 
 
 The Steamship .... ('. JK. Holmes 
 
 I'he Atlantic Cable . . . . J. G. Whittier 
 
 The Ocean ..... Lord Byron . 
 
 Travelling ..... IV. ShakesJ>eare 
 
 The Traveller . . . . . O. Goldsmith . 
 
 The World at a Distance . IV. Coiuper 
 
 Highways ..... W. \Vords2uorth 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley . . W. Sheiistotie . 
 
 Places r. G. Appleton 
 
 Travels by the Fireside . . . //. IV. Longfelloiu 
 
 Aldborough. 
 
 The Fens ...... George Crabbe . 
 
 The River ..... ,, 
 
 The Heath 
 
 To the Sea ..... Capel Lofft 
 
 Aldershot. 
 
 Invalid Soldiers at Aldershot . . Lord Houghton 
 Alnwick. 
 
 Alnwick Castle .... Fitz-G. Halleck 
 
 Alum B.w. 
 
 Lines written at the Needles Hotel T. N. Tal/ourd
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 Amesbuky. page 
 
 Guinevere Alfred Tennyson . 25 
 
 Ampton. 
 
 Written at Ampton, Suffolk . . H. Alford . . 27 
 Written at Ampton .... ,, . . 27 
 
 Andredsweld, the Forest. 
 
 Andredsweld Michael Drayton . 28 
 
 Ankor, the River. 
 
 The River Anlcor .... „ -29 
 
 Anneslev. 
 
 Annesley Hall Lord Byron . . 30 
 
 Ansley Hall. 
 
 Inscription in a Hermitage at Ansley 
 
 Hall, Warwickshire . . . Thomas IVarion . 31 
 
 Arun, the River. 
 
 To the River Arun . . . . C. Smith . . -33 
 To the River Arun .... ,, • • • 33 
 
 Written on the Banks of the Arun . ,, . . .34 
 
 Athelstone. 
 
 Castle Athelstone . . . . C. Mackay . . 34 
 
 Avon, the River (Uppek). 
 
 To the Avon ..... Anony/noiis . . 35 
 The Avon ,, . . 36 
 
 Avon, the River (Lower). 
 
 The Ebb-Tide A'. Sonthey . . 36 
 
 For a Cavern that overlooks the 
 
 River Avon ..... ,, ■ ■ 37 
 
 Axe, the River. 
 
 The River Axe .... Joh?!. Mcrivale . 38 
 
 Axminster. 
 
 The Golden Land . . . . F. T. Palgrave . 42 
 Bala-Sala. 
 
 At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man . . IF. IVords^vorth . 43 
 Bamhorougii. 
 
 Bamborough Castle . . . IV. L. Bowles . . 43 
 
 Banwell Hill. 
 
 Banwell Hill „ . . 44 
 
 Barnard Castle. 
 
 Barnard Castle .... IV. Scoti . . -45
 
 CONTENTS. xi 
 
 Barnham Water. page 
 
 Barnham Water .... Robert Bloomjield . 48 
 , Bath. 
 
 The Baths Michael Drayton . 50 
 
 Written near Bath .... Richard Gj-aves . 51 
 
 Deachy Head. 
 
 Beachy Head C. Smith . . -53 
 
 Beccles. 
 
 Beccles G. Crahbe . 
 
 Bedfont. 
 
 The Two Peacocks of Bedfont . T. Hood . 
 Belvoir Castle. 
 
 Belvoir Castle ..... C Crahhe 
 Belvoir (Bever), the Vale. 
 
 Bever Ulichael Drayton 
 
 Benallay 
 
 Annot of Benallay . . . . R.S. Haioker 
 Benhall. 
 
 Benhall D. Barton 
 
 Berkeley Castle. 
 
 Death of Edward the Second . C. Marlowe 
 
 Berkhamstead. 
 
 Berkhamstead .... IV. Co2v/>er 
 
 Beverley. 
 
 Beverley Minster .... Anonymous 
 Binstead. 
 
 Written in the Porch of Binstead 
 
 Church, Isle of Wight . . . //. Smith . 
 Bishopstone. 
 
 Roman Antiquities at Bishopstone . /F. Wordsivorth 
 
 The Favourite Village . . ■ y. Hurdis 
 Bl.\ck CoMIi. 
 
 View from the Top of Black Comb . W. IVordsiuorth 
 Bodiham. 
 
 On beholding Bodiham Castle . Lord Thm-low . 69 
 
 ' Bodmin. 
 
 The Ungracious Return . . . H. S. Stokes . . 70 
 Bodrigan Castle. 
 
 Bodrigan's Leap .... „ . . 71
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 Bolton Abbey. page 
 
 Bolton Priory W. Wordsivorth . 73 
 
 Bolton Abbey A^. Hall ... 78 
 
 The Force of Prayer . . . W. Wordsworth . 78 
 
 Bolton Abbey E. Elliott . . 80 
 
 BORRODAILE. 
 
 Borrodaile B. IV. Procter. . 81 
 
 Boston. 
 
 St. Botolph's Town .... Anonyiyious . . 82 
 Boston in Lincolnshire . . . N. L. Frothinghain . 82 
 
 BOTTRE.^U. 
 
 The Silent Tower of Bottreau . R. S. Hnivker . . 84 
 
 BOWDEN. 
 
 Sketch from Bowden Hill after 
 
 Sickness IV. L. Bowles . . 86 
 
 Bramble-Riss. 
 
 Bramble-Rise Frederick Locker . 88 
 
 Bray. 
 
 The Vicar of Bray .... Anopijymons . ■ 90 
 Bremhill. 
 
 Sun-dial in the Churchyard of 
 
 Bremhill IV. L. Bowles . . 91 
 
 Brereton. 
 
 The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen 
 
 Tree Felicia Hemans . 93 
 
 Bridlington. 
 
 A Sea Piece James Montgomery 95 
 
 Brigham. 
 
 Nun's Well, Brigham . . W. Wordsworth . 96 
 
 Brignall. 
 
 Brignall Banks .... Sir W. Scott . . 97 
 
 Brimham. 
 
 Brimham Rocks . . . . E. Elliott . . 98 
 
 Trees at Brimham .... ,, . . 99 
 
 Rock Idol at Brimham ... „ . . 99 
 
 Bristol. 
 
 Bristol W. L. Bowles . . 100 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason in the 
 
 Cathedral of Bristol . . . William Mason . 101
 
 CONTENTS. xiii 
 
 Brixham. page 
 
 The Wives of Brixham . . . M. B. S. . . . loi 
 
 Brockley Coomb. 
 
 Lines composed at Brockley Coomb 5". T. Coleridge . 104 
 
 Brothers' Water. 
 
 On the Bridge l^- IVordsivorth . 105 
 
 Brough. 
 
 Brough Bells ..... Robert Souihey . 106 
 
 Bude Haven. 
 
 A Croon on Hennacliflf . . . R. S. Hawker . . 109 
 
 BURNHAM. 
 
 Burnham Beeches .... He/try Luttrell . no 
 
 Burton Pynsent. 
 
 Sunset at Burton Pynsent, Somerset Heiiry Alford . . 112 
 
 Butleigh. 
 
 Epitaph in Butleigh Church . . Robert Soicthey . 112 
 
 Buxton. 
 
 Written at Buxton in a Rainy Season Anna Seward . . 114 
 Buxton ...... Michael Drayton . 114 
 
 Cadland. 
 
 Cadland, Southampton River . . W. L. Bowles . .115 
 
 Caistor. 
 
 Boadicea ...... William Cowper . 117 
 
 Boadicea ...... Alfred TeuHyson . iiS 
 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Cambridge W. Wordsworth . 120 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, 
 Cambridge ..... „ .122 
 
 Trinity College .... Alfy-ed Tennyson . 123 
 
 On revisiting Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge ...... Lord Houghton . 12^ 
 
 The Backs y. Payn . . 125 
 
 Camelot. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott . . . Alfred Teiinysou . 127 
 
 King Ryence's Challenge . Perc/s Reliqjtes . 132 
 
 Camelot Michael Drayton . 133 
 
 Carisbrooke. 
 
 Carisbrooke Chimes . . . B. R. Parkcs . . 134
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Carlisle. 
 
 Lines written on a Window- Pane . David Hntne . 
 
 The Sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall Anonymous 
 
 Love shall be Lord of All . . Walter Scott . 
 
 Carlisle Yetts Anonymous 
 
 Carlisle Castle L. H. Sigourney 
 
 Castle Clare. 
 
 Castle Clare ..... Walter Thornbiiry 
 Chalgrove. 
 
 Chalgrove M. R. Mitford 
 
 Channel, the English. 
 
 The Arethusa Prmce Hoare . 
 
 Channel Islands. 
 
 Channel Islands .... Michael Drayton 
 Charnwood. 
 
 Cham wood ..... ,, 
 
 Chatsworth. 
 
 Chatsworth W. Wordsxvorih 
 
 Chepstow. 
 
 The Norman Horseshoe . . . Sir W. Scott . 
 Chertsey. 
 
 Epitaph on the living Author . . Abraham Cotuley 
 Cherwell, the River. 
 
 To the River Cherwell, 0.\ford . W. L. Bowles . 
 
 Cherwell, from the Terrace . . J. B. Norton , 
 Cheshire. 
 
 Cheshire Michael Drayton 
 
 Chester. 
 
 Chester ...... Anonymous 
 
 Chichester. 
 
 Epitaph on William Collins . . William Hayley 
 Chillington. 
 
 Inscription for a Stone . . . William Cowper 
 Cinque Ports. 
 
 The Warden of the Cinque Ports . //. W. Lotigfello^v 
 
 ClaI'HAM. 
 
 Ode on Clapham Academy . . Thomas Hood . 
 Clevedon. 
 
 Hallam's Grave .... Alfred Tennyson 
 
 page 
 I3S 
 13s 
 136
 
 CONTENTS. XV 
 
 Clifton. I'Age 
 
 Clifton ly. S. Landor . . 159 
 
 The Bridge between Clifton and 
 
 Leigh Woods .... ]V. L. Bowles . .160 
 
 Clovelly. 
 
 Clovelly Jy. S. //au'kcr . .160 
 
 COCKERMOUTH. 
 
 In Sight of the Town of Cocker- 
 mouth ...... IV. lVords7vori/i . 162 
 
 Address from the .Spirit of Cocker- 
 mouth Castle .... ,, . 162 
 
 CORBV. 
 
 Monument of Mrs. Howard . . „ . 163 
 
 COKSTON. 
 
 Corston • ^- Southey . . 163 
 
 The Retrospect .... „ . . 164 
 
 Coventry. 
 
 Godlva Alfred Tennyson . 166 
 
 Croglin, the River. 
 
 Nunnery Dell W. U'ordsmorth . 168 
 
 Croyland. 
 
 King Witlaf's Drinking-Hom . . //. IV. Longfellow . 169 
 
 CULBONE (CuI.BORNe). 
 
 Culbone, or Kitnore, Somerset . H. Alford . . 170 
 
 CuMNOR Hall. 
 
 Cumnor Hall IV. y. Mickle . .171 
 
 Dale Abbey. 
 
 Dale Abbey J. Montgomery . 175 
 
 Darley Dale. 
 
 A Tradition of Oker Hill . . ]V. Wordsworth . 176 
 
 Dart, the River. 
 
 The River Dart . . . . .S". Hodges . .177 
 
 Dartmoor. 
 
 Dartmoor F. Hemans . . 17S 
 
 Dartmoor N. T. Carriugton . i8i 
 
 Dartside. 
 
 Dartside. 1849 . . . . C. Kingsley . . 182 
 • Dawlish. 
 
 A Devonshire Lane .... 7. Marriot . .183
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Dean-Bourn. 
 
 Dean-Bourn, a rude River in Devon R. Herrick 
 
 Dean Priory. 
 
 Discontents in Devon ... ,, 
 
 Dee, the River. 
 
 The Sands of Dee . . . . C. Kingsley 
 
 Derbyshire, the Peak. 
 
 An Ode written in the Peak . . Michael Drayton 
 The Peak Mountains . . -J- Montgomery 
 
 Dereham, East. 
 
 Cowper's Grave . . . . E. B. Browning 
 
 St. Edmund's Chapel . . . IV, Hayley 
 
 Derwent, the River. 
 
 The River Derwent .... W. IVordsiuorih 
 The Hermitage on St. Herbert's Island ,, 
 
 To the River Derwent ... ,, 
 
 Derwent Water. 
 
 Derwent Water and Skiddaw . . B. IV. Procter . 
 
 Ditchling. 
 
 Stanzas on the Cemetery at Ditchling G. A. Mantell . 
 Donnerdale. 
 
 The Plain of Donnerdale . . . IV. Words^vorth 
 Donnington. 
 
 On visiting Donnington Castle M. R. Mitford 
 
 Dorchester. 
 
 Dorchester Hills . -J- Kenyan 
 
 Doulting. 
 
 Lines written upon Doulting Shecp-slatc J. E. Rende 
 Doveuai.e. 
 
 The Springs of Dove . W. Words^vorth 
 
 In Dovedale H.G. Bell 
 
 The Retirement . . C. Cotton . 
 
 Dover. 
 
 The Cliffs W. Shakespeare 
 
 The Cliffs of Dover . . . . E. Hetnans 
 
 Lines composed in the Valley near 
 Dover W. Wordsworth 
 
 Near Dover ..... 
 
 Dover Hotel Lord Byron 
 
 187 
 
 192 
 
 193 
 194 
 
 IQ9 
 
 '99 
 
 203 
 204 
 205 
 
 207 
 
 208 
 
 209 
 210 
 210
 
 CONTENTS. xvii 
 
 Dover. page 
 
 Dover Cliffs W. L. Bowles . . 210 
 
 Dover Beach M. Arnold . .211 
 
 Churchill's Grave .... Lord Byron . .212 
 
 DUDDON, THE RiVER. 
 
 To the River Duddon . . . IV. Wordszuorih . 213 
 The Stepping-Stones 
 
 " O Mountain Stream " . 
 " From this deep Chasm " 
 "Whence that low Voice 
 
 214 
 214 
 214 
 215 
 
 To Wordsworth on visiting the Duddon A. de Vere . . 215 
 
 DuPATH Well. 
 
 Dupath Well K. S. Hawker . . 216 
 
 Durham. 
 
 Durham Atiglo-Saxon Poem . 217 
 
 The Aisle of Tombs .... Anonymous . . 219 
 
 Eden, the River. 
 
 The River Eden, Cumberland . . IV. Wordsworth . 220 
 
 The Monument .... ,, . 221 
 
 Edenhall. 
 
 The Luck of Edenhall . . . J. L. Uhland . . 221 
 Edmonton. 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin W. Co^ffcr . 223 
 
 Ely. 
 
 Ely Abbey Anglo-Saxon Rhyme 231 
 
 Canute IV. JVordsivorth . 232 
 
 The Cathedral Tombs . . Author of 'John Halifax' 232 
 Ely ....... Michael Drayt07i . 234 
 
 Emont (Eamont), the River. 
 
 Monastic Ruins .... IF. VVordswortli 
 
 ESKDALE. 
 
 Eskdale ...... Ajiottymoxts 
 
 Esthwaite. 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree W. IVordsworih 
 Eton. 
 
 On a Distant Prospect of Eton College T. Gray . 
 Exeter. 
 
 On Ide Hill, overlooking Exeter . IV. Retv . 
 Falmouih. 
 1 Falmouth Haven . Michael Drayton
 
 xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Farrington. page 
 
 A Lancashire Doxology . . AntJior of Jolui Halifax^ li,^, 
 
 Farringford. 
 
 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . . A If red Teutiysoji . 244 
 
 Fletching. 
 
 The Bells of Fletching . . . Anonymous . . 245 
 
 Flodden. 
 
 Flodden Field Ritson's Ancient Songs 246 
 
 The Battle of Flodden . . . Sir Waiter Scott . 247 
 Flodden Field D. M. Moir . . 249 
 
 ! FoNTHiLL Abbey. 
 
 Fonthill Abbey . . . . W. L. Bo^vles . . 251 
 
 • Forest Hill. 
 
 Forest Hill M. Ji . Mitford . 252 
 
 Forest Hill John Miiton . . 254 
 
 . Fountain's Abbey. 
 
 Fountain's Abbey .... Anonymous . . 255 
 Fountain's Abbey . . . . E. Elliott . . 256 
 
 ■ Furness Abbey. 
 
 To Furness Abbey . . . . A. de Vere . , 256 
 Furness Abbey . . . .6'. Longfellow . . 257 
 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 Glastonbury ..... Micliacl Drayton . 258 
 
 The Ballad of Glastonbury . . H. Alford . . 259 
 
 Glastonbury ..... ,, . . 264 
 
 At the Tomb of King Arthur . . A. de Vere . . 265 
 
 Glastonbury Abbey and Wells Cathedral IV. L. Bo7(<les . 267 
 
 King Arthur's Funeral . . . T. IVarton . . 268 
 
 Near Avalon IV. Morris , . 269 
 
 Glen Nectan. 
 
 The Sisters of Glen Nectan . . R. S. Ha^vker . . 269 
 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Gloucestershire . . . .IV. Shakespeare . 271 
 
 Gordale. 
 
 Gordale IV. IVords^vorih . 271 
 
 . Grasmere. 
 
 The Wishing-Gate .... ,, . 272 
 
 Lines on the Death of Charles 
 James Fox ,, . 274
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Grasmere. 
 
 A Remembrance of Grasmere . 
 
 Wordsworth's Grave 
 
 Grasmere ...... 
 
 Wordsworth's Grave 
 Great Dealings. 
 
 Meditations in Great Dealings 
 
 Churchyard 
 
 Green-head Ghvll. 
 
 Green-head Ghyll .... 
 Greenwich. 
 
 Greenwich Hill 
 
 Greenwich Hospital .... 
 Greta, the River. 
 
 To the River Greta, near Keswick . 
 Grisedale. 
 
 Grisedale Deck .... 
 
 Haddon Hall. 
 
 Haddon Hall, Derbyshire, July 1836 
 
 Haddon Hall . 
 Hales Owen. 
 
 The Schoolmistress , 
 Hampstead. 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 
 Hampton. 
 
 Hampton . 
 Hampton Court. 
 
 Hampton Court 
 ■ Harrow-on-the-Hill. 
 
 Lines written in the Churchyard of 
 Harrow ...... 
 
 Harrow ...... 
 
 Hartland. 
 
 The Cell 
 
 Hart-Leap Well. 
 
 Heart-Leap Well .... 
 Hastings. 
 
 Hastings 
 
 Lines on the Camp Hill, near 
 Hastings ..... 
 
 F. Hentans 
 y. Payn . 
 
 G. Gilfillan 
 
 B. Barton 
 
 W. WordsTvortk 
 
 W. Gifford 
 \V. L. Bowles . 
 
 II'. IVords^vort/i 
 
 y. Payn . 
 
 H. Alford 
 H. G. Bell 
 
 IV. Shenstone . 
 
 y. Keats . 
 
 IV. Shakespeare 
 
 A. Pope . 
 
 Lord Byron 
 y. B. Norton . 
 
 R. S. Haivker . 
 W. Wordsivorth 
 Lord Thurloiu . 
 T. Campbell 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 275 
 
 • 275 
 . 276 
 . 276 
 
 277 
 
 27S 
 
 779 
 281 
 
 282 
 28-, 
 
 284 
 
 289 
 
 290 
 
 291 
 294 
 296 
 296
 
 299 
 
 XX CONTENTS. 
 
 Hathern. 
 
 Inscription for the Ruin of a Village 
 Cross H. Alford 
 
 Hatfield Bkoadoak. 
 
 The Old Oak-Tree at Hatfield 
 Broadoak . . . . . F. Locker 
 Hawkshead. 
 
 Hawkshead ..... W. IVordsworih . 302 
 Heartholm. 
 
 Heartholm J. Payn . . . 303 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 Helvellyn Sir IV. Scott . 304 
 
 To , on her first Ascent to the 
 
 Summit of Helvellyn . . . W. Wordsworth . 306 
 
 The Knight's Tomb . . . . S. T. Coleridge . 307 
 
 Helvellyn jB. IV. Procter . . 307 
 
 HOLMEDON. 
 
 Holmedon ..... W. Shakespeare . 309 
 
 Ilfracombe. 
 
 By the Sea-shore .... Sir A. de Vere . 310 
 Inglewood Forest. 
 
 Inglewood Forest . . . . W. Wordsworth . 311 
 Irwan. 
 
 A Farewell to the Valley of Irwan . y . Langhor/ie . . 312 
 
 Isis, the River. 
 
 The Isis J. B. Norton . . 312 
 
 Isle of Man. 
 
 On entering Douglas Bay . . JV. Wordsworth . 313 
 
 By the Sea-shore .... ,, . 314 
 
 Tynwald Hill ..... „ . 314 
 
 Itchin, the River. 
 
 To the River Itchin .... W. L. Boiules . . 315 
 
 Kenilworth. 
 
 The Ivy of Kenilworth . . . F. Hemans . . 315 
 
 Keswick. 
 
 Keswick ...... R. Sojithiy . . 317 
 
 Keswick ,, . . 317 
 
 KiRKSTONE. 
 
 The Pass of Kirkstone . . . W. Wordsworth . 319
 
 CONTENTS. xxi 
 
 K.NARESBOROUGH. PAGE 
 
 St. Robert's Cave . . . . H. Alfcrd . -321 
 
 Lacock. 
 
 Lacock Nunnery .... W. L. Bowles . . 322 
 Laken. 
 
 To a Bird that haunted the Waters 
 
 of Laken in the Winter . . Lord Thurlotv . . 322 
 
 Lancell's Tower. 
 
 The Ringers of Lancell's Tower . R. S. Hatvker . . 323 
 Langdale. 
 
 Dungeon-Ghyll Force . . . IV. iVordsworth . 324 
 Lansdown. 
 
 Lansdown Hill . . . . . R. Southey . . 327 
 
 SirBeville — The Gate Song of Stowe R. S. Hawker . . 327 
 
 Lechlade. 
 
 A Summer-Evening Churchyard . P. B. Shelley . . 328 
 Ledbury. 
 
 St. Catherine of Ledbury . . IV. Wordsworth . 329 
 
 Leeds. 
 
 Leeds J. Dyer . . . 330 
 
 Leicester. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey's Death . . JV. Shakespeare . 331 
 
 Leiston Abbey. 
 
 Leiston Abbey B. Barton . . 331 
 
 Lewesdon Hill. 
 
 Lewesdon Hill IV. Crowe . . 333 
 
 Lichfield. 
 
 Epitaph for a Monument in Lichfield 
 
 Cathedral Sir IV. Scott . . 335 
 
 Lincolnshire. 
 
 Lincoln Fens y. Armstrong . . 335 
 
 The High Tide on the Coast of Lin- 
 colnshire, 1571 . . . ■ 7- Ingelo^v . . 336 
 
 Lincolnshire Fens .... Michael Drayton . 341 
 Linden Lea. 
 
 My Orchet in Linden Lea . . ]V. Barnes . . 342 
 Lindisfarne. 
 
 The Holy Island .... Sir W. Scott . . 343 
 
 The Reapers of Lindisfarne M. y . Preston . . 345
 
 XXII 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Linn (Lyn), the River. 
 Waters-Meet . 
 Linn-Cleeve 
 
 Liverpool. 
 
 The Mersey and the Irvvell 
 Liverpool .... 
 The Dingle 
 
 H. Alford 
 
 . B. R. Parkes 
 
 . R. Leighton 
 
 VV. Roscoe 
 
 . IV. L. Bcnvles 
 G. Crahbe . 
 T. Warton 
 
 LoCKSWrELL. 
 
 Lockswell ..... 
 
 LoDDON Hall. 
 
 Loddon Hall .... 
 
 LoDDON, THE RiVEK. 
 
 On revisiting the River Loddon 
 
 LODORE. 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore . . . R. Southey 
 
 London. 
 
 London ...... S. yoh7isoH 
 
 London ...... Lord Byron 
 
 London ...... R. Leighton 
 
 London IV. IVordsivori/t 
 
 London y. Baillic . 
 
 Return to London . . . . R. Herrick 
 
 London ...... W. Co-wper 
 
 East London M. Arnold 
 
 West London ,, 
 
 Sir Richard Whittington's Advance- 
 ment Anonymous 
 
 Kensington Gardens . . . T. Tickell 
 
 Lines written in Kensington Gardens M. Arnold 
 
 Holland House .... 7'. Tickell 
 
 Sonnet composed upon Westminster 
 
 Bridge, September 3, 1802 . . \V. Wordsworth 
 
 Westminster Abbey . . . . F. Beaumont . 
 
 Two Queens in Westminster . . H. Morford 
 
 Poets' Corner R. Leighton 
 
 The Tomb of Addison . .' . T. Tickell 
 
 Campbell's Funeral .... H. Smith . 
 
 Bridewell ...... IV. Shakespeare 
 
 Gateshead, Westminster . . . R. Loz'elace 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's . . . J. C. R. Dorr . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 347 
 
 • 347 
 
 • 348 
 
 • 350 
 
 • 352 
 
 359 
 359 
 360 
 360 
 365 
 366 
 367 
 368 
 368 
 
 369 
 373 
 374 
 375 
 
 376 
 377 
 377 
 379 
 382 
 383 
 385 
 385 
 386
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 London Streets. 
 
 Walking the Streets of London . y. Gay 
 
 Bolt Court, Fleet Street . . . S. Johnson 
 
 Wood Street ..... 11^. Wordsworth 
 
 67 Wimpole Street .... Alfred Tennyson 
 
 Oxford Street Ationymous 
 
 Piccadilly „ 
 
 Pall Mall F. Locker 
 
 St. James's Street .... „ 
 
 Rotten Row, Hyde Park . . ,, 
 
 Regent Street . . . . ■ J. Cochrane 
 
 Temple Bar ..... W. Thornbary 
 
 The November Fog of London . Henry Luttrel . 
 
 London Taverns. 
 
 Tavern Signs British Apollo, 1707 
 
 The Tabard Inn . . . . G. Chaucer 
 Lines on the Mermaid . . -J- Keats . 
 
 The Sun, the Dog, the Triple Tun . R. Herrick 
 
 The Mermaid F. Beaumont 
 
 The Red Lion, Drury Lane . . O. Goldstnith 
 
 The Cock ...... Alfred Tentiyson 
 
 London Tower. 
 
 Clarence's Dream .... IV. Shakespeare 
 
 The Murder of the Young Princes . ,, 
 
 The Song of the Western Men . R. S. Hawker . 
 
 Lord Strafford's Meditations in the 
 
 Tower ...... Ationymous 
 
 The Burden of London . . . H. S. Stokes 
 
 Longleat. 
 
 John of Padua IV. Thomhiry . 
 
 LoRTON Vale. 
 
 Yew-Trees W. Wordsworth 
 
 LOWTHER. 
 
 Lowther ...... ,, 
 
 Stanzas written in Lady Lonsdale's 
 
 Album R. Soutkey 
 
 Lyme Regis. 
 
 At Lyme Regis . . . . F. T. Palgraz'e 
 
 Lynn. 
 
 The Dream of Eugene Aram . . T. Hood . 
 Malmesburv. 
 
 Restoration of Malmesbury Abbey . W. L. Bo^vles .
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Malt BY. 
 
 The Maltby Yews . . . . E. Elliott 
 Malvern. 
 
 At Malvern IV. L. Bowles . 
 
 Malvern Hills If. Alford 
 
 The Vision of Piers Ploughman . P. PlougJunan . 
 Margate. 
 
 Misadventures at Margate . . R. H. Barhani 
 Marston Moor. 
 
 Marston Moor W. C. Bennett 
 
 Matlock. 
 
 Monody written at Matlock . . W. L. Bowles 
 Medwav, the River. 
 
 The River Medway . . . . E. Spenser 
 Melhuach. 
 
 Mawgan of Melhuach . . . R. S. Hawker 
 
 Mendip Hills. 
 
 Mendip Hills Over Wells . . H. Alford 
 
 MiDDLETON. 
 
 Sonnet written in the Churchyard . C. Smith . 
 
 MONGEWELL. 
 
 Mongewell IV. B. Atkinson 
 
 MORWENSTOW. 
 
 Morwenna Statio . . . . R. S. Hazuker . 
 
 The Storm „ • 
 
 The Vine ,. • 
 
 The Well of St. John ... „ • 
 
 MUSTON. 
 
 The Streamlet 
 
 Naseby. 
 
 Naseby 
 
 Nether Stowev. 
 
 Nether Stowey 
 
 An Evening in Autumn, near Nether 
 Stowey, Somerset 
 Nf.TI.EV AliliRY. 
 
 Netley Abbey W. L. Bowles . 
 
 Netley Abbey N. T. Moile . 
 
 G. Crabbe . 
 T. B. Macanlay 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 H. Alford 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 435 
 
 436 
 437 
 437 
 
 438 
 
 444 
 
 447 
 
 449 
 
 450 
 
 4SO 
 
 451 
 
 452 
 
 • 453 
 
 • 455 
 ■ 456 
 
 • 457 
 
 • 457 
 
 • 453 
 . 460 
 . 462 
 
 • 463 
 
 • 4<J3
 
 POEMS OF PLACES
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 A VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD. 
 
 Emblem of eternity, 
 
 Unbegiiining, endless sea ! 
 
 Let me launch my soul on thee. 
 
 Sail nor keel, nor helm nor oar, 
 
 Need I, ask I, to explore 
 
 Thine expanse from shore to shore. 
 
 By a single glance of thought 
 
 Thy whole realm 's before me brought. 
 
 Like the universe, from nought. 
 
 All thine aspects now I view, 
 
 Ever old, yet ever new ; 
 
 Time nor tide thy power subdue. 
 
 All thy voices now I hear ; 
 Sounds of gladness, grandeur, fear, 
 Meet and mingle in mine ear. 
 
 All thy wonders are revealed, 
 Treasures hidden in thy field, 
 From the birth of nature sealed.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 But thy depths I search not now, 
 Nor thy Uquid surface plough 
 With a billow-breaking prow. 
 
 Eager fancy, unconfined, 
 In a voyage of the mind, 
 Sweeps along thee like the wind. 
 
 Here a breeze, I skim thy plain ; 
 There a tempest, pour amain 
 Thunder, lightning, hail, and rain. 
 
 Where the surges never roll 
 Round the undiscovered pole, 
 Thence set out, my venturous soul ! 
 
 See o'er Greenland, cold and wild. 
 Rocks of ice eternal piled ; 
 Yet the mother loves her child. 
 
 And the wildernesses drear 
 To the native's heart are dear ; 
 All love's charities dwell here. 
 
 Next on lonely Labrador, 
 
 Let me hear the snow-storms roar, 
 
 Blinding, burying all before. 
 
 Yet even here, in glens and coves, 
 Man the heir of all things roves. 
 Feasts and fights, and laughs and loves. 
 
 But a brighter vision breaks 
 O'er Canadian woods and lakes ; 
 These my spirit soon forsakes. 
 
 Land of exiled liberty, 
 
 Where our fathers once were free, 
 
 Brave New England ! hail to thee !
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Pennsylvania, while thy flood 
 Waters fields unbought with blood, 
 Stand for peace, as thou hast stood. 
 
 The West Indies I behold. 
 Like the Hesperides of old. 
 Trees of life with fruits of gold. 
 
 No, — a curse is on their soil ; 
 Bonds and scourges, tears and toil, 
 Man degrade and earth despoil. 
 
 Horror-struck, I turn away. 
 Coasting down the Me.xique bay ; 
 Slavery there hath had her day. 
 
 Hark ! eight hundred thousand tongues 
 Startle midnight with strange songs ; 
 England ends her negro's wrongs. 
 
 Loud the voice of freedom spoke, 
 Eveiy accent split a yoke, 
 Eveiy word a fetter broke. 
 
 South America expands 
 Forest-mountains, river-lands, 
 And a nobler race demands. 
 
 And a nobler race arise. 
 
 Stretch their limbs, unclose their eyes, 
 
 Claim the earth, and seek the skies. 
 
 Gliding through Magellan's Straits, 
 Where two oceans ope their gates. 
 What a glorious scene awaits ! 
 
 The immense Pacific smiles. 
 Round ten thousand little isles, 
 Haunts of violence and wiles.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 But the powers of darkness yield, 
 For the Cross is in the field, 
 And the light of life revealed. 
 
 Rays from rock to rock it darts, 
 Conquers adamantine hearts, 
 And immortal bliss imparts. 
 
 North and west, receding far, 
 From the evening's downward star, 
 Now I mount Aurora's car : 
 
 Pale Siberia's deserts shun. 
 
 From Kamschatka's storm-cliffs run. 
 
 South and east to meet the sun. 
 
 Jealous China, dire Japan, 
 With bewildered eyes I scan. 
 They are but dead seas of man, 
 
 Ages in succession find 
 
 Forms that change not, stagnant mind. 
 
 And they leave the same behind. 
 
 Lo ! the Eastern Cyclades, 
 Phoenix-nests and sky-blue seas. 
 But I tarry not with these. 
 
 Pass we drear New Holland's shoals. 
 Where no ample river rolls. 
 World of unawakened souls ! 
 
 Bring them forth ; — 'tis heaven's decree. 
 
 Man, assert thy liberty ; 
 
 Let not brutes look down on thee. 
 
 Either India next is seen, 
 
 With the Ganges stretched between ; 
 
 Ah ! wliat horrors here have been.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 War, disguised as commerce, came ; 
 Britain, carrying sword and flame, 
 Won an empire, — lost her name. 
 
 But that name shall be restored, 
 Law and justice wield the sword, 
 And her God be here adored. 
 
 By the Gulf of Persia sail. 
 Where the true-love nightingale 
 Woos the rose in every vale. 
 
 Though Arabia charge the breeze 
 With the incense of her trees. 
 On I press through southern seas. 
 
 Cape of storms, thy spectre fled. 
 See, the angel Hope, instead. 
 Lights from heaven upon thine head ; 
 
 And vi'here Table-mountain stands, 
 Barbarous hordes from desert sands 
 Bless the sight with lifted hands. 
 
 St. Helena's dungeon-keep 
 Scowls defiance o'er the deep ; 
 There a warrior's relics sleep. 
 
 Who he was, and how he fell, 
 
 Europe, Asia, Afric tell : 
 
 On that theme all time shall dwell. 
 
 But henceforth, till nature dies. 
 These three simple words comprise 
 All the future : " Here he lies." 
 
 Mammon's plague-ships throng the waves 
 
 O, t'were mercy to the slaves. 
 
 Were the maws of sharks their graves !
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Not for all the gems and gold, 
 
 Which thy streams and mountains hold, 
 
 Or for which thy sons are sold, 
 
 Land of negroes ! would I dare 
 In this felon-trade to share, 
 Or to brand its guilt forbear. 
 
 Hercules ! thy pillars stand. 
 Sentinels of sea and land ! 
 Cloud-capt Atlas towers at hand. 
 
 Where, when Cato's word was fate. 
 Fell the Carthaginian state. 
 And where exiled Marius sate, 
 
 Mark the dens of caitiff Moors ; 
 Ha ! the pirates seize their oars : 
 Haste we from the accursed shores ! 
 
 Egypt's hieroglyphic realm 
 
 Other floods than Nile's o'erwhelm ; 
 
 Slaves turned despots hold the helm. 
 
 Judah's cities are forlorn, 
 Lebanon and Carmel shorn, 
 Zion trampled down with scorn. 
 
 Greece, thine ancient lamp is spent ; 
 Thou art thine own monument ; 
 But the sepulchre is rent. 
 
 And a wind is on the wing, 
 
 At whose breath new heroes spring, 
 
 Sages teach and poets sing. 
 
 Italy, thy beauties shroud 
 In a gorgeous evening cloud ; 
 Thy refulgent head is bowed.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Rome, in ruins lovely still, 
 
 On her Capitolian hill, 
 
 Bids thee, mourner, weep thy fill. 
 
 Yet where Roman genius reigns, 
 Roman blood must warm the veins ; 
 Look well, tyrants, to your chains ! 
 
 Splendid realm of old romance, 
 
 Spain, thy tower-crowned crest advance. 
 
 Grasp the shield and couch the lance. 
 
 At the fire-flash of thine eye, 
 Giant bigotry would fly. 
 At thy voice oppression die. 
 
 Lusitania, from the dust. 
 
 Shake thy locks, — thy cause is just ; 
 
 Strike for freedom, strike and trust. 
 
 France, I hurry from thy shore ; 
 Thou art not the France of yore, 
 Thou art new-born France no more. 
 
 Great thou wast ; and who like thee ? 
 Then mad-drunk with liberty ; 
 What now ? — neither great nor free. 
 
 Sweep by Holland like the blast, 
 One quick glance on Denmark cast, 
 Sweden, Russia, — all are past. 
 
 Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay ; 
 
 Germany, beware the day 
 
 When thy schools again bear sway ! 
 
 Now to thee, to thee, I fly, 
 Fairest isle beneath the sky. 
 To my heart, as in mine eye.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I have seen them, one by one, 
 Every shore beneath the sun, 
 And my voyage now is done. 
 
 While I bid them all be blest, 
 Britain is my home, my rest ; 
 Mine own land ! I love thee best. 
 
 James Montgomery.
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 All hail, thou noble land, 
 Our Fathers' native soil ! 
 O, stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore I 
 For thou with magic might 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The Genius of our clime 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep 
 Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 Then let the world combine, — 
 O'er the main our naval line 
 Like the Milky- W^ ay shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! , 
 
 Though ages long have past 
 
 Since our Fathers left their home. 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untra veiled seas to roam, 
 VOL. I. / R
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not pi^oclaim 
 That blood of honest fame 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 While the language free and bold 
 Which the bard of Avon sung, 
 In wiiich our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of Heaven rung 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
 While this, with reverence meet. 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, while the arts, 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts, — 
 Between let Ocean roll. 
 Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 
 Yet still from either beach 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 " We are One." 
 
 Washington Allston. 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The rocky ledge runs far into the sea. 
 And on its outer point, some miles away, 
 
 The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
 A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 
 
 Even at this distance I can see the tides. 
 Upheaving, break unheard, along its base, 
 
 A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
 In the white lip and tremor of the face.
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
 Through the deep purple of the twihght air. 
 
 Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
 
 With strange, unearthly splendour in the glare ! 
 
 Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
 And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 
 
 Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape. 
 
 Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 
 
 Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
 Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 
 
 "Wading far out among the rocks and sands. 
 The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 
 
 And the great ships sail outward and return. 
 Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 
 
 And ever joyful, as they see it burn. 
 
 They wave their silent welcomes and farewells 
 
 They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
 Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 
 
 And eager faces, as the light unveils. 
 
 Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 
 
 The mariner remembers when a child, 
 
 On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 
 
 And when, returning from adventures wild, 
 He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 
 
 Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
 
 Year after year, through all the silent night 
 
 Bums on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
 Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 
 
 It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
 
 The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; 
 It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp. 
 
 And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
 Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 
 
 And steadily against its solid form 
 
 Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 
 
 The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
 Of wings and winds and solitary cries. 
 
 Blinded and maddened by the light within. 
 Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 
 
 A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
 Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 
 
 It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
 But hails the mariner with words of love. 
 
 " Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 
 
 And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
 Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse. 
 
 Be yours to bring man nearer imto man ! " 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 THE STEAMSHIP. 
 
 See how yon flaming herald treads 
 
 The ridged and rolling waves. 
 As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 
 
 She bows her surly slaves ! 
 With foam before and fire behind. 
 
 She rends the clinging sea, 
 That flies before the roaring wind. 
 
 Beneath her hissing lee. 
 
 The morning spray, like sea-bom flowers. 
 With heaped and glistening bells, 
 
 Falls round her fast in ringing showers, 
 With every wave that swells ;
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 
 
 In lurid fringes tlirown. 
 The living gems of ocean sweep 
 
 Along her flashing zone. 
 
 With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 
 
 And smoking torch on high, 
 When winds are loud, and billows reel, 
 
 She thunders foaming by ! 
 When seas are silent and serene. 
 
 With even beam she glides. 
 The sunshine glimmering through the green 
 
 That skirts her gleaming sides. 
 
 Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 
 
 She veils her shadowy form, 
 The beating of her restless heart 
 
 Still sounding through the storm ; 
 Now answers, like a courtly dame, 
 
 The reddening surges o'er. 
 With flying scarf of spangled flame. 
 
 The Pharos of the shore. 
 
 To-night yon pilot shall not sleep. 
 
 Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
 To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 
 
 Her broad breast to the gale ; 
 And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 
 
 Shall break from yard and stay, 
 Before this smoky wreath has stained 
 
 The rising mist of day. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 
 
 I see yon quivering mast ; 
 The black throat of the hunted cloud 
 
 Is panting forth the blast ! 
 An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff. 
 
 The giant surge shall fling 
 His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff, 
 
 White as the sea-bird's wing !
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ; 
 
 Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
 Those fleshless aims, whose pulses leap 
 
 With floods of living fire ; 
 Sleep on, — and when the morning light 
 
 Streams o'er the shining bay, 
 O, think of those for whom the night 
 
 Shall never wake in day ! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE ATLANTIC CABLE. 
 
 O LONELY bay of Trinity, 
 
 O dreary shores, give ear ! 
 Lean down tmto the white-lipped sea 
 
 The voice of God to hear ! 
 
 From world to world his couriers fly, 
 Thought-winged and shod with fire ; 
 
 The angel of his stormy sky 
 Rides down the sunken wire. 
 
 What saith the herald of the Lord ? 
 
 "The world's long strife is done ; 
 Close wedded by that mystic cord, 
 
 Its continents are one. 
 
 "And one in heart, as one in blood. 
 
 Shall all her peoples be ; 
 The hands of human brotherhood 
 
 Are clasped beneath the sea. 
 
 "Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain 
 And Asian mountains borne, 
 
 The vigour of the Nortliem brain 
 Shall nerve the world outworn.
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 "From clime to clime, from shore to shore, 
 
 Shall thrill the magic thread ; 
 The new Prometheus steals once more 
 
 The fire that wakes the dead." 
 
 Throb on, strong pulse of thunder ! beat 
 From answering beach to beach ; 
 
 Fuse nations in thy kindly heat, 
 And melt the chains of each ! 
 
 Wild terror of the sky above. 
 
 Glide tame and dumb below ! 
 Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove. 
 
 Thy errands to and fro. 
 
 Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord, 
 
 Beneath the deep so far. 
 The bridal robe of earth's accord, 
 
 The funeral shroud of war ! 
 
 For lo ! the fall of Ocean's. wall 
 Space mocked and time outrun : 
 
 And round the world the thought of all 
 Is as the thought of one ! 
 
 The poles unite, the zones agree, 
 
 The tongues of striving cease ; 
 As on the Sea of Galilee 
 
 The Christ is whispering. Peace ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark l)Iue Ocean, rob ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin ; his control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
 
 8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths ; thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him ; thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — - 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snovvy flake. 
 They melt into tliy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee : 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters washed them power while tliey were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts, not so thou. 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play ; 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed ; in breeze or gale or storm, 
 Icing the pol^, or in the torrid clime
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Dark-heaving, boundless, endless, and sublime, — 
 The image of Eternity, the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made : each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers ; they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 TRAVELLING. 
 
 Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
 Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits : 
 Were't not affection chains thy tender days 
 To the sweet glances of thy honoured love, 
 I rather would entreat thy company 
 To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
 Than living dully sluggardised at home. 
 Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheld or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weaiy waste expanding to the skies ;
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Where'er I i-oam, whatever reahns I see, 
 My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee, 
 Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 THE WORLD AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 'T IS pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
 
 Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
 
 To hear the roar she sends through all her gates, 
 
 At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
 
 Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
 
 Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease 
 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
 
 To some secure and more than mortal height. 
 
 That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
 
 It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
 
 With all its generations ; I behold 
 
 The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
 
 Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
 
 And avarice that make man a wolf to man, 
 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 
 
 By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
 
 And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
 
 He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
 
 From flower to flower, so he from land to land : 
 
 The manners, customs, policy of all 
 
 Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
 
 lie sucks intelligence in every clime, 
 
 And spreads the honey of his deep research 
 
 At his return, — a rich repast for me. 
 
 He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, 
 
 Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
 
 INTRODUCTORY. ii 
 
 Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
 Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 
 While fancy, like the finger of a clock, 
 Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 HIGHWAYS. 
 
 Who doth not love to follow with his eye 
 
 The winding of a public way ? the sight. 
 
 Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 
 
 On my imagination since the morn 
 
 Of childhood, when a disappearing line. 
 
 One daily present to my eyes, that crossed 
 
 The naked summit of a far-off hill 
 
 Beyond the limits that my feet had trod. 
 
 Was like an invitation into space 
 
 Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
 
 Yes, something of the grandeur which invests 
 
 The mariner who sails the roaring sea 
 
 Through storm and darkness, early in my mind 
 
 Surrounded too the wanderers of the earth ; 
 
 Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom ! I retire 
 
 From flattery, cards and dice, and din ; 
 
 Nor ail thou found in mansions higher 
 Than the low cot or humble Inn. 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power I reign ; 
 
 And every health which I begin 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
 
 Such freedom crowns it, at an Inn.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 I fly from pomp, 1' fly from plate ! 
 
 I fly from Falsehood's specious grin ! 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
 
 And choose my lodgings at an Inn. 
 
 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore. 
 
 Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 
 
 It buys what courts have not in store, 
 It buys me freedom at an Inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travelled life's dull I'ound, 
 Where'er his stages may have been, 
 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 The warmest welcome at an Inn, 
 
 William Shenstone. 
 
 PLACES. 
 
 In the heart's album there are treasured faces, 
 
 Our household darlings, friends which are our OM'n, 
 
 And with them favourite haunts and cherished places, 
 So dear, they seem but made for us alone. 
 
 Old age remembers over misty distance 
 
 The brook the boy once loved ; its scent of flowers 
 Comes wafted from it yet with sweet persistence. 
 
 And builds again for him those vanished hours. 
 
 He feels once more his bare feet in the stubble, 
 His jointed fishing-rod, his bat and ball. 
 
 Till, flown from dreary days and thoughts of trouble. 
 His pulses still sing music through it all. 
 
 Later, the sea-shore, haunt of vague emotion. 
 
 Where his thoughts travelled on the gleaming wave. 
 
 Or rose in flowering hopes, as smitten ocean 
 
 Shot jets of tliundrous splendour round his cave.
 
 INTRODUCTORY. i;; 
 
 The sacred path, which two once trod enchanted, 
 And now but one, and he with faltering tread, 
 
 Feeling its grassy curves and hollows haunted 
 By watching eyes, whose light is with the dead. 
 
 Then there are favourite nooks of early travel. 
 Where dreaming idly on the summer grass. 
 
 He saw the Swiss cascades their threads unravel, 
 And evening strike above the shadowy pass. 
 
 Clitumnus' oxen wander by the plashing 
 
 Of Virgil's sacred river ; and the bees 
 Pillage the heavy flowers in sunlight flashing 
 
 While the doves murmur from the ilex-trees. 
 
 Here Como's nightingale above the rowing 
 Sings its lament ; and, doubled in the lake, 
 
 He sees himself and boat, and softly showing, 
 The clouds and distant hills a picture make. 
 
 Sorrento hangs there, crowned in memory's vision. 
 Starry with clustered orange, and below 
 
 An azure dream-world, soft with indecision. 
 Where dulse and tangle round mosaics grow. 
 
 Such is the album memory fills with treasures, 
 Hid in the heart, where love doth keep the key ; 
 
 There in procession pass life's pains and pleasures, 
 Fresh and undying till it cease to be. 
 
 Thomas Gold Appleton. 
 
 TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 
 And yonder gilded vane, 
 
 Immovable for three days past, 
 Points to the misty main.
 
 14 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 It drives me in upon myself, 
 
 And to the fireside gleams, 
 To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, 
 
 And still more pleasant dreams. 
 
 I read whatever bards have sung 
 
 Of lands beyond the sea, 
 And the bright days when I was young 
 
 Come thronging back to me. 
 
 In fancy I can hear again 
 
 The Alpine torrent's roar. 
 The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 
 
 The sea at Elsinore. 
 
 I see the convent's gleaming wall 
 
 Rise from its groves of pine, 
 And towers of old cathedrals tall, 
 
 And castles by the Rhine. 
 
 I journey on by park and spire, 
 
 Beneath centennial trees, 
 Through fields with poppies all on fire, 
 And gleams of distant seas. 
 
 I fear no more the dust and heat, 
 
 No more I feel fatigue, 
 While journeying with another's feet 
 
 O'er many a lengthening league. 
 
 Let others traverse sea and land, 
 
 And toil through various climes, 
 I turn the world round with my hand 
 
 Reading these poets' rhymes. 
 
 From them I learn whatever lies 
 
 Beneath each changing zone. 
 And see, when looking with their eyes. 
 
 Better than with mine own. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Aldborough. 
 
 The Fens. 
 
 On rode Orlando, counting all the while 
 
 The miles he passed, and every coming mile ; 
 
 Like all attracted things, he quicker flies. 
 
 The place approaching where the attraction lies ; 
 
 Wlien next appeared a dam — so called the place — 
 
 Where lies a road confined in narrow space ; 
 
 A work of labour, for on either side 
 
 Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide. 
 
 With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied : 
 
 Far on the right the distant sea is seen. 
 
 And salt the springs that feed the marsh between ; 
 
 Beneath an ancient bridge, the straitened flood 
 
 Rolls through its sloping lianks of slimy mud ; 
 
 Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, 
 
 That frets and hurries to the opposing side ; 
 
 The rashes sharp, that on the borders grow. 
 
 Bend their brown flowerets to the stream below, 
 
 Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow : 
 
 Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom. 
 
 Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume ; 
 
 The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread 
 
 Partake the nature of their fenny bed ;
 
 i6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 
 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume ; 
 Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, 
 And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; 
 Low on the ear the distant billows sound. 
 And just in view appears their stony bound ; 
 ; No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, 
 Birds, save a wateiy tribe, the district shun. 
 Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 The River. 
 
 With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide. 
 Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide ; 
 Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep 
 It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep ; 
 Here samphire-banks and salt-wort bound the flood, 
 There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud ; 
 And higher up, a ridge of all things base, 
 Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place. 
 
 Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat. 
 Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat ; 
 While at her stern an angler takes his stand. 
 And marks the fish he purposes to land 
 From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray 
 Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. 
 
 For other craft our prouder river shows, 
 Hoys, pinks, and sloops ; brigs, brigantines, and snows ; 
 Nor angler we on our wide stream descry. 
 But one poor dredger where his oysters lie : 
 He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide, 
 Beats his weak arms against his tarry side, 
 Then drains the remnant of diluted gin. 
 To aid the warmth that languishes within ; 
 Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat 
 His tingling fingers into gathering heat. 
 
 George Crabbe.
 
 ALDBOROUGH. 17 
 
 The Heath. 
 
 Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, 
 
 Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ; 
 
 From thence a length of burning sand appears, 
 
 "Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; , 
 
 Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, 
 
 Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted i7e : 
 
 There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar. 
 
 And to the ragged infant threaten war ; 
 
 There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil ; 
 
 There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; 
 
 Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf. 
 
 The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; 
 
 O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, 
 
 And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; 
 
 With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound. 
 
 And a sad splendour vainly shines around. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 To THE Sea. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BEACH AT ALDBOROUGH. 
 
 Thou awful sea ! upon this shingly beach 
 
 Of Aldborough I pace : my gazing eye 
 
 Thy world of waters lost in the dim sky 
 
 Admiring, and thy echoing waves, that teach, 
 
 In voice of thunder, more than tongue can preach ; 
 
 The knell of ages passed and passing by ; 
 
 And claim their ancient empire o'er the diy 
 
 And solid earth ; each animating each. 
 
 Of towns long sunk, o'er which thy wild waves roar, 
 
 Of sea to land, of land to ocean turned, 
 
 I muse : and mourn, that who could amplest pour 
 
 Homeric tones on thy resounding shore 
 
 Porson is dead ! — that sea of Grecian lore 
 
 Unbounded, in the abyss of fate inurned. 
 
 Capel Lofft. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 i8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Aldershot. 
 
 Crimean Invalid Soldiers reaping at 
 Aldershot. 
 
 Reap ye the ripe, ripe corn, 
 
 Ye have reaped the green and the young, 
 The fruits that were scarcely bom, — 
 
 The fibres that just were strung. 
 
 Ye have reaped, as the Destinies reap, 
 
 The wit and the worth of Man, 
 The tears that we vainly weep, 
 
 The deeds that we vainly plan. 
 
 Now reap as the generous life 
 
 Of the pregnant Earth commands. 
 
 Each seed with a future rife. 
 
 And the work of a thousand hands. 
 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
 Alnwick. 
 Alnwick Castle. 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race. 
 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial-place, 
 
 Their cradle and their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's Lion stands in state 
 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high. 
 And feudal banners "flout the sky" 
 
 Above his princely towers.
 
 ALNWICK. 19 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet the quiet stream \\hich winds 
 
 Through this romantic scene 
 As silently and sweetly still 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katherine was a happy bride 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : 
 
 Does not the succouring ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy gloiy. 
 The legend of the Cheviot day. 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march. 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe, and sire, the old, the young. 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song. 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long. 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; 
 They were bom of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand. 
 On the holiest spot of the blessed land, 
 
 Where the cross was damped with his dying breath 
 When blood ran free as festal wine. 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be ' ' tongues in trees, " 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First in her twilight slumbers heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew-bell ! 
 
 I wandered through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, — 
 From him who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque aud minaret, 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, 
 To him who, when a younger son. 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 That last half-stanza, — it has dashed 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world is gone ; 
 And Alnwick's but a market-town, 
 And this, alas ! its market-day, 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land. 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
 From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes.
 
 ALNWICK. 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy ; 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
 Of knights, but not of the round table, 
 
 Of Bailie Jai"vie, not Rob Roy ; 
 'Tis what "Our President" Monroe 
 
 Has called " the era of good feeling ; " 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing ; 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt. 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings ; 
 And noble name and cultured land, 
 Palace and pai'k and vassal band. 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild or the Barings. 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come ; to-day the turbaned Turk 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start !) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the cross and altar-stone. 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a sabre-blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" 
 
 Are some half-dozen serving-men 
 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ;
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A chambermaid whose hp and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature 's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
 Who bowed me through court, bovver, and hall, 
 
 For ten and sixpence sterling. 
 
 FiTz- Greene Halleck. 
 
 Alum Bay. 
 
 Lines 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALUM BAY, 
 ISLE OF WIGHT. 
 
 How simple in their grandeur are the foiTns 
 
 That constitute this picture ! Nature grants 
 
 Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire, — 
 
 Earth, sea, and sky, and hardly lends to each 
 
 Variety of colour ; yet the soul 
 
 Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps 
 
 And makes its own for ever ! From the gate 
 
 Of this home-featured Inn, which nestling cleaves 
 
 To its own shelf among the downs, begirt 
 
 With trees which lift no brandies to defy 
 
 The fury of the storm, but crouch in love 
 
 Round the low snow-white walls whence they receive 
 
 More shelter than they lend, — the heart-soothed guest 
 
 Views a furze-dotted common, on each side 
 
 Wreathed into waving eminences, clothed 
 
 Above the furze with scanty green, in front 
 
 Indented sharply to admit the sea, 
 
 Spread thence in softest blue, — to which a gorge 
 
 Sinking within the valley's deepening green 
 
 Invites by grassy patli ; the Eastern down 
 
 Swelling with pride into the waters, shows 
 
 Its sward-tipped precipice of radiant white,
 
 ALUM BAY. 23 
 
 And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow 
 
 Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength 
 
 Of those famed pinnacles that still withstand 
 
 The conquering .waves, as fortresses maintained 
 
 By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile 
 
 After the game of war is lost, to prove 
 
 The virtue of the conquered. — Here are scarce 
 
 Four colours for the painter ; yet the charm 
 
 Which permanence, 'mid worldly change, confers, 
 
 Is felt, if ever, here ; for he who loves 
 
 To bid this scene refresh his inward eye 
 
 When far away, may feel it keeping still 
 
 The very aspect that it wore for him, 
 
 Scarce changed by Time or Season ; Autumn finds 
 
 Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay 
 
 May tremble fondly ; Storms may rage in vain 
 
 Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand 
 
 The Forest of the Fairies ; Twilight gray 
 
 Finds in the landscape's stem and simple foiTns 
 
 Naught to conceal ; the Moon, although she cast 
 
 Upon the element she sways a track 
 
 Like that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep 
 
 From heaven to earth, and fluttered at the soul 
 
 Of Shadow's mighty Painter, who thence drew 
 
 Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals 
 
 The clear-cut framework of the sea and downs 
 
 Shelving to gloom, as unperplexed with threads 
 
 Of pallid light, as when the summer's noon 
 
 Bathes them in sunshine ; and the giant cliffs 
 
 Scarce veiling more tlieir lines of flint that run 
 
 Like veins of moveless blue through their bleak sides, 
 
 In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now 
 
 (Save when some moss's slender stain shall break 
 
 Into the samphire's yellow in mid-air. 
 
 To tempt some trembling life), until the eyes 
 
 Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim. 
 
 Yet deem not that these sober forms are all 
 That Nature here provides, although she frames
 
 24 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 These in one lasting picture for the heart. 
 Within the foldings of the coast she breathes 
 Hues of fantastic beauty. Thread the gorge, 
 And, turning on the beach, while the low sea, 
 Spread out in mirrored gentleness, allows 
 A path along the curving edge, behold 
 Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints 
 Flung o'er the lofty crescent, as assures 
 The orient gardens where Aladdin plucked 
 Jewels for fruit no fable, — as if earth. 
 Provoked to emulate the rainbow's gauds 
 In lasting mould, had snatched its floating hues 
 And fixed them here ; for never o'er the bay 
 Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace 
 Than the gay coast exhibits ; here the cliff 
 Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream 
 Of Tiber wafted ; then with softer shades 
 Declines to pearly white, which blushes soon 
 With pink as delicate as Autumn's rose 
 Wears on its scattering leaves ; anon the shore 
 Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stained 
 With black, as if with sable tapestiy hung, 
 Light pinnacles rise taper ; further yet 
 Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil 
 Of purple crimson, — while bright streaks of red 
 Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins 
 Which the slow-winning sea, in distant time, 
 Shall bare to unborn gazers. 
 
 If this scene 
 Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, 
 Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy 
 On the blue ocean, poured around the heights. 
 As it embraced the wonders of that shield 
 Which the vowed Friend of slain Patroclus wore, 
 To grace his fated valour ; nor disdain 
 The quiet of the vale, though not endowed 
 With such luxurious beauty as the coast 
 Of Undercliff embosoms ; — 'mid those lines
 
 AMESBURY. 25 
 
 Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths, 
 
 And cottage roofs, find shelter ; the blue stream, 
 
 That with its brief vein almost threads the isle, 
 
 Flows blest with two gray towers, beneath whose shade 
 
 The village life sleeps trustfully, — whose rites 
 
 Touch the old weather-hardened fisher's heart 
 
 With childlike softness, and shall teach the boy 
 
 Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side, 
 
 When his frail boat amidst the breakers pants. 
 
 To cast the anchor of a Christian hope 
 
 In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice. 
 
 That in remotest point of this sweet isle. 
 
 Which with fond mimicry combines each shape 
 
 Of the Great Land that by the ancient bond 
 
 (Sea-parted once, and sea-united now), 
 
 Binds her in unity, — a Spirit breathes 
 
 On cliff and tower and valley, by the side 
 
 Of cottage-fire, and the low giass-grown grave. 
 
 Of home on English earth, and home in heaven ! 
 
 Thomas Noon Talfourd. 
 
 Amesbury. 
 
 Guinevere. 
 
 Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat 
 There in the holy house at Almesbury 
 Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
 A novice : one low light betwixt tliem burned 
 Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad. 
 Beneath a moon miseen albeit at full. 
 The white mist like a face-cloth to the face 
 Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 
 * « * * « 
 
 '• You know me, then, that wicked one, who broke 
 The vast design and purpose of the King.
 
 26 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 shut me round with narrowing nunneiy-walls, 
 Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' Shame.' 
 
 1 must not scorn myself : he loves me still. 
 Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
 So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
 Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you, 
 Wear black and white, and be a nun like you, 
 Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts, 
 Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys. 
 But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; 
 
 Pray and be prayed for, lie before your shrines. 
 
 Do each low office of your holy house. 
 
 Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
 
 To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
 
 Who ransomed us, and haler too than I, 
 
 And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own, 
 
 And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 
 
 The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 
 
 Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." 
 
 She said : they took her to themselves ; and she 
 Still hoping, fearing, "Is it yet too late ?" 
 Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died, 
 Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life 
 And for the power of ministration in her. 
 And likewise for the high rank she had borne, 
 Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived 
 For three brief years, and there, an Abbess passed 
 To where beyond these voices there is peace. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 27 
 
 Ampton. 
 
 Written at Ampton, Suffolk. 
 
 Welcome, stem Winter, though thy brows are bound 
 
 With no fresh flowers, and ditties none thou hast 
 
 But the wild music of the sweeping blast ; 
 
 Welcome this chiliy wind that snatches roimd 
 
 The brown leaves in quaint eddies ; we have long 
 
 Panted in wearying heat ; skies always bright, 
 
 And dull return of never-clouded light. 
 
 Sort not with hearts that gather food for song. 
 
 Rather, dear Winter, I would forth with thee, 
 
 Watching thee disattire the earth ; and roam 
 
 On the black heaths that stretch about my home, 
 
 Till round the flat horizon I can see 
 
 The purple frost-belt ; then to fireside-chair. 
 
 And sweetest labour of poetic care. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Written at Ampton, Suffolk, January 1838 
 
 Once more I stray among this wilderness 
 Of ancient trees, and through the rustling fem, 
 Golden and sere, brush forward ; at each turn 
 Meeting fresh avenues in winter dress 
 Of long gray moss, or yellow lichen bright ; 
 While the long lines of intercepted shade. 
 Spread into distance through the turfy glade. 
 Checkered with rosy paths of evening light. 
 Here first I learned to tune my youthful thoughts 
 To themes of blessed import : woods and sky, 
 And waters, as they i"ushed or slumbered by, 
 For my poetic soul refreshment brought ; 
 And now within me rise, unbidden long. 
 Fresh springs of life, fresh themes of earnest song. 
 Henry Alford.
 
 28 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Andredsweld, the Forest. 
 
 Andredsweld. 
 
 a forest containing most part of kent, sussex, 
 and surrey. 
 
 To seaward, from the seat where first our song began 
 
 Exhaled to the south by the ascending sun. 
 
 Four stately wood-nymphs stand on the Sussexian 
 
 ground. 
 Great Andredsweld's sometime ; who, when she did 
 
 abound 
 In circuit and in growth, all other quite suppressed. 
 But in her wane of pride, as she in strength decreased, 
 Her nymphs assumed them names, each one to her 
 
 delight, — 
 As, Water-Downe, so called of her depressed site : 
 And Ash-Downe, of those trees that most in her do 
 
 grow, 
 Set higher to the Downs, as the other standeth low ; 
 Saint Leonard's, of the seat by which she next is placed 
 And Whord, that with the like delighteth to be graced. 
 These forests, as I say, the daughters of the Weald 
 (That in their heavy breasts had long their griefs con- 
 cealed), 
 Foreseeing their decay each hour so fast came on 
 Under the axe's stroke, fetched many a grievous groan. 
 When as the anvil's weight and hammer's dreadful sound 
 Even rent the hollow woods, and shook the queachy 
 
 ground. 
 So that the trembling nymphs, oppressed through ghastly 
 
 fear, 
 Ran madding to the Downs, with loose dishevelled hair. 
 The Sylvans that about the neighbouring woods did 
 
 dwell. 
 Both in the tufty frith and in the mossy fell.
 
 ANKOR, THE RIVER. 29 
 
 Forsook their gloomy bowers, and wandered far abroad, 
 Expelled their quiet seats, and place of their abode, 
 When labouring carts they saw to hold their daily trade, 
 Where they in summer wont to sport them in the shade. 
 Could we, say they, suppose that any would us cherish. 
 Which suffer (every day) the holiest things to perish ? 
 Or to our daily want to minister supply ? 
 These iron times breed none that mind posterity. 
 'Tis but in vain to tell what we before have been, 
 Or changes of the world that we in time have seen ; 
 When, not devising how to spend our wealth with waste, 
 We to the savage swine let fall our larding mast. 
 But now, alas, ourselves we have not to sustain. 
 Nor can our tops suffice to shield our roots from rain. 
 Jove's oak, the warlike ash, veined elm, the softer 
 
 beech. 
 Short hazel, maple plain, light aspe, the bending wych. 
 Tough holly, and smooth birch, must altogether burn : 
 What should the builder serve, supplies the forger's 
 
 tuiTi ; 
 When under public good, base private gain takes hold. 
 And we poor woeful woods to ruin lastly sold. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Ankor, the River. 
 
 The River Ankor. 
 
 Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore, 
 
 My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lies, 
 
 O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore 
 
 Thy crystal stream refined by her eyes, 
 
 Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring 
 
 Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers, 
 
 Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing. 
 
 Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers ;
 
 30 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Say thus, fair brook, wlien thou shalt see thy queen, 
 Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wandering years, 
 And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft had been. 
 And here to thee he sacrificed his tears : 
 Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone. 
 And thou, sweet Ankor, art my Helicon. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Annesley. 
 Annesley Hall. 
 
 I SAW two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
 Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man. 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
 And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was Ijut one beloved face on earth. 
 And that was shining on him ; he had looked 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ;
 
 ANSLEY HALL. 31 
 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 
 For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, 
 
 Which coloured all his objects ; — he had ceased 
 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 
 And his cheek change tempestuously, — his heart 
 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for him : to her he was 
 
 Even as a brother — but no moi-e ; 't was much, 
 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestowed on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 
 Of a time-honoured race. It was a name 
 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? 
 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 Another : even now she loved another, 
 
 Aifd on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 Ansley Hall. 
 Inscription 
 
 IN A HERMITAGE AT ANSLEY HALL, WARWICKSHIRE. 
 
 Beneath this stony roof reclined, 
 I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 
 And while, to shade my lowly cave. 
 Embowering elms their umbrage wave, 
 And while the maple dish is mine. 
 The beechen cup unstained with wine,
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 I scorn the gay licentious crowd, 
 
 Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 
 
 Within my hmits lone and still 
 The blackbird pipes in artless trill ; 
 Fast by my couch, congenial guest, 
 The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 
 From busy scenes and brighter skies 
 To lurk with innocence she flies ; 
 Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 
 Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 
 
 At mom I take my 'customed round 
 To mark how buds yon shrubby mound. 
 And every opening primrose count 
 That trimly paints my blooming mount ; 
 Or o'er the sculptures quaint and i"ude, 
 That grace my gloomy solitude, 
 I teach in winding wreaths to stray 
 Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 
 
 At eve, within yon studious nook 
 I ope my brass-embossed book, 
 Portrayed with many a golden deed. 
 Martyrs crowned with heavenly meed ; 
 Then as my taper waxes dim 
 Chaunt ere I sleep my measured hymn, 
 And at the close the gleams behold 
 Of parting wings bedropt with gold. 
 
 While such pure joys my bliss create. 
 Who but would smile at guilty state ? 
 Who but would wish his holy lot 
 In calm oblivion's humble grot ? 
 Who but would cast his pomp away 
 To take my staff and amice gray, 
 And to the world's tumultuous stage 
 Prefer the blameless hermitage ? 
 
 Thomas Warton.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 33 
 
 Arun, the River. 
 
 To THE River Arun. 
 
 Be the proud Thames of trade the busy mart ; 
 Arim, to thee will other praise belong : 
 Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart, 
 And ever sacred to the sons of song. 
 Thy banks romantic hopeless Love shall seek, 
 Where o'er the rocks the mantling bind-weed flaunts ; 
 And Sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek 
 Choose on thy willowed shore her lonely haunts. 
 Banks, which inspired thy Otway's plaintive strain ! 
 Wilds, whose lorn echoes learned the deeper tone 
 Of Collins, powerful shade ! yet once again 
 Another poet, Hayley, is thine own. 
 Thy classic stream again shall hear a lay 
 Bright as its waves and various as its way. 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 To THE River Arun. 
 
 On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, 
 No glittering fanes or marble domes appear : 
 Yet shall the weeping muse thy course adorn, 
 And still to her thy rustic waves be dear. 
 For with the infant Otway lingering here 
 Of early woes she bade her votary dream. 
 While thy low mumiurs soothed his pensive ear ; 
 And still the poet consecrates the stream. 
 Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side. 
 The first-born violets of the year shall spring 
 And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide. 
 The earliest nightingales delight to sing : 
 While kindred spirits pitying shall relate 
 Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate. 
 
 Charlotte Smith.
 
 34 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Written on the Banks of the Arun. 
 
 When latest autumn spreads her evening veil, 
 
 And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, 
 
 I love to listen to the hollow sighs 
 
 Through the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. 
 
 For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale. 
 
 Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes ; 
 
 Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies 
 
 As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail. 
 
 Here by his native stream, at such an hour, 
 
 Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet 
 
 And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind ! 
 
 O Melancholy, such thy magic power 
 
 That to the soul these dreams are often sweet 
 
 And soothe the pensive visionary mind. 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 Athelstone. 
 
 Castle Athelstone. 
 
 Through porch and hall the ivies creep. 
 In beauty's bower the wild winds weep. 
 The raven haunts the turret alone ; 
 Alas for fallen Athelstone ! 
 
