THE AVON. HE Avon to the Severn runs, THE The Severn to the sea, And Wickliffe's dust shall spread abroad, Wide as the waters be. Anonymous. Avon, the River (Lower). THE EBB-TIDE. LOWLY thy flowing tide SLOWL Came in, old Avon! Scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood-side, Perceive its gentle rise. With many a stroke and strong The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars; Yet little way they made, though laboring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide Now o'er the rocks, that lay So silent late, the shallow current roars; Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, Avon! I gaze, and know The lesson emblemed in thy varying way: Kingdoms which long have stood, And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high Fortune's flood They ebb to ruin fast. Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage; Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age! Robert Southey. FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON. ÎNTER this cavern, Stranger! Here, awhile ENTE Respiring from the long and steep ascent, Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun Sheltered beneath this beetling vault of rock. Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms, The antique ivy spreads a canopy, From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect In autumn their last store. The Muses love This spot; believe a Poet who hath felt Their visitation here. The tide below, Here thou mayst feel How good, how lovely, Nature! And when, hence Returning to the city's crowded streets, Thy sickening eye at every step revolts From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect That Man creates the evil he endures. Robert Southey. Bala-sala. AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FRIEND. ROKEN in fortune, but in mind entire BROKEN And sound in principle, I seek repose A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee; A shade, but with some sparks of heavenly fire Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought, "Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day!” William Wordsworth. YE Bamborough. BAMBOROUGH CASTLE. holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time Assail and the winds of winter sweep you, Round your dark battlements; for far from halls Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat, Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, And turns her ear to each expiring cry; Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch may save, And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave. William Lisle Bowles. Banwell Hill. BANWELL HILL. ERE let me stand, and gaze upon the scene; HE That headland, and those winding sands, and mark The morning sunshine, on that very shore Where once a child I wandered. O, return (I sigh), return a moment, days of youth, Of childhood, O, return! How vain the thought, For this wide view is like the scene of life, Home of my infancy, I see thee not, I see thee not, Thou fane that standest on the hill alone, The homeward sailor's sea-mark; but I view Brean Down beyond; and there thy winding sands, Where stretches into mist the Severn Sea. There in mid-channel sit the sister-holms, |