To the low winds that thro' his osiers breath,
And murmur to the rustling reeds beneath.
Does she o'er Cambria's rugged mountains stray,
Snowdon's rude cliffs, or huge Plinlimmon's height?
Or in rough Conway's foaming floods delight,
That down the steep rocks urge their headlong way?
There chaunts the raptur'd bard in solemn strain
Malgo's strong lance, Cadwallin's puissant reign,
High deeds recorded yet in Druid songs;
Or swells his woe-wild notes, of pow'r to spread
Chill horror round the ruthless tyrant's head,
For Urien's fate, for bleeding Modred's wrongs,
And smites the harp in dreadfull harmony.
Or does she love to lie
In the mild shade of Hulla's softer groves,
And twine the vermeil wreath to grace the youth,
Whose rapt breast glows, as o'er the beach he roves,
Touch'd with the sacred flame of star-bright truth;
Whilst to her lore his manly measure flows,
"And wakes old Humber from his deep repose."
Yet deign, if not to dwell, thy presence deign
Here, heav'nly visitant; and with thee bring
The loftiest note that swell'd the sounding string,
When stern Tyrtæus rais'd th' heroic strain;
To arms the warrior poet smote his lyre,
And all Laconia caught the martial fire.
Thee too, harmonious maid, the strings obey;
Strike them, and bid th' inspiring numbers flow,
Bid Britain's sons with Sparta's spirit glow,
And rouze old Albion with thy awfull lay.
Thy lay shall well-born Wodehouse deign to hear,
As now with gen'rous care
From Honour's fount th' enliv'ning streams he brings,
To visit, as they flow, that silver bow'r,
Where the fair plant of public Virtue springs,
And breathes pure fragrance from each glowing flow'r:
Like heav'n's own amarant th' immortal tree
Shoots, blooms, and bears, the growth of Kimberley.
Hast thou no verse then, heav'nly virgin say,
By truth attun'd on Fancy's fairy plain;
No solemn air, no hymn of higher vein,
To hail the blessed morn's auspicious ray,
When, these tall tow'rs rejoicing to behold,
Forth walk'd the orient sun array'd in gold,
First on their glitt'ring tops t' impress his beams;
Thence glancing downward, sparkled on the tide
That bends along yon' hoar grove's moss-clad side,
And scatter'd crimson o'er its azure streams?
The Naids, hasting from their coral caves
Beneath the crystal waves,
(In pearled braids their amber tresses bound)
Thrice wav'd their hands, and hail'd the rising tow'rs:
The wood-nymphs too, with florish'd chaplets crown'd
Forsook their groves, forsook their verdant bow'rs:
And thrice their hands they wav'd, and thrice they said,
"Raise, ye fair structures, raise your tow'ry head!"
Next Kymber came, slow winding o'er the lea, His head and sedge-crown'd locks all silver'd o'er With rev'rend eld, as winter breathing frore Hangs on the bare boughs of the spangled tree: His urn was silver fretted round with gold, With runic rhimes imbost and figures old, Th' illustrious moniments of British fame : Here stout Tenantius draws his righteous sword To crush the curs'd rule of a foreign lord,
And spreads unconquer'd Freedom's sacred flame: There war-worn Kymbeline, by Victor's pow'r Forth-driven from princely bow'r,
To the thick shelter of these shades retir'd Feeding high thoughts and flames of vengefull war, (Like a chac'd lion with fell fury fir'd)
Writhes on the lurking Traitor's close-couch'd spear,
And bids the conscious grove, and bids the plain,
And kindred stream his honour'd name retain.
High on her warlike car Bonduca stands,
The plumed helmet glitt'ring on her brow,
Whilst loose in streams of gold her tresses flow,
The bow and pointed javelin grace her hands;
Deliberate courage lightens in her eye,
And conscious worth, and inborn majesty:
Heroic Empress! as thy virtues spread,
Rome's rav'ning eagle cow'rs his quiv'ring wings,
Hope smiles, fair Liberty her blessings brings,
And heav'n-born Glory rays thy sacred head.