 No more the earls and kniglits of old. 
 In pomp and pride of steel and gold. 
 With nodding plumes and trumpet-tone, 
 Come down to mighty Athelstone ! 
 
 No more their sons, the rich and great, 
 Receive the needy at their gate ; 
 And call the fruitful shire their own : 
 Their names are lost in Athelstone !
 
 AVON, THE RIVER. 35 
 
 No more their daughters, fair and proud, 
 Demand the homage of the crowd ; 
 Their smiles made light where'er they shone : 
 Their place is dark in Athelstone ! 
 
 Their last descendant toils for bread. 
 And mourns the gloiy that has fled ; 
 In distant lands he dwells unknown. 
 And sighs for ruined Athelstone ! 
 
 Charles Mackay, 
 
 Avon, the River (Upper). 
 
 To THE Avon. 
 
 Flow on, sweet river ! like his verse 
 Who lies beneath this marble hearse, 
 Nor wait beside the churchyard wall 
 For him who cannot hear thy call. 
 
 Thy playmate once ; — I see him now 
 A boy with sunshine on his brow. 
 And hear in Stratford's quiet street 
 The patter of his little feet. 
 
 I see him by thy shallow edge 
 Wading knee-deep amid the sedge ; 
 And lost in thought, as if thy stream 
 Were the swift river of a dream. 
 
 He wonders whitherward it flows ; 
 And fain would follow where it goes, 
 To the wide world, that shall erelong 
 Be filled with his melodious song.
 
 36 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Flow on, fair stream ! That dream is o'er ; 
 He stands upon another shore ; 
 A vaster river near him flows, 
 And still he follows where it goes. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 The Avon. 
 
 The Avon to the Severn runs, 
 
 The Severn to the sea ; 
 And Wickliffe's dust shall spread abroad, 
 
 Wide as the waters be. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Avon, the River (Lower). 
 
 The Ebb-tide. 
 
 Slowly thy flowing tide 
 Came in, old Avon ! Scarcely did mine eyes 
 As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood-side, 
 
 Perceive its gentle rise. 
 
 With many a stroke and strong 
 The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars ; 
 Yet little way they made, though labouring long 
 
 Between thy winding shores. 
 
 Now down thine ebbing tide 
 The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along ; 
 The solitary helmsman sits to guide. 
 
 And sings an idle song. 
 
 Now o'er the rocks, that lay 
 So silent late, the shallow current roars ; 
 Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, 
 
 Through wider-spreading shores.
 
 AVON, THE RIVER. 37 
 
 Avon ! I gaze, and know 
 The lesson emblemed in thy varying way : 
 It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 
 
 So rapidly decay. 
 
 Kingdoms which long have stood, 
 And slow to strength and power attained at last, 
 Thus from the summit of high Fortune's flood 
 
 They ebb to ruin fast. 
 
 Thus like thy flow appears 
 Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; 
 Alas ! how hunyingly the ebbing years 
 
 Then hasten to old age ! 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 For a Cavern that overlooks the 
 River Avon. 
 
 Enter this cavern, Stranger ! Here, awhile 
 
 Respiring from the long and steep ascent, 
 
 Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too 
 
 Of sliade, if from the summer's westering sun 
 
 Sheltered beneath this beetling vault of rock. 
 
 Round the rude portal clasping its rough anns. 
 
 The antique ivy spreads a canopy, 
 
 From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect 
 
 In autumn their last store. The Muses love 
 
 This spot ; believe a Poet who hath felt 
 
 Their visitation here. The tide below. 
 
 Rising or refluent, scarcely sends its sound 
 
 Of waters up ; and from the heights beyond. 
 
 Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways, 
 
 Varying before the wind its verdant hues, 
 
 The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel 
 
 How good, how lovely. Nature ! And when, hence 
 
 Returning to the city's crowded streets.
 
 38 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Thy sickening eye at every step revolts 
 From scenes of vice and wretchedness, I'eflect 
 That Man creates the evil he endures. 
 
 Robert Southey, 
 
 Axe, the River. 
 The River Axe. 
 
 First of Devon's thousand streams 
 
 (Beside whose banks no poet dreams, 
 
 Since to her praise old Drayton framed 
 
 His pastoral reed, yet scarcely named), — 
 
 Silver Axe, — who, though her course 
 
 She fetches from a distant source. 
 
 And Dorset's Downs, as on she glides, 
 
 From fruitful Somerset divides, 
 
 Yet justly I Devonian name her, 
 
 And for that nobler province claim her 
 
 (No less than Exe, or western Tamar), 
 
 Amongst whose nymphs she's always numbered. 
 
 And christens seaport, burgh, and hundred. 
 
 From London cares and London follies. 
 To Devon's verdant oaks and hollies, 
 As, year by year, the dog-star leads me, 
 And with sweet thoughts of childhood feeds me 
 (Those best and purest thoughts that ever, 
 Through life's long intermittent fever. 
 Like health-restoring cordials enter. 
 And in the inmost bosom center), 
 Thee first, sweet nymph, my eyes salute, — 
 Thee last, when autumn's faded fruit, 
 Falling in lap of sad November, 
 Bids me the waning months remember. 
 And leave the country's tranquil joys 
 For city crowds and wrangling noise.
 
 AXE, THE RIVER. 39 
 
 Hail, modest streamlet ! — on whose bank 
 
 No willows grow, nor osiers dank, 
 
 Whose waters fomi no stagnant pool, 
 
 But ever sparkling, pure, and cool, 
 
 Their snaky channel keep, between 
 
 Soft swelling hills of tender green, 
 
 That freshens still as they descend 
 
 In gradual slope of graceful bend, 
 
 And in the living emerald end, — 
 
 On whose soft turf supinely laid 
 
 Beneath the spreading beechen shade, 
 
 I trace, in Fancy's waking dream. 
 
 The current of thine infant stream. 
 
 Then crowd upon my mental gaze 
 
 Dim visions of the elder days ; 
 
 Shrouded in black Cistercian cowl, 
 
 They pass like spectres o'er my soul. 
 
 On each pale cheek and furrowed brow 
 
 Impressed the wretched exile's woe. 
 
 ***** 
 
 But pious Adeliza, there. 
 Fair Devon's Countess, — rich as fair. 
 And, more than fair or rich, devout, 
 Beheld them on their homeward rout. 
 With liberal hand relieved their woes, 
 And Ford's majestic abbey rose. 
 
 Age after age since then has rolled. 
 O'er generations dead and cold, 
 From sire to son twice ten times told, — 
 Yet flows, and will flow on forever. 
 The current of that peaceful river. 
 While priest and monk have passed away, 
 And sable cowl, and amice gray. 
 And 'broidered cope with jewels' shine, 
 High I'ood, and consecrated shrine. 
 In dust the holy relics lie, — 
 The hands that rifled them hard by, —
 
 40 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The mitred abbot dispossest, 
 
 The leveller with his ribald jest, 
 
 The wily lawyer, by whose craft 
 
 Was tempered the destructive shaft 
 
 That kept its destined aim concealed 
 
 Behind religion's frowning shield. 
 
 The work of reformation ended, 
 
 And in one common ruin blended 
 
 All holy and all hallowed things. 
 
 Altars and thrones, and priests and kings. 
 
 The solemn pageant passed away. 
 Where next, sweet river, wilt thou stray ? 
 To Wycroft's bridge, and mouldering wall, 
 Which faintly marks the embattled hall. 
 By lordly Cobham once possest. 
 And trod by high and princely guest. 
 In Thomcombe's aisle you still may trace 
 The features of a gentle face, 
 Of knight's degree, and Cobham's race, — 
 Glorious in brass, — and at his side, 
 The image of his lady bride, 
 And charactered in letters fair, 
 djomas Brook, iSnggljtc engraven there. 
 No more remains, — the when, the where, 
 The how, he lived and fought and died, 
 Or who the lady at his side, 
 The brass has long forgot to tell ; 
 Nor can the keen explorer spell 
 (With all his pains) one smallest trace 
 Of the short, pious prayer for grace 
 That ends the monumental scroll, — 
 "The Lord have mercy on his soul." 
 Yet to the heart it teaches more 
 Than tomes of theologic lore ; 
 A proverb, or grave homily. 
 Of most sententious brevity 
 On mortal duralnlity.
 
 AXE, THE RIVER. 41 
 
 Such wisdom is in crumbled bones ! 
 
 Such are the semions preached by stones ! 
 
 Let but a few short histres pass, 
 
 The tablet of recording brass 
 
 (Raised for eternity) may show 
 
 No more than he who sleeps below, — 
 
 Nay, even his feeble fleshly forni, 
 
 Spite of cormption and the worm. 
 
 Outlasts, within its bed of earth. 
 
 The pompous verse that boasts its worth, 
 ***** 
 
 Now to old ocean's hollow cave 
 Axe pours a broader, deeper wave, 
 Swoln by a thousand nameless rills. 
 Fast trickling from the western hills. 
 That with their woody summits crown 
 Old Colyton's baronial town, 
 And Colcombe's walls (with ivy dark). 
 And Shute's gray towers and mossy park, — - 
 No longer now defiance breathing, 
 As when stout Devon's Earl, unsheathing 
 The sword in sainted Henry's right, 
 Challenged fierce Bonville to the fight 
 (Plantagenet's devoted knight). 
 This is no dream ! I see them yet. 
 As when on Clyst's brown heath they met 
 (Radiant in arms), and with them, set 
 In meet array on either side 
 (As swayed by favour, or allied 
 In kindred ties of blood and name), 
 All Devon's worthies crowding came. 
 Eager to try the desperate game. 
 Alike regardless of the cause. 
 Each for his feudal chieftain draws 
 The ready glaive, content to share 
 "With him the toils and meed of war, 
 And leave the schoolmen to debate 
 Those knottier subtleties of state,
 
 42 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Whether the red rose or the white, 
 The king in fact or king by right, 
 Holds Heaven's commission in the fight. 
 
 John Merivale. 
 
 Axminster. 
 The Golden Land. 
 
 O SWEET September, on the valley 
 
 Carved through the green hills, sheer and straight, 
 Where the tall trees crowd round and sally 
 
 Down the slope sides with stately gait 
 And sylvan dance ; and in the hollow 
 
 Silver voices ripple and cry. 
 Follow, O follow ! 
 
 Follow, O follow ! — and we follow 
 
 Where the white cottages star the slope. 
 
 And the white smoke winds o'er the hollow. 
 And the blithe air is quick with hope ; 
 
 Till the sun whispers, O remember ! 
 You have but thirty days to run, 
 O sweet September ! 
 
 O sweet September, where the valley 
 
 Leans out wider and sunny and full, 
 And the red cliffs dip their feet and dally 
 
 With the green billows, green and cool ; 
 And the green billows, archly smiling, 
 
 Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them, 
 Bright and beguiling, — 
 
 Bright and beguiling as she who glances 
 Along the shore and the meadows along, 
 
 And sings for heart's delight, and dances 
 
 Crowned with apples, and ruddy and strong ; —
 
 BAMBOROUGH. 43 
 
 Can we see thee and not remember 
 
 Thy sun-brown cheek and hair sun-golden, 
 O sweet September ? 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave. 
 
 Bala-sala. 
 
 At Bala-sala, Isle of Man. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FRIEND. 
 
 Broken in fortvine, but in mind entire 
 And sound in principle, I seek repose 
 Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose 
 In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
 Intrudes on peace, I pray the Eternal Sire 
 To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
 A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee ; 
 A shade, — but with some sparks of heavenly fire 
 Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note 
 The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams 
 Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 
 Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought, 
 I thank the silent monitor, and say, 
 '* Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day I " 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Bamborough. 
 Bamborough Castle. 
 
 Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, 
 Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, 
 Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time 
 Assail you and the winds of winter sweep 
 Round your dark battlements ; for far from halls 
 Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat,
 
 44 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat 
 With hollow bodings round your ancient walls ; 
 And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, 
 Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry ; 
 Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch may save, 
 And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Banwell Hill. 
 Banwell Hill. 
 
 Here let me stand, and gaze upon the scene ; 
 
 That headland, and those winding sands, and mark 
 
 The morning sunshine, on that very shore 
 
 Where once a child I wandered. O, return 
 
 (I sigh), return a moment, days of youth, 
 
 Of childhood, — O, return ! How vain the thought, 
 
 Vain as unmanly ! yet the pensive Muse, 
 
 Unblamed may dally with imaginings ; 
 
 For this wide view is like the scene of life. 
 
 Once traversed o'er with carelessness and glee, 
 
 And we look back upon the vale of years, 
 
 And hear remembered voices, and behold. 
 
 In blended colours, images and shades 
 
 Long passed, now rising, as at Memoi7's call. 
 
 Again in softer light. 
 
 I see thee not. 
 Home of my infancy, — I see thee not. 
 Thou fane that standest on the hill alone, 
 The homeward sailor's sea-mark ; but I view 
 Brean Down Ijeyond ; and tliere thy winding sands, 
 Weston ; and far away, one wandering ship, 
 Where stretches into mist the Severn Sea.
 
 BARNARD CASTLE. 
 
 45 
 
 There, mingled with the clouds, old Cambria draws 
 Its stealing line of mountains lost in haze ; 
 There in mid-channel sit the sister-holms. 
 Secure and tranquil, though the tide's vast sweep, 
 As it rides by, might almost seem to rive 
 The deep foundations of the earth again, 
 Threatening, as once, resistless, to ascend 
 In tempest to this height, to bury here 
 Fresh-weltering carcases ! 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Barnard Castle. 
 
 Barnard Castle. 
 
 The Moon is in her summer glow, 
 But hoarse and high the breezes blow, 
 And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 
 Varies the tincture of her shroud ; 
 On Barnard's towers and Tees's stream 
 She changes as a guilty dream. 
 When Conscience with remorse and fear 
 Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. 
 Her light seems now the blush of shame, 
 Seems now fierce anger's darker flame. 
 Shifting that shade, to come and go, 
 Like apprehension's hurried glow ; 
 Then sorrow's livery dims the air. 
 And dies in darkness, like despair. 
 Such varied hues the warder sees 
 Reflected from the woodland Tees, 
 Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth. 
 Sees the clouds mustering in the north, 
 Hears upon turret-roof and wall 
 By fits the plashing rain-drop fall,
 
 46 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Lists to the breeze's boding sound, 
 
 And wraps his shaggy mantle round, 
 
 ***** 
 
 Far in the chambers of the west, 
 The gale had sighed itself to rest ; 
 The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
 But pale, and soon to disappear. 
 The thin gray clouds wax dimly light 
 On Brusleton and Houghton height ; 
 And the rich dale that eastward lay. 
 Waited the wakening touch of day, 
 To give its woods and cultured plain, 
 And towers and spires, to light again. 
 But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
 And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
 And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
 And Arkingarth, lay dark afar ; 
 While, as a livelier twilight falls, 
 Emerge proud Barnard's bannered walls. 
 High crowned he sits, in dawning pale. 
 The sovereign of the lovely vale. 
 
 What prospects, from his watchtower high, 
 Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 
 Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
 Down his deep woods the course of Tees, 
 And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
 Of summer vapours from the stream ; 
 And ere he pace his destined hour 
 By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower. 
 These silver mists shall melt away, 
 And dew the woods with glittering spray. 
 Then in broad lustre shall be shown 
 That mighty trench of living stone. 
 And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
 Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, 
 Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 
 "Wears with his rage no common foe ;
 
 BARNARD CASTLE. 47 
 
 For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, 
 Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
 Condemned to mine a channelled way 
 O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 
 
 Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
 
 Shall rush upon the ravished sight ; 
 
 But many a tributary stream 
 
 Each from its own dark dell shall gleam : 
 
 Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, 
 
 Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ; 
 
 The rural brook of Egliston, 
 
 And Balder, named from Odin's son : 
 
 And Greta, to whose banks erelong 
 
 We lead the lovers of the song ; 
 
 And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild. 
 
 And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child. 
 
 And last and least, but loveliest still, 
 
 Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
 
 Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed, 
 
 Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade ? 
 
 Who, wandering there, hath sought to change 
 
 Even for that vale so stem and strange. 
 
 Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent. 
 
 Through her green copse like spires are sent ? 
 
 Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, 
 
 Thy scenes and story to combine ! 
 
 Thou bid'st him who by Roslin strays 
 
 List to the deeds of other days ; 
 
 'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the cave, 
 
 The refuge of thy champion brave ; 
 
 Giving each rock its storied tale. 
 
 Pouring a lay for every dale. 
 
 Knitting, as with a moral band. 
 
 Thy native legends with thy land, 
 
 To lend each scene the interest high 
 
 Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. 
 
 Walter Scott.
 
 48 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Barnham Water. 
 Barnham Water. 
 
 Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung, 
 With glowing heart and ardent eye, 
 With song and rhyme upon my tongue, 
 And fairy visions dancing by. 
 The midday sun in all his power 
 The backward valley painted gay ; 
 Mine was a road without a flower. 
 Where one small streamlet crossed the way. 
 
 What was it roused my soul to love ? 
 What made the simple brook so dear ? 
 It glided like the weary dove, 
 And never brook seemed half so clear. 
 Cool passed the current o'er my feet, 
 Its shelving brink for rest was made, 
 But eveiy charm was incomplete. 
 For Barnham Water wants a shade. 
 
 There, faint beneath the fei-vid sun, 
 I gazed in ruminating mood ; 
 For who can see the current run 
 And snatch no feast of mental food ? 
 " Keep pure thy soul, it seemed to say ; 
 " Keep that fair path by wisdom trod. 
 That thou mayst hope to wind thy way 
 To fame worth boasting, and to God." 
 
 Long and delightful was the dream, 
 A waking dream that Fancy yields, 
 Till with regret I left the stream. 
 And plunged across the barren fields ; 
 To where of old rich abbeys smiled 
 In all the pomp of Gotliic taste, 
 By fond tradition proudly styled 
 The mighty "City in the East."
 
 BARNHAM WATER. 49 
 
 Near, on a slope of burning sand, 
 The shepherd boys had met to play, 
 To hold the plains at their command, 
 And mark the traveller's leafless way. 
 The traveller with a cheerful look 
 Would every pining thought forbear, 
 If boughs but sheltered Barnham brook 
 He'd stop and leave his blessing there. 
 
 The Danish mounds of partial green, 
 Still, as each mouldering tower decays, 
 Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene 
 Proclaim their wondrous length of days. 
 My burning feet, my aching sight, 
 Demanded rest, — why did I weep? 
 The moon arose, and such a night ! 
 Good Heaven ! it was a sin to sleep. 
 
 All i-ushing came thy hallowed sighs, 
 Sweet Melancholy, from my breast ; 
 " 'Tis here that Eastern greatness lies, 
 That might, renown, and wisdom rest ! 
 Here funeral rites the priesthood gave 
 To chiefs who swayed prodigious powers, 
 The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave, 
 From Framlingham's imperial towers." 
 
 Full of the mighty deeds of yore, 
 
 I bade good night the trembling beam ; 
 
 Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar. 
 
 Of what but slaughter could I dream ? 
 
 Blessed be that night, that trembling beam, 
 
 Peaceful excursions Fancy made ; 
 
 All night I heard the bubbling stream, 
 
 Yet Barnham Water wants a shade. 
 
 Whatever hurts my country's fame, 
 When wits and mountaineers deride.
 
 50 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 To me grows serious, for I name 
 My native plains and streams with pride. 
 No mountain charms have I to sing, 
 No loftier minstrel's rights invade ; 
 From trifles oft my raptures spring ; 
 Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 Bath. 
 
 The Baths. 
 
 Then Bradon gently brings forth Avon from her 
 
 source : 
 Which southward making soon in her most quiet course, 
 Receives the gentle Calne : when on her rising side, 
 First Blackmoore crowns her bank, as Peusham with 
 
 her pride 
 Sets out her murmuring shoals, till (turning to the west) 
 Her Somerset receives, with all the bounties blest 
 That nature can produce in that Bathonian spring. 
 Which from the sulphury mines her medicinal force 
 
 doth bring ; 
 As physic hath found out by colour, taste, and smell, 
 Which taught the world at first the virtue of the well ; 
 What quickliest it could cure : which men of knowledge 
 
 drew 
 From that first mineral cause : but some that little 
 
 knew 
 (Yet felt the great effects continually it wrought) 
 Ascribed it to that skill which Bladud hither brought, 
 As by that learned king the baths should be begun ; 
 Not from the quickened mine, by the begetting sun 
 Giving that natural power which by the vigorous sweat 
 Doth lend the lively springs their perdurable heat 
 In passing through the veins, where matter doth not need ; 
 Which in that minerous earth inseparably doth breed ; .
 
 BATH. 51 
 
 So Nature hath purv^eyed that during all her reign 
 The baths their native power for ever shall retain : 
 Where time that city built, which to her greater fame, 
 Preser\'ing of that spring, participates her name. 
 
 Michael Drayton 
 
 Written near Bath, 1755. 
 
 Each saucy cit who strolls from town 
 With scorn surveys my Gothic cell,' 
 
 Or wondering asks what sordid clown 
 In this drear solitude can dwell. 
 
 These mouldering walls, with ivy crovmed, 
 That charm me with their solemn scene, 
 
 These flowers that bloom spontaneous round, 
 Provoke his mirth or raise his spleen. 
 
 Inured to smoke, throughout the year. 
 Yon verdant meads unmoved he sees, — 
 
 Those hills unsightly rocks appear, 
 
 Yon sacred groves mere heaps of trees. 
 
 The lucid fount that murmuring falls. 
 
 Then through my shiiibs meandering steals, 
 
 An useful stream the insipid calls. 
 But no poetic rapture feels. 
 
 Hither from noisy crowds I fly ; 
 
 Here dwells soft ease, and peace of mind ; — 
 Yet think not Fancy's curious eye 
 
 To these deep solitudes confined. 
 
 Whene'er at morn or eve I rove. 
 
 Where yonder cliffs with pines are crowned, 
 More splendid scenes my rapture move ; 
 
 How charmed I range the horizon round.
 
 52 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 There Allen's stately columns rise, 
 
 And glittering from the circling wood, 
 
 With constant beauty feed my eyes. 
 As he the poor with constant food. 
 
 Each pompous work, proud Bath ! I share 
 That decks thy hills. Well pleased I see 
 
 Thy rising cirque eclipse thy square, 
 And Pitt and Stanhope build for me. 
 
 Here Bathurst. rears the Gothic pile, 
 Here Riggs the roseate arbour twines ; 
 
 There Seymour's groves serenely smile. 
 And Avon through the landskip shines. 
 
 Would I fair Eden's bloom restore ! 
 
 Lo ! Widcomb's cultivated vale, 
 Where Flora paints her slopes for Moore, 
 
 And all Arabia's sweets exhale. 
 
 Luxurious thus I freely rove. 
 
 Nor at the sons of wealth repine ; 
 
 Mere tenant of each hill and grove, 
 Which sovereign Fancy renders mine. 
 
 Familiar grown by constant use. 
 
 The stateliest dome its master cloys, — 
 
 Then grant him but these transient views, 
 What you possess the bard enjoys. 
 
 Richard Graves.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. S3 
 
 Beachy Head. 
 Beachy Head. 
 
 Haunts of my youth ! 
 Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 
 Where 't was so pleasant by thy northern slopes, 
 To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 
 By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore 
 Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb. 
 There seeking shelter from the noonday sun ; 
 And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, 
 To look beneath upon the hollow way. 
 While heavily upward moved the labouring wain, 
 And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, 
 To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone 
 The grating wheel. 
 
 Advancing higher still. 
 The prospect widens, and the village church 
 But little o'er the lowly roofs around 
 Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane ; 
 Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed 
 By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring ; 
 When on each bough the rosy-tinctured bloom 
 Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
 For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
 Which, as their owners mark the promised fruit, 
 Console them, for the vineyards of the South 
 Surpass not these. 
 
 Where woods of ash and beach, 
 And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot. 
 The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; 
 There wanders by a little nameless stream 
 That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear. 
 Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, 
 But still refreshing in its shallow course 
 The cottage garden, most for use designed,
 
 54 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
 Mantles the little casement ; yet the brier 
 Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
 And pansies rayed, and freaked and mottled pinks, 
 Grow among balm and rosemary and rue. 
 There honeysuckles flaunt and roses blow 
 Almost uncultured ; some with dark green leaves 
 Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white ; 
 Others, like velvet robes of regal state 
 Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss 
 Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear 
 The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. 
 With fond regret I recollect e'en now 
 In spring and summer, what delight I felt 
 Among these cottage gardens, and how much 
 Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 
 By village housewife or her ruddy maid. 
 Were welcome to me, soon and simply pleased. 
 An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 
 I loved her rudest scenes, — warrens and heaths, 
 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, 
 And hedge-rows bordering unfrequented lanes, 
 Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 Beccles. 
 
 Beccles. 
 
 Forth rode Orlando by a river's side, 
 Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide. 
 That rolled majestic on, in one soft flowing tide : 
 The bottom gravel, flowery were the banks. 
 Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks ; 
 The road, now near, now distant, winding led 
 By lovely meadows which the waters fed ; 
 He passed the wayside inn, the village spire,
 
 BEDFONT. 55 
 
 Nor stopped to gaze, to question, or admire ; 
 On either side the rural mansion stood, 
 With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crowned with wood, 
 And many a devious stream that reached the nobler flood. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 Bedfont. 
 
 The two Peacocks of Bedfont. 
 
 Alas ! that breathing Vanity should go 
 
 Where Pride is buried, — like its very ghost. 
 
 Uprisen from the naked bones below. 
 In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast 
 
 Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro. 
 Shedding its chilling superstition most 
 
 On young and ignorant natures, as it wont 
 
 To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont ! 
 
 Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer. 
 Behold two maidens, up tlie quiet green 
 
 Shining, far distant, in the summer air 
 
 That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between 
 
 Their downy plumes, — sailing as if they were 
 Two far-oft" ships, — until they brush between 
 
 The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait 
 
 On either side of the wide open gate. 
 
 And there they stand — with haughty necks before 
 God's holy house, that points towards the skies — 
 
 Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, 
 
 And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes : 
 
 And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, 
 Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs. 
 
 With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace 
 
 Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ; —
 
 56 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, 
 May wear the happiness of rich attire ; 
 
 And those two sisters, in their silly pride. 
 
 May change the soul's warm glances for the fire 
 
 Of lifeless diamonds ; — and for health denied, — 
 With art, that blushes at itself, inspire 
 
 Their languid cheeks, — and flourish in a glory 
 
 That has no life in life, nor after-story. 
 
 The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair 
 In meekest censuring, and turns his eye 
 
 Earthward in grief, and heavenward in prayer, 
 And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. 
 
 Good-hearted man ! what sullen soul would wear 
 Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly 
 
 Put on thy censure, that might win the praise 
 
 Of one so gray in goodness and in days ? 
 
 Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame 
 Of this ungodly shine of human pride. 
 
 And sadly blends his reverence and blame 
 In one grave bow, and passes with a stride 
 
 Impatient : — many a i^ed-hooded dame 
 
 Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside 
 
 From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again, 
 
 That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. 
 ***** 
 
 The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn. 
 
 But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair ; 
 The solemn clerk goes lavendered and shorn, 
 
 Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair ; — 
 And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn. 
 
 Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer ; 
 And in tlie garden-plot, from day to day, 
 The lily Ijlooins its long white life away. 
 
 And where two haughty maidens used to be, 
 
 In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod,
 
 BELVOIR CASTLE. 57 
 
 Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, 
 Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod ; — 
 
 There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see 
 
 Two sombre Peacocks. — Age, with sapient nod 
 
 Marking the spot, still tarries to declare 
 
 How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 Belvoir Castle. 
 
 Belvoir Castle. 
 
 When native Britons British lands possessed, 
 
 Their glory, freedom, and their blessing rest, 
 
 A powerful chief this lofty seat surveyed. 
 
 And here his mansion's strong foundation laid : 
 
 In his own ground the massy stone he sought, 
 
 From his own woods the rugged timbers brought ; 
 
 Rudeness and greatness in his work combined, — • 
 
 An humble taste with an aspiring mind. 
 
 His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread ; 
 
 Warriors and vassals at his table fed ; 
 
 Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will, 
 
 And hailed his mansion on the mighty hill. 
 
 In a new age a Saxon lord appeared. 
 
 And on the lofty base his dwelling reared : 
 
 Then first the grand but threatening form was known, 
 
 And to the subject vale a castle shown, 
 
 Where strength alone appeared,— the gloomy wall 
 
 Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall ; 
 
 In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleamed ; 
 
 On the rude board the common banquet steamed ; 
 
 Astonished peasants feared the dreadful skill 
 
 That placed such wonders on their favourite hill : 
 
 The soldier praised it as he marched around. 
 
 And the dark building o'er the valley frowned.
 
 58 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A Norman baron, in succeeding times, 
 Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes. 
 In feudal pomp appeared. It was his praise 
 A loftier dome with happier skill to raise ; 
 His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose ; 
 Here friends were feasted, here confined were foes. 
 In distant chambers, with her female train, 
 Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign : 
 Curbed by no laws, his vassal tribe he swayed, — 
 The lord commanded and the slave obeyed : 
 No softening arts in those fierce times were found. 
 But rival barons spread their terrors round ; 
 Each, in the fortress of his power secure. 
 Of foes was fearless and of soldiers sure ; 
 And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised, 
 Long held the castle that his might had raised. 
 
 Came gentler times ; — the barons ceased to strive 
 With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive ; 
 Impelled by softening arts, by honour charmed, 
 Fair ladies studied and brave heroes armed. 
 The Lord of Belvoir then his castle viewed. 
 Strong without form, and dignified but rude ; 
 The dark long passage, and the chambers small, 
 Recess and secret hold, he banished all. 
 Took the rude gloom and terror from the place, 
 And bade it shine with majesty and grace. 
 
 Then arras first o'er rugged walls appeared, 
 Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheered ; 
 In each superior room were polished floors. 
 Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors : 
 All was improved within, and then below 
 Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow ; 
 The silver flagon on the table stood, 
 And to the vassal left the horn and wood. 
 Dressed in his liveries, of his honours vain, 
 Came at the baron's call a menial train ;
 
 BELVOIR (BEVER), THE VALE. 59 
 
 Proud of their amis, his strength and their deUght ; 
 Loud in the feast and fearless in the fight. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 Belvoir (Bever), the Vale. 
 Bever. 
 
 Not Eusham, that proud nymph, although she still pre- 
 tend 
 Herself the first of vales, and though abroad she send 
 Her awful dread command, that all should tribute pay 
 To her as our great queen ; nor White-horse, though 
 
 her clay 
 Of silver seem to be, new-melted ; nor the Vale 
 Of Alsbury, whose grass seems given out by tale, 
 For it so silken is ; nor any of our kind. 
 Or what or where they be, or howsoe'er inclined, 
 Me Bever shall outbrave, that in my state do scorn 
 By any of them all (once) to be overborne, 
 With theirs do but compare the country where 1 lie. 
 My hill, and oulds will say, they are the Island's eye. 
 Consider next my site, and say it doth excell ; 
 Then come unto my soil, and you shall see it swell 
 With every grass and grain that Britain forth can bring : 
 I challenge any vale to show me but that thing 
 I cannot show to her (that truly is mine own) ; 
 Besides I dare thus boast, that I as far am known 
 As any of them all, the South their names doth sound, 
 The spacious North doth me, that there is scarcely found 
 A roomth for any else, it is so filled with mine, 
 Which but a little wants of making me divine : 
 Nor barren am of brooks, for that I still retain 
 Two neat and dainty rills, the little Snyte, and Deane, 
 That from the lovely oulds, their beauteous parent sprong 
 From the Lecestriau fields, come on with me along,
 
 6o POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Till both within one bank, they on my north are meint, 
 And where I end, they fall, at Nevvarck, into Trent. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Benallay. 
 
 Annot of Benallay. 
 
 At lone midnight the death-bell tolled, 
 
 To summon Annot's clay : 
 For common eyes must not behold 
 
 The griefs of Benallay. 
 
 Meek daughter of a haughty line. 
 
 Was Lady Annot born : 
 That light which was not long to shine, 
 
 The sun that set at mom. 
 
 They shrouded her in maiden white. 
 
 They buried her in pall ; 
 And the ring he gave her faith to plight 
 
 Shines on her finger small. 
 
 The curate reads the dead man's prayer, 
 
 The silent leech stands by : 
 The sob of voiceless love is there. 
 
 And sorrow's vacant eye. 
 
 'Tis over. Two and two they tread 
 The churchyard's homeward way : 
 
 Farewell! farewell ! thou lovely dead : 
 Thou Flower of Benallay. 
 
 The sexton stalks with tottering limb 
 
 Along the chancel floor ; 
 He waits, that old man gray and grim, 
 
 To close the narrow door.
 
 BENHALL. 6i 
 
 " Shame ! shame ! these rings of stones and gold ! " 
 
 The ghastly caitiff said; 
 "Better that living hands should hold, 
 
 Than glisten on the dead." 
 
 The evil wish wrought evil deed, 
 
 The pall is rent away : 
 And lo ! beneath the shattered lid, 
 
 The Flower of Benallay. 
 
 But life gleams from those opening eyes, 
 
 Blood thrills that lifted hand : 
 And awful words are in her cries. 
 
 Which none may understand. 
 
 Joy ! 't is the miracle of yore, 
 
 Of the city called Nain : — 
 Lo ! glad feet throng the sculptured floor, 
 
 To hail their dead again. 
 
 Joy in the hall of Benallay, 
 
 A stately feast is spread : 
 Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay, 
 
 The bride the arisen dead. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Benhall. 
 Benhall. 
 
 Benhall ! although I have not lately sought, 
 
 As I had purposed, thy delightful shades. 
 
 Their charms survive ; and oft by memory's aids, 
 
 In living beauty are before me brought. 
 
 No breeze that sweeps their flowers with ])erfume fraught ; 
 
 Nor sun, nor moon-beam, whose soft light pervades^ . 
 
 The coy recesses of thy loveliest glades, 
 
 Sweeter, or fairer, than thou art to thought !
 
 62 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yet not thy scenery only thus endears 
 
 Thy memory, — deeper spell remains behind : 
 
 Rich art thou in the lore of long-past years, 
 
 The songs of bards, whose brows by fame are twined 
 
 With deathless bays ; and, worthy such compeers, 
 
 A poet of thy own, of taste refined. 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 Berkeley Castle. 
 Death of Edward the Second. 
 
 LiGHTBORN. So now 
 
 Must I about this gear ; ne'er was there any 
 So finely handled as this king shall be. — 
 Foh, here's a place indeed, with all my heart ! 
 
 K. Edward. Who's there? what light is that? 
 wherefore com'st thou ? 
 
 Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 
 
 K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy 
 looks : 
 Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. 
 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The queen sent me to see how you were used, 
 For she relents at this your misery ; 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears. 
 To see a king in this most piteous state ? 
 
 K. Edw. Weep'st thou already ? list awhile to me. 
 And then thy heart, were it as Gumey's is, 
 Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus, 
 Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale. 
 This dungeon where they keep me is the sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 
 Light. O villains ! 
 
 K. Edw. And there, in mire and puddle, have I 
 stood
 
 BERKELEY CASTLE. 63 
 
 This ten days' space, and, lest that I should sleep, 
 
 One plays continually upon a drum ; 
 
 They give me bread and water, being a king ; 
 
 So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, 
 
 My mind's distempered, and my body's numbed. 
 
 And whether I have limbs or no I know not. 
 
 O, would my blood dropped out from every vein, 
 
 As doth this water from my tattered robes ! 
 
 Tell Isabel the queen I looked not thus 
 
 When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
 
 And there unhorsed the Duke of Claremont. 
 
 Light. O, speak no more, my lord ! this breaks 
 my heart. 
 Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 
 
 K. Edw. These looks of thine can harbour naught 
 but death : 
 I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 Yet stay awhile ; forbear thy bloody hand. 
 And let me see the stroke before it comes. 
 That even then when I shall lose my life, 
 My mind may be more steadfast on my God. 
 
 Light. What means your highness to mistnist me 
 
 thus? 
 K. Edvv. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me 
 
 thus ? 
 Light. These hands were never stained with inno- 
 cent blood. 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 
 
 K. Edw. Forgive my thought for having such a 
 thought. 
 One jewel have I left ; receive thou this ; 
 Still fear I, and I know not what 's the cause, 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 O, if thou harbour'st murder in thy heai^t. 
 Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul ! 
 Know that I am a king : O, at that name 
 I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown? 
 Gone, gone ! and do I remain alive ?
 
 64 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Light. You're overwatched, my lord : lie down 
 and rest. 
 
 K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should 
 sleep ; 
 For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. 
 Now, as I speak, they fall ; and yet with fear 
 Open again. O, wherefore sitt'st thou here ? 
 
 Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. No, no ; for if thou mean'st to murder 
 me. 
 Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. [Shvps.) 
 
 Light. He sleeps. 
 
 K. Enw. (waking.) O let me not die ! yet stay, O, 
 stay awhile ! 
 
 Light. How now, my lord ! 
 
 K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, 
 And tells me, if I sleep, I never wake : 
 This fear is that which makes me tremble thus ; 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 
 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, come ! 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 
 
 K. Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist. — 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul ! 
 
 Light. Run for the table. 
 
 K. Edw. O, spare me, or despatch me in a trice ! 
 
 Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp on it, 
 But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body. 
 
 Edward is murdered by holding Jiim doion on /he bed with 
 the table, and stamping on it. 
 
 Christopher Marlowe.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 65 
 
 Berkhamstead. 
 
 Berkhamstead. 
 
 Where once ive dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 
 Children not thine have trod my nurseiy floor ; 
 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 
 Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapt 
 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 
 
 'T is now become a history little known, 
 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair 
 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or coufectioneiy plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all. 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
 
 That humour interposed too often makes ; 
 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 William Cowper.
 
 66 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Beverley. 
 
 Beverley Minster. 
 
 Built in far other times, those sculptured walls 
 
 Attest the faith which our forefathers felt, 
 
 Strong faith, whose visible presence yet remains ; 
 
 We pray with deeper reverence at a shrine 
 
 Hallowed by many prayers. For years, long years, 
 
 Years that make centuries, those dim-lit aisles. 
 
 Where rainbows play, from coloured windows flung, 
 
 Have echoed to the voice of prayer and praise ; 
 
 With the last lights of evening flitting round, 
 
 Making a rosy atmosphere of hope. 
 
 The vesper hymn hath risen, bearing heaven, 
 
 But purified the many cares of earth. 
 
 How oft has music rocked those ancient towers, 
 
 When the deep bells were tolling ; as they rang. 
 
 The castle and the hamlet, high and low. 
 
 Obeyed the summons : earth grew near to God, 
 
 The piety of ages is around ; 
 
 Many the heart that has before yon cross 
 
 Laid down the burden of its heavy cares, 
 
 And felt a joy that is not of this world. 
 
 There are both sympathy and warning here ; 
 
 Methinks as down we kneel by those old graves 
 
 The past will pray with us. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Binstead. 
 
 Written in the Porch of Binstead Church, 
 Isle of Wight. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Binstead ! lake a fond farewell 
 From one unused to sight of woods and seas. 
 Amid the strife of cities doomed to dwell. 
 Yet roused to ecstasy by scenes like these,
 
 BISHOPSTONE. 67 
 
 Who could for ever sit beneath thy trees, 
 Inhahng fragrance from the floweiy dell ; 
 Or, listening to the murmur of the breeze, 
 Gaze with delight on Ocean's awful swell. 
 Again farewell ! nor deem that I profane 
 Thy sacred porch ; for while the Sabbath strain 
 May fail to turn the sinner from his ways. 
 These are impressions none can feel in vain, — 
 These are the wonders that perforce must raise 
 The soul to God in reverential praise. 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 Bishopstone. 
 
 Roman Antiquities discovered at 
 Bishopstone, Herefordshire. 
 
 While poring antiquarians search the ground 
 
 Upturned with curious pains, the bard, a seer, 
 
 Takes fire, — the men that have been reappear; 
 
 Romans for travel girt, for business gowned ; 
 
 And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned. 
 
 In festal glee : why not ? For fresh and clear, 
 
 As if its hues were of the passing year, 
 
 Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound 
 
 Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, 
 
 Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil ; 
 
 Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
 
 Of tenderness, — the wolf, whose suckling twins 
 
 The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins 
 
 The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 68 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The Favourite Village. 
 
 Place of my birth, O, fondly let me sing 
 
 Thy pleasures multifarious, pass the sun 
 
 Thi-ough what fair sign it will. Around a pool 
 
 In a deep vale assemble thy wami huts, 
 
 All overhung by intermingling elms, 
 
 Save where the steep-ascending street (if street 
 
 May yon loose chain of tenements be deemed) 
 
 Girds the contiguous hill, roof above roof, 
 
 And terminates above in farmer's close 
 
 Or sawyer's pit with frequent boards beset. 
 
 Hard by, o'ertopping fair the nether elms. 
 
 But little showing of the verdant hill 
 
 That underprops his columns, stands the church. 
 
 A cheerful look athwart the vale he casts, 
 
 Smiles at the distant ocean, half eclipsed 
 
 Behind yon sudden intervening dov^m. 
 
 And blesses the proud eminence, whose steep, 
 
 For ever flock-fed, shelters his loved elms 
 
 Scattered wherever in the vale below. 
 
 James IIurdis. 
 
 Black Comb. 
 
 View from the Top of Black Comb. 
 
 This height a ministering angel might select : 
 
 For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name 
 
 Derived from clouds and stomis !) the amplest range 
 
 Of unobstnicted prospect may be seen 
 
 That British ground commands : — low dusky tracts, 
 
 Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! Cambrian hills 
 
 To the southwest, a multitudinous show ; 
 
 And, in a line of eyesight linked with these, 
 
 The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 
 
 To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde : —
 
 BODIHAM. 69 
 
 Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth, 
 
 Gigantic mountains rough with crags ; beneath, 
 
 Right at the imperial station's western base. 
 
 Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
 
 And \'isibly engirding Mona's Isle, 
 
 That, as we left the plain, before our sight 
 
 Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
 
 (Above the convex of the wateiy globe) 
 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
 
 Her habitable shores, but now appears 
 
 A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
 
 At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge. 
 
 Is it a perishable cloud ? or there 
 
 Do we behold the line of Erin's coast ? 
 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain 
 
 (Like the bright confines of another world) 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now ! 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 
 The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's works, 
 
 In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
 
 A revelation infinite it seems ; 
 
 Display august of man's inheritance, 
 
 Of Britain's calm felicity and power ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Bodiham. 
 
 On beholding Bodiham Castle, 
 
 ON THE BANK OF THE ROTHER IN SUSSEX. 
 
 O THOU, brave ruin of the passed time, 
 When glorious spirits shone in burning arms, 
 And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms, 
 Called honour at the matin hour sublime. 
 And the gray evening ; thou hast had thy prime,
 
 70 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And thy full vigour, and the sating harms 
 Of age have robbed thee of thy warlike charms, 
 And placed thee here, an image in my rhyme ; 
 The owl now haunts thee, and, oblivious plant, 
 The creeping ivy, has o'er-veiled thy towers ; 
 And Rother, looking up with eye askant, 
 Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours. 
 Laments the time, when, fair and elegant, 
 Beauty first laughed from out thy joyous bowers ! 
 Lord Thurlow. 
 
 Bodmin. 
 
 The Ungracious Return. 
 
 I HAVE a startling tale to tell 
 Of what in Bodmin town befell 
 In the distant time long, long ago. 
 When every man was his neiglibour's foe. 
 And lords like tigers prowled the land, 
 Eacli with his own wcll-choscn band. 
 To do his work of savageiy ; 
 When princes fought for sovereignty ; 
 Who loyal was to-day to-morrow 
 Might be called traitor, to his sorrow. 
 
 In Edward's time, at Bodmin town 
 When sturdy Boyer wore the gown. 
 The Royal Provost wrote a line 
 He on a day with him would dine. 
 And begged he would meanwhile prepare 
 A gibbet for some stout rebels there. 
 The mayor obeyed him to the letter, 
 Thinking the stronger side the better; 
 And, with his maces, at the gate 
 Ilis Worship did his guest await.
 
 BODRIGAN CASTLE. 71 
 
 And then into the common hall 
 
 Mayor, provost, aldermen, burghers all 
 
 Went with a rush and made good cheer, 
 
 On beef and venison, wine and beer ; 
 
 And many a loyal toast was given. 
 
 And fear and doubt away were driven 
 
 With bumpers full and foaming high : 
 
 Yet wicked looked tlie provost's eye, 
 
 But he laughed, and did not spare the sherry, 
 
 While the mayor and aldermen were merry. 
 
 But while they feast within, without 
 Hammers were heard, and then a shout 
 Told that the gibbet was finished then. 
 Forth came the mayor and aldermen. 
 And burghers all, and the provost stern. 
 Who had set his mind to make return 
 To the mayor for his hospitality ; 
 And how 't was done you soon will see, 
 For on the gibbet, at his own door, 
 His Worship swung in a moment more ! 
 
 Henry Sevvell Stokes. 
 
 Bodrigan Castle. 
 BoDRiGAN's Leap. 
 
 From Bosworth's gory field where lay 
 
 His king a mangled corse. 
 With many a dint Sir Hany came, 
 
 And spurred his blood-stained horse : 
 Which all that day in that fierce fray 
 
 Had borne him proudly through. 
 But still for leagues must carry him, 
 
 Since fast the foes pursue. 
 
 From night to dawn they still went on. 
 With follovv^ers few and faint ;
 
 72 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Resting brief while in forest drear 
 By well of some old saint : 
 
 On, on from day to day they fared, 
 Shunning each bower and hall, 
 
 Until they sight one starry night 
 Bodrigan's castle wall. 
 
 The knight's loud blast is answered fast. 
 
 And blithe the warder greets him ; 
 And with a smile and with a kiss 
 
 His lady-love soon meets him : 
 And in that high embrasured tower 
 
 His war-worn limbs may rest ; 
 For place like that for wealth and power 
 
 Was not in all the West. 
 
 And many a century it stood 
 
 To prove its ancient fame ; 
 Though but some lowly walls now bear 
 
 Bodrigan's honoured name. 
 Its princely hall, its bastions strong, 
 
 Its chapel turrets fair. 
 Are gone like cloud-built palaces, 
 
 And castles in the air. 
 
 Not long the respite : on his track 
 
 The Tudor bloocHiounds follow ; 
 And soon from Cornwall's rocky glens 
 
 Echoes the fierce view-hollo : 
 And now they gather round the walls, 
 
 Nor care for kith or kin ; 
 Certain if they can seize the knight 
 
 His ample lands to win. 
 
 Ay, take the lands, but not the man ! 
 
 He knows their purpose stern, 
 And not with his heart's blood that day 
 
 Shall they their wages earn.
 
 BOLTON ABBEY. 73 
 
 Down by a secret way the knight 
 
 Has left his home for aye, 
 And for the chff he makes that hangs 
 
 Over the Goran bay. 
 
 Fast, fast they spring upon his path, 
 
 He hears tlieir footsteps nigli ; 
 Bold from the cliff he leaps, while shrill 
 
 The baffled hunters cry. 
 In the dark sea they think him drowned, 
 
 As on the giddy steep 
 They stand and look, and only see 
 
 The waters wild and deep 
 
 They looked and jeered, and made the shore 
 
 Ring with their savage shout ; 
 And still they looked, perchance to see 
 
 His dead bones tossed about : 
 And then they saw a boat dash through 
 
 The surge, and as she went 
 The rescued knight above the roar 
 
 His parting curses sent. 
 
 Henry Sewell Stokes. 
 
 Bolton Abbey. 
 Bolton Priory. 
 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower 
 The bells ring loud with gladsome power ; 
 The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
 With people in their best array 
 Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf. 
 Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
 Through the vale retired and lowly, 
 Trooping to that summons holy.
 
 74 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And, up among the moorlands, see 
 What sprinklings of blithe company ! 
 Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 
 That down the steep hills force their way" 
 Like cattle through the budding brooms ; 
 Path, or no path, what care they ? 
 And thus in joyous mood they hie 
 To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 
 
 What would they there ? — full fifty years 
 That sumptuous pile, witli all its peers. 
 Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
 The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
 Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower 
 Is standing with a voice of power, — 
 That ancient voice which wont to call 
 To mass or some high festival ; 
 And in the shattered fabric's heart 
 Remaineth one protected part, — 
 A chapel, like a wild bird's nest, 
 Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
 And thither young and old repair, 
 This Sabbath-day for praise and prayer. 
 
 Fast the churchyard fills ; anon, 
 Look again, and they ail are gone, — 
 The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
 Who sat in the sliade of tlie Prior's Oak ! 
 And scarcely have they disaj^peared 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : 
 With one consent the people rejoice, 
 Filling the church with a lofty voice I 
 They sing a service which tlicy feel : 
 For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal, — 
 Of a pure faitli the vernal prime, — 
 In great Eliza's golden time. 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din. 
 And all is luished, without and within ;
 
 BOLTON ABBEY, 75 
 
 For though the priest, more tranquilly. 
 
 Recites the holy liturgy. 
 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 
 — When soft ! — the dusky trees between, 
 
 And down the path through the open green 
 
 Where is no living thing to be seen,- — ■ 
 
 And through yon gateway, where is found, 
 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
 
 Free entrance to the churchyard ground, — 
 
 Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
 
 Soft and silent as a dream, 
 
 A solitary doe ! 
 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven, 
 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 
 Or like a ship some gentle day 
 
 In sunshine sailing far away, — 
 
 A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
 
 Of Ocean for her own domain. 
 
 Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
 Lie quiet in your churchyard bed ! 
 Ye living, tend your holy cares ; 
 Ye multitude, pursue your prayers ; 
 And blame not me if my heart and sight 
 Are occupied with one delight ! 
 'Tis a work for Sabbath hours 
 If I with this bright creature go : 
 Whether she be of forest bowers, 
 From the bowers of earth below ; 
 Or a spirit for one day given, 
 A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 
 
 What harmonious pensive changes 
 Wait upon her as she ranges
 
 76 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Round and through this pile of state 
 
 Overthrown and desolate ! 
 
 Now a step or two her way 
 
 Leads through space of open day, 
 
 Where the enamoured sunny hght 
 
 Brightens her that was so bright ; 
 
 Now doth a dehcate shadow fall, — 
 
 Falls upon her like a breath. 
 
 From some lofty arch or wall, 
 
 As she passes underneath ; 
 
 Now some gloomy nook partakes 
 
 Of the glory that she makes, — 
 
 High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell 
 
 With perfect cunning framed as well 
 
 Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
 
 Of the elder's bushy head ; 
 
 Some jealous and forbidding cell. 
 
 That doth the living stars repel. 
 
 And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 
 
 The presence of this wandering doe 
 Fills many a damp, obscure recess 
 With lustre of a saintly show ; 
 And, reappearing, she no less 
 Sheds on the flowers that round her blow 
 A more than sunny liveliness. 
 But say, among these holy places, 
 Which thus assiduously she paces, 
 Comes she with a votaiy's task, 
 Rite to perform or boon to ask ? 
 Fair pilgrim ! harbours she a sense 
 Of sorrow or of reverence ? 
 Can she be gi-ieved for choir or shrine. 
 Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
 For what survives of house where God 
 Was worshipped, or where man abode; 
 For old magnificence undone, 
 Or for the gentler work begun
 
 BOLTON ABBEY. 77 
 
 By Nature, softening and concealing, 
 
 And busy with a hand of heahng ? 
 
 Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth. 
 
 That to the sapling ash gives birth ; 
 
 For dormitory's length laid bare, 
 
 Where the wild rose blossoms fair ; 
 
 Or altar, whence the cross was rent. 
 
 Now rich with mossy ornament ? 
 
 — She sees a warrior cai"ved in stone, 
 
 Among the thick weeds, stretched alone, — 
 
 A warrior, with his shield of pride 
 
 Cleaving humbly to his side, 
 
 And hands in resignation prest, 
 
 Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast ; 
 
 As little she regards the sight 
 
 As a common creature might : 
 
 If she be doomed to inward care. 
 
 Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 
 
 — But hers are eyes serenely bright. 
 
 And on she moves, — with pace how light ! 
 
 Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
 
 The dewy turf with flowers bestrown ; 
 
 And thus she fares, until at last 
 
 Beside the ridge of grassy grave 
 
 In quietness she lays her down ; 
 
 Gentle as a weary wave 
 
 Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died. 
 
 Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
 
 Even so, without distress, doth she 
 
 Lie down in peace and lovingly. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 78 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Bolton Abbey. 
 
 Entranced with varied loveliness, I gaze 
 On Bolton's hallowed fane. Its hoary walls, 
 More eloquent, in ruin, than the halls 
 Of princely pomp, their solemn features raise 
 Mid thick embowering elms. Meek cattle graze 
 The peaceful pastures circling it around ; 
 Old Wharf flows sparkling by with pensive sound, 
 And heathery hills look down through purple haze. 
 All lend their aid to prompt these humble lays ; 
 Some kind and soothing influence all have given, — 
 The mouldering abbey and the moss-grown grave, 
 The breezy moorland and the rock-nurst wave, 
 Cliff, meadow, forest, — all direct to heaven. 
 All blend their voices in one psalm of praise, 
 
 Newman Hall. 
 
 The Force of Prayer ; 
 or, the founding of bolton priory. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " What is good for a bootless bene?" 
 With these dark ^vords begins my tale ; 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 When prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 " What is good for a bootless bene?" 
 The falconer to the lady said ; 
 And she made answer, " Endless sorrow !" 
 For she knew that her son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the falconer's words. 
 And from tlie look of the falconer's eye ; 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly.
 
 BOLTON ABBEY. 79 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden woods 
 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 "With rocks on either side. 
 
 The striding place is called the Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 Shall bound across the Strid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee ; for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong and the rocks were steep ? 
 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale. 
 And long, unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. .
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darlcness did she sit, 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately priory !" 
 
 The stately priory was reared ; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along. 
 To matins joined a mournful voice, 
 Nor failed at even-song. 
 
 And the lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for relief! 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 O, tliere is never sorrow of lieart 
 That shall lack a timely end. 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of him to be our friend ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Bolton Abbey. 
 
 Spirits of wonder, loveliness, and fear. 
 Dwell in these groves, beneath o'erarching trees, 
 With the dim presence of their mysteries 
 Haunting the rocks and mountain shadows near :
 
 BORRODAILE. 8 
 
 They pass the lone enthusiast, wandering here, 
 By strangled Wharfe, or Barden's ancient tower ; 
 Pass him, nor shake a dewdrop from a flower. 
 But with their whispers soothe his soul-taught ear. 
 As with a dream of prayer ; until he starts, 
 Awakened from deep thouglits of Time's calm might 
 And Nature's beauty, and in awe departs ; — 
 When, to the Abbey's moonlight-tinted walls. 
 The demon of the spectred river calls. 
 Mocked by the voices of mysterious night. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Borrodalle. 
 
 BORRODAILE. 
 
 The gulfs of Borrodaile ! — My soul delights 
 
 In these drear deserts. Now methinks a sense 
 
 Of something mightier than the common world 
 
 Runs trembling through the heart. A spirit bom 
 
 Of mountain solitudes and sights sublime. 
 
 Of earth and sky, and the wild- wandering air, 
 
 Is present here. Unlike the royal power 
 
 Of Skiddaw, or Helvellyn crowned with clouds, 
 
 Or Kirkstone, guardian of the mountain way. 
 
 Here vague and barren grandeur spreads abroad. 
 
 And darkness and dismay and danger dwell. 
 
 No grassy sward of green is nourished here. 
 
 Like that which (as old song proclaims) sprang freshly 
 
 On shore Sicilian and in Tempe's vale ; 
 
 Nor streams of silver, such as echo once 
 
 Haunted, or on whose banks the wood-nymphs played, 
 
 Or pensive pale Narcissus loved to lie. 
 
 But here a wilful, riotous torrent comes 
 
 Mad from the moimtains, and when July drought 
 
 Scorches the hills, here all subdued yet wild 
 
 The muttering river drags its lazy course,
 
 82 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And makes hoarse discord with the rocks and stones. 
 
 No solitary tree puts forth its head, 
 
 Nor flowering shrub : the " pahny fern " has left 
 
 A place so desolate ; and the clinging moss, 
 
 The last friend of the desert, here has died ! 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter. 
 
 Boston. 
 
 St. Botolph's Town. 
 
 Boston in Lincolnshire takes its name from its founder, St. 
 Botolph, who flourished about the middle of the seventh century. 
 At present the chief glory of the town is its church-tower, built 
 after the model of that of Antwerp Cathedral, and renowned as one 
 of the most beautiful in England. 
 
 St. Botolph's Town ! — Hither across the plains 
 And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere. 
 There came a Saxon monk, and founded here 
 A priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, 
 So that thereof no vestige now remains ; 
 Only a name, that spoken loud and clear, 
 And echoed in another hemisphere, 
 Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes. 
 St. Botolph's Town ! — Far over leagues of land 
 And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, 
 And far around the chiming bells are heard; 
 So may that sacred name for ever stand 
 A landmark, and a symbol of tlie power 
 That lies concentred in a single word. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Boston in Lincolnshire. 
 
 It is not for what you are or do, 
 
 Or for any treasures rare, 
 That I turn my steps and heart to you. 
 
 But for the name you bear.
 
 BOSTON. 83 
 
 Ancestral name ! that must cross the sea 
 
 Its farthest fame to know, 
 And to other soil transplanted be, 
 
 That its proudest branch might grow. 
 
 It is not that your minster-pile 
 
 Looks proudly toward the deep, — 
 
 The loftiest tower of Britain's isle 
 In valley or on steep, — 
 
 But that beneath that lordly tower 
 
 A simple chapel stands. 
 Which binds with an atoning power 
 
 Two great and kindred lands. 
 
 In days long gone it caught the sound 
 
 Of Cotton's earnest tongue ; 
 Now freshly is his memory found 
 
 His wonted haunts among. 
 
 Prelatic England drove him forth 
 
 Beyond the Western main ; 
 Free-thoughted England owns his worth. 
 
 And bids him back again. 
 
 Back in the name the chapel wears, — 
 
 Proscribed and then forgot. 
 That tablet's face more than repairs 
 
 The honours of the spot. 
 
 For here from afar the inscription came 
 
 By our statesman-scholar sent, 
 Reading, ' ' Lest longer such a name 
 
 Should stay in banishment." 
 
 The brazen plate, so simply grand, 
 
 Is framed in Norman stone ; 
 The characters from English land, 
 
 The writer from our ovm.
 
 84 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Stand of forgotten feuds a sign, 
 
 And the world's brighter age ! 
 Read on, long hence, thy filial line. 
 
 Thou quaintly graven page. 
 
 Say, that henceforth the soul's full thought 
 
 Need not in silence die ; 
 Nor one true man, all conscience-fraught, 
 
 Must suffer or must fly. 
 
 Say, that two sovereign powers unite, 
 
 Each on her ocean shore. 
 To keep Faith, Friendship, Freedom bright, 
 
 From this time evermore. 
 
 Hail and farewell, St. Butolph's fane, 
 
 Seen in my thovights so long ! 
 They failed to span your broad domain. 
 
 And did your grandeur wrong. 
 
 Hail and farewell, St. Butolph's to'vvn ! 
 
 How dear that parent name ! 
 And no ill-favoured brow T crown 
 
 With that auspicious claim. 
 
 Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham. 
 
 Bottreau. 
 
 The silent Tower of Bottreau. 
 
 TiNTADGEL bells ring o'er the tide, 
 The boy leans on his vessel side ; 
 He hears that sound, and dreams of home 
 Soothe the wild orphan of the foam. 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 Thus saith their pealing chime : 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 "Come to thy God at last."
 
 BOTTREAU. 85 
 
 But why are Bottreau's echoes still ? 
 
 Her tower stands proudly on the hill ; 
 
 Yet the strange chough that home hath found : 
 
 The Iamb lies sleeping on the ground. 
 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 Should be her answering chime : 
 
 *' Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 Should echo on the blast. 
 
 The ship rode down \v'ith courses free, 
 The daughter of a distant sea : 
 Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored. 
 The merry Bottreau bells on board. 
 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 Rung out Tintadgel chime ; 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 
 " Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 The pilot heard his native bells 
 Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; 
 "Thank God," with reverent brow he cried, 
 "We make the shore with evening's tide." 
 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 It was his marriage chime : 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 
 His bell must ring at last. 
 
 "Thank God, thou whining knave, on land. 
 But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," 
 The captain's voice above the gale : 
 "Thank the good ship and ready sail." 
 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 Sad grew the boding chime : 
 
 " Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 Boomed heavy on the blast. 
 
 Uprose that sea ! as if it heard 
 The mighty IMaster's signal-word :
 
 86 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 What thrills the captain's whitening lip ? 
 
 The death-groans of his sinking ship. 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 Swung deep the funeral chime : 
 Grace, mercy, kindness past, 
 "^Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 Long did the rescued pilot tell — - 
 When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell, 
 While those around would hear and weep — 
 That fearful judgment of the deep. 
 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 He read his native chime : 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 
 His bell rung out at last. 
 
 Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves 
 Is wakening in his weedy caves : 
 Those bells, that sullen surges hide, 
 Peal their deep notes beneath the tide : 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 Thus saith the ocean chime : 
 Storm, billow, whirlwind past, 
 " Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Bowden. 
 Sketch from Bowden Hill after Sickness. 
 
 How cheering are thy prospects, airy hill, 
 To him who, pale and languid, on thy brow 
 Pauses, respiring, and bids hail again 
 The upland breeze, the comfortable sun. 
 And all the landscaj^e's hues ! Upon the point 
 Of the descending steep I stand.
 
 BOWDEN. 87 
 
 How rich, 
 How mantling in the gay and gorgeous tints 
 Of summer ! far beneath me, sweeping on 
 From field to field, from vale to cultured vale, 
 The prospect spreads its crowded beauties wide ! 
 Long lines of sunshine and of shadow streak 
 The farthest distance ; where the passing light 
 Alternate falls, 'mid undistinguished trees, 
 White dots of gleamy domes, and peeping towers, 
 As from the painter's instant touch appear. 
 
 As thus the eye ranges from hill to hill. 
 Here white with passing sunshine, there with trees 
 Innumerable shaded, clustering more, 
 As the long vale retires, the ample scene, 
 Warm with new grace and beauty, seems to live. 
 
 Lives ! all is animation ! beauty ! hope ! 
 
 Snatched from the dark and dreamless grave so late, 
 
 Shall I pass silent, now first issuing forth, 
 
 To feel again thy fragrance, to respire 
 
 Thy breath, to hail thy look, thy living look, 
 
 O Nature ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 From yonder line, where fade the farthest hills 
 Which bound the blue lap of the swelling vale. 
 On whose last line, seen like a beacon, hangs 
 Thy tower, benevolent, accomplished Hoare, 
 To where I stand, how wide the interval ! 
 Yet instantaneous, to the hunying eye 
 Displayed ; though peeping towers and villages 
 Thick scattered, 'mid the intermingling elms, 
 And towns remotely marked by hovering smoke. 
 And grass-green pastures with their herds, and seats 
 Of rural beauty, cottages and farms. 
 Unnumbered as the hedgerows, lie between ! 
 
 Roaming at large to where the gray sky bends. 
 The eye scarce knows to rest, till back recalled 
 By yonder ivied cloisters in the plain. 
 Whose turret, peeping pale above the shade.
 
 88 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Smiles in the venerable grace of years. 
 
 As the few threads of age's silver hairs, 
 
 Just sprinkled o'er the forehead, lend a grace 
 
 Of saintly reverence, seemly, though compared 
 
 With blooming Mary's tresses like the mom ; 
 
 So the gray weather-stained towers yet wear 
 
 A secret charm impiessive, though opposed 
 
 To views in verdure flourishing, the woods. 
 
 And scenes of Attic taste, that glitter near. 
 
 O venerable pile, though now no more 
 
 The pensive passenger, at evening, hears 
 
 The slowly chanted vesper, or the sounds 
 
 Of " Miserere " die along the vale. 
 
 Yet piety and honoured age retired. 
 
 There hold their blameless sojourn, ere the bowl 
 
 Be broken, or the silver cord be loosed. 
 
 Nor can I pass, snatched from untimely fate, 
 
 Without a secret prayer, that so my age. 
 
 When many a circling season has declined, 
 
 In charity and peace may wait its close. 
 ***** 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Bramble-Rise. 
 
 Bramble-Rise. 
 
 What wonders greet my waking eyes 
 At last ? Can this be Bramble-Rise, 
 
 Once smallest of its shire ? 
 How changed, and changing from my dream 
 The dumpy church used not to seem 
 
 So dumpy in the spire. 
 
 This village is no longer mine ; 
 And though the inn has changed its sign. 
 The ijeer may not be stronger :
 
 BRAMBLE-RISE. 89 
 
 The river, dwindled by degrees, 
 Is now a brook, — the cottages 
 Are cottages no longer. 
 
 The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks, 
 The trees have cut their ancient sticks. 
 
 Or else the sticks are stunted : 
 I'm sure these thistles once grew figs. 
 The geese were swans, and once the pigs 
 
 More musically grunted. 
 
 Where early reapers whistled shrill, 
 A whistle may be noted still. 
 
 The locomotive's ra\'ings. 
 New custom newer want begets, — 
 I loved a bank for violets, — • 
 
 I loathe a bank for savings. 
 
 That voice I have not heard for long ! 
 So Patty still can sing the song 
 
 A merry playmate taught her ; 
 I know the strain, but much suspect 
 'Tis not the child I recollect. 
 
 But Patty, Patty's daughter ; 
 
 And has she too outlived the spells 
 Of breezy hills and silent dells 
 
 "Where childhood loved to ramble ? 
 Then life was thornless to our ken, 
 And, Bramble- Rise, thy hills were then 
 
 A rise without a bramble. 
 ***** 
 
 Frederick Locker.
 
 90 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Bray. 
 
 The Vicar of Bray. 
 
 In good King Charles's golden days, 
 
 When loyalty no harm meant, 
 A zealous high-churchman was I, 
 
 And so I got preferment. 
 To teach my flock I never missed : 
 
 Kings were by God appointed. 
 
 And lost are those who dare resist 
 
 Or touch the Lord's anointed. 
 
 And this is the law that I'll maintain 
 
 Until my dying day, sir. 
 That whatsoever king shall reign, 
 Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. 
 
 When royal James possessed the crown, 
 
 And popery grew in fashion, 
 The penal laws I hooted down, 
 
 And read the declaration ; 
 The Church of Rome I found would fit 
 
 Full well my constitution ; 
 And I had been a Jesuit 
 
 But for the revolution. 
 
 And this is the law that I '11 maintain, etc. 
 
 When William was our king declared, 
 
 To ease the nation's grievance ; 
 With this new wind about I steered, 
 
 And swore to him allegiance ; 
 Old principles I did revoke. 
 
 Set conscience at a distance ; 
 Passive obedience a joke, 
 
 A jest was non-resistance. 
 
 And this is the law that I'll maintain, etc. 
 
 When royal Anne became our queen. 
 The Church of England's glory,
 
 BREMHILL. 91 
 
 Another face of things was seen, 
 
 And I became a Tory ; 
 Occasional conformists base, 
 
 I blamed their moderation. 
 And thought the church in danger was 
 
 By such prevarication. 
 
 And tliis is the law that I'll maintain, etc. 
 
 When George in pudding-time came o'er, 
 
 And moderate men looked big, sir. 
 My principles I clianged once more. 
 
 And so became a Whig, sir ; 
 And thus preferment I procured 
 
 From our new faith's defender ; 
 And almost every day abjured 
 
 The Pope and the Pretender. 
 
 And this is the law that I'll maintain, etc. 
 
 The illustrious house of Hanover, 
 
 And Protestant succession. 
 To these I do allegiance swear. 
 
 While they can keep possession : 
 For in my faith and loyalty, 
 
 I never more will falter ; 
 And George my lawful king shall be 
 
 Until the times do alter. 
 
 And this is the law that I'll maintain, etc. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Bremhill. 
 
 Sun-dial in the Churchyard of Bremhill. 
 
 So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade. 
 
 Brief time ; and hour by hour, and day by day, 
 
 The pleasing pictures of the present fade. 
 And like a summer vapour steal away !
 
 92 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And have not they, who here forgotten lie 
 (Say, hoary chronicler of ages past !) 
 
 Once marked thy sliadow with delighted eye. 
 Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast ! 
 
 Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, 
 
 Noting each hour o'er mouldering stones beneath : 
 
 The pastor and his flock alike have slept, 
 
 And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death. 
 
 Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, 
 Careless alike ; the hour still seems to smile, 
 
 As hope and youth and life were in our power ; 
 So smiling and so perishing the while. 
 
 I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound, 
 When to these scenes a stranger I drew near, 
 
 Proclaim the tidings to the village round. 
 
 While memory wept upon the good man's bier. 
 
 Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells 
 Ring merrily when my brief days are gone ; 
 
 While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, 
 And strangers gaze upon my humble stone ! 
 
 Enough, if we may wait in calm content. 
 The hour that bears us to the silent sod ; 
 
 Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent, 
 And leave the issue to thy will, O God ! 
 
 William Lisle Bowles.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 93 
 
 Brereton. 
 
 The Vassal's Lament for the fallen Tree. 
 
 " Here [at Brereton in Cheshire] is one thing incredibly strange, 
 but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons ajid com- 
 monly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, 
 in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for 
 several days." — Camden's Britannia. 
 
