<emph>The Banks of Wye</emph> A Romantic Circles Electronic Edition Robert Bloomfield (1766–1823) Tim Fulford Romantic Circles General Editor, Neil Fraistat General Editor, Steven E. Jones General Editor, Carl Stahmer Technical Editor Laura Mandell BanksOfWyeIV Romantic Circles, http://www.rc.umd.edu, University of Maryland College Park, MD October 10, 2010

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 Tim Fulford Book IV Robert Bloomfield - <emph>The Banks of the Wye</emph> A Romantic Circles Electronic Edition Robert Bloomfield (1766–1823) Tim Fulford Romantic Circles University of Maryland

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The Banks of Wye; A Poem. In Four Books, 1811, 1813, 1823. The text of the first edition of The Banks of Wye; A Poem. In Four Books (London: Vernor, Hood & Sharpe, 1811), collated with the corrected second edition (London, B. & R. Crosby & Co., 1813) and the third edition (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme & Co., 1823).
BOOK IV. CONTENTS OF BOOK IV.

The Gaer, a Roman Station.––Brunless Castle.––The Hay.––Funeral Song, 'Mary's Grave'.––Clifford Castle.––Return by Hereford, Malvern Hills, Cheltenham, and Gloucester, to Uley.––Conclusion.

'TIS sweet to hear the soothing chime, And, by thanksgiving, measure time, When hard-wrought poverty awhile Upheaves the bending back to smile; When servants hail, with boundless glee, The sweets of love and liberty. For guiltless love will ne'er disown The cheerful Sunday's market town, Clean, silent, when his power's confess'd, And trade's contention lull'd to rest.For guiltless love will ne'er disown / The cheerful Sunday's market town, / Clean, silent, when his power's confess'd, / And trade's contention lull'd to rest.] omit 1813, 1823 Seldom has worship cheer'd my soul With such invincible controul!controul] control 1823 It was a bright benignant hour, The song of praise was full of power; And, darting from the noon-day sky, Amidst the tide of harmony, O'er aisle and pillar glancing strong, Heav'n's radiant light inspired the song. The word of peace, that can disarm Care with its own peculiar charm, Here flow'd a double stream, to cheer The SaxonDivine service is performed alternately in English and Welsh. That they still call us Saxons, need hardly be mentioned. I observed the army to be equally [The army, it appears, is quite 1813, 1823] as accommodating as the church, for the posting-bills, for recruits, are printed in both languages [Bloomfield's note]. and the Mountaineer, Of various stock, of various name, Now join'd in rights, and join'd in fame. YE who religion's duty teach, What constitutes a Sabbath breach? Is it, when joy the bosom fills, To wander o'er the breezy hills? Is it, to trace around your home The footsteps of imperial Rome? Then guilty, guilty let us plead, Who, on the cheerful rested steed, In thought absorb'd, explor'd,explor'd] explored 1823 with care, The wild lanes round the silent GAER,A road must have led from Abergavenny, through the Vale of the Usk, north-west to the 'Gaer,' situated two miles north-west of Brecon, on a gentle eminence, at the conflux of the rivers Esker and Usk. Mr. Wyndham traced parts of walls, which he describes as exactly resembling those at Caerleon; and Mr. Lemon found several bricks, bearing the inscription of LEG. II. AVG. ––Coxe.

In addition to the above, it may be acceptable to state, that Mr. Price, a very intelligent farmer on the spot, has in his possession several of the above kind of bricks, bearing the same inscription, done, evidently, by stamping the clay, while moist, with an instrument. These have been turned up by the plough, together with several small Roman lamps [Bloomfield's note: derived from William Coxe, An Historical Tour in Monmouthshire: Illustrated with views by Sir R. C. Hoare, Bart. A New Map of the County, and other Engravings (London, 1801)].

