Classic Poem

By summer lakes and copsewoods green
We two in happy times have been;
And blyther pilgrims never rode,
Since Leven down her valley flowed,
Or mass was sung and prayer was said
In Furness o'er the Christian dead.
That was a day of love and mirth
Which may not dawn again on earth.
Each plant that in the hedges grew,
Fox-glove, and fern, and bell of blue,
And bending rose-branch—all were bright
With more than summer's common light.
We thought that day by Leven's brink
Sad thoughts which youth delights to think,
That in its musings it may feel
How well and gently love can steal
On drooping hearts and troubled eyes,
And take our sadness by surprise.
Another year is wellnigh told:
My heart and spirits have waxed old,
From growing thought, fresh gifts and fears,
More than in all my other years!
Sweet are the oaks in summer-tide
By Llynsyvaddon's reedy side,
Or the cool alders arching o'er
Where Usk indents his earthy shore.
There hath not been a brighter dawn
On old Llanthony's mountain lawn,
Or Honddy's wave—not since the hour
When Mynarch feasted in Tretower.
By rock and tree the tyrant sun
Reigned fiercely o'er the cloudless noon;
And I had dreamed yon mistwreath still
Was resting on some Cumbrian hill,
And fancy for awhile had given
To Usk the sweeter song of Leven.
Alas! how changed is all the scene,
Mountains and streams and dingles green!
The ivied tower in every vale,
Some haunt of legendary tale,
The flowery slope, the mossy spring,
No tuneful words or thoughts can bring.
They pass through spirits ill at ease,
Like summer winds through leafless trees.
For then it was thy heart and eye
That touched and stirred the poetry.
But now, among the hills alone,
The color from my dream is gone;
And lonely hearts will often move
Harsh doubts of those they fondest love.
Sadness is selfish: and the throng
Of thoughts in loneliness too strong
To make or leave a home for song!
Llanthony lurks in Ewia's vale,
And Wye half clasps her Tintern pale,
And Usk is flowing every hour
By Ragland, Brecon, and Tretower.
Yet could I see the summer smile
Just now in Furness' haunted pile,
The broken choir, the hollow grove,
Which we did people with our love,—
Wye with her woodland tides might be
A place, a name, forgot by me,
And Usk rave downward to the sea.
Yes—by my love for thee I swear
Those mountains green and valleys fair,
With all their castles, are not worth
One ruined abbey in the North.