 Yes ! I have seen the ancient oak 
 
 On the dark deep water cast, 
 And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke, 
 Or the rush of the sweeping blast ; 
 For the axe might never touch that tree. 
 And the air was still as a summer sea. 
 
 I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
 By an arrow in the fight, 
 And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, 
 At the crashing of its might ; 
 And the startled deer to their coverts drew. 
 And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 
 
 'Tis fallen ! But think thou not I weep 
 
 For the forest's pride o'erthro^vn, — 
 An old man's tears lie far too deep 
 To be poured for this alone : 
 But by that sign too well I know 
 That a youthful head must soon be low ! 
 
 A youthfid head, with its shining hair, 
 
 And its bright quick-flashing eye ; 
 Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair. 
 Too fair a thing to die ! 
 But on his brow the mark is set, — 
 O, could my life redeem him yet! 
 
 He bounded by me as I gazed 
 Alone on the fatal sign,
 
 94 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And it seemed like sunshine when he raised 
 His joyous glance to mine. 
 With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 
 So full of life, — but he must die ! 
 
 He must, he must ! in that deep dell. 
 
 By that dark water's side, 
 'Tis knowm that ne'er a proud tree fell 
 But an heir of his fathers died. 
 And he, — there's laughter in his eye, 
 Joy in his voice, — yet he must die ! 
 
 I've borne him in these arms, that now 
 
 Are nerveless and unstrung ; 
 And must I see, on that fair brow. 
 The dust untimely flung ? 
 I must ! — yon green oak, branch and crest, 
 Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 
 
 The noble boy ! — how proudly sprung 
 
 The falcon from his hand ! 
 It seemed like youth to see him young, 
 A flower in his father's land ! 
 But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, 
 For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 
 
 Say not 't is vain ! I tell thee, some 
 
 Are warned by a meteor's light. 
 Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home. 
 Or a voice on the winds by night ; 
 And they must go ! And he too, he ! 
 Woe for the fall of the glorious tree ! 
 
 Felicia Hemans.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 95 
 
 Bridlington. 
 
 A Sea Piece. 
 
 At nightfall, walking on the clilif-crowned shore, 
 
 Where sea and sky were in each other lost ; 
 
 Dark ships were scudding through the wild uproar 
 
 Whose wrecks ere morn must strew the dreaiy coast ; 
 
 I marked one well-moored vessel tempest-tossed, 
 
 Sails reefed, helm-lashed, a dreadful siege she bore, 
 
 Her deck by billow after billow crossed, 
 
 While every moment she might be no more : 
 
 Yet firmly anchored on the nether sand, 
 
 Like a chained lion ramping at his foes. 
 
 Forward and rearward still she plunged and rose. 
 
 Till broke her cable ; then she fled to land. 
 
 With all the waves in chase ; throes following throes ; 
 
 She 'scaped, — she struck,- — she stood upon the strand. 
 
 The morn was beautiful, the storm gone by ; 
 Three days had passed ; I saw the peaceful main, 
 One molten mirror, one illumined plane. 
 Clear as the blue, sublime, o'erarching sky ; 
 On shore that lonely vessel caught mine eye, 
 Her bow was seaward, all equipt her train. 
 Yet to the sun she spread her wings in vain. 
 Like a caged eagle, impotent to fly ; 
 There fixed as if for ever to abide ; 
 Far down the beach had rolled the low neap-tide. 
 Whose mingling murmur faintly lulled the ear : 
 "Is this," methought, — "is this the doom of pride. 
 Checked in the onset of thy brave career, 
 Ingloriously to rot by piecemeal here?" 
 
 Spring-tides returned, and Fortune smiled ; the bay 
 Received the rushing ocean to its breast ; 
 While waves on waves innumerably prest, 
 Seemed, with the prancing of their proud array,
 
 96 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Sea-horses, flashed with foam, and snorting spray ; 
 Their power and thunder broke that vessel's rest ; 
 Slowly, with new expanding life possest, 
 To her own element she glid away ; 
 Buoyant and bounding like the polar whale, 
 That takes his pastime ; every joyful sail 
 Was to the freedom of the wind unfurled. 
 While right and left the parted surges curled ; 
 — Go, gallant bark ! with such a tide and gale, 
 I'll pledge thee to a voyage round the world. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 Brigham. 
 Nun's Well, Brigham. 
 
 The cattle, crowding round this beverage clear 
 
 To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod 
 
 The encircling turf into a barren clod. 
 
 Through which the waters creep, then disappear. 
 
 Bom to be lost in Derwent, flowing near ; 
 
 Yet o'er the brink, and round the limestone cell 
 
 Of the pure spring (they call it the " Nun's well," 
 
 Name that first stmck by chance my startled ear,) 
 
 A tender sf)irit Ijroods, — the pensive shade 
 
 Of ritual honours to this fountain paid 
 
 By hooded votaresses with saintly cheer ; 
 
 Albeit oft the Virgin-Mother mild 
 
 Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
 
 Into the shedding of " too soft a tear." 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 BRIGNALL. 97 
 
 Brignall. 
 
 Brignall Banks. 
 
 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there, 
 
 Would grace a summer queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton hall, 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A maiden on the castle wall 
 Was singing merrily, — 
 
 "O Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
 Than reign our English queen." 
 
 "If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 
 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 Thou first must guess what life we lead. 
 
 That dwell by dale and down ? 
 And if thou canst that riddle read. 
 
 As read full well you may. 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed. 
 As blithe as Queen of May." — 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd ratherrove with Edmund there, 
 Than reign our English queen. — 
 
 " I read you, by your bugle-hom, 
 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn, 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood." — 
 "A ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light ; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn. 
 
 And mine at dead of night." — 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay ; 
 I would I were with Edmund there, 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 "With burnished brand and musketoon, 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold dragoon, 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." — 
 " I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear ; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 
 And O, though Brignall banks be fair. 
 
 And Greta woods be gay, 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 
 Would reign my Queen of May ! 
 
 " Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'll die ; 
 The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 
 
 Were better mate than I ! 
 And when I'm with my comrades met, 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough, 
 What once we were we all forget, 
 Nor think what we are now. 
 
 Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 Would grace a summer queen." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Brimham. 
 Brimham Rocks. 
 
 Rocks ! sacred deemed to eldest fraud, when fear 
 First darkened death's reality with dreams ! 
 The spirit of your cruel worship seems.
 
 BRIMHAM. 99 
 
 Like a wolfs shadow, yet to linger here, 
 Deepening the gloom with peril still too near ; 
 For guile and knowledge long have been allied, 
 Most pious found when preaching blasphemies. 
 Most treacherous when most trusted. But the year. 
 Whose seasons are all winters, soon must close ; 
 Knowledge hath joined the millions ; and mankind 
 Are learning to distinguish friends from foes ; 
 The eagle-eyed give sight unto the blind ; 
 The eagle-winged are chasing crime-made woes ; 
 The mighty-voiced are heard in eveiy wind. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Trees at Brimham. 
 
 Gnarled oak and holly ! stone-cropped like the stone ! 
 
 Are ye of it, or is it part of you ? 
 
 Your union strange is man-ellously true. 
 
 And makes the granite, which I stand upon, 
 
 Seem like the vision of an empire gone, — 
 
 Gone, yet still present, though it never was. 
 
 Save as a shadow, — let the shadow pass ! 
 
 So perish human glories, every one ! 
 
 But, Rocks ! ye are not shadows ; Ti'ees ! ye cast 
 
 The Almighty's shadow over the homeward bee, 
 
 His name on Brimham ! yea, the coming blast, 
 
 Beneath his curtains, reads it here with me. 
 
 And pauses not to number marvels past, 
 
 But speeds the thunder on o'er land and sea. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Rock Idol at Brimham. 
 
 Stone ! did the hand of sacerdotal fraud 
 Shape thee into this vital type of things ? 
 Or did a million winters, on their wings 
 Of scythe-like perseverance come abroad,
 
 loo POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 To bid Conjecture stand before thee awed, 
 
 And, almost severing thee from parent-earth. 
 
 Make thee a marvel ? Vainly giv'st thou birth 
 
 To solemn fancies, building an abode 
 
 Around thee, for a world of shapeless ghosts ; 
 
 Vainly they rise before me, calling up 
 
 Kings and their masters, and imagined hosts 
 
 That fight for clouds. What then ? The heath-flower's cup 
 
 With dewdrops feeds this fountain ever clear, 
 
 And the winged ouzel whistles, "God is here ! " 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Bristol. 
 Bristol. 
 
 How proud, 
 Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud. 
 With all her spires and fanes and volumed smoke. 
 Trailing in columns to the midday sun, 
 Black, or pale blue, aboVe the cloudy haze. 
 And the great stir of commerce, and the noise 
 Of passing and repassing wains, and cars. 
 And sledges grating in their underpath, 
 And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts 
 And pennants from all nations of the earth, 
 Streaming below the houses, piled aloft, 
 Hill above hill ; and every road below 
 Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high 
 On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene ; — 
 How proudly amid sights and sounds like these, 
 Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof, 
 Stands Redcliff's solemn fane, — how proudly girt 
 With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks, 
 Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea, — 
 Bristol, amid her merchant palaces. 
 That ancient city, sits ! 
 
 William Lisle Bowles.
 
 BRIXHAM. loi 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, in the Cathedral 
 OF Bristol. 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear ; 
 
 Take that best gift which heaven so lately gave ; 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave. 
 And died ! Does youth, does beauty, read the line ? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
 
 Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free ; 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 
 
 ('Twas even to thee), yet, the dread path once trod, 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 
 
 And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 
 
 William Mason. 
 
 Brixham. 
 
 The Wives of Brixham. 
 
 You see the gentle water, 
 
 How silently it floats, 
 How cautiously, how steadily 
 
 It moves the sleepy boats ; 
 And all the little loops of pearl 
 
 It strews along the sand 
 Steal out as leisurely as leaves. 
 
 When summer is at hand. 
 
 But you know it can be angry, 
 
 And thunder from its rest. 
 When the stormy taunts of winter 
 
 Are flying at its breast ;
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And if you like to listen, 
 
 And draw your chairs around, 
 I'll tell you what it did one night. 
 
 When you were sleeping sound. 
 
 The merry boats of Brixham 
 
 Go out to search the seas, — 
 A stanch and sturdy fleet are they. 
 
 Who love a swinging breeze ; 
 And before the woods of Devon, 
 
 And the silver cliffs of Wales, 
 You may see when summer evenings fall 
 
 The light upon their sails. 
 
 But when the year grows darker, 
 
 And gray winds hunt the foam. 
 They go back to little Brixham, 
 
 And ply their toils at home. 
 And thus it chanced one winter's day. 
 
 When a storm began to roar. 
 That all the men were out at sea. 
 
 And all the wives on shore. 
 
 Then as the wind grew fiercer, 
 
 The women's cheeks grew white, — 
 It was fiercer in the twilight. 
 
 And fiercest in the night. 
 The strong clouds set themselves like ice. 
 
 Without a star to melt ; 
 The blackness of the darkness 
 
 Was something to be felt. 
 
 The storm, like an assassin. 
 
 Went on its secret way. 
 And struck a hundred boats adrift 
 
 To reel about the bay. 
 They meet, they crash, — God keep the men ! 
 
 God give a moment's light ! 
 There is nothing but the tumult, 
 
 And the tempest and the night.
 
 BRIXHAM. 103 
 
 The men on shore were anxious, — 
 
 They grieved for what they knew : 
 What do you think the women did ? 
 
 Love taught them what to do ! 
 Outspoke a wife : We've beds at home, 
 
 We '11 burn them for a light ! 
 Give us the men and the bare ground ! 
 
 We want no more to-night." 
 
 They took the grandame's blanket. 
 
 Who shivered and bade them go ; 
 They took the baby's pillow, 
 
 Who could not say them no ; 
 And they heaped a great fire on the pier, 
 
 And knew not all the while 
 If they were heaping a bonfire, 
 
 Or only a funeral pile. 
 
 And, fed with precious food, the flame 
 
 Shone bravely on the black. 
 Till a cry rang through the people, — 
 
 " A boat is coming back ! " 
 Staggering dimly through the fog. 
 
 They see and then they doubt ; 
 But, when the first prow strikes the pier, 
 
 Cannot you hear them shout ? 
 
 Then all along the breadth of flame 
 
 Dark figures shrieked and ran, 
 With, "Child, here comes your father!" 
 
 Or, "Wife, is this your man?" 
 And faint feet touch the welcome shore, 
 
 And stay a little while ; 
 And kisses drop from frozen lips, 
 
 Too tired to speak or smile. 
 
 So, one by one, they struggled in, 
 
 All that the sea would spare : 
 We will not reckon through our tears 
 
 The names that were not there ;
 
 I04 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 But some went home without a bed, 
 When all the tale was told, 
 
 Who were too cold with sorrow 
 To know the night was cold. 
 
 And this is what the men must do, 
 
 Who work in wind and foam ; 
 And this is what the women bear, 
 
 Who watch for them at home. 
 So when you see a Brixham boat 
 
 Go out to face the gales, 
 Think of the love that travels 
 
 Like light upon her sails. 
 
 M. B. S. 
 
 Brockley Coomb. 
 
 Lines 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF 
 BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 1 795- 
 
 With many a pause and oft-reverted eye 
 
 I climb the Coomb's ascent ; sweet songsters near 
 
 Warble in shade their wildwood melody ; 
 
 Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. 
 
 Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock 
 
 That on green plots o'er precipices browse ; 
 
 From the deep fissures of the naked rock 
 
 The yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark -green boughs 
 
 ('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) 
 
 Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 
 
 I rest ; — and now have gained the topmost site. 
 
 Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 
 
 My gaze ! Proud lowers, and cots more dear to mc, 
 
 Elm-shadowed fields, and prospect-bounding sea ! 
 
 Deep sighs my lonely heart : I drop the tear : 
 
 Enchanting sj)ot ! (J were my Sara here ! 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridgf,.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 105 
 
 Brothers' Water. 
 Written in March, 
 
 WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF 
 brothers' WATER. 
 
 The cock is crowing, 
 
 The stream is flowing, 
 
 The small birds twitter. 
 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
 
 The oldest and youngest 
 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 There are forty feeding like one ! 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill ; 
 The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 
 
 There's joy in the momitains ; 
 
 There's life in the fountains ; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing. 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 io6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 B rough. 
 
 Brough Bells. 
 
 Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they 
 were given by one Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the 
 remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. 
 One time it happened that his bull fell a-bellowing, which in the 
 dialect of the country is called cruning, this being the genuine 
 Saxon word to denote that vociferation. Thereupon he said to one 
 of his neighbours, " Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes ? If 
 these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from 
 Brough hither?" He answered, "Yea." — "Well then," says Brun- 
 skill, "I'll make them all crune together." And he sold them all, 
 and with the price thereof he bought the said bells. 
 
 " On Stanemore's side, one summer eve, 
 
 John Brunskill sate to see 
 His herds in yonder Borrodale 
 
 Come winding up the lea. 
 
 " Behind them, on the lowland's verge, 
 
 In the evening light serene, 
 Brough's silent tower, then newly built 
 
 By Blenkinsop, was seen. 
 
 ' ' Slowly they came in long array, 
 
 With loitering pace at will ; 
 At times a low from them was heard, 
 
 Far off, for all was still. 
 
 " The hills returned that lonely sound 
 
 Upon the tranquil air : 
 The only sound it was which then 
 
 Awoke the echoes there. 
 
 " ' Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine. 
 Neighbour,' quoth Brunskill then ; 
 
 ' How loudly to the hills he crunes, 
 That crime to him airain !
 
 BROUGH. 107 
 
 ' ' ' Think'st thou if yon whole herd at once 
 
 Their voices should combine, 
 Were they at Brough, that we might not 
 Hear plainly from this upland spot 
 
 That craning of the kine ? ' 
 
 " ' That were a crune indeed,' replied 
 His comrade, ' which, I ween. 
 Might at the Spital well be heard, 
 And in all dales between. 
 
 " ' Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs, 
 The eastern wind upon its wings 
 
 The mighty voice would bear ; 
 And Appleby would hear the sound, 
 
 Methinks, when skies are fair.' 
 
 "'Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, 
 
 ' From yon dumb steeple crune ; 
 And thou and I, on this hillside, 
 
 Will listen to their tune. 
 
 " ' So, while the merry Bells of Brough 
 
 For many an age ring on, 
 John Brunskill will remembered be, 
 
 When he is dead and gone, — 
 
 " ' As one who, in his latter years, 
 
 Contented with enough, 
 Gave freely what he well could spare 
 
 To buy the Bells of Brough.' 
 
 •' Thus it hath proved : three hundred years 
 
 Since then have passed away. 
 And Brunskill' s is a living name 
 
 Among us to this day." 
 
 " More pleasure," I replied, "shall I 
 
 From this time forth partake. 
 When I remember Helbeck woods, 
 
 For old John Brunskill's sake.
 
 loS POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 ' ' He knew how wholesome it would be, 
 
 Among these wild, wide fells 
 And upland vales, to catch, at times, 
 
 The sound of Christian bells ; — 
 
 " What feelings and what impulses 
 
 Their cadence might convey 
 To herdsman or to shepherd-boy, 
 Whiling in indolent employ 
 
 The solitary day ; — 
 
 "That, when his brethren were convened 
 
 To meet for social prayer, 
 He too, admonished by the call, 
 
 In spirit might be there ; 
 
 "Or when a glad thanksgiving sound. 
 
 Upon the winds of heaven, 
 Was sent to speak a nation's joy. 
 
 For some great blessing given, — 
 
 " For victory by sea or land. 
 
 And haj^py peace at length ; 
 Peace by his country's valour won. 
 
 And 'stablished by her strength ; — 
 
 " When such exultant peals were borne 
 
 Upon the mountain air, 
 Tlie sound should stir his blood, and give 
 
 An English impulse there." 
 
 Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, 
 
 When he that eve looked down 
 From Stanemore's side on Borrodale, 
 
 And on the distant town. 
 
 And had I store of wealth, methinks. 
 
 Another herd of kine, 
 John I'runskill, I would freely give. 
 
 That they might crunc with thine. 
 
 Kt)IiER'r SOUTHEY.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 109 
 
 Bude Haven. 
 
 A Croon on Hennacliff. 
 
 Thus said the rushing raven 
 
 Unto his hungry mate, — 
 " Ho ! gossip ! for Bude Haven : 
 
 There be corpses six or eight. 
 Cawk ! cawk ! the crew and skipper 
 
 Are wallowing in the sea : 
 So there's a savoury supper 
 
 For my old dame and me." 
 
 " Cawk ! gaffer ! thou art dreaming, 
 
 The shore hath wreckers bold ; 
 Would rend the yelling seamen, 
 
 From the clutching billows' hold. 
 Cawk ! cawk ! they 'd bound for booty 
 
 Into the dragon's den : 
 And shout, for ' death or duty,' 
 
 If the prey were drowning men." 
 
 Loud laughed the listening surges 
 
 At the guess our grandame gave : 
 You might call them Boanerges, 
 
 From the thunder of .their wave. 
 And mockery followed after 
 
 The sea-bird's jeering brood : 
 That filled the skies with laughter, 
 
 From Lundy Light to Bude. 
 
 " Cawk ! cawk ! " then said the raven, 
 
 " I am fourscore years and ten. 
 Yet never in Bude Plaven 
 
 Did I croak for rescued men, — 
 They will save the captain's girdle, 
 
 And shirt, if shirt there be ; 
 But leave their blood to curdle 
 
 For my old dame and me."
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 So said the rushing raven 
 
 Unto his hungry mate, — 
 " Ho ! gossip ! for Bude Haven : 
 
 There be corpses six or eight. 
 Cawk ! cawk ! tlie crew and skipper 
 
 Are wallowing in the sea : 
 O, what a savouiy supper 
 
 For my old dame and me." 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Burnham. 
 
 BuRNHAM Beeches. 
 
 A Bard, dear Muse, unapt to sing. 
 
 Your friendly aid beseeches, 
 Help me to touch the lyric string, 
 
 In praise of Burnham beeches. 
 
 What though my tributary lines 
 Be less like Pope's than Creech's, 
 
 The theme, if not the poet, shines. 
 So bright are Burnham beeches. 
 
 O'er many a dell and upland walk 
 
 Their sylvan beauty reaches. 
 Of Birnam Wood let Scotland talk 
 
 While we've our Burnham beeches. 
 
 Oft do I linger, oft return 
 
 (Say, who my taste impeaches). 
 Where holly, juniper, and fern 
 
 Spring up round Burnham beeches. 
 
 Though deep-embowered their shades among, 
 
 The owl at midnight screeches. 
 Birds of far merrier, sweeter song 
 
 Enliven Burnham beeches.
 
 BURNHAM. 
 
 If " sermons be in stones," I'll bet 
 
 Our \'icar, when he preaches, 
 He 'd find it easier far to get 
 
 A hint from Burnham beeches. 
 
 Their glossy rind here winter stains, 
 
 Here the hot solstice bleaches. 
 Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes ! 
 
 Ye match not Burnham beeches. 
 
 Gardens may boast a tempting show 
 Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches. 
 
 But daintiest truffles lurk below 
 The boughs of Bumham beeches. 
 
 Poets and painters, hither hie. 
 
 Here ample room for each is 
 With pencil and with pen to tiy 
 
 His hand at Bumham beeches. 
 
 When monks, by holy church well schooled, 
 Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches. 
 
 Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled, 
 Then flourished Bumham beeches, 
 
 Skirting the convent's walls of yore, 
 
 As yonder ruin teaches. 
 But shaven crown and cowl no more 
 
 Shall darken Burnham beeches. 
 
 Here bards have mused, here lovers true 
 
 Have dealt in softest speeches. 
 While suns declined, and, parting, threw 
 
 Their gold o'er Burnham beeches. 
 
 O, ne'er may woodman's axe resound. 
 
 Nor tempest making breaches. 
 In the sweet shade that cools the ground 
 
 Beneath our Burnham beeches.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Hold ! though I 'd fain be jinghng on, 
 
 My power no further reaches — 
 Again that rhyme ? enough, — I've done, 
 
 Farewell to Bumham beeches. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 
 Burton Pynsent. 
 
 Sunset at Burton Pynsent, Somerset. 
 
 How bare and bright thou sinkest to thy rest 
 
 Over the burnished line of the Severn sea! 
 
 While somewhat of thy power thou buriest 
 
 In ruddy mists, that we may look on thee. 
 
 And wliile we stand and wonder, we may see 
 
 Far mountain-tops in visible glory drest. 
 
 Where 'twixt yon purple hills the sight is free 
 
 To search the regions of the dim north-vi'est. 
 
 But shadowy bars have crossed thee, — suddenly 
 
 Thou'rt fallen among strange clouds ; yet not the less 
 
 Thy presence know we, by the radiancy 
 
 That doth thy shroud with golden fringes dress ; 
 
 Even as hidden love to faithful eye 
 
 Brightens the edges of obscure distress. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Butleigh. 
 Epitaph in Butleigh Church. 
 
 Divided far by death were they whose names, 
 In honour here united as in birth, 
 This monumental verse records. They drew 
 In Dorset's healthy vales their natal breath, 
 And from these shores beheld the ocean first. 
 Whereon in early youth, with one accord, 
 They chose their way of fortune ; to that course
 
 BUTLEIGH. 113 
 
 By Hood and Bridport's bright example drawn, 
 
 Their kinsmen, children of this place, and sons 
 
 Of one who in his faithful ministry 
 
 Inculcated within these hallowed walls 
 
 The truths in mercy to mankind revealed. 
 
 Worthy were these three brethren each to add 
 
 New honours to the already honoured name ; 
 
 But Arthur, in the morning of his day, 
 
 Perished amid the Caribbean Sea, 
 
 When the Pomona, by a hurricane 
 
 Whirled, riven, and overwhelmed, with all her crew 
 
 Into the deep went down. A longer date 
 
 To Alexander was assigned, — for hope. 
 
 For fair ambition, and for fond regret, 
 
 Alas, how short ! for duty, for desert, 
 
 Sufficing ; and, while Time preserves the roll 
 
 Of Britain's naval feats, for good report. 
 
 A boy, with Cook he rounded the great globe ; 
 
 A youth, in many a celebrated fight 
 
 With Rodney liad his part ; and having reached 
 
 Life's middle stage, engaging ship to ship, 
 
 When the French Hercules, a gallant foe. 
 
 Struck to the British Mars his three-striped flag, 
 
 He fell, in the moment of his victory. 
 
 Here his remains, in sure and certain hope, 
 
 Are laid, until the hour when earth and sea 
 
 Shall render up their dead. One brother yet 
 
 Survived, with Keppel and with Rodney trained 
 
 In battles, with the Lord of Nile approved. 
 
 Ere in command he worthily upheld 
 
 Old England's high prerogative. In the East, 
 
 The West, the Baltic and the Midland Seas,- — 
 
 Yea, wheresoever hostile fleets have ploughed 
 
 The ensanguined deep, — his thunders have been heard, 
 
 His flag in brave defiance hath been seen ; 
 
 And bravest enemies at Sir Samuel's name 
 
 Felt fatal presage, in their inmost heart. 
 
 Of unavertible defeat foredoomed.
 
 114 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Thus in the path of gloiy he rode on, 
 Victorious alway, adding praise to praise, 
 Till, full of honours, not of years, beneath 
 The venom of the infected clime he sunk 
 On Coromandel's coast, completing there 
 His service, only when his life was spent. 
 
 To the three brethren Alexander's son, 
 (Sole scion he in whom their line survived,) 
 With English feeling, and the deeper sense 
 Of filial duty consecrates this tomb. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 Buxton. 
 
 Written at Buxton in a Rainy Season. 
 
 From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend 
 
 In rains that shroud the sun and chill the gale, 
 
 Each transient gleaming interval we hail, 
 
 And rove the naked valleys, and extend 
 
 Our gaze around where yon vast mountains blend 
 
 With billowy clouds that o'er their summits sail. 
 
 Pondering how little Nature's charms befriend 
 
 The barren scene, monotonous and pale. 
 
 Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet 
 
 Successive o'er the wide and silent hills. 
 
 Gilded by watery sunbeams : — then we meet 
 
 Peculiar jiomu of vision. Fancy thrills ; 
 
 And owns there is no scene so rude and bare 
 
 But nature sheds or grace or grandeur there. 
 
 Anna Seward^ 
 
 Buxton. 
 
 Yet for her caves and holes Peake only not excells, 
 But that I can a.trnin produce those wondrous wells 
 Of P)Uckston, as I have that most delicious fount. 
 Which men the second Bath of England do account,
 
 CADLAND. 115 
 
 Which in the primer reigns, when first this well began 
 To have her virtues known unto the blest Saint Anne, 
 Was consecrated then, which the same temper hath, 
 As that most dainty spring which at the famous Bath 
 Is by the Cross enstyled, whose fame I much prefer. 
 In that I do compare my daintiest spring to her, 
 Nice sicknesses to cure, as also to prevent, 
 And supple their clear skins, which ladies oft frequent ; 
 Most full, most fair, most sweet, and most delicious 
 
 source. 
 To this a second fount, that in her natural course. 
 As mighty Neptune doth, so doth she ebb and flow. 
 If some Welsh shires report that they the like can show, 
 I answer those, that her shall so no wonder call, 
 So far from any sea, not any of them all. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Cadland. 
 Cadland, Southampton River, 
 
 If ever sea-maid from her coral cave, 
 Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved 
 To pass delighted from her green abode, 
 And, seated on a summer bank, to sing 
 No earthly music ; in a spot like this 
 The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried 
 Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main. 
 In the slant sunbeam. 
 
 So the pensive bard 
 Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene. 
 The ideal form ; but though such things are not. 
 He who has ever felt a thought refined ; 
 He who has wandered on the sea of life, 
 Forming delightful visions of a home 
 Of beauty and repose ; he who has loved 
 With filial warmth his countiy, will not pass
 
 Ii6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Without a look of more than tenderness 
 On all the scene ; from where the pensile birch 
 Bends on the bank, amid the clustered group 
 Of the dark hollies ; to the woody shore 
 That steals diminished, to the distant spires 
 Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave. 
 White in the sun beneath the forest-shade 
 Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity, 
 As she goes onward in her glittering trim, 
 Amid the glances of life's transient morn, 
 Calling on all to view her ! 
 
 Vectis^ there, 
 That slopes its greensward to the lambent wave 
 And shows through softest haze its woods and domes, 
 With gray St. Catherine's creeping to the sky, 
 Seems like a modest maid, who charms the more 
 Concealing half her beauties. 
 
 To the east. 
 Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm, 
 With masts innumerable thronged, and hulls 
 Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark 
 Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm. 
 Waits but the word to thunder and flash death 
 On him who dares approach to violate 
 The shores and living scenes that smile secure 
 Beneath its dragon-watch ! 
 
 Long may they smile ! 
 And long, majestic Albion (while the sound 
 From East to West, from Albis to the Po, 
 Of dark contention hurtles), mayst thou rest, 
 As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene 
 Looks on the refluent wave that steals below. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 1 The Isle of Wight.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 117 
 
 Caistor, 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 When the British warrior queen, 
 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods, 
 Sought, with an indignant mien, 
 
 Counsel of her country's gods. 
 
 Sage beneath the spreading oak 
 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 
 Full of rage and full of grief. 
 
 " Princess ! if our aged eyes 
 
 Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
 'Tis because resentment ties 
 All the terrors of our tongues. 
 
 "Rome shall perish, — write that word 
 In the blood that she has spilt ; 
 Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
 Deep in ruin as in guilt. 
 
 '' Rome, for empire far renowned. 
 Tramples on a thousand states. 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — 
 Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
 "Other Romans shall arise. 
 
 Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
 Plarmony the path to fame. 
 
 " Then the progeny that springs 
 From the forests of our land, 
 Armed with thunder, clad with wings. 
 Shall a wider world command.
 
 Ii8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " Regions Cnssar never knew 
 Thy posterity shall sway ; 
 Where his eagles never flew, 
 None invincible as they." 
 
 Such the bard's prophetic words, 
 
 Pregnant with celestial fire. 
 Bending as he swept the chords 
 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She with all a monarch's pride 
 Felt them in her bosom glow : 
 
 Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
 Dying hurled them at the foe. 
 
 Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
 
 Empire is on us bestowed. 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 While about the shore of Mona those Neronian 
 
 legionaries 
 Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and 
 
 Druidess, 
 Far in the East Boiidicea, standing loftily charioted, 
 Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce 
 
 volubility. 
 Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Cam- 
 
 ulodiine. 
 Yelled and shrieked between her daughters o'er a wild 
 
 confederacy. 
 
 "They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's bar- 
 barous populaces. 
 Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me 
 supplicating?
 
 CAISTOR. 119 
 
 Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be 
 supplicated ? 
 
 Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trino- 
 baflt! 
 
 Must their ever- ravening eagle's beak and talon anni- 
 hilate us ? 
 
 Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quiver- 
 ing ! 
 
 Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken in- 
 numerable. 
 
 Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the caixase a 
 skeleton, 
 
 Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, 
 wallow in it, 
 
 Till the face of Bel be brightened, Taranis be propi- 
 tiated. 
 
 Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camu- 
 lodiine ! 
 
 There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous 
 adversary. 
 
 There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous 
 emperor-idiot. 
 
 Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it. Spirit of 
 Cassivelaun ! " 
 
 So the queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
 Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lion- 
 ess-like, 
 Yelled and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce 
 
 volubility. 
 Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
 Madly dashed the darts together, writhing barbarous 
 
 lineaments. 
 Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in 
 
 January, 
 Roared as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch 
 on the precipices.
 
 I20 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yelled as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a 
 
 promontory. 
 So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
 Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid 
 
 unanimous hand, 
 Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 
 Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremu- 
 lously, 
 Then her pulses at the clamouring of her enemy fainted 
 
 away. 
 Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
 Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous 
 
 agonies. 
 Perished many a maid and matron, many a valorous 
 
 legionary. 
 Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, 
 
 Camulodune. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Cambridge. 
 
 It was a dreary morning when the wheels 
 Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds, 
 And nothing cheered our way till first we saw 
 The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift 
 Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, 
 Extended high above a dusky grove. 
 
 Advancing, we espied upon the road 
 A student clothed in gown and tasseled cap, 
 Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time, 
 Or covetous of exercise and air ; 
 He passed, — nor was I master of my eyes 
 Till he was left an arrow's flight behind. 
 As near and nearer to the spot we drew, 
 It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's force.
 
 CAMBRIDGE. 121 
 
 Onward we drove beneath the castle ; caught, 
 While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse of Cam ; 
 And at the Hoop alighted, famous inn. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Evangelist St. John my patron was : 
 Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
 Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure ; 
 Right underneath, the college kitchens made 
 A humming sound less tunable than bees. 
 But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes 
 Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. 
 Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock, 
 Who never let the quarters, night or day. 
 Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours 
 Twice over with a male and female voice. 
 Her pealing organ was my neighbour too ; 
 And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
 Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold 
 The antechapel where the statue stood 
 Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, 
 The marble index of a mind forever 
 Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone. 
 ***** 
 
 All winter long, whenever free to choose, 
 Did I by night frequent the college groves 
 And tributary walks ; the last, and oft 
 The only one, who had been lingering there 
 Through hours of silence, till the porter's bell, 
 A punctual follower on the stroke of nine. 
 Rang, with its blunt, unceremonious voice, 
 Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms, 
 Inviting shades of opportune recess, 
 Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood 
 Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree, 
 With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed 
 Grew there ; an ash which winter for himself 
 Decked as in pride, and with outlandish grace :
 
 !2 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Up from the ground, and almost to the top, 
 The trunk and every master branch were green 
 With dustering ivy, and the hghtsome twigs 
 And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds 
 That hung in yellow tassels, while the air 
 Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I stood 
 Foot-bound, uplooking at this lovely tree 
 Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere 
 Of magic fiction verse of mine perchance 
 May never tread : but scarcely Spenser's self 
 Could have more tranquil visions in his youth, 
 Or could more bright appearance create 
 Of human forms with superhuman powers, 
 Than I beheld, loitering on calm, clear nights, 
 Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge. 
 
 Tax not the royal saint with vain expense. 
 
 With ill-matched aims the architect who planned — 
 
 Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 
 Of white-robed scholars only — this immense 
 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 
 
 Give all thou canst : high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells. 
 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die ; 
 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 CAMBRIDGE. 123 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
 Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
 In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light. 
 Martyr, or king, or sainted Eremite, 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming night ! — 
 But, from the arms of silence, — list! O, list I — 
 The music bursteth into second life ; 
 The notes luxuriate, eveiy stone is kissed 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
 Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
 Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
 Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
 Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
 Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my path 
 Lead to that younger pile, whose sky-like dome 
 Hath typified by reach of daring art 
 Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
 The silent cross, among the stars shall spread 
 As now, when she hath also seen her breast 
 Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
 Of grateful England's overflowing dead. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Trinity College. 
 
 I PAST beside the reverend walls 
 
 In which of old I wore tiie gown ; 
 I roved at random through the town. 
 
 And saw the tumult of the halls ;
 
 124 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And heard once more in college fanes 
 
 The storm their high-built organs make, 
 And thunder-music, rolling, shake 
 
 The prophets blazoned on the panes ; 
 
 And caught once more the distant shout, 
 The measured pulse of racing oars 
 Among the willows ; paced the shores 
 
 And many a bridge, and all about 
 
 The same gray flats again, and felt 
 
 The same, but not the same ; and last 
 Up that long walk of limes I past 
 
 To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 
 
 Another name was on the door : 
 
 I lingered ; all within was noise 
 
 Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 
 
 That crashed the glass and beat the floor ; 
 
 Where once we held debate, a band 
 
 Of youthful friends, on mind and art 
 And labour, and the changing mart. 
 
 And all the framework of the land ; 
 
 When one would aim an arrow fair. 
 
 But send it slackly from the string ; 
 And one would pierce an outer ring, 
 
 And one an inner, here and there ; 
 
 And last the master-bowman, he 
 
 Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
 We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 
 
 The wrapt oration flowing free 
 
 From point to point with power and grace. 
 And music in the bounds of law, 
 To those conclusions when we saw 
 
 The God within him light his face.
 
 CAMBRIDGE. 125 
 
 And seem to lift the form, and glow 
 
 In azure orbits heavenly- wise ; 
 
 And over those ethereal eyes 
 The bar of Michael Angelo. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 On revisiting Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 I HAVE a debt of my heart's own to thee, 
 
 School of my soul ! old lime and cloister shade ! 
 
 Which I, strange suitor, should lament to see 
 
 Fully acquitted and exactly paid. 
 
 The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights. 
 
 Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree, 
 
 In sweet belated talk on winter nights, 
 
 "With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me ; — 
 
 Such things I owe thee, and not only these : 
 
 I owe thee the far-beaconing memories 
 
 Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide 
 
 Of Life where it was narrow, deep, and clear, 
 
 Now cast their brightness from the farther side 
 
 On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear. 
 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
 The Backs. 
 
 Dropping down the river, 
 Down the glancing river, 
 Through the fleet of shallops. 
 Through the fairy fleet, 
 Underneath the bridges, 
 Carved stone and oaken. 
 Crowned with sphere and pillar. 
 Linking lawn with lawn. 
 Sloping swards of garden, 
 Flowering bank to bank ; 
 'Midst the golden noontide, 
 'Neath the stately trees,
 
 126 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Reaching out their laden 
 Arms to overshade us ; 
 'Midst the summer evens, 
 Whilst the winds were heavy 
 With the blossom-odours, 
 Whilst the birds were singing 
 From their sleepless nests. 
 
 Dropping down the river, 
 Down the branched river, 
 Through the hidden outlet 
 Of some happy stream, 
 Lifting up the leafy 
 Curtain that o'erhung it, 
 Fold on fold of foliage 
 Not proof against the stai's. 
 
 Drinking ruby claret 
 From the silvered "Pewter," 
 Spoil of ancient battle 
 On the ";r«r/)'" Cam, 
 Ne'er to be forgotten 
 Pleasant friendly faces 
 Mistily discerning 
 Through the glass below. 
 
 Ah ! the balmy fragrance 
 Of the mild Havanna ! 
 Downed amidst the puq^le 
 Of our railway wrappers, 
 Solemn-thoughted, glorious 
 On the verge of June. 
 Musical the rippling 
 Of the tardy current, 
 Musical the murmur 
 Of the wind-swept trees. 
 Musical the cadence 
 Of the friendly voices
 
 CAMELOT. 127 
 
 Laden with the sweetness 
 Of the songs of old. 
 
 James Payn. 
 
 Camelot. 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 On either side the river he 
 Long fields of barley and of rye, 
 That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
 And through the field the road iims by 
 
 To many-towered Camelot ; 
 And up and down the people go, 
 Gazing where the lilies blow 
 Round an island there below, 
 
 The island of Shalott. 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
 Little breezes dusk and shiver 
 Through the wave that runs forever 
 By the island in the river 
 
 Flowing down to Camelot. 
 Four gray walls and four gray towers 
 Overlook a space of flowers, 
 And the silent isle embowers 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 By the margin, willow-veiled, 
 Slide the heavy barges, trailed 
 By slow horses ; and unbailed 
 The shallop flitteth, silken-sailed, 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot : 
 But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
 Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
 Or is she known in all the land, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott ?
 
 128 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Only reapers, reaping early 
 In among the bearded barley, 
 Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
 From the river winding clearly, 
 
 Down to towered Camelot : 
 And by the moon the reaper weary, 
 Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
 Listening, whispers, "'Tis the fairy 
 
 Lady of Shalott." 
 
 There she weaves by night and day 
 A magic web with colours gay. 
 She has heard a whisper say, 
 A curse is on her if she stay 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not what the curse may be. 
 And so she weaveth steadily. 
 And little other care hath she, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And moving through a mirror clear 
 That hangs before her all the year, 
 Shadows of the world appear. 
 There she sees the highway near. 
 
 Winding down to Camelot : 
 There the river-eddy whirls. 
 And there the surly village-churls. 
 And the red cloaks of market-girls. 
 
 Pass onward from Shalott. 
 
 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
 An abbot on an ambling pad. 
 Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
 Or long-haired page in crimson clad. 
 Goes by to towered Camelot ;
 
 CAMELOT. 129 
 
 And sometimes through the mirror bhie 
 The knights come riding two and two : 
 She hath no loyal knight and true, 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 But in her web she still delights 
 To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
 For often through the silent nights 
 A funeral, with plumes and lights. 
 
 And music, went to Camelot : 
 Or when the moon was overhead, 
 Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
 " I am half sick of shadows," said 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
 He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
 The sun came dazzling through the leaves. 
 And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
 
 Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
 A red-cross knight forever kneeled 
 To a lady in his shield. 
 That sparkled on the yellow field, 
 
 Eeside remote Shalott 
 
 The gemmy bridle glittered free. 
 Like to some branch of stars we see 
 Hung in the golden galaxy. 
 The bridle-bells rang merrily 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot : 
 And from his blazoned baldric slung, 
 A mighty silver bugle hung. 
 And as he rode his armour rung, 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 All in the blue unclouded weather 
 Thick jewelled shone the saddle leather, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The helmet and the helmet-feather 
 Burned like one burning flame together, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 As often through the purple night, 
 Below the starry clusters bright, 
 Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
 
 Moves over still Shalott. 
 
 His 1:)road clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 
 On burnished liooves his war-horse trode ; 
 From underneath his helmet flowed 
 His coal-black curls as on he rode, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot, 
 From the bank and from the river 
 He flashed into the crystal mirror, 
 " Tirra lirra, " by the river 
 
 Sang Sir Lancelot. 
 
 She left the web, she left the loom, 
 She made three paces through the room. 
 She saw the water-lily bloom. 
 She saw the helmet and the plume, 
 
 She looked down to Camelot. 
 Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
 The mirror cracked from side to side ; 
 " The curse is come upon me," cried 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 In the stormy east-wind straining, 
 The pale yellow M'oods were waning. 
 The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
 Heavily the low sky raining 
 
 Over towered Camelot ; 
 Down she came and found a boat 
 Beneath a willow left afloat, 
 And round about the prow she wrote 
 
 The Lady of Shalott.
 
 CAMELOT. 
 
 And down the river's dim expanse — 
 Like some bold seer in a trance, 
 Seeing all his own mischance — 
 With a glassy countenance 
 
 Did she look to Camelot. 
 And at the closing of the day- 
 She loosed the chain, and down she lay 
 The broad stream bore her far away, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Lying, robed in snowy white 
 That loosely flew to left and right — 
 The leaves upon her falling light — 
 Through the noises of the night 
 
 She floated down to Camelot ; 
 And as the boat-head wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among. 
 They heard her singing her last song, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
 Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
 And her eyes were darkened wholly 
 
 Turned to towered Camelot ; 
 For ere she reached upon the tide 
 The first house by the water-side, 
 Singing in her song she died, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Under tower and balcony. 
 
 By garden-wall and gallery, 
 
 A gleaming shape she floated by, 
 
 Dead-pale between the houses high, 
 
 Silent into Camelot. 
 Out upon the wharfs they came. 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
 And round the prow they read her name. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 131
 
 132 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Who is this ? and what is here ? 
 And in the lighted palace near 
 Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
 And they crossed themselves for fear, 
 
 All the knights at Camelot : 
 But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
 He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
 God in his mercy lend her grace. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott." 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, 
 
 King Ryence's Challenge. 
 
 As it fell out on a Pentecost-day, 
 
 King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall, 
 With his faire queene, Dame Guenever the gay ; 
 
 And many bold barons sitting in hall ; 
 
 With ladies attired in purple and pall ; 
 And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high, 
 Cryed Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie. 
 
 A doughty dwarfe to the uppermost deas 
 
 Right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee ; 
 
 With Steven fulle stoute amids all the preas, 
 
 Sayd : Nowe, Sir King Arthur, God save thee, and see! 
 Sir Ryence of North-gales greeteth well thee, 
 
 And bids thee thy l^eard anon to him send, 
 
 Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend. 
 
 For his robe of state is a rich scarlet mantle, 
 With eleven kings' beards bordered about, 
 
 And there is room lefte yet in a kantle. 
 
 For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out : 
 This must be done, be thou never so stout ; 
 
 This must be done, I tell thee no fable, 
 
 Maugre the teeth of all thy round table. 
 
 When this mortal message from his mouthe past, 
 Great was the noyse bothe in hall and in bower :
 
 CAMELOT. 133 
 
 The king fumed ; the queene screecht ; ladies were 
 aghast ; 
 Princes puffed ; barons blustred ; lords began lower ; 
 Knights stormed ; squires startled, like steeds in a 
 stower ; 
 Pages and yeomen yelled out in the hall, 
 Then in came Sir Kay, the king's seneschal. 
 
 Silence, my soveraignes, quoth this courteous knight. 
 And in that stound the stowre began still : 
 
 Then the dwarfe's dinner full deerely was dight ; 
 Of wine and wassel he had his wille : 
 And, when he had eaten and drunken his fill. 
 
 An hundred pieces of fine coyned gold 
 
 Were given this dwarf for his message bold. 
 
 But say to Sir Ryence, thou dwarf, quoth the king, 
 That for his bold message I do him defye ; 
 
 And shortlye with basins and pans will him ring 
 Out of North-gales ; where he and I 
 With swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye, 
 
 Whether he or King Arthur will prove the best barbor, 
 
 And therewith he shook his good sword Escalabor. 
 
 Percy's Reliques. 
 
 Camelot (Queen's Camel). 
 
 Like Camelot, what place was ever yet renowned ? 
 Where, as at Caerleon oft he kept the Taljle Round, 
 Most famous for the sports at Pentecost so long, 
 From whence all knightly deeds, and brave achievements 
 
 sprung. 
 As some soft-sliding rill, which from a lesser head 
 (Yet in his going forth, by many a fountain fed) 
 Extends itself at length into a goodly stream : 
 So almost through the world his fame flew from this 
 
 realm ;
 
 134 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 That justly I may charge those ancient bards of wrong 
 So idly to neglect his glory in their song : 
 For some abundant brain, O, there had been a story 
 Beyond the blind man's might to have enhanced our 
 glory. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Carisbrooke. 
 
 Carisbrooke Chimes. 
 
 Carisbrooke Church on the fifth of November 
 Flung out the silver hid deep in her chimes ; 
 
 This was her burden, "Be pleased to remember 
 The ill which they did in papistical times !" 
 
 Over the woods and the fields rich with tillage, 
 
 That fairest of islands embellishing still. 
 People who walked in the streets of the village 
 
 Might hear the sweet echoes chime back from the hill. 
 
 I think, my old church, you are somewhat ungracious. 
 And do not remember from whence you descended ; 
 
 Who planned you so skilfully, framed you so spacious. 
 And laid your stone walls with zeal pious and splendid ! 
 
 What was the fount of that bountiful spirit 
 
 Which fashioned each porch to the innermost throne ? 
 
 W'ho pierced the fair windows whose light we inherit. 
 And carved the quaint heads of your corbels of stone ? 
 
 Do you forget how the people rejoiced 
 
 When first you stood finished, the crown of the vale ? 
 What hymns of thanksgiving rose myriad -voiced. 
 
 What rich scent of incense was home on the gale ? 
 
 Or have you forgotten how red were the roses 
 
 Which wreathed the new altar now ancient and gray ?
 
 CARLISLE. 135 
 
 Ah ! many a witness around you reposes, 
 
 Whose dead hps, unsealed, M-ould remember that day! 
 
 Pacing the churchyard by moonlight in summer, 
 Watching the rainbow when green leaves turn sere, 
 
 I think to the heart of a thoughtful new-comer. 
 Each trace of the old Faith should surely be dear. 
 
 All she did here was both noble and tender ; — 
 God save her living core, — peace to her dust ; 
 
 Inspired by her beauty, amazed by her splendour, 
 The poet at least can afford to be just. 
 
 And I cannot endure to hear you assuring, 
 
 At the top of your voice (though a sweet one, 'tis 
 true !) 
 The mother who reared you with love so enduring, 
 That she and her children are nothing to you. 
 
 Bessie Rayner Parkes. 
 
 Carlisle. 
 
 Lines written on a Window-Pane at the 
 Old Bush Hotel. 
 
 Here chicks in eggs for breakfast sprawl ; 
 Here godless boys God's glories squall ; 
 Here heads of Scotchmen guard the wall ; 
 But Corbie walks alone for all. 
 
 David Hume. 
 
 The Sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall. 
 
 She leaned lier head against a thorn, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 
 And there she has her young babe born, 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'.
 
 136 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " Smile no sae sweet, my bonnie babe, 
 The sun shines fair on Cariisle wa' ; 
 An ye smile sae sweet ye '11 smile me dead," 
 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'. 
 ***** 
 
 She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon. 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 
 And there she's buried her sweet babe in, 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'. 
 
 As she was going to the church, 
 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 
 She saw a sweet babe in the porch, 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'. 
 
 " O bonnie babe, an ye were mine. 
 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 I'd dead you in silk and sabelline, — 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'." 
 
 " O mother mine, when I was thine, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 To me ye were na half sae kind. 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'. 
 
 " But now I'm in the heavens hie, 
 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa' ; 
 And ye have tlie pains of hell to dree " — 
 And the lyon shall be lord of a'. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Love shall be Lord of all. 
 
 It was an English ladye bright, 
 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 And she would marry a Scottish knight, 
 For Love will still be lord of all.
 
 CARLISLE. 137 
 
 Blithely they saw the rising sun, 
 
 When he shone fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 But they were sad ere day was done. 
 Though Love was still the lord of all. 
 
 Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine. 
 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall ; 
 
 Her brother gave but a flask of wine. 
 For ire that Love was lord of all. 
 
 For she had lands, both meadow and lea, 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall. 
 
 And he swore her death, ere he would see 
 A Scottish knight the lord of all. 
 
 That wine she had not tasted well, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 When dead in her true love's arms she fell 
 For Love was still the lord of all. 
 
 He pierced her brother to the heart. 
 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall : — 
 
 So perish all would true love part. 
 That Love may still be lord of all ! 
 
 And then he took the cross divine, 
 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 And died for her sake in Palestine ; 
 So Love was still the lord of all. 
 
 Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 Pray for their souls who died for love. 
 For Love shall still be lord of all ! 
 
 Walter Scott.
 
 13S rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Carlisle Yetts. 
 
 White was the rose in his gay bonnet, 
 
 As he faulded me in his broached plaidie, 
 His hand whilk clasped the truth luve, 
 
 O it was ay in battle ready ! 
 His long, long hair in yellow hanks 
 
 Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie ; 
 But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts 
 
 In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie. 
 
 My father's blood's in tliat flower-tap. 
 My brother's in that hare-bell's blossom. 
 
 This white rose was steeped in my luve's blood, 
 An' I '11 ay wear it in my bosom. 
 ***** 
 
 When I came first by merry Cai'lisle, 
 Was ne'er a town sae sweetly seeming ; 
 
 The White Rose flaunted owre the wall. 
 The thristled banners far were streaming ! 
 
 When I came next by merry Carlisle, 
 O sad, sad seemed the town an' eerie ! 
 
 The auld, auld men came out an' wept, 
 
 " O maiden, come ye to seek yer dearie?" 
 ***** 
 
 There's ae drop o' bludc alwecn my breasts. 
 
 An' twa in my links o' hair sae yellow ; 
 The tane I'll ne'er wash, an' the tither ne'er kame. 
 
 But I'll sit an' pray aneath the willow. 
 Wac, wac upon that cruel heart, 
 
 Wae, wae upon that hand sae bloodie. 
 Which feasts in our richest Scottish blude. 
 
 An' makes sae mony a doleful widow. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 CASTLE CLARE. 139 
 
 Carlisle Castle. 
 
 How fair amid the depth of summer green 
 
 Spread forth tliy walls, Carlisle ! Thy castled heights 
 
 Abrupt and lofty ; thy cathedral dome 
 
 ALijestic and alone ; thy beauteous bridge 
 
 Spanning the Eden, where the angler sits 
 
 Patient so long, and marks the browsing sheep 
 
 Like sprinkled snow amid the verdant vales. 
 
 Old Time hath hung upon thy misty walls 
 
 Legends of festal and of warlike deeds, — 
 
 King Arthur's wassail-cup ; the battle-axe 
 
 Of the wild Danish sea-kings ; the fierce beak 
 
 Of Rome's victorious eagle : Pictish spear 
 
 And Scottish claymore in confusion mixed 
 
 With England's clothyard arrow. Evei^ helm 
 
 And dinted cuirass hath some stirring tale, — 
 
 Yet hei'e thou sitt'st as meekly innocent 
 
 As though thine eager lip had never quaffed 
 
 Hot streams of kindred blood. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 
 
 Castle Clare. 
 
 Castle Clare. 
 
 From holly-bush and leafless larch. 
 
 From beech-tree rusty-red, 
 Now music comes to wake the flowers 
 
 That sleep on mossy bed. 
 For lilackbirds pipe upon the elms 
 
 To the echoes hiding there ; 
 And merry and strong the thrushes flute 
 
 All round brave Castle Clare. 
 
 The deer feed in the sloping dell. 
 The swans are on the wave.
 
 I40 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The trout leap up for very joy 
 
 In silver armour brave ; 
 The lark above the fallow sings, 
 
 Poised in the calm blue air, 
 Rejoicing every breeze that blows 
 
 Sweetly o'er Castle Clare. 
 
 Its towers stand grandly in the sun, 
 
 That gilds their circling vanes ; 
 Soft clouds of billowing white roll by 
 
 Laden with gentle rains. 
 The birds upon a thousand trees. 
 
 Like children free from care, 
 Carol in the green spreading parks 
 
 Of leaf-clad Castle Clare. 
 
 Now foals in grassy paddocks pent 
 
 Leap, welcoming the spring ; 
 I am the happiest creature born, 
 
 For Love has crowned me king. 
 Nelly, to-day, with arm in mine. 
 
 Said "Yes" to my fond prayer; 
 And now the meadows seem all flowers 
 
 Around dear Castle Clare. 
 
 Walter Tiiornbury. 
 
 Chalofrove. 
 
 Chalgrove. 
 
 From pious Brittwell pass we now 
 At freedom's honoured shrine to bow 
 On Cliaigrove's neighbouring field ; 
 
 An undistinguished speck it seems. 
 
 Where scarce the sun's refulgent beams 
 One spark of light can yield, — 
 
 A common s]iot of earth, where grows 
 In summer time the yellow corn ;
 
 CHANNEL, THE ENGLISH. 141 
 
 Where now his grain the seedsman throws 
 
 With careful hand from early mom, 
 Yet pauses midst his toil to tell 
 That in that field bold Hampden fell. 
 
 Hampden ! thy name front age to age 
 The patriot heart shall fire ; 
 
 The good, the fair, the brave, the sage, 
 All weep thy funeral pyre. 
 Thy veiy enemy confest 
 The virtues of thy noble breast ; 
 Hard as it is amid the jar 
 Of falling thrones, of ci\al war. 
 To judge of man's inconstant state, 
 Even he confessed thee good and great. 
 How was the Stuart fallen, when thou 
 Didst brave his power with dauntless brow ! 
 How raised when P'alkland by him stood 
 As great as thou, as wise, as good ! 
 
 O who, by equal fame misled. 
 
 Who shall the righteous cause decidcj 
 
 When for his king Lord Falkland bled. 
 When Hampden for his country died ! 
 
 Mary Russell Mxtford. 
 
 Channel, the EngHsh. 
 
 The Arethusa, 
 
 Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, 
 
 Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 
 
 While English glory I unfold, — 
 
 Huzza to the Arethusa ! 
 She is a frigate tight and brave 
 As ever stemmed the dashing wave : 
 Her men are stanch 
 To their favourite launch,
 
 142 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And when the foe shall meet our fire, 
 Sooner than strike, we'll all expire 
 On board of the Arethusa. 
 
 'T was with old Keppel she went out, 
 The English channel to cruise about, 
 When four French sail, in show so stout, 
 
 Bore down on the Arethusa. 
 The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, — 
 The Arethusa seemed to fly ; 
 
 Not a sheet or a tack. 
 Or a brace did she slack ; 
 Though the Frenchman laughed, and thought it stuff; 
 But they knew not the handful of men, how tough. 
 
 On board of the Arethusa. 
 
 On deck five hundred men did dance, 
 The stoutest they could find in France ; 
 We with two hundred did advance. 
 
 On board of the Arethusa, 
 Our captain hailed the Frenchman, " Ho ! " 
 The Frenchman then cried out, "Hallo !" 
 " Bear down, d'ye see. 
 To our admiral's lee." 
 " No, no," says the Frenchman, "that can't be." 
 "Then I must lug you along with me," 
 
 Says the saucy Arethusa. 
 
 The fight was off the Frenchman's land ; 
 We forced them back upon their strand ; 
 For we fought till not a stick would stand 
 
 On board of the Arethusa. 
 And since we've driven the foe ashore, 
 Never to fight with Britons more. 
 Let each fill a glass 
 To his favourite lass ; 
 A health to our captain and ofticers too. 
 And all who belong to the jovial crew 
 On board of the Arethusa. 
 
 Prince Hoare.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 143 
 
 Channel Islands. 
 Channel Islands. 
 
 Thus scarcely said the Muse, but hovering while she 
 
 hung 
 Upon the Celtic wastes, the sea-nymphs loudly sung : 
 O ever-happy Isles, your heads so high that bear, 
 By nature strongly fenced, which never need to fear 
 On Neptune's watery realms when Eolus raiseth wars. 
 And every billow bounds as though to quench the stars : 
 Fair Jersey first of these here scattered in the deep, 
 Peculiarly that boast' st thy double-horned sheep : 
 Inferior nor to thee, thou Jernsey, bravely crowned 
 With rough-imbattled rocks, whose venom-hating ground 
 The hardened emeril hath, which thou abroad dost send 
 Thou Ligon, her beloved, and Serk, that dost attend 
 Her pleasure every hour ; as Jethow, them at need, 
 With pheasants, fallow deer, and conies, that dost feed : 
 Ye seven small sister Isles, and Sorlings, which to see 
 The half-sunk seaman joys, or whatsoe'er you be. 
 From fruitful Aurney, near the ancient Celtic shore. 
 To Ushant and the Seams, whereas those nuns of yore 
 Gave answers from their caves, and took what shapes 
 
 they please : 
 Ye happy Islands set within the British seas, 
 With shrill and jocund shouts the unmeasured deeps 
 
 awake, 
 And let the Gods of sea their secret bowers forsake, 
 Whilst our industrious Muse Great Britain forth shall 
 
 bring, 
 Crowned with those glorious wreaths that beautify the 
 
 spring ; 
 And whilst green Thetis' nymphs, with many an amor- 
 ous lay 
 Sing our invention safe unto her long-wished bay. 
 Upon the utmost end of Cornwall's furrowing beak, 
 Where Bresan from the land the tilting waves doth break ;
 
 144 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The shore let her transcend, the promont to descry, 
 And view about the Point the unnumbered fowl that fly. 
 Some, rising like a storm from off the troubled sand, 
 Seem in their hovering flight to shadow all the land ; 
 Some, sitting on the beach to pmne their painted breasts, 
 As if both earth and air they only did possess. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Charnwood. 
 
 Charnwood. 
 
 O Charnwood, be thou called the choicest of thy kind, 
 The like in any place what flood hath happed to find ? 
 No tract in all this isle, the proudest let her be. 
 Can show a sylvan nymph for beauty like to thee : 
 The satyrs and the fawns, by Dian set to keep, 
 Rough hills and forest holts were sadly seen to weep, 
 When thy high-palmed harts, the sport of bows and 
 
 hounds. 
 By gripple borderers' hands were banished thy grounds. 
 The Driades that were wont about thy lawns to rove, 
 To trip from wood to wood and scud from grove to 
 
 grove, 
 On Sharpley that were seen, and Chadman's aged rocks, 
 Against the rising sun to braid their silver locks ; 
 And witli the harmless elves, on heathy Pardon's height. 
 By Cynthia's colder beams to play them night by night. 
 Exiled their sweet abode, to poor bare commons fled, 
 They with the oaks that lived, now with the oaks are 
 
 dead. 
 Who will describe to life a forest, let him take 
 Thy surface to himself, nor shall he need to make 
 Another form at all, where oft in thee is found 
 Fine sharp but easy hills, which reverently are crowned 
 With aged antique rocks, to which the goats and sheep 
 (To him that stands remote) do softly seem to creep.
 
 CHATSWORTH. 145 
 
 To gnaw the little shrabs on their steep sides that grow ; 
 Upon whose other part on some descending brow, 
 Huge stones are hanging out as though they down 
 
 would drop, 
 Where under-growing oaks on their old shoulders prop 
 The others' hoary heads, which still seem to decline, 
 And in a dimble near (even as a place divine, 
 For contemplation fit) an ivy cieled bower, 
 As nature had therein ordained some sylvan power : 
 As men may very oft at great assemblies see, 
 Where many of most choice and wondered beauties be : 
 For stature one doth seem the best away to bear ; 
 Another for her shape to stand beyond compare ; 
 Another for the fine composure of a face ; 
 Another short of these, yet for a modest grace 
 Before them all preferred ; amongst the rest yet one, 
 Adjudged by all to be so perfect paragon. 
 That all those parts in her together simply dwell, 
 For which the other do so severally excel. 
 My Charnwood, like the last, hath in herself alone 
 What excellent can be in any forest shown. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Chatsworth. 
 
 Chatsworth. 
 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion and the pride 
 Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
 To house and home in many a craggy rent 
 Of the wild Peak ; where new-born waters glide 
 Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide 
 As in a dear and chosen banishment. 
 With every semblance of entire content ; 
 So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried ! 
 Yet he whose heart in childhood gave her troth 
 To pastoral dales, thin set with modest farms, 
 VOL. I. ' L
 
 146 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, 
 That not for Fancy only pomp hath charms ; 
 And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 
 The extremes of favoured life, may honour both. 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Chepstow. 
 The Norman Horseshoe. 
 
 Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds 
 And hammers din, and anvil sounds, 
 And armourers, with iron toil. 
 Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
 Foul fall the hand which bends the steel 
 Aroimd the courser's thundering heel, 
 That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
 On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ! 
 
 From Chepstow's towers, ei^e dawn of mom : 
 
 Was heard afar the bugle horn : 
 
 And forth, in banded pomp and pride, 
 
 Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 
 
 They swore, their jjanners broad should gleam, 
 
 In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ; 
 
 They vowed, Caerpliili's sod should feel 
 
 The Norman charger's spurning heel. 
 
 And sooth they swore, — the sun arose, 
 And Rymny's wave with crimson glows ; 
 For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
 Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide ! 
 And sooth they vowed, — the trampled green 
 Showed where hot Neville's charge had been : 
 In every sable hoof-tramp stood 
 A Norman horseman's curdling blood ! 
 
 Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil, 
 That armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil ;
 
 CHERTSEY. 147 
 
 Their orjDhans long the art may rue, 
 For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 
 No more the stamp of armed steed 
 Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ; 
 Nor trace be there in early spring, 
 Save of the fairies' emerald ring. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Chertsey. 
 
 Epitaph on the Living Author. 
 
 Here, stranger, in this humble nest. 
 Here Cowley sleeps ; here lies, 
 'Scaped all the toils that life molest, 
 And its superfluous joys. 
 
 Here, in no sordid poverty, 
 And no inglorious ease. 
 He braves the world, and can defy 
 Its frowns and flatteries. 
 
 The little earth, he asks, survey ; 
 
 Is he not dead, indeed ? 
 *' Light lie that earth," good stranger, pray, 
 " Nor thom upon it breed !" 
 
 With flowers, fit emblem of his fame, 
 Compass your poet round ; 
 With flowers of every fragrant name 
 Be his warm ashes crowned ! 
 
 Abraham Cowley.
 
 148 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Cherwell, the River. 
 To THE River Cherwell, Oxford. 
 
 Cherwell ! how pleased along thy willowed hedge 
 Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began 
 To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan, 
 Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge ! 
 And now, reposing on thy banks once more, 
 I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay 
 Whose music on my melancholy way 
 I wooed : amid thy waving willows hoar 
 Seeking awhile to rest, — till the bright sun 
 Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous bow 
 Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below : 
 Whate'er betide, j'et something have I won 
 Of solace, that may bear me on serene. 
 Till Eve's last hush shall close the silent scene, 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Cherwell, from the Terrace. 
 
 'Tis evening ! With a mind to which the shade 
 
 Somewhat of its own sombre hues hath lent, 
 
 On the old terrace-wall far forward bent, 
 
 I watch, while slowly the last sunbeams fade 
 
 Behind the trees of Christ-Church' lengthened glade, 
 
 Cherwell, thy tributary waters glide 
 
 Onward to Isis' breast, a silver tide. 
 
 Winding, 'mid willow-drooping banks embayed ; 
 
 Yes ! typical thine unambitious flow. 
 
 Of those brief years to lone seclusion given, 
 
 When studious days in modest current go. 
 
 Noiseless, unruffled, swift, unsullied, even, 
 
 Unrippled, foamless, eddyless, till hurled 
 
 Into the larger waters of the world !
 
 CHESHIRE. 149 
 
 Aristocratic stream ! Thou who dost broolc 
 No trade upon thy waters ! never soil 
 Thy purity the barge and sons of toil ! 
 For gentle lovers only dost thou look : 
 Ne'er hast thou been, ne'er shall thou be, forsook 
 By Youth and Pleasure, who with dripping oar 
 Through the green meadows on thy banks explore 
 Each azure bend, and lily-bearing nook ; 
 The pool by bathers sought, glassy and still : 
 The shady reach where the dark willows bend : 
 Thine angler-haunted current by the mill : — 
 Beautiful river ! why should I rehearse 
 Faintly thy charms, when he who was my friend 
 Hath given thee sweeter and more burning verse ? 
 John Bruce Norton. 
 
 Cheshire. 
 
 Cheshire. 
 
 O THOU thrice happy shire, confined so to be 
 Twixt two so famous floods as Mersey is and Dee. 
 Thy Dee upon the west from Wales doth thee divide ; 
 Thy Mersey on the north, from the Lancastrian side, 
 Thy natural sister shire ; and linked unto thee so, 
 That Lancashire along with Cheshire still doth go. 
 As towards the Derbian Peak, and Moreland (which do 
 
 draw 
 More mountainous and wild) the high-crowned Shut- 
 
 lingslawe 
 And Molcop be thy mounds, with those proud hills 
 
 whence rove 
 The lovely sister brooks, the silveiy Dane and Dove ; 
 Clear Dove, that makes to Trent ; the other to the west. 
 But, in that famous town, most happy of the rest
 
 ISO POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 (From which thou tak'st thy name), fair Chester, called 
 
 of old 
 Carelegion ; whilst pi'oud Rome her conquests here did 
 
 hold. 
 Of those her legions known the faithful station then, 
 So stoutly held to tack by those near North-Wales men ; 
 Yet by her own right name had rather called be, 
 As her the Briton termed, The Fortress upon Dee, 
 Then vainly she would seem a miracle to stand, 
 The imaginary work of some huge giant's hand. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 Chester. 
 
 Chester. 
 
 How channed we pilgrims from the eager West, 
 Where only life, and not its scene is old, 
 
 Beside the hearth at Chester's inn at rest, 
 Her ancient story to each other told ! 
 
 The holly-wreath and dial's moon-orbed face, 
 The Gothic tankard crowned with beaded ale, 
 
 The faded aquatint of Chevy Chase, 
 
 And heirloom Bible, harmonised the tale. 
 
 Then roamed we forth as in a wondrous dream. 
 Whose visions truth could only half eclipse ; 
 
 The turret sliadows living pliantoms seem, 
 
 And mill-sluice brawl tlic moan of ghostly lips. 
 
 Night and her planet their enchantments wove. 
 To wake tlie brooding spirits of the past ; 
 
 A Druid's sickle glistened in the grove, 
 
 And Harold's war-cry died upon the blast. 
 
 The floating mist that hung on Brewer's hill 
 
 (While every heart-beat seemed a sentry's tramp), 
 
 In tented domes and bannered folds grew still. 
 As rose the psalm from Cromwell's wary camp.
 
 CHESTER. 151 
 
 From ivied tower, above the meadows sere, 
 
 We watched the fray with hunted Charles of yore, 
 
 When grappled Puritan and Cavalier, 
 
 And sunk a traitor's throne on Rowton Moor. 
 
 We tracked the ramparts in the lunar gloom, 
 Knelt by the peasants at St. Mary's shrine ; 
 
 With his own hermit mused at Parnell's tomb. 
 And breathed the cadence of his pensive line. 
 
 Beneath a gable mouldering and low. 
 The pious record we could still descry, 
 
 Which, in the pestilence of old De Foe, 
 
 Proclaimed that here death's angel flitted by. 
 
 At morn the venders in the minster's shade, 
 
 With gleaming scales and plumage at their feet, 
 
 Seemed figures on the canvas of Ostade, 
 Where mart and temple so benignly meet. 
 
 Of Holland whispered then the sullen barge, 
 We tliought of Venice by the hushed canal. 
 
 And hailed each relic on time's voiceless marge, — 
 Sepulchral lamp and clouded lachiymal. 
 
 The quaint arcades of traffic's feudal range. 
 
 And giant fossils of a lustier crew ; 
 The diamond casements and the moated grange. 
 
 Tradition's lapsuig fantasies renew. 
 
 The oaken effigies of buried earls, 
 
 A \\-indow blazoned with armorial crest, 
 
 A rusted helm, and standard's broidered furls, 
 Chivalric eras patiently attest. 
 