 Where conqu'ring eagles took their stand; Where heathen altars stain'd the land; Where soldiers of AUGUSTUS pin'd,pin'd] pined 1823 Perhaps, for pleasures left behind, And measur'd,measur'd] measured 1823 from this lone abode, The new-form'd, stoney,stoney] stony 1813, 1823 forest road, Back to CAERLEON'S southern train, Their barks, their home, beyond the main;main;] main: 1813, 1823 Still by the VANN reminded strong Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song, The olive groves, the cloudless sky, And golden vales of Italy. With us 'twas peace, we met no foes; With us far diff'rent feelings rose. Still onward inclination bade;bade;] bade: 1823 The wilds of MONA'S Druid shade, SNOWDON'S sublime and stormy brow, His land of Britons stretch'd below, And PENMAN MAWR'S huge crags, that greet The thund'ring ocean at his feet, Were all before us. Hard it prov'd,prov'd,] proved 1823 To quit a land so dearly lov'd;lov'd] loved 1823 Forego each bold terrific boast Of northern Cambria's giant coast. Friends of the harp and song, forgive The deep regret that, whilst I live, Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue; Go, joys untasted! themes unsung,unsung,] unsung! 1813, 1823 Another scene, another land, Hence shall the homeward verse demand. Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain, Till 'farewell BRECON'BRECON] Brecon 1823 left a pain;pain;] pain, 1823 A pain that travellers may endure; Change is their food, and change their cure. Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away, To recollect so bright a day! Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love, Their tumbling USK, their PRIORY GROVE, View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright, The freshness of a summer's night.

[Illustration 3]

HIGH o'er the town, in morning smiles, The blue VANN heav'dheav'd] heaved 1823 his deep defiles; And rang'd, like champions for the fight, Basking in sun-beams on our right, Rose the BLACK MOUNTAINS, that surround That far-fam'dfar-fam'd] far-famed 1823 spot of holy ground, LLANTHONY, dear to monkish tale, And still the pride of EWAIS VALE. No road-side cottage smoke was seen, Or rarely, on the village greengreen] green: 1823 No youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress, In ardent play, or idleness. Brown wav'dwav'd] waved 1823 the harvest, dale and slope Exulting bore a nation's hope; Sheaves rose as far as sight could range, And every mile was but a change Of peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still, And climbing many a distant hill. Some talk'd, perhaps, of spring's bright hour, And how they pil'd,pil'd] piled 1823 in BRUNLESS TOWER,The only remaining tower of Brunless Castle now makes an excellent hay-loft; and almost every building on the spot is composed of fragments [Bloomfield's note]. The full-dried hay. Perhaps they told Tradition's tales, and taught how old The ruin'd castle? False or true, They guess'd it, justit, just] it––just 1813, 1823 as others do. Lone tower! though suffer'd yet to stand, Dilapidation's wasting hand Shall tear thy pond'rous walls, to guard The slumb'ring steed, or fence the yard; Or wheels shall grind thy pride away Along the turnpike road to HAY, Where fierce GLENDOW'R'S rude mountaineers Left war's attendants, blood and tears, And spread their terrors many a mile, And shouted round the flaming pile. May heav'nheav'n] Heav'n 1823 preserve our native land From blind ambition's murdering hand; From all the wrongs that can provoke A people's wrath, and urge the stroke That shakes the proudest throne! Guard, heav'n,heav'n] Heav'n 1823 The sacred birth-right thou hast given; Bid justice curb, with strong controul,controul] control 1823 The desp'rate passions of the soul. Here ivy'd fragments, lowering, throw Broad shadows on the poor below, Who, while they rest, and when they die, Sleep on the rock-built shores of WYE. To tread o'er nameless mounds of earth, To muse upon departed worth, To credit still the poor distress'd, For feelings never half express'd, Their hopes, their faith, their tender love, Faith that sustain'd, and hope that strove, Is sacred joy; to heave a sigh, A debt to poor mortality. Funereal rites are clos'd;clos'd] closed 1823 'tis done; Ceased is the bell; the priest is gone; What then if bust or stone denies To catch the pensive loit'rer's eyes, What course can poverty pursue? What can the poor pretend to do? O boast not, quarries, of your store; Boast not, O man, of wealth or lore: The flowers of nature here shall thrive, Affection keep those flowers alive; And they shall strike the melting heart, Beyond the utmost power of art; Planted on graves,To the custom of scattering flowers over the graves of departed friends, David ap Gwillym beautifully alludes in one of his odes. 'O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender sprays thick of leaves remain, I will pluck the roses from the brakes, the flowerets of the meads, and gems of the wood; the vivid trefoil, beauties of the ground, and the gaily-smiling bloom of the verdant herbs, to be offered to the memory of a chief of fairest fame. Humbly will I lay them on the grave of Ivor.'

