Classic Poem

Will no young British bard, on rhyme intent,
Step forth and sing the beauties of Cas Gwent?
Her various charms in polished lines rehearse,
And deck her with the ornaments of verse?
At their full length in colours bright lay down
The castle, bridge, the river and the town?
Prove her from Roman Venta's ashes sprung,
And like a new-burnt phoenix, paint her young?
Shew how she still her mother's charms retains,
How still the love of freedom warms her veins,
And her old hospitable laws maintains?
Who, like Ravenna, when with her we dine,
Instead of water fobs us off with wine.
Show how her walls a semi-circle form,
A guard designed 'gainst every adverse storm;
How with the aid of her good neighbour Wye,
Chepstow may all her enemies defy?

How the white rocks that skirt the river's side
Majestic rise, like ramparts o'er the tide;
And how her figure represents a bow,
Her walls the handle, Wye the string below?
Whoe'er on Tut's-Hill takes his airy stand
Will thence the platform of the town command;
So interspersed with fruit trees that in May
It looks like famed Damascus, blooming gay;
Seems one vast sheet of pure, unsullied white,
Sweet to the smell and pleasing to the sight.
Will not a scene like this inspire to sing,
Provoke some able bard to stretch his wing?

With admiration view yon castle there!
Hung by some necromancer in the air:
High o'er the rocks see how it lifts its head!
To guard the river Vaga in her bed,
Who far beneath in perfect saftey lies,
While her tall giant never shuts his eyes.
Above the castle gate, forever green,
A vast wide-spreading ivy bush is seen,
Where the grave owl in solemn silence sleeps
And safe from boys and birds her station keeps,
But quits at night her venerable house
To find for supper a fat Chepstow mouse;
When found, in haste she stoops upon her prey,
Then back on wobbling wings her murky way
Explores, to shun the dazzling glare of day.
Thus poachers, pest of sportsmen, nightly prowl,
Taught in the dark to murder by the owl.

No better cider does the world supply
Than grows along thy borders, gentle Wye;
Delicious, strong, and exquisitely fine,
With all the friendly properties of wine.
A vast extent of country owns the sway
Of sweet Pomona, blooming queen of May,
Who guards from blights thy apple-planted vales
From Chepstow upwards to the alps of Wales.

Where cider ends, there ale begins to reign
And warms on Brecknock hills the Cambrian swain;
High on the summit of King Arthur's Chair
He quaffs his ale and breathes untainted air;
Looks down on Hereford with scornful eyes,
Esteems himself a native of the skies:
Puffed with the thoughts of his exalted birth
He scorns the humble mushroom sons of earth;
His high descent from time's first dawn can trace,
From Gomer down to Owen Tudor's race;
Thinks none so great on this terraqueous ball—
Himself the ragged emperor of all.
This mountain prince outflies ballooning kings,
A cloud his car, the winds his whistling wings.

Above Lancaut in a sequestered dell
Where monks in former days were wont to dwell,
Enclosed with woods and hills on every side,
Stands Tintern Abbey, spoiled of all her pride,
Whose mournful ruins fill the soul with awe,
Where once was taught God's holy saving law;
Where mitred abbots fanned the heavenly fire
And shook with hymns divine the heavenly choir.
Though now the fallen roof admits the day
She claims our veneration in decay;
Looks like a goodly matron, drowned in tears,
By friends forsaken and broke down with years.
Her fine old windows, arches, walls, unite
To fill the mind with pity and delight,
For from her splendid ruins may be seen
How beautiful this desecrated place has been.
Round the old walls observe the ivy twine—
A plant attached to grandeur in decline.
The tottering pile she clasps in her embrace,
With a green mask conceals its furrowed face
And keeps it standing on its time-worn base.

Here now no bell calls monks to morning prayer,
Daws only chant their early matins here;
Black forges smoke and noisy hammers beat
Where sooty cyclops, puffing, drink and sweat;
Confront the curling flames nor back retire,
But live like salamanders in the fire.
For at each stroke that's by the hammer given,
From the red iron fiery sparks are driven:
In all directions round the forge they fly,
Like lightning flash and quick as lightning die.

Here smelting-furnaces like Etna roar
And force the latent iron from the ore;
The liquid metal from the furnace runs
And, caught in moulds of sand, forms pots or guns;
Oft shifts its shape, like Proteus, in the fire—
Huge iron bars here dwindle into wire;
Assume such forms as suit the calls of trade,
Plough-share or broad-sword, pruning-hook or spade:
To all impressions the kind metal yields,
Thimbles for ladies makes, for heroes shields.
These fruits of industry enrich the place,
Where plenty smiles in every busy face.

