by Sir James Prior.
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.3 #2 (Jan 1862).
Vale of the Dee! While musing oft I lie,
Intent on scenes which lure the heart and eye;
When from the world the jaded soul retreats,
Finds in some nook of thine the peace it greets;
Pleased to escape from small yet needful cares—
Pleased more to shut out Fashion's whims and airs;
Fly thoughtless friends who may enjoyment spoil,
Read e'en their letters as it were a toil!
Ease is the aim—for this all else resigned,
Save soft, unbroken love-links, left behind.
Health too invites—for study's ills and throes
Send us exhausted most to seek repose.
Or, should I stroll, what varying paths pursue!
Skirt far thy stream, or scale the mountain view;
Rest nigh yon cottage, rustic lore to win—
Chat with the children or the dames within;
Hear what misfortunes wait the Farming trade,
No sun—no rain—bad crops from plough or spade!
Question the Peasant, deep in herds and flocks—
Note babbling waters vaulting o'er rough rocks;
See from the bridge, whence tender hearts may grieve,
How artful anglers guileless fish deceive;
Just as their captors, scarce more wise, await
Some treacherous hook enwrapped in worldly bait!
I thread the Village—see from out the "Hand"
Gay travelling groups now cluster, now expand;
Alone some wander, some employed are still—
One lauds in Verse—one courts the Painter's skill,—
As genius prompts—his aptful Art employs
To grave on paper what the eye enjoys—
For poems and pictures deep in memory stay,
Oft fond I've sought them far as Ind away.
When sun-scorched scenes and darkened features pall,
How home's fair friends and landscapes we recall!
Again I turn—new combinations rise,
Heights, groves, and gardens stamped with Autumn's dyes;
I court them all, no spot of interest lose,
But, as in life, my own free pathway choose;
No churlish Farmer to ill-humour yields,
Points to the road—a hint to quit his fields.
I seek prolific hedges—nor in vain—
On sable berries play the boy again!
Spend amid coverts many a dreamy hour,
Glean from thy woods rare plant or odorous flower;
Glance o'er where life in yonder whitened cot,
May, if man wills it, pass without a blot.
So some have thought—by taste or fancy led—
Who in youth's bloom from rank and fashion fled;
Gave up their Maiden loves and Pleasure's sway,
On Time, not Man, to cast their charms away;
Weaned from those deep emotions, tender ties,
Which in devoted Woman's heart arise
For all she loves—and here estranged from strife
Passed on unjustled by the crowds of life.[1]
Once thus I dreamt to dwell—'mid learned lore—
Ere linked by Fortune to Life's labouring oar;
When far adventures fired the youthful breast,
And warlike wanderings banished lettered rest,
Onward, by ceaseless novelty beguiled,
Rocked by the surge as matrons do the child,
Through oceans wild, or lands obscure, to stray,
Met, yet escaped from, perils of the way;
Scanned varying races—actions, passions, looks—
Read uncouth nations as if living books!
Saw Savage war with Savage—marked the Slave
Throw Slavery's chain o'er men as free as brave,
Ready—his own and others' rights forgot—
To cast on all the wretch's bitterest lot,
Till Britain wrenched the iron links of toil,
And ease and freedom gave to many a soil.
But ramblings ceased. To scenes of thine I flee,
Or, if not thine, which prove akin to thee,
As grot or dell invites me—or the glade
Bye-paths, or hedge-rows, or yon beech's shade;
Unheeded stroll, no misadventures fear—
Few fellow-wanderers cross my rovings here,
Save, if disposed on yon green bank to sleep,
Roused by a straggling ox or wondering sheep,
Who, while they brouse, indulge a bold-faced stare—
As if to question what my object there!
'Tis—that from flowerets wild I sweets inhale,
Sweep round yon steep-browed hill and trace the vale;
Point now my glass to heights confused and rude,
Doubt whether there the princely Wynstay stood;
Fallen—yet revives—whose halls again will soar
Fresh from their ashes—nobler than before!
No sameness tires me—barren spots, or dull,
All seems of varied beauty, richness, full—
Here gay, there simple—farther, bold or grand,
Inventive Nature plies her plastic hand,
Moulds or adapts to each its fitting part,
Or yields a touch—and but a touch—of Art—
As Park or Mansion, veiled afar by trees,
Just drops the hint of rich, though laboured, ease—
Fond that she can in wild exuberance show
How much to her—to Art how little, owe.
Thus vivid memory paints thy changeful hue;
The eye confirms it—not more warm than true;
I pause to praise—or saunter to describe,
Lured by resistless rural beauty's bribe—
That soothing, softening influence, which bestows
Calm even on grief—to fretted minds repose;—
Feel, while I view thee, warmth within me reign,
Nay, for the moment, tread alert again!
Nor shall descending life, inactive limb,
Or fading eye, to thee be dull or dim.
So peaceful all—pure—picturesque appear,
Such shall I hope to greet thee many a year!
1. This allusion, as will be readily supposed, applies to Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, who, influenced by rural beauties and love of seclusion, transferred themselves for life from Ireland, their native country, to Llangothlen. Their excursions hence were few, though one or two are recorded—one, indeed, by the late Charles Mathews. On their deaths, after about fifty years' residence, the experiment was renewed in the same cottage by two English ladies. One, however, died soon, which broke up the establishment. It was occupied when I was there by others—is without pretence—the front rather too thickly covered by creeping plants—and the gardens not then in the most careful order.