On a grave in the churchyard at Hay, or The Hay, as it is commonly spoken, flowers had evidently been planted, but only one solitary sprig of sweet-briar had taken root. [Bloomfield's note, referring to the last eight lines of 'I Yru yr Haf i Anerch Morganwg' ['To Send the Summer to Greet Glamorgan'], published as the work of Dafydd ap Gwilym in Barddoniaeth Dafydd ab Gwilym, ed. Owain Myfyr and William Owen Pughe (London, 1789), 'Chwanegiad' [Appendix], no. XIV, but actually a literary forgery by Iolo Morganwg [Edward Williams]; Bloomfield's source for the quotation was probably William Coxe, An Historical Tour in Monmouthshire: Illustrated with views by Sir R. C. Hoare, Bart. A New Map of the County, and other Engravings (London, 1801), although the lines are applied to a grave at Britton Ferry in J. T. Barber, A Tour throughout South Wales and Monmouthshire (London, 1803), p. 151.]

 their stems entwine, And every blossom is a line Indelibly impress'd, that tends, In more than language comprehends, To teach us, in our solemn hours, That we ourselves are dying flowers. What if a father buried here His earthly hope, his friend most dear, His only child? Shall his dim eye, At poverty's command, be dry? No, he shall muse, and think, and pray, And weep his tedious hours away; Or weave the song of woe to tell How dear that child he loved so well. Mary's Grave. No child have I left, I must wander alone, No light-hearted Mary to sing as I go, Nor loiter to gather bright flowers newly blown; She delighted, sweet maid, in these emblems of woe. Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil'd O'er its rock-bed unceasing, and still it flows free; But her infant life was arrested, unsoil'd As the dew-drop, when shook by the wing of the bee. Sweet flowers were her treasures, and flowers shall be mine; I bring them from Radnor's green hills to her grave;grave;] grave: 1823 Thus planted in anguish, oh let them entwine O'er a heart once as gentle as heav'nheav'n] Heav'n 1823 e'er gave. Oh, the glance of her eye, when at mansions of wealth I pointed, suspicious, and warn'd her of harm; She smiled in content, 'midst the bloom of her health, And closer and closer still hung on my arm. 170 What boots it to tell of the sense she possess'd, The fair buds of promise that mem'ry endears? The mild dove, affection, was queen of her breast, And I had her love, and her truth, and her tears; She was mine. But she goes to the land of the good, A change which I must, and yet dare, not deplore;deplore;] deplore: 1823 I'll bear the rude shock like the oak of the wood, But the green hills of Radnor will charm me no more. RUINS of greatness, all farewell; No Chepstows here, no Raglands tell, By mound, or foss, or mighty tower, Achievements high in hall or bower; Or give to fancy's vivid eye,eye,] eye 1823 The helms and plumes of chivalry. CLIFFORD has fall'n, howe'er sublime, Mere fragments wrestle still with time; Yet as they perish, sure and slow, And rolling dash the stream below, They raise tradition's glowing scene, The clue of silk, the wrathful queen, And link, in mem'ry's firmest bond, The love-lorn tale of Rosamond.Clifford Castle is supposed to have been the birth place of Fair Rosamond [Bloomfield's note]. How placid, how divinely sweet, The flow'r-grown brook that, by our feet, Winds a on summer's day; e'en where Its name no classic honours share, Its springs untrac'd,untrac'd] untraced 1823 its course unknown, Seaward for ever rambling down! Here,Here] Here 1813, 1823 then, how sweet, pellucid, chaste; 'Twas thisthis] this 1813, 1823 bright current bade us taste The fulness of its joy. Glide still, Enchantress of PLYNLIMON HILL, Meandering WYE! Still let me dream, In raptures, o'er thy infant stream; For could th' immortal soul forego Its cumbrous load of earthly