Here, in the hollow caverns of the rocks,
Skulks in security the wily fox:
Snug in his fronzy kennel Reynard lies
And all the snares of men and dogs defies.
In vain the hounds attempt to storm his cave—
Some enter but alas! there find a grave;
Some tumble down the rocks and perish in the wave.
Confusion reigns: enraged, the baying pack
Loud and more loud renews the vain attack.
In vain the huntsmen shout and wind the horn—
The fox triumphant laughs them all to scorn.

Next round the Chapel farm our course we shape
And double here the last projecting cape;
But who can paint our wonder and surprise
When bridge and castle both at once arise
And stand before our fascinated eyes!
Where rocks, woods, water, castle, bridge unite
To form a scene of exquisite delight.
The great Lorrain, unrivalled in his art,
Whose brilliant landscapes captivate the heart,
To copy these grand objects would decline
And own they were inimitably fine:
So grand and beautiful in every part,
They triumph o'er the impotence of art.

He who by land would enter Chepstow town
Must quit his horse and lead him gently down:
The long descent so rugged is and steep
That even post-boys here for safety creep;
The sloping road demands our utmost care—
Hawker when living never galloped here.

Cats with sharp claws and nanny-goats in dread
Descend the shelving street and cautious tread.
What must we men then do to walk secure?
Observe the good old proverb—slow and sure;
For if we careless walk the slippery street
Our prostrate nether-ends the pavement greet;
And paying oft such honour to the stones
Will fix domestic prophets in our bones:
For when old bruises ache, they full as well
As corns and whip-cord change of weather tell.
But though in fear the street the stranger treads,
Within he'll find sure footing and soft beds;
The inns will furnish every want and wish,
For there he'll find good flesh, good fowl, good fish;
And those who on crimp salmon wish to feast,
In great perfection there will find it dressed.
Here is good ale, good cider and good wine
So that like sons of kings we here may dine.
In this snug town good meat and drink abound
But, strange to tell, there cannot here be found
One single inch of horizontal ground:
To social joys folks therefore here incline,
By way of exercise sit down to dine,
Grow plump and rosy, like the god of wine.

If strait the gate and narrow be the way
That leads from earth to realms of endless day,
Then through this town must be the road to heaven,
Whose gate is strait, streets narrow and uneven.
Such is the town of Chepstow, rugged, steep,
But a choice place to revel in, and sleep.

Will no young British bard, on rhyme intent,
Step forth and sing the beauties of Cas Gwent?
Her various charms in polished lines rehearse,
And deck her with the ornaments of verse?
At their full length in colours bright lay down
The castle, bridge, the river and the town?
Prove her from Roman Venta's ashes sprung,
And like a new-burnt phoenix, paint her young?
Shew how she still her mother's charms retains,
How still the love of freedom warms her veins,
And her old hospitable laws maintains?
Who, like Ravenna, when with her we dine,
Instead of water fobs us off with wine.
Show how her walls a semi-circle form,
A guard designed 'gainst every adverse storm;
How with the aid of her good neighbour Wye,
Chepstow may all her enemies defy?

How the white rocks that skirt the river's side
Majestic rise, like ramparts o'er the tide;
And how her figure represents a bow,
Her walls the handle, Wye the string below?
Whoe'er on Tut's-Hill takes his airy stand
Will thence the platform of the town command;
So interspersed with fruit trees that in May
It looks like famed Damascus, blooming gay;
Seems one vast sheet of pure, unsullied white,
Sweet to the smell and pleasing to the sight.
Will not a scene like this inspire to sing,
Provoke some able bard to stretch his wing?

With admiration view yon castle there!
Hung by some necromancer in the air:
High o'er the rocks see how it lifts its head!
To guard the river Vaga in her bed,
Who far beneath in perfect saftey lies,
While her tall giant never shuts his eyes.
Above the castle gate, forever green,
A vast wide-spreading ivy bush is seen,
Where the grave owl in solemn silence sleeps
And safe from boys and birds her station keeps,
But quits at night her venerable house
To find for supper a fat Chepstow mouse;
When found, in haste she stoops upon her prey,
Then back on wobbling wings her murky way
Explores, to shun the dazzling glare of day.
Thus poachers, pest of sportsmen, nightly prowl,
Taught in the dark to murder by the owl.