 Here William's castle frowns upon the tide ; 
 
 There holy Werburgh keeps aerial sway. 
 To warn the minions who complacent glide. 
 
 And swell ambition's retinue to-day.
 
 152 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Once more we sought the parapet, to gaze, 
 
 And mark the hoar-frost ghnt along the dales ; 
 
 Or through the wind-cleft vistas of the haze, 
 Welcome afar the mountain-ridge of Wales. 
 
 Ah, what a respite from the onward surge 
 Of life, where all is turbulent and free, 
 
 To pause awhile upon the quiet verge 
 Of olden memories beside the Dee ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Chichester. 
 
 Epitaph in Chichester Cathedral on 
 William Collins, 
 
 WHO DIED THE I2TH OF JUNE I 759. AGED 39. 
 
 Ye who the merits of the dead revere, 
 
 Who hold misfortune sacred, genius dear, 
 
 Regard this tomb, where Collins, hapless name ! 
 
 Solicits kindness with a double claim. 
 
 Though Nature gave him, and though Science taught. 
 
 The fire of fancy and the reach of thought ; 
 
 Severely doomed to penury's extreme. 
 
 He passed in maddening pains life's feverish dream ; 
 
 While rays of genius only served to show 
 
 The thickening horror, and exalt his woe. 
 
 Ye walls, that echoed to his frantic moan. 
 
 Guard the due record of this grateful stone. 
 
 Strangers to him, enamoured of his lays, 
 
 This fond memorial to his talents raise ; 
 
 For this the ashes of a bard require, 
 
 Who touched tlie tenderest notes of Pity's lyre ; 
 
 Who joined pure faith to strong poetic powers ; 
 
 Who, in reviving reason's lucid hours, 
 
 Sought on one book his trouljled mind to rest, 
 
 And rightly deemed the book of God the best. 
 
 William Hayley.
 
 CINQUE PORTS. 153 
 
 Chllllngton. 
 Inscription for a Stone 
 
 ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT 
 CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ., I79O. 
 
 Other stones the era tell 
 When some feeble mortal fell ; 
 I stand here to date the birth 
 Of these hardy sons of earth. 
 
 Which shall longest brave the sky, 
 Storm and frost, — these oaks or I ? 
 Pass an age or two away, 
 I must moulder and decay ; 
 But the years that crumble me 
 Shall invigorate the tree. 
 Spread its branch, dilate its size, 
 Lift its summit to the skies. 
 
 Cherish honour, virtue, truth, 
 So shalt thou prolong thy youth. 
 Wanting these, however fast 
 Man be fixed and formed to last. 
 He is lifeless even now, 
 Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 Cinque Ports. 
 The Warden of the Cinque Ports. 
 
 A MIST was driving down the British Channel, 
 
 The day was just begun, 
 And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 
 
 Streamed the red autumn sun. 
 
 It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon. 
 And the white sails of ships ;
 
 IS4 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 
 Hailed it with feverish hps. 
 
 Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 
 
 Were all alert that day, 
 To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 
 
 When the fog cleared away. 
 
 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions. 
 
 Their cannon, through the night, 
 Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 
 
 The sea-coast opposite. 
 
 And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 
 
 On every citadel ; 
 Each answering each, with morning salutations, 
 
 That all was well. 
 
 And dovni the coast, all taking up the burden. 
 
 Replied the distant forts. 
 As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 
 
 And Lord of the Cinque Forts. 
 
 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 
 
 No drum-beat from the wall, 
 No morning gim from the black fort's embrasure, 
 
 Awaken with its call ! 
 
 No more, sun'eying with an eye impartial 
 
 The long line of the coast. 
 Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 
 
 Be seen upon his post ! 
 
 For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 
 
 In sombre harness mailed. 
 Dreaded of man, and surnamcd the Destroyer, 
 
 The rampart wall had scaled. 
 
 He passed into the chamber of the sleeper. 
 The dark and silent room.
 
 CLAPHAM. 155 
 
 And as he entered, d^ker grew, and deeper, 
 The silence and the gloom. 
 
 He did not pause to parley or dissemble. 
 
 But smote the Warden hoar ; 
 Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble 
 
 And groan from shore to shore. 
 
 Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 
 
 The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
 Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
 
 That a great man was dead. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 Clapham. 
 Ode 
 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
 That classic house, those classic grounds 
 
 My pensive thought recalls ! 
 "What tender urchins now confine, 
 What little captives now repine, 
 
 Within yon irksome walls ! 
 
 Ay, that 's the very house ! I know 
 Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! 
 
 Its chimneys in the rear ! 
 And there's the iron rod so high, 
 That drew the thunder from the sky 
 
 And turned our table-beer ! 
 
 There I was birched ! there I was bred ! 
 There like a little Adam fed 
 
 From Learning's woful tree ! — 
 The weary tasks I used to con ! 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! 
 
 Most fruitless leaves to me !
 
 156 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The summoned class ! — tSe awful bow ! — 
 I wonder who is master now 
 
 And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 How many maids to see the boys 
 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 And Mrs. S * * * ?— Doth she abet 
 (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 
 
 Some favoured two or three, — 
 The little Crichtons of the hour. 
 Her muffin-medals that devour, 
 
 And swill her prize — Bohea ? 
 
 Ay, there's the playground ! there's the lime. 
 Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 
 
 So wildly I have read ! — 
 Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
 Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 
 
 Of love and cottage-bread ? 
 
 Who struts the Randall of the walk ? 
 Who models tiny heads in chalk ? 
 
 Who scoops the light canoe ? 
 What early genius buds apace ? 
 Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? 
 
 Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 
 
 Alack ! they 're gone — a thousand ways ! 
 And some are serving in "The Greys," 
 
 And some have perisiied young ! — 
 Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
 Llal Baylis drives the wane of life ; 
 
 And blithe Carew — is hung ! 
 
 Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
 To savages at Owhyee ; 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
 All, all are gone, — the olden breed ! 
 New crops of musiiroom boys succeed, 
 
 " And pusii us from our forms ! "
 
 CLAPHAM. 
 
 Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about, 
 
 At play where we have played ! 
 Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, 
 
 And some are in the shade ! 
 
 Lo ! there what mixed conditions run : 
 The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 
 
 And fortune's favoured care, — 
 The wealthy born, for whom she hath 
 Macadamised the future path, — 
 
 The nabob's pampered heir ! 
 
 Some brightly starred, some evil bom ; 
 For honour some, and some for scorn ; 
 
 For fair or foul renown ! 
 Good, bad, indifferent, — none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there's a Black ! 
 
 And there's a Creole brown ! 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ; 
 Some tease the future tense, and plan 
 The full-grown doings of the man, 
 
 And pant for years to come ! 
 
 A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop ; 
 And four at fives ! and five who stoop 
 
 The marble taw to speed ! 
 And one that cun-ets in and out, 
 Reining his fellow cob about, — 
 
 Would I were in his steed ! 
 
 Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
 That boyish harness off, to swop 
 
 With this world's heavy van, — 
 To toil, to tug. O little fool ! 
 While thou canst be a horse at school. 
 
 To wish to be a man ! 
 
 157
 
 158 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
 To wear a crown, — to be a king ! 
 
 And sleep on regal down ! 
 Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
 Far happier is thy head that wears 
 
 That hat without a crown ! 
 
 And dost thou think that years acquire 
 New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 
 
 More happy than his son ? 
 That manhood's mirth ? — O, go thy ways 
 To Druiy Lane when plays, 
 
 And see how forced our fun ! 
 
 Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no delight ! — 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame. 
 And 'tis at best a soriy game 
 
 To fly the Muse's kite ! 
 
 Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
 Our topmost joys fall dull and dead. 
 
 Like balls with no rebound ! 
 And often with a faded eye 
 We look behind, and send a sigh 
 
 Towards that merry ground ! 
 
 Then be contented. Thou hast got 
 The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 
 
 There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
 Thou 'It find thy manhood all too fast, — 
 Soon come, soon gone ! and age at last 
 
 A sorry breaking up ! 
 
 Thomas Hood.
 
 CLEVEDON— CLIFTON. 159 
 
 Clevedon. 
 
 Hallam's Grave. 
 
 When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
 I know that in thy place of rest 
 By that broad water of the west 
 
 There comes a glory on the walls : 
 
 Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
 
 As slowly steals a silver flame 
 
 Along the letters of thy name. 
 And o'er the number of thy years. 
 
 The mystic glory swims away ; 
 
 From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 
 
 And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
 I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 
 
 And then I know the mist is drawn 
 A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
 And in the chancel like a ghost 
 
 Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Clifton. 
 Clifton. 
 
 Clifton, in vain thy varied scenes invite, — 
 The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height ; 
 The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme, 
 Untune the distant churches' mellow chime : 
 As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps, 
 And shake above our heads the craggy steeps. 
 Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
 "While light and darkness seize the changeful oar ; 
 The frolic Naiads drawing from below 
 A net of silver round the black canoe.
 
 i6o POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Now the last lonely solace must it be 
 To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea. 
 Then join my friends, and let those friends believe 
 My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 The Bridge between Clifton and Leigh 
 Woods. 
 
 Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, 
 
 Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand. 
 
 Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand 
 
 Severed forever ! The vast ocean-tide, 
 
 Leaving its roar without at his command. 
 
 Shrank, and beneath the woods through the green land 
 
 Went gently murmuring on, so to deride 
 
 The frowning barriers that its force defied ! 
 
 But Art, high o'er the trailing smoke below 
 
 Of sea-bound steamer, on yon summit's head 
 
 Sat musing ; and where scarce a wandering crow 
 
 Sailed o'er the chasm, in thought a highway led ; 
 
 Conquering as by an arrow from a bow. 
 
 The scene's lone genius by her elfin-thread. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Clovelly. 
 
 Clovelly. 
 
 'Tis eve ! 'tis glimmering eve ! how fair the scene, 
 
 Touched by the soft hues of the dreamy west ! 
 Dim hills afar, and haj^py vales between. 
 
 With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest : 
 Beneath, the sea ! by Eve's fond gale caressed, 
 
 'Mid groves of living green that fringe its side; 
 Dark sails that gleam on ocean's heaving breast 
 From the glad fisher-barks that homeward glide, 
 
 To make Clovelly's shores at pleasant evening-tide.
 
 CLOVELLY. i6i 
 
 Hearken ! the mingling sounds of earth and sea, 
 
 The pastoral music of the bleating flock, 
 Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody, 
 
 The waves' deep murmur to the unheeding rock ; 
 And ever and anon the impatient shock 
 
 Of some strong billow on the sounding shore : 
 And hark ! the rowers' deep and well-known stroke, 
 
 Glad hearts are there, and joyful hearts once more 
 
 Furrow the whitening wave with their returning oar. 
 
 But turn where Art with votive hand hath twined 
 A living wreath for Nature's grateful brow, 
 
 Where the lone wanderer's raptured footsteps wind 
 
 'Mid rock, and glancing stream, and shadowy bough ; 
 
 Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow 
 The intruding sunbeam in their shade to dwell. 
 
 There doth the sea-maid breathe her human vow, — 
 So village maidens in their envy tell, — 
 Won from her dark-blue home by that alluring dell. 
 
 A softer beauty floats along the sky. 
 
 The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless wave ; 
 
 Far off, the night-winds steal away and die. 
 Or sleep in music in their ocean cave : 
 
 Tall oaks, whose strength the giant-storm might brave, 
 Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea ; 
 
 Nor can yon mountain raun forbear to lave 
 Her blushing clusters where the waters be. 
 Murmuring around her home such touching melody. 
 
 Thou, quaint Clovelly ! in thy shades of rest, 
 
 When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped, 
 Or Summer pours from her redundant breast 
 
 All fruits and flowers along thy valley's bed : 
 Yes ! and when Autumn's golden glories spread, 
 
 Till we forget near Winter's withering rage, 
 What fairer path shall woo the wanderer's tread, 
 
 Soothe wearied hope and worn regret assuage ? 
 
 Lo I for firm youth a bower, a home for lapsing age. 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Cockermouth. 
 In sight of the town of Cockermouth, 
 
 WHERE THE AUTHOR WAS BORN, AND HIS FATHER'S 
 REMAINS ARE LAID. 
 
 A POINT of life between my parents' dust 
 And yours, my buried little ones ! am I ; 
 And to those graves looking habitually, 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I must : 
 And you, my offspring ! that do still remain. 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's space. 
 The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth 
 Castle. 
 
 "Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 
 Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years. 
 We, differing once so much, are now compeers. 
 Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 
 Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
 United us ; when thou, in boyish play. 
 Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 Of light was there ; and thus did I, thy tutor. 
 Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave ; 
 While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly 
 Through my green courts ; or climbing, a bold suitor,
 
 CORBY— CORSTON. 163 
 
 Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
 
 Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave." 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Corby. 
 
 Monument of Mrs. Howard, 
 
 IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE BANKS 
 OF THE EDEN. 
 
 Stretched on the dying mother's lap lies dead 
 
 Her new-born babe ; dire ending of bright hope ! 
 
 But sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
 
 Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head 
 
 So patiently ; and through one hand has spread 
 
 A touch so tender for the insensate child, — 
 
 (Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled. 
 
 Brief parting, for the spirit is all but fled), — 
 
 That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
 
 Through this still medium, are consoled and cheered ; 
 
 Feel with the mother, think the severed wife 
 
 Is less to be lamented than revered ; 
 
 And own that art, triumphant over strife 
 
 And pain, hath powers to eternity endeared. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Corston. 
 
 CORSTON. 
 
 As thus I stand beside the murmuring stream, 
 And watch its current. Memory here portrays 
 Scenes faintly formed of half-forgotten days. 
 Like far-off M^oodlands by the moon's bright beam 
 Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn 
 Amid these haunts the hea\^ hours away, 
 W^hen childhood idled through the sabbath day ;
 
 i64 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ; 
 And, when the summer twilight darkened here, 
 Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn, 
 Have sighed, and shed in secret many a tear. 
 Dreamlike and indistinct those days appear, 
 As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne 
 Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 The Retrospect. 
 
 CoRSTON, twelve years in various fortunes fled 
 Have passed with restless progress o'er my head. 
 Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, 
 I dwelt an inmate of the village school. 
 Yet still will Memoiy's busy eye retrace 
 Each little vestige of the well-known place ; 
 Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy. 
 Where merriment has cheered the careless boy ; 
 Well pleased will Fancy still the spot survey 
 Where once he triumphed in the boyish play. 
 Without one care where every morn he rose, 
 Where every evening sunk to calm repose. 
 
 Large was the house, though fallen, in course of fate, 
 
 From its old grandeur and manorial state. 
 
 Lord of the manor, here the jovial squire 
 
 Once called his tenants round the crackling fire ; 
 
 Here, while the glow of joy suffused his face, 
 
 He told his ancient exploits in the chase, 
 
 And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, 
 
 He lit again the pipe and filled again the glass. 
 
 But now no more was heard at early morn 
 The echoing clangour of the huntsman's hom ; 
 No more the eager hounds with deepening cry 
 Leaped round him as they knew their pastime nigh ;
 
 CORSTON. 165 
 
 The squire no more obeyed the moniing call, 
 Nor favourite spaniels filled the sportsman's hall ; 
 For he, the last descendant of his race, 
 Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chase. 
 There now in petty empire o'er the school 
 The mighty master held despotic rule ; 
 Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw. 
 His look a mandate and his word a law ; 
 Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien. 
 And wondrous strict he was, and wondrous wise I ween. 
 ***** 
 
 Such was my state in those remembered years, 
 
 When two small acres bounded all my fears ; 
 
 And therefore still with pleasure I recall 
 
 The tapestried school ; the bright, brown-boarded hall ; 
 
 The murmuring brook, that every morning saw 
 
 The due observance of the cleanly law ; 
 
 The walnuts, where, when favour would allow, 
 
 Full oft I went to search each well-stripped bough ; 
 
 The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard 
 
 With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board : 
 
 These trifling objects then my heart possessed, 
 
 These trifling objects still remain impressed ; 
 
 So, when with unskilled hand some idle hind 
 
 Carves his rude name within a sapling's rind, 
 
 In after-years the peasant lives to see 
 
 The expanding letters grow as grows the tree ; 
 
 Though every winter's desolating sway 
 
 Shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away. 
 
 That rude inscription uneffaced will last. 
 
 Unaltered by the storm or wintry blast. 
 
 ♦ * » * ♦ 
 
 Cold was the morn, and bleak tlie wintry bla^t 
 Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. 
 My bosom bounded as I wandered round 
 With silent step the long-remembered ground. 
 Where I liad loitered out so many an hour. 
 Chased the gay butterfly, and culled the flower.
 
 1 66 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, 
 Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. 
 I saw the church where I had slept away 
 The tedious service of the summer day ; 
 Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told, 
 In winter waked and shivered with the cold. 
 Oft have my footsteps roamed the sacred groimd 
 Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around ; 
 Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, 
 Or aged convent tottering to its fall ; 
 Yet never had my bosom felt such pain. 
 As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again ; 
 For many a long-lost pleasure came to view, 
 For many a long-past sorrow rose anew ; 
 Where whilom all were friends I stood alone, 
 Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 Coventry. 
 
 GODIVA. 
 
 I WAITED for the train at Coventry ; 
 I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, 
 To watch the three tall spires : and there I shaped 
 The city's ancient legend into this : — 
 
 Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
 New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
 Cry down the past ; not only we, that prate 
 Of riglits and wrongs, have loved the people well 
 And loathed to see them overtaxed ; but she 
 Did more, and underwent, and overcame. 
 The woman of a thousand summers back, 
 Godiva, wife to that grim earl who ruled 
 In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
 Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
 Their children clamouring, " If we pay, we starve !,"
 
 COVENTRY. 167 
 
 She sought her lord, and found him where he strode, 
 
 About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
 
 His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
 
 A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 
 
 And prayed him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." 
 
 Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed, 
 
 " You would not let your little finger ache 
 
 For such as these t" — "But I would die," said she. 
 
 He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul ; 
 
 Then filliped at the diamond in her ear, 
 
 " O, ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — " Alas ! " she said, 
 
 " But prove me what it is I would not do." 
 
 And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 
 
 He answered, "Ride you naked through the town. 
 
 And I repeal it " ; and nodding as in scorn. 
 
 He parted, with great strides, among his dogs ! 
 
 So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
 As winds from all the compass shift and blow, 
 Made war upon each other for an hour. 
 Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
 And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
 The hard condition, but that she would loose 
 The people ; therefore, as they loved her well, 
 From then till noon no foot should pace the street, 
 No eye look down, she passing, but that all 
 Should keep within, door shut and window barred. 
 Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
 Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt. 
 The grim earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
 She lingered, looking like a summer moon 
 Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, 
 And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 
 Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
 Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
 From pillar unto pillar, until she reached 
 The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt 
 In purple blazoned with annorial gold. 
 
 Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity :
 
 i68 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The deep air listened round her as she rode, 
 And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
 The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spout 
 Plad cunning eyes to see ; the barking cur 
 Made her cheek flame ; her palfrey's footfall shot 
 Light horrors through her pulses ; the blind walls 
 Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
 Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
 Not less through all bore up, till, last, she saw 
 The white-flowered elder-thicket from the field 
 Gleam through the Gothic archways in the wall. 
 Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : 
 And one low churl, compact of thankless earth. 
 The fatal byword of all years to come. 
 Boring a little auger-hole in fear. 
 Peeped ; but his eyes, before they had their will, 
 Were shrivelled into darkness in his head. 
 And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
 On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused ; 
 And she, that knew not, passed : and all at once. 
 With twelve great shocks of soimd, the shameless noon 
 Was clashed and hammered from a hundred towers. 
 One after one : but even then she gained 
 Her bower ; whence re-issuing, robed and crowned. 
 To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
 And built herself an everlasting name. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Croglln, the River. 
 
 Nunnery Dell. 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary ; 
 
 Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely sweeps 
 
 Croglin, the stately Eden's tributaiy ! 
 
 He raves, or tlirougli some moody jiassage creeps. 
 
 Plotting new mischief; out again he leaps 
 
 Into broad light, and sends, through regions airy,
 
 CROYLAND. 169 
 
 That voice which soothed the nuns while on the steeps 
 They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary. 
 That union ceased ; then, cleaving easy walks 
 Through crags, and smoothing paths beset with danger, 
 Came studious Taste ; and many a pensive stranger 
 Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. 
 What change shall happen next to Nimnery Dell ? 
 Canal, and viaduct, and railway tell ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Croyland. 
 King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn. 
 
 WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
 Ere yet his last he breathed, 
 
 To the merry monks of Croyland 
 His drinking-hom bequeathed, — 
 
 That, whenever they sat at their revels. 
 And drank from the golden bowl, 
 
 They might remember the donor. 
 And breathe a prayer for his soul. 
 
 So sat they once at Christmas, 
 
 And bade the goblet pass ; 
 In their beards the red wine glistened 
 
 Like dew-drops in the grass. 
 
 They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
 They drank to Christ the Lord, 
 
 And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
 Who had preached his holy word. 
 
 They drank to the saints and martyrs 
 Of the dismal days of yore, 
 
 And as soon as the horn was empty 
 They remembered one saint more.
 
 I70 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
 Like the murmur of many bees, 
 
 The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
 And Saint Basil's homilies ; 
 
 Till the great bells of the convent, 
 From their prison in the tower, 
 
 Guthlac and Bartholomseus, 
 Proclaimed the midnight hour. 
 
 And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, 
 And the abbot bowed his head. 
 
 And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 
 But the abbot was stark and dead. 
 
 Yet still in his pallid fingers 
 
 He clutched the golden bowl, 
 In which, like a pearl dissolving. 
 
 Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 
 
 But not for this their revels 
 
 The jovial monks forbore ; 
 For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 
 
 We must drink to one saint more ! " 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 Culbone (Culborne). 
 
 CULBONE, OR KiTNORE, SOMERSET. 
 
 Culbone is a small village, embowered in lofty wooded hills, on 
 the coast between Porlock and Linton. For three months in winter 
 its inhabitants are unvisited by the sun. 
 
 Half-way upon the cliff I musing stood 
 O'er thy sea-fronting hollow, while the smoke 
 Curled from thy cottage chimneys through the wood 
 And brooded on the steeps of glooming oak ; 
 Under a dark green buttress of the hill 
 Looked out thy lowly house of sabbath prayer ;
 
 CUMNOR HALL. 171 
 
 The sea was calm below ; only thy rill 
 
 Talked to itself upon the quiet air. 
 
 Yet in this quaint and sportive-seeming dell 
 
 Hath, through the silent ages that are gone, 
 
 A stream of human things been passing on, 
 
 Whose unrecorded story none may tell, 
 
 Nor count the troths in that low chancel given. 
 
 And souls from yonder cabin fled to heaven. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Cumnor Hall. 
 
 CuMNOR Hall. 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall ; 
 
 The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
 Silvered the walls of Cummor Hall, 
 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now naught was heard beneath the skies, 
 The sounds of busy life were still. 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs. 
 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 "Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love, 
 That thou so oft has sworn to me. 
 To leave me in this lonely grove. 
 Immured in shameful privity ? 
 
 " No more thou com'st with lover's speed 
 Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
 But be she alive or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. 
 
 " Not so the usage I received 
 
 When happy in my father's hall ; 
 No faithless husband then me grieved, 
 No chilling fears did me appal.
 
 172 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " I rose up with the cheerful morn, — 
 
 No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 
 And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
 So merrily sung the livelong day. 
 
 " If that my beauty is but small, 
 
 Among court ladies all despised, 
 Why didst thou rend it from that hall 
 
 Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized ? 
 
 " And when you first to me made suit. 
 How fair I was ! you oft would say ; 
 And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, 
 Then left the blossom to decay. 
 
 " Yes ! now neglected and despised. 
 The rose is pale, the lily's dead ; 
 But he that once their charms so prized 
 Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 
 
 " For know, when sickening grief doth prey, 
 And tender love's repaid with scorn, 
 The sweetest beauty will decay : 
 
 What floweret can endure the stonn ? 
 
 " At court, I 'm told, is beauty's throne, 
 Where every lady 's passing rare, 
 That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun. 
 Are not so glowing, not so fair. 
 
 " Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
 Where roses and where lilies vie, 
 To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
 Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 
 
 " 'Mong rural beauties I was one. 
 
 Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; 
 Some country swain might me have won. 
 And thought my beauty passing rare.
 
 CUMNOR HALL. 173 
 
 " But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), 
 Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 
 Rather ambition's gilded crown 
 
 Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 
 
 " Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 (The injured surely may repine !) — 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine ? 
 
 " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 And, oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
 Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
 Then leave to mourn the livelong day ? 
 
 " The village maidens of the plain 
 
 Salute me lowly as they go ; 
 ■ Envious they mark my silken train, 
 Nor think a countess can have woe. 
 
 " The simple nymphs ! they little know 
 How far more happy 's their estate ; 
 To smile for joy than sigh for woe. 
 To be content than to be great. 
 
 " How far less blest am I than them ! 
 Daily to pine and waste with care. 
 Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 
 Divided, feels the chilling air. 
 
 *' Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy 
 
 The humble charms of solitude ; 
 Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
 By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 
 
 " Last night, as sad I chanced to stray. 
 The village death-bell smote my ear ; 
 They winked aside, and seemed to say, 
 * Countess, prepare, thy end is near ! '
 
 174 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " And now, while happy peasants sleep, 
 Here 1 sit lonely and forlorn ; 
 No one to soothe me as I weep, 
 Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 
 
 " My spirits flag, my hopes decay, 
 
 Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; 
 And many a boding seems to say, 
 ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near ! ' " 
 
 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, 
 In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear ; 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appeared, 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear. 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, '. 
 And many a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring 
 An aerial voice was heard to call. 
 
 And thrice the raven flapped its wing 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The mastiff howled at village door. 
 
 The oaks were shattered on the green ; 
 
 Woe was the hour ; for never more 
 That hapless countess e'er was seen ! 
 
 And in that manor now no more 
 Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 
 
 For ever since that dreary hour 
 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The village maids with fearful glance 
 Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, 
 
 Nor ever lead the merry dance 
 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
 
 DALE ABBEY. 175 
 
 Full many a traveller oft hath sighed. 
 And pensive wept the countess' fall, 
 
 As wandering onwards they've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 William Julius Mickle. 
 
 Dale Abbey. 
 Dale Abbey. 
 
 A SOLITARY arch in the middle of an open meadow, and a small 
 oratory more ancient than the monastery itself, — now the chapel of 
 ease for the hamlet, — are alone conspicuous of all the magnificent 
 structures which once occupied this ground. The site is about five 
 miles north-east from Derby. 
 
 I. 
 
 The glory hath departed from thee, Dale ! 
 
 Thy gorgeous pageant of monastic pride, — 
 
 A power that once the power of kings defied. 
 Which tmth and reason might in vain assail, 
 In mock humility usurped tliis vale. 
 
 And lorded o'er the region far and wide ; 
 
 Darkness to light, evil to good allied, 
 Had wrought a charm, which made all hearts to quail. 
 
 What gave that power dominion on this ground. 
 Age after age ? — the Word of God was bound ! — 
 At length the mighty captive burst from thrall, 
 O'ertumed the spiritual bastile in its march. 
 And left of ancient grandeur this sole arch. 
 
 Whose stones cry out, "Thus Bal^ylon herself shall 
 fall." 
 
 ir. 
 
 More beautiful in ruin than in prime, 
 
 Methinks this frail yet firm memorial stands. 
 The work of heads laid low, and buried hands : 
 
 Now slowly mouldering to the touch of time, 
 
 It looks abroad, unconsciously sublime,
 
 176 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Where sky above and earth beneath expands : 
 And yet a nobler rehc still demands 
 The grateful homage of a passing rhyme. 
 
 Beneath the cliff yon humble roof behold ! 
 Poor as our Saviour's birthplace ; yet a fold, 
 
 Where the good shepherd, in this quiet vale, 
 Gathers his flock, and feeds them, as of old, 
 
 With bread from heaven : — I change my note ; — all 
 
 hail ! 
 The glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. Dale ! 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 Darley Dale. 
 
 A Tradition of Oker Hill in Darley 
 Dale, Derbyshire. 
 
 'T IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
 
 Two brothers clomb, and, turning face from face, 
 
 Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still 
 
 Or feed, each planted on that lofty place 
 
 A chosen tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
 
 Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they 
 
 In opposite directions urged their way 
 
 Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill 
 
 Or blight that fond memorial ; — the trees grew, 
 
 And now entwine their amis ; but ne'er again 
 
 Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain ; 
 
 Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew, 
 
 Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
 
 That to itself takes all. Eternity. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 177 
 
 Dart, the River. 
 The River Dart. 
 
 The quiet of the moonlight hour 
 
 Is stealing softly o'er my heart ; 
 It has a deep yet nameless power, 
 
 That language cannot all impart. 
 I turn my steed upon the hill, 
 
 The silver Dart glides on below ; 
 And all the vale, so lone and still, 
 
 Is bathed in one broad moonlight glow. 
 
 Beneath the garish beam of day 
 
 I've often marked this scene before, 
 When field and hill and moorland gray 
 
 One aspect broad of beauty wore. 
 I've seen the hills' majestic sweep 
 
 Reflected from the waters clear. 
 But never felt a charm so deep 
 
 As this which now enchains me here. 
 
 It is the solemn, silent thought, 
 
 Evoked by this impressive scene. 
 That makes it more with beauty fraught. 
 
 And dearer than it erst has been. 
 There's such a silence o'er the hills. 
 
 Such softness o'er the stream below, 
 My heart with so much rapture fills, 
 
 I pause, and cannot turn to go. 
 
 I've never known a fairer scene, 
 
 A beauty matched with thine, sweet Dart ! 
 Thou leav'st, like some soft passing dream. 
 
 An endless memory on the heart. 
 Like gems upon the brow of Sleep 
 
 The moonbeams on thy waters rest ; 
 And I could almost turn and weep, 
 
 So strangely do they move my breast. 
 
 VOL, I.
 
 178 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 I would my life were like thy stream, 
 
 O silent and majestic Dart ! 
 Of what wild beauties should I dream, 
 
 What visions sweet would throng my heart. 
 Eternal pleasures round my way 
 
 Would never cease to rise and shine ; 
 And girt with beauty, day by day, 
 
 O what a matchless course were mine ! 
 
 I linger still, and still I gaze. 
 
 And deeper grows my heart's delight ; 
 
 My spirit swells to silent praise. 
 And mingles with the infinite. 
 
 O beauteous night ! O starry skies ! 
 
 stream below ! O moon above ! 
 Such mingled glories round me rise, 
 
 1 have no words to speak my love. 
 
 Across my spirit as I gaze 
 
 There comes a calmer sense of life. 
 Whose influence seems my soul to raise 
 
 Above the common toil and strife. 
 A pensive calm, an inward glow 
 
 Of holy thoughts too seldom given. 
 That seem to bless me as I go. 
 
 And whisper like a voice from heaven. 
 
 Sydney Hodges. 
 
 Dartmoor. 
 
 Dartmoor. 
 
 Wild Dartmoor ! thou that 'midst thy mountains rude 
 
 Hast robed tiiysclf with haughty solitude. 
 
 As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, — 
 
 A mourner circled with festivity ! 
 
 For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea. 
 
 The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
 
 DARTMOOR. 179 
 
 Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare 
 
 But man has left his lingering traces there ! 
 
 E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
 
 Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 
 
 In gloom and silence fearfully profound, 
 
 As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. 
 
 Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
 
 Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, 
 
 And naught of life be near, his camel's tread 
 
 Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
 
 Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands, 
 
 Just lifts its head above the billowy sands, — 
 
 Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene, 
 
 And tells that glory's footstep there hath been. 
 
 There hath the spirit of the mighty passed, 
 
 Not without record ; though the desert blast, 
 
 Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
 
 The proud creations reared to brave decay. 
 
 But thoit, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
 
 No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame. 
 
 Who shall unfold thine annals ? who shall tell 
 
 If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, 
 
 In those far ages which have left no trace. 
 
 No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race ? 
 
 Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
 
 Of kings and chiefs who passed without their praise, 
 
 Thou might'st have reared the valiant and the free. 
 
 In history's page there is no tale of thee. 
 
 Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
 Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled. 
 But hallowed by that instinct which reveres 
 Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
 And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
 Bowed many a crest and shattered many a throne, 
 Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust. 
 With what they hide, — their shrined and treasured dust. 
 Men traverse alps and oceans, to behold
 
 i8o POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould ; 
 But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
 Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
 Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
 The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
 The eternity of nature with the forms 
 Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms. 
 * * * * 
 
 But ages rolled away ; and England stood 
 With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood ; 
 And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
 And regal in collected majesty. 
 To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
 Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
 And other lands, redeemed and joyous, drank 
 The lifeblood of her heroes, as they sank 
 On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers wave 
 Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave. 
 
 'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war 
 Here for their lovely southern climes afar 
 In bondage pined ; the spell-deluded throng 
 Dragged at Ambition's chariot-wheels so long 
 To die, — because a despot could not clasp 
 A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp ! 
 
 Yes ! they whose march hath rocked the ancient 
 thrones 
 And temples of the world, — the deepening tones 
 Of whose advancing trumpet from repose 
 Had startled nations, wakening to their woes, — 
 Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams 
 Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain streams, 
 And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
 And festal melody of Loire or Seine ; 
 And of those mothers who had watched and wept, 
 When on the field the unsheltered conscript slept. 
 Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there
 
 DARTMOOR. i8i 
 
 Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair ; 
 \Mio, in their dark imaginings, again 
 Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
 Drank in their victim's shriek as music's breath, 
 And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
 Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice ! 
 And thou, lone moor ! where no blithe reaper's song 
 E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along. 
 Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain source 
 Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
 Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
 The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark. 
 And of some nameless combat ; Hope's bright eye 
 Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
 Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest. 
 And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
 Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy mom. 
 Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn. 
 And, ' midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosomed spire 
 Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire. 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 DARTMOOR. 
 
 In sunlight and in shade, 
 Repose and storm, wide waste ! I since have trod 
 Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again 
 I seek thy solitudes profound, in this 
 Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests 
 The sunbeam on thee, and tliy desert seems 
 To sleep in the unwonted brightness, calm, 
 But stem ; for, though the spirit of the Spring 
 Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper kind 
 Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on 
 A robe of beauty, as the fields that bud
 
 i82 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And blossom near thee. Yet I love to tread 
 Thy central wastes, where not a sound intrudes 
 Upon the ear but rush of wing or leap 
 Of the hoarse waterfall. And O, 'tis sweet 
 To list the music of thy torrent streams ; 
 For thou too hast thy minstrelsies for him 
 Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights 
 To trace thy waters, as from source to sea 
 They rush tumultuous. 
 
 Noel Thomas Carrington. 
 
 Dartside. 
 
 Dartside. 1849. 
 
 I CANNOT tell what you say, green leaves, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say ; 
 But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
 
 And a word in you tliis day. 
 
 I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say ; 
 But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
 
 And a word in you this day. 
 
 I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, 
 
 I cannot tell what you say ; 
 But I know that in you too a spirit doth live. 
 
 And a word doth speak this day. 
 
 " O green is the colour of faith and truth, 
 And rose the colour of love and youth, 
 
 And brown of the fruitful clay. 
 Sweet Eartli is faithful and fruitful and young, 
 And her bridal day shall come erelong. 
 And you sliall know wliat the rocks and the streams 
 And the whispering woodlands say." 
 
 Charles Kingslev.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 183 
 
 Dawlish. 
 
 A Devonshire Lane. 
 
 In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along 
 T'other day, much in want of a subject for song, 
 Thinks I to myself I have hit on a strain, — 
 Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 In tlie first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it. 
 It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet ; 
 For, howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found. 
 Drive fonvard you must, since there's no turning round. 
 
 But though 'tis so long it is not very wide, — 
 For two are the most that together can ride ; 
 And even then 'tis a chance but they get in a pother. 
 And jostle and cross and i^un foul of each other. 
 
 Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, 
 And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks, 
 And Strife's grating wheels tiy between them to pass. 
 Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. 
 
 Then the banks ai^e so high, both to left hand and right. 
 That they shut up the beauties around from the sight ; 
 And hence you'll allow, — 'tis an inference plain, — 
 That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 But, thinks I too, these banks within which we are pent. 
 With bud, blossom, and berry, are richly besprent ; 
 And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam 
 Looks lovely, when decked with the comforts of home. 
 
 In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, 
 
 The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose. 
 
 And the ever-green love of a virtuous M'ife 
 
 Smooths the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.
 
 54 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Then long be the journey and narrow the way ! 
 I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay ; 
 And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain. 
 Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 John Harriot. 
 
 Dean-Bourn. 
 
 Dean-Bourn, a rude River in Devon, 
 
 Dean-bourn, farewell ; I never look to see 
 
 Deane, or thy warty incivility. 
 
 Thy rockie bottome, that doth teare thy streams, 
 
 And makes them frantick, ev'n to all extreames, 
 
 To my content, I never sho'd behold, 
 
 Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold. 
 
 Rockie thou art ; and rockie we discover 
 
 Thy men ; and rockie are thy wayes all over. 
 
 O men, O manners ! now, and ever knowne 
 
 To be a rockie generation ! 
 
 A people currish, churlish as the seas. 
 
 And rude, almost, as I'udest salvages ; 
 
 With whom I did, and may re-sojourne when 
 
 Rockes turn to rivers, rivers turn to men. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 Dean Priory. 
 Discontents in Devon. 
 
 More discontents I never had 
 
 Since I was born then here, 
 Wliere I have been, and still am sad. 
 
 In this dull Devonshire. 
 Yet justly too I must confesse, 
 
 I ne'r invented such 
 Ennobled numbers for the presse, 
 
 Then where I loathed so much, 
 
 Robert Herrick.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. i8^S 
 
 Dee, the River. 
 The Sands of Dee, 
 
 O MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home, 
 Across the sands of Dee." 
 The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 And round and round the sand, 
 As far as eye could see. 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the land ; 
 And never home came she. 
 
 Oh ! is it weed, 'or fish, or floating hair, — 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 O dro\vned maiden's hair, 
 Above the nets at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
 The cniel crawling foam, 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 To her grave beside the sea ; 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 Charles Kingsley.
 
 i86 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Derbyshire, the Peak. 
 
 An Ode written in the Peak. 
 
 This while we are abroad 
 Shall we not touch our lyre ? 
 
 Shall we not sing an ode ? 
 Shall that holy fire, 
 
 In us that strongly glowed, 
 In this cold air expire ? 
 
 Long since the summer laid ' 
 Her lusty bravery down, 
 
 The autumn half is way'd, 
 And Boreas 'gins to frown, 
 
 Since now I did behold 
 
 Great Brute's first builded town. 
 
 Though in the utmost Peak 
 Awhile we do remain, 
 
 Amongst the mountains bleak 
 Exposed to sleet and rain, 
 
 No sport our hours shall break 
 To exercise our vein. 
 
 WHiat though bright Phoebus' beams 
 Refresh the southern ground. 
 
 And though the princely Thames 
 With beauteous nymphs abound, 
 
 And by old Camber's streams 
 Be many wonders found : 
 
 Yet many rivers clear 
 
 Here glide in silver swathes. 
 
 And what of all most dear, 
 Buxton's delicious baths. 
 
 Strong ale and noble cheer, 
 
 To assuage breem winter's scathes.
 
 DERBYSHIRE, THE PEAK. 187 
 
 Those grim and horrid caves, 
 
 Whose looks affright the day. 
 Wherein nice Nature saves 
 
 What she would not bewray, 
 Our better leisure craves 
 
 And doth invite our lay. 
 
 In places far or near. 
 
 Or famous or obscure, 
 Wliere wholesome is the air. 
 
 Or where the most impure, 
 All times and everywhere 
 
 The Muse is still in ure. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 The Peak Mountains. 
 
 Emerging from the caverned glen. 
 
 From steep to steep I slowly climb. 
 
 And, far above the haunts of men, 
 
 I tread in air sublime : 
 
 Beneath my path the swallows sweep ; 
 
 Yet higher crags impend, 
 
 And wild-flowers from the fissures peep. 
 
 And rills descend. 
 
 Now on the ridges bare and bleak, 
 Cool round my temples sighs the gale : 
 Ye winds ! that wander o'er the Peak, 
 Ye mountain spirits, hail ! 
 Angels of health ! to man below 
 Ye bring celestial airs ; 
 Bear back to Him from whom ye blow 
 Our praise and prayers. 
 
 Here, like the eagle from his nest, 
 I take my proud and dizzy stand ; 
 Here, from the clift's sublimest crest, 
 Look down upon the land :
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 O for the eagle's eye to gaze 
 Undazzled through this light ! 
 O for the eagle's wings to raise 
 O'er all my flight ! 
 
 The sun .in glory walks the sky, 
 White fleecy clouds are floating round, 
 Whose shapes along the landscape fly, — 
 Here, checkering o'er the ground, 
 There, down the glens the shadows sweep, 
 With changing lights between ; 
 Yonder they climb the upland steep, 
 Shifting the scene. 
 
 Above, beneath, immensely spread, 
 Valleys and hoaiy rocks I view, 
 Heights over heights exalt their head 
 Of many a sombre hue ; 
 No waving woods their flanks adorn, 
 No hedge-rows, gay with trees. 
 Encircled fields, where floods of com 
 Roll to the breeze. 
 
 My soul this vast horizon fills. 
 Within whose undulated line 
 Thick stand the multitude of hills. 
 And clear the waters shine ; 
 Gray mossy walls the slopes ascend ; 
 While roads, that tire the eye, 
 Upward their winding course extend, 
 And touch the sky. 
 
 With rude diversity of form, 
 
 The insulated mountains towei' ; 
 
 Oft o'er these cliffs the transient storm 
 
 And partial darkness lower, 
 
 While yonder summits far away 
 
 Shine sweetly through the gloom,
 
 DEREHAM, EAST. 189 
 
 Like glimpses of eternal day. 
 Beyond the tomb. 
 
 / 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 Dereham, East. 
 Cowper's Grave. 
 
 It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's 
 
 decaying, — 
 It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their 
 
 praying : 
 Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence 
 
 languish ! 
 Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave 
 
 her anguish. 
 
 O poets ! from a maniac's tongue was poured the death- 
 less singing ! 
 
 O Christians ! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand 
 was clinging ! 
 
 O men 1 this man in brotherhood your weaiy paths 
 beguiling, 
 
 Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while 
 ye were smiling ! 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read through dimming 
 tears his stoiy, 
 
 How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory. 
 
 And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds aiad wan- 
 dering lights departed. 
 
 He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation. 
 And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adora- 
 tion ;
 
 I90 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken, 
 Named sottly as the household name of one whom God 
 hath taken. 
 
 With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon 
 
 him, 
 With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven 
 
 hath won him,- — • 
 Who suffered once the madness-cloud to his own love to 
 
 blind him, 
 But gently led the blind along where breath and bird 
 
 could find him ; 
 
 And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic 
 senses 
 
 As hills have language for, and stars harmonious in- 
 fluences ! 
 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its 
 number. 
 
 And silent shadow from the trees refreshed him like a 
 slumber. 
 
 Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his 
 
 home-caresses, 
 Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses ; 
 The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's 
 
 ways removing. 
 Its women and its men became beside him true and loving. 
 
 But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the 
 
 guiding. 
 And things provided came without the sweet sense of 
 
 providing, 
 He testified this solemn truth though frenzy desolated, — 
 Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only God created. 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother whilst 
 
 she blesses, 
 And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her 
 
 kisses ;
 
 DEREHAM, EAST. 191 
 
 That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother ! 
 
 where 's my mother?" — 
 As if such tender words and looks could come from any 
 
 other !- 
 
 / 
 
 The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending 
 
 o'er him, 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love 
 
 she bore him ! — 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever 
 
 gave him, 
 Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death 
 
 to save him ! 
 
 Thus ? O, not thus ! no type of earth could image that 
 
 awaking, 
 \Vherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round 
 
 him breaking, 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew, " My Saviour ! not 
 
 deserted ! " 
 
 Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in 
 
 darkness rested 
 Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested ! 
 What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning 
 
 drops averted ! 
 What tears have washed them from the soul, that one 
 
 should be deserted ? 
 
 Deserted ! God could separate from his own essence 
 
 rather. 
 And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son 
 
 and Father ; 
 Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath 
 
 skaken, — 
 It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am forsaken I " 
 
 It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation,
 
 192 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 That, of the lost, no son should use those words of 
 
 desolation, 
 That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar 
 
 not hope's fruition. 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a 
 
 vision ! 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 St. Edmund's Chapel. 
 
 Ye who with wannth the public triumph feel 
 
 Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal. 
 
 Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just. 
 
 Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
 
 England, exulting in his spotless fame. 
 
 Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name. 
 
 Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise 
 
 So clear a title to affection's praise ; 
 
 His highest honours to the heart belong ; 
 
 His virtues formed the magic of his song. 
 
 William Hayley. 
 
 Derwent, the River. 
 The River Derwent. 
 
 Was it for this 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, 
 And from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows sent a voice. 
 That flowed along my dreams ? For this didst thou, 
 O Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 
 To more than infant softness, giving me, 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind,
 
 DERWENT, THE RIVER. 193 
 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 
 That NaturaJjreathes among the hills and groves. 
 
 When he had left the mountains and received 
 
 On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers 
 
 That yet survive, a shattered monument 
 
 Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed 
 
 Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 
 
 A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. 
 
 O, many a time have I, a five-years' child, 
 
 In a small mill-race, severed from his stream 
 
 Made one long bathing of a summer's day ; 
 
 Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again 
 
 Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured 
 
 The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves 
 
 Of yellow ragwort ; or when rock and hill. 
 
 The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height. 
 
 Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone 
 
 Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
 
 On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
 
 Had nm abroad in wantonness, to sport, 
 
 A naked savage, in the thunder-shower. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 For the spot where the Hermitage stood 
 ON St. Herbert's Island, Derwent Water. 
 
 If thou in the dear love of some one friend 
 
 Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts 
 
 Will sometimes in the happiness of love 
 
 Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence 
 
 This quiet spot ; and. Stranger ! not immoved 
 
 Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, 
 
 The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's cell. 
 
 Here stood his threshold ; here was spread the roof 
 
 That sheltered him, a self-secluded man, 
 
 After long exercise in social cares 
 
 And offices humane, intent to adore 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Tlie Deity, with uiidisliacted mind, 
 And meditate on everlastinij things, 
 In ntter solitude. But he had left 
 A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved 
 As his own soul. And when, with eye upraised 
 To heaven, he knelt before the crucifix. 
 While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
 Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
 Along the beach of this small isle and thought 
 Of his companion, he would pray that both 
 (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
 So prayed he ; — as our chronicles report, 
 Though here the hermit numbered his last day 
 Far from St. Cuthbert, his beloved friend. 
 Those holy men both died in the same hour. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 To THE River Derwent. 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream ! 
 
 Thou near the eagle's nest, within brief sail, 
 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 
 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 
 On mortal notice. Glory of the vale. 
 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 Of thy soft breath ! Less vivid wreatli entwined 
 
 NeniKan victor's brow ; less bright was worn 
 
 Meed of some Roman chief, in triumph borne 
 
 W^ith captives chained, and shedding from his car 
 
 The sunset splendours of a finished war 
 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
 WiLLi.\M Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 195 
 
 >i^Derwent Water. 
 
 Derwent Water and Skiddaw.' 
 
 Deep stillness lies upon this lovely lake. 
 The air is calm, the forest trees are still ; 
 The river windeth without noise, and here 
 The fall of fountains comes not, nor the sound 
 Of the white cataract Lodore : the voice — - 
 The mighty mountain voice — itself is dumb. 
 Only, far distant and scarce heard, the dash. 
 Of waters, broken by some boatman's oar. 
 Disturbs the golden, calm monotony. 
 The earth seems quiet, like some docile thing 
 Obeying the blue beauty of the skies ; 
 And the soft air, through which the tempest ran 
 So lately in its speed, rebels no more : 
 The clouds are gone which but this morning gloomed 
 Round the great Skiddaw ; and he, wide revealed, 
 Outdurer of the storms, now sleeps secure 
 Beneath the watching of the holy moon. 
 But a few hours ago and sounds were heard 
 Through all the region : rain and the white hail sang 
 Amongst the branches, and this placid lake 
 Teased into mutiny ; its waves (these waves 
 That lie like shining silver motionless) 
 Then shamed their gentle natures, and rose up 
 Lashing their guardian banks, and, with wild cries 
 Complaining, called to all the echoes round, 
 And answered rudely the rude winds, which then 
 Cast discord in the waters, until they 
 Amongst themselves waged wild and glittering war. 
 » * * * 
 
 Skiddaw ! Eternal mountain, hast thou been 
 Rocked to thy slumber by the howling winds. 
 Or has the thunder or the lightnings blue 
 Scared thee to quiet ? To the sounding blast
 
 196 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Thou gavest answer, and when thou didst dash 
 The white hail in its puny rage aside, 
 Thou wast not dumb, nor to the rains when they 
 Ran trembHng from thee : — me thou answerest not. 
 
 Art thou indignant then, or hear I not ? 
 
 Or, like the double-visaged god who sate 
 
 Within the Roman temples, dost thou keep 
 
 High watch above the northern floods to warn 
 
 Lone ships from erring, while thy southern front 
 
 Is sealed in sleep ? Thy lofty head has long 
 
 Stood up an everlasting mark to all 
 
 Who wander ; haply now some wretch, whose bark 
 
 Has drifted from its path since set of sun. 
 
 Beholds thee shine, and kneeling pours his soul 
 
 In thanks to heaven, or towards his cottage home 
 
 Shouts amidst tears, or laughter sad as tears. 
 
 And shall I, while these things may be, complain ? 
 
 Never : in silence as in sound thou art 
 
 A thing of grandeur ; and throughout the year 
 
 Thy high protecting presence (let not this 
 
 Be forgot ever) turns aside the winds 
 
 Which else might kill the flowers of this sweet vale. 
 
 Bryant Waller Procter. 
 
 Ditchling. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 ON THE cemetery AT DITCHLING. 
 
 The graves in the Dissenters' burial-ground at Ditchling have no 
 monumental stones, but arc covered with evergreens and flowering 
 shrubs. 
 
 What though no marbles mark this hallowed spot, 
 Where youth and age and worth and beauty sleep, 
 
 Nor epitaphs declare the mortal lot 
 
 Of those who here eternal silence keep,
 
 DITCHLING. 197 
 
 Yet o'er these mossy beds the willows weep, 
 And yew and'cypress shed a solemn gloom, 
 
 And morning's mists with dew their tresses steep, 
 Diffusing freshness o'er the verdant tomb. 
 
 Mute but expressive emblems ! well ye teach 
 
 The fate of those whose relics here repose ; 
 More forcibly than moralist can preach, 
 
 Their present, past, and future state disclose. 
 For who that views yon fragrant blushing rose. 
 
 Shedding its sweetness through the balmy air. 
 Nor deems that loveliness from all its woes 
 
 And all its wrongs hath found a shelter there ! 
 
 Yes, that fair flower blooms o'er a brother's boast, 
 
 A mother's joy, a doating father's pride ; 
 Brief is the tale : her fondest hopes were crossed, — 
 
 She loved, — was slighted, — murmured not, — but died! 
 And sweetly by that flower is typified 
 
 Her loveliness and spotless purity ; 
 And the green myrtle, waving by its side. 
 
 Her certain hope of immortality ! 
 
 The sable yew-tree throws its solemn shade 
 
 O'er yon green mound in dreary loneliness. 
 And tells that he who there in death is laid, 
 
 While living was the victim of distress ; 
 His youth was folly, and his age no less ; — 
 
 But let that pass : his was the lot of all 
 Who seek in vanity for happiness. 
 
 And when too late their hours would fain recall. 
 
 Beneath those cedars rest a gentle pair. 
 
 Of lowly station and of humble name ; 
 Their peaceful course was free from pain and care ; — 
 
 In life they were but one, in death the same : 
 And well their virtues may the tribute claim 
 
 With which affection has adorned the spot. 
 Ah ! who would covet wealth or power or fame, 
 
 If happiness like theirs could be his lot ?
 
 )8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Where yonder bay erects his graceful form, 
 
 There sleeps the hapless, gifted child of song ; 
 No more exposed to envy's bitter storm. 
 
 Nor longer keenly feeling every wrong : 
 And there is one who loves to linger long 
 
 Where the green turf his hallowed dust enshi-ines ; 
 And, hiding from the giddy, senseless throng 
 
 Her hopeless misery, o'er his fate repines ! 
 
 Yon holly marks the village lawyer's grave, 
 
 Those oaks the patriot's ashes canopy. 
 The laurels o'er the sleeping warrior wave. 
 
 And yonder spring flowers shelter infancy. 
 Lady ! when in the dust this form shall lie. 
 
 If then thy breast my memory would recall. 
 Let the dark cypress tell my destiny. 
 
 And the green ivy form my funeral pall. 
 
 Gideon Algernon Mantei.l. 
 
 Donnerdale. 
 The Plain of Donnerdale. 
 
 The old inventive poets, had they seen, 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! mid these flowery plains. 
 The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
 Transferred to bowers imperishably green. 
 Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
 Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains. 
 Rough as the past ; where thou, of placid mien. 
 Innocuous as a firstling of the flock. 
 And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
 Shalt change thy temper, and, with many a shock 
 Given and received in mutual jeopardy. 
 Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock. 
 Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and liigh ! 
 
 William Woruswortii.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 199 
 
 Donnington. 
 On visiting Donnington Castle, 
 
 SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE LATEST RESIDENCE OF 
 CHAUCER, AND CELEBRATED FOR ITS RESISTANCE 
 TO THE ARMY OF THE PARLIAMENT DURING THE 
 CIVIL WARS. 
 
 O FOR some gentle spirit to surround 
 
 With clinging i\y thy high-seated towers, 
 
 Fair Donnington, and -wipe from Chaucer's bowers 
 
 The last ntde touch of war ! All sight, all somid 
 
 Of the old strife boon nature from the ground 
 
 Hath banished. Here the trench no longer lours, 
 
 But, like a bosky dell, begirt with flowers 
 
 And garlanded with INIay, sinks dimpling round 
 
 A very spot for youthful lover's dreams 
 
 In the prime hour. Grisildis' mournful lay, 
 
 The "half-told tale," would sound still sweeter here. 
 
 O for some hand to hide with ivy spray 
 
 War's ravages, and chase the jarring themes 
 
 Of King and State, Roundhead and Cavalier ! 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford. 
 
 Dorchester. 
 
 Dorchester Hills. 
 
 Who may misprize Dorchestrian hills ? What though 
 
 They tower to no such height as looks with scorn 
 
 Over a dwindled plain ; what though no crags 
 
 Be there to fortify ; no forest belts 
 
 To gird them midway round ; yet theirs, instead. 
 
 Are graceful slopes with shadowy dips between, 
 
 And theirs are breezy summits, not too high 
 
 To recognise familiar sights, and catch 
 
 Familiar sounds of life, — the ploughman's call. 
 
 Or tinkling from the fold. Yet thence the eye
 
 goo POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Feeds on no stinted landscape, sky and earth 
 And the bhie sea ; and thence may winged thought, 
 Which ever loves the vantage-ground of hills, 
 Launch amid buoyant air, and soar at will. 
 
 Fair, amid tliese, art thou, camp-crested Mount, 
 
 In some far time, for some forgotten cause. 
 
 Named of the maiden. i Nor doth surer lore 
 
 Attest if Briton or if Roman wound 
 
 These triple trenches round thee ; regular 
 
 As terraces, by architect upbuilt 
 
 For princely pleasure-ground, or those, far-famed, 
 
 By ancient hmiters made — so some have deemed — 
 
 Or else by Nature's self in wild Glenroy. 
 
 Along thy sides they stretch, ring above ring, 
 
 Marking thee from afar ; then vanish round 
 
 Like the broad shingly banks which ocean heaves 
 
 In noble curves along his winding shore. 
 
 The passing wayfarer with wonder views. 
 
 E'en at imperfect distance, their bold lines. 
 
 And asks tlie who, the wherefore, and the when ; 
 
 Wafting his spirit back into far times. 
 
 And dreaming as he goes. But whoso stays, 
 
 And climbs the turf-way to thy tabled top, 
 
 Sliall reap a fuller wonder ; sliall behold 
 
 Tliy girdled area, of itself a ])lain. 
 
 Where widely feeds the scattered flock ; shall mark 
 
 Thy trenches, complicate with warlike art, 
 
 And deej) almost as natural ravine 
 
 Cut in the mountain ; or some startling rent 
 
 In the blue-gleaming glacier ; or as clefts, 
 
 Severing the black and jagged lava-walls. 
 
 Which old Vesuvius round his crater flings, — 
 
 Outworks, to guard the mysteries within. 
 
 But these are smooth and verdant. Tamed long since, 
 
 Breastwork abrupt and palisaded mound 
 
 Are, now, but sloping greensward ; as if Nature, 
 
 1 Maiden Castle is a hill, with a camp on it, near Dorchester.
 
 DOULTING. 20I 
 
 Who vainly her mild moral reads to man, 
 
 Still strove to realise the blessed days, 
 
 By seers avouched, by statesmen turned to dreams, 
 
 When war shall be no more. 
 
 So mused I there ! 
 As who had failed to muse ? But now the sun, 
 Silently sunken, with departing light 
 Had fused the whole horizon ; not alone 
 His western realm, but flooded refluent gold 
 Back to the southern hills, along whose tops 
 Are seen to stretch, in far continuous line, 
 Sepulchral barrows. Brightly-verdant cones 
 T marked them rise beneath his earlier ray ; 
 But now they stood against that orange light 
 Each of a velvet blackness, like the bier 
 Before some high-illumined altar spread 
 When a king lies in state ; and well might seem 
 To twilight fantasy like funeral palls, 
 Shrouding the bones of aboriginal men, 
 Who there had lived and died, long ere our tribes, 
 Had heard the name or felt the conquering anus 
 Of Rome or Roman ; or as yet had seen, 
 Mocking their hearths of clay and turf built-huts, 
 The praetor's quaint mosaic or tiled bath ; 
 Or heard our hard school-task, the phrase of Terence 
 Bandied in common parlance round the land. 
 
 John Kenyon. 
 
 Doulting. 
 
 Lines 
 
 WRITTEN UPON DOULTING SHEEP-SLATE, NEAR 
 SHEPTON MALLET, SOMERSETSHIRE. 
 
 I KNELT down as I poured my spirit forth by that gray 
 
 gate. 
 In the fulness of my gratitude and with a joy sedate ;
 
 202 : POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Alone on that wild heath I stood, and offered up apart 
 The frankincense of love that, fount-like, gushed from my 
 deep heart. 
 
 And while I breathed that thankfulness, and felt its holy 
 
 glow. 
 And my heart gathered gladness in its calm and equal 
 
 flow, 
 While the sun shone within me, and the air elastic 
 
 played. 
 And to and fro the wheat-field like the wavy ocean 
 
 swayed ; 
 
 And while the black firs tossed their boughs against the 
 
 intense blue, 
 Light glinting on the grassy sward as broken rays flashed 
 
 through, 
 I felt that nature answered like an angel from her throne, 
 And echoed back the rapture of my bosom from her own. 
 
 I saw the rich red pathway in the opening distance rolled. 
 As if it led through vistas to some throne or shore of 
 
 gold, 
 And while the light breeze murmured there like sighs of 
 
 love suppressed. 
 My heart poured forth its blessing on the loveliness it 
 
 blessed. 
 
 I felt I stood on sacred ground that hallowed was to me, 
 To boyhood's years far faded on the verge of memory : 
 Sacred to me the gray-haired man who drank God's 
 
 blessed air, 
 Though thirty years had rolled away since last I entered 
 
 there ! 
 
 The oak drooped o'er that gate, a withered thing in 
 
 dead repose. 
 Gray Doulting's spire above the waste a sheeted spectre 
 
 rose ;
 
 DOVEDALE. 203 
 
 And Mendip's bleak and barren heights again enclosed 
 
 me round, 
 Like faces of forgotten friends met on forgotten ground. 
 
 But heath and landscape, boundless once, were shrunken : 
 
 all was changed : 
 I felt I stood a stranger there, the place and me estranged: 
 Each glance was memory, each step a joy, a welcome 
 
 sense 
 Of gratitude's fine ecstasy, calm, voiceless, but intense. 
 
 All stirring impulses of life were sobered by the scene, 
 While staid Reflection looked within the glass of what 
 
 had been ; 
 For not a mound I trod upon was unforgot, nor tree 
 Rose in, that surging scene whose image had not entered 
 
 me. 
 
 « ♦ * « 
 
 John Edmund Reade. 
 
 Dovedale. 
 The Springs of Dove. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 Wlien Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and oh ! 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 204 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 In Dovedale. 
 
 Isaac ! still thou anglest near me 
 By the green banks of thy Dove, 
 
 Still thy gentle ghost may hear me 
 Breathe my reverence and love. 
 
 Thou, whose ears drank in the warble 
 Of all streams in crystal play,^ — 
 
 Will thy bones beneath cold marble 
 Lie in peace so far away ?^ 
 
 O my kindly old piscator, 
 
 See'st thou not these waters clear ? 
 Time, thou changeling, Time, thou traitor, 
 
 Give him back, — his home was here ! 
 
 Lo ! at yonder bend he standeth. 
 
 Where round rocks the wave bells out, 
 
 See ! with skilful touch he landeth 
 Now a grayling, now a trout. 
 
 Stream of beauty ! winding, singing 
 Through the world's divinest dale. 
 
 Ever to thy music bringing 
 
 That old spirit calm and pale ! 
 
 Learned in all honest learning, 
 Trustful, truthful, pure of heart ; 
 
 Peaceful, blameless honour earning 
 By the magic of his art. 
 
 In life's fitful turmoil often 
 
 Have I longed to be like him, 
 
 And have felt my nature soften 
 Musing on that phantom dim, — 
 
 1 He is buried in Winchester Cathedral.
 
 DOVEDALE. 205 
 
 Now a trout and now a grayling 
 
 Luring from the shaded pool, 
 God's white clouds high o'er him sailing, 
 
 All around the beautiful ! 
 
 Henry Glassford Bell. 
 
 The Retirement. 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world ! and may 
 
 "We never meet again ! 
 
 Here I can eat and sleep and pray, 
 
 And do more good in one short day 
 
 Than he who his whole age outwears 
 
 Upon the most conspicuous theatres, 
 
 Where naught but vanity and vice do reign. 
 
 Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
 How beautiful the fields appear ! 
 
 How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
 Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
 How quietly we sleep ! 
 
 What peace ! what unanimity ! 
 How innocent from the lewd fashion 
 Is all our business, all our recreation ! 
 
 O how happy here's our leisure ! 
 O how innocent our pleasure ! 
 O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 
 O ye groves and crystal fountains, 
 How I love at liberty, 
 By turns, to come and visit ye ! 
 
 Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend. 
 
 That man acquainted with himself dotli make, 
 
 And all his Maker's wonders to entend, 
 
 With thee I here converse at will, 
 
 And would be glad to do so still, 
 
 For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake
 
 2o6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 How calm and quiet a deliglit 
 
 Is it, alone 
 To read and meditate and write, 
 
 By none offended and offending none ! 
 ■ To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease ; 
 And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 
 
 O my beloved nymph ! fair Dove ! 
 Princess of rivers ! how I love 
 
 Upon the flowery banks to lie, 
 And view thy silver stream 
 When gilded by a summer's beam ! 
 
 And in it all thy wanton fry 
 
 Playing at liberty ; 
 And, with my angle, upon them 
 
 The all of treachery 
 
 I ever learned industriously to try. 
 
 Such sti-eams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show. 
 
 The Iberian Tagus or Ligurian Po ; 
 
 The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 
 
 Are puddle-water all, compared with thine ; 
 
 And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 
 
 With thine much purer to compare ; 
 
 The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
 
 Are both too mean. 
 
 Beloved Dove, with thee 
 
 To vie priority ; 
 
 Nay, Thame and Isis when conjoined submit, 
 
 And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 
 
 O my beloved rocks ! that rise 
 
 To awe the earth and brave the skies ; 
 
 From some aspiring mountain's crown, 
 
 ■How dearly do I love. 
 
 Giddy with pleasure, to look down. 
 
 And from the vales to view the noble heights above ! 
 O my beloved caves ! from Dog-star's heat 
 And all anxieties my safe retreat,
 
 DOVER. 207 
 
 What safety, privacy, what true delight. 
 
 In the artificial night 
 
 Your gloomy entrails make, 
 
 Have I taken, do I take ! 
 
 How oft, when grief has made me fly 
 
 To hide me from society 
 
 Even of my dearest friends, have I 
 
 In your recesses' friendly shade 
 
 All my sorrows open laid, 
 And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy ! 
 
 Lord ! would men let me alone. 
 What an over-happy one 
 
 Should I think myself to be. 
 Might I, in this desert place, 
 Which most men in discourse disgrace, 
 Live but undisturbed and free ! 
 Here in this despised recess 
 
 Would I, maugre winter's cold 
 And the summer's worst excess. 
 
 Try to live out to sixty full years old ! 
 And all the while. 
 
 Without an envious eye 
 On any thriving under Fortune's smile, 
 
 Contented live, and then — contented die. 
 
 Charles Cotton. 
 
 Dover. 
 
 The Cliffs. 
 
 There is a cliff whose high and bending head 
 Looks fearfully in the confined deep. 
 
 * » * * 
 
 Come on, sir ; here's the place ; — stand still. How fear- 
 ful 
 And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 The crows and choughs that wing the midway air,
 
 2o8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 
 Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach, 
 Appear like mice ; and yond' tall anchoring bark 
 Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, 
 That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, 
 Cannot be heard so high : — I'll look no more ; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong. 
 
 « * * * 
 
 From the dread summit of this chalky bourn 
 Look up a-height ; the shrill-gorged lark so far 
 Cannot be seen or heard. 
 
 William Shakspeare. 
 
 The Cliffs of Dover. 
 
 Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 
 Your crested heights array. 
 
 And rise ye like a fortress proud 
 Above the surge and spray ! 
 
 My spirit greets you as ye stand 
 Breasting the billow's foam : 
 
 O, thus forever guard the land, 
 The severed land of home ! 
 
 I have left rich blue skies behind, 
 Lighting up classic shrines. 
 
 And music in the southern wind 
 And sunshine on the vines. 
 
 The breathings of the myrtle flowers 
 Have fioated o'er my way ; 
 
 The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours. 
 Hath soothed me with its lay.
 
 DOVER. 209 
 
 The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, 
 
 The purple heavens of Rome, — 
 Yes, all are glorious ; yet again 
 
 I bless thee, land of home ! 
 
 For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! 
 
 And thine the guarded hearth ; 
 And thine the dead, — the noble band 
 
 That make thee holy earth. 
 
 Their voices meet me in thy breeze. 
 
 Their steps are on thy plains ; 
 Their names, by old majestic trees, 
 
 Are whispered round thy fanes. 
 
 Their blood hath mingled with the tide 
 
 Of thine exulting sea ; 
 O, be it still a joy, a pride. 
 
 To live and die for thee ! 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 Lines 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER ON THE 
 DAY OF LANDING. 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. 
 The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound 
 Of bells ;-^those boys who in yon meadow-ground 
 In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the roar 
 Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ; — - 
 All, all are English. Oft have I looked round 
 With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
 Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
 Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass. 
 Thought for another moment. Thou art free, 
 My country ! and 't is joy enough and pride 
 For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass 
 Of England once again, and hear and see, 
 With such a dear companion at my side. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 lo POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Near Dover. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 
 
 The coast of France, — the coast of France how near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 
 
 I shrunk ; for ^'erily the barrier flood 
 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 
 A span of waters : yet what power is there ! 
 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Even so doth God protect us, if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 
 
 Strength to the brave, and power, and Deity ; 
 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 
 Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 
 
 Only, the nations shall be great and free. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Dover Hotel. 
 
 Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, 
 Thy cliffs, dear Dover, harbour, and hotel ; 
 
 Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 
 Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 
 
 Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
 To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
 
 And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed. 
 
 Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 Dover Cliffs. 
 
 On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
 
 Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet 
 
 Hear not the surge that has for ages beat. 
 
 How many a lonely wanderer has stood ! 
 
 And, whilst the lifted murmurs met his ear. 
 
 And o'er the distant billows the still eve 
 
 Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
 
 DOVER. 211 
 
 To-morrow, of the friends he loved most dear ; 
 Of social scenes, from which he wept to part ! 
 Oh ! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 
 The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, 
 Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, 
 And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, — - 
 The world his countiy, and his God his guide. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Dover Beach. 
 
 The sea is calm to-night. 
 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 
 Upon the Straits ; on the French coast the liglit 
 
 Gleams, and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand, 
 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 
 
 Only from the long line of spray 
 
 Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched sand, 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling, 
 
 At their return, up the high strand, 
 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 
 The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the ^gean, and it brought 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 
 Of human misery ; we 
 
 Find also in the sound a thought. 
 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 The sea of faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled ; 
 
 But now I only hear 
 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 
 Retreating to the breath 
 
 Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear. 
 
 And naked shingles of the world.
 
 12 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one anotlier ! for the world which seems 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 
 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Churchill's Grave. 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown 
 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I asked 
 
 The gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 
 That for this plant strangers his memory tasked 
 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ? 
 
 And thus he answered : " Well, I do not know 
 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 
 He died before my day of sextonship, 
 
 And I had not the digging of this grave." 
 