woe, And clothe itself in fairy guise, Too small, too pure, for human eyes, Blithe would we seek thy utmost spring, Where mountain-larks first try the wing; 210 There, at the crimson dawn of day, Launch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away, Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below, Or climb the green transparent prow, Stooping where oft the blue-bell sips The passing stream, and shakes and dips; And when the heifer came to drink, Quick from the gale our bark would shrink, And huddle down amidst the brawl Of many a five-inch waterfall, Till the expanse should fairly give The bow'ring hazel room to live; And as each swelling junction came, To form a riv'let worth a name, We'd dart beneath, or brush away Long-beaded webs, that else might stay Our silent course; in haste retreat, Where whirlpools near the bull-rush meet; Wheel round the ox of monstrous size; And count below his shadowy flies; And sport amidst the throng; and when We met the barks of giant men, Avoid their oars, still undescried, And mock their overbearing pride; Then vanish by some magic spell, And shout, 'Delicious WYE, farewell!' 'TWAS noon, when o'er thy mountain stream, The carriage roll'd, each pow'rful gleam Struck on thy surface, where, below, Spread the deep heaven's azure glow; And water-flowers, a mingling croud,croud] crowd 1823 Wav'dWav'd] Waved 1823 in the dazzling silver cloud. Again farewell! The treat is o'er;o'er! 1813, 1823 For me shall Cambria smile no more; Yet truth shall still the song sustain, And touch the springs of joy again. Hail! land of cyder,An allusion to the invocation of Herefordshire cider in John Phillips's Georgic poem Cyder: A Poem in Two Books (London, 1708), pp. 32-33, of which this passage is a tributary imitation. vales of health! Redundant fruitage, rural wealth; Here, did PomonaRoman goddess of apples. still retain,retain,] retain 1813, 1823 Her influence o'er a British plain, Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly Round the capricious deity; Or autumn sacrifices bound, By myriads, o'er the hallow'd ground, And deep libations still renew The fervours of her dancing crew. Land of delight! let mem'ry strive To keep thy flying scenes alive; Thy grey-limb'd orchards, scattering wide Their treasures by the highway side; Thy half-hid cottages, that show The dark green moss, the resting bough, At broken panes, that taps and flies, Illumes and shades the maiden's eyes At day-break, and, with whisper'd joy, Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy: These, with thy noble woods and dells, The hazel copse, the village bells, Charm'd more the passing sultry hours Than HEREFORD, with all her towers. Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer, But a far nobler scene was near; And when the morrow's noon had spread, O'er orchard stores, the deep'ning red, Behind us rose the billowy cloud, 275 That dims the air to city croudcroud] crowd 1823. And deem not that, where cyder reigns The beverage of a thousand plains, Malt, and the liberal harvest horn, Are all unknown, or laugh'd to scorn; A spot that all delights might bring, A palace for an eastern king, CANFROME,The noble seat of –––] Richard Cope 1823 Hopton, Esq. which exhibits, in a striking manner, the real old English magnificence and hospitality of the last age [Bloomfield's note, referring to Richard Cope Hopton of Canon Frome, Sheriff of Herefordshire (1738-1810)]. shall from her vaults display John Barleycorn's resistless sway. To make the odds of fortune even, Up bounced the cork of 'seventy-seven,' And sent me back to school; for then,then] then 1813, 1823 Ere yet I learn'd to wield the pen; TheThe] (The 1813, 1823 pen that should all crimes assail, The pen that leads to fame––or jail;jail;] Jail;) 1813, 1823 Then steem'dThen steem'd] Then steam'd 1823 the malt, whose spirit bears The frosts and suns of thirty years! Through LEDBURY, at decline of day, The wheels that bore us roll'd away To cross the MALVERN HILLS. 