Some summer’s day, upon that rock

Some summer’s day, upon that rock— A cliff, wherein the ravens flock, List ye to the Dart, below; See the little rapids flow:— From that proud stream no discords rise No shipwrecks e’er bedim our eyes.

Oft have I watch’d, thereon, its course, (Astride the rock, as ’twere a horse,) Singing o’er a favourite song, Twice and thrice to make it long; Then closed my ears against the stream, And fancied that it was a dream.

But when I open’d them again, I heard the same harmonious strain,— Saw the river stickling forth— Hurrying southward from the north,— And almost wish’d myself a wave, As peacefully going to my grave!

On yon domain, surnamed the “Chase,” And from the bank five furlongs’ space, Standing in a pleasant spot, ’Rises gentle Bouchier’s cot,— Directed, east, towards a vale; And west, beshelter’d from the gale.

From this rude cluster, miles away, Hills, dells, and woodlands greet the eye; None can prize it, as it should, ’Less upon the rock they’ve stood: To the right a mountain tow’reth, To the left a valley low’reth.

Ah! beauteous Dart, thou art a home— In thee a myriad fishes roam; Some, ensnared, are flung on high, Others revel ’til they die; And come what may, there is no sorrow, And no preparing for to-morrow.

Behold a sea of lofty trees— See how they gently heed the breeze— Sturdy-branching, skyward oaks, Fated for the woodman’s strokes, For thousands then were doom’d to fall,— The knight’s commands were “one and all.”

Methinks I hear the axe, and saw, Re-echoing through the wood below; And the fell-man’s clam’ring tongue Timing forth a welkin-song, Whilst he obeys the knight’s decree, And labours on right cheerfully.

Now, Time, the ablest workman there, ’ll lay the forest bleak and bare.— Listen to the crackling sound, As they topple to the ground; And where, like antler’d deer asleep, They calmly lie upon the steep:

But not like them—to rise again To grace the hillock, vale, or plain, Or bound the fence: for ever dead— Lopp’d and chopp’d from foot to head Their limbs lie scatter’d o’er the ground, Until the barker trims them round.

Ah! never more will they o’ershade The lovers’ footsteps in the glade; No: nor foxes, hares, or birds, Truant-playing flocks and herds, Will evermore again be plighting— Beneath their branches—love’s delighting.

Some hoary oaks, far down the glen, Have many a time half barr’d the sun; When the clarionet gave note, Followed by the piping flute, The cornet, trumpet, and trombone, The curling horn, and blurt bassoon;

Whilst well-dress’d youths made virgin love, And arm’d their sweethearts through the grove— Stealing from their lips a kiss— Paving paths to future bliss: While old and young were there partaking The blithe picnic’s merry-making.

Hush! listen:—fancy that you hear The banging of the bottled beer; Look, and see the sparkling glass, ’Round the festive circle pass: And then behold their smiling faces, As some for frolic make grimaces.

Conceive the scene—a “country dance,”— A granddame with a stripling, glance,— See them sweep the avenue, She ’n her new-made bonny blue: Contrive your mind to hear their laughter, As two-and-two they follow after:

Presume you see them flitting through; Return; cross hands with I, or you; Then posetting pair and pair, To the screaming fiddle’s air, Now halting step unto its tuning, And then again their flight resuming:

Observe that happy little fellow,— (Whilst those yon donkeys loudly bellow, ’Mong the ferns close by the stream,)— How he loves the bread-and-cream: His mother ’spies his pretty glances, As she, with him—her husband—dances.

I’ve been again upon that rock— A cliff, whereon the ravens flock, Listen’d to the Dart, below; Seen the little rapids flow: But I, alas! saw not those trees Which made such music in the breeze.

The knight’s commands had laid them low; Not one escaped the woodman’s blow: And that pleasant spot is bare (Save the coppice growing there), Whereon so oft the violin Had bade the merry dance begin.

Yet there remain’d a vast resource Of holy-holly, bramble, gorse, Stalwart elms, and tow’ring pine, Chesnuts, and wild eglantine, The maiden-ash, beech, whortle, larch, Nut-blooming hazel, and low birch.

Full many a time I’ve heard the horn, Along those devious pathways borne, When Sir Henry swept the vale, Reynard flew before the gale:— Alas! I know not why or how Sir Henry doth not hunt there now.

Still (fancy leads my muse to dwell On scenes I loved so truly well) Hear I now the hurried notes From o’er thirty chiming throats, As when they bounded past those rocks, A terror to the flying fox:

Close now my eyes, methinks I see A hundred hunters there with me; Horses, and their riders, standing On some spot of choice commanding; Whilst the fleet fox, awoke to day, Stirs out to buckle for the fray.

I hear, as ’twere, the signal given; Espy the creature madly driven, Bounding off towards that Tor, Where, perchance, he’d been before, And where the knave directs his nose, In hopes again t’evade his foes.

Oh! tell me, tell me, Destiny— Say, has the dark futurity Aught so joyous yet in store As those little rapids’ roar?— Or e’en that lovely scenery (Ere Bouchier sign’d that dread decree)

Which gladden’d oftentimes my soul?— Or when I lifted friendship’s bowl, With my comrades down the glen, Ere and after we were men; Whilst the shrill trumpet, or the drum, Desired the wanderers to come

To join the merry roundelay— To make the most of the blithe day— While on high God’s sun was bright?— (For after day must come the night).— Ay! canst thou answer my request, And give my longing temples rest? * * *

Alas! I fear, O Destiny, The all unknown futurity Never will again impart, By that beauteous river Dart, Or there upon those mossy rocks, Where, where the cawing raven flocks,

To me (methinks) a hundredth share Of pleasures I’ve partaken there: When full many a lovers’ vow Were made, perhaps, and broken now— Made and cemented with a kiss, Resulting in, or not in, bliss.

Thus: some unto the altar led, Have had to mourn a husband dead:— Husbands who so sprightly tript, Equally in turn have wept; And children of their parents ’reft, Now orphans to the world are left!

But there are some, I hope, more blest Than when they were the bidden guest: Turning to those scenes with pride— Where he met his future bride; Or where her lover first she saw, When saffron flushes mark’d her brow.

Since then—great changes have been wrought, And many a thoughtless stripling taught How to praise, and who to praise, How to pass his Sabbath days; And many a maiden (mother now) Have reverentially learnt to bow!

O Destiny, guide thou the hand, That once forsook his father-land, Vainly seeking after wealth, Instead of quietude and health, And train his muse, that it may tell— How sweet it is at home to dwell.