 And is this all ? I thought ; and do we rip 
 
 The veil of immortality, and crave 
 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight, 
 
 So soon, and so successless ? As I said, 
 
 The Architect of all on which we tread — 
 
 For earth is but a tombstone— did essay 
 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought. 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 
 Of which we arc but dreamers. As he caught
 
 UUDDON, THE RIVER. 213 
 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former sun, 
 
 Thus spoke he : "I believe the man of whom 
 
 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 
 Was a most famous writer in his day, 
 
 And thei-efore travellers step from out their way 
 
 To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honour pleases." Then most pleased I shook 
 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 
 So much but inconveniently : — ye smile, 
 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 
 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 
 You are the fools, not I ; for I did dwell 
 
 With a deep thought and with a softened eye 
 
 On that old sexton's natural homily, 
 
 In which there was obscurity and fame, — 
 
 The glory and the nothing of a name. 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
 Duddon, the River. 
 To THE River Duddon. 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint 
 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; 
 
 Thine are the honours of the lofty waste ; 
 
 Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint. 
 
 Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint 
 
 Thy cradle decks ; — to chant thy birth, thou hast 
 
 No meaner poet than the whistling blast. 
 
 And Desolation is thy patron-saint ! 
 
 She guards thee, ruthless power ! who would not spare 
 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen. 
 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair, 
 
 Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green, 
 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 214 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The Stepping-Stones. 
 
 The struggling rill insensibly is grown 
 
 Into a brook of loud and stately march, 
 
 Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch ; 
 
 And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a zone 
 
 Chosen for ornament, — stone matched with stone 
 
 In studied symmetry, with interspace 
 
 For the clear waters to pursue their race 
 
 Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown. 
 
 Succeeding, — still succeeding ! Here the child 
 
 Puts, when the high-swollen flood runs fierce and wild, 
 
 His budding courage to the proof; and here 
 
 Declining manhood learns to note the sly 
 
 And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
 
 Thinking how fast time nms, life's end how near ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 O MOUNTAIN stream : the shepherd and his cot 
 Are privileged inmates of deep solitude ; 
 Nor would the nicest anchorite exclude 
 A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
 Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot 
 Of stationary sunshine : — thou hast viewed 
 These only, Duddon ! with their paths renewed 
 By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. 
 Thee hath some awful spirit impelled to leave, 
 Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, 
 Though simple thy companions were and few ; 
 And through this wilderness a passage cleave, 
 Attended but by thy own voice, save when 
 The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 From tins deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play 
 
 Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
 
 A gloomy niche, capacious, blank, and cold ; 
 
 A concave free from shrubs and mosses gray ;
 
 DUDDON, THE RIVER. 215 
 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, 
 
 Some statue, placed amid these regions old 
 
 For tutelary service, thence had rolled. 
 
 Startling the flight of timid yesterday ! 
 
 Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weaiy slaves 
 
 Of slow endeavour ! or abruptly cast 
 
 Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
 
 Tempestuously let loose from central caves ? 
 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
 
 Then when o'er highest hills the deluge passed ? 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Whence that low voice ? A whisper from the heart. 
 
 That told of days long past, when here I roved 
 
 With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; 
 
 Some who had early mandates to depart. 
 
 Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 
 
 By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite. 
 
 Once more beneath the kind earth's tranquil light, 
 
 And smothered joys into new being start. 
 
 From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
 
 Of time, breaks foi-th triumphant Memory ; 
 
 Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free 
 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recall 
 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency ? 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 To Wordsworth. 
 
 ON visiting the DUDDON. 
 I. 
 
 So long as Duddon, 'twixt his cloud-girt walls 
 Thridding the woody chambers of the hills, 
 Warbles from vaulted grot and pebbled halls 
 Welcome or farewell to the meadow rills ;
 
 2i6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 So long as linnets chant low madrigals 
 
 Near that brown nook the labourer whistling tills, 
 
 Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls 
 
 Mid dewy brakes the autumnal redbreast thrills, 
 
 So long, last poet of the great old race, 
 
 Shall thy broad song through England's bosom roll, 
 
 A river singing anthems in its place. 
 
 And be to later England as a soul. 
 
 Glory to Him who made thee, and increase 
 
 To them that hear thy word, of love and peace ! 
 
 When first that precinct sacrosanct I trod 
 Autumn was there, but Autumn just begun ; 
 Fronting the portals of a sinking sun, 
 The queen of quietude in vapour stood. 
 Her sceptre o'er the dimly crimsoned wood 
 Resting in light. The year's great work was done ; 
 Summer had vanished, and repinings none 
 Troubled the pulse of thoughtful gratitude. 
 Wordsworth ! the autumn of our English song 
 Art thou ; 't was thine our vesper psalms to sing : 
 Chaucer sang matins ; sweet his note and strong. 
 His singing-robe the green, white garb of Spring : 
 Thou like the dying year art rightly stoled, — 
 Pontific purple and dark harvest gold. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 Dupath Well. 
 
 DuPATH Well. 
 
 Hear how tlie noble Siward died ! 
 The leech hath told the woful bride 
 'Tis vain : his passing hour is nigh, 
 And death must quench her warrior's eye.
 
 DURHAM. 217 
 
 " Bring me," he said, " the steel I wore, 
 When Dupath spring was dark with gore ; 
 The spear 1 raised for Githa's glove, 
 Those trophies of my wars and love." 
 
 Upright he sate within the bed. 
 The helm on his mi yielding head ; 
 Sternly he leaned upon his spear. 
 He knew his passing hour was near. 
 
 " Githa ! thine hand !" How wild that cry, 
 How fiercely glared his flashing eye ! 
 
 " Sound ! herald !" was his shout of pride ! 
 Hear how the noble Siward died. 
 
 A roof must shade that storied stream, 
 Her dying lord's remembered theme ; 
 A daily vow that lady said, 
 Where glory wreathed the hero dead. 
 
 Gaze, maiden, gaze on Dupath Well. 
 Time yet hath spared that solemn cell. 
 In memory of old love and pride : 
 Hear how the noble Siward died. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Durham. 
 
 Durham. 
 
 This city is celebrated 
 
 In the wliole empire of the Britons. 
 
 The road to it is steep. 
 
 It is surrounded with rocks, 
 
 And with curious plants. 
 
 The Wear flows round it, 
 
 A river of rapid waves ; 
 
 And there live in it 
 
 Fishes of various kinds,
 
 2i8 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Mingling with the floods. 
 
 And there grow 
 
 Great forests ; 
 
 There Hve in the recesses 
 
 Wild animals of many sorts ; 
 
 In the deep valleys 
 
 Deer innumerable. 
 
 There is in this city 
 
 Also well known to men 
 
 The venerable St. Cudberth ; 
 
 And the head of the chaste King 
 
 Oswald, the lion of the Angli ; 
 
 And Aiden, the Bishop : 
 
 Aedbert and Aedfrid, 
 
 The noble associates. 
 
 There is in it also 
 
 Aethelwold, the Bishop ; 
 
 And the celebrated writer Bede ; 
 
 And the Abbot Boisil, 
 
 By whom the chaste Cudberth 
 
 Was in his youth gratis instructed ; 
 
 Who also well received the instractions. 
 
 Tliere rest with these saints, 
 
 In the inner part of the Minster, 
 
 Relicks innumerable, 
 
 Which perform many miracles. 
 
 As tlie chronicles tell us, 
 
 And which await with them 
 
 The judgment of the Lord. 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Poem.
 
 DURHAM. 219 
 
 The Aisle of Tombs. 
 
 The interior of Chester-le-Street Church, Durham, contains a sin- 
 gular collection of monuments, bearing effigies of the deceased 
 ancestry of the Lumley family, from the time of Liulphus to the 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 The quiet and the chillness 
 
 Of the aisle of tombs ; 
 The shadow and the stillness 
 A rosy light illumes : 
 
 Like the memory of the past, 
 On the carved arms delaying, 
 On the marble pall 
 
 O'er the blood-red scutcheon playing 
 With a crimson fall, 
 
 Into sudden sunshine cast 
 
 Are the ancient warriors, 
 The warriors of olden time. 
 
 So with kindled heart we love them. 
 
 Dwelling on their fame ; 
 So doth memory fling above them 
 Its shadow of a name, 
 
 Noblest shadow flung on earth : 
 We remember many a story 
 
 Of the old chivalric day, 
 When the red-cross, like a glory, 
 Shone above the fray ; 
 
 'Twas a glorious age gave birth 
 To the ancient warriors, 
 The warriors of olden time. 
 
 Though the sword no more be trusted 
 
 As it was of old, 
 Though the shining spear be rusted 
 
 And the right hand cold, 
 
 They have left their fame behind ;
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Still a spirit from their slumbers 
 
 Rises true and brave, 
 Asks the minstrel for his numbers, 
 Music from their grave : 
 
 Noble, gentle, valiant, kind. 
 Were the ancient warriors, 
 The warriors of olden time. 
 
 All their meaner part hath perished, 
 
 In the earth at rest ; 
 And the present hour hath cherished 
 What of them was best, 
 
 What a knight should be we keep. 
 For the present doth inherit 
 
 All the glories of the past ; 
 We retain what was its spirit, 
 While its dust to dust is cast. 
 All good angels guard the sleep 
 Of the ancient warriors. 
 The warriors of olden time. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Eden, the River. 
 The River Eden, Cumberland. 
 
 Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
 By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
 That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, 
 Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name : 
 Yet fetched from Paradise that honour came. 
 Rightfully borne ; for Nature gives thee flowers 
 That have no rival among British bowers, 
 And thy Isold rocks are worthy of their fame. 
 Measuring thy course, fair Stream ! at length I pay 
 To my life's neighbour dues of ncighboinhood ; 
 But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
 With pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained.
 
 EDEN, THE RIVER. 22 
 
 For things far off we toil, while many a good 
 Not sought, because too near, is never gained. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 The Monument. 
 
 COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, 
 NEAR THE RIVER EDEN. 
 
 A WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne. 
 
 Fell suddenly upon my spirit, — cast 
 
 From the dread bosom of the unknown past, 
 
 When first I saw that family forlorn. 
 
 Speak thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn 
 
 The power of years, — pre-eminent, and placed 
 
 Apart, to overlook the circle vast, — • 
 
 Speak, giant-mother ! tell it to the Mom 
 
 While she dispels the cumbrous shades of night ; 
 
 Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud ; 
 
 At whose behest uprose on British ground 
 
 That sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round 
 
 Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite, 
 
 The inviolable God, that tames the proud ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Edenhall. 
 The Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
 Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 
 He rises at the banquet board. 
 And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
 '* Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall." 
 
 The butler hears the words with pain, 
 
 The house's oldest seneschal. 
 
 Takes slow from its silken cloth again
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The drinking-glass of crystal tall : 
 They call it the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then said the Lord ; "This glass to praise, 
 
 Fill with red wine from Portugal !" 
 
 The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 
 
 A purple light shines over all, 
 
 It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then speaks the Lord and waves it light : 
 "This glass of flashing crystal tall 
 Gave to my sires the fountain-sprite ; 
 She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall. 
 Farewell thai, O Luck of Edenhall 1 
 
 " 'Twas right a goblet the fate should be 
 Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
 Deep draughts drink we right willingly ; 
 And willingly ring, with merry call, 
 Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
 First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
 Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
 Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
 Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, 
 The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 " For its keeper takes a race of might, 
 The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
 It has lasted longer tlian is right ; 
 Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 
 Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
 As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
 Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
 And through the rift the wild flames start ; 
 The guests in dust are scattered all. 
 With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! "
 
 EDMONTON. 223 
 
 In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
 He in the night had scaled the wall. 
 Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
 But holds in his hands the crystal tall, 
 The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
 The graybeard in the desert hall, 
 He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton. 
 He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
 The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 •'The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
 Down must the stately columns fall ; 
 Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
 In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
 One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
 JOHANN LUDVVIG UHLAND. 
 
 Tr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 Edmonton. 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin, 
 
 SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE 
 INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A trainband captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
 ' ' Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen.
 
 224 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 " My sister, and my sister's child, 
 Myself, and children three. 
 Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
 On horseback after we." 
 
 He soon replied, " I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one, 
 And you are she, my dearest dear, 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 " I am a linen-draper bold. 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 
 And my good friend the calender 
 
 Will lend his horse to go." 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said ; 
 
 And for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnished with our own. 
 
 Which is both bright and clear." 
 
 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 
 
 O'erjoyed was he to find, 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent. 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came ; the chaise was brought. 
 
 But yet was not allowed 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stayed, 
 
 Wliere they did all get in ; 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash throu£rh thick and thin.
 
 EDMONTON. 225 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels ; 
 
 Were never folks so glad ! 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 And up he got, in haste to ride. 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddletree scarce reached had he, 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time. 
 
 Although it grieved him sore. 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 When Betty screaming came down-stairs, 
 " The wine is left behind ! " 
 
 " Good lack ! " quoth he ; "yet bring it me. 
 My leathern belt likewise, 
 In which I bear my tnisty sword 
 When I do exercise." 
 
 Now Mrs. Gilpin (careful soul !) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found. 
 To hold the liquor that she loved. 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear. 
 
 Through which the belt he drew. 
 And hung a bottle on each side 
 To make his balance true, 
 vol.. I. Q
 
 226 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipped from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed. 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot, 
 
 Which galled him in his scat. 
 
 So, fair and softly, John he cried, 
 
 But John he cried in vain ; 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright. 
 He giasped the mane with both his hands, 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before. 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 
 
 Away went hat and wig ; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out. 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly 
 Like streamer long and gay. 
 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 At last it flew away.
 
 EDMONTON. 227 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles be had slung ; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children screamed, 
 
 Up flew the windows all ; 
 And every soul cried out, "Well done !" 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 
 
 His fame soon spread around. 
 He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 
 
 'Tis for a thousand pound ! 
 
 And still as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low. 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shattered at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 Most piteous to be seen, 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seemed to cany weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle braced ; 
 For all might see the bottle necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols did he play, 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay ;
 
 228 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just hke unto a trundhng mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 " Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! Here's the house. 
 
 They all at once did cry ; 
 " The dinner waits, and we are tired." 
 
 Said Gilpin, " So am I !" 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclined to tarry there ; 
 For why ? — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an archer strong ; 
 So did he fly, — which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will. 
 Till at his friend the calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 
 His neighbour in such trim, 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to tiie gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 "What news? what news? your tidings tell ; 
 Tell me you must and shall. — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 Or why you come at all ? "
 
 EDMONTON. 229 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke ; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 " I came because your horse would come ; 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, — 
 They are upon the road." 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Returned him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in ; 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 
 
 A wig that flowed behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear. 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 Thus showed his ready wit : 
 " My head is twice as big as yours, 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 " But let me scrape the dirt away 
 That hangs upon your face : 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 Be in a hungry case." 
 
 Said John, "It is my wedding-day, 
 
 And all the world would stare. 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton 
 
 And I should dine at Ware." 
 
 So, turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 " I am in haste to dine ; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here. 
 
 You shall go back for mine."
 
 230 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 
 
 For which he paid full dear ; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear ; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had heard a lion roar, 
 And galloped off with all his might. 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
 
 He lost them sooner than at first, 
 For why ? — they were too big. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 Her husband posting down 
 
 Into the country far away 
 
 She pulled out half a cro^^Ti ; 
 
 And thus unto the youth slie said, 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 " This shall he yours when you bring back 
 My husband safe and well." 
 
 Tlic youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 John coming back amain ; 
 Wliom in a trice he tried to stop. 
 
 By catching at his rein. 
 
 lUit not i:)crforming what he meant. 
 And gladly would have dune, 
 
 The flighted steed he frighted more, 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 Went postboy at his heels, 
 
 The postboy's horse right glad to miss 
 The lumbering of the wheels.
 
 ELY. 231 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : — 
 
 '* Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman !" 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that passed that way 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The tollmen thinking, as before, 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too. 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor stopped till where he had got up 
 
 He did get down again. 
 
 Now let us sing, "Long live the king. 
 
 And, Gilpin, long live he ! 
 And when he next doth ride abroad. 
 
 May I be there to see ! " 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 Ely. 
 
 Ely Aui'.KV. 
 
 Merie sungen the muneches binnen Ely, 
 Tha Cnut ching reuther by ; 
 Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land. 
 And here we tlics muneches sang. 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Rhyme.
 
 232 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Canute. 
 
 A PLEASANT music floats along the mere, 
 From monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 While-as Canute the king is rowing by. 
 " My oarsmen," quoth the mighty king, " draw near, 
 That we the sweet song of the monks may hear ! " 
 lie listens (all past conquests and all schemes 
 Of future vanishing like empty dreams) 
 Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. 
 The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still. 
 While liis free barge skims the smooth flood along, 
 Gives to that rapture an accordant rhyme. 
 O suffering Earth ! be thankful ; stei-nest clime 
 And rudest age are subject to the tin-ill 
 Of heaven-descended piety and song. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 The Cathedral Tombs. 
 
 " Post tempeslateni traiiquilKtas." 
 
 EJ>itaJ>h in Ely Catlicdral. 
 
 TliEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet 
 
 Stretched like dead feet that walk no more. 
 
 And stony masks oft human sweet, 
 As if llie olden look each wore, 
 
 Familiar curves of lip and eye. 
 
 Were w'rought by some fond memory. 
 
 All waiting : the new-coffmed dead. 
 The handful of mere dust that lies 
 
 Sarcophagused in stone and lead 
 Under tlie weiglit of centuries : 
 
 Knight, cardinal, bishop, abbess mild, 
 
 With last week's buried year-old child. 
 
 After the tempest cometh peace, 
 After long travail sweet repose ;
 
 ELY. _ 233 
 
 These folded palms, these feet that cease 
 
 From any motion, are but shows 
 Of— what? IV/iat i-Qsil //^jtc' rest they ? IV/iere? 
 The generations naught declare. 
 
 Dark grave, unto whose brink we come, 
 Di'awn nearer by all nights and days ; 
 
 Each after each, thy solemn gloom 
 We jDierce with momentary gaze. 
 
 Then go, unwilling or content. 
 
 The way that all our fathers went. 
 
 Is there no voice or guiding hand 
 
 Arising from the awful void, 
 To say, " Fear not the silent land ; 
 
 Would He make aught to be destroyed ? 
 Would He? or can He? What know we 
 Of Him who is Infinity ? 
 
 Strong Love, which taught us human love. 
 Helped us to follow through all spheres 
 
 Some soul that did sweet dead lips move. 
 Lived in dear eyes in smiles and tears, — 
 
 Love, once so near our flesh allied 
 
 That "Jesus wept" when Lazarus died; — 
 
 Eagle-eyed Faith that can see God 
 
 In worlds without and heart within ; 
 In sorrow by the smart o' the rod. 
 
 In guilt by the anguish of the sin ; 
 In everything pure, holy, fair, 
 God saying to man's soul, " I am there ; " 
 
 These only, twin-archangels, stand 
 
 Above the abyss of common doom, 
 These only stretch the tender hand 
 
 To us descending to the tomb, 
 Thus making it a bed of rest 
 With spices and with odours drest.
 
 234 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 So, like one weary and worn, who sinks 
 
 To sleep beneath long faithful eyes, 
 Who asks no word of love, but drinks 
 
 The silence which is paradise. 
 We only cry, " Keep angelward, 
 And give us good rest, O good Lord ! " 
 
 By the Author of "John Halifax. " 
 
 Ely. 
 
 Of all the Marshland Isles, I Ely am the queen : 
 For winter, eachwhere sad, in me looks fresh and green. 
 The horse, or other beast, o'erweighed with his own mass, 
 Lies wallowing in my fens, hid over head in grass : 
 And in the place where grows rank fodder for my neat, 
 The turf which bears the hay is wondrous needful peat : 
 T^Iy full and batning earth needs not the plowman's pains ; 
 The rills wliich run in me are like the branched veins 
 Li human bodies seen ; those ditches cut by hand 
 From the surrounding meres to win the measured land, 
 To those choice waters I most fitly may compare, 
 Wherewith nice women use to blanch their beauties rare. 
 Hath there a man been born in me that never knew 
 Of Watersey the Leame, or the other called the New ? 
 The Frithdike near'st my midst ; and of another sort, 
 Who ever fished or fowled that cannot make report 
 Of sundry meres at hand, upon my western way. 
 As Ramsey Mere, and Ug, with the great Whiltelsey ? 
 Of the aboundant store of fish and fowl there bred. 
 Which whilst of Europe's isles Great Britain is the head, 
 No meres shall truly tell, in them, than at one draught. 
 More store of either kinds hath with the net been caught : 
 Which though some petty isles do challenge them to be 
 Their own, yet nmst those isles likewise acknowledge me 
 Their sovereign. Nor yet let that islet Ramsey shame, 
 Although to Ramsey Mere she only gives the name ; 
 Nor Huntingdon, to me though she extend her grounds, 
 Twit me that I at all usurp upun her bounds.
 
 EMONT (EAMONT), THE RIVER. 235 
 
 Those meres may well be proud that I will take them in, 
 Which otherwise perhaps forgotten might have been. 
 Besides my towered fane, and my rich citied seat. 
 With villages and dorps, to make me most compleat. 
 
 Michael Dr.\yton, 
 
 Emont (Eamont), the River. 
 Monastic Ruins. 
 
 The varied banks 
 Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song. 
 And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees, 
 Low standing by the margin of the stream, 
 A mansion visited (as fame reports) 
 By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn, 
 Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen 
 Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love 
 Inspired, — that river and those mouldering towers 
 Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb 
 The darksome windings of a broken stair, 
 And crept along a ridge of fractured wall. 
 Not without trembling, we in safety looked 
 Forth, through some Gothic window's open S2:)ace, 
 And gathered with one mind a rich reward 
 From the far-stretching landscape, by the light 
 Of morning beautified, or purple eve ; 
 Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head. 
 Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell flowers 
 Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze. 
 Given out while midday heat oppressed the plains. 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 236 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Eskdale. 
 
 EsKDALE, Cumberland. 
 
 NO, I do not wish to see 
 
 The sunshine o'er these hills again ; 
 Their quiet beauty wakes in me 
 A thousand wishes wild and vain. 
 
 1 hear the skylark's matin-songs 
 
 Breathe of the heaven he singeth near ; 
 Ah, heaven, that to our earth belongs, 
 Why is thy hope so seldom here ? 
 
 The grass is filled with early flowers, 
 Whereon the dew is scarcely dry ; 
 
 While singing to the silent hours 
 
 The glittering waves are murmuring by. 
 
 And fancies from afar are brought 
 
 By magic lights and wandering wind ; 
 
 Such scene hath poet never sought 
 But he hath left his heart behind. 
 
 It is too sad to feel liow blest 
 
 In sucli a s]>ot miglit be our liome ; 
 
 And then to think with what unrest 
 Throughout this weary world we roam. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 237 
 
 Esthwaite. 
 Lines 
 
 LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS 
 NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE 
 PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL 
 PROSPECT, 
 
 Nay, traveller ! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling ; what if here 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ? 
 What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
 First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 I well remember. He was one who owned 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed. 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 A favoured being, knowing no desire 
 Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the taint 
 Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
 And scorn, — against all enemies prepared. 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 
 Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 
 With indignation turned himself away. 
 And with the food of pride sustained his soul 
 In solitude. Stranger ! these gloomy boughs. 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit. 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper ; 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath 
 And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er.
 
 238 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life ; 
 
 And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 
 
 Thou seest ! — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that lime 
 
 When Nature had subdued him to herself. 
 
 Would he forget those beings to whose minds. 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
 
 The world and human life appcai^ed a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness ; then he would sigh. 
 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel ; and so, lost man ! 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure. 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that pride 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
 Is littleness, that he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing hath faculties 
 Which he has never used, that thought with him 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one 
 The least of nature's works, — one who might move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom liolds 
 Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser, thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
 WiM.iAM Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PI,ACES. 239 
 
 Eton. 
 
 On a distant Prospect of Eton College. 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade. 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow'" 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way : 
 
 Ah happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow. 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, _ 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 
 To breathe a second spring. , 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 Disporting on thy margent green. 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace ; 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed. 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ?
 
 240 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 "While some, on earnest business bent, 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty, 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wind, 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay liope is theirs, by fancy fed. 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 
 Wild wit, invention ever new. 
 
 And lively cheer, of vigour born ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
 
 That fly the approacli of morn. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom. 
 
 The little victims play ; 
 No sense have they of ills to come. 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 Yet see how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate. 
 
 And lilack misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
 To seize their prey, the murthcrous band ! 
 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall tlie fury passions tear. 
 The vultures of the mind, — 
 
 Disdainful anger, pallid fear. 
 And shame that skulks behind ; 
 
 Or pining love shall waste their youth. 
 
 Or jealousy, with rankling tooth.
 
 ETON. 241 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 And envy wan and faded care, 
 Grim-visaged comfortless despair, 
 
 And sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this will tempt to rise, 
 
 Tlien whirl the wretch from high, 
 To bitter scorn a sacrifice. 
 
 And grinning infamy. 
 The stings of falsehood those shall try. 
 And hard mikindness' altered eye, 
 
 TJiat mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen remorse with blood defiled, 
 And moody madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen, 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen : 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
 That every labouring sinew strains, 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage ; 
 Lo ! poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 
 And slow-consuming age. 
 
 To each his sufferings : all are men, 
 
 Condemned alike to groan ; 
 The tender for another's pain 
 
 The unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
 Since sorrow never comes too late, 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 Thoaias Gray. 
 
 I. ' R
 
 242 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Exeter. 
 On IDE Hill. 
 
 OVERLOOKING EXETER. 
 
 O FAIREST native city, thou art crowned 
 
 With an enthralling beauty. Ay ! a queen 
 
 Enthroned conspicuous o'er tlie glorious scene, 
 
 Tak'st homage from the gazing hills around. 
 
 A thousand years protecting watch and ward 
 
 These guardians have held, and loving wiles 
 
 Oft used to pleasure thee, now wreathed in smiles, 
 
 And in gray glooms anon. Their influence reared 
 
 Thy tall cathedral's majesty : it stands 
 
 In eloquent calm grandeur, and its tale 
 
 Speaks to the stars, — how works by human hands 
 
 And through man's brain the Universal Soul ! 
 
 Fringes thee round with leafy dusk the vale, 
 
 And 'neath the blue a pomp of cloud doth roll ! 
 
 Walter Rew. 
 
 Falmouth. 
 
 Falmouth Haven. 
 
 Here Vale a lively flood, her nobler name that gives 
 To Falmouth, and by whom it famous ever lives. 
 Whose entrance is from sea so intricately wound, 
 Her haven angled so about her barbarous sound. 
 That in her quiet bay a hundred ships may ride. 
 Yet not the tallest mast be of the tall'st descried. 
 
 Michael Drayton.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 243 
 
 Farrington. 
 
 A Lancashire Doxology. 
 
 "Some cotton has lately been imported into Farrington, where 
 the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people, 
 who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the 
 cotton : the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally 
 sang the Doxology over them." — Spectator of May 14, 1863. 
 
 " Praise God from whom all blessings flow." 
 Praise him, who sendcth joy and woe. 
 The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, — 
 O praise him, all that dies, and lives. 
 
 He opens and he shuts his hand, 
 But why, we cannot understand ; 
 Pours and dries up his mercies' flood. 
 And yet is still all-perfect Good. 
 
 We fathom not the mighty plan, 
 The mystery of God and man. 
 We women, when afflictions come, 
 We only suffer and are dumb. 
 
 And when, the tempest passing by, 
 He gleams out, sun-like, through our sky. 
 We look up, and through black clouds riven. 
 We recognise the smile of Heaven. 
 
 Ours is no wisdom of the wise. 
 We have no deep philosophies : 
 Childlike we take both kiss and rod. 
 For he who loveth knoweth God. 
 
 By the Author of "John Halifax."
 
 244 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Farringford. 
 To THE Rev. F. D. Maurice. 
 
 Come, when no graver cares employ, 
 Godfather, come and see your boy : 
 
 Your presence will be sun in winter, 
 Making the little one leap for joy, 
 
 For, being of that honest few, 
 Who give the Fiend himself his due. 
 
 Should eighty thousand college-councils 
 Thunder 'Anathema,' friend, at you; 
 
 Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
 At you, so careful of the right. 
 
 Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
 (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight. 
 
 Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
 I watch the twilight falling brown 
 
 All round a careless-ordered garden 
 Close to the ridge of a noble down. 
 
 You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
 Eut honest talk and wholesome wine. 
 
 And only hear the magpie gossip 
 Garrulous under a roof of pine. 
 
 For groves of pine on either hand, 
 To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
 
 And farther on, the hoary Channel 
 Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 
 
 Where, if below the milky steep 
 Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
 
 And on through zones of liglU and shadow 
 Glimmer away to the lonely deep,
 
 FLETCHING, 245 
 
 We might discuss the Northern sin 
 Which made a selfish war begin ; 
 
 Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; 
 Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 
 
 Or whether war's avenging rod 
 Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
 
 Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
 Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 
 
 How best to help the slender store, 
 How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 
 
 How gain in life, as life advances, 
 Valour and charity more and more. 
 
 Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
 Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 
 
 But when the wreath of March has blossomed, 
 Crocus, anemone, violet. 
 
 Or later, pay one visit here. 
 
 For those are few we hold as dear ; 
 
 Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
 Many and many a happy year. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Fletching. 
 
 The Bells of Fletching. 
 
 The Fletching bells, witli silver chime, 
 Come softened o'er the distant shore ; 
 
 Though I have heard them many a time, 
 They never sang so sweet before. 
 
 A silence rests upon the hill, 
 
 A listening awe pervades the air ; 
 
 The very flowers are shut and still, 
 And bowed as if in prayer. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 246 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Flodden. 
 
 Flodden Field. 
 
 King Jamie hnth made a vow, 
 
 Keep it well if he may ! 
 That he will be at lovely London 
 
 Upon Saint James his day. 
 
 " Upon Saint James his day at noon, 
 At fair London will I be, 
 And all the lords in merry Scotland, 
 They shall dine there with me." 
 
 Then bespake good Queen Margaret, 
 The tears fell from her eye : 
 " Leave off these wars, most noble king, 
 Keep your fidelity. 
 
 "The water runs swift and wondrous deep 
 From bottom unto the brim ; 
 My brother Henry hath men good enough, 
 England is hard to win." 
 
 " Away," quoth he, "with this silly fool! 
 In prison fast let her lye : 
 For she is come of the English blood. 
 And for these words she shall die." 
 
 With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, 
 The Queen's chamberlain that day ; 
 " If that you put Queen Margaret to death, 
 Scotland shall rue it alway." 
 
 Then in a rage King Jamie did say, 
 " Away with this foolish mome ! 
 
 He shall be hanged, and tlie other burned. 
 So soon as I come home."
 
 FLODDEN, 247 
 
 At Flodden field the Scots came in, 
 Which made our Englishmen fain ; 
 
 At Bramstone-green this battel was seen, 
 There was King Jamie slain. 
 
 Then presently the Scots did fly. 
 
 Their cannons they left behind ; 
 Their ensigns gay were won all away. 
 
 Our souldiers did beat them blind. 
 
 To tell you plain, twelve thousand were slain 
 
 That to the fight did stand, 
 And many a prisoner took that day 
 
 The best in all Scotland. 
 
 That day made many a fatherless child. 
 
 And many a widow poor, 
 And many a Scottish gay lady 
 
 Sate weeping in her bower. 
 * * « * * 
 
 Ritson's Ancient Songs. 
 
 The Battle of Flodden. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
 And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew. 
 As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and far, 
 The broken billows of the war. 
 And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 
 But naught distinct they see : 
 Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
 Spears shook, and fiilchions flashed amain : 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ;
 
 248 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
 And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
 And Edmund Howard's lion bright. 
 Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 
 
 Although against them come 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
 And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
 And many a rugged Border clan, 
 
 With Huntly, and with Home. 
 Far on the left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
 Though there the western mountaineer 
 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
 And flung the feeble targe aside, 
 And with both hands the broadsword plied, 
 'T was vain : — but Fortune, on the right, 
 With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white, 
 
 The Howard's lion fell ; 
 Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
 
 Around the battle yell. 
 The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the ciy : 
 Loud were the clanging blows ; 
 Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose ; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and'sail, 
 
 It wavered 'mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear : 
 " By heaven and all its saints ! I swear, 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 
 
 I gallop to the host."
 
 FLODDEN. 249 
 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Followed by all the archer train. 
 The fieiy youth, with desperate charge, 
 Made for a space an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But daikly closed the war around, 
 Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too : — yet stayed, 
 As loath to leave the helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly. 
 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head, 
 Housing and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara cast. 
 
 To mark he would retuni in haste. 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. 
 
 And — Stanley ! was the cry, — ■ 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread. 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 
 With dying hand, above his head. 
 He shook the fragment of his blade, 
 
 And shouted "Victory ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on I " 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Flodden Field. 
 
 'TwAS on a sultry summer noon. 
 
 The sky was blue, the breeze was still. 
 
 And Nature with the robes of June 
 
 Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill,
 
 250 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 As rode we slowly o'er the plain 
 
 'Mid wayside flowers and sprouting'grain ; 
 
 The leaves on every bougli seemed sleeping, 
 And wild bees murmured in their mirth, 
 So pleasantly, it seemed as earth 
 
 A jubilee was keeping ! 
 
 And canst thou be, unto my soul 
 
 I said, that dread Northumbrian field, 
 
 Where war's terrific thunder's roll 
 
 Above two banded kingdoms pealed ? 
 
 From out the forest of his spears 
 
 Ardent imagination hears 
 
 The crash of Surrey's onward charging ; 
 While curtel-axe and broadsword gleam 
 Opposed, a bright, wide coming stream, 
 
 Like Solway's tide enlarging. 
 
 Hark to the turmoil and the shout, 
 The war-cry, and the cannon's boom ! 
 
 Behold the struggle and the rout. 
 
 The broken lance and draggled plume ! 
 
 Borne to the earth, with deadly force. 
 
 Comes down the horseman and his horse ; 
 
 Round boils the battle like an ocean. 
 While stripling blithe and veteran stern 
 Pour forth their life-blood on the fern, 
 
 Amid its fierce commotion ! 
 
 Mown down like swaths of summer flowers. 
 Yes ! on the cold earth there they lie, 
 
 The lords of Scotland's bannered towers. 
 The chosen of her chivalry ! 
 
 Commingled with the vulgar dead, 
 
 Perhaps lies many a mitred head ; 
 
 And thou, the vanguard onwards leading. 
 Who left the sceptre for the sword, 
 For battle-field tlic festal board, 
 
 Liest low amid the bleeding !
 
 FONTHILL ABBEY. 251 
 
 Yes ! here thy life-star knew decline, 
 
 Though hope, that strove to be deceived. 
 
 Shaped thy lone course to Palestine, 
 
 And what it wished full oft believed : — 
 
 An unhewn pillar on the plain 
 
 Marks out the spot where thou wast slain ; 
 
 There pondering as I stood, and gazing 
 On its gray top the linnet sang. 
 And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, 
 
 The quiet sheep were grazing. 
 
 And were the nameless dead unsung. 
 
 The patriot and the peasant train. 
 Who like a phalanx round thee clung. 
 
 To find but death on Flodden Plain ? 
 No ! many a mother's melting lay 
 Mourned o'er the briglit flowers wede away ; 
 And many a maid, will: tears of sorrow, 
 
 Whose locks no more were seen to wave. 
 
 Wept for the beauteous and the brave. 
 Who came not on the morrow. 
 
 David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 Fonthill Abbey. 
 
 FoNTHiLL Abbey. 
 
 The mighty master waved his wand, and, lo ! 
 On the astonished eye the glorious show 
 Burst like a vision ! Spirit of the place ! 
 Has the Arabian wizard with his mace 
 Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread. 
 And bade the enchanted palace rise instead ? 
 Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend 
 High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend ? 
 And starting from the umbrageous avenue 
 Spread the rich pile, magnificent to view ?
 
 252 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Enter ! from the arched portal look again 
 Back on the lessening woods and distant plain ! 
 Ascend the steps ! the high and fretted roof 
 Is woven by some elfin hand aloof: 
 Whilst from the painted windows' long array 
 A mellow liglit is shed as not of day. 
 How gorgeous all ! O, never may the spell 
 Be broken that arrayed those radiant forms so well ! 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Forest Hill. 
 
 Forest Hill. 
 
 " The village from which Milton married his first wife, Miss Mary 
 Powell, and the supposed scene of L'AlIegro. For a vei-y interesting 
 account of this interesting spot the reader is referred to a letter from 
 Sir William Jones to Lady Spenser, contained in Lord Teignmouth's 
 edition of Sir William Jones's Works." — Miss Mitford's Recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 OIwHEN I dared the Muse to name, 
 
 Did it not wake my spirit's flame ? 
 
 Did it not guide my eye, my soul. 
 
 To yonder distant shadowy knoll ? 
 
 And whisper in each joyous thrill 
 
 'Tis Milton's home, 'tis Forest Hill? 
 
 Yes, there he lived, and there he sung, 
 
 When life and liope and love were young ; 
 
 There, grace and genius at his side, 
 
 He won his lialf-disdainful bride ; 
 
 And there the lark " in spite of sorrow " 
 
 Still at his " window bade good morrow 
 
 Through the sweet-brier, or the vine. 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine." 
 
 O happy hill ! thy summer vest 
 
 Lives in his richest colouring drest ; 
 
 O happy hill ! thou saw'st him blest.
 
 FOREST HILL. 25; 
 
 Thou saw'st liim blest, the greatest man 
 That ever trod life's grovelling span, — 
 Shakspeai'e alone with him could try, 
 Undazzled and untired, the sky. 
 
 And thou didst view his blooming charm, 
 That eagle plumed like the dove. 
 
 Whose very sleeping grace could warm 
 The Italian maiden's heart to love. 
 Thou saw'st him in his happier hour. 
 When life was love, and genius power ; 
 When at his touch the awakened string 
 All joyous hailed the laughing spring ; 
 And, like the sun, his radiant eyes 
 Glanced on thy earthly Paradise. 
 Thou did'st not see those eyes so bright 
 Forever quenched in cheerless night ; 
 Thou didst not hear his anguished lays 
 Of " evil tongues and evil days ;" 
 Thou saw'st but his gay youth, fair spot, — 
 Happiest for what thou sawest not. 
 And happy still ! Though in thy sod 
 No blade remain by Milton trod ; 
 Though the sweet gale that sweeps thy plain 
 No touch of Milton's breath retain ; 
 Yet here the bards of later days 
 Shall roam to view thee and to praise. 
 Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame, 
 A lone romantic votary came ; 
 He too is gone, untimely gone ! 
 But lured by him full many a one 
 Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage ; 
 And minstrel, patriot, or sage. 
 Who bent not o'er his Indian bier, 
 Shall moum him with his Milton here, 
 For till our English tongue be dead. 
 From freedom's breast till life be fled, 
 Till Poesy's quick pulse be still. 
 None shall forsake tliee, Forest Hill. 
 
 Mary Russkll Mitford.
 
 254 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Forest Hill. 
 
 To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 And, singing, startle the dull night, 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
 And at my window bid good morrow, 
 Through the sweet-brier or the vine. 
 Or the twisted eglantine ! 
 While the cock, witli lively din. 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerily rouse the slumbering morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill. 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 Some time walking not unseen, 
 By hedge-row elms on hillocks green, 
 Right against the eastern gate. 
 Where the great sun begins his state, 
 Robed in flames and amber light. 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
 And the milkmaid singcth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe. 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 Whilst the landskip round it measures ; 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest I
 
 FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY. 255 
 
 Meadows tvim with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
 The cynosm^e of neighbouring eyes. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 Fountain's Abbey. 
 
 Fountain's Abbey. 
 
 Alas, alas ! those ancient towers. 
 Where never now the vespers ring. 
 
 But lonely at the midnight hours 
 Flits by the bat on dusky wing. 
 
 No more beneath the moonlight dim, 
 No more beneath the planet ray. 
 
 Those arches echo with the hymn 
 That bears life's meaner cares away. 
 
 No more within some cloistered cell, 
 With windows of the sculptured stone, 
 
 By sign of cross and sound of bell. 
 The world-worn heart can beat alone. 
 
 How needful some such tranquil place, 
 
 Let many a weary one attest, 
 Who turns from life's impatient race. 
 
 And asks for nothing but for rest. 
 
 How many, too heart-sick to roam 
 Still longer o'er the troubled wave, 
 
 Would thankful turn to such a home, — 
 A home already half a grave. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 256 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Fountain's Abbey. 
 
 Abbey ! forever smiling pensively, 
 
 How like a thing of Nature dost thou rise, 
 
 Amid her loveliest works ! as if the skies, 
 
 Clouded with grief, were arched thy roof to be. 
 
 And the tall trees were copied all from thee ! 
 
 Mourning thy fortunes, — while the waters dim 
 
 Flow like the memory of thy evening hymn ; 
 
 Beautiful in their sorrowing sympathy, 
 
 As if they with a weeping sister wept. 
 
 Winds name thy name ! But thou, though sad, art calm, 
 
 And Time with thee his plighted troth hath kept ; 
 
 For harebells deck thy brow, and at thy feet. 
 
 Where sleep the proud, the bee and redbreast meet, 
 
 Mixing thy sighs with Nature's lonely psalm. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Furness Abbey. 
 
 To Furness Abbey. 
 
 God, with a mighty and an outstretched hand, 
 
 Stays thee from sinking, and ordains to be 
 
 His witness lifted 'twixt the Irish Sea 
 
 And that still beauteous, once faith-hallowed land. 
 
 Stand as a sign, monastic prophet, stand ! 
 
 Thee, thee the speechless, God hath 'stablishcd thee 
 
 To be his Baptist, crying ceaselessly 
 
 In spiritual deserts like that Syrian sand ! 
 
 Man's little race around thee creep and crawl. 
 
 And dig, and delve, and roll their thousand wheels ; 
 
 Thy work is done : henceforth sabbatical 
 
 Thou restest, while the world around thee reels ; 
 
 But every scar of thine and stony rent 
 
 Cries to a proud, weak age, " Repent, repent ! "
 
 FURNESS ABBEV. 257 
 
 Virtue goes forth from thee and sanctifies 
 
 That once so peaceful shore whose peace is lost, 
 
 To-day doubt-dimmed, and inly tempest-tost. 
 
 Virtue most healing when sealed up it lies 
 
 In relics, like thy ruins. Enmities 
 
 Thou hast not. Thy gray towers sleep on 'mid dust ; 
 
 But in the resurrection of the just 
 
 Thy works, contemned to day, once more shall rise. 
 
 Guard with thy dark compeer, cloud-veiled Black Cooml^ie, 
 
 Till then a land to nature and to grace 
 
 So dear. Thy twin in greatness, clad with gloom, 
 
 Is grander than with sunshine on his face : 
 
 Thou 'mid abjection and the irreverent doom 
 
 Art holier— O how much ! — to hearts not base. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 FuRNESs Abbey. 
 
 " Considering every day the uncertainty of life, and that the 
 roses and flowers of kings, emperors, and dukes, and the crowns and 
 palms of all the great, wither and decay ; and that all things with 
 an uninterrupted course tend to dissolution and death." — Charier of 
 the A bbey. 
 
 On Norman cloister and on Gothic aisle 
 
 The fading sunset lingers for a while ; 
 
 The rooks chant noisy vespers in the elms ; — 
 
 Then night's slow-rising tide the scene o'ervvhelms. 
 
 So fade the roses and the flowers of kings. 
 And crowns and palms decay with humbler things ; 
 All works built up by toil of mortal breath 
 Tend in unbroken course to dust and death. 
 
 Pillar and roof and pavement all are gone ; 
 The lamp extinguished and the prayers long done ; 
 But faith and awe, as stars, eternal shine ; — - 
 The human heart is their endurinir shrine.
 
 258 POEMS OF PLx\CES. 
 
 O Earth, in thine incessant funerals, 
 Take to thyself these crumbling, outgrown walls ! 
 In the broad world our God we seek and find, 
 And serve our Maker when we serve our kind. 
 
 Yet spare for tender thought, for beauty spare, 
 Some sculptured capital, some carving fair; 
 Yon ivied archway, fit for poet's dream. 
 For painter's pencil, or for preacher's theme ! 
 
 Save, for our modern hurry, rush, and strife, 
 The needed lesson that thought, too, is life ! 
 Work is 7iot prayer, nor duty's self divine. 
 Unless within them Reverence hath her shrine. 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 O THREE times famous isle, where is that place that 
 
 might 
 Be with thyself compared for glory and delight, 
 Whilst Glastonbury stood ? exalted to that pride. 
 Whose monastery seemed all other to deride : 
 O, who thy ruin sees, whom wonder doth not fill 
 With their great fathers' pomp, devotion, and^their skill ? 
 Thou more than mortal power (this judgment rightly 
 
 weighed), 
 Then present to assist, at that foundation laid ; 
 On whom for this sad waste should justice lay the crime ? 
 Is there a power in fate, or doth it yield to time ? 
 Or was there error such, that thou couldst not protect 
 Those buildings which thy hand did withtheir zeal erect? 
 To whom didst thou commit that monument to keep. 
 That suffered with tlie dead their memory to sleep, 
 When not great Arthur's tomb nor holy Joseph's grave 
 From sacrilege had power their sacred bones to save ?
 
 GLASTONBURY. 259 
 
 He who that God in man to his sepulchre brought, 
 Or he which for the faith twelve famous battles fought. 
 What ! did so many kings do honour to that place, 
 For avarice at last so vilely to deface ? 
 For reverence to that seat which had ascribed been, 
 Trees yet in winter bloom, and bear their summer's green. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 The Ballad of Glastonbury. 
 
 Glastonuurv, anciently called Avalon, is a place much cele- 
 brated both in tradition and history. It was here, according to old 
 legends, when the neighbouring moors were covered by the sea, that 
 St. Joseph of Arimathea landed, and built the first church in Eng- 
 land. It was here that the glorious king Arthur was buried, with 
 the inscription : 
 
 pjic jacct ^rturus, xtx quontiam, rcxquc futuvus. 
 
 The hills have on their royal robes 
 
 Of purple and of gold, 
 And over tlieir tops the autumn clouds 
 
 In heaps are onward rolled ; 
 Below them spreads the fairest plain 
 
 That British eye may see, — 
 From Quantock to the Mendip range, 
 
 A broad expanse and free. 
 
 As from those barriers, gray and vast, 
 
 Rolled off the morning mist. 
 Leaving the eyesight unrestrained 
 
 To wander where it list, 
 So roll, thou ancient chronicler, 
 
 The ages' mist away ; 
 Give me an hour of vision clear, '] 
 
 A dream of the former day. 
 
 At once the flood of the Severn sea 
 Flowed over half the plain,
 
 26o POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And a liundred capes, with huts and trees, 
 
 Above the flood remain : 
 'Tis water here and water there, 
 
 And tlie lordly Parret's way 
 Hath never a trace on its pathless face, 
 
 As in the former day. 
 
 Of shining sails that thronged that stream 
 
 There resteth never a one. 
 But a little ship to that inland sea 
 
 Comes bounding in alone ; 
 With stretch of sail and tug of oar 
 
 It comes full merrily, 
 And the sailors chant, as they pass the shore, 
 
 VLM gloria, Sominc. 
 ****■» 
 
 By this the vessel had floated nigh 
 
 To the turf upon the strand, 
 And first that holy man of joy 
 
 Stepped on the Promise-land ; 
 Until the rest, in order blest, 
 
 Were ranged, and, kneeling there, 
 Gave blessing to the God of heaven 
 
 In a lowly chanted prayer. 
 
 Then over the brow of the seaward lull 
 
 In their order blest they pass, 
 At every change in the psalmody 
 
 Kissing the holy grass. 
 Till they come where they may sec full near 
 
 That pointed mountain rise. 
 Darkening with its ancient cone 
 
 The light of the eastern skies. 
 
 " This staff hath borne me long and well," 
 Then spake that saint divine, 
 
 " Over mountain and over plain, 
 On quest of the Promise-sign ;
 
 GLASTONBURY. 261 
 
 For aye let it stand in this western land, 
 
 And God do no more to me 
 If there ring not out from this realm about, 
 
 Eibi gloria, Somiitc." 
 
 A cloud is on them, — the vision is changed, 
 
 And voices of melody. 
 And a ring of harps, like twinkles bright, 
 
 Comes over the inland sea ; 
 Long and loud is the chant of praise, — 
 
 The halloAved ages glide ; 
 And once again the mist from the plain 
 
 Rolls up the Mendip side. 
 
 With mourning stole and solemn step. 
 
 Up that same seaward hill, 
 There moved of ladies and of knights 
 
 A company sad and still ; 
 There went before an open bier. 
 
 And, sleeping in a charm, 
 With face to heaven and folded palms 
 
 There lay an armed form. 
 
 It is the winter deep, and all 
 
 The glittering fields that morn 
 In Avalon's isle were over-snowed 
 
 The day the Lord was born ; 
 And as they cross the northward brow. 
 
 See white, but not with snow, 
 The mystic thorn beside their path 
 
 Its holy blossoms show. 
 
 They carry him where from chapel low 
 
 Rings clear the angel-bell, — 
 lie was the flower of knights and lords. 
 
 So chant the requiem well : 
 I lis wound was deep, and his holy sleep 
 
 Shall last him many a day, 
 Till the ciy of crime in the latter time 
 
 Shall melt the charm away.
 
 262 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A cloud is on them, — the vision fades, 
 
 And cries of woe and fear, 
 And sounds unblest of neighbouring war, 
 
 Are thronging on mine ear ; 
 Long and loud was the battle-cry. 
 
 And the groans of them that died ; 
 And once again the mist from the plain 
 
 Rolls up the Mendip side. 
 
 From the postern-door of an abbaye pile, 
 
 Passes with heavy cheer 
 A soldier-king in humble mien, 
 
 For the shouting foes are near : 
 The holy men by their altars bide, 
 
 In alb and stole they stand ; 
 The incense-fumes the temple fill 
 
 From blessed children's hand. 
 
 Slow past the king that seaward brow. 
 
 Whence turning he miglit see, 
 Streaming upon Saint Michael's Tor, 
 
 The pagan blazonry ; 
 Then a pealing shout and a silence long. 
 
 And rolling next on high 
 Dark vapour, laced with threads of flame, 
 
 Angered the twilight sky. 
 
 The cloud comes on, — the vision is changed, 
 
 And songs of victory, 
 And hymns of praise to the Lord of Peace, 
 
 Come over the inland sea ; 
 The waters clear, the fields appear, 
 
 The plain is green and wide ; 
 And once again the mist from the plain 
 
 Rolls up the Mendip side. 
 
 The plats were green with lavish growth, 
 And, like a silver cord,
 
 GLASTONBURY. 263 
 
 Down to the northern bay the Brue 
 
 Its gUttering water poured. 
 Far and near the pilgrims throng, 
 
 With staff and humble mien, 
 Where Glastonbury's crown of towers 
 
 Against the sky is seen. 
 
 By the holy thorn and the holy well, 
 
 And Saint Joseph's silver shrine, 
 They offer thanks to higliest Heaven 
 
 For the light and grace divine ; 
 In the open cheer of the abbaye near 
 
 They dwell their purposed day, 
 And then they part, with blessed thoughts, 
 
 Each on his homeward way. 
 
 * * * » 
 
 The winds are high in Saint Michael's Tor, 
 
 And a sorry sight is there, — 
 A dark-browed band, with spear in hand, 
 
 Mount up the turret-stair ; 
 With heavy cheer and lifted palms 
 
 There kneels a holy priest ; 
 The fiends of death they gradge his breath 
 
 To hold their rapine-feast. 
 
 The cloud comes on them, the vision is changed, 
 
 And a crash of lofty walls. 
 And the short dead sound of music quenched, 
 
 On the sickened hearing falls ; 
 Quick and sharp is the ruin-cry, 
 
 Unblest the ages glide ; 
 And once again the mist from the plain 
 
 Rolls up the Mendip side. 
 
 Low sloping over sea and field 
 
 The setting ray had past. 
 On roofs and curls of quiet smoke 
 
 The glory-flush was cast.
 
 264 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Clustered upon the western side 
 
 Of Avalon's green hill, 
 Her ancient homes and fretted towers 
 
 Were lying bright and still ; 
 
 And lower in the valley-field, 
 
 Hid from the parting day, 
 A brotherhood of columns old, 
 
 A ruin rough and gray ; 
 And over all, Saint Michael's Tor 
 
 Spired up into the sky, — • 
 Most like to Tabor's holy mount 
 
 Of vision blest and high. 
 
 The vision changeth not, — no cloud 
 
 Comes down the Mendip side ; 
 The moors spread out beneath my feet 
 
 Their free expanse and wide ; 
 On glittering cots and ancient towers 
 
 That rise among the dells. 
 On mountain and on bending stream, 
 
 The light of evening dwells, 
 
 I may not write, — I cannot say 
 
 Wliat change shall next betide ; 
 Wiietlicr that group of columns gray 
 
 Untroubled shall abide, 
 Or wlietlier that pile in Avalon's isle 
 
 Some ]5ious hand shall raise. 
 And the vaulted arches ring once more 
 
 Willi ])ealing chants of jiraise. 
 
 II]:nkv Alkokd, 
 
 Glastonbury, 
 
 On thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon, 
 Not for that thou art crowned with ancient lowers 
 And shafts and clustered pillars many an one 
 Love I to dream away the sunny hours ;
 
 GLASTONBURY. 265 
 
 Not for that here in charmed slumber lie 
 The holy relics of that British king 
 Who was the flower of knightly chivalry, 
 Do I stand blest past power of uttering ;— 
 But for that on thy cowslip-sprinkled sod 
 Alit of old the olive-bearing bird, 
 Meek messenger of purchased peace with God ; 
 And the first hymns that Britain ever heard 
 Arose, the low preluding melodies 
 To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 At the Tomb of King Arthur. 
 
 Through Glastonbury's cloister dim 
 The midnight winds were sighing ; 
 
 Chanting a low funereal hymn 
 For those in silence lying, 
 
 Death's gentle flock 'mid shadows grim 
 Fast bound, and unreplying. 
 
 Hard by the monks their mass were saying ; 
 
 The organ evermore 
 Its wave in alternation swaying 
 
 On that smooth swell upbore 
 The voice of their melodious praying 
 
 Toward heaven's eternal shore. 
 
 Erelong a princely multitude 
 
 Moved on through arches gray. 
 Which yet, though shattered, stand where stood 
 
 (God grant they stand for aye !) 
 Saint Joseph's church of woven wood 
 
 On England's baptism day. 
 
 The grave they found ; their swift strokes fell, 
 
 Piercing dull earth and stone. 
 They reached erelong an oaken cell, 
 
 And cross of oak, whereon
 
 266 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Was graved, " Here sleeps King Arthur well, 
 In the isle of Avalon." 
 
 The mail on every knightly breast, 
 
 The steel at each man's side, 
 Sent forth a sudden gleam ; each crest 
 
 Bowed low its plumed pride ; 
 Down o'er the coffin stooped a priest, — 
 
 But first the monarch cried : 
 
 " Great King ! in youth I made a vow 
 
 Earth's mightiest son to greet ; 
 His hand to worship ; on his brow 
 
 To gaze ; his grace entreat. 
 Therefore, though dead, till noontide thou 
 
 Shalt fill my royal seat ! " 
 
 Away the massive lid they rolled, — 
 
 Alas ! what found they there ? 
 No kingly brow, no shapely mould ; 
 
 But dust where such things were. 
 Ashes o'er ashes, fold on fold, — 
 
 And one bright wreath of hair. 
 
 Genevra's hair ! like gold it lay ; 
 
 For Time, though stern, is just, 
 And humbler things feel last his sway, 
 
 And Death reveres his trust. — 
 They touched that wreath ; it sank away 
 
 From sunshine into dust ! 
 
 Then Henry lifted from his head 
 
 The Conqueror's iron crown ; 
 That crown upon that dust he laid. 
 
 And knelt in reverence down, 
 And raised both hands to heaven, and said, 
 
 •'Thou God art King alone! " 
 ♦ * « ♦ 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 GLASTONBURY. 267 
 
 Glastonbury Abbey and Wells Cathedral. 
 
 Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale, 
 How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose! 
 Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale, 
 Gleaming, or, more majestic in repose, 
 When, west-away the crimson landscape glows, 
 Casting their shadows on the waters wide. 
 How sweet the sounds, that, at still daylight's close, 
 Came blended with the airs of eventide. 
 When through the glimmering aisle faint " Misereres " 
 died. 
 
 But all is silent now ! silent the bell. 
 That, heard from yonder ivied turret high, 
 Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell ; 
 Silent the vesper-chant, the litany 
 Responsive to the organ! — scattered lie 
 The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray, 
 Wliilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh ! 
 And even the mouldering shrine is rent away, 
 Where in his warrior weeds the British Arthur lay. 
 
 Now look upon the sister fane of Wells ! 
 
 It lifts its forehead in the summer air ; 
 
 Sweet o'er the champaign sound its sabbath bells ; 
 
 Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer. 
 
 Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare, 
 
 Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state ? 
 
 O, say, shall time revere the fabric fair. 
 
 Or shall it meet, in distant years thy fate. 
 
 Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate ? 
 
 No ! to subdue or elevate the soul, 
 
 Our best, our purest feelings to refine, 
 
 Still shall the solemn diapasons roll 
 
 Through that high fane ! still hues reflected shine 
 
 From the tall windows on the sculptured shrine,
 
 268 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Tingeing the pavement ! for He shall afford, 
 He who directs the storm, his aid divine, 
 Because its Sion has not left thy word, 
 Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord ! 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 King Arthur's Funeral. 
 
 When Arthur l)owed his haughty crest, 
 
 No princess, veiled in azure vest, 
 
 Snatched him, by Merlin's potent spell. 
 
 In groves of golden bliss to dwell, 
 
 Where, crowned with wreaths of mistletoe. 
 
 Slaughtered kings in glory go ? 
 
 liut when he fell, with winged speed, 
 
 His champions, on a milk-white steed, 
 
 From the battle's hurricane. 
 
 Bore him to Joseph's towered fane, 
 
 In the fair vale of Avalon : 
 
 There, with chanted orison. 
 
 And the long blaze of tapers clear. 
 
 The stolcd fathers met the bier : 
 
 Through the dim aisles, in order dread 
 
 Of martial woe, the chief they led. 
 
 And deep intombed in holy ground. 
 
 Before the altar's solemn bound. 
 
 Around no dusky banners wave, 
 
 No mouldering trophies mark the grave : 
 
 Away the rutiilcss Dane has torn 
 
 Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn ; 
 
 And long o'er the neglected stone 
 
 Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown. 
 
 Thomas War'ion.
 
 GLEN NECTAN. 269 
 
 Near Avalon. 
 
 A SHIP with shields before the sun, 
 Six maidens round the mast, 
 A red-gold crown on every one, 
 A green gown on the last. 
 
 The fluttering green banners there 
 Are wrought witli ladies' heads most fair, 
 And a portraiture of Guenevere 
 The middle of each sail doth bear. 
 
 A ship with sails before the wind. 
 
 And round the helm six knights ; 
 
 There heaumes are on, whereby, half blind. 
 
 They pass by many sights. 
 
 The tattered scarlet banners there 
 Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare. 
 Those six knights sorrowfully bear 
 In all their heaumes some yellow hair. 
 
 WiLLiAjr Morris. 
 
 Glen Nectan. 
 
 The Sisters of Glen Nectan. 
 
 In a rocky gorge, midway between the castles of Bottreau and 
 Dundagel, there is a fall of waters into a hollow caldron of native 
 stone, which has borne for ten centuries the name of St. Nectan's 
 Kieve. 
 
 It is from Nectan's mossy steep 
 The foamy waters flash and leap ; 
 It is where shrinking wild-flowers grow 
 They lave the nymph that dwells below. 
 
 But wherefore in this far-off dell 
 The reliques of a human cell.
 
 270 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Where the sad stream and lonely wind 
 Bring man no tidings of his kind ? 
 
 •* Long years agone," the old man said, — 
 'Twas told him by his grandsire dead, — 
 
 *' One day two ancient sisters came ; 
 
 None there could tell their race or name. 
 
 " Their speech was not in Cornish phrase. 
 Their garb had signs of loftier days ; 
 Slight food they took from hands of men. 
 They withered slowly in that glen. 
 
 " One died, — the other's sunken eye 
 Gushed till the fount of tears was dry ; 
 A' wild and withering thought had she,' 
 * I shall have none to weep for me.' 
 
 " They found her silent at the last, 
 Bent in the shape wherein she passed, 
 Where her lone seat long used to stand, 
 Her head upon her shrivelled hand." 
 
 Did fancy give this legend birth, — 
 The grandame's tale for winter hearth ? 
 Or some dead bard, by Nectan's stream. 
 People these banks with such a dream ? 
 
 We know not ; but it suits the scene 
 To think such wild things here have been : 
 What spot more meet could grief or sin 
 Choose, at the last, to wither in ? 
 
 RoBEra- Stephen Hawkeu
 
 GORDALE. 271 
 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Believe me, noble lord, 
 I am a stranger here in Gloustershire. 
 These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 
 Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome, 
 And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, 
 Making the hard way sweet and delectable. 
 But, I bethink me, what a weaiy way 
 From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found, 
 In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company : 
 Which, I protest, hath veiy much beguiled 
 The tediousness and process of my travel. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 Gordale. 
 
 GORDALE. 
 
 At early dawn, or rather when the air 
 
 Glimmers with fading light and shadowy eve 
 
 Is busiest to confer and to bereave ; 
 
 Then, pensive votary ! let thy feet repair 
 
 To Gordale chasm, terrific as the lair 
 
 Where the young lions couch ; for so, by leave 
 
 Of the propitious hour, thou mayst perceive 
 
 The local deity, with oozy hair 
 
 And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn 
 
 Recumbent : him thou mayst behold, who hides 
 
 His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
 
 Teaching the docile waters how to turn, 
 
 Or, if need be, impediment to spurn, 
 
 And force their passage to the salt-sea tides ! 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 272 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Grasmere. 
 
 The Wishing-gate. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway leading 
 to Ambleside, is a gate which, time out of mind, has been called the 
 Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there 
 have a favourable issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land forever gi-een : 
 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed qtiecn 
 
 Are confident and gay ; 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
 Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
 Not such the land of Wishes, — there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 
 
 And thouglits with things at strife j 
 Yet how forlorn, should ye depart. 
 Ye superstitions of the heart, 
 
 How poor, were human life ! 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 
 
 One tender claim abate ; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway, 
 Surviving near the public way, 
 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 
 Shed kindly iniluencc on the place, 
 
 Ere nortlnvard tlicy retired ; 
 If here a warrior left a s}iell. 
 Panting for glory as he fell ; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair. 
 Composed with Nature's finest care 
 And in her fondest love, — •
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 Peace to embosom and content, — 
 To overawe the turbulent, 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea ! even the stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 
 
 Unknowing and unknown, 
 The infection of the ground partakes, 
 Longing for his beloved, who makes 
 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here, 
 
 The ancient faith disclaim ? 
 The local genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends 
 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
 
 Here crave an easier lot ; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true 
 
 With firmer, holier knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 Upon the irrevocable past. 
 
 Some penitent sincere 
 May for a worthier future sigh. 
 While trickles from his downcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The worldling, pining to be freed 
 From turmoil, who would turn or speed 
 
 The current of his fate. 
 Might stop before this favoured scene, 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 273
 
 274 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loath such help to seek, 
 
 Yet, passing, here might pause, 
 And thirst for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 
 In quietness withdraws ; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply ; 
 Time pressing on with starry crest, 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread Eternity. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Lines 
 written at grasmere, on tidings of the 
 
 APPROACHING DEATH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX. 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! the voice is up 
 
 With \\hich she speaks when storms are gone, 
 
 A mighty unison of streams ! 
 
 Of all her voices, one ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! this inland depth 
 In peace is roaring like the sea ; 
 Yon star upon the mountain-top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain dcprest. 
 Importunate and heavy load ! 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad, — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear ; 
 For he must die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear.
 
 GRASMERE. 275 
 
 A power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
 But when the great and good depart 
 What is it more than this, — 
 
 That man, who is from God sent forth 
 Doth yet again to God return ? 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be ; 
 Then wherefore should we mourn ? 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 A Remembrance of Grasmere. 
 
 O VALE and lake, within your mountain urn 
 Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 
 Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, 
 Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep 
 W^ith light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
 Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
 On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, 
 Isles of the blest, and in our memory keep 
 Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene. 
 Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 
 O, ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar 
 The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 
 Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
 Smiles that subdue the soul to love and tears and prayer. 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 Wordsworth's Grave. 
 
 The Rothay's stream is running near, 
 Its voice is very glad and clear, 
 The voice that was to him so dear ; 
 
 But the poet doth not hear. 
 
 All around his dwelling rise, 
 With their gray heads in the skies,
 
 276 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The noble hills that made him wise ; 
 
 But he cloth not ope his eyes. 
 
 From the little church the hum 
 
 Of his old friends' prayers doth come, 
 
 As is most fit, unto his tomb ; 
 
 But the godlike lips are dumb. 
 
 What and if he deaf doth lie ? 
 
 What and if he ope not eye ? 
 
 If death that tuneful tongue doth tic ? 
 
 With God and us such ne'er can die. 
 James Payn. 
 
 Grasmere. 
 
 Shut out from all that wars against the soul, 
 Tlie shocks that jar the music of the heart, 
 The pleasures lasting only in the smart 
 Of that regret which feigns a perfect whole 
 Where naught was full ; the frequent rubs that wear 
 Our loves away, and strip us for the fight 
 With the rough world ; alone in calm deliglit 
 Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere ! 
 
 lake most fair set round with mountain-guards, 
 Sweet birds, swift streams, eternal waterfall. 
 Crag-lichen, and wild vale-flower, all, yea, all 
 Sliall eye and ear in love oft turn towards : 
 
 1 tliank thee for much lore that doth not dwell 
 With books nor men : farewell, bright spot, farewell ! 
 
 James Payn. 
 
 Wordsworth's Grave. 
 
 Return to memory that lovely night. 
 
 Some few years sped, wlicn first I saw the tomb 
 
 Of the great poet of simiilicily ; 
 
 Soft fell the twilight of November eve,
 
 GREAT BEALINGS. 277 
 
 Early November, ere the leaves had fallen 
 
 Upon the silence of sweet Grasmere Lake ; 
 
 Each wave, each pebble, and each mountain high, 
 
 Was emulously still, and not one sound 
 
 Contended with the holy silence save 
 
 Thy voice, thou constant mourner o'er the dead, 
 
 Rothay, blue darling of the poet's eye ! 
 
 A yew sepulchral bending o'er his dust ; 
 
 Long grass unstirred by any breath of breeze, 
 
 Yet laden with a soft and soundless awe, — 
 
 There slept the poet-king of Cumberland, 
 
 And of all simple scenes and hearts on earth ; 
 
 And at his feet a little grave proclaimed 
 
 How a poor wayward one had stolen near. 
 
 Even as a truant child has often crept 
 
 In darkness and in silence to the feet 
 
 Of an old sleeping sire, and nestled there. 
 
 George Gilfillan. 
 
 Great Bealings. 
 
 Meditations in Great Bealing Churchyard. 
 
 Bear witness, many a loved and lovely scene 
 
 Which I no more may visit, are ye not 
 Thus still my own ? Thy groves of shady green. 
 
 Sweet Gosfield ! or thou, wild, romantic spot ! 
 Where by gray craggy cliff, and lonely grot, 
 
 The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed : 
 You still remain as fresh and unforgot 
 
 As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed 
 Upon your charms ; and yet months, years, since then 
 have sped 
 
 Their silent course. And thus it ought to be, 
 Shoukl I sojourn far hence in distant years, 
 
 Thou lovely dwelling of the dead ! with thee : 
 P'or there is much about thee that endears
 
 278 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Thy peaceful landscape ; much the heart reveres, 
 Much that it loves, and all it could desire 
 
 In meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears 
 Have been too busy, and we would retire 
 
 Even from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire. 
 
 Then art thou such a spot as man might choose 
 
 For still communion : all around is sweet 
 And calm and soothing ; when the light breeze wooes 
 
 The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat. 
 Whose interlacing branches, as they meet, 
 
 O'ertop and almost hide the edifice 
 They beautify ; no sound, except the bleat 
 
 Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss 
 Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ? 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 Green-head Ghyll. 
 
 Green-head Ghyll. 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 But courage ! for around that boisterous l^rook 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves. 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 
 With a few sheep, with rocks, and stones, and kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 It is, in truth, an utter solitude. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 279 
 
 Greenwich. 
 
 Greenwich Hill. 
 
 Though clouds obscured the morning hour, 
 And keen and eager blew tlie blast, 
 
 And drizzling fell the cheerless shower. 
 As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed. 
 
 All soon, propitious to our prayer, 
 Gave promise of a brighter day ; 
 
 The clouds dispersed in purer air, 
 The blasts in zephyrs died away. 
 
 So have we, love, a day enjoyed. 
 
 On which we both — and yet who knows ?- 
 May dwell with pleasure unalloyed. 
 
 And dread no thorn beneath the rose. 
 
 How pleasant from that dome-crowned hill 
 To view the varied scene below. 
 
 Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still, 
 The encircling Thames' majestic flow ! 
 
 How sweet, as indolently laid, 
 
 We overhung that long-drawn dale, 
 
 To watch the checkered light and shade 
 That glanced upon the shifting sail ! 
 