'Twas night; Alternate met the weary sight Each steep, dark, undulating brow, And WORC'STER'S gloomy vale below. Gloomy no more, when eastward sprung The light that gladdens heart and tongue; 300 When morn glanced o'er the shepherd's bed, And cast her tints of lovely red Wide o'er the vast expanding scene, And mix'd her hues with mountain green; Then, gazing from a height so fair, Through miles of unpolluted air, Where cultivation triumphs wide, O'er boundless views on every side, Thick planted towns, where toils ne'er cease, And far spread silent village peace; As each succeeding pleasure came, The heart acknowledged MALVERN'S fame. Oft glancing thence to Cambria still, Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill, Delightful PEN-Y-VALE! Nor shall Great MALVERN'S high imperious call Wean me from thee, or turn aside My earliest charm, my heart's strong pride. BoastBoast] Boast, 1823 MALVERN, that thy springs revive The drooping patient, scarce alive; 320 Where, as he gathers strength to toil, Not e'en thy heights his spirit foil, But nerve him on to bless, t' inhale, And triumph in the morning gale; Or noon's transcendent glories give The vigorous touch that bids him live. Perhaps e'en now he stops to breathe, Surveying the expanse beneath?beneath?] beneath; 1823 Now climbs again, where keen winds blow, And holds his beaver to his brow; Waves to the Wrecken his pale hand, And, borrowing Fancy's magic wand, Skims over WORC'STER'S spires away, Where sprung the blush of rising day; And eyes, with joy,eyes, with joy,] eyes with joy 1813, 1823 sweet Hagley Groves, That taste reveres and virtue loves; And stretch'd upon thy utmost ridge, Marks Severn's course, and UPTON-bridge, That leads to home, to friends, or wife, And all thy sweets, domestic life;life;] life: 1813, 1823 He dropsHe drops] While starts 1813, 1823 the tear, his bosom glows, That consecrated Avon flows Down the blue distant vale, to yield Its stores by TEWKESBURY'S deadly field, And feels whatever can inspire, From history's page or poet's fire. BRIGHT vale of Severn! shall the song That wildly devious roves along, The charms of nature to explore, On history rest, or themes of yore? More joy the thoughts of home supply,supply,] supply; 1823 Short be the glance at days gone by, Though gallant TEWKSBURY, clean and gay, Hath much to tempt the traveller's stay,stay,] stay–– 1823 Her noble abbey, with its dead, A powerful claim;claim;] claim: 1813, 1823 a silent dread, Sacred as holy virtue springs Where rests the dust of chiefs and kings; With his who by foul murder died, The fierce Lancastrian's hope and pride, When brothers brothers could destroyWhen brothers brothers could destroy] (When brothers brothers could destroy) 1813, 1823 Heroic Margaret's red-rose boy.Prince Edward, son of Henry the Sixth, taken prisoner with his mother, Margaret of Anjou, at the Battle of Tewksbury, and murdered by the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard the Third [Bloomfield's note]. Muse, turn thee from the field of blood, Rest to the brave, peace to the good;good;] good: 1823 Avon, with all thy charms, adieu! For CHELTENHAM mocks thy pilgrim crew; And like a girl in beauty's power, Flirts in the fairings of an hour. Queen of the valley! soon behind Gleam'd thy bright fanes, in sun and wind, Fair Glo'ster. Though thy fabric stands, The boast of Severn's winding sandssands] sands, 1823 If grandeur, beauty, grace, can stay The traveller on his homeward way. There rests the Norman prince who rose In zeal against the christian'schristian's] christians' 1823 foes, Yet doom'd at home to pine and die, Of birthright rob'd,rob'd] robb'd 1823 and liberty; Foil'd was the lance he well could fling, Robert,The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprisoned eight-and-twenty years by his own brother! [Bloomfield's note]. who should have been a king;Foul'd was the lance he well could fling, / Robert, who should have been a king;] omit 1813, 1823 His tide of wrongs he could not stem, His brothers filch'd his diadem.diadem.] diadem*. *The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprisoned eight-and-twenty years by his own brother! 