And Hamo's lions dropt their gold-crown'd head; The sacred chapel sunk, the festive hall;
E'en thy tall tow'rs majestic in decay,
Like thy lost Monarch, low in ruins lay.
Thus Britain sunk, and thus sunk + Wodehousetow'r :
So sinks the sun, as o'er the turbid skies
Sudden the storm-engend'ring clouds arise,
And vex with uproar wild night's fearfull hour;
That past, his bright beams resalute the day,
And heighten'd splendors crown his orient ray:
So Britain rose, so rose my tow'red state.
But not the swelling column massy proof,
The moulded pediment, the fretted roof,
Not this fair fabric proudly elevate,
Tho' fix'd by Prowse's just palladian hand
Its princely honours stand;
Not this clear lake, whose waving crystal spreads
Round yon' hoar isle with awefull shades imbrown'd;
Down falls the chapel, last the goodly towre,
Tho' of materials so firm and stowre,
Time scarce uncements them. Like dismal fate
Does England suffer both in church and state.
Sir Bertram de Wodehouse, in the reign of Edward I. mar ried Muriel, daughter and heir of Felton.
Hamo, Lord Felton, in a ruby field,
Two lions passant ermine, crowned gold.➡
Fastolf gives or and azure quarterlye,
Upon a bend of gules white croslets three.
This house was built in the reign of Henry IV. by Sir John de Wodehouse, who by his marriage with Margaret, daughter and sole heir of Sir Thomas Fastolf, of Kimberly, enlarged his elbow room, as Sir Philip Wodehouse expresses it. The building was large and square, with a tower, a court in the middle, and moated round: it continued the seat of the family till the year 1659, when it was suffered to fall. Its ruins yet remain.
Not these pure streams that vein th' envermeil'd
Not those age-honour'd oaks wide waving round;
Exterior glories these of humbler fame,
Beam not that splendent ray which dignifies my
The Spark of Honour kindling glorious thought, The soul by warm Benevolence refin'd,
Th' æthereal glow that melts th' empassion'd mind,
And Virtue's work to fair perfection brought,
Be these my glories. And thou, pow'r benign!
Whose living splendors round the Patriot shine,
Immortal Genius of this far-fam'd land,
This sceptred isle thron'd 'midst the circling sea,
Seat of the Brave, and fortress of the Free,
Oft' hast thou deign'd to take thy hallow'd stand
These shades among; at Virtue's radiant shrine
Oft' caught the flame divine,
When dark Corruption dimm'd thy sov'reign light;
Thence beam'd thy solemn soul-ennobling ray
To gild these groves with all thy lustre bright,
Where nobly thoughtfull Mordaunt loves to stray,
And manly Prowse, with ev'ry science crown'd,
In Freedom's rustic seat the polisht Graces thron'd.
And thou, to whom thy Kymber tunes this strain,
If strain like this may reach thy nicer ear,
O deign in mine thy country's voice to hear,
Which never to a Wodehouse call'd in vain!
By the proud Honours of thy martial crest,
The trophied tombs where thy fam'd fathers rest,
By Lacy's, Clervaux, Hunsden's, Armine's name,
By Manhood's, Glory's, Freedom's, Virtue's praise,
Wake the high thought, the lofty spirit raise,
And blazon thy hereditary fame,
That Fame shall live, whilst Pride's unrighteous powr
The pageant of an hour,
Fades from the guilty scene, and sinks in night:
That Fame shall live, and spread its constant rays,
Warm like the blessed sun with genial light;
Whilst Vice and Folly spend their balefull blaze,
As meteors, glaring o'er a troubled sky,
Shoot their pernicious fires, amaze, and die."
He ceas'd his gratulation: the high strain
Pierc'd the thick gloom where Britain's genius lay
Cover'd with charmed cloud from view of day*:
He heard, and bursting thro' the falsed train
In all the majesty of empire rose,
And issued stern to quell his vaunting foes.
The Naids saw, and swell'd their surging floods;
Old Kymber saw, and smil'd; the burnisht glades
Rejoic'd; the groves wav'd their exulting shades;
And lofty Feorhou bow'd with all his woods.
The lordly lion ramping by his side,
He march'd in martial pride,
And pour'd his flaming spirit o'er the land.
The kindling hamlets, rouz'd with war's alarms,
Snatch the bright faulchion from the hireling hand
And bravely train their free-born youth to arms;
Whilst Liberty her glitt'ring ensign waves,
And bids each gen'rous son disdain an host of slaves
Then royally on th' ocean wave enthron'd,
With all his terrors arm'd, he rode sublime,
And roll'd his thunders o'er each hostile clime;
Seine's silken vassals trembled at the sound;
The cloud-wrapt promontory + shook, and all
Its rock-bas'd rampires nodded to their fall.
• A line of Spenser's F. Q
Reign ever thus, unconquer'd Britain, reign;
Whilst thy free sons in firm battalions stand,
And guard with lion ramp their native land,
Thus fix thy throne, thus rule the subject main!
So shall bright Victory o'er thy laurel'd head
Her eagle pennons spread;
Whilst soft-ey'd Peace, quitting at thy command
Her radiant orb in yon' empyreal plain,
Waves o'er the willing world her myrtle wand:
So shall the Muse her doric oat disdain,
And touch'd with sphere-born rapture's hallow'd fire, Swell her triumphal notes, and sweep the golden lyre.
THE TROUBADOUR.
Bernard de Ventadour to Agnes de Montluçon. From the old Provençal
Of Love the pangs I only know,
Yet glory in my sighs,
Nor would I any pang forego
For all that mortals prize.
Love, if so charming are thy pains,
How must thy joys be sweet!
Then let me love while life remains,
Though no return I meet.
'Tis night, and my Delia now hastens to rest;
Rapt into sweet visions, I wander alone;
Love soothes the fond wishes that glow in my breast,
With transports to Wealth, and to Grandeur unknown.
Soft, soft be thy slumbers, dear, innocent Fair!
Descend smiling Peace on my bosom's delight,
Hope sheds her pure beams on each long-nourish'd
As day brightly dawns on the shadows of night.
Reclin❜d on her pillow, now mute is that voice
Whose sounds my affection insensibly stole ;
And clos'd are those eyes, in whose beams I rejoice;
And veil'd are those lips, which enrapture my soul:
Conceal'd are those cheeks, where luxuriantly glow
The tenderest graces of beauty and youth;
And hidden from me is that bosom of snow,
The mansion of Purity, Virtue, and Truth.
She's absent :-yet, lovely and graceful to view,
Kind Fancy restores the fair pride of my heart:
Spring calls forth the verdure of Nature anew,
Her smiles to the seasons new glory impart.
No longer soft Sorrow my verse shall inspire;
Despondence has clouded my spirits too long;
In extacy sweeping the soul-breathing lyre,
Love, Hymen, and Delia awaken my song.
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