ON REVISITING THE CATHEDRAL OF

HEREFORD, 1839.

Hail, noble pile, whose tow'ring head
Smiles o'er old Vaga's winding stream;
Sacred deposit of the dead,

Whose deeds are now th' historian's theme: Within whose walls the holy word

Of truth, which brought salvation near, Still, as for centuries long pass'd, is heard, To melt the heart, and claim th' attentive ear.

Hail! venerable, noble pile!
Again I hail thy goodly sight;
Thy fretted vault, thy long-drawn aisle,
That fill my bosom with delight.
What varied thoughts possess my soul,
While pond'ring on thy spacious walls!
What by-gone scenes before my fancy roll,
Which legends tell, or memory recalls!

B

Imagination's busy wing

May take her flight to cent'ries gone,
When in mock penance Mercia's King
First planted thy foundation stone.
Here many a Prince and Prelate grave,
In gorgeous robe, and rich attire,

Swell'd th' unholy pompous train, that gave
A solemn sanction to the murd'rers hire.

Fancy may paint, in glowing strains,
The proud parade, the gaudy throng
Of mitred Abbots with their trains,

That pac'd thy cloister'd courts along;
While, rear'd with costly state, they bare
The elevated Host on high;

And monkish priestcraft lent a lofty air,
To that which should bespeak humility.

Borne on with rapid wings again,

Fancy may paint a diff'rent scene,
May tell, with waken'd grief and pain,

A tale of woe and anguish keen:

Where many' a virgin bright and fair,
The victim of a parent's pride,

Has knelt before thy shrine in mute despair,
And vow'd to be of Heaven alone the bride.

These scenes have fled, and wiser days
Have shewn the follies of the past;
The beams of truth, with brighter rays,
Now hold their influence firm and fast.
Beneath their pow'rs the darker hues

Of superstition now give way;

As fleecy clouds, surcharg'd with nightly dews,

Are scatter'd by the glare of sunshine day.

Long since the mists which once were hung

Upon Religion's sacred head,

And, like the cold torpedo, clung
With paralyzing grasp, are fled.

Long since have holier tenets bound

Upon the soul their pow'r benign; [around, And godlier forms have spread their charms That lead the heart to worship more divine.

But these are not the scenes that here
Upon my busy mem'ry hang;

But scenes of boyhood far more dear,

That mingle pain's and pleasure's pang. From this lov'd spot though fate's decree

Has forced me through the world to rove, And many' a tedious year has sever'd me, Yet nought could ever make me cease to love.

While here on thy cemented walls,
Grown grey with age, I fondly gaze;
Each niche, each buttress now recalls
Some pleasing scene of former days.
Some antic gambol each restores

With freshen'd colours to the mind, (Like sometime faded, now reviving flow'rs) And leave their long and lasting mark behind.

Here have I spent the live-long day,
With kindred spirits gay and free,
In joyous, though laborious play;
And who so happy then as we?

What though laborious! no one car'd!

To struggle through the toilsome game, Was what he lov'd-and who has ever dar'd

To call his pastime by so harsh a name?

Who flung the ball with vaunting air,
With emulation's piercing shout?

Who hit the trembling wicket fair,

And struck their crest-fall'n rivals out?

Who with elastic, pliant knee

O'er-leap'd the tombstone or the mound, That hid the bones of some once young as we, Once gay as those who o'er their ashes bound?

Who whirl'd the top with greatest skill,
Or shot the marble from the ring?

Who sought with ardent vigour still

To pluck the plume from fortune's wing? All, all, with eager hands and eyes,

(Like greyhounds from the slips set free,) Mingl'd in active strife to gain the prize, The glorious palm of hard-earn'd victory.