Grac'd with these sculptur'd scenes of antient fame
With stately step he came;
Nor wanted in his way melodious sound
From pipe, or pastoral reed, or dulcet voice
Of nymph or naid him enringing round,
Or quiring birds that in his shade rejoice,
Or gently warbling wind, or water's fall,
Soft trickling from his urn in murmurs musical.
Then on the stately structure's tow'ry height
With conscious pride he fix'd his raptur'd eyes;
And, as past scenes of antient glory rise
Arrang'd on Fancy's field in order bright,
He paus'd; then gracefull bow'd his rev'rend head,
And thus in lofty strains due homage paid.
"Ye strong-bas'd battlements, ye gorgeous walls,
Ye princely structures, that with splendor crown'd
Shine o'er your wide dominion stretching round,
To you with friendly voice your Kymber calls,
And bids you hail! thereto he adds your name,
Renown'd in antient fame,
Hail Wodehouse-Tow'r! to tell you with what pride,
What triumph he your glitt'ring state surveys,
That dignifies his lily-silver'd side,
And wakes sweet mem'ry of those glorious days,
When full-plum'd Vict'ry wav'd her golden wing,
And deck'd with trophies proud his honour'd spring.
Yes, Kymber, now thou may'st with joy retrace
The long succession of thy patriot line;
With joy behold th' unclouded lustre shine,
Which Virtue beams around her favour'd race.
Canst thou forget the Lord of Wodehouse--Tow'r,
Whose strong-built bastions scorn'd the Norman's
From Deva's banks (whose mystic waters glide
By holy Whitchurch, thro' those pastur'd plains,
Long since the warlike Talbot's rich domains,
When from + Blackmere he brought his lovely bride, The fair L'Estrange) thou saw'st the stout Knight lead
To Silfield's happier mead
His Saxon train. There Beauclerk's royal ray
Shin'd on his battailous bold offspring, tried
In many' an hard and chevalrous assay,
When Neustria's fields with crimson gore he died,
Sir Bertram, Lord of Wodehouse-Tower, near Whitchurch, on the rise of the Deva, Dei Aqua, now Dee, celebrated in the thimes of Sir Philip Wodehouse.
Whitchurch was the inheritance of the Talbott by marriage with the L'Estrange, of Blackmere, Barons.-CAMDEN.
↑ Sir George de Wodehouse attended Henry I. in his expedition into Normandy, A. D. 1104:
Spread vengefull flames revolted Bayeux round,
And dash'd the rampir'd pride of Caen to the ground.
Oft as Britannia's royal ensign wav'd,
And the stern clarion call'd in field to fight,
The warlike Wodehouse march'd with prowest might,
And the rough front of deathfull danger brav'd.
Let Bara tell, and let Bodotria tell,
Fort, lough, and river, mountain, wood, and dell,
All that from southern Eiden's flow'rly lea
Stretches to bleak Strathnavern's northern strand, Was his sword sheath'd, when * Edward's iron hand Spread desolation wide from sea to sea?
Or when the sable Warrior's lifted lance
Glar'd in the eyes of France,
Was Wodehouse wanting to the Hero's fame?
Let Crecy tell, and Poictier's purple plain,
And captive Valois' hallow'd † Oriflame.
His dreadless hardiment let Glequin's chain,
Record, and brave † Dandrehin's froward fate,"
And poor Castilia's tyrant-wasted state.
Who has not heard of Somme's affrighted flood, How mournfully his cumber'd streams he roll'd O'er shining hauberks, shields, and helms of gold, His crystal current stain'd with Prince's blood,
• Edward I. whom Sir Bertram de Wodehouse accompanied in his wars in Scotland.
↑ The Oriflame was a banner of gold and flame coloured silk, consecrated and kept in the Abbey of St. Denys. From the high opinion the French had of its virtue, it was made the royal standard by Lewis VI. and was continued such till Charles VII. brought in
Two gallant Commanders in the army of Henry Earl of Trestamare, whom the Black Prince, attended by the flower of the English troops (among whom was Sir William de Wodehouse) defeated and took prisoners on the frontiers of Castile, thereby restoring Peter, sirnamed the Cruel.
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