[condensed version ~ my edit.] AMWELL, A DESCRIPTIVE POEM BY JOHN SCOTT. THERE dwells a fond desire in human minds, When pleased, their pleasure to extend to those Of kindred taste ; and thence th inchanting arts Of Picture and of Song, the semblance fair Of Natures forms produce. This fond desire Prompts me to sing the lonely sylvan scenes Of AMWELL ; which, so oft in early youth, While novelty enhancd their native charms, Gave rapture to my soul ; and often, still, On lifes calm moments shed serener joy. Descriptive Muse ! whose hand along the stream Of ancient Thames, thro Richmonds shady groves, Didst bring sweet strains of rural melody, (Alas, no longer heard !) vouchsafe thine aid : From all our rich varieties of view, What best may please, assist me to select, With art dispose, with energy describe, And its full image on the mind impress. And ye, who eer in these delightful fields Consumd with me the social hour, while I Your walk conducted oer their loveliest spots, And on their fairest objects fixd your sight ; Accept this verse, which may to memory call That social hour, and sweetly varied walk ! And thou, by strong connubial union mine ; Mine, by the stronger union of the heart ; In whom the loss of parents and of friends, And Her, the first fair partner of my joys, All recompensd I find ; whose presence chears The soft domestic scene ; Maria, come ! The Country calls us forth ; blithe Summers hand Sheds sweetest flowers, and Mornings brightest smile Illumines earth and air ; Maria, come ! By winding pathways thro the waving corn, We reach the airy point that prospect yields, Not vast and awful, but confind and fair ; Not the black mountain and the foamy main ; Not the throngd city and the busy port ; But pleasant interchange of soft ascent, And level plain, and growth of shady woods, And twining course of rivers clear, and sight Of rural towns and rural cots, whose roofs Rise scattering round, and animate the whole. Far towrds the west, close under sheltering hills, At distance rising thro the tufted trees Elysian scene ! recluse as that, so famd For solitude, by Warwicks ancient walls, Where under umbrage of the mossy cliff Victorious Guy, so legend says, reclind His hoary head beside the silver stream, In meditation rapt Elysian scene ! At evening often, while the setting sun On the green summit of thy eastern groves Pourd full his yellow radiance ; while the voice Of Zephyr whispering midst the rustling leaves, The sound of water murmuring thro the sedge, The turtles plaintive call, and music soft Of distant bells, whose ever varying notes In slow sad measure movd, combind to sooth The soul to sweet solemnity of thought ; Beneath thy branchy bowers of thickest gloom, Much on the imperfect state of Man I have musd : To private woes then oft has Memory passd, And mournd the loss of many a friend belovd ; Of thee, De Home, kind, generous, wise, and good ! And thee, my Turner, who in vacant youth, Here oft in converse free, or studious search Of classic lore, accompanied my walk ! From Wares green bowers, to Devons myrtle vales, When melancholy thus has changed to grief, That grief in soft forgetfulness to lose, I have left the gloom for gayer scenes, and sought . Thro winding paths of venerable shade, The airy brow where that tall spreading beech Oer-tops surrounding groves, up rocky steeps, Tree over tree disposd ; or stretching far Their shadowy coverts down th indented side Of fair corn-fields ; or piercd with sunny glades, That yield the casual glimpse of flowery meads And shining silver rills ; on these the eye Then wont to expatiate pleasd ; or more remote Survey d yon vale of Lee, in verdant length Of level lawn spread out to Kents blue hills, And the proud range of glittring spires that rise In misty air on Thames crowded shores. How beautiful, how various, is the view Of these sweet pastoral landscapes ! fair, perhaps, As those renownd of old, from Tabors height, Or Carmel seen ; or those, the pride of Greece, Tempe or Arcady ; or those that gracd The banks of clear Elorus, or the skirts Of thymy Hybla, where Sicilias isle Smiles on the azure main ; there once was heard The Muses lofty lay. How beautiful, How various is yon view ! delicious hills Bounding smooth vales, smooth vales by winding streams Divided, that here glide thro grassy banks In open sun, there wander under shade Of aspen tall, or ancient elm, whose boughs Oerhang grey castles, and romantic farms, And humble cots of happy shepherd swains. Delightful habitations ! with the song Of birds melodious charmd, and bleat of flocks From upland pastures heard, and low of kine Grazing the rushy mead, and mingled sounds Of falling waters and of whispring winds Delightful habitations ! oer the land Dispersd around, from Walthams osierd isles To where bleak Nasings lonely tower oer looks Her verdant fields ; from Raydons pleasant groves And Hunsdons bowers on Storts irriguous marge, By Rhyes old walls, to Hodsdons airy street ; From Halys woodland to the flowry meads Of willow shaded Stansted, and the slope Of Amwells Mount, that crownd with yellow corn There from the green flat, softly dwelling, shows Like some bright vernal cloud by Zephyrs breath Just raisd above the horizons azure bound. As one long travelld