1823 There sleeps the king who aim'd to spurn The daring Scots, at Bannockburn,Bannockburn,] Bannockburn; But turn'd him back, with humbled fame, And Berkley's 'shrieks''Shrieks of an agonizing king.' [Bloomfield's note: a reference to Thomas Gray's description of the murder of Edward II in Berkeley Castle, in 'The Bard: A Pindaric Ode', (1757), line 56.] declare his name. Cease, cease the lay, the goal is won,the lay, the goal is won,] the lay––the goal is won–– 1813, 1823 Yet memory still shall revel on. Fast closed the day, the last bright hour, The setting sun, on DURSLEY tower, Welcom'dWelcom'd] Welcomed 1823 us home, and forward bade, To ULEY valley's peaceful shade. WHO so unfeeling, who so bold, To judge that fictions, idly told, Deform my verse, that only tries To consecrate realities? If e'er th' unworthy thought should come, Let strong conviction strike them dumb. Go to the proof; your steed prepare, Drink nature's cup, the rapture share; If dull you find your devious course, Your tour is useless––sell your horse. Ye who, ingulf'd in trade, endure What gold alone can never cure; The constant sigh for scenes of peace, From the world's trammels free release, Wait not, for reason's sake attend,Wait not, for reason's sake attend,] Wait not, (for reason's sake attend,) 1813, 1823 Wait not in chains till times shall mend,mend,] mend; 1813, 1823 Till the clear voice, grown hoarse and gruff, Cries, 'Now I'll go, I'm rich enough;'enough;] enough. 1823 Youth, and the prime of manhood, seize,seize,] seize; 1823 Steal ten days absence, ten days ease; Bid ledgers from your minds depart; Let mem'ry's treasures cheer the heart; And when your children round you grow, With opening charms and manly brow, Talk of the WYE as some old dream, Call it the wild, the wizard stream; Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest, And youth shall smile to see you bless'd. Artists, betimes your powers employ, And take the pilgrimage of joy; The eye of genius may behold A thousand beauties here untold; Rock, that defies the winter's storm; Wood, in its most imposing form, That climbs the mountain, bows below, Where deep th' unsullied waters flow. Here Gilpin's eye, transported, scan'dscan'd] scann'd 1823 Views by no tricks of fancy plan'd;plan'd] plann'd 1823 Gray here, upon the stream reclin'd,reclin'd] reclined 1823 Stor'dStor'd] Stored 1823 with delight his ardent mind. But let the vacant trifler stray From thy enchantments far away; For should, from fashion's rainbow train, The idle and the vicious vain In sacrilege presume to move Through these dear scenes of peace and love, The spirit of the stream would rise In wrathful mood and tenfold size, And nobly guard his COLDWELL SPRING, And bid his inmost caverns ring; Loud thund'ring on the giddy crew, 'My stream was never meant for you.' But ye, to nobler feelings born, Who sense and nature dare not scorn, Glide gaily on, and ye shall find The blest serenity of mind That springs from silence; or shall raise The hand, the eye, the voice of praise. Live then, sweet stream! and henceforth be The darling of posterity; Loved for thyself, for ever dear, Like beauty's smile and virtue's tear, Till Time his striding race give o'er, And verse itself shall charm no more.

THE END.