 And when the shadow's rapid growth 
 Proclaimed the noontide hour expired, 
 
 And, though unwearied, nothing loath. 
 We to our simple meal retired ; 
 
 The sportive wile, the blameless jest, 
 The careless mind's spontaneous flow. 
 
 Gave to that simple meal a zest 
 
 Which richer tables may not know.
 
 jSo rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The babe that on the mother's breast 
 Has toyed and wantoned for a while, 
 
 And, sinking in unconscious rest, 
 Looks up to catch a parting smile, 
 
 Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, 
 When, ere thy ruby lips could part 
 
 (As close to mine thy cheek was laid), 
 Thine eyes had opened all thy heart. 
 
 Then, then I marked the chastened joy 
 That lightly o'er thy features stole, 
 
 From vows repaid (my sweet employ). 
 From truth, from innocence of soul ; 
 
 While every word dropt on my ear 
 So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill), 
 
 So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear. 
 And e'en thy pause had music still. 
 
 And O, how like a fairy dream 
 To gaze in silence on the tide. 
 
 While soft and warm the sunny gleam 
 Slept on the glassy surface wide ! 
 
 And many a thought of fancy bred. 
 Wild, soothing, tender, undefined. 
 
 Played lightly round the heart, and slied 
 Delicious languor o'er tiie mind. 
 
 So hours like moments winged their flight, 
 Till now the boatmen on tiie shore. 
 
 Impatient of the \vaning light. 
 Recalled us by the dashing oar. 
 
 W\'!l, Anna, many days like this 
 1 cannot, must not, hope to share ; 
 
 For 1 have found an hour of bliss 
 Still fijllowcd by an age of care.
 
 GRETA, THE RIVER. 281 
 
 Yet oft when memory intervenes — 
 But you, dear maid, be liappy still, 
 
 Nor e'er regret, 'midst fairer scenes, 
 The day we passed on Greenwich Hill. 
 
 William Gifford. 
 
 Greenwich Hospital. 
 
 Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more 
 Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar 
 Of Ocean tossing on his restless bed ! 
 Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled 
 For honour, who have traversed the great flood. 
 Or on the Ixittle's front with stern eye stood. 
 When i-olled its thunder, and the billows red 
 ( )ft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead. 
 O, heavy are the sorrows that beset 
 Old age ! and hard it is, — hard to forget 
 The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride ! 
 But here, O aged men ! ye may abide 
 .Secure, and see the last light on the wave 
 Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave ; 
 Tike the calm evening ray, that smiles serene 
 Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers thesinking scene. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Greta, the River. 
 To THE River Greta, near Keswick. 
 
 Greta, what fearful li-.tening ! when huge stones 
 
 Rumble along thy bed, block after block ; 
 
 Or, whirling with reiterated shock. 
 
 Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans : 
 
 But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans 
 
 Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named 
 
 The mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
 
 282 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And the habitual murmur that atones 
 
 For thy worst rage forgotten. Oft as Spring 
 
 Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones, 
 
 Seats of gkad instinct and love's carolling. 
 
 The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
 
 With liveliest peals of birthday harmony ; 
 
 To a grieved heart the notes are benisons. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Grisedale.^ 
 
 Grisedale Beck. 
 
 My gentle stream, with constant smile and bright, 
 I miss thy loving looks and winding ways. 
 Thy murmurous accents glad of yesternight. 
 Sweet as from earnest lips the words of praise ; 
 Where art thou, friend ? I hear the impetuous noise 
 Of hurried passion, the unmeaning roar 
 Of some wild torrent : it is not thy voice ! 
 Nor doth thy wave respect its wonted shore, 
 But arrowy-straight in frantic fury springs. 
 I grieve that I e'er knew thee : happy heart 
 And noble, that with eitlier moods hath part : 
 Mine hath not ; but with timid love it clings 
 Conscious of weakness : and it doth so lean 
 To some boy-friends grown hard and headstrong men. 
 
 James Payn. 
 
 Haddon Hall. 
 Haddon Hall, Derbyshire, July 1836. 
 
 Not fond displays of cost, nor pampered train 
 Of idle menials, me so much delight, 
 Nor mirrored halls, nor roofs with gilding bright. 
 Nor all the foolery of tlie rich and vain,
 
 HADDON HALL. 283 
 
 As these time-honoured walls, crowning the plain 
 
 With their gray battlements ; within bedight 
 
 With ancient trophies of baronial might, 
 
 And figures dim, inwoven in the grain 
 
 Of dusky tapestiy. I love to muse, 
 
 In present peace, on days of pomp and strife ; 
 
 The daily straggles of our human life, 
 
 Seen through Time's veil, their selfish colouring lose. 
 
 As here the glai'ing beams of outer day 
 
 Through ivy-shadowed oriels softened play. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Haddon Hall. 
 
 Rutland, Vernon, whatsoe'er 
 
 The boasted rank, the lordly name. 
 
 All have melted into air. 
 
 Ceased like an extinguished flame. 
 
 Solemn in the summer noon, 
 
 Memoiy- ridden, hope-bereft. 
 Ghost-like 'neath the midnight moon 
 
 By some trailing shadow cleft ; 
 
 Vacant chamber of the dead. 
 
 Through whose gloom fierce passions swept 
 Mouldering couch whereon 'tis said. 
 
 The majesty of England slept ; 
 
 Hall of wassail, which has rang 
 To the unquestioned baron's jest ; 
 
 Dim old chapel, where were hung 
 Offerings of the o'erfraught breast ; 
 
 Moss-clad terrace, strangely still. 
 Broken shaft, and crumbling frieze. 
 
 Still as lips that used to fill 
 
 With bugle-blasts the morning breeze !
 
 284 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Careless river, gliding under, 
 
 Ever gliding, lapsing on, 
 With no sense of awe or wonder 
 
 At the ages which have gone ; 
 
 Thou in thy unconscious flow 
 
 Know'st not sorrows which destroy, 
 
 Yet this truth thou dost not know, — 
 Sorrows give a zest to joy. 
 
 Every record of the past 
 
 Makes the present more intense, 
 
 Love's old temple overcast 
 
 Wakes to love the living sense. 
 
 In the long-deserted hall. 
 
 In dead beauty's withered bower. 
 
 Closer clings the heart to all 
 
 That makes glad the fleeting hour ; — 
 
 Closer cling we unto those 
 
 Who must leave us or be left ; 
 
 Brighter in the sunset glows 
 
 Life's mysterious warp and weft. 
 
 Henry Glassforu Bkll, 
 
 Hales Owen. 
 
 The Schoolimistress. 
 
 In every village marked with little spire, 
 Eml^owercd in trees, and hardly known to fame, 
 There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, 
 A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name. 
 Who boasts unruly brats witli birch to tame ; 
 They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
 Awed by the power of this relentless dame. 
 And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent, 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.
 
 HALES OWEN. 285 
 
 And all in sight doth rise a l^irchen tree, 
 Which Learning near her little dome did stow, 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
 Though now so wide its waving branches flow, 
 And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. 
 But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low, 
 And as they looked they found their horror grew, 
 And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 
 
 So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 
 
 A lifeless phantom near a garden placed, 
 
 So doth it wonton birds of peace bereave, 
 
 Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 
 
 They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ; 
 
 Sad sei"vitude ! such comfortless annoy 
 
 May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
 
 Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, 
 
 Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 
 
 Near to this dome is found a patch so green 
 
 On which the tribe their gambols do display. 
 
 And at the door imprisoning board is seen, 
 
 Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, 
 
 Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
 
 The noises intennixed, which thence resound, 
 
 Do Learning's little tenement betray ; 
 
 Where sits the dame disguised in look profound 
 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
 Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
 Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
 As is the harebell that adorns the field ; 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
 Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear entwined. 
 With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled, 
 And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined. 
 And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 
 
 William Shenstone.
 
 286 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Hampstead. 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale. 
 
 My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pauis 
 
 My sense, as thoiit^h of liemlock I had drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 
 Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 
 
 Dance, and proven^al song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Ilippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 
 
 P'ade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
 
 Where youth grows i)ale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs. 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyc^i, 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
 
 HAMPSTEAD. 287 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Baccluis and his pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night. 
 
 And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne. 
 Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the Ijoughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child, 
 The coming musk rose, full of dewy wine, 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 
 In such an ecstasy I 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
 
 2S8 POEMS OF PLACES, 
 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that ofttimes hath 
 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 Up the hillside ; and now 't is buried deep 
 In the next valley glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : Do I wake or sleep 'I 
 
 John Kkats. 
 
 Hampton. 
 
 Hampton. 
 
 Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies 
 In motion of no less celerity 
 
 Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen 
 The well-appointed King at Hampton pier 
 Embark his royalty ; and his brave fleet 
 With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning. 
 Play with your fancies ; and in them behold. 
 Upon the hempen tackle, ship-boys climbing, 
 Hear the shrill whistle, which dolh order give 
 To sounds confused ; behold the threaden sails, 
 Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, 
 Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea. 
 Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think, 
 You stand upon the rivage, and behold 
 A city on the inconstant billows dancing ! 
 For so appears this fleet majestical 
 Holding due course to Ilarfleur. 
 
 William Shakespeare.
 
 POEMS OF TLACES. 289 
 
 Hampton Court. 
 
 Hampton Court. 
 
 Close by those meads, forever CTowned with flowers, 
 
 Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, 
 
 There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
 
 Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. 
 
 Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall ftiredoom 
 
 Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home ; 
 
 Hear thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
 
 Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 
 
 Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
 To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; 
 In various talk the instructive hours they past. 
 Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last : 
 One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 
 And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
 A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; 
 At every word a reputation dies. 
 Snuff or the fan supply each pause of chat. 
 With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 H arrow-on-the- H ill. 
 Lines 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF 
 HARROW. 
 
 Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
 Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
 Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
 With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
 With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore. 
 Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 O, as I trace again tliy winding hill, 
 Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
 Thou drooping elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. 
 And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
 But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine ; 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 " Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell !" 
 
 When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast, 
 And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
 Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour. 
 If aught may soothe when life resigns her power. 
 To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, 
 Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. 
 With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die — 
 And here it lingered, here my heart might lie ; 
 Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose ; 
 Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
 Forever stretched beneath this mantling shade, 
 Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played, 
 Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved. 
 Mixed with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
 Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear, 
 Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
 Deplored by those in early days allied. 
 And unremembered by the world beside. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 Harrow. 
 
 If some good fairy granted me to play 
 
 A chosen portion of my life again, 
 
 I would not ask an Oxford hour. The vain 
 
 Attempt to ape the follies of the day. 
 
 How soon it palls; while ever fresh and gay
 
 HARTLAND. 291 
 
 Riseth the vision of the school-boy train 
 
 Who shouted, thoughtless, on dear Harrow's plain, 
 
 And clomb the hill when eve was gi^owing gray. 
 
 O for the careless days, the dreamless nights ; 
 
 The broken bounds, the plunge into the pool ; 
 
 The elastic feet that ne'er the leap refuse ; 
 
 The summer games, the winter's mimicked fights : 
 
 O for the guileless friendships formed at school. 
 
 The first shy whispers of the natural muse ! 
 
 John Bruce Norton. 
 
 Hartland. 
 
 The Cell. 
 
 How wildly sweet, by Hartland Tower, 
 
 The thrilling voice of prayer ; 
 A seraph, from his cloudy bower, 
 
 Might lean to listen there. 
 
 For time and place and storied days 
 
 To that gray fane have given 
 Hues that might win an angel's gaze, 
 
 'Mid scenery of heaven. 
 
 Above, the ocean breezes sweep 
 
 With footsteps firm and free ; 
 Around, the mountains guard the deep ; 
 
 Beneath, the wide, wide sea. 
 
 Enter ! the arching roofs expand, 
 
 Like vessels on the shore. 
 Inverted, when the fisher-band 
 
 Might tread their planks no more. 
 
 But reared on high in that stem form, 
 
 Lest faithless hearts forget 
 The men that braved the ancient storm 
 
 And hauled the early net.
 
 292 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The tracery of a quaint old time 
 Still weaves the chancel screen ; 
 
 And tombs, with many a broken rhyme, 
 Suit well this simple scene. 
 
 A Saxon font, with baptism bright, 
 
 The womb of mystic birth ; 
 An altar where, in angels' sight, 
 
 Their Lord descends to earth. 
 
 Here glides the spirit of the psalm, 
 Here breathes the soul of prayer ; 
 
 The awful church, so hushed, so calm, — 
 Ah ! surely God is there. 
 
 And lives no legend on the wall ? 
 
 No theme of former men ? 
 A shape to rise at fancy's call. 
 
 And sink in graves again ? 
 
 Yes ! there, through yonder portal stone. 
 With whispered words they tell. 
 
 How once the monk with name unknown 
 Prepared that silent cell. 
 
 He came with griefs that shunned the light, 
 With vows long breathed in vain : 
 
 Those arches lieard, at dead of night, 
 The lash, the shriek, the pain. 
 
 The prayer that rose and fell in tears, 
 
 The sob, the bursting sigh : 
 Till woke with agony of years 
 
 The exceeding bitter cry. 
 
 This lasted long, — as life will wear. 
 E'en though in anguisli nursed, — 
 
 Few think wliat human hearts can bear. 
 Before their sinews burst.
 
 HARTLAND. 293 
 
 It lasted long, but not for aye ; 
 
 The hour of freedom came : 
 In that dim niche the stranger lay, 
 
 A cold and silent frame. 
 
 What sorrows shook the strong man's soul, 
 
 What guilt was rankling there. 
 We know not, — time may not unroll 
 
 The page of his despair. 
 
 He sleeps in yonder nameless ground, 
 
 A cross hath marked the stone : 
 Pray ye, his soul in death hath found 
 
 The peace to life unknown. 
 
 And if ye mourn that man of tears. 
 
 Take heed lest ye too fall ; 
 A day may mar the rest, that years 
 
 Shall seek but not recall. 
 
 Nor think that deserts soothe despair, 
 
 Or shame in cells is screened ; 
 For Thought, the demon, will be there. 
 
 And Memory, the fiend. 
 
 Then waft, ye winds, this tale of fear. 
 
 Breathe it in hall and bower, 
 Till reckless hearts grow hushed to hear 
 
 The Monk of Hartland Tower. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker.
 
 294 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Hart- Leap Well. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles 
 from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads 
 from Richmond to Askrigg. 
 
 The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor, 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
 " Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 " Another horse ! " That shout the vassal heard, 
 And saddled his best steed, a comely gray. 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning' left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and all : 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain ; 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fail, and, one by one. 
 The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 295 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
 This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
 Sir Walter and the hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died; 
 But now the knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
 He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn, 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned. 
 And white w ith foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the hart was lying stretched ; 
 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, 
 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill (it was at least 
 Four roods of sheer ascent). Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes ; 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies.
 
 296 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 " A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 And they who do make mention of the same 
 PVom this day forth shall call it Hart-Leap Well. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Hastings. 
 Hastings. 
 
 O MOON, that shinest on this heathy wild 
 
 And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray, 
 
 How am 1 with thy sad delight beguiled. 
 
 How hold with fond imagination play ! 
 
 By thy broad taper I call up the time 
 
 When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay. 
 
 Though great in glory, overstained with crime, 
 
 And fallen by his fate from kingly sway ! 
 
 On bleeding knights, and on war-broken arms, 
 
 Torn banners, and the dying steeds you shone. 
 
 When this fair England and her peerless charms. 
 
 And all but honour, to the foe were gone ! 
 
 Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose. 
 
 But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes. 
 
 Lord Tjihrluw. 
 
 Lines 
 
 ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. 
 
 In the deep blue of eve, 
 Ere the twinkling of stars had begun. 
 
 Or the lark took his leave 
 Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,
 
 HATHERN. 297 
 
 I climbed to yon heights, 
 Where the Norman encamped him of old, 
 
 With his bowmen and knights, 
 And his banner all burnished with gold. 
 
 At the Conqueror's side 
 There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, 
 
 In pavilion wide ; 
 And they chanted the deeds of Roland. 
 
 Still the ramparted ground 
 With a vision my fancy inspires, 
 
 And I hear the trump sound. 
 As it marshalled our chivalry's sires. 
 
 On each turf of that mead 
 Stood the captors of England's domains. 
 
 That ennobled her breed 
 And high-mettled the blood of her veins. 
 
 Over hauberk and helm 
 As the sun's setting splendour was thrown, 
 
 Thence they looked o'er a realm, — 
 And to-morrow beheld it their own. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 Hathern. 
 
 Inscription 
 
 FOR THE RUIN OF A VILLAGE CROSS, ILVIHERN, 
 LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 The simple folk once used to throng 
 These mouldering steps beneath. 
 
 And every child that passed along 
 Its soft petitions breathe. 
 
 In pious days of yore.
 
 298 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The working-men at dawn of day 
 
 Were here assembled kneehng, 
 And to their labour bore away 
 
 A calm of holy feeling 
 
 In Christian days of yore. 
 
 Till once a stalwart company 
 
 Of men with gloomy faces, 
 Unlike the men ye used to see 
 
 In such-like holy places 
 
 In quiet days of yore, 
 
 With savage hands pulled down the sign 
 
 Of our Redeemer's sorrow, 
 And promised in more force to join, 
 
 And break the rest to-morrow, — 
 
 Hating the days of yore. 
 
 But Providence from then till now 
 
 This remnant hath befriended, 
 And by this shaft and time-worn steps 
 
 The memory hath defended ' 
 
 Of the good days of yore. 
 
 And still, whene'er the good and great 
 On common times pass nigh me, 
 
 Though no petition they repeat. 
 Nor kneel in silence by me, 
 
 As in the days of yove ; 
 
 Yet blessed thoughts upon their hearts 
 From Heaven come gently stealing, 
 And each from his gray ruin parts 
 With calmer, holier feeling. 
 
 Blessing the days of yore. 
 
 Henry Alford.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 299 
 
 Hatfield Broadoak. 
 
 The old Oak-tree at Hatfield Broadoak. 
 
 A MIGHTY growth ! The countyside 
 Lamented when the giant died, 
 
 For England loves her trees : 
 \Vlrat misty legends round him cling ! 
 How lavishly he once did fling 
 
 His acorns to the breeze ! 
 
 To strike a thousand roots in fame, 
 To give the district half its name, 
 
 The fiat could not hinder ; 
 Last spring he put forth one green bough, — 
 The red leaves hang there still,— but now 
 
 His very props are tinder. 
 
 Elate, the thunderbolt he braved : 
 Long centuries his branches waved 
 
 A welcome to the blast : 
 An oak of broadest girth he grew. 
 And woodman never dared to do 
 
 What time has done at last. 
 
 The monarch wore a leafy crown, 
 
 And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down. 
 
 Found shelter at his foot ; 
 Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free, 
 Glad music filled the gallant tree 
 
 From stem to topmost shoot. 
 
 And it were hard to fix the tale 
 Of when he first peered forth a frail 
 
 Petitioner for dew ; 
 He took no ill from Saxon spade, 
 The rabbit spared the tender blade. 
 
 And valiantly he grew,
 
 300 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And showed some inches from the ground 
 When Saint Augustine came and found 
 
 Us very proper Vandals ; 
 When nymphs owned bhier eyes than hose, 
 When England measured men by blows, 
 
 And measured time by candles. 
 
 Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade 
 Ere Richard led the first crusade, 
 
 And maidens led the dance 
 Where, boy and man, in summer time, 
 Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme ; 
 
 And Robin Plood, perchance, 
 
 Stole hither to maid Marian 
 
 (And if they did not come, one can 
 
 At any rate suppose it) ; 
 They met beneath the mistletoe, — 
 We did the same, and ought to know 
 
 The reason why they chose it. 
 
 And this was called the traitors' branch, — 
 Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch 
 
 Along its mighty fork ; 
 Uncivil wars for them ! The fair 
 Red rose and white still bloom, — but where 
 
 Arc Lancaster and York ? 
 
 A churchman once was England's hope, 
 lie saw that bold man beard the Pope ; 
 
 In persecution's reign 
 lie mourned our martyrs at the stake, 
 And sent his kin to sea with Drake, 
 
 When Tudor humbled Spain. 
 
 A time-worn tree, he could not bring 
 His heart to screen the merry king. 
 Or countenance his scandals ;
 
 HATFIELD BROADOAK. -_. 
 
 Then men were measured by their wit, 
 And then the mimic statesmen ht 
 At either end their candles. 
 
 When Blake was busy with the Dutch 
 They gave his poor okl arms a crutcli ; 
 
 And thrice four maids and men ate 
 A meal within his rugged bark, 
 When Coventry bewitched the park, 
 
 And Chatham swayed the senate. 
 
 His few remaining boughs were green, 
 And dappled sunbeams danced between. 
 
 Upon the dappled deer, 
 When, clad in black, a pair were met 
 To read the Waterloo Gazette, — 
 
 They mourned their darling here. 
 
 They joined their boy. The tree at last 
 Lies prone, — discoursing of the past, 
 
 Some fancy-dreams awaking. 
 Resigned, though headlong changes come, 
 Though nations arm to tuck of drum, 
 
 And dynasties are quaking. 
 
 Romantic spot ! By honest pride 
 Of eld tradition sanctified ; 
 
 My pensive vigil keeping, 
 I feel thy beauty like a spell, 
 And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwcll, 
 That fill my heart to weeping. 
 * * ♦ « * 
 
 Frederick Locker.
 
 302 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Hawkshead. 
 
 Hawkshead. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
 
 I heeded not their summons : happy time 
 
 It was indeed for all of us, — for me I 
 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 
 The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about. 
 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 
 That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn. 
 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 
 And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
 
 Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
 
 And all the sliadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning slill 
 
 The rapid line of motion, tlicn at once 
 
 Have I, reclining back upon my iieels.
 
 HEARTHOLM. y 
 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me, — even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye presences of nature in the sky 
 And on the earth ! Ye visions of the hills. 
 And souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
 Such ministiy, when ye through many a year 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills. 
 Impressed upon all forms the characters 
 Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
 The surface of the universal earth 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and fear, 
 Work like a sea ? 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Heartholm. 
 
 Heartholm. 
 
 Once more upon this happy hill 
 Doth yet my free foot bound at will ; 
 About those cliffs, whose hearts of stone 
 To spade and mattock inly groan, 
 Well to reward the miner's pains, 
 In wealth from out a thousand veins, 
 Poor and past use, in age resigned 
 To ruin like our human kind. 
 And now and then o'ervvhelming all, 
 'Midst sullen thunder, in their fall ; 
 Above the moorlands, brown and shorn. 
 On whose rough beds the winds are bom,
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 From hardy north-blast, flinging wreaths 
 Of cradled snow, to that which breathes 
 Too infant-like to bear its tale 
 Of heathery sweetness to the vale ; 
 And through those woods, my boyhood knew 
 And loved so well, whose memories strew 
 Their pathways thick as leaves 
 Upon the dreary autumn eves ; 
 Once more I tread these pleasant fields 
 With chainless heart, fair Devon yields 
 Once more the old accustomed rest, 
 Most welcome as most absent guest. 
 » * * * 
 
 James Payn. 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and 
 wide ; 
 All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
 
 And starting around me the echoes replied. 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bend- 
 ing, 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, 
 One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
 When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had 
 died. 
 
 Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain 
 heather. 
 
 Where the j>ilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, 
 Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 
 
 Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
 
 HELVELLYN. 305 
 
 Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 
 For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 
 The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
 And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 
 
 How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 
 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst 
 thou start ? 
 How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 
 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
 And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him, 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 
 And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him — 
 
 Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart ? 
 
 When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. 
 The tapestiy waves dark round the dim-liglited hall ; 
 
 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall ; 
 
 Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are 
 gleaming ; 
 
 In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; 
 
 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming. 
 Lamenting a chief of the people sliould fall. 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 
 
 To lay down thy head like the meek mountain Iamb, 
 When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, 
 
 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 
 And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 
 With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying 
 In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott,
 
 3o6 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 To , 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF 
 HELVELLYN. 
 
 Inmate of a mountain dwelling, 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
 From the watch-towers of Helvellyn ; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 
 
 Potent was the spell that bound thee, 
 Not unwilling to obey ; 
 For blue Ether's arms flung round thee, 
 Stilled the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo the dwindled woods and meadows ! 
 What a vast abyss is there ! 
 Lo the cloiids, the solemn shadows, 
 And the glistenings, — heavenly fair ! 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield ; 
 Ridge and gulf and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield ! 
 
 Now take flight ; possess, inherit 
 Alps or Andes, — they are thine ! 
 With the morning's roseate spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy line ; 
 
 Or survey their bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colours drest 
 Flung from off the purple pinions 
 Evening spreads throughout the west ! 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt,
 
 HELVELLYN. 307 
 
 To Niphates' top invited, 
 Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 
 Or descend where the ark alighted, 
 When the green earth reappeared ; — 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee, 
 As was witnessed through thine eye 
 Then, when old Helvellyn won thee 
 To confess their majesty ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 The Knight's Tomb, 
 
 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 
 Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
 By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, 
 Under the twigs of a young birch-tree ! 
 The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 
 And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, 
 And whistled and roared in the winter alone, 
 Is gone,— and the birch in its stead is grown. 
 The knight's bones are dust. 
 And his good sword rust ; — 
 His soul is with the saints, I trust. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 Helvellyn ! blue Helvellyn ! Hill of hills ! 
 Giant amongst the giants ! Lift thy head 
 Broad in the sunlight ! no loose vapour dims 
 Thy barren grandeur ; but with front severe, 
 Calm, proud, and unabashed, thou look'st upon 
 The heights around, — the lake and meadows green, 
 Whereon the herded cattle, tiny things. 
 Like flowers upon the sunny landscape lie ; 
 Behind thee cometh quick the evening pale,
 
 3o8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Whilst in the west an amphitheatre 
 Of crags (such as the deluge might have washed 
 In vain) against the golden face of heaven 
 Turns its dark shoulder, and insults the day. 
 
 With no imposing air, no needless state, 
 Thou risest, blue Helvellyn ! — no strange point 
 Lends thee distinction, no fantastic shape 
 Marks thee a thing whereon the mind must rest ; 
 But in thine own broad height, peerless and vast, 
 Leviathan of mountains ! thou art seen 
 Fairly .ascending amidst crags and hills 
 The mightiest one, — associate of the sky ! 
 
 I see thee again, from these bleak sullen moors. 
 
 Boundless and bare, — long, dreary, wintry wastes, 
 
 Where the red waters, stagnant, lie amidst 
 
 Black rocks, and treacherous moss, and rushes wiiile 
 
 With age, or withered by the bitter blast ; — 
 
 Thou lookest out on thy huge limbs that lie 
 
 Sleeping far, far beneath ; and on the plains 
 
 Below, and heaven which scarcely o'er thy head 
 
 Lifts its lilue arch ; and on the driven clouds 
 
 Tliat loiter round thee, or impetuous burst 
 
 About thy summit with their stormy showers. 
 
 There, in thy lonely state, thou livest on 
 
 Through days and years, and ages, — still the same, 
 
 Unshaken, undecaying, — not alone 
 
 A thing material haply, for within 
 
 Thy heart a secret spirit may now aljide ; 
 
 The same that fills thy veins in spring with green, 
 
 And hangs around thee long the sunrmer thyme ; 
 
 And when the winds of autumn moan away 
 
 Solemn and sad, from thy supremest brow 
 
 Poureth the white stream bright and beautiful. 
 
 The winds! — are they thy music? (who shall say 
 Thou hearest not !) Thy echoes which restore 
 The rolling thunder, fninling fast away,
 
 HOLMEDON. 309 
 
 From death to a second life, seem now, metlil.iks, 
 Not mere percussions of the common air, 
 But imitations high of mightier sense, — 
 Of some communicable soul that speaks 
 From the most inward earth, abroad to men 
 And mountains, bird and beast, and air and heaven. 
 Bryan Waller Procter. 
 
 Holmedon. 
 
 HOLMEDON. 
 
 My liege, I did deny no prisoners, 
 
 But, I remember, when the fight was done, 
 
 When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 
 
 Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword. 
 
 Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, 
 
 Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reaped, 
 
 Showed like a stubble-land at han^est-home. 
 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 
 A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
 
 He gave his nose and took't away again ; 
 
 Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 
 
 Took it in snuff. And still he smiled and talked ; 
 
 And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 
 
 He called them untaught knaves, immannerly. 
 
 To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
 
 Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
 
 With many holiday and lady terms 
 
 He questioned me ; among the rest demanded 
 
 My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf. 
 
 I then, all smarting witli my wounds being cold. 
 
 Out of my grief and my impatience 
 
 To be so pestered with a popinjay. 
 
 Answered negleclingly, I know not what. 
 
 He should or he should not ; for he made me mad,
 
 3IO POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 
 And talk, so like a waiting-gentlewoman, 
 
 Of guns, and drimis, and wounds — God save the 
 
 mark ! — 
 And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth 
 Was parmaceti, for an inward bniise ; 
 And that it was great pity, so it was. 
 This villanous saltpetre should be digged 
 Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
 Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed 
 So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, 
 lie would himself have been a soldier. 
 This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
 I answered indirectly, as I said ; 
 And, I beseech you, let not his report 
 Come current for an accusation. 
 Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. 
 
 W^ILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Ilfracombe. 
 
 By the Sea-shore. 
 
 Yes, I delight, when winds and waters roar. 
 To tread with shrinking fool the craggy shore ; 
 And watch each billow with collected force 
 Urge o'er the whirling sands its frothy course : 
 O'er yon black rock whose frowning bastion braves. 
 And breaks, the onset of the wintry waves, 
 To mark it dash in snowy showers its spray. 
 That llames and flashes in the blaze of day ; 
 Or fall from ledge to ledge like mountain stream. 
 Its foam-balls reddened by the evening beam. 
 
 Lulled by the tumult, oft, in thoughtful mood, — 
 On yonder rock how often have I stood. 
 And breathed moist air, and wooed the briny shower, 
 Absf)rbcd, and reckless of the passing hour;
 
 INGLEWOOD FOREST. 311 
 
 Nor moved until the tide, with deafening sound, 
 Circled my narrowing station close around ; 
 Then, as the exhausted wave forsook the strand, 
 With foot elastic pressed the yielding sand ; 
 And, ere its force regathered, with a bound 
 Gained the dry shore, and spurned the grassy ground. 
 Thence with rude toil I clomb yon cliffs steep brow. 
 And viewed, enraptured, all the scene below, 
 A vast expanse of heaving billows, crowned 
 With tremliling, snowlike foam, exulted round ; 
 And 'neath my feet, betw'een each watery vale, 
 I marked the white-winged sea-gull slowly sail. 
 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 Inglewood Forest. 
 
 iNGLEwooD Forest. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN 
 INGLEWOOD FOREST. 
 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledon 
 
 Is but a name ; nor more is Inglewood, 
 
 That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood : 
 
 On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone ; 
 
 Yet still, though unappropriate wild be none. 
 
 Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign 
 
 With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again. 
 
 To kill for merry feast their venison. 
 
 Nor wants the holy abbot's gliding shade 
 
 His church with monumental wreck bestrewn ; 
 
 The feudal warrior-chief, a ghost unlaid, 
 
 Hath still his castle, though a skeleton. 
 
 That he may watch by night, and lessons con 
 
 Of power that perishes and rights that fade. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 312 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Irvvan. 
 
 A Farewell to the Valley of Irwan. 
 
 Fareweli, the fields of Iiwan's vale, 
 My infant years where Fancy led, 
 
 And soothed me with the western gale, 
 Her wild dreams waving round my head, 
 
 While the blithe blackbird told his tale. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 The primrose on the valley's side, 
 
 The green thyme on the mountain's head. 
 
 The wanton rose, the daisy pied. 
 
 The wilding's blossom blushing red ; 
 
 No longer I their sweets inhale. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 How oft, witliin yon vacant shade. 
 Has evening closed my careless eye ! 
 
 How oft along those banks I've strayed. 
 And watched the wave that wandered by ; 
 
 Full long their loss shall I bewail. 
 
 Farewell tlie fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 Yet still, within yon vacant grove. 
 To mark the close of parting day. 
 
 Along yon fiowery banks to rove, 
 
 And watch the wave that winds away. 
 
 Fair P'ancy sure shall never fail. 
 
 Though far from these and Irwan's vale. 
 
 John Langiiounf 
 
 Isis, the River. 
 
 The Isis. 
 
 River, who with thy two soul-stirring names 
 Speak'st, one of Rhedlcyna's youthful dream.
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 313 
 
 And one of Commerce', Empire's mighty stream 
 At proud Augusta's foot, — Isis, and Tliames, — 
 From Godstow, where the fairest of frail dames, 
 Ros'mund, with epitaph uncourteous lies, 
 Down to the reacli where the tired skiffer ties 
 His boat for Newnham's summer feast and games, 
 These are the limits of my Isis : there, 
 Or up or down, I cleft my swift-oared way 
 Nightly, alone, with little heed or care. 
 Through the full stream with racing cutters gay ; 
 Oft laughing at the imperious steersman's shout. 
 As from his very bows I glided out ! 
 
 John Bruce Norton. 
 
 Isle of Man. 
 On entering Douglas Bay. 
 
 "Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori." 
 
 The feudal keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
 Even when they rose to check or to repel 
 Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
 Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
 Just limits ; but yon tower, whose smiles adorn 
 This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence : 
 Blest work it is of love and innocence, — 
 A tower of refuge to the else forlorn. 
 Spare it, ye waves, and lift the marinei", 
 Struggling fer life, into its saving arms ! 
 Sparc, too, the human helpers ! Do they stir 
 'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die ';; 
 No ; their dread service ners'es the heart it warms, 
 And they are led by noble Hillary. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 By the Sea-shore. 
 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling brine, 
 With wonder smit by its transparency, 
 And all enraptured with its purity ? — 
 Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline 
 Have ever in them something of benign ; 
 Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
 A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
 Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
 Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
 I''or beverage drawn as from a mountain well. 
 Temptation centres in the liquid calm ; 
 Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
 To instantaneous plunging in, deep sea ! 
 And revelling in long embrace with thee. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Tynwald Hill. 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound 
 (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing 
 Stage above stage) would sit this island's king, 
 The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned ; 
 While, compassing the little mount around. 
 Degrees and orders stood, each under each ; 
 Now, like to things within fate's easiest i^each. 
 The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. 
 Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! that thine eye 
 Over three realms may take its widest range ; 
 And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
 Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
 If the whole state must suffer mortal change, 
 Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 315 
 
 Itchin, the River. 
 
 To THE River Itchin. 
 
 Itchin ! when I behold thy banks again, 
 Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, 
 On which the selfsame tints still seem to rest, 
 Why feels my heart a shivering sense of pain ? 
 Is it that many a summer's day has past 
 Since in life's morn I carolled on thy side ? 
 Is it that oft since then my heart has sighed 
 As youth and hope's delusive gleams flew fast ? 
 Is it that those who gathered on thy shore. 
 Companions of my youth, now meet no more ? 
 Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend. 
 Sorrowing ; yet feel such solace at my heart 
 As at the meeting of some long-lost friend. 
 From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Kenilworth. 
 
 The Ivy of Kenilworth. 
 
 IIeard'st thou what the Ivy sighed. 
 Waving where all else hath died, 
 In the place of regal mirth, 
 Now the silent Kenilworth ? 
 
 With its many glistening leaves. 
 There a solemn robe it weaves ; 
 And a voice is in each fold. 
 Like an oracle's of old. 
 
 Heard'st thou, while with dews of night 
 Slione its bemes darkly bright ?
 
 3i6 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Yes ! the whisperer seemed to say, 
 " All things, all things pass away. 
 
 " Where I am the harp hath rung 
 Banners and proud sliields among, 
 And the blood-red wine flowed free, 
 And the fire shot sparks of glee. 
 
 " Where I am, now last and lone, 
 Queenly steps have come and gone. 
 Gorgeous masques have glided by. 
 Unto rolling harmony. 
 
 " Flung from these illumined towers. 
 Light hath pierced the forest bowers. 
 Lake and pool and fount have been 
 Kindled by their midnight sheen, 
 
 " Where is now the feasting high? 
 Where the lordly minstrelsy ? 
 Where the tourney's ringing spear ? — 
 I am sole and silent here ! 
 
 " In my home no hearth is crowned, 
 Tiirough my hall no wine foams round ; 
 l!y my gates hatli ceased the lay ; 
 All things, all things pass away ! " 
 
 Yes, thy warning voice I knew. 
 Ivy ! and its tale is true ; 
 All is passing, or hath passed, — 
 Thou tiiyself must perish last ! 
 
 Yet my secret soul replied, 
 " Surely one thing sliall abide ; 
 'Midst the wreck of ages, one, — 
 Heaven's eternal Word alone ! " 
 
 Felicia IIemans.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 317 
 
 Keswick. 
 
 Keswick. 
 
 Once more I see thee, Skiddaw ! once again 
 
 Behold thee in thy majesty serene, 
 Where, like the bulwark of this favoured plain, 
 
 Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene, — 
 Thou glorious mountain, on whose ample breast 
 The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to rest. 
 
 Once more, O Denvent ! to thy awful shores 
 I come, insatiate of the accustomed sight, 
 
 And, listening as the eternal torrent roars. 
 Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight ; 
 
 For I have wandered far by land and sea. 
 
 In all my wanderings still remembering thee. 
 
 Twelve years (how large a part of man's brief day !) 
 
 Nor idly nor ingloriously spent. 
 Of evil and of good have held their way. 
 
 Since first upon thy banks I pitched my tent. 
 Hither I came in manhood's active prime. 
 And here my head hath felt the touch of time. 
 
 Heaven hath with goodly increase blest me here, 
 Where childless and oppressed with grief I came ; 
 
 With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere. 
 
 Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim : 
 
 Here I possess — what more should I require ? — 
 
 Books, children, leisure, — all my heart's desire. 
 
 Robert SoutheY. 
 
 Keswick. 
 
 'TWAS at that sober hour when the light of day is reced- 
 ing, 
 
 And from surrounding things the hues wherewith day has 
 adorned them
 
 3iS POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Fade, like the hopes of youtli, till tlie Ijcauty of earth is 
 
 departed, — 
 Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window, 
 
 beholding 
 Mountain and lake and vale ; the valley disrobed of its 
 
 verdure ; 
 Derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection, 
 Where his expanded breast, then still and smooth as a 
 
 mirror, 
 Under the woods rejjosed ; the hills that, calm and 
 
 majestic, 
 Lifted their heads in the silent sky, from far Glaramara, 
 Bleacrag, and Maidenmawr, to Grizedal and westermost 
 
 Withop. 
 Dark and distinct they rose. The clouds had gathered 
 
 above them 
 High in the middle air, — huge, purple, pillowy masscss ; 
 While in the west beyond was the last pale tint of the 
 
 twilight. 
 Green as a stream in the glen whose pure and chrysolite 
 
 waters 
 Flow o'er a schistous bed, and serene as the age of the 
 
 righteous. 
 Earth was hushed and still ; all motion and sound were 
 
 suspended : 
 Neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming of 
 
 insect, — 
 Only the voice of the Greta, heard only when all is in 
 
 stillness. 
 Pensive I stood, and alone ; the hour and the scene had 
 
 subdued me ; 
 And as I gazed in the west, where infinity seemed to be 
 
 open. 
 Yearned to be free from time, and felt that this life is a 
 
 thraldom. 
 
 Robert Southey.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 319 
 
 Kirkstone. 
 
 The Pass of Kirkstone. 
 
 WrniixN the mind strong fancies work, 
 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 
 Of these fraternal hills : 
 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find, 
 
 No appanage of human kind. 
 
 Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
 
 Seem not his handiwork to mock 
 
 By something cognizal)ly shaped ; 
 
 Mockery, — or model roughly hewn. 
 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 
 Or from the flood escaped : 
 
 Altars for Druid service fit 
 
 (But where no fire was ever lit. 
 
 Unless the glowworm to the skies 
 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice) ; 
 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 
 
 Green, moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 
 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be raised, — 
 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 
 
 Ye ploughshares sparkling on the slopes ! 
 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless ownership ! 
 
 Ye trees that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, 
 
 All tiiat the fertile valley shields ; 
 
 Wages of folly, baits of crime, 
 
 Of life's uneasy game the stake, 
 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 
 Of drowsy, dotard Time ; —
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 O care ! O guilt ! O vales and plains, 
 
 Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 
 
 A genius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of you, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky. 
 
 Mists that distort and magnify ; 
 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze. 
 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 List to those shriller notes ! — that march 
 
 Perchance was on the blast. 
 
 When through this height's inverted arch 
 
 Rome's earliest legion passed ! 
 
 They saw, adventurously impelled, 
 
 And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
 
 This block, — and yon, whose church-like frame 
 
 Gives to this savage pass its name. 
 
 Aspiring road ! that lov'st to hide 
 
 Thy daring in a vapoury bourn. 
 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 
 When thou shalt be my guide ; 
 
 And I (as all men may find cause, 
 
 When life is at a weary pause. 
 
 And they have panted up the hill 
 
 Of duty with reluctant will) 
 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
 
 For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 
 That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 
 
 My soul was grateful for delight 
 
 That wore a threatening brow ; 
 
 A veil is lifted, — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now ? 
 
 Though habitation none appear. 
 
 The greenness tells man must be there ; 
 
 The shelter — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in which we live ; 
 
 Where Toil inirsues his daily round ;
 
 KNARESROROUGH. 321 
 
 Where Pity sheds sweet tears ; and Love, 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 
 Inflicts his tender wound. 
 Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
 How beautiful the world below ; 
 Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. 
 Farewell, thou desolate domain ! 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 
 Carols like a shepherd-boy ; 
 And who is she ? — can that be Joy ! 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide : 
 While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
 To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 
 " Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, 
 Thy lot, O man, is good, thy poriton fair " ? 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Knaresborough. 
 St. Robert's Cave, 
 
 THE SCENE OF THE MURDER OF DANIEL CLARKE BY 
 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 We gazed intent upon the murderous cave ; 
 Too fair a place, methinks, for deeds of blood. 
 Above, the rocks, dappled with pendent wood, 
 Rose sheltering ; and below with rippling wave 
 The crystal Nidd flowed by. The wondrous tale 
 That from of old had turned our young checks pale, 
 Came crowding on the present ; yonder stood 
 The guilt-worn student, skilled without avail 
 In ancient lore ; and yonder seemed to lie 
 The melancholy corse, year after year 
 Sending to Heaven its silent vengeance-cry, 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Till Aram's hour was come, and lie, whose ear 
 Was open, tracked the murderer where he fled, 
 And wrath's right-aiming stroke descended on his head. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Lacock. 
 
 Lacock Nunnery. 
 
 I STOOD upon the stone where Ela lay. 
 The widowed founder of these ancient walls, 
 Whei^e fancy still on meek devotion calls, 
 Marking the ivied arch and turret gray, — 
 For her soul's rest — eternal rest — to pray ; 
 Where visionary nuns yet seem to tread, 
 A pale dim troop, the cloisters of the dead, 
 Though twice three hundred years have flown away I 
 But when with silent step and pensive mien, 
 In weeds, as mourning for her sisters gone, 
 The mistress of this lone monastic scene 
 Came, and I heard her voice's tender tone, 
 I said, Though centuries have rolled between. 
 One gentle, beauteous nun is left, on earth alone. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Laken. 
 
 To A Bird that haunted the Waters of 
 Laken in the Winter. 
 
 O melancholy bird, a winter's day, 
 
 Thou standest by the margin of the pool ; 
 
 And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 
 
 To jiatience, which all evil can allay : 
 
 God has appointed thee the fish thy prey ; 
 
 And given thyself a lesson to the fool
 
 LANCELL'S TOWER, 323 
 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 
 There need not schools nor the professor's chair, 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : 
 He who has not enough for these to spare 
 Of time or gold may yet amend his heart. 
 And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair : 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
 Lord Thurlow. 
 
 Lancell's Tower. 
 
 The Ringers of Lancell's Tower. 
 
 They meet once more ; that ancient band, 
 With furrowed cheek and failing hand ; 
 One peal to-day they fain would ring. 
 The jubilee of England's king ! 
 
 They meet once more ! but where are now 
 The sinewy arm, the laughing brow. 
 The strength that hailed, in happier times. 
 King George the Third with lusty chimes ? 
 
 Yet proudly gaze on that lone tower. 
 No goodlier sight hath hall or bower ; 
 Meekly they strive, and closing day 
 Gilds with soft light their locks of gray. 
 
 Hark ! proudly hark ! with that true tone 
 They welcomed him to land and throne ; 
 So e'er they die they fain would ring 
 The jubilee of England's king. 
 
 Hearts of old Cornwall, fare ye well ! 
 Fast fade such scenes from field and dell ; 
 How wilt thou lack, my own dear land, 
 Those trusty arms, that faithful band I 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker.
 
 324 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Langdale. 
 Dungeon-Ghyll Force. 
 
 Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, 
 and for the most part a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running 
 tlirough it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects 
 fur waterfall. 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy ; 
 
 Among the hills the echoes play 
 
 A never, never ending song, 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 The magpie chatters with delight ; 
 
 The mountain raven's youngling brood 
 
 Have left the mother and the nest, 
 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 
 In search of their own food. 
 
 Or through the glittering vapours dart 
 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grass. 
 Two boys are sitting in the sun ; 
 Their work, if any work they have, 
 Is out of mind, or done. 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 The fragments of a Christmas hymn ; 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 We call stag-horn, or fo.x's tail, 
 Their rusty hats they trim : 
 And thus, as happy as the day. 
 Those shepherds wear the time away. 
 
 Along the river's stony marge 
 
 The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 
 
 The thrush is busy in the wood, 
 
 And carols loud and strong. 
 
 A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky
 
 LANGDALE. 325 
 
 Keep jubilee, and more than all, 
 Those boys with their green coronal ; 
 They never hear the cry. 
 That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 ' ' Down to the stump of yon old yew 
 
 We'll for our whistles run a race." 
 
 Away the shepherds flew ; 
 
 They leapt, they ran ; and when they came 
 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 " Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries. 
 
 James stopped with no good-will : 
 
 Said Walter then, exulting, "Here 
 
 You'll find a task for half a year. 
 
 " Cross, if you dare, where I shall ci^oss, — 
 Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 
 The other took him at his word, 
 And followed as he led. 
 It was a spot which you may see 
 If ever you to Langdale go ; 
 Into the chasm a mighty block 
 Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 
 The gulf is deep below, 
 And in a basin black and small 
 Receives a lofty waterfall. 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft 
 The challenger pursued his march ; 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 
 The middle of the arch. 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan. 
 Again ! — his heart within him dies ; 
 His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 
 He totters, pallid as a ghost. 
 And, looking down, espies
 
 326 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 Within that black and frightful rent. 
 
 The lamb had slipped into the stream, 
 
 And safe without a bruise or wound 
 
 The cataiact had borne him down 
 
 Into the gulf profound. 
 
 His dam had seen him when he fell. 
 
 She saw him do\vn the torrent borne ; 
 
 And, while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn,' 
 
 The lamb still swimming round and round, 
 
 Made answer in that plaintive sound. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was 
 
 That sent this rueful cry, I ween 
 
 The boy recovered heart, and told 
 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 
 Both gladly now deferred their task ; 
 
 Nor was there wanting other aid : 
 
 A poet, one who loves the brooks 
 
 Far better than the sages' books. 
 
 By chance had hither strayed ; 
 
 And there the helpless lamb he found 
 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
 He drew it from the troubled pool. 
 
 And brought it forth into the light ; 
 
 The shepherds met him with his cliarge, 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the lamb they took, 
 
 Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 
 
 Tlien up tlie steep ascent they hied. 
 
 And placed him at his mother's side ; 
 
 And gently did the bard 
 
 Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid. 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 327 
 
 Lansdown. 
 Lansdown Hill. 
 
 With many a weary step at length I gain 
 
 Thy summit, Lansdown ; and the cool breeze plays 
 
 Gratefully round my brow, as hence I gaze 
 
 Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain. 
 
 'T was a long way, and tedious ; to the eye 
 
 Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view 
 
 The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue, 
 
 That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. 
 
 Even so it fared with life : in discontent, 
 
 Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went. 
 
 Yet wept to think they would return no more. 
 
 But cease, fond heart ! in such sad thoughts to roam ; 
 
 For surely thou erelong shalt reach thy home. 
 
 And pleasant is the way that lies before. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 Sir Beville. — The Gate Song of Stowe. 
 
 Arise ! and away ! for the king and the land ; 
 
 Farewell to the couch and the pillow :' 
 With spear in the rest, and with rein in the hand. 
 
 Let us rush on the foe like a billow. 
 
 Call the hind from the plough and the herd from the fold. 
 
 Bid the wassailer cease from his revel ; 
 And ride for old Stowe, where the banner's unrolled. 
 
 For the cause of King Charles and Sir Beville. 
 
 Trevanion is up, and Godolphin is nigh ; 
 
 And Harris of Hayne's o'er the river'; 
 From Lundy to Looe, " One and all ! " is the cry, 
 
 And the King and Sir Beville forever.
 
 328 rOEMS OF FLACES. 
 
 Ay ! by Tre, Pol, and Pen, ye may know Cornish men, 
 'Mid the names and the nobles of Devon ; 
 
 But if truth to the king be a signal, why then, 
 Ye can find out the Granville in heaven. 
 
 Ride ! ride ! with red spur, there is death in delay, 
 
 'Tis a race for dear life with the devil ; 
 If dark Cromwell prevail, and the king must give way, 
 
 This earth is no place for Sir Ceville. 
 
 So at Stamford he fought, and at I>ansdoune he fell, 
 
 15ut vain were the visions he cherished ; 
 For the great Cornish heart, that the king loved so well, 
 
 In the grave of the Granville it perished. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawkkr. 
 
 Lechlade. 
 
 A Summer-Evening Churchyard. 
 
 I.ECHI.ADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 
 
 The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere 
 Each vapour that ol)Scured the sunset's ray ; 
 
 And pallid Evening twines its beaming hair 
 
 In duskier braids around the languid eyes of Day. 
 
 Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of men. 
 
 Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen. 
 
 They breathe their spells toward the departing day, 
 Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea ; 
 
 Light, sound, and motion own the potent sway, 
 Res]ionding to the charm with its own mystery. 
 
 The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass 
 
 Knows not their gentle motions as they pass. 
 
 Thoii too, aerial pile, whose pinnacles 
 
 Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire,
 
 LEDBURY. 329 
 
 Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells, 
 
 Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire, 
 Around whose lessening and invisible height 
 Gather among the stars the clouds of night. 
 
 The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres ; 
 
 And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound, 
 Half sense, half thought, among the darkness stirs. 
 
 Breathed from their wormy beds all living things 
 around ; 
 And, mingling with the still night and mute sky, 
 Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. 
 
 Thus solemnised and softened, death is mild 
 
 And terrorless as this serenest night ; 
 Here could I hope, like some inquiring child 
 
 Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human 
 sight 
 Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep 
 That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 Ledbury. 
 
 St. Catherine of Ledrury. 
 
 When human touch (as monkish books attest) 
 Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells 
 Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, 
 And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest ; 
 Sweet tones, and caught by a noble lady blest 
 To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
 Of her loved mistress ; soon the music died, 
 And Catherine said. Here T set up my rest. 
 Warned in a dream, the wanderer long had sought 
 A home that by such miracle of sound 
 Must be revealed : she heard it now, or felt 
 The deei^, deep joy of a confiding thought ;
 
 330 FOEMS OF TLACES. 
 
 And there, a saintly anchoress, she dwelt 
 
 Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Leeds. 
 
 Leeds. 
 
 Wide around 
 Hillock and valley, farm and village, smile ; 
 And ruddy roofs and chimney-tops appear, 
 Of busy Leeds, up-wafting to the clouds 
 The incense of thanksgiving : all is joy ; 
 And trade and l:>usiness guide the living scene, 
 Roll the full cars, adown the winding Aire 
 Load the slow-sailing barges, pile the pack 
 On the long tinkling train of slow-paced steeds. 
 As when a sunny day invites abroad 
 The sedulous ants, they issue from their cells 
 In bands unnumbered, eager for tlieir work ; 
 O'er high, o'er low, they lift, they draw, they haste 
 With warm affection to each other's aid ; 
 Repeat their virtuous efforts, and succeed. 
 Thus all is here in motion, all is life : 
 The creaking wain brings copious store of corn ; 
 The grazier's sleeky kine obstruct the roads ; 
 The neat-dressed housewives, for the festal board 
 Crowned with full baskets, in the field-way paths 
 Come tripping on ; the echoing hills repeat 
 The stroke of axe and hammer ; scaffolds rise, 
 And growing edifices ; heaps of stone. 
 Beneath the chisel, beauteous shapes assume 
 Of frieze and column. Some, with even line. 
 New streets arc marking in the ncighljouring fields. 
 And sacred domes of worship. Industry, 
 Which dignifies the artist, lifts the swain. 
 And the straw cottage to a palace turns.
 
 LEICESTER. 331 
 
 Over the work presides. Such was the scene 
 Of hurrying Carthage, when tlie Trojan chief 
 First viewed lier growing turrets. So appear 
 The increasing walls of busy Manchester, 
 Sheffield, and Birmingham, whose reddening fields 
 Rise and enlarge their suburbs. 
 
 John Dyer. 
 
 Leicester. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey's Death. 
 
 At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, 
 Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot, 
 With all his convent, honourably received him ; 
 To whom he gave these \\'ords,- — " O father abbot. 
 An old man, broken with the storms o'f state, 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; 
 Give him a little earth for charity ! " 
 So went to bed ; where eagerly his sickness 
 Pursued him still ; and, three nights after this, 
 About the hour of eight (which he himself 
 Foretold should be his last), full of repentance, 
 Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 
 He gave his honours to the world again, 
 His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 Leiston Abbey. 
 
 Leiston Abbey. 
 
 Beautiful fabric ! even in decay 
 And desolation beauty still is thine : 
 
 As the rich sunset of an autumn day. 
 
 When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine 
 
 To render homage to its slow decline. 
 Is more majestic in its parting hour,
 
 332 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine 
 Possesses now a more subduing power 
 Than in thine earlier sway with pomp and pride thy 
 dower. 
 
 To voice of praise or prayer, or solemn sound 
 
 Of sacred music, once familiar here, 
 Thy walls are echoless ; within their bound, 
 
 Once holy deemed, and to religion dear, 
 No sound salutes the most attentive ear 
 
 That tells thy former destiny ; unless 
 It be when fitful breezes wandering near 
 
 Wake such faint sighs as feebly might express 
 Some unseen spirit's woe for thy lost loveliness. 
 
 Or when on stormy nights the winds are high, 
 
 And through thy roofless walls and arches sweep, 
 In tones more full of thrilling harmony 
 
 Than art could reach, while from the neighbouring 
 deep 
 The roar of Inirsting billows seems to keep 
 
 Accordant measure with the tempest's chime ; 
 O, then, at times have I, aroused from sleep, 
 
 Fancied that thou, even in thy proudest prime, 
 Couldst ne'er have given birth to music more sublime. 
 
 But to the eye revolving years still add 
 
 Fresh charms, which make thee lovelier to the view ; 
 For Nature has luxuriantly clad. 
 
 Thy ruins, as if wishing to renew 
 Their claim to homage from those hearts that woo 
 
 Her gentle influence : with indulgent hand 
 She has atoned for all that Time could do. 
 
 Though she miglit not his ravages withstand ; 
 And now thou art her own : her skill thy beauties planned. 
 
 The mantling ivy's ever-verdant wreath 
 She gave thee as her livery to wear :
 
 LEWESDON HILL. 333 
 
 Thy wall-flowers, waving at the gentlest breath, 
 
 And scattering perfume on the summer air. 
 Wooing the bee to come and labour there ; 
 
 The clinging moss, whose hue of sober gray 
 Makes beautiful what else were bleak and bare, — 
 These she has given thee as a fit array 
 For thy declining pomp and her delightful sway. 
 * * * a * 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 Lewesdon Hill. 
 Lewesdon Hill. 
 
 From this proud eminence on all sides round 
 
 The unbroken prospect opens to my view, 
 
 On all sides large ; save only where the head 
 
 Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen : 
 
 So called (still rendering to his ancient name 
 
 Observance due) that rival height south-west, 
 
 Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. 
 
 There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen 
 
 Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade 
 
 Of some wide-branching oak ; there goodly fields 
 
 Of com, and verdant pasture, whence the kine. 
 
 Returning with their milky treasure home. 
 
 Store the rich dairy : such fair plenty fills 
 
 The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now, 
 
 Since that the spring hath decked anew the meads 
 
 With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun 
 
 Their foggy moistness drained ; in wintry days 
 
 Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks 
 
 Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin 
 
 To drench the spongy turf; but ere that time 
 
 The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, 
 
 Rechasing,^ lest his tender ewes should coath - 
 
 1 Changing pasture. 2 Become distempered
 
 334 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 In the dank pasturage. Let not tlie fields 
 
 Of Evesham, noi- that ample valley named 
 
 Of the White Horse, its antique monument 
 
 Carved in the chalky bouni, for beauty and wealth 
 
 Might equal, though surpassing in extent, 
 
 This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 
 
 Extended to the sea, and watered well 
 
 By many a rill ; but chief with thy clear stream, 
 
 Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side 
 
 Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip 
 
 Adown the valley, wandering sportively. 
 
 * ♦ * * * 
 
 How is it vanished in a hasty spleen, 
 The Tor of Glastonbury ! Even but now 
 I saw the hoary pile cresting the top 
 Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now 
 A cloud hath passed on it, and its dim bulk 
 Becomes annihilate, or, if not, a spot 
 Which the strained vision tires itself to find. 
 
 But hark ! the village clock strikes nine ; the chimes 
 
 Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense 
 
 Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make 
 
 False-measured melody on crazy bells. 
 
 O wondrous power of modulated sound ! 
 
 WHiich, like the air (whose all-obedient shape 
 
 Thou mak'st thy slave), canst suljtilely pervade 
 
 The yielded avenues of sense, unlock 
 
 The close affections, by some fairy path 
 
 Winning an easy A\'ay through every ear, 
 
 And with thine unsubstantial quality 
 
 Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all, — 
 
 All but some cold and sullen-tempered spirits 
 
 Who feel no touch of sympathy or love, 
 
 William Crowe.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 335 
 
 Lichfield. 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 designed for a monument in lichfield cathe- 
 dral, at the burial-place of the family of 
 miss seward. 
 
 Amid these aisles, where once his precepts showed 
 
 The heavenward pathway which in hfe he trode, 
 
 This simple tablet marks a father's bier. 
 
 And those he loved in life in death are near ; 
 
 For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise, 
 
 Memorial of domestic charities. 
 
 Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread. 
 
 In female gi^ace the willow droops her head ; 
 
 Why on her branches, silent and unstrung. 
 
 The minstrel harp is emblematic hung ; 
 
 What poet's voice is smothered here in dust 
 
 Till waked to join the chorus of the just, — 
 
 Lo ! one brief line an answer sad supplies. 
 
 Honoured, beloved, and mourned, here Seward lies ! 
 
 Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say, — 
 
 Go seek her genius in her living lay. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Lincolnshire. 
 
 Lincoln Fens. 
 
 But on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads 
 Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet. 
 For on a rustic throne of dewy turf. 
 With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, 
 Quartana there presides : a meagre fiend 
 Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force 
 Compressed the slothful Naiad of the Fens.
 
 336 POEMS OF PLACES, 
 
 From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest 
 With feverish blasts subdues the sickening land : 
 Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest, 
 Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains 
 That sting the burdened bi^ows, fatigue the loins. 
 And rack the joints and every torpid limb ; 
 Then parching heat succeeds, till copious sweats 
 O'erflow : a short relief from former ills. 
 
 John Armstrong. 
 
 The High Tide on the Coast of 
 Lincolnshire, 1571. 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
 The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
 
 Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
 
 Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
 
 Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 
 
 Ply all your changes, all your swells. 
 
 Play uppe, ' The Brides of Enderby ! ' " 
 
 Men say it was a stolen tyde, — 
 
 The Lord that sent it, he knows all ; 
 
 But in myne ears doth still abide 
 The message that the bells let fall : 
 
 And there was naught of strange, l^eside 
 
 The flights of mews antl jjeewits pied, 
 
 By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore. 
 
 My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ! 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
 And dark against day's golden death 
 She moved where Lindis wandereth, — 
 My Sonne's faire wife, Elizal;eth.
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. 337 
 
 " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 
 Farre away I heard her song. 
 *' Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along, 
 
 Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 
 Floweth, floweth. 
 
 From the meads where melick groweth 
 
 Faintly came her milking song. 
 
 " Cusha ! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, 
 •' For the dews will soone be falling ; 
 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
 
 Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 
 Hollow, hollow ; 
 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
 
 From the clovers lift your head ; 
 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
 
 Jetty, to the milking shed." 
 
 If it be long, aye, long ago, 
 
 When I beginne to think howe long, 
 
 Againe I hear the IJndis flow, 
 
 Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
 
 And all the aire it seemeth mee 
 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayth slice), 
 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 Alle fresh the level pasture lay. 
 
 And not a shadowe mote be seene, 
 
 Save where full fyve good miles away 
 
 The steeple towered from out the greene ; 
 
 And lo ! the great bell fane and wide 
 
 Was heard in all the country side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 338 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The swannerds where their sedges are 
 Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
 The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
 
 And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
 Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
 Came dovvne that kyndly message free, 
 The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 
 
 Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie, 
 
 And where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, " And why should this thing be, 
 
 "What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
 
 They ring the tune of Enderby ! 
 
 " For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
 
 Of pyrate galleys warping downe ; 
 For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 
 
 They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
 But while the west bin red to see, 
 And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
 Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ? ' " 
 
 I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
 
 Came riding downe with might and main. 
 
 He raised a shout as he drew on, 
 Till all the welkin rang again, 
 " Elizabeth! Elizabeth !" 
 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 " The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe. 
 The rising tide comes on apace, 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 
 Go sailing uppe the market-jjlace." 
 He shook as one that looks on death : 
 " God save you, mother ! " straight he saith ; 
 Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. 339 
 
 " Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away 
 
 With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
 And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
 Afar I heard her milking song." 
 He looked across the grassy sea, 
 To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! " 
 They rang ' The Brides of Enderby ! " 
 
 With that he cried and beat his breast ; 
 
 For lo ! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest, 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
 Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 
 
 Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
 Then madly at the eygre's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 Then bankes came down with ruin and rout, — 
 Then beaten foam flew round about, — 
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
 So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
 The heart had hardly time to beat, 
 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 Sobbed in the grasses at our feet : 
 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 
 Before it brake against the knee. 
 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 Upon the roofe we sate that night. 
 The noise of bells went sweeping by : 
 
 I marked the lofty beacon light 
 
 Stream from the church-tower, red and high, — 
 
 A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
 
 And awsome bells they were to mee, 
 
 That in the dark rang " Enderby."
 
 340 POEMS Of places. 
 
 They rang the sailor lads to guide 
 
 From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And I, — my sonne was at my side, 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 
 
 And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
 ' ' O come in life, or come in death ! 
 
 lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more ? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ! 
 The waters laid thee at his doore. 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
 Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flow strewed wrecks about the grass ; 
 
 That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
 A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
 
 To manye more than myne and mee : 
 But each will mourn his own (shee sayth). 
 And sweeter woman ne'er di'ew breath 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 1 shall never hear her more 
 By the reedy Lindis' shore, 
 
 " Cusha, Cusha, Cusha ! " calling. 
 
 Ere the early dews be falling ; 
 
 I shall never hear her song, 
 " Cusha, Cusha !" all along. 
 
 Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
 Flowcth, floweth ; 
 
 From the meads where melick groweth. 
 
 When the water winding down, 
 
 Onward flowcth to the town. 
 
 I shall never see her more 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
 Shiver, quiver :
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. 341 
 
 Stand beside the sobbing river, 
 Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
 To the sandy lonesome sliore ; 
 I shall never hear her calling, 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
 Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 
 
 Hollow, hollow : 
 Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 
 
 Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
 From your clovers lift the head ; 
 Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
 Jetty to the milking shed." 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 Lincolnshire Fens. 
 
 The toiling fisher here is towing of his net. 
 
 The fowler is employed his limed twigs to set. 
 
 One underneath his horse to get a shoot doth stalk ; 
 
 Another over dykes upon his stilts doth walk : 
 
 There other with their sj^ades the peals are squaring out, 
 
 Antl others from their cars are busily about. 
 
 To draw out sedge and reed, for thatch and stover fit, 
 
 That whosoever would a landskip rightly hit, 
 
 Beholding but my fens, shall with more shapes be stored 
 
 Than Germany or France or Thuscan can afford ; 
 
 And for that part of me which men High Holland call, 
 
 Where Boston seated is, by plenteous Wytham's fall, 
 
 I peremptory am, large Neptune's liquid field 
 
 Doth to no other tract the like abundance yield. 
 
 Michael Drayton.
 
 342 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Linden Lea. 
 
 My Orchet in Linden Lea. 
 
 DORSET DIALECT. 
 
 'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gledaed, 
 
 By the weak ti^ee's mossy moot, 
 The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded, 
 
 Now do quiver under voot ; 
 An' birds do whissle auver head, 
 An' water's bubblen in its bed, 
 An' there vor me the apple tree 
 Do lean down low in Linden Lea. 
 
 When leaves that leately wer a-springin 
 
 Now do feade 'ithin the copse. 
 An' painted birds do hush ther zingen 
 
 Up upon the timber's tops, 
 An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, 
 In cloudless zunsheen, auver head, 
 Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree 
 Do lean down low in Linden Lea. 
 
 Let other vo'k meake money vaster 
 
 In the air o' dark-room'd towns, 
 I don't dread a peevish measter ; 
 
 Though noo man do liecd my frowns, 
 I be free to goo abrode, 
 Or teake agean my hwomcward road 
 To where vor me the apple tree 
 Do lean down low in Linden Lea. 
 
 William Barnes,
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 343 
 
 Lindisfarne. 
 
 The Holy Island, 
 
 And now the vessel skirts the strand 
 Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
 Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, 
 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
 Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, 
 And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; 
 They marked, amid her trees, the hall 
 Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; 
 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
 Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; 
 They passed the tower of Widdrington, 
 Mother of many a valiant son ; 
 At Coquet Isle their beads they tell 
 To the good saint who owned the cell ; 
 Then did the Alne attention claim. 
 
 And Warkwortli, proud of Percy's name ; 
 
 And next they crossed themselves to hear 
 
 The whitening breakers sound so near, 
 
 Where, boiling tln-ough the rocks, they roar 
 
 On Dunstanborough's cavcrned shore ; 
 
 Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked tliey there. 
 
 King Ida's castle, huge and srjuare, 
 
 From its tall rock look grimly down. 
 
 And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
 
 Then from the coast they bore away. 
 
 And reached the Holy Island's bay. 
 
 The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
 And girdled in the saint's domain ; 
 For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
 Varies from continent to isle ; 
 Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
 The pilgrims to the shrine find way ;
 
 344 rOEMS OF TLACES. 
 
 Twice every day, the waves efface 
 Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. 
 As to the port the galley flew, 
 Higher and higher rose to view 
 The castle with its battled walls, 
 The ancient monastery's halls, 
 A solemn, huge, and dark red pile, 
 Placed on the margin of the isle. 
 
 In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, 
 With massive arches broad and round, 
 That rose alternate, row and row, 
 On ponderous columns, short and low, 
 
 Built ere the art was known, 
 By pointed aisle and shafted stalk, 
 The arcades of an alleyed walk 
 
 To emulate in stone. 
 On the deep walls the heathen Dane 
 Had poured his impious rage in vain ; 
 And needful was such strength to these, 
 Exposed to the tempestuous seas. 
 Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 
 Open to rovers fierce as they. 
 Which could twelve hundred years withstand 
 Winds, waves, and Northern ]iiratcs' hand. 
 Not but that portions of the i)ilc, 
 Rebuiklcd in a later style, 
 Showed where the spoiler's hand had been ; 
 Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
 Had worn the pillars carving quaint. 
 And mouldered in his niche the saint. 
 And rounded, with consuming power, 
 The pointed angles of each tower ; 
 Yet still entire the abbey stood. 
 Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott.
 
 LINDISFARNE. 345 
 
 The Reapers of Lindisfarne. 
 
 In his abbey cell Saint Cuthbert 
 Sate burdened and care-dismayed : 
 
 For the wild Northumbrian people, 
 
 For whom he had wrought and prayed, 
 
 Still clung to their warlike pastime, 
 Their plunder and border raid ; 
 
 Still scouted all peaceful tillage. 
 
 And queried with scowling brow, 
 " Shall we who have won our victual 
 
 By the stout, strong hand till now, 
 Forswearing the free, bold foray. 
 
 Crawl after the servile plough ?" 
 
 *' Through year and through year I have taught them 
 By the word of my mouth," he said, 
 
 *' And still, in their untamed rudeness, 
 They trust to the wilds for bread ; 
 But now will I teach henceforward 
 By the toil of my hands instead. 
 
 •' In their sight I will set the lesson ; 
 
 And, gazing across the tarn. 
 They shall see on its nether border 
 
 Garth, byre, and hurdled barn, 
 And the brave, fair field of barley 
 
 That shall whiten at Lindisfarne." 
 
 Therewith from his Melrose cloister 
 
 Saint Cuthbert went his way : 
 He felled the hurst, and the meadow 
 
 Bare him rich swaths of hay. 
 And forth and aback in the furrow 
 
 He wearied the longsome day. 
 
 And it came to pass when the autumn 
 The ground with its sere leaves stravved,
 
 346 rOEMS OF TLACES. 
 