on Italias plains, The land of pomp and beauty, still his feet On his own Albion joys to fix again ; So my pleasd eye, which oer the prospect wide Has wanderd round, and various objects markd, On Amwell rest at last, its favourite scene ! How picturesque the view ! where up the side Of that steep bank, her roofs of russet thatch Rise mixd with trees, above whose swelling tops Ascends the tall Church towr, and loftier still The hills extended ridge. How picturesque ! Where slow beneath that bank the silver stream Glides by the flowery isle, and willow groves Wave on its northern verge, with trembling tufts Of osier intermixd. How picturesque The slender group of airy elm, the clump Of pollard oak, or ash, with ivy brown Entwind ; the walnuts gloomy breadth of boughs, The orchards ancient fence of rugged pales, The haystacks dusky cone, the moss-grown shed, The clay-built barn ; the elder-shaded cot, Whose white-washd gable prominent thro green Of waving branches shows, perchance inscribd With some past owners name, or rudely gracd With rustic dial, that scarcely serves to mark Times ceaseless flight ; the wall with mantling vines Oerspread, the porch with climbing woodbine wreathd, And under sheltering eaves the sunny bench Where brown hives range, whose busy tenants fill, With drowsy hum, the little garden gay, Whence blooming beans, and spicy herbs, and flowers, Exhale around a rich perfume ! Here rests The empty wain ; there idle lies the plough : By Summers hand unharnessd, here the steed, Short ease enjoying, crops the dasied lawn ; Here bleats the nursling lamb, the heifer there Waits at the yard-gate lowing. I strew fresh flowers, and make a moments pause Of solemn thought ; then seek th adjacent spot, From which, thro these broad lindens verdant arch, The steeples Gothic wall and window dim In perspective appear ; then homeward turn By where the Muse, enamourd of our shades, Deigns still her favouring presence ; where my friend, The British Tasso,* oft from busy scenes To rural calm and letterd ease retires. * The British Tasso = Mr. Hoole, translator of Tassos Jerusalem Delivered. As some fond lover leaves his favourite nymph, Oft looking back, and lingering in her view, So now reluctant this retreat I leave, Look after look indulging ; on the right, Up to you airy battlements broad top Half veild with trees, that, from th acclivious steep, Just like the pendent gardens, famd of old, Beside Euphrates bank; then, on the left, Down to those shaded cots, and bright expanse Of water softly gliding by : once, where That bright expanse of water softly slides, Oer hung with shrubs that fringd the chalky rock, A little fount pourd forth its gurgling rill, In flinty channel trickling oer the green, From Emma namd ; perhaps some sainted maid, For holy life reverd ; to such, erewhile, Fond Superstition many a pleasant grove, And limpid stream, was wont to consecrate. Of Emmas story nought Tradition speaks ; Conjecture, who, behind Oblivions veil, Along the doubtful past delights to stray, Boasts now, indeed, that from her well the place Receivd its appellation.* Thou, sweet Vill, Farewell ! and ye, sweet fields, where Plentys horn Pours liberal boons, and Health propitious deigns Her cheering smile ! you not the parching air Of arid sands, you not the vapours chill Of humid fens, annoy ; Favonius wing, From off your thyme-banks and your trefoil meads, Wafts balmy redolence ; robust and gay Your swains industrious issue to their toil, Till your rich glebe, or in your granaries store Its generous produce ; annual ye resound The ploughmans song, as he thro reeking soil Guides slow his shining share ; ye annual hear The shouts of harvest, and the prattling train Of cheerful gleaners : and th alternate strokes Of loud flails echoing from your loaded barns, The pallid morn in dark November wake. But, happy as ye are, in marks of wealth And population ; not for these, or aught Beside, wish I, in hyperbolic strains Of vain applause, to elevate your fame Above all other scenes ; for scenes as fair Have charmd my sight, but transient was the view: You, thro all seasons, in each varied hour For observation happiest, oft my steps Have traversd oer ; oft Fancys eye has seen Gay Spring trip lightly on your lovely lawns, To wake fresh flowers at morn ; and Summer spread His listless limbs, at noon-tide, on the marge Of smooth translucent pools, where willows green Gave shade, and breezes from the wild mints bloom Brought odour exquisite ; oft Fancys ear, Deep in the gloom of evening woods, has heard The last sad sigh of Autumn, when his throne To Winter he resigned ; oft Fancys thought, In extasy, where from the golden east, Or dazzling south, or crimson west, the Sun A different lustre oer the landscape threw, Some Paradise has formd, the blissful seat Of Innocence and Beauty ! while I wishd The skill of Claude, or Rubens, or of Him Whom now on Lavants banks,* in groves that breathe Enthusiasm sublime, the Sister Nymphs Inspire ; that, to the idea fair, my hand Might permanence have lent ! Attachment strong Springs from delight bestowd ; to me delight Long ye have given, and I have given you praise !
Posted on: Mon, 26 Jan 2015 06:47:16 +0000
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