 And the purple was over the moorlands, 
 And the rust on the sunljurnt sod, 
 
 That, ripe for the I'eaper, the barley 
 Silvered the acres broad. 
 
 Then certain among the people. 
 
 Fierce folk who had laughed to scorn 
 
 The cark of the patient toiler, 
 While riot and hunt and horn 
 
 Were wiling them in the greenwood, 
 Cried : " Never Northumbrian bom 
 
 " Shall make of his sword a sickle. 
 
 Or help to winnow the heap : 
 The hand that hath sowed may garner 
 
 The grain as he list, — or sleep, 
 And pray the hard Lord he serveth. 
 
 That his angels may come and reap." 
 
 Right sadly Saint Cuthbert listened ; 
 
 And, bowing his silvered head. 
 He sought for a Christ-like patience 
 
 As he lay on his rush-strewn bed, 
 And strength for the morrow's scything, 
 
 Till his fears and his sadness fled. 
 
 Then he dreamed that he saw descending 
 On the marge of the moorland tarn 
 
 A circle of shining reapers. 
 
 Who heaped in the low-caved barn 
 
 The sheaves that their gleaming sickles 
 Had levelled at Lindisfarne. 
 
 In the cool of the crispy morning. 
 
 Ere the lark had quitted her nest 
 In the beaded grass, the sleeper 
 Arose from his place of rest ; 
 " For," he sighed, "I must toil till the gloaming 
 Is graying the golden west."
 
 LINN (LYN), THE RIVER. 347 
 
 He turned to look at his corn-land ; 
 
 Did he dream ? Did he see aright ? 
 Close cut was the field of barley, 
 
 And the stubble stood thick in sight ; 
 For the reapers with shining sickles 
 
 Had harvested all the night ! 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 Linn (Lyn), the River. 
 Waters-Meet, 
 
 (Recollection of Homer.) 
 
 Even thus, methinks, in some Ionian isle, 
 Yielding his soul to unrecorded joy, 
 Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile 
 On briery banks that wondrous minstrel boy ; 
 Long hours there came upon his vacant ear 
 The rushing of the river, till strange dreams 
 Fell on him, and his youthful spirit clear 
 Was dwelt on by the power of voiceful streams. 
 Thenceforth began to gi^ow upon his soul 
 The sound and force of waters ; and he fed 
 His joy at many an ancient river's head. 
 And echoing caves, and thunder, and the roll 
 Of the wakeful ocean, — till the day when he 
 Poured forth that stream divine of mighty melody. 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Linn-Cleeve. 
 
 This onward-deepening gloom ; this hanging palli 
 Over the Linn that soundeth mightily. 
 Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath 
 That aught should bar its passage to the sea ; 
 These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier, 
 Built darkly up into the very sky,
 
 348 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Hung witli thick woods, the native haunt of deer 
 And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high, — 
 All half unreal to my fancy seem ; 
 For opposite my crib, long years ago, 
 Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream, 
 With just this height above and depth below ; 
 Even this jutting crag I seem to know, — 
 As when some sight calls back a half-forgotten dream. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Liverpool. 
 
 The Mersey and the Irwell. 
 
 Suggested by a very curious and interesting model of the little 
 town of Liverpool, as it existed in the earlier part of the last century. 
 
 A CENTURY since the Mersey flowed 
 
 Unburdened to the sea ; 
 In the blue air no smoky cloud 
 
 Hung over wood and lea, 
 Where the old church with the fretted tower 
 
 Had a hamlet round its knee. 
 
 And all along the eastern way 
 
 The sheep fed on the track ; 
 The grass grew quietly all the day, — 
 
 Only the rooks were black ; 
 And the pedler frightened the lambs at play 
 
 With his knapsack on his back. 
 
 Where blended Irk and Irwell streamed 
 
 While Britons pitched the tent, 
 Where legionary helmets gleamed, 
 
 And Norman bows were bent. 
 An ancient shrine was once esteemed 
 
 Where pilgrims daily went.
 
 LIVERPOOL. 349 
 
 A century since tlie pedlar still 
 
 Somewhat of this might know, — 
 Might see the weekly markets fill 
 
 And the people ebb and flow 
 Beneath St. Mary's on the hill 
 
 A hundred years ago. 
 
 Since then a vast and filmy veil 
 
 Is o'er the landscape drawni, 
 Through which the sunset hues look pale, 
 
 And gray the roseate dawn ; 
 And the fair face of hill and dale 
 
 Is apt to seem forlorn. 
 
 Smoke, rising from a thousand fires, 
 
 Hides all that passed from view ; 
 Vainly the prophet's heart aspires, — 
 
 It hides the future too ; 
 And the England of our slow-paced sires 
 
 Is thought upon by few. 
 
 Yet man lives not by bread alone, — 
 
 How shall he live by gold ? 
 The answer comes in a sudden moan 
 
 Of sickness, hunger, and cold ; 
 And, lo ! the seed of a new life sown 
 
 In the ruins of the old ! 
 
 The human heart, which seemed so dead, 
 
 Wakes with a sudden start ; 
 To right and left we hear it said, 
 
 " Nay; 'tis a noble heart," 
 And the angels whisper overhead, 
 
 " There's a new shrine in the mart !" 
 
 And though it be long since daisies grew 
 
 Where Irk and Irwell flow. 
 If human love springs up anew, 
 
 And angels come and go,
 
 350 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 "What matters it that the skies were bhie 
 A hundred years ago ? 
 
 Bessie Rayner Parkes. 
 
 Liverpool. 
 
 In Liverpool, the good old to\\Ti, we miss 
 
 The grand old relics of a reverend past, — 
 
 Cathedrals, shrines that pilgrims come to kiss, — 
 
 Walls wrinkled by the blast. 
 
 Some crypt or keep, historically dear, 
 
 You find, go where you will, all England through : 
 But what have we to venerate, — all here 
 Ridiculously new. 
 
 We have our Castle Street, but castle none ; 
 
 Redcross Street, but its legend who can learn ; 
 Oldhall Street, too, we have, the old hall gone; 
 Tithebarn Street, but no barn. 
 
 Huge warehouses for cotton, rice, and corn, 
 
 Tea and tobacco, log and other woods, 
 Oils, tallow, hides that smell so foully foreign, 
 Yea, all things known as goods, — 
 
 These we can show, but nothing to restore 
 
 The spirit of old times, save here and there 
 An ancient mansion with palatial door. 
 In some degenerate square. 
 
 Then rise the merchant princes of old days. 
 
 Their silken dames, their skippers from the strand. 
 Who brought their sea-borne riches, not always 
 Quite free from contraband. 
 
 And these their mansions, to base uses come, — 
 
 Harbours for fallen fair ones, drifting tars; 
 Some manufactories of IjJacking, some 
 Tobacco and cigars.
 
 LIVERPOOL. 351 
 
 We have a church that one almost reveres, — 
 
 St Nicholas, nodding by the river-side, — 
 In old times hailed by ancient mariners 
 That came up with the tide. 
 
 And there's St. Peter's, too, not quite so frail. 
 
 Yet old enough for antiquated thoughts : 
 Ah, many a time I lean against the rail 
 
 To hear its sweet cracked notes. 
 
 For when the sun has clomb the middle sky. 
 
 And wandered down the short hour after noon, 
 Then to the heedless world that hurries by 
 The clock bells clink a tune. 
 
 They give us "Home, Sweet Home," in plaintive key. 
 
 And in its turn breaks out "The Scolding Wife," 
 To show that home, however sweet it be. 
 Is yet not free from strife. 
 
 But sometimes " Auld Lang Syne " comes clinking forth, 
 
 And surely every listening heart is charmed ; 
 For what are even the sorrows of the earth 
 When, past, they are transfonned ? 
 
 Yet all is so ridiculously new, 
 
 Except, perhaps, the river and the sky. 
 The waters and the immemorial blue 
 Forever sailing by. 
 
 Ay, they are old, but new as well as old, 
 
 For old and new are just the same sky dream, — 
 One metal in a slightly different mould, 
 The same rcfiltered stream. 
 
 Robert Leighton.
 
 352 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The Dingle. 
 
 Stranger ! that with careless feet 
 Wanderest near this green retreat, 
 Where through gently bending slopes 
 Softthe distant prospect opes ; 
 
 Where the fern, in fringed pride, 
 Decks the lonely valley's side ; 
 Where the white-throat chirps his song, 
 Flitting as thou tread'st along : 
 
 Know, where now thy footsteps pass 
 
 O'er the bending tufts of grass, 
 
 Bright gleaming through the encircling wood, 
 
 Once a Naiad rolled her flood. 
 
 If her urn, unknown to fame. 
 Poured no far extended stream, 
 Yet along its grassy side 
 Clear and constant rolled the tide. 
 
 Grateful for the tribute paid. 
 Lordly Mersey loved the maid ; 
 Yonder rocks still mark the place 
 Where she met his stern embrace. 
 
 Stranger, curious, wouldst thou Icnrn 
 Why she mourns her wasted urn ? 
 Soon a short and simple verse 
 Shall her hopeless fate rehearse. 
 
 Ere yon neighbouring spires arose, 
 That the upland prospect close, 
 Or ere along the startled shore 
 Echoed loud the cannon's roar, 
 
 Once the maid, in summer's heat, 
 Careless left licr cool retreat,
 
 LOCKSWELL. 353 
 
 And by sultry suns opprest, 
 Laid her wearied limbs to rest ; 
 
 Forgetful of her daily toil, 
 
 To trace each humid tract of soil, 
 
 From dews and bounteous showers to bring 
 
 The limpid treasures of her spring. 
 
 Enfeebled by the scorching ray, 
 She slept the circling hours away ; 
 And when she oped her languid eye, 
 She found her silver urn was dry. 
 
 Heedless stranger ! who so long 
 Has listened to an idle song. 
 Whilst trifles thus thy notice share, 
 Hast thou no urn that asks thy care ? 
 
 William Roscoe. 
 
 Lockswell. 
 
 LOCKSWELL. 
 
 Pure fount, that, welling from the wooded hill. 
 Dost wander forth, as into life's wide vale, 
 Thou to the traveller dost tell no tale 
 Of other years ; a lone, unnoticed rill. 
 In thy forsaken track, unheard of men. 
 Melting thy own sweet music through the glen. 
 
 Time was when other sounds and songs arose : 
 When o'er the pensive scene, at evening's close. 
 The distant bell was heard ; or the full chant 
 At morn came sounding high and jubilant ; 
 Or, stealing on the wildered pilgrim's way, 
 The moonlight Miserere died away. 
 Like all things earthly. 
 
 Stranger, mark the spot ; 
 No echoes of the chiding world intrude. 
 The structure rose and vanished ; solitude 
 VOL. I. 2 A
 
 354 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Possessed the woods again ; old Time forgot, 
 Passing to wider spoil, its place and name. 
 Since then, even as the clouds of yesterday. 
 Seven hundred years have well-nigh passed away ; 
 No wreck remains of all its early pride ; 
 Like its own orisons, its fame has died. 
 
 But this pure fount, through rolling years the same, 
 Yet lifts its still small voice, like penitence, 
 Or lowly prayer. Then pass admonished hence, 
 Happy, thrice happy, if through good or ill. 
 Christian, thy heart respond to this forsaken rill. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Loddon Hall. 
 
 LoDDON Hall. 
 
 Still on he rode ! a mansion fair and tall 
 Rose on his view, — the pride of Loddon Hall : 
 Spread o'er the park he saw the grazing steer, 
 The full-fed steed, and herds of bounding deer : 
 On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams played, 
 Through noble elms, and on the surface made 
 That moving picture, checkered light and shade ; 
 The attended children, there indulged to stray, 
 Enjoyed and gave new beauty to the day ; 
 Whose happy parents from their room were seen 
 Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green. 
 » * * « * 
 
 Home went the lovers through that busy place. 
 
 By I-oddon Hall, the country's pride and grace ; 
 
 By the rich meadows where the oxen fed, 
 
 Througli the green vale that formed the river's bed 
 
 And by unnumbered cottages and farms, 
 
 That have for musing minds unnumbered charms ; 
 
 And how affected by the view of these 
 
 Was then Orlando, — did they pain or please?
 
 LODDON, THE RIVER. 355 
 
 Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield, — and why ? 
 The mind was filled, was happy, and the eye 
 Roved o'er the fleeting views, that but appeared to die. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 Loddon, the River. 
 
 On revisiting the River Loddon. 
 
 Ah ! what a weaiy race my feet have run 
 
 Since first I trod thy banks with alders crovi'ned, 
 
 And thought my way was all through fairy ground. 
 
 Beneath the azure sky and golden sun, — 
 
 When first my muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
 
 While pensive memory traces back the round 
 
 Which fills the varied inter\-al between, 
 
 Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
 
 Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns so pure 
 
 No more return to cheer my evening road ! 
 
 Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure 
 
 Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed 
 
 From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature, 
 
 Nor with the muse's laurel unbestowed. 
 
 Thomas Warton, 
 
 Lodore. 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore 
 described in rhymes for the nursery. 
 
 " How does the water 
 
 Come down at Lodore ? " 
 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus once on a time ; 
 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 To tell him in rhyme.
 
 356 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Anon at the word, 
 There first came one daugliter, 
 And then came another, 
 To second and third 
 The request of their brother, 
 And to hear how the water 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 With its rush and its roar, 
 
 As many a time 
 They had seen it before. 
 
 So I told them in rhyme. 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 And 'twas in my vocation 
 For their recreation 
 That so I should sing, 
 Because I was Laureate 
 To them and the king. 
 
 From its sources which well 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 From its fountains 
 In the mountains. 
 Its rills and its gills,— 
 Through moss and through brake 
 It runs and it creeps 
 For a while, till it sleeps 
 In its own little lake. 
 And thence at departing. 
 Awakening and starting, 
 It runs through the reeds. 
 
 And away it proceeds 
 Through meadow and glade. 
 
 In sun and in shade. 
 And through the wood shelter, 
 Among crags in its flurry, 
 Helter-skelter, 
 Ilurry-skurry.
 
 LODORE. 357 
 
 Here it comes sparkling, 
 And there it lies darkling ; 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 Its tumult and wrath in, 
 Till, in this rapid race 
 On which it is bent, 
 It reaches the place 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 The cararact strong 
 Then plunges along, 
 Striking and raging, 
 As if a war waging 
 Its caverns and rocks among ; 
 Rising and leaping, 
 Sinking and creeping, 
 Swelling and sweeping. 
 Showering and springing. 
 
 Flying and flinging, 
 Writhing and wringing, 
 Eddying and whisking. 
 Spouting and frisking. 
 Turning and twisting. 
 
 Around and aroimd 
 With endless rebound ! 
 Smiting and fighting, 
 A sight to delight in ; 
 Confounding, astounding. 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 
 
 Collecting, projecting. 
 Receding and speeding. 
 And shocking and rocking. 
 And darting and parting. 
 And threading and spreading. 
 And whizzing and hissing. 
 And dripping and skipping. 
 And hitting and splitting, 
 And shining and twining,
 
 3S8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And rattling and battling, 
 And shaking and quaking, 
 And pouring and roaring, 
 And waving and raving, 
 And tossing and crossing, 
 And flowing and going. 
 And running and stunning, 
 And foaming and roaming. 
 And dinning and spinning, 
 And dropping and hopping, 
 And working and jerking, 
 And gurgling and struggling, 
 And heaving and cleaving. 
 And moaning and groaning ; 
 
 And glittering and frittering, 
 And gathering and feathering, 
 And whitening and brightening. 
 And quivering and shivering, 
 And hurrying and skurrying, 
 And thundering and floundering ; 
 
 Dividing and gliding and sliding. 
 
 And falling and brawling and sprawling. 
 
 And driving and riving and striving. 
 
 And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
 
 And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
 
 And bubbling and troubling and doubling. 
 
 And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
 
 And clattering and battering and shattering ; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. 
 Delaying and straying and ])laying and spraying, 
 Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 
 Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. 
 And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, 
 And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. 
 And flapping and rapjiing and cla])ping and slapping, 
 And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
 
 LONDON. 359 
 
 And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, 
 And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ; 
 And so never ending, but always descending. 
 Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending. 
 All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar ; 
 And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 London. 
 
 London. 
 
 Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel 
 When injured Thales bids the town farewell, 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend, 
 I praise the hermit, but regret the friend ; 
 Who now resolves, from vice and London far, 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air. 
 And, fixed on Cambria's solitary shore. 
 Give to St. David one true Briton more. 
 For who would leave, unbribed, Hibernia's land. 
 Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand ? 
 There none are swept by sudden fate away. 
 But all whom hunger spares with age decay : 
 Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire, 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; 
 Their ambush hei'e relentless ruffians lay, 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey ; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head. 
 And here a female atheist talks you dead. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 London. 
 
 A MIGHTY mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
 
 36o POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 On a fool's head, — and there is London Town ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 London. 
 
 To live in London was my young wood-dream, — 
 
 London, where all the books come from, the lode 
 
 That draws into its centre from all points 
 
 The bright steel of the world ; where Shakspeare wrote. 
 
 And Eastcheap is, with all its memories 
 
 Of gossip Quickly, Falstaff, and Prince Hal ; 
 
 Where are the very stones that Milton trod, 
 
 And Johnson, Garrick, Goldsmith, and the rest ; 
 
 Where even now our Dickens builds a shrine 
 
 That pilgrims through all time will come to see, — 
 
 London ! whose street names breathe such home to all : 
 
 Cheapside, the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, 
 
 Each name a very story in itself 
 
 To live in London ! — London, the buskined stage 
 
 Of history, the archive of the past, — 
 
 The heart, the centre of the living world ! 
 
 Wake, dreamer, to your village and your work. 
 
 Robert Leighton. 
 
 London. 
 
 There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned 
 
 Of airy palaces, and gardens built 
 
 By Genii of romance ; or hath in grave 
 
 Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 
 
 Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis ; 
 
 Or given upon report by pilgrim friars. 
 
 Of golden cities ten months' journey deep 
 
 Among Tartarian wilds, — fell short, far short,
 
 LONDON. 361 
 
 Of what my fond simplicity believed 
 
 And thought of London, — held me by a chain 
 
 Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. 
 
 Whether the bolt of childhood's fancy shot 
 
 For me beyond its ordinary mark, 
 
 'Twere vain to ask ; but in our flock of boys 
 
 Was one, a cripple from his birth, whom chance 
 
 Summoned from school to London : fortunate 
 
 And envied traveller ! When the boy returned. 
 
 After short absence, curiously I scanned 
 
 His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth. 
 
 From disappointment, not to find some change 
 
 In look and air, from that new region brought. 
 
 As if from Faiiyland. Much I questioned him ; 
 
 And every word he uttered on my ears 
 
 Fell flatter than a caged parrot's note. 
 
 That answers unexpectedly awry. 
 
 And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous things 
 
 Had vanity (quick spirit that appears 
 
 Almost as deeply seated and as strong 
 
 In a child's heart as fear itself) conceived 
 
 For my enjoyment. Would that I could now 
 
 Recall what then I pictured to myself 
 
 Of mitred prelates, lords in ermine clad, 
 
 The King and the King's palace, and, not last, 
 
 Nor least, Heaven bless him ! the renowned Lord 
 
 Mayor : 
 Dreams not unlike to those which once begat 
 A change of purpose in young Whittington, 
 When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, 
 Sat on a stone, and heard the bells speak out 
 Articulate music. Above all, one thought 
 Baffled my understanding : how men lived 
 Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still 
 Strangers, not knowing each the other's name. 
 
 O wondrous power of words, by simple faith 
 Licensed to take the meaning that we love !
 
 362 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Vauxhall and Ranelagh ! I then had heard 
 
 Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps 
 
 Dimming the stars and fireworks magical, 
 
 And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, 
 
 Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 
 
 The songs of spirits ! Nor had Fancy fed 
 
 With less delight upon that other class 
 
 Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent : 
 
 The river proudly bridged ; the dizzy top 
 
 And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's ; the tombs 
 
 Of Westminster ; the giants of Guildhall ; 
 
 Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, 
 
 Perpetually recumbent ; statues — man, 
 
 And the horse under him — in gilded pomp 
 
 Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares ; 
 
 The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower 
 
 Where England's sovereigns sit in long array, 
 
 Their steeds bestriding, — every mimic shape 
 
 Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore, 
 
 Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, 
 
 Or life or death upon the battle-field. 
 
 Those bold imaginations in due time 
 
 Had vanished, leaving others in their stead : 
 
 And now I looked upon the living scene ; 
 
 Familiarly perused it ; oftentimes. 
 
 In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased 
 
 Through courteous self-submission, as a tax 
 
 Paid to the object by prescriptive right. 
 
 Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain 
 Of a too busy world ! Before me flow. 
 Thou endless stream of men and moving things ! 
 Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes — 
 With wonder heightened, or sublimed liy awe — 
 On strangers of all ages ; the quick dance 
 Of colours, lights, and forms ; the deafening din : 
 The comers and the goers face to face. 
 Face after face ; the string of dazzling wares,
 
 LONDON. 363 
 
 Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names. 
 And all the tradesman's honours overhead : 
 Here fronts of houses, like a title-page, 
 With letters huge inscribed from top to toe, 
 Stationed above the dooi-, like guardian saints ; 
 There, allegoric shapes, female or male. 
 Or physiognomies of real men, 
 Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, 
 Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the attractive head 
 Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. 
 
 Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length, 
 Escaped as from an enemy, we turn 
 Abruptly into some sequestered nook. 
 Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud ! 
 At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort. 
 And sights and sounds that come at intervals, 
 We take our way. A raree-show is here, 
 With children gathered round ; another street 
 Presents a company of dancing dogs, 
 Or dromedary, with an antic pair 
 Of monkeys on his back ; a minstrel band 
 Of Savoyards ; or, single and alone. 
 An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 
 Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes 
 Thrilled by some female vender's scream, belike 
 The veiy shrillest of all London cries. 
 May then entangle our impatient steps ; 
 Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, 
 To privileged regions and inviolate. 
 Where from their airy lodges studious la^vyers 
 Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. 
 
 Thence back into the throng, until we reach, 
 Following the tide that slackens by degrees. 
 Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets 
 Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. 
 Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls ;
 
 364 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Advertisements, of giant size, from iiigh 
 
 Press forward, in all colours, on the sight ; 
 
 These, bold in conscious merit, lower down ; 
 
 That, fronted with a most imposing word. 
 
 Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. 
 
 As on the broadening causeway we advance, 
 
 Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong 
 
 In lineaments, and red with over-toil. 
 
 'Tis one encoinitered here and everywhere ; 
 
 A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short. 
 
 And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb 
 
 Another lies at length, beside a range 
 
 Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed 
 
 Upon the smooth flat stones : the nurse is here, 
 
 The bachelor, that loves to sun himself. 
 
 The military idler, and the dame, 
 
 That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. 
 
 Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, 
 where 
 See, among less distinguishable shapes. 
 The begging scavenger, with hat in hand ; 
 The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, 
 Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 
 Upon his head ; with basket at his breast, 
 The Jew ; the stately and slow-moving Turk, 
 With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm ! 
 
 Enough ; — the mighty concoiu-se I surveyed 
 With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note 
 Among the crowd all specimens of man. 
 Through all the colours which the sun bestows, 
 And cveiy character of form and face : 
 The Swede, the Russian ; from the genial Soutli, 
 The Frenchman and the Spaniard ; from remote 
 America the hunter-Indian ; Moors, 
 Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, 
 And negro ladies in white muslin gowns. 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 365 
 
 London. 
 
 It is a goodly sight through the cleai- air, 
 
 From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once 
 
 England's vast capital in fair expanse, — 
 
 Towers, belfries, lengthened streets, and structures fair. 
 
 St. Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands 
 
 Of neighbouring spires, a regal chieftain stands. 
 
 And over fields of ridgy roofs appear. 
 
 With distance softly tinted, side by side 
 
 In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear, 
 
 The towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride ; 
 
 While far beyond the hills of Surrey shine 
 
 Through thin soft haze, and show their wavy line. 
 
 Viewed thus, a goodly sight ! but when surveyed 
 
 Through denser air when moistened winds prevail, 
 
 In her grand panoply of smoke arrayed. 
 
 While clouds aloft in heavy volumes sail, 
 
 She is sublime. She seems a curtained gloom 
 
 Connecting heaven and earth, — a threatening sign of 
 
 doom. 
 With more than natural height, reared in the sky, 
 'Tis then St. Paul's arrests the wondering eye ; 
 The lower parts in swathing mist concealed. 
 The higher through some half-spent shower revealed, 
 So far from earth removed, that well, I trow, 
 Did not its form man's artful structure show, 
 It might some lofty alpine peak be deemed, — 
 The eagle's haunt, with cave and crevice seamed. 
 Stretched wide on either hand, a rugged screen 
 In lurid dimness, nearer streets are seen 
 Like shoreward billows of a troubled main 
 Arrested in their rage. Through drizzly rain 
 Cataracts of tawny sheen pour from the skies, 
 Of furnace smoke black curling columns rise, 
 And many-tinted vapours slowly pass 
 O'er the wide draping of that pictured mass.
 
 366 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 So shows by day this grand imperial town, 
 And, when o'er all the night's black stole is thrown, 
 The distant traveller doth with wonder mark 
 Her luminous canopy athwart the dark, 
 Cast up, from myriads of lamps that shine 
 Along her streets in many a starry line : 
 He wondering looks from his yet distant road, 
 And thinks the northern streamers are abroad. 
 " What hollow sound is that ? " Approaching near, 
 The roar of many wheels breaks on his ear. 
 It is the flood of human life in motion ! 
 It is the voice of a tempestuous ocean ! 
 With sad but pleasing awe his soul is filled, 
 Scarce heaves his breast, and all within is stilled. 
 As many thoughts and feelings cross his mind, — 
 Thoughts, mingled, melancholy, undefined. 
 Of restless, reckless man, and years gone by. 
 And time fast wending to eternity. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 Return to London. 
 
 From the dull confines of the drooping west. 
 To see the day spring from the pregnant east, 
 Ravisht in spirit, I come, nay more, I flie 
 To thee, blest place of my nativitie ! 
 Thus, thus with hallowed foot I touch the ground, 
 With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd. 
 O fruitful genius ! that liestowest here 
 An everlasting plenty, yeere by yeere. 
 
 place ! O people ! manners ! fram'd to please 
 All nations, customes, kindreds, languages ! 
 
 1 am a free-born Roman ; suffer then. 
 That I amongst you live a citizen. 
 
 London my home is ; though by hard fate sent 
 Into a long and irksome banishment. 
 Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, 
 O native countrey, repossest by thee !
 
 LONDON. 367 
 
 For, rather than I'le to the west return, 
 I'le beg of thee first here to have mine urn. 
 Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall ; 
 Give thou my sacred reliques buriall. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 London. 
 
 Rank abundance breeds, 
 In gross and pampered cities, sloth and lust 
 And wantonness and gluttonous excess. 
 In cities vice is hidden with most ease. 
 Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
 By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
 Beyond the achievements of successful flight. 
 I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
 In which they flourish most ; where, in tlie beams 
 Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 
 Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
 
 Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed 
 The fairest capital of all the world, 
 By riot and incontinence the worst. 
 There, touched by Reynolds a dull blank becomes 
 A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
 All her reflected features. Bacon there 
 Gives more than female beauty to a stone. 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 
 Nor does the chisel occupy alone 
 The powers of sculpture, but the style as much. 
 Each province of her art her equal care. 
 
 With nice incision of her guided steel 
 She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 
 So sterile with what charms soe'er she will 
 The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 
 Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
 With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
 Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ?
 
 368 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 In London. Where her implements exact, 
 
 With which she calculates, computes, and scans, 
 
 All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
 
 Measures an atom and now girds a world ? 
 
 In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
 
 So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, 
 
 As London, — opulent, enlarged, and still 
 
 Increasing London ? Babylon of old 
 
 Not more the gloiy of the earth than she, 
 
 A more accomplished world's chief glory now. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 East London. 
 
 'TwAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
 In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited ; 
 
 I met a preacher_ there I knew, and said, Id^i^-t^^T 'j-^^ ■ 
 " 111 and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene ?" 
 " Bravely ! " said he ; " for I of late have been 
 
 Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread." 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow. 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam, 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest tlirough the night ! 
 Thou niak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home, 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 West London. 
 
 Crouched on the pavement close by Belgrave Square, 
 
 A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied : 
 
 A babe was in her arms, and at her side 
 
 A girl ; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
 
 LONDON. 369 
 
 Some labouring men, whose work lay somewliere there, 
 Passed opposite ; she touched her girl, who hied 
 Across, and begged, and came back satisfied. 
 The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. 
 
 Thought I : Above her state this spirit towers ; 
 She will not ask of aliens, but of friends. 
 Of sharers in a common human fate. 
 
 She turns from that cold succour which attends 
 The unknown little from the unknowing great. 
 And points us to a better time than ours. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Sir Richard Whittington's Advancement. 
 
 " There is something so fabulous," says the editor of Old 
 Ballads, following Grafton and Stow, " or at least, that has such a 
 romantic appearance, in the history of Whittington, that I shall not 
 choose to relate it, but refer my credulous readers to common tradi- 
 tion or to the penny histories. Certain it is there was such a man ; 
 a citizen of London, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public 
 edifices and charitable works enow behind him to transmit his name 
 to posterity." 
 
 Here must I tell the praise 
 
 Of worthy Whittington, 
 Known to be in his dayes 
 
 Thrice Maior of London. 
 But of poor parentage 
 
 Born was he, as we heare, 
 And in his tender age 
 
 Bred up in Lancashire. 
 
 Poorely to London than 
 
 Came up this simple lad. 
 Where with a marchant-man 
 
 Soone he a dwelling had ;
 
 370 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And in a kitchen plast, 
 A scullion for to be, 
 
 "Whereas long time he past 
 In labour drudgingly. 
 
 His daily service was 
 
 Turning spitts at the fire ; 
 And to scour pots of brasse, 
 
 For a poore scullion's hire. 
 Meat and drinke all his pay, 
 
 Of coyne he had no store ; 
 Therefore to run away 
 
 In secret thought he bore. 
 
 So from this marchant-man, 
 Whittington secretly 
 
 Towards his country ran, 
 To purchase liljerty. 
 
 But as he went along, 
 
 In a fair summer's mome, 
 
 London's bells sweetly rung, 
 
 " Whittington, back return ! " 
 
 Evermore sounding so, 
 
 " Turn againe, Whittington ; 
 
 For thou in time shall grow 
 
 Lord-Maior of London." 
 Whereupon back againe 
 
 Whittington came with speed, 
 A prcntisc to remainc, 
 
 As the Lord had decreed. 
 
 " Still blessed be the bells" 
 
 (This was his daily song) ; 
 " They my good fortune tells, 
 Most sweetly have they rung. 
 If God so favour me, 
 
 I will not proove unkind ; 
 London my love shall see, 
 And my great bounties find."
 
 LONDON. 371 
 
 V 
 
 But see his happy chance ! 
 
 This scullion had a cat, 
 Which did his state advance, 
 
 And by it wealth he gat. 
 His maister ventred forth. 
 
 To a land far unknowne, 
 With marchandise of worth. 
 
 As is in stories showne. 
 
 Whittington had no more 
 
 But this poor cat as than 
 Which to the ship he bore, 
 
 Like a brave marchant-man. 
 ' Vent'ring the same," quoth he, 
 " I may get store of golde, 
 And Maior of London be, 
 
 As the bells have me told." 
 
 W^hittington's marchandise, 
 
 Carried was to a land 
 Troubled with rats and mice. 
 
 As they did understand. 
 The king of that country there, 
 
 As he at dinner sat, 
 Daily remain'd in fear 
 
 Of many a mouse and rat. 
 
 Meat that in trenchers lay, 
 
 No way they could keepe safe ; 
 But by rats borne away. 
 
 Fearing no wand or staff. 
 Whereupon, soone they brought 
 
 Whittington's nimble cat ; 
 Which by the king was bought ; 
 
 Heapes of gold giv'n for that. 
 
 Home againe came these men 
 
 With their ships loaden so, 
 Whittington's wealth began 
 
 By this cat thus to grow.
 
 372 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Scullions life he forsooke 
 To be a marchant good, 
 
 And soon began to looke 
 How well his credit stood. 
 
 After that he was chose 
 
 Shriefe of the citty heere, 
 And then full quickly rose 
 
 Higher, as did appeare. 
 For to this cities praise, 
 
 Sir Richard Wliittington 
 Came to be in his dayes 
 
 Thrise Maior of London. 
 
 More his fame to advance. 
 
 Thousands he lent his king. 
 To maintaine warres in France, 
 
 Glory from thence to bring. 
 And after, at a feast 
 
 Which he the king did make. 
 He burnt the bonds all in jeast, 
 
 And would no money take. 
 
 Ten thousand pound he gave 
 
 To his prince willingly. 
 And would not one penny have ; 
 
 This in kind curtesie. 
 God did thus make him great, 
 
 So would he daily see 
 Poor people fed with meat. 
 
 To shew his charity. 
 
 Prisoners poore cherish'd were, 
 
 Widdowes sweet comfort found : 
 Good deeds both far and neere, 
 
 Of him do still resound. 
 Whittington Colledge is 
 
 One of his charities ; 
 Records reporteth this 
 
 To lasting memories.
 
 LONDON. 373 
 
 Newgate he builded faire, 
 
 For prisoners to live in ; 
 Christs-Church he did repaire, 
 
 Christian love for to win. 
 Many more such like deedes 
 
 Were done by Whittington ; 
 Which joy and comfort breedes, 
 
 To such as looke thereon. 
 
 Lancashire, thou hast bred 
 
 This flower of charity : 
 Though he be gon and dead, 
 
 Yet lives he lastingly. 
 Those bells that call'd him so, 
 " Turne again, Whittington," 
 Call you back many moe 
 
 To live so in London. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Kensington Gardens. 
 
 Where Kensington high o'er the neighbouring lands 
 
 'Midst greens and sweets a regal fabric stands. 
 
 And sees each spring, lirxuriant in her bowers, 
 
 A snow of blossoms and a wild of flowers, 
 
 The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair 
 
 To groves and lawns and unpolluted air. 
 
 Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, 
 
 They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies ; 
 
 Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread. 
 
 Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed. 
 
 Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow. 
 
 And chintz, the rival of the showery bow. 
 
 Here England's daughter, darling of the land, 
 Sometimes, surrounded with her virgin band. 
 Gleams through the shades. She, towering o'er the rest, 
 Stands fairest of the fairer kind confessed.
 
 374 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Formed to gain hearts, that Brunswick's cause denied, 
 And charm a people to her father's side. 
 
 Long have these groves to royal guests been known, 
 Nor Nassau first preferred them to a throne. 
 Ere Norman banners waved in British air, 
 Ere lordly Huljba with the golden hair 
 Poured in his Danes, ere elder Julius came, 
 Or Dardan Brutus gave our isle a name, 
 A prince of Albion's lineage graced the wood. 
 The scene of wars, and stained with lover's blood. 
 
 Thomas Tickell. 
 
 Lines 
 
 WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 
 
 In this lone open glade I lie, 
 
 Screened by deep boughs on either hand ; 
 
 And at its head, to stay the eye. 
 
 Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand. 
 
 Birds here make song, each bird has his. 
 
 Across the girdling city's hum. 
 
 How green under the boughs it is ! 
 
 How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come ! 
 
 Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
 To take his nurse his broken toy«; 
 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
 Deep in her unknown day's employ. 
 
 Here at my feet what wonders pass, 
 What endless, active life is here! 
 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! 
 An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. 
 
 Scarce fresher is the mountain sod 
 Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, 
 And, eased of basket and of rod, 
 Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.
 
 LONDON. 375 
 
 In the huge world which roars hard by 
 
 Be others happy, if they can ! 
 
 But in my helpless cradle I 
 
 Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 
 
 I, on men's impious uproar hurled, 
 Think often, as I hear them rave, 
 That peace has left the upper world, 
 And now keeps only in the grave. 
 
 Yet here is peace forever new ! 
 When I, who watch them, am away. 
 Still all things in this glade go through 
 The changes of their quiet day. 
 
 Then to their happy rest they pass ; 
 The flowers close, the birds are fed, 
 The night comes down upon the grass. 
 The child sleeps warmly in his bed. 
 
 Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
 To feel, amid the city's jar, 
 That there abides a peace of thine' 
 Man did not make and cannot mar ! 
 
 The will to neither strive nor cry, 
 The power to feel with others give ! 
 Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
 Before I have begun to live. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Holland House. 
 
 Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, 
 Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race. 
 Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears. 
 O'er my dim eyeballs glance tlie sudden tears ! 
 How sweet where once thy prospects fresh and fair, 
 Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air !
 
 376 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, 
 Thy noontide shadow and the evening breeze ! 
 His image thy forsai^en bowers restore ; 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade. 
 From other ills, however fortune frowned. 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
 And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn. 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 
 Thomas Tickell, 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 
 1802. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This city now doth like a garment wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep, 
 In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 LONDON. 377 
 
 Westminster Abbey. 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER. 
 
 Mortality, behold and fear, 
 What a change of flesh is here ! 
 Think how many royal bones 
 Sleep within this heap of stones ; 
 Here they lie, had realms and lands, 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands 
 Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust, 
 They preach, in greatness is no trust. 
 Here's an acre sown indeed 
 With the richest, royal'st seed 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 Since the first man died for sin ; 
 Here the bones of birth have cried, 
 Though gods they were, as men they died ; 
 Here are sands, ignoble things. 
 Dropped from the ruined sides of kings. 
 Here's a world of pomp and state 
 Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 
 
 Francis Beaumont. 
 
 Two Queens in Westminster. 
 
 In the Chapel of Heniy the Seventh, 
 
 Where the sculptured ceilings rare 
 Show the conquered stone-work, hanging 
 
 Like cobweb films in air. 
 There are held two shrines in keeping. 
 
 Whose memories closely press : 
 The tomb of the Rose of Scotland, 
 
 And that of stout Queen Bess. 
 
 Each side of the sleeping Tudor 
 They rest ; and over their dust
 
 378 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The canopies mould and darken 
 
 And the gilding gathers rust ; 
 While low on the marble tablet, 
 
 Each effigied in stone, 
 They lie, — as they went to judgment,— 
 
 Uncrowned, and cold, and alone. 
 
 Beside them pass the thousands 
 
 Each day ; and hundreds strive 
 To read the whole of the lesson 
 
 That knoweth no man alive, — 
 Of which was more to be pitied. 
 
 And which was more to be feared, — 
 The strong queen, with the nerve of manhood, 
 
 Or the woman too close endeared. 
 
 One weakened her land with faction. 
 
 One strengthened with bands of steel ; 
 One died on the black-draped scaffold. 
 
 One broke on old age's wheel : 
 And both — O sweet heaven, the pity ! — 
 
 Felt the thorns in the rim of the crown 
 Far more than the sweep of the ermine 
 
 Or the ease of the regal down. 
 
 Was the Stuart of Scotland plotting 
 
 For her royal sister's all ? 
 Was it hatred in crown or in person 
 
 Drove the Tudor to work her fall ? 
 Was there guilty marriage with Bothwell 
 
 And black crime at the Kirk of Field ? 
 And what meed had the smothered passion 
 
 Tliat for Essex stood half revealed ? 
 
 Dark questions I — and who shall solve them ? 
 
 Not one, till the great assize. 
 When royal secrets and motives 
 
 Shall be opened to commonest eyes ; —
 
 LONDON. 
 
 379 
 
 Not even by bookworm students, 
 Who shall dig and cavil and grope, 
 
 And keep to the ear learned promise, 
 While they break it to the hope ! 
 
 Ah, well, — there is one sad lesson 
 
 Made clear to us all, at the worst : ' 
 Of two forces made quite incarnate, 
 
 And that equally blessed and cursed. 
 With the English woman, all-conquering 
 
 Was Power, and its handmaid. Pride ; 
 With the Scottish walked fierce-eyed Passion, 
 
 Calling lovers to her side ; 
 
 And the paths were the paths of ruin. 
 
 Of disease and of woe, to both. 
 With their guerdon the sleepless pillow. 
 
 And their weapon the broken troth ; 
 And each, when she died, might have shuddered 
 
 To know she had failed to find 
 A content, even poorly perfect. 
 
 As that blessing some landless hind ! 
 
 Ah, well, again, — they are sleeping 
 
 Divided, yet side by side ; 
 And the lesson were far less perfect 
 
 If their sepulchres severed wide. 
 And well for Bess and for Marie 
 
 That the eyes, to judge them at last, 
 Will be free from the gloss and glamour 
 
 Blinding ours through present and past ! 
 
 Henry Morford. 
 
 Poets' Corner. 
 
 O WORLD, what have your poets while they live 
 
 But sorrow and the finger of the scorner ? 
 And, dead, the highest honour you can give 
 Is burial in a corner.
 
 38o rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Not so, my poets of the popular school 
 
 Disprove that mean, yet prevalent conception. 
 Once in an age that may be ; but the rule 
 Is proved by the exception. 
 
 And so, good World, the poet still remains 
 
 To all your benefices a poor foreigner ; 
 Considered well rewarded if he gains 
 At last rest in a corner. 
 
 Here in Westminster's sanctuary, where 
 
 Some two-three kings usurp one half the Abbey, 
 Whole generations of the poets share 
 This nook so dim and shabby. 
 
 So when we come to see Westminster's lions, 
 
 The needy vergers of the Abbey wait us ; 
 And while we pay to see the royal scions. 
 We see the poets gratis. 
 
 Some in corporeal presence crowd the nook, 
 While others, who in body are not near it, 
 Are here as in the pages of a book,^ 
 Present only in spirit. 
 
 White-bearded Chaucer's here,"an honoured guest, 
 
 His sword of cutting humour in its scabbard ; 
 And, sooth, he did not find such quiet rest 
 In Southwark at the Tabard ! 
 
 Here's Michael Drayton in his laurelled tomb. 
 
 And Shakespeare over all the host commanding ; 
 And rare Ben Jonson, who got scanty room. 
 And so was buried standing. 
 
 Spenser is here from faerie land, his eyne 
 
 Filled with the glamour of some dreamy notion, 
 Admired the more that half his "Faerie Queen" 
 Was lost in middle ocean.
 
 LONDON. 381 
 
 Here 's Prior, who was popular no doubt ; 
 
 And Guy, with face and cowl round as a saucer ; 
 And Dryden, who, some think, should be put out 
 Because he murdered Chaucer. 
 
 And Milton, after all his civil shocks, 
 
 Is here with look of sweet, yet strong decision, — 
 John Milton, with the soft poetic locks 
 And supernatural vision. 
 
 Beaumont of the firm of B. and F. is here ; 
 
 And Cowley, metaphysical and lyric ; 
 And Addison, the elegant and clear ; 
 And Butler, all satiric. 
 
 Gray, of the famous Elegy, who found 
 
 His churchyard in the country rather lonely, 
 Lies with the rest in this more classic ground, 
 Although in si:>irit only. 
 
 And Goldsmith at the Temple leaves his bones. 
 
 Comes here with tender heart and rugged feature. 
 And mingles through this wilderness of stones 
 His milky human nature. 
 
 And here is he that wrote the Seasons four ; 
 
 And so is Johnson, who discovered "Winter," 
 And Garrick, too, who had poetic lore 
 Enough to bid him enter. 
 
 And Southey, who for bread wi^ote many a tome, — 
 
 Of prose and verse a progeny plethoric, — 
 And he that sung the lays of ancient Rome, — 
 Macaulay, the historic. 
 
 Campbell is here in body as in soul, — 
 
 He for a national song eclipsed by no land ; 
 And in whose grave the patriotic Pole 
 Sprinkled the earth of Poland.
 
 382 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Of other famous names we find the trace, 
 
 And think of many from their non-appearance ; 
 Byron, for one, who was denied a place 
 Through priestly interference. 
 
 Now most upon their own true genius stand ; 
 
 A few, perhaps, on little else than quackery ; 
 But all in all, they are a glorious band. 
 
 From Chaucer down to Thackeray. 
 
 Robert Leighton. 
 
 The Tomb of Addison. 
 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part forever to the grave ? 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
 Through rows of warriors and through walks of kings! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire, 
 The pealing organ and the pausing choir. 
 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid. 
 And the last words that dust to dust conveyed ! 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend ! 
 O, gone forever ! take this long adieu. 
 And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague. 
 ***** 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone. 
 Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown ; 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallowed mould below : 
 Proud names ! who once the reins of empire held. 
 In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
 Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood. 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood. 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, 
 And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven.
 
 LONDON. 383 
 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
 Since their fotmdation came a nobler guest. 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 
 
 Thomas Tickell. 
 
 Campbell'.s Funeral.^ 
 
 'Tis well to see these accidental great. 
 
 Noble by birth, or Fortune's favour blind. 
 Gracing themselves in adding grace and state 
 To the more noble eminence of mind, 
 And doing homage to a bard 
 Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred. 
 Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed. 
 
 While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered, 
 Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame ; 
 The builders of the pyramids, who reared 
 
 Mountains of stone, left none to tell their name. 
 Though Homer's tomb was never known, 
 A mausoleum of his own 
 Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim. 
 
 What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want ? 
 
 'Tis his to give, and not derive renown. 
 What monumental bronze or adamant, 
 
 Like his own deathless lays can hand him down ? 
 Poets outlast their tombs : the bust 
 And statue soon revert to dust ; 
 The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown. 
 
 The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof, 
 Formed to await the final day of doom ; 
 
 The clustered shafts and arch-supported roof, 
 
 That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb, 
 
 1 He was buried in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey, his pall 
 being supported by six noblemen.
 
 384 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Become a mined, shattered fane, 
 May fall and bury him again : 
 Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall 
 bloom. 
 
 Methought the monumental effigies 
 
 Of elder poets that were grouped around, 
 
 Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes, 
 
 To peer into the excavated ground 
 
 Where lay the gifted, good, and brave, 
 While earth from Kosciusko's grave 
 
 Fell on his coffin-place with freedom-shrieking sound. 
 
 And over him the kindred dust was strewed 
 Of Poet's Corner. O misnomer strange ! 
 The poet's confine is the amplitude 
 Of the whole earth's illimitable range. 
 
 O'er whicli his spirit wings its flight. 
 Shedding an intellectual light, 
 A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change. 
 
 Around his grave in radiant brotherhood. 
 
 As if to form a halo o'er his head. 
 Not few of England's master spirits stood, 
 Bards, artists, sages, reverently led 
 To waive each separating plea 
 Of sect, clime, party, and degree, 
 All honouring him on whom Nature all honours shed. 
 
 To me the humblest of the mourning band, 
 
 Who knew the bard thi-ough many a changeful year. 
 It was a proud sad' privilege to stand 
 Beside his grave and shed a parting tear. 
 Seven lustres had he been my friend. 
 Be that my plea when I suspend 
 This all-unworthy wreatli on such a poet's bier. 
 
 Horace Smith.
 
 LONDON. 3S5 
 
 Bridewell. 
 
 CARDINAL WOLSEY ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE. 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
 And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 
 This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
 Weaiy, and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 
 I feel my heart new open'd : O, how wretched 
 Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 Gateshead, Westminster. 
 TO althea, from prison. 
 
 When love with unconfined wings 
 Hovers within my gates ; 
 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 
 When I lye tangled in her haire. 
 And fettered to her eye, 
 I.
 
 386 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The birds that wanton in the aire 
 Know no such Uberty. 
 
 When flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 Witli no allaying Thames, 
 Our carelesse heads with roses bound, 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 "When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, 
 
 "When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes, that tipple in the deepe. 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 "When (like committed linnets) I 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 When I shall voyce aloud, how good 
 
 He is, how great should be, 
 Inlarged winds, that curie the flood. 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Mindes innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage ; 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soule am free, 
 Angels alone that soar above 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. 
 
 Like the great bell of St. Paul's, which only sounds when the 
 King is dead." 
 
 Toll ! toll, thou solemn bell ! 
 
 A royal head lies low. 
 And mourners through the palace halls 
 
 Slowly and sadly go.
 
 LONDON. 387 
 
 Lift up thine awful voice, 
 
 Tliou, silent for so long ! 
 Say that a monarch's soul has passed 
 
 To join the shadowy throng. 
 
 Sound yet again, thou bell ! 
 
 Mutely thine iron tongue, 
 Prisoned within yon high church-tower, 
 
 For many a year has hung. 
 Now, while thy mournful peal 
 
 Startles a nation's ear. 
 The echo rings from shore to shore, 
 
 That the whole world may hear. 
 
 whisper from the past 
 
 Blends with each solemn tone 
 That from those brazen lips of thine 
 
 Upon the air is thrown. 
 Never had trumpet's peal, 
 
 Or "clarion wild and shrill," 
 Such power as that low undertone 
 
 The listener's heart to thrill. 
 
 Come, tell us tales, thou bell, 
 
 Of those of old renown. 
 Those sturdy warrior kings who fought 
 
 For sceptre and for crown ! 
 Tell of the Lion-heart 
 
 Whose pulses moved the world ; 
 Of her whose banners flew so far 
 
 O'er land and sea unfurled. 
 
 From out the buried years, — 
 
 From many a royal tomb. 
 Whence neither pomp nor power could chase 
 
 The dim, sepulchral gloom, 
 Lo ! now a pale, proud line, 
 
 They glide before our eyes ! — 
 Art thou a wizard, mighty bell ! 
 
 To bid the dead arise ?
 
 388 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Toll on ! toll on, thou bell ! 
 
 Once more lift up thy voice, 
 Though never yet did peal of thine 
 
 Bid human hearts rejoice ! 
 Solemn and stern thou art, 
 
 In silence and in pride, 
 Ne'er lifting up thy thunder tones 
 
 Save when a king has died. 
 
 Yet they to whom a world 
 
 Has bowed in reverence, 
 And on their graves poured gushing tears 
 
 Of voiceless eloquence, — 
 Kings in the realm of mind, 
 
 Princes in that of thought. 
 Who for themselves, by word and deed. 
 
 Immortal names have wrought, — 
 
 Have to the dust gone dowTi, 
 
 And thou, O haughty bell, 
 For these — old England's kingliest sons — 
 
 Tolled no funereal knell ! 
 Ah ! happier far than thou 
 
 In all thy silent pride, 
 The humblest village bell that rings 
 
 For bridegroom and for bride ; 
 That calls the babe to baptism, 
 
 The weary soul to prayer, 
 And tolls when loved ones spring from earth 
 
 To heaven's serener air ! 
 
 Julia C. R. Dorr.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 389 
 
 London Streets. 
 Walking the Streets of London, 
 
 Through winter streets to steer your course aright, 
 How to walk clean by day and safe by night ; 
 How jostling crowds with prudence to decline, 
 When to assert the wall and when resign, 
 I sing : thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song. 
 Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along ; 
 By thee transported, I securely stray 
 Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way ; 
 The silent court and opening square explore, 
 And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 
 To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways, 
 Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays : 
 For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground. 
 Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound ; 
 For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 
 Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. 
 My youthful bosom bums with thirst of fame. 
 From the great theme to build a glorious name ; 
 To tread in paths to ancient bards imknown. 
 And bind my temples with a civic crown : 
 But more my country's love demands my lays ; 
 My country's be the profit, mine the praise ! 
 
 When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice. 
 And ' ' Clean your shoes ! " resounds from every voice ; 
 When late their miry sides stage-coaches show, 
 And their stiff horses through the town move slow ; 
 When all tiie Mall in leafy ruin lies. 
 And damsels first renew their oyster-cries, — 
 Then let the prudent walker shoes provide, 
 Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide : 
 The wooden heel may raise the dancei^'s bound, 
 And with the scalloped top his step be crowned ;
 
 390 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet 
 Through freezing snows and rains and soaking sleet. 
 Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, 
 Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside ; 
 The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, 
 Thy cracking joint unhinge or ankle sprain ; 
 And, when too sliort the modish shoes are worn, 
 You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn. 
 
 Nor should it prove thy less important care, 
 To choose a pi^oper coat for winter's wear. 
 Now in thy trunk thy d'Oily habit fold. 
 The silken drugget ill can fence the cold ; 
 The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain. 
 And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain 
 True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn, 
 Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn : 
 Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear 
 Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? 
 Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent. 
 Hands that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent. 
 Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace. 
 Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace. 
 That garment best the winter's rage defends, 
 Whose ample form without one plait depends ; 
 By various names in various counties known, 
 Yet held in all the true surtout alone : 
 Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, 
 Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost. 
 
 If the strong cane support thy walking hand, 
 Chairmen no longer shall the wall command : 
 Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey. 
 And rattling coaches stop to make thee \vay : 
 This shall direct thy cautious tread aright. 
 Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. 
 Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce ; 
 Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use.
 
 LONDON STREETS. 391 
 
 In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, 
 And lazily insure a life's disease ; 
 While softer chairs the tawdry load convey 
 To court, to White's assemblies, or the play, — 
 Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends, 
 And exercise thy lasting youth defends. 
 Impmdent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane ; 
 Thus some beneath their arm support the cane ; 
 The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, 
 And miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. 
 O, may I never such misfortune meet ! 
 May no such vicious walkers crowd the street ! 
 May Providence o'ershade me with her wings, 
 While the bold Muse experienced danger sings ! 
 
 John Gay, 
 
 Bolt Court, Fleet Street. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. 
 
 Condemned to hope's delusive mine. 
 
 As on we toil from day to day. 
 By sudden blast or slow decline 
 
 Our social comforts drop away. 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year. 
 
 See Levett to the grave descend ; 
 Officious, innocent, sincere, 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fills affection's eye. 
 
 Obscurely wise and coarsely kind. 
 
 Nor, lettered arrogance, deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefined. 
 
 When fainting nature called for aid, 
 
 And hovering death prepared the blow, 
 
 The vigorous remedy displayed, 
 
 The power of art, without the show.
 
 392 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 In misery's darkest caverns known, 
 His useful care was ever nigh ; 
 
 Wliere hopeless anguish poured his groan, 
 And lonely want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mocked by chill delay. 
 No petty gain disdained by pride, 
 
 The modest wants of every day 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues walked their narrow round. 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure the eternal Master found 
 The single talent well employed. 
 
 The busy day, the peaceful night, 
 
 Unfelt, uncounted, glided by : 
 Plis frame was firm, his powers were bright. 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then with no throb of fiery pain. 
 
 No cold gradations of decay. 
 Death broke at once the vital chain, 
 
 And freed his soul the nearest way. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 Wood Street. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears. 
 Hangs a thrush that sings loud, — it has sung for three 
 
 years ; 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Brigiit volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide. 
 And a river Hows on through the vale of Cheapside.
 
 LONDON STREETS. 393 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven ; but they fade. 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 6"] WiMPOLE Street. 
 
 Dark house, by which once more I stand 
 Here in the long unlovely street. 
 Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
 
 So quickly, waiting for a hand, — 
 
 A hand that can be clasped no more, — 
 
 Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
 
 And like a guilty thing I creep 
 At earliest morning to the door. 
 
 He is not here ; but far away 
 The noise of life begins again. 
 And ghastly through the drizzling rain 
 
 On the bald street breaks the blank day. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Oxford Street. 
 
 Life in its many shapes was there. 
 
 The busy and the gay ; 
 Faces that seemed too young and fair 
 
 To ever know decay. 
 
 Wealth, witli its waste, its pomp, and pride, 
 Led forth its glittering train ;
 
 394 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And Poverty's pale face beside 
 Asked aid, and asked in vain. 
 
 The shops were filled from many lands, 
 Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers ; 
 
 The patient work of many hands, 
 The hope of many hours. 
 
 Yet, 'mid life's myriad shapes around 
 
 There was a sigh of death ; 
 There rose a melancholy sound, 
 
 The bugle's wailing breath. 
 
 They played a mournful Scottish air, 
 
 That on its native hill 
 Had caught the notes the night- winds bear 
 
 From weeping leaf and rill. 
 
 'Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain 
 
 Its warning music shed, 
 Rising above life's busy train. 
 
 In memory of the dead. 
 
 There came a slow and silent band 
 
 In sad procession by ; 
 Reversed the musket in each hand, 
 
 And downcast every eye. 
 
 They bore the soldier to his grave ; 
 
 The sympathising crowd 
 Divided like a parted wave 
 
 By some dark vessel ploughed. 
 
 A moment, and all sounds were mute, 
 
 For awe was over all ; 
 You heard the soldier's measured foot, 
 
 The bugle's wailing call. 
 
 The gloves were laid upon the bier, 
 The helmet and the sword ;
 
 LONDON STREETS. 395 
 
 The drooping war-horse followed near, 
 As he, too, mourned his lord. 
 
 Slowly — I followed too — they led 
 
 To where a church arose, 
 And flung a shadow o'er the dead, 
 
 Deep as their own repose. 
 
 Green trees were there, — beneath the shade 
 
 Of one was made a grave ; 
 And there to his last i"est was laid 
 
 The weary and the brave. 
 
 They fired a volley o'er the bed 
 
 Of an unconscious ear ; 
 The birds sprang fluttering overhead. 
 
 Struck with a sudden fear. 
 
 All left the ground, the bugles died 
 
 Away upon the wind ; 
 Only the tree's green branches sighed 
 
 O'er him they left behind. 
 
 Again, all filled with light and breath, 
 
 I passed the crowded street ; 
 O great extremes of life and death, 
 
 How strangely do ye meet ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 The sun is on the crowded street ; 
 
 It kindles those old towers, 
 Where England's noblest memories meet, 
 
 Of old historic hours. 
 
 Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct, 
 
 Tradition's giant fane, 
 Wliereto a thousand years are linked 
 
 In one electric chain.
 
 396 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 So stands it when the morning light 
 First steals upon the skies, 
 
 And, shadowed by the fallen night, 
 The sleeping city lies. 
 
 It stands with darkness round it cast, 
 Touched by the first cold shine ; 
 
 Vast, vague, and mighty as the past. 
 Of which it is the shrine. 
 
 'Tis lovely when the moonlight falls 
 Around the sculptured stone, 
 
 Giving a softness to the walls, 
 Like love that mourns the gone. 
 
 Then comes the gentlest influence 
 The human heart can know, 
 
 The mourning over those gone hence 
 To the still dust below. 
 
 The smoke, the noise, the dust of day, 
 Have vanished from the scene ; 
 
 The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray 
 O'er the park's sweeping green. 
 
 Sad shining on her lonely path, 
 The moon's calm smile above, 
 
 Seems as it lulled life's toil and wrath 
 With universal love. 
 
 Past that still hour, and its pale moon. 
 
 The city is alive ; 
 It is the busy hour of noon. 
 
 When man must seek and strive. 
 
 The pressure of our actual life 
 
 Is on the waking brow ; 
 Labour and care, endurance, strife. 
 
 These are aroimd him now.
 
 LONDON STREETS. 397 
 
 How wonderful the common street ! 
 
 Its tumult and its throng, 
 The hurrying of the thousand feet 
 
 That bear life's cares along. 
 
 How strongly is the present felt, 
 
 With such a scene beside ; 
 All sounds in one vast murmur melt 
 
 The thunder of the tide. 
 
 All hurry on, — none pause to look 
 
 Upon another's face : 
 The present is an open book 
 
 None read, yet all must trace. 
 
 The poor man hurries on his race, 
 
 His daily bread to find ; 
 The rich man has yet wearier chase, 
 
 For pleasure's hard to bind. 
 
 All hurry, though it is to pass 
 
 For which they live so fast, — 
 What doth the present but amass 
 
 The wealth that makes the past ? 
 
 The past is round us, — those old spires 
 
 That glimmer o'er our head ; 
 Not from the present is their fires, 
 
 Their light is from the dead. 
 
 But for the past the present's powers 
 
 Were waste of toil and mind. 
 But for those long and glorious hours 
 
 Which leave themselves behind. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 398 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Pall Mall. 
 
 My little friend, so small and neat, 
 Whom years ago I used to meet 
 
 In Pall' Mall daily ; 
 I low cheerily you tript away 
 To work, — it might have been to play, 
 
 You tript so gaily. 
 
 And time trips too. This moral means 
 You then were midway in the teens 
 
 That I was crowning ; 
 We never spoke, but when I smiled 
 At morn or eve, I know, dear child, 
 
 You were not frowning. 
 
 Each morning when we met, I think 
 Some sentiment did us two link, 
 
 Nor joy nor sorrow ; 
 And then at eve, experience-taught, 
 Our hearts returned upon the thought, — 
 
 We meet to-morrow ! 
 
 And you were poor ; and how ?— and why ? 
 How kind to come, it was for my 
 
 Especial grace meant ! 
 Had you a chamber near the stars, 
 A bird, — some treasured plants in jars, 
 
 About your casement ? 
 
 1 often wander up and dowTi, 
 
 When morning bathes the silent town 
 
 In golden glory ; 
 Perhaps, unwittingly, I've heard 
 Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 
 
 From some third story. 
 
 I've seen great changes since we met ; 
 A patient little seamstress yet, 
 
 With small means striving.
 
 LONDON STREETS. 399 
 
 Have you a Liliputian spouse ? 
 And do you dwell in some doll's house ? 
 Is baby thriving ? 
 
 My heart grows chill ; can bloom like thine 
 Have past from this dear world of mine 
 
 To one far meeter ? 
 To one whose promised joys are worth 
 The best, and more, of Mother Earth, 
 
 And is it sweeter ? 
 
 Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair, 
 And see the damsels passing there ; 
 
 But if I try to 
 Obtain one glance, they look discreet, 
 As though they'd some one else to meet ; 
 
 As have not / too ? 
 
 Yet still I often think upon 
 
 Our many meetings, come and gone ! 
 
 July— December ! 
 Now let us make a tiyst, and when. 
 Dear little soul, we meet again, — 
 The mansion is preparing, — then 
 
 Thy friend remember ! 
 
 Frederick Locker. 
 
 St. James's Street. 
 
 St. James's Street, of classic fame ! 
 
 The finest people throng it ! — 
 St. James's Street ? I know the name ! 
 
 I think I've passed along it ! 
 Why, that's where Sacharissa sighed 
 
 "When Waller read his ditty ; 
 Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, 
 
 And Alvanley was witty.
 
 400 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A famous street. It skirts the Park 
 
 Where Rogers took his pastime ; 
 Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, 
 
 And then call up the fast time ! 
 The plats at White's, the play at Crock's, 
 
 The bumpers to Miss Gunning ; 
 The honJioiuk of Charlie Fox, 
 
 And Selwyn's ghastly funning. 
 
 The dear old street of clubs and cribs, 
 
 As north and south it stretches, 
 Still smacks of Williams' pungent squibs, 
 
 And Gillray's fiercer sketches ; 
 The quaint old dress, the grand old style. 
 
 The mots, the racy stories ; — 
 The wine, the dice, — the wit, the bile, 
 
 The hate of Whigs and Tories. 
 
 At dusk, when I am strolling there, 
 
 Dim forms will rise around me ; 
 Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair, 
 
 And Congreve's airs astound me ! 
 And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, 
 
 Looked kindly when I met her ; 
 I shook my head, perhaps, — but quite 
 
 Forgot to quite forget her. 
 
 The street is still a lively tomb 
 
 For rich and gay and clever. 
 The crops of dandies bud and bloom. 
 
 And die as fast as ever. 
 Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes. 
 
 And slang that 's rather rancid, — 
 It can't approach its prototypes 
 
 In tone, — or so I 've fancied. 
 
 In Brummell's day of buckle shoes, 
 Starch cravats, and roll collars. 
 
 They'd fight, and woo, and bet, — and lose 
 Like gentlemen and scholars :
 
 LONDON STREETS. 401 
 
 I like young men to go the pace, 
 
 I half forgive old Rapid ; 
 These louts disgrace their name and race, — 
 
 So vicious and so vapid ! 
 
 Worse times may come. Bon ton, alas ! 
 
 Will then be quite forgotten. 
 And all we much revere will pass 
 
 From ripe to worse than rotten ; 
 Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones, 
 
 And owls will roost at Boodle's, 
 And Echo will hurl back the tones 
 
 Of screaming Yankee Doodles. 
 
 I like the haunts, and many such. 
 
 Where wit and wealth are squandered, 
 The gardened mansions, just as much. 
 
 Where grace and rank have wandered, — 
 The spots where ladies fair and leal 
 
 First ventured to adore me ! — 
 And something of the like I feel 
 
 For this old street before me. 
 
 Frederick Locker. 
 
 Rotten Row, Hyde Park. 
 
 I HOPE I'm fond of much that's good, 
 
 As well as much that 's gay ; 
 I'd like the country if I could, 
 
 I like the Park in May : 
 And when I ride in Rotten Row, 
 I wonder why they called it so. 
 
 A lively scene on turf and road. 
 
 The crowd is smartly drest : 
 The Ladies' Mile has overflowed. 
 
 The chairs are in request : 
 The nimble air, so soft and clear. 
 Can hardly stir a ringlet here. 
 I. 2D
 
 402 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 I'll halt beneath these pleasant trees 
 
 And drop my bridle-rein, 
 And, quite alone, indulge at ease 
 
 The philosophic vein : 
 I'll moralise on all I see, — 
 I think it all was made for me ! 
 
 Forsooth, and on a nicer spot 
 The sunbeam never shines ; 
 
 Young ladies here can talk and trot 
 With statesmen and divines : 
 
 Could I have chosen, I'd have been 
 
 A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean ! 
 
 What grooms ! what gallant gentlemen ! 
 
 What well-appointed hacks ! 
 What glory in their pace, — and then 
 
 What beauties on their backs ! 
 My Pegasus would never flag 
 If weighted as my lady's nag. 
 
 But where is now that courtly troop 
 Who once rode laughing by ? 
 
 I miss the curls of Cantilupe, 
 The smile of Lady Di ; 
 
 They all could laugh from night to mom, 
 
 And Time has laughed them all to scorn. 
 
 I then could frolic in the van 
 With dukes and dandy earls ; 
 
 I then was thought a nice young man 
 By rather nice young girls ; 
 
 I've half a mind to join Miss Browne, 
 
 And tiy one canter up and down. 
 
 Ah, no ! I'll linger here awhile, 
 And dream of days of yore ; 
 
 For me bright eyes have lost the smile, 
 The sunny smile they wore : —
 
 LONDON STREETS. 403 
 
 Perhaps they say, what I'll allow, 
 That I 'm not quite so handsome now. 
 
 Frederick Locker. 
 
 Regent Street. 
 
 Heavens ! what a scene of splendour and of dash I 
 What seeming maze, and yet what perfect order ! 
 We feel as if upon destruction's border 
 The crowd were treading ; we have seen the flash, 
 And, breathless, look, expecting the loud crash ; 
 Yet all moves on harmonious as the spheres : 
 Coach, chariot, cab appears and disappears. 
 And prancing horseman with gay plume and sash ; ; 
 The lumbering dray with horses huge, the van, 
 And omnibuses, — count them if you can ! 
 Heavens, what a sight ! and yet to ponder well, 
 The scene has less of grandeur than of gloom, 
 For, viewed aright, what is this spectacle ? 
 What but a vast i^rocession to the tomb ? 
 
 II. 
 Away with all the tales good men devise 
 (Good easy men, to their kind feelings dupes) 
 Of holes and hovels in which misery troops ! 
 Away with all statistics, — they are lies ! 
 Can man misdoubt the witness of his eyes, — 
 Believe that poverty and suffering dwell 
 Where old and young are streaming on pell-mell 
 To Circe's temple, eager votaries ? 
 It cannot be that mitred heads can loll 
 In cushioned chariots, drawn by pampered steeds ; 
 That woman, who her tears can scarce control 
 At Misery's tale, such flaunting follies heeds, 
 While thousands, near, are pining with disease, 
 Whom one kind look of sympathy would ease ! 
 
 James Cochrane.
 
 404 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Temple Bar. 
 
 Once more I gieet thee, Temple Bar, 
 That hast so often from afar 
 
 Risen amid my dreams ; 
 When avalanches romid me roared, 
 Or where the Tagus, sunlit, poured 
 
 Its stately golden streams ; 
 
 And where, above the torrent-bed. 
 The Alp-peaks flushed with rosy red 
 
 The sunset dyes arrayed ; 
 And where, below on lily banks, 
 The half-wild goats in straggling ranks 
 
 Fed, leaped, or, butting, played ; 
 
 And even where Niagara roared, 
 And, like a final deluge, poured 
 
 Majestically calm ; 
 And where arose the Pyramid, 
 At starry twilight almost hid. 
 
 And waved the lonely palm. 
 
 Well I remember all thy ways. 
 
 The glimmering, horny light that plays 
 
 Around thy window-panes ; 
 Thy posture-making kings, and she 
 Who brought proud Spain upon his knee, 
 
 And still up yonder reigns. 
 
 No grinning traitors' heads on poles 
 Strike terror now to Toiy souls, 
 
 (Thank God, those days are altered !) 
 A statesman now may lose his head 
 Many a year before he's dead. 
 
 Long ere his last word's faltered. 
 
 How often, like a furnace mouth, 
 I 've seen in days of summer drouth 
 The archway flaming red
 
 LONDON STREETS. 405 
 
 With sunset crimsons fold on fold, 
 That turned the Strand to burning gold. 
 Then darkened overhead. 
 
 And on how many a fairy night 
 I've seen the sprinkling silver light 
 
 Transmute thy royalty ; 
 Invest thy kings with saintly gleams, 
 Crowning with halo of moonbeams 
 
 Thy transient majesty. 
 
 Few burly Doctor Johnsons now 
 At midnight bend their chiding brow 
 
 On Boswells reeling home ; 
 Nor Goldsmith curses German kings, 
 And wishes among other things, 
 
 For Chevalier from Rome. 
 
 Yes, Chatterton has lingered here, 
 Gazing upon a sky, dark, drear. 
 
 Holding his bated breath ; 
 While moonshine blanched the windowed arch. 
 That howling, bitter night in March, 
 
 He pondered upon death. 
 
 Still, luckless Chattertons, alas ! 
 Through this dark gate of time will pass. 
 
 Forced by their cruel star ; 
 And many Boswells, Johnson-led, 
 Will pass through you when I am dead. 
 
 To heavens that lie afar. 
 
 Great arch of Time's swift rolling river. 
 It makes my blood in ague shiver. 
 
 To think how fast life's flowing ; 
 And how our little frail canoes. 
 No bigger than a giant's shoes. 
 
 Sink ere we know they're going. 
 
 Walter Thornbury.
 
 4d6 poems of places. 
 
 The November Fog of London. 
 
 First, at the dawn of lingering day, 
 It rises of an ashy gray; 
 Then deepening with a sordid stain 
 Of yellow, like a lion's mane. 
 Vapour importimate and dense 
 It wars at once with every sense. 
 The ears escape not. All around 
 Returns a dull, unwonted sound. 
 Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, 
 The chilled and puzzled passenger, 
 Oft blundering from the pavement, fails 
 To feel his way along the rails ; 
 Or at the crossings, m the roll 
 Of every carriage dreads the pole. 
 Scarce an eclipse with pall so dun 
 Blots from the face of heaven the sun. 
 But soon a thicker, darker cloak 
 Wraps all the town ; behold the smoke. 
 Which steam-compelling trade disgorges 
 From all her furnaces and forges, 
 In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise, 
 Descends rejected from the skies ; 
 Till struggling day, extinguished quite. 
 At noon gives place to candle-light. 
 
 Henry Lutirel. 
 
 London Taverns, 
 
 Tavern Signs. 
 
 I'm amused at the signs. 
 As I pass through the town. 
 To see the odd mixture,— 
 A Magpie and Crown, 
 The Whale and the Crow, 
 The Razor and Hen,
 
 LONDON TAVERNS. 407 
 
 The Leg and Seven Stai-s, 
 The Scissors and Pen, 
 The Axe and the Bottle, 
 The Tun and the Lute, 
 The Eagle and Child, 
 The Shovel and Boot. 
 
 British Apollo, 1707. 
 
 The Tabard Inn. 
 
 Befelle, that, in that seson on a day, 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
 Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
 To Canterbury with devoute corage, 
 At night was come into that hostelrie 
 Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 
 In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
 That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wide, 
 And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
 
 And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste, 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everich on. 
 That I was of hir felawship anon, 
 And made forword erly for to rise. 
 To take oure way ther as I you devise. 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer. 
 
 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 
 
 Souls of poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine ?
 
 4o8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of venison ? O generous food ! 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
 Would, with his maid Marian, 
 Sup and browse from horn and can. 
 
 I have heard that on a day 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
 Nobody knew whither, till 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 To a sheepskin gave the story, — 
 Said he saw you in your glory, 
 Underneath a new old-sign 
 Sipping beverage divine. 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 Souls of poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 The Sun, the Dog, the Triple Tun. 
 
 ODE TO BEN JOHNSON. 
 
 Ah Ben ! 
 Say how or when 
 Shall we, thy guests. 
 Meet at those lyric feasts. 
 
 Made at the Sun, 
 The Dog, the Triple Tun : 
 Where we such clusters had 
 As made us nobly wild, not mad ; 
 And yet each verse of thine 
 Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
 
 LONDON TAVERNS. 409 
 
 My Ben ! 
 Or come again, 
 
 Or send to us 
 Thy wit's great overplus ; 
 
 But teach us yet 
 Wisely to husband it, 
 Lest we that talent spend : 
 And having once brought to an end 
 That precious stock, the store 
 Of such a wit the world should have no more. 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 The Mermaid. 
 
 What things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble and so full of subtle flame. 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life ; that when there hath been thrown 
 Wit able enough to justify the town 
 For three days past, — wit that might warrant be 
 For the whole city to talk foolishly 
 Till that were cancelled ; and when that was gone, 
 We left an air behind us, which alone 
 Was able to make the two next companies 
 (Right witty, though but downright fools) more wise. 
 
 Francis Beaumont. 
 
 The Red Lion, Drury Lane. 
 
 Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
 
 Where Calvert's butt and Parson's black champagne 
 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane ; 
 
 There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 
 
 The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith.
 
 4IO POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The Cock. 
 
 WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 
 
 PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 
 To which I most resort, 
 
 How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. 
 
 Go fetch a pint of port : 
 But let it not be such as that 
 
 You set before chance-comers. 
 But such whose father-grape grew fat 
 
 On Lusitanian summers. 
 
 No vain libation to the Muse, 
 
 But may she still be kind. 
 And whisper lovely words, and use 
 
 Her influence on the mind. 
 To make me write my random rhymes, 
 
 Ere they be half forgotten ; 
 Nor add and alter, many times, 
 
 Till all be ripe and rotten. 
 
 1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 
 
 Her laurel in the wine, 
 And lays it thrice upon my lips, 
 
 These favoured lips of mine ; 
 Until the charm have power to make 
 
 New lifeblood warm the bosom, 
 And barren commonplaces break 
 
 In full and kindly blossom. 
 
 I pledge her silent at the board ; 
 
 Her gradual fingers steal 
 And touch upon the master-chord 
 
 Of all I felt and feel. 
 Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 
 
 And ])hantom hopes assemble ; 
 And tliat child's heart within tlie man's 
 
 Begins to move and tremble.
 
 LONDON TAVERNS. 411 
 
 Through many an hour of summer suns, 
 
 By many pleasant ways, 
 Against its fountain upward ntns 
 
 The current of iny days : 
 I kiss the lips I once have kissed ; 
 
 The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
 And softly, through a vinous mist, 
 
 My college friendships glimmer. 
 
 I grow in worth and wit and sense, 
 
 Unboding critic-pen. 
 Or that eternal want of pence 
 
 Which vexes public men. 
 Who hold their hands to all, and cry 
 
 For that which all deny them, — 
 Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 
 
 And all the world go by them. 
 
 Ah yet, though all the world forsake, 
 
 Though fortune clip my wings, 
 I will not cramp my heart, nor take 
 
 Half-views of men and things. 
 Let Whig and Toiy stir their blood ; 
 
 There must be stormy weather ; 
 But for some true result of good 
 
 All parties work together. 
 
 Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 
 
 If old things, there are new ; 
 Ten thousand broken lights and shapes. 
 
 Yet glimpses of the true. 
 Let raffs be rife in prose and rh)Tne, 
 
 We lack not rhyines and reasons, 
 As on this whirligig of Time 
 
 We circle with the seasons. 
 
 This earth is rich in man and maid ; 
 
 With fair horizons bound : 
 This whole wide earth of light and shade 
 
 Comes out, a perfect round.
 
 412 
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 High over roaring Temple Bar, 
 And, set in Heaven's third story, 
 
 I look at all things as they are, 
 But through a kind of glory. 
 
 Head-waiter, honoured by the guest 
 
 Half-mused or reeling ripe, 
 The pint you brought me was the best 
 
 That ever came from pipe. 
 But though the port surpasses praise, 
 
 My nerves have dealt with stiffen 
 Is there some magic in the place ? 
 
 Or do my peptics differ ? 
 
 For since I came to live and learn, 
 
 No pint of white or red 
 Had ever half the power to turn 
 
 This wheel within my head, 
 "Which bears a seasoned brain about, 
 
 Unsubject to confusion, 
 Though soaked and saturate, out and out, 
 
 Through every convolution. 
 
 For I am of a numerous house. 
 
 With many kinsmen°gay. 
 Where long and largely we carouse 
 
 As who shall say me nay : 
 Each month, a birthday coming on, 
 
 We drink defying trouble. 
 Or sometimes two would meet in one. 
 
 And then we drank it double ; 
 
 Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 
 
 Had relish fiery-new ; 
 Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 
 
 As old as Waterloo ; 
 Or stowed (when classic Canning died) 
 
 In musty bins and chambers, 
 Had cast upon its crusty side 
 
 The gloom of ten Decembers.
 
 LONDON TAVERNS. 413 
 
 The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 
 
 She answered to my call. 
 She changes with that mood or this, 
 
 Is all-in-all to all : 
 She lit the spark within my throat. 
 
 To make my blood run quicker, 
 Used all her fiery will, and smote 
 
 Her life into the liquor. 
 
 And hence this halo lives about 
 
 The waiter's hands, that reach 
 To each his perfect pint of stout, 
 
 His proper chop to each. 
 He looks not like the common breed 
 
 That with the napkin dally ; 
 I think he came, like Ganymede, 
 
 From some delightful valley. 
 
 The Cock was of a larger egg 
 
 Than modern poultry drop, 
 Stept forward on a firmer leg. 
 
 And crammed a plumper crop ; 
 Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 
 
 Crowed lustier late and early, 
 Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 
 
 And raked in golden barley. 
 
 A private life was all his joy, 
 
 Till in a court he saw 
 A something-pottle-bodied boy, 
 
 That knuckled at the taw : 
 He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, 
 
 Flew over roof and casement : 
 His brothers of the weather stood 
 
 Stock-still for sheer amazement. 
 
 But he, by farm-stead, thorpe, and spire, 
 
 And followed with acclaims, 
 A sign to many a staring shire 
 
 Came crowing over Thames.
 
 414 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 
 Till, where the street grows straiter, 
 
 One fixed forever at the door, 
 And one became head-waiter. 
 
 But whither would my fancy go ? 
 
 How out of place she makes 
 The violet of a legend blow 
 
 Among the chops and steaks ! 
 'T is but a steward of the can, 
 
 One shade more plump than common ; 
 As just and mere a serving-man 
 
 As any, born of woman. 
 
 I ranged too high : what draws me down 
 
 Into the common day ? 
 Is it the weight of that half-crown 
 
 Which I shall have to pay ? 
 For, something duller than at first, 
 
 Nor wholly comfortable, 
 I sit (my empty glass reversed), 
 
 And thrumming on the table : 
 
 Half fearful that, with self at strife, 
 
 I take myself to task ; 
 Lest of the fulness of my life 
 
 I leave an empty flask : 
 For I had hope, by something rare. 
 
 To prove myself a poet : 
 But, while I plan and plan, my hair 
 
 Is gray before I know it. 
 
 So fares it since the years began, 
 
 Till they be gathered up ; 
 The truth, that flies the flowing can. 
 
 Will haunt the vacant cup ; 
 And others' follies teach us not, 
 
 Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
 And most, of sterling worth, is what 
 
 Our own experience preaches.
 
 LONDON TAVERNS. 415 
 
 Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 
 
 We know not what we know. 
 But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 
 
 'Tis gone, and let it go. 
 'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt 
 
 Away from my embraces, 
 And fallen into the dusty crypt 
 
 Of darkened forms and faces. 
 
 Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 
 
 Long since, and came no more ; 
 With peals of genial clamour sent 
 
 From many a tavern-door, 
 With twisted quirks and happy hits, 
 
 From misty men of letters ; 
 The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — 
 
 Thine elders and thy betters. 
 
 Hours, when the poet's words and looks 
 
 Had yet their native glow : 
 Nor yet the fear of little books 
 
 Had made him talk for show ; 
 But, all his vast heart sherris-warmed. 
 
 He flashed his random speeches ; 
 Ere days, that deal in ana, swarmed 
 
 His literary leeches. 
 
 So mix forever with the past. 
 
 Like all good things on earth ! 
 For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, 
 
 At half thy real worth ? 
 I hold it good, good things should pass : 
 
 With time I will not quarrel : 
 It is but yonder empty glass 
 
 That makes me maudlin-moral. 
 
 Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 
 
 To which I must resort, 
 I too must part : I hold thee dear 
 
 For this good pint of port.
 
 4i6 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 For this, thou shalt from all things suck 
 Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
 
 And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 
 Shall fling her old shoe after. 
 
 But thou wilt never move from hence, 
 
 The sphei-e thy fate allots : 
 Thy latter days increased with pence 
 
 Go down among the pots : 
 Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 
 
 In haunts of hungry sinners. 
 Old boxes, larded with the steam 
 
 Of thirty thousand dinners. 
 
 We fret, we fume, would shift our skins. 
 
 Would quarrel with our lot ; 
 Thy care is, under polished tins, 
 
 To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
 To come and go, and come again. 
 
 Returning like the pewit, 
 And watched by silent gentlemen. 
 
 That trifle with the cruet. 
 
 Live long, ere from thy topmost head 
 
 The thick-set hazel dies ; 
 Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 
 
 The corners of thine eyes : 
 Live long, nor feel in head or chest 
 
 Our changeful equinoxes. 
 Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 
 
 Shall call thee from the boxes. 
 
 But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 
 
 To pace the gritted floor. 
 And, laying down an unctuous lease 
 
 Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
 No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 
 
 Shall show thee past to heaven : 
 But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 
 
 A pint-pot, neatly graven. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 417 
 
 London Tower. 
 
 Clarence's Dream. 
 
 Methought that I had broken from the Tower 
 
 And was embarked to cross to Burgundy ; 
 
 And in my company, my brother Gloster : 
 
 Who from my cabhr tempted me to walk 
 
 Upon the hatches : thence we looked toward England, 
 
 And cited up a thousand heavy times. 
 
 During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
 
 That had befallen us. As we paced along 
 
 Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
 
 Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, 
 
 Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard 
 
 Into the tumbling billows of the main. 
 
 Heaven ! methought what pain it was to drown ! 
 What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
 What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
 Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
 
 A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon ; 
 Wedges of gold, gi^eat anchors, heaps of pearl, 
 Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
 All scattered in the bottom of the sea. 
 Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in those holes 
 Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept 
 (As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, 
 That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep. 
 And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. 
 * * * * * 
 
 1 passed, methought, the melancholy flood. 
 With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
 Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
 
 The first that there did greet my stranger soul 
 Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 
 Who cried aloud, " What scourge for perjuiy 
 Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" 
 VOL. I. 2 E
 
 4i8 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And so he vanished : then came wandering by 
 A shadow like an angel, with briglit hair 
 Dabbled in blood ; and he shrieked out aloud, 
 "Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, — 
 That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbuiy ; — 
 Seize on him. Furies, take him to your torments!" 
 With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
 Environed me, and howled in mine ears 
 Such hideous cries, that with the very noise 
 I trembling waked, and, for a season after, 
 Could not believe but that I was in hell, 
 Such terrible impression made my dream. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 The Murder of the Young Princes. 
 
 The tyrannous and blogdy act is done ; 
 
 The most arch deed of piteous massacre 
 
 That ever yet this land was gttilty of. 
 
 Dighton and Forrest whom I did subom 
 
 To do this piece of ruthless butchery. 
 
 Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs, 
 
 Melting with tenderness and mild compassion, 
 
 Wept like to children, in their death's sad story. 
 
 " O thus," quoth Dighton, " lay the gentle babes." — 
 
 "Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, "girdling one another 
 
 Within their alabaster innocent arms ; 
 
 Their lips were four red roses on a stalk. 
 
 Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other. 
 
 A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; 
 
 Which once," quoth Forrest, "almost changed my mind ; 
 
 P)Ut, oh ! the Devil" — there the villain stopped ; 
 
 When Dighton thus told on, — "We smothered 
 
 The most replenished sweet work of Nature, 
 
 That, from tlie prime creation, e'er she framed." 
 
 Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse; 
 
 Tliey could not speak ; and so I left them both. 
 
 To bear this tidings to the bloody King. 
 
 William Shakespeare.
 
 LONDON TOWER. 419 
 
 The Song of the Western Men. 
 
 A GOOD sword and a tnisty hand ! 
 
 A merry heart and true ! 
 King James's men shall understand 
 
 What Cornish lads can do. 
 
 And have they fixed the where and when 
 
 And shall Trelawny die ? 
 Here 's twenty thousand Cornish men 
 
 Will know the reason why ! 
 
 Out spake their captain brave and bold, 
 A merry wight was he : 
 *' If London Tower were Michael's hold 
 We'll set Trelawny free ! 
 
 *' W^e'U cross the Tamar, land to land, 
 The Severn is no stay, — 
 With one and all, and hand in hand, 
 And who shall bid us nay ? 
 
 " And when we come to London Wall, 
 A pleasant sight to view, 
 Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all ! 
 Here's men as good as you. 
 
 " Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 
 Trela\\Tiy he may die ; 
 But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold 
 Will know the reason why ! " 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Lord Strafford's Meditations in the Tower. 
 
 Go, empty joys, 
 
 With all your noise, 
 
 And leave me here alone, 
 
 In sweet sad silence to bemoan
 
 420 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The fickle worldly height, 
 
 Whose clanger none can see aright, 
 
 Wliilst your false splendours dim his sight. 
 
 Go, and ensnare 
 
 With your trim ware 
 
 Some other easy wight, 
 
 And cheat him with your flattering light ; 
 
 Rain on his head a shower 
 
 Of honours, favour, wealth and power ; 
 
 Then snatch it from him in an hour. 
 
 Fill his big mind 
 
 With gallant wind 
 
 Of insolent applause ; 
 
 Let him not fear all-curbing laws. 
 
 Nor king, nor people's frown ; 
 
 But dream of something like a crown. 
 
 Then, climbing towards it, tumble down. 
 
 Let him appear 
 
 In his bright sphere 
 
 Like Cynthia in her pride. 
 
 With starlike troops on every side ; 
 
 For number and clear light 
 
 Such as may soon o'erwhelm him quite 
 
 And blend them both in one dead night. 
 
 Welcome, sad night, 
 
 Griet's sole delight. 
 
 Thy mourning best agrees 
 
 W^ith honour's funeral obsequies ! 
 
 In Thetis' lap he lies, 
 
 Mantled with soft securities. 
 
 Whose too much sunshine dims his eyes. 
 
 Was he too bold, 
 
 WHio needs would hold 
 
 With curbing reins the Day, 
 
 And make Sol's fiery steeds obey ?
 
 LONDON TOWER. 421 
 
 Then, sure, as rash was I, 
 
 Who with ambitious wings did fly 
 
 In Charles's Wain too loftily. 
 
 I fall, I fall ! 
 
 Whom shall I call ? 
 
 Alas ! can he be heard, 
 
 Wlio now is neither loved nor feared ? 
 
 You who have vowed the ground 
 
 To kiss, where my blest steps were found, 
 
 Come, catch me at my last rebound. 
 
 How each admires 
 Heaven's twinkling fires, 
 Whilst from their glorious seat 
 Their influence gives light and heat ; 
 But O, how few there are, 
 Though danger from the act be far, 
 Will run to catch a falling star. 
 
 Now 'tis too late 
 
 To imitate 
 
 Those lights whose pallidness 
 
 Argues no inward guiltiness ; 
 
 Their course one way is bent ; 
 
 Which is the cause there's no dissent 
 
 In Heaven's High Court of Parliament. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 The Burden of London. 
 
 London ! thou more than Tyre a thousand-fold. 
 Who will take up tiie burden against thee ? 
 Wilt thou too fall, Queen City of the Sea ? 
 Will all the bullion thy vast coffers hold 
 Uilder the Northern waves one day be rolled, 
 And from thee stand far off the merchant-ships 
 As from that city in the Apocalypse ?
 
 422 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Art thou the mighty city there foretold ? 
 But what say these, so busy yet so proud, 
 With the hard features of Ezekiel's race, 
 Who, like their fathers in the Tyrian crowd. 
 Mingle yet mix not, while their elders pace 
 Back-streets with frowsy bags and guttural cry ? 
 Do they of worn-out England prophesy ? 
 
 Henry Sewell Stokes, 
 
 Longleat. 
 John of Padua. 
 
 A LEGEND OF LONGLEAT. 
 
 Longleat, the seat of the Marquis of Bath, situated on the bor- 
 ders of Wihshire, is a beautiful example of the Italian architecture 
 of the Elizabethan age. It took some forty years in building, cost a 
 fabulous sum of money, and was the work of John, an architect of 
 Padua, who also built old Somerset House. 
 
 John of Padua duly came, 
 
 A grave wise man with a dark pale face, 
 He sat him down with a pondering brow, 
 
 And rule and compass to plan and trace 
 Each door and window, and terrace and wall, 
 And the tower that should rise to crown them all. 
 
 Ha ! many a summer sunrise found 
 
 Wise John at his great and jiatient toil. 
 
 At his sfjuarcs and circles, and legends and lines. 
 And many a night he burnt the oil, 
 
 Till the house with its pillared porch began 
 
 To slowly grow in the brain of that man. 
 
 Long lines of sunny southern wall. 
 
 With mullioned windows, row on row, 
 
 And balustrades, and parapets. 
 
 Where the western wind should wildly blow ;
 
 LONGLEAT. 423 
 
 And cresting all the vanes, to burn 
 And glisten over miles of fern. 
 
 When thirteen Junes had burnt away, 
 
 The house arose as out of a dream : 
 Wide and stately, and tall and fair. 
 
 With windows to catch the sunset gleam ; 
 Fifteen fair miles of subject lands 
 Girdle it round where it proudly stands. 
 
 Two hundred feet of western front. 
 
 And chapel and turret, and acres of I'oof, 
 
 And porch, and staircase, and welcoming hall, 
 And gate that would keep no beggar aloof; 
 
 Three kings had died since it began, 
 
 And John had grown old and pale and wan. 
 
 One day the builder smiling sat, 
 
 His red-lined parchments slowly rolled, 
 
 His work was ended, — the night had come, — 
 He bound and numbered them, fold by fold ; 
 
 And sat as gravely in the sun. 
 
 As if his toil had scarce begun. 
 
 Yes, there his life's work stately stood, 
 With its shining acres of beaten lead, 
 
 Its glittering windows, row on row. 
 
 That centuries hence, when he was dead, 
 
 Should shine as they were shining then, — 
 
 A landmark unto other men. 
 
 And there were the long white terraces, 
 
 And the great wide porch, like an open hand 
 
 Stretched out to welcome, and the tower 
 That rose like a fountain o'er the land ; 
 
 And the great elms bosoming round the walls. 
 
 The singing-birds' green citadels. 
 
 They found him there when daybreak came. 
 In the selfsame posture, selfsame place.
 
 424 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 But the plans had dropped from his thin wan hands, 
 
 A frozen smile was on his face ; 
 And when they spoke no word he said, 
 For John of Padua sat there — dead ! 
 
 Walter Thornbury. 
 
 Lorton Vale. 
 
 Yew-Trees. 
 
 There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore ; 
 
 Not loath to furnish weapons for tlie bands 
 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 
 To Scotland's lieaths ; or those that crossed the sea 
 
 And drew tlieir sounding bows at Azincour, 
 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 
 This solitary tree ! a living thing 
 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
 
 Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, 
 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular tnmk a growth 
 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 
 Up-coiling, and invcterately convolved ; 
 
 Nor uninformed with fantasy, and loolvs 
 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade, 
 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, 
 
 By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 
 Perennially, — beneath whose sable roof 
 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
 
 With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes 
 
 May meet at noontide, — Fear and trembling Hope, 
 
 Silence and Foresight ; Death the skeleton
 
 LOWTHER. 425 
 
 And Time the shadow, — there to celebrate, 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Lowther. 
 
 LOWTHER. 
 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic pile are seen 
 
 Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
 
 With the baronial castle's sterner mien : 
 
 Union significant of God adored. 
 
 And charters won and guarded by the sword 
 
 Of ancient honour ; whence that goodly state 
 
 Of polity which wise men venerate, 
 
 And will maintain, if God his help afford. 
 
 Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; 
 
 For airy promises and hopes suborned 
 
 The strength of backward-looking thoughts is scorned. 
 
 Fall if ye must, ye towers and pinnacles. 
 
 With what ye symbolise ; authentic story 
 
 Will say ye disappear with England's glory ! 
 
 William Wordsw^orth. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 WRITTEN IN lady LONSDALE'S ALBUM, AT I.OWTHER 
 CASTLE. 
 
 Sometimes in youthful years, 
 When in some ancient ruin I have stood, 
 Alone and musing, till with quiet tears 
 
 I felt my cheeks bedewed,
 
 426 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 A melancholy thought hath made me grieve 
 For this our age, and humbled me in mind, 
 That it should pass away, and leave 
 No monuments behind. 
 
 Not for themselves alone 
 Our fathers lived ; nor with a niggard hand 
 Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone, 
 
 Which yet adorn the land : 
 Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead, 
 Survive them still, majestic in decay ; 
 But ours are like ourselves, I said, 
 
 The creatures of a day. 
 
 With other feelings now, 
 Lowther ! have I beheld thy stately walls, 
 Thy pinnacles, and broad embattled brow, 
 
 And hospitable halls. 
 The sun those wide-spread battlements shall crest. 
 And silent years unharming shall go by, 
 Till centuries in their course invest 
 
 Thy towers with sanctity. 
 
 But thou the while shalt bear 
 To after-times an old and honoured name. 
 And to remote posterity declare 
 
 Thy founder's virtuous fame. 
 Fair structure, worthy the triumphant age 
 Of glorious England's opulence and power ! 
 Peace be thy lasting heritage, 
 And happiness thy dower ! 
 
 Robert Southey.
 
 , LYNN. 427 
 
 Lyme Regis. 
 
 At Lyme Regis. 
 
 Calm, azure, marble sea. 
 As a fair palace pavement largely spread. 
 Where the grey bastions of the eternal hills 
 
 Lean over languidly, 
 Bosomed with leafy trees, and garlanded ! 
 
 Peace is on all I view ; 
 Sunshine and peace ; earth clear as heaven one hour ; 
 Save where the sailing cloud its dusky line 
 
 Ruffles along the blue, 
 Brushed by the soft wing of the silent shower. 
 
 In no profounder calm 
 Did the great Spirit over ocean brood. 
 Ere the first hill his yet unclouded crest 
 
 Reared, or the first fair palm 
 Doubled her maiden beauty in the flood. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave. 
 
 Lynn. 
 
 The Dream of Eugene Aram. 
 
 'Twas in the prime of summer time. 
 
 An evening calm and cool. 
 And four-and-twenty happy boys 
 
 Came bounding out of school ; 
 There were some that ran and some that leapt 
 
 Like troutlets in a pool. 
 
 Away they sped with gamesome minds 
 And souls untouched by sin ;
 
 428 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 To a level mead they came, and there 
 
 They drave the wickets in : 
 Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
 
 Over the town of Lynn. 
 
 Like sportive deer they coursed about, 
 
 And shouted as they ran, — ■ 
 Turning to mirth all things of earth, 
 
 As only boyhood can ; 
 But the usher sat remote from all, 
 
 A melancholy man ! 
 
 His hat was off, his vest apart. 
 To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; 
 
 For a burning thought was in his brow, 
 And his bosom ill at ease ; 
 
 So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 
 The book between his knees ! 
 
 Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 
 
 Nor ever glanced aside ; 
 For the peace of his soul he read that book 
 
 In the golden eventide ; 
 Much study had made him very lean 
 
 And pale and leaden-eyed. 
 
 At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 
 
 With a fast and fervent grasp 
 He strained the dusky covers close, 
 
 And fixed the brazen hasp : 
 " O God ! could 1 so close my mind. 
 
 And clasp it with a clasp ! " 
 
 Then leaping on his feet upright, 
 Some moody turns he took, — • 
 
 Now up the mead, then down the mead. 
 And past a shady nook, — 
 
 And, lo ! he saw a little boy 
 That pored upon a book !
 
 LYNN. 429 
 
 " My gentle lad, what is't you read, — 
 
 Romance or faiiy fable ? 
 Or is it some historic page, 
 
 Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 
 The young boy gave an upward glance, — 
 
 " It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 
 
 The usher took six hasty strides, 
 
 As smit with sudden pain, — 
 Six hasty strides beyond the place, 
 
 Then slowly back again ; 
 And down he sat beside the lad, 
 
 And talked with him of Cain ; 
 
 And, long since then, of bloody men, 
 
 Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
 And lonely folk cut off unseen, 
 
 And hid in sudden graves ; 
 And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn. 
 
 And murders done in caves ; 
 
 And how the sprites of injured men 
 
 Shriek upward from the sod ; 
 Ay, how the ghostly hand will point 
 
 To show the burial clod ; 
 And unknown facts of guilty acts 
 
 Are seen in dreams from God ! 
 
 He told how murderers walk the earth 
 
 Beneath the curse of Cain, — 
 With crimson clouds before their eyes. 
 
 And flames about their brain ; 
 For blood has left upon their souls 
 
 Its everlasting stain ! 
 
 " And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth. 
 Their pangs must be extreme, — 
 Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — 
 Who spill life's sacred stream !
 
 430 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 
 A murder, in a dream ! 
 
 " One that had never done me wrong, — 
 
 A feeble man and old ; 
 I led him to a lonely field. 
 
 The moon shone clear and cold : 
 Now here, said I, this man shall die. 
 
 And I will have his gold ! 
 
 " Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 
 
 And one with a heavy stone. 
 One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — 
 
 And then the deed was done : 
 There was nothing lying at my feet 
 
 But lifeless flesh and bone ! 
 
 *' Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. 
 
 That could not do me ill ; 
 And yet I feared him all the more. 
 
 For lying there so still : 
 There was a manhood in his look 
 
 That murder could not kill ! 
 
 " And, lo ! the universal air 
 
 Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; — 
 Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
 
 Were looking down in blame ; 
 I took the dead man by his hand. 
 And called upon his name ! 
 
 " O God ! it made me quake to see 
 
 Such sense within the slain ! 
 But when I touched the lifeless clay, 
 
 The blood gushed out amain ! 
 For every clot a burning spot 
 
 Was scorching in my brain ! 
 
 " My head was like an ardent coal, 
 My heart as solid ice ;
 
 LYNN. 431 
 
 My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 
 
 Was at the Devil's price. 
 A dozen times I groaned, — the dead 
 
 Had never groaned but twice ! 
 
 " And now, from forth the frowning sky, 
 From the heaven's topmost height, 
 I heard a voice, — the awful voice 
 Of the blood-avenging sprite : 
 * Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 
 And hide it from my sight ! ' 
 
 " And I took the dreary body up, 
 
 And cast it in a stream, — 
 The sluggish water, black as ink, 
 
 The depth was so extreme : 
 My gentle boy, remember ! this 
 
 Is nothing but a dream ! 
 
 " Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, 
 
 And vanished in the pool ; 
 Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 
 
 And washed my forehead cool. 
 And sat among the urchins young, 
 
 That evening in the school. 
 
 " O Heaven ! to think of their white souls. 
 
 And mine so black and grim ! 
 I could not share in childish prayer. 
 
 Nor join in evening hymn ; 
 Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 
 
 'Mid holy chembim ! 
 
 " And peace went with them, one and all. 
 
 And each calm pillow spread ; 
 But Guilt was my grim chamberlain. 
 
 That lighted me to bed. 
 And drew my midnight curtains round 
 
 With fingers bloody red !
 
 432 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " All night I lay in agony, 
 
 In anguish dark and deep ; 
 My fevered eyes I dared not close, 
 
 But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
 For Sin had rendered unto her 
 
 The keys of hell to keep ! 
 
 " All night I lay in agony, 
 
 From weary chime to chime ; 
 
 With one besetting horrid hint, 
 That racked me all the time, — 
 
 A mighty yeaming, like the first 
 Fierce impulse unto crime, — 
 
 " One stem tyrannic thought, that made 
 All other thoughts its slave ! 
 
 Stronger and stronger every pulse 
 Did that temptation crave, — 
 
 Still urging me to go and see 
 The dead man in his grave ! 
 
 " Heavily I rose up, as soon 
 
 As light was in the sky, 
 And sought the black accursed pool 
 
 With a wild misgiving eye ; 
 And I saw the dead in the river-bed. 
 
 For the faithless stream was diy. 
 
 " Merrily rose the lark, and shook. 
 
 The dew-drop from its wing ; 
 But I never marked its morning flight, 
 
 I never heard it sing ; 
 For I was stooping once again 
 
 Under the horrid thing. 
 
 " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 
 I took him up and ran ; 
 There was no time to dig a grave 
 Before the day began, —
 
 LYNN. 433 
 
 In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 
 I hid the murdered man ! 
 
 " And all that day I read in school. 
 
 But my thought was otherwhere ; 
 As soon as the midday task was done. 
 
 In secret I was there, — 
 And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
 
 And still the corse was bare ! 
 
 " Then down I cast me on my face, 
 
 And first began to weep. 
 For I knew my secret then was one 
 
 That earth refused to keep, — 
 Or land or sea, though he should be 
 
 Ten thousand fathoms deep. 
 
 " So wills the fierce avenging sprite, 
 
 Till blood for blood atones ! 
 Ay, though he's buried in a cave, 
 
 And trodden down with stones. 
 And years have i^otted off his flesh, — 
 
 The world shall see his bones ! 
 
 " O God! that horrid, horrid dream 
 
 Besets me now awake ! 
 Again, — again, with dizzy brain. 
 
 The human life I take ; 
 And my red right hand grows raging hot. 
 
 Like Cranmer's at the stake. 
 
 '* And still no peace for the restless clay 
 Will wave or mould allow ; 
 The horrid thing pursues my soul, — 
 
 It stands before me now ! " 
 The fearful boy looked up and saw 
 Huge drops upon his brow. 
 
 That very night, while gentle sleep 
 The urchin's eyelids kissed,
 
 434 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Two stern-faced men set out from I>ynn 
 Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
 
 And Eugene Aram walked between, 
 With gy\'es upon his wrist. 
 
 Thomas Hood 
 
 Malmesbury. 
 
 Restoration of Malmesbury Abbey. 
 
 Monastic and time-consecrated fane ! 
 
 Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, 
 
 Almost august as in thy early day, 
 
 Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away. 
 
 No more the mass on holidays is sung, 
 
 The Host high raised or fuming censer swung ; 
 
 No more, in amice white, the Fathers slow 
 
 With lighted tapers in long order go ; 
 
 Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, 
 
 As to admit heaven's pale but purer light ; 
 
 Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows, 
 
 Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose 
 
 Amid the silent sanctity of death. 
 
 Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath. 
 
 Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) 
 
 The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise ; 
 
 Whilst meek religion's self, as with a smile. 
 
 Reprints the tracery of the holy pile. 
 
 Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains ? 
 
 O mightiest Master ! thy immortal strains 
 
 These roofs demand ; listen ! with prelude slow, 
 
 Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow. 
 
 And hark ! again, heard ye the choral chant 
 
 Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant ? 
 
 More softly now, imjiloring litanies. 
 
 Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs 
 
 Of penitence, from yonder altar rise ;
 
 MALTBY. 435 
 
 Again the vaulted roof " Hosannahs " rings, — 
 
 Hosannah ! Lord of lords, and King of kings ! " 
 
 Rent, but not prostrate ; stricken, yet sublime ; 
 
 Reckless alike of injuries or time ; 
 
 Thou, unsubdued in silent majesty, 
 
 The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy ! 
 
 The temple of our Sion so shall mock 
 
 The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock, 
 
 Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock ! 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Maltby. 
 
 The Maltby Yews. 
 
 Famed Maltby yews, with trunks like stone ! 
 Are you or these gray rocks the older ? 
 Like " death-in-life," ye strangely gi'ow, 
 And, dead alive, they sternly moulder. 
 Memorials grand of death and life, 
 That seem from time new life to borrow ! 
 Full many a race have ye outlived 
 Of men whose lives were crime and sorrow. 
 
 Age after age, while Time grew old, 
 Your writhen boughs here slowly lengthened ; 
 Storm-stricken trees ! your stormy strength 
 Five hundred years have darkly strengthened. 
 Yet safe beneath your mighty roots 
 The busy bee hath made its dwelling ; 
 And, at your feet, the little mouse, 
 With lifted hands, its joy is telling. 
 
 And high above the full-voiced lark 
 The sun, that loves to see you, bemeath 
 On lonely rock or mossy trunk, 
 That with the rock coeval seemeth ;
 
 436 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 While, all around, the desert flowers, 
 "Where breezes drink their freshness, gather, 
 As children come to kneel and bend 
 In prayer around their father's father. 
 
 O, could I write upon your gloom 
 A solemn verse that would not perish. 
 My written thoughts should warn and bless. 
 And nations saved the precept cherish ; 
 For I would bid the dark and strong 
 Be greatly good, and daily stronger. 
 That power to wrong, and will to wrong. 
 Like fiends divorced, might pair no longer. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Malvern. 
 At Malvern. 
 
 I SHALL behold far off thy towering crest. 
 Proud mountain ! from thy heights as slow I stray 
 Down through the distant vale my homeward way, 
 I shall behold upon thy rugged breast 
 The parting sun sit smiling : me the while 
 Escaped the crowd, thouglrts full of heaviness 
 May visit, as life's bitter losses press 
 Hard on my bossm ; but I shall beguile 
 The thing I am, and think that even as thou 
 Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high, 
 Proud mountain ! whilst the scattered vapours fly 
 Unheeded round thy breast, so, with calm brow. 
 The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear 
 The smile unchanged of peace, though pressed by care ! 
 William Lisle Bowles.
 
 MALVERN, 
 
 Malvern Hills. 
 
 437 
 
 Erevvhile I saw ye faintly through far haze 
 Spread many miles above the fields of sea ; 
 Now ye rise glorious, and my steps are free 
 To wander through your valleys' beaten ways, 
 And climb above, threading the rocky maze ; ■ 
 And trace this stream alive with shifting light, 
 With whose successive eddies silver-bright 
 Not without pleasant sound the moonbeam plays. 
 My dear, dear bride, two days had made thee mine, 
 Two days of waxing hope and waning fear, 
 When under the night-planet's lavish shine 
 We stood in joy, and blessed that rillet clear ; 
 Such joy unwarning comes and quickly parts. 
 But lives deep-rooted in our "heart of hearts." 
 
 Henry Alford, 
 
 The Vision of Piers Ploughman. 
 
 In a somer seson 
 
 Whan softe was the Sonne, 
 
 I shoop me into shroudes 
 
 As I a sheep weere. 
 
 In habite as an heremite 
 
 Unholy of werkes, 
 
 Wente wide in this world 
 
 Wondres to here ; 
 
 Ac on a May moi-wenynge 
 
 On Malverne hilles 
 
 INIe bifel a ferly. 
 
 Of faiiye me thoghte. 
 
 I was wery for-wandrcd, 
 
 And wente me to reste 
 
 Under a brood bank 
 
 By a bournes syde ;
 
 438 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And as I lay and lenede, 
 And loked on the vvatres, 
 I slombred into a slepyng, 
 It sweyed so murye. 
 
 Thanne gan I meten 
 A merveillous swevene, 
 That I was in a wildernesse, 
 Wiste I nevere where, 
 And as I biheeld into the eest 
 An heigh to the sonne, 
 I seigh a tour on a toft 
 Ti'ieHche y-niaked, 
 A deep dale bynethe, 
 A dongeon therinne, 
 With depe diches and derke 
 And dredfulle of sighte. 
 A fair feeld ful of folk 
 Fond I ther bitwene, 
 Of alle manere of men, 
 The meene and the riche, 
 Werchynge and wandiynge, 
 As the world asketh. 
 
 Piers Ploucjiiman. 
 
 Margate. 
 Misadventures at Margate. 
 
 I was in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier, 
 
 I saw a little vulgar Boy; I said, "What make you 
 
 here? 
 The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything 
 
 but joy ; " 
 Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar 
 
 Boy?"
 
 MARGATE. 439 
 
 He frowned, that little vulgar Boy, — he deemed I meant 
 
 to scoff, — 
 And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off." 
 He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose, — 
 He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! 
 
 "Hark! don't you hear, my little man? — it's striking 
 
 nine," I said, 
 "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be 
 
 in bed. 
 Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold, 
 
 — O fie! 
 It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry ! " 
 
 The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, 
 His bosom throbbed with agony, — he cried like anything ! 
 I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him mur- 
 mur, — " Ah! 
 I haven't got no supper, and I haven't got no Ma ! 
 
 "My father, he is on the seas, — my mother's dead and 
 
 gone ! 
 And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world 
 
 alone ; 
 I have not had this livelong day one drop to cheer my 
 
 heart, 
 Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with, — let alone a 
 
 tart. 
 
 "If there's a soid will give me food, or find me in em- 
 ploy. 
 
 By day or night, then blow me tight ! " (he was a vulgar 
 Boy;) 
 
 "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed 
 intent 
 
 To jump as Mr. Levi did from off the Monument ! " 
 
 "Cheer up! cheer up! my little man, — cheer up!" I 
 kindly said,
 
 440 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your 
 
 head ; 
 If you should jump from off the pier you'd surely break 
 
 your legs, 
 Perhaps your neck, — then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs 
 
 is eggs ! 
 
 " Come home with me, my little man, come home with 
 
 me and sup ; 
 My landlady is Mrs. Jones, — we must not keep her up, — 
 There's roast potatoes at the fire, — enough for me and 
 
 you, — 
 Come home, you little vulgar Boy, — I lodge at No. 2." 
 
 I took him home to No. 2, the house beside " The Foy," 
 I bade him wipe his dirty shoes, — that little vulgar Boy, — 
 And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, 
 " Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X." 
 
 But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, 
 She said she " did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys," 
 She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed 
 
 the delf. 
 Said I "might go to Jericho, and fetch the beer myself." 
 
 I did not go to Jericho, — I went to Mr. Cobb, — 
 
 I changed a shilling (which in town the people call a 
 
 Bob),— 
 It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child, — 
 And I said, " A pint of double X, and please to draw it 
 
 mild ! " 
 
 When I came back I gazed about, — I gazed on stool and 
 
 chair, — 
 I could not see my little friend, because he was not there ! 
 I peeped beneath the table-cloth, beneath the sofa too, — 
 I said, " You little vulgar Boy! why what 's become of 
 
 you ? "
 
 MARGATE. 441 
 
 I could not see my table-spoons, — I looked, but could not 
 
 see 
 The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I'm at tea; 
 I could not see my sugar-tongs, my silver watch, — O 
 
 dear ! 
 I knew 'twas on the mantelpiece when I went out for 
 
 beer, 
 
 I could not see my Macintosh, — it was not to be seen ! 
 Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimmed and 
 
 lined with green ; 
 My carpet-bag, — my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce 
 
 and soy, — 
 My roast potatoes ! — all are gone ! — and so's that vulgar 
 
 Boy! 
 
 I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was dowm below. 
 
 "O Mrs. Jones, what do you think? ain't this a pretty 
 go? 
 
 That little horrid vulgar Boy whom I brought here to- 
 night 
 
 He's stolen my things and run away ! " Says she, " And 
 sarve you right ! " 
 
 Next morning I was up betimes, — I sent the Crier roimd, 
 All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a 
 
 pound 
 To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me 
 
 so ; 
 But when the Crier cried, "O yes!" the people cried 
 
 " O no ! " 
 
 I went to "Jarvis' Landing-Place," the glory of the 
 
 town, 
 There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down, 
 I told my tale, — he seemed to think I'd not been treated 
 
 well, 
 And called me " Poor old Buffer ! " — what that means I 
 
 cannot tell.
 
 442 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The Sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the 
 
 shore, 
 A son of — something — 'twas a name I'd never heard 
 
 before, — 
 A httle "gallows-looking chap," — dear me, what could 
 
 he mean ? — 
 With a "carpet-swab," and "mucking togs," and a hat 
 
 turned up with green. 
 
 He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen 
 
 him " sheer," — 
 It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer; 
 And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I 'm told, their 
 
 use, — 
 It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so 
 
 loose. 
 
 I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say 
 He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim 
 
 away 
 In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before. 
 And they were now, as he supposed "somezy^;vj" 
 
 about the slioi'e. 
 
 A landsman said, "I hvis^ the chap, — he's been upon 
 
 the Mill,— 
 And 'cause he ' gammons ' so the flats, ve calls him 
 
 Veeping Bill !" 
 He said "he'd done me werry brown" and nicely 
 
 " stoived the nuag.'''' 
 That's French, I fancy for a hat, or else a caipet bag. 
 
 I went and told the constable my property to track ; 
 He asked me if " I did not wish that I might get it 
 
 back." 
 I answered, "To be sure I do! — it's what I'm come 
 
 about." 
 He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know 
 
 you're out 1 '
 
 MARGATE. 443 
 
 Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to 
 
 town, 
 And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who'd 
 
 " done me brown." 
 His Lordship verj' kindly said he'd tiy and find him out, 
 But lie " rather thought that there were several vulgar 
 
 boys about." 
 
 He sent for Mr. Whitehare there, and I described "the 
 swag," 
 
 My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet- 
 bag ; 
 
 He promised that the New Police should all their powers 
 employ. 
 
 But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy ! 
 
 Remember, then, that when a boy I've heard my 
 
 Grandma tell, 
 " Be warned in time by other's harm, and you 
 
 shall do full well ! " 
 Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no 
 
 fixed abode. 
 Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they 
 
 may be blowed ! " 
 
 Don't take too much of double X ! — and don't at night 
 
 go out 
 To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring 
 
 your stout ! 
 And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring 
 
 the bell. 
 Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well ! 
 Richard Harris Barham.
 
 444 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Marston Moor. 
 
 Marston Moor. 
 
 Hot Rupert came spurring to Marston Moor ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Came spurring hard with thousands a score : 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Beleaguered York, that we lay before, 
 He knew would be ours ere a week was o'er, 
 So to scatter our hosts he fiercely swore. 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 To Newcastle's succour he swore to come ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 And at morning we heard his march's hum ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 And with blare of trumpet and roll of drum, 
 Into York, in their pride, did the scorners come ; 
 But to-night are the cursing lips not dumb ? 
 To the Lord our God be gloiy ! 
 
 God gave them to drink of pride, we knew. 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 That his saints his wrath on their hosts might do ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 He bade us flee, that they might pursue : 
 So from trench and leaguer straight off we drew, 
 But we halted on ALarston Moor anew : 
 To the Lord our God Ijc glory ! 
 
 There, biding pursuit, stood our long array, 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 While slow hours came and passed away ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 "They will not come to the strife to-day," 
 We said, and southwards our march then lay, 
 But the Lord liad doomed tliem that hour our prey : 
 To the Lord our God be glory !
 
 MARSTON MOOR. 445 
 
 But Leslie's regiments had left the ground, 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 When the fierce Prince bade his trumpets sound ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Then was spurring and running and fronts faced round. 
 Upon us they came, with the burst and sound 
 Of tempests ; but ready his own they found ; 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 Then the shot of their guns through our stilled ranks tore 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Then a pause and a hush fell on the war ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Then their squadrons thickened, and down once more 
 Came Rupert and Hell with a rush and a roar, 
 More fierce and fell than they came before ; 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 With Leslie and Fairfax the saints were few ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Not theirs the hearts that our God well knew ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Vessels uncleansed, what would they do ! 
 The godless had ridden them through and through ; 
 The accursed slay and slay and pursue ; 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 Not so, O Lord, was it with thine own ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 To us were thy truth and mercy shown ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ? 
 Through our closed-up ranks were our trumpets blown ; 
 Then no shout, but a deep psalm rose alone. 
 And we knew that our God would his might make known. 
 To his holy name be glory ! 
 
 And Cromwell, his servant, spoke the word ; 
 Praise we the Lord !
 
 446 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 " On ! smite for the Lord ! spare not ! " we heard ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Hotly our spirits within us stirred ; 
 Reins were loosened and flanks were spurred, 
 And the heathen went down before God and his word. 
 To his name alone be the gloiy ! 
 
 Lo, the bow of the Lord was strung this day ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 And the arm of our God was strong to slay ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 He gave us the proud ones for a prey ; 
 He chased the mighty from out our way ; 
 He gave us the high ones low to lay. 
 
 To the Lord alone be the glory ! 
 
 Where are ye, ye noble and ye proud ? 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 Where are ye who cried 'gainst his saints aloud V 
 
 Praise we the Lord ; 
 The great of the earth in death are bowed ; 
 They who vaunted their strength his breath has cowed ; 
 Bloody they lie, where the kite screams loud. 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 Lo, the Lord, our helper, hath heard our cries ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 He hath raised the foolish and shamed the wise ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 In him our rock and our sure hope lies ; 
 To him shall the cry of his servants rise ; 
 Woe to them who his chosen dare despise ! 
 To the Lord our God be glory ! 
 
 Ho ! Baal-priests, did we cry in vain ? 
 
 Praise we the Lord ! 
 He shall break ye, ye sons of Dagon, again ; 
 
 Praise we the Lord !
 
 MATLOCK. 447 
 
 He shall \vinnow the chaff from the priceless grain ; 
 He shall skim the pot till no dross remain ; 
 And the Lord our God and his saints shall reign ! 
 To the Lord alone be gloiy ! 
 
 William C. Bennett. 
 
 Matlock. 
 
 Monody written at Matlock. 
 
 Matlock ! amid thy hoaiy-hanging views, 
 Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks 
 Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks. 
 Once more I court the long-neglected Muse, 
 As erst when by the mossy brink and falls 
 Of solitary Wainsbeck, or the side 
 Of Clysdale's cliffs where fii"st her voice she tried, 
 I strayed a pensive boy. Since then, the thralls 
 That wait life's upland road have chilled her breast. 
 And much, as much they might, her wing depressed. 
 Wan Lidolence, resigned, her deadening hand 
 Laid on her heart, and Fancy her cold wand 
 Dropped at the frown of fortune ; yet once more 
 I call her, and once more her converse sweet, 
 'Mid the still limits of this wild retreat, 
 I woo ; — if yet delightful as of yore 
 My heart she may revisit, nor deny 
 The soothing aid of some sweet melody ! 
 
 I hail the rugged scene that bursts around ; 
 I mark the wreathed roots, the saplings gray, 
 That bend o'er tlie dark Derwent's wandering way ; 
 I mark its stream with peace-persuading sound 
 That steals beneath the fading foliage pale. 
 Or at the foot of frowning crags upreared. 
 Complains like one forsaken and unheard. 
 To me, it seems to tell the pensive tale 
 Of spring-time and the summer days all flown :
 
 448 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And while sad autumn's voice even now I hear 
 
 Along the umbrage of the high-wood moan, 
 
 At intervals, whose shivering leaves fall sere ; 
 
 Whilst o'er the group of pendant groves I view 
 
 The slowly spreading tints of pining hue, 
 
 I think of poor humanity's brief day. 
 
 How fast its blossoms fade, its summers speed away ! 
 
 Yet the bleak cliffs that lift their head so high 
 (Around whose beetling crags with ceaseless coil 
 And still-returning flight the ravens toil) 
 Heed not the changeful seasons as they fly, 
 Nor spring nor autumn ; they their hoary brow 
 Uprear, and ages past, as in this now, 
 The same deep trenches unsubdued have worn, 
 The same majestic frown and looks of lofty scorn. 
 
 So Fortitude, a mailed warrior old, 
 Appears ; he lifts his scar-intrenched crest ; 
 The tempest gathers round his dauntless breast ; 
 He hears far off the storm of havoc rolled ; 
 The feeble fall around : their sound is past ; 
 Their sun is set, their place no more is known : 
 Like the wan leaves before the winter's blast, 
 They perish ; — he unshaken and alone 
 Remains, his brow a sterner shade assumes 
 By age ennobled, whilst the hurricane 
 That raves I'csistlcss o'er the ravaged plain 
 But shakes unfelt his helmet's quivering plume. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles.
 
 POEiMS OF PLACES. 449 
 
 Medway, the River. 
 
 The River Medwav. 
 
 Then came the Bride, the lovely Medua came, 
 Clad in a vesture of unknowen geare 
 And uncouth fashion, yet her well became, 
 That seem'd like silver sprinckled here and theare 
 With glittering spangs that did like starres appeare 
 And wav'd upon, like water chamelot, 
 To hide the metall, which yet every where 
 Bevvrayd itselfe, to let men plainely wot 
 It was no mortall worke, that seem'd and yet was not. 
 
 Her goodly lockes adowne her backe did flow 
 Unto her waste, with flowres bescattered. 
 The which an)l)rosiall odours forth did throw 
 To all about, and all her shoulders spred 
 As a new spring ; and likewise on her lied 
 A chapelet of sundry flowers she wore, 
 From under which the deawy humour shed 
 Did tricle downe her haire, like to the hore 
 Congealed litle drops which doe the morne adore. 
 
 On her two pretty Handmaides did attend, 
 One cald the Theise, the other cald the Crane ; 
 Which on her waited things amisse to mend. 
 And both behind upheld her spredding traine ; 
 Under the which her feet appeared plaine. 
 Her silver feet, faire washt against this day ; 
 And her before there paced Pages twaine, 
 Both clad in colours like and like array. 
 The Doune and eke the Frith, both which prepard her 
 way. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 
 2 G
 
 450 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Melhuach. 
 
 Mawgan of Melhuach. 
 
 'T WAS a fierce night when old Mawgan died, 
 Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide : 
 The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, 
 They had heard strange voices amid the roar. 
 
 " Out with the boat there," some one cried, — 
 " Will he never come ? we shall lose the tide : 
 
 His berth is trim and his cabin stored ; 
 
 He's a weary long time coming on board." 
 
 The old man struggled upon the bed : 
 He knew the words that the voices said ; 
 Wildly he shrieked, as his eyes grew dim, 
 " He was dead ! he was dead ! when I buried him. 
 
 Hark yet again to the devilish roar, 
 " He was nimbler once with a ship on shore ; 
 Come! come! old man, 'tis a vain delay, 
 W^e must make the offing by break of day." 
 
 Hard was the struggle, but at the laat 
 With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed, 
 And away, away, beneath their sight. 
 Gleamed the red sail at i^itcli of night. 
 
 R. S. Hawker. 
 
 Mcndip Hills. 
 
 Mendip Hills Over Wells. 
 
 Plow grand beneath the feet that company 
 Of steep grey roofs and clustering pinnacles 
 Of the massy fane, brooding in majesty 
 Above the town tliat spreads among the dells
 
 MIDDLETON. 451 
 
 Hark ! the deep clock unrolls its voice of power ; 
 And sweetly mellowed sound of chiming bells 
 Calling to prayer from out the central tower 
 Over the thickly timbered hollow dwells. 
 Meet worship-place for such a glorious stretch 
 Of sunny prospect, for these mighty hills, 
 And that dark solemn Tor,^ and all that reach 
 Of bright-green meadows, laced with silver rills, 
 Bounded by ranges of pale blue, that rise 
 To where white strips of sea are traced upon the skies. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 Middleton. 
 
 Sonnet 
 written in the churchyard at middleton in 
 
 SUSSEX. 
 
 Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, 
 While the loud equinox its power combines, 
 The sea no more its swelling surge confines, 
 But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. 
 The wild blast, rising from the western cave. 
 Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed ; 
 Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, 
 And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave ! 
 With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the shore, 
 Lo ! their bones whiten in the frequent wave ; 
 But vain to them the winds and waters rave ; 
 They hear the wan-ing elements no more : 
 While I am doomed, by life's long stomi oppressed. 
 To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest. 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 1 Glastonburj' Tor.
 
 452 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Mongewell. 
 
 MONGEWELL. 
 
 Mongewell is a small and scattered village, delightfully situated 
 on the banks of the Thames in Oxfordshire, about a mile from 
 Wallingford. 
 
 There's a quiet place where I often go 
 
 When the sun is in the west, 
 And the evening breezes, as they blow 
 O'er the trees above and the lake below, 
 Seem sighing themselves to rest ; 
 
 Where under the bank beneath the feet 
 
 There lies a hidden well ; 
 Where the hanging boughs the waters meet, 
 And the moor-hen finds a safe retreat. 
 
 And the white swan loves to dwell. 
 
 For there have I heard the cuckoo's call, 
 
 And the lay of the nightingale, 
 The cooing of doves in the tree-tops tall. 
 And the distant sound of the waterfall 
 Come creeping up the vale. 
 
 And in the far-off haze I have seen 
 
 The slopes of the circling hill. 
 And, the arching boughs of the trees between, 
 The broad expanse of the meadows gi'een 
 Lie peacefully and still. 
 
 1 have seen the water smooth as glass, 
 
 Or the ripples o'er it fleet. 
 When the winds that move it as they pass 
 Bear the scent of dew-besprinkled grass 
 
 And the odour of flowers sweet. 
 
 I have watched the shades of twilight glide 
 Over the peaceful scene,
 
 MORWENSTOW. 453 
 
 Till the stars stole forth on the heavens wide, 
 And the moonbeams fell on the tranquil tide 
 In floods of silver sheen. 
 
 O, there is no vale that ever I knew 
 
 That has such channs for nie, 
 Where the earth assumes a brighter hue, 
 And the sky seems tinged with a deeper blue, 
 
 And the flowers more fair to see. 
 
 And still contented shall be my lot. 
 
 Whether I laugh or weep, 
 If, the busy cares of the world forgot, 
 I may visit that sweet, secluded spot. 
 
 Where the woods and waters sleep. 
 
 W. Blake Atkinson. 
 
 Morwenstow. 
 
 MoRWENNA Static. 
 
 The Stow, or the place, of St. Morwenna ; hence by abbreviation, 
 Morwenstow. 
 
 My Saxon shrine ! the only ground 
 
 W'herein this weary heart hath rest ; 
 W'hat years the birds of God have found 
 
 Along thy walls their sacred nest : 
 The storm, the blast, the tempest shock, 
 
 Have beat upon those walls in vain ; 
 She stands, — a daughter of the rock, — 
 
 The changeless God's eternal fane. 
 
 Firm was their faith, — the ancient bands, 
 The wise of heart in wood and stone, 
 
 Who reared with stern and trusting hands 
 These dark gray towers of days unknown : 
 
 They filled these aisles with many a thought, 
 They bade each nook some truth reveal ;
 
 454 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 The pillared arch its legend brought, 
 A doctrine came with roof and wall. 
 
 Huge, mighty, massive, hard, and strong. 
 
 Were the choice stones they lifted then : 
 The vision of their hope was long. 
 
 They knew their God, those faithful men. 
 They pitched no tent for change or death, 
 
 No home to last man's shadowy day ; 
 There ! there I the everlasting breath 
 
 Would breathe whole centuries away. 
 
 See, now, along that pillared aisle 
 
 The graven arches, firm and fair : 
 They bend their shoulders to the toil, 
 
 And lift the hollow roof in air. 
 A sign ! beneath the ship we stand. 
 
 The inverted vessel's arching side ; 
 Forsaken — when the fisher-band 
 
 Went forth to sweep a mightier tide. 
 
 Pace we the ground ! our footsteps tread 
 
 A cross, — the builder's holiest form ; 
 That awful couch where once was shed 
 
 The blood, with man's forgiveness warm. 
 And here, just where his mighty breast 
 
 Throbbed the last agony away. 
 They bade the voice of worship rest. 
 
 And white-robed Levites pause and pray. 
 
 Mark ! the rich rose of Sharon's bowers 
 
 Curves in the paten's mystic mould ; 
 The lily, lady of the flowers, 
 
 Her shape must yonder chalice hold. 
 Types of the mother and the son, 
 
 Tiie twain in this dim chancel stand ; 
 The badge of Norman banners one, 
 
 And one a crest of English land.
 
 ]\IORWENSTOW. 455 
 
 How all things glow with life and thought 
 
 Where'er our faithful fathers trod ! 
 The very ground with speech is fraught, 
 
 The air is eloquent of God. 
 In vain would doubt or mockery hide 
 
 The buried echoes of the past ; 
 A voice of strength, a voice of pride, 
 
 Here dwells amid the storm and blast. 
 
 Still points the tower, and pleads the bell ; 
 
 The solemn arches breathe in stone ; 
 Window and wall have lips to tell 
 
 The mighty faith of days unknown. 
 Yea, flood and breeze and battle-shock 
 
 Shall beat upon this church in vain ; 
 She stands, — a daughter of the rock, — 
 
 The changeless God's eternal fane. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 The Storm. 
 
 War 'mid the ocean and the land ! 
 The battle-field Morwenna's strand. 
 Where rock and ridge the bulwark keep. 
 The giant warders of the deep. 
 
 They come ! and shall they not prevail,— 
 The seething surge, the gathering gale ? 
 They fling their wild flag to the breeze. 
 The banner of a thousand seas. 
 
 They come, they mount, they charge in vain, 
 Thus far, incalculable main ! 
 No more ! thine hosts have not o'erthrown 
 The lichen on the barrier stone. 
 
 Have the rocks faith, that tlius they stand. 
 Unmoved, a grim and stately band,
 
 456 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 And look, like warriors tried and brave, 
 Stern, silent, reckless, o'er the wave ? 
 
 Have the proud billows thought and life, 
 To feel the glory of the strife, 
 And trust, one day, in battle bold. 
 To win the foeman's haughty hold ? 
 
 Mark where they writhe with pride and shame, 
 Fierce valour, and the zeal of fame ! 
 Hear how their din of madness raves, 
 The baftled army of the waves .' 
 
 Thy way, O God, is in the sea ; 
 Thy paths where awful watei^s be ; 
 Thy spirit thrills the conscious stone : 
 O Lord, thy footsteps are not known ! 
 
 Robert Stephen PIawker. 
 
 The Vine. 
 
 Hearken ! there is in old Morwenna's shrine, 
 
 A lonely sanctuary of the Saxon's days. 
 
 Reared by the Severn sea for prayer and praise, 
 
 Amid the carved work of the roof, a vine : 
 
 Its root is where the eastern sunbeams fall. 
 
 First in the chancel, then along the wall ; 
 
 Slowly it travels on, a leafy line. 
 
 With here and there a cluster, and anon 
 
 !More and more grapes, until the growth hath gone 
 
 Through arch and aisle. Hearken ! and heed the sign. 
 
 See at the altar side the steadfast root, 
 
 Mark well the branches, count the summer fruit : 
 
 So let a meek and faithful heart be thine. 
 
 And gather from that tree a ]5arable divine. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 \ 
 
 Vi
 
 MUSTON. 457 
 
 The Well of St John. 
 
 ON MORWENSTOW GLEBE. 
 
 They dreamed not in old Hebron, when the sound 
 
 Went through the city, that the promised son 
 
 Was horn to Zachary, and his name was John, — 
 
 They little thought that here in this far ground, 
 
 Beside the Severn sea, that Hebrew child 
 
 Would be a cherislied memory of the wild ; 
 
 Here, where the pulses of the ocean bound 
 
 Whole centuries away, while one meek cell, 
 
 Built by tlie fathers o'er a lonely well. 
 
 Still breatlies the Baptist's sweet remembrance i-ound : 
 
 A spring of silent waters with his name. 
 
 That from the angel's voice in music came, 
 
 Here in the wilderness so faithful found, 
 
 It freshens to this day the Levite's grassy ^'mound. 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker. 
 
 Muston. 
 
 The Streamlet. 
 
 Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy M'ood, 
 
 Tliy upland forest or thy valley's flood? 
 
 Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look, 
 
 As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ; 
 
 That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow. 
 
 Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow ; 
 
 Where in the 'midst, upon her throne of green, 
 
 Sits the large lily as the water's queen ; 
 
 And makes the current, forced awliile to stay, 
 
 Murmur and bubljle as it shoots away. 
 
 George Crabbe.
 
 458 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Naseby. 
 
 Naseby. 
 
 O, WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from tlie north, 
 With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? 
 And wherefore do your rout send forth a joyous shout ? 
 And whence are the grapes of the wine-press that ye 
 tread ? 
 
 O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
 
 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; 
 
 For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 
 
 strong. 
 Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. 
 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
 
 That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses 
 
 shine, 
 And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced 
 
 hair, 
 And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, 
 The General rode along us to form us for the fight ; 
 When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into 
 
 a shout 
 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 
 
 And hark ! like the roar of the billow on the shore, 
 The cry of battle rises along their charging line : 
 For God ! for the Cause ! for the Ciiurch ! for the Laws! 
 For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine ! 
 
 The furious German comes, with his trumpets and his 
 
 drums, 
 His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall ;
 
 NASEBY. 459 
 
 They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your pikes ; 
 
 close your ranks ! 
 For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 
 
 They are here, — they rush on — we are broken- we are 
 
 gone — 
 Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
 O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the 
 
 right ! 
 Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the 
 
 last ! 
 
 Stout Skippen hath a wound, — the centre hath given 
 
 ground. 
 But hark ! what means this trampling of horsemen in the 
 
 rear ? 
 What banner do I see, boys ? 'T is he ! thank God ! 
 
 'tis he, boys ! 
 Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here ! 
 
 Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all in a row : 
 Like a whirlwind on the treees, like a deluge on the 
 
 dikes, 
 Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 
 
 Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
 Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar. 
 And he, — he turns ! he flies ! shame to those cruel eyes 
 That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war ! 
 
 Ho, comrades, scour the plain, and ere ye strip the slain. 
 
 First give another stab to make the quest secure ; 
 
 Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad pieces 
 
 and lockets, 
 The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 
 
 Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts 
 
 were gay and bold, 
 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day ;
 
 46o POEMS OF TLACES. 
 
 And to-monow shall the fox from her chambers in the 
 
 rocks 
 Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 
 
 Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and 
 
 hell and fate ? 
 And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades ? 
 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your 
 
 oaths ? 
 Your stage-plays and your sonnets ? your diamonds and 
 
 your spades ? 
 
 Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the 
 
 crown ! 
 With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the 
 
 Pope ! 
 There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham 
 
 stalls ; 
 The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends his cope. 
 
 And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children's 
 
 ills, 
 And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's 
 
 sword ; 
 And the kings of earth in fear shall tremble when they 
 
 hear 
 What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and 
 
 the Word ! 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay. 
 
 Nether Stowey. 
 Nkthkr Stowey. 
 
 A GREKN and silent spot amid the hills, 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 No singing skylark ever poised himself. 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope
 
 NETHER STOWEY. 461 
 
 Whicli hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
 All golden with the never-bloomless furze, 
 Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell. 
 Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 As vemal cornfield, or the unripe flax, 
 When through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 
 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 O, 'tis a quiet, spirit-healing nook ! 
 WHiich all, methinks, Avould love ; but chiefly he. 
 The humble man, who in his youthful years 
 Knew just so much of folly as had made 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 Here he might lie on fem or withered heath, 
 While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best). 
 And from the sun and from the breezy air. 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half-sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
 And dreaming, hears thee still, O singing-lark. 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 * * « « » 
 
 But now the gentle dewfall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
 The light has left the summit of the hill, 
 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
 Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
 Homeward I wind my May ; and lo ! recalled 
 From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause. 
 Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet and surrounded nook. 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main
 
 462 rOEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 
 And ebny fields, seems hke society, — 
 
 Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
 
 A hveher impulse and a dance of thought ! 
 
 And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
 
 And, close behind them, hidden from my view, 
 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
 
 And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light 
 
 And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend. 
 
 Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! 
 
 And grateful that by nature's quietness 
 
 And solitary musings all my heart 
 
 Is softened, and made worthy to indulge 
 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 An Evening in Autumn, near Nether 
 Stowey, Somerset. 
 
 How soothing is that sound of far-off wheels 
 Under the golden sheen of the harvest-moon ! 
 In the shade-checkered road it half reveals 
 A homeward-wending group, with liearts in tune 
 To thankful merriment ; — father and boy, 
 And maiden with her gleanings on her head ; 
 And the last waggon's rumble heard with joy 
 In the kitchen with the ending-supper spread. 
 But while I listening stand, the sound hath ceased ; 
 And hark, from many voices lustily 
 The harvest-home, the prelude to the feast, 
 In measured bursts is pealing loud and high ; 
 Soon all is still again beneath the bright 
 Full moon, that guides me home this autumn night. 
 
 Henry Alford.
 
 POEMS OF PLACES. 463 
 
 Netley Abbey. 
 Netley Abbey, 
 
 Fallen pile ! I ask not what has been thy fate ; 
 But when the winds slow wafted from the main, 
 Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, 
 Come hollow to my ear, I meditate 
 On this world's passing pageant, and the lot 
 Of those who once majestic in their prime 
 Stood smiling at decay, till, bowed by time 
 Or injury, their early boast forgot. 
 They may have fallen like thee ! Pale and forlorn. 
 Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, 
 They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn 
 This short-lived scene of vanity and woe ; 
 Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear 
 The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 Netley Abbey. 
 
 In Netley Abbey, — on the neighbouring isle, 
 
 The woods of Binstead shade as fair a pile, — 
 
 Where sloping meadows fringe the shores with green, 
 
 A river of the ocean rolls between. 
 
 Whose murmurs, borne on sunny winds, disport 
 
 Through oriel windows and a cloistered court ; 
 
 (_)'er hills so fair, o'er terraces so sweet. 
 
 The sea comes twice each day to kiss their feet ; — 
 
 Where sounding caverns mine the garden bowers. 
 
 Where groves intone, where many an ilex towers, 
 
 And many a fragrant breath exhales from fruits and 
 
 flowers ; — 
 And lowing herds and featliered warblers there 
 Make mystic concords with repose and prayer ;
 
 464 POEMS OF PLACES. 
 
 Mixed with the lium of apiaries near, 
 
 The mill's far cataract, and the sea-boy's cheer. 
 
 Whose oars beat time to litanies at noon, 
 
 Or hymns at complin by the rising moon ; 
 
 "Where, after chimes, each chapel echoes round 
 
 Like one aerial instrument of sound, 
 
 Some vast harmonious fabric of the Lord's. 
 
 Nicholas Thirning Moile. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Ci.ark, Edinburgh.
 
 gox/^^f) ^/.,?yy. 351. 
 
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