No better cider does the world supply
Than grows along thy borders, gentle Wye;
Delicious, strong, and exquisitely fine,
With all the friendly properties of wine.
A vast extent of country owns the sway
Of sweet Pomona, blooming queen of May,
Who guards from blights thy apple-planted vales
From Chepstow upwards to the alps of Wales.

Where cider ends, there ale begins to reign
And warms on Brecknock hills the Cambrian swain;
High on the summit of King Arthur's Chair
He quaffs his ale and breathes untainted air;
Looks down on Hereford with scornful eyes,
Esteems himself a native of the skies:
Puffed with the thoughts of his exalted birth
He scorns the humble mushroom sons of earth;
His high descent from time's first dawn can trace,
From Gomer down to Owen Tudor's race;
Thinks none so great on this terraqueous ball—
Himself the ragged emperor of all.
This mountain prince outflies ballooning kings,
A cloud his car, the winds his whistling wings.

Above Lancaut in a sequestered dell
Where monks in former days were wont to dwell,
Enclosed with woods and hills on every side,
Stands Tintern Abbey, spoiled of all her pride,
Whose mournful ruins fill the soul with awe,
Where once was taught God's holy saving law;
Where mitred abbots fanned the heavenly fire
And shook with hymns divine the heavenly choir.
Though now the fallen roof admits the day
She claims our veneration in decay;
Looks like a goodly matron, drowned in tears,
By friends forsaken and broke down with years.
Her fine old windows, arches, walls, unite
To fill the mind with pity and delight,
For from her splendid ruins may be seen
How beautiful this desecrated place has been.
Round the old walls observe the ivy twine—
A plant attached to grandeur in decline.
The tottering pile she clasps in her embrace,
With a green mask conceals its furrowed face
And keeps it standing on its time-worn base.

Here now no bell calls monks to morning prayer,
Daws only chant their early matins here;
Black forges smoke and noisy hammers beat
Where sooty cyclops, puffing, drink and sweat;
Confront the curling flames nor back retire,
But live like salamanders in the fire.
For at each stroke that's by the hammer given,
From the red iron fiery sparks are driven:
In all directions round the forge they fly,
Like lightning flash and quick as lightning die.

Here smelting-furnaces like Etna roar
And force the latent iron from the ore;
The liquid metal from the furnace runs
And, caught in moulds of sand, forms pots or guns;
Oft shifts its shape, like Proteus, in the fire—
Huge iron bars here dwindle into wire;
Assume such forms as suit the calls of trade,
Plough-share or broad-sword, pruning-hook or spade:
To all impressions the kind metal yields,
Thimbles for ladies makes, for heroes shields.
These fruits of industry enrich the place,
Where plenty smiles in every busy face.

Here, in the hollow caverns of the rocks,
Skulks in security the wily fox:
Snug in his fronzy kennel Reynard lies
And all the snares of men and dogs defies.
In vain the hounds attempt to storm his cave—
Some enter but alas! there find a grave;
Some tumble down the rocks and perish in the wave.
Confusion reigns: enraged, the baying pack
Loud and more loud renews the vain attack.
In vain the huntsmen shout and wind the horn—
The fox triumphant laughs them all to scorn.

Next round the Chapel farm our course we shape
And double here the last projecting cape;
But who can paint our wonder and surprise
When bridge and castle both at once arise
And stand before our fascinated eyes!
Where rocks, woods, water, castle, bridge unite
To form a scene of exquisite delight.
The great Lorrain, unrivalled in his art,
Whose brilliant landscapes captivate the heart,
To copy these grand objects would decline
And own they were inimitably fine:
So grand and beautiful in every part,
They triumph o'er the impotence of art.

He who by land would enter Chepstow town
Must quit his horse and lead him gently down:
The long descent so rugged is and steep
That even post-boys here for safety creep;
The sloping road demands our utmost care—
Hawker when living never galloped here.

Cats with sharp claws and nanny-goats in dread
Descend the shelving street and cautious tread.
What must we men then do to walk secure?
Observe the good old proverb—slow and sure;
For if we careless walk the slippery street
Our prostrate nether-ends the pavement greet;
And paying oft such honour to the stones
Will fix domestic prophets in our bones:
For when old bruises ache, they full as well
As corns and whip-cord change of weather tell.
But though in fear the street the stranger treads,
Within he'll find sure footing and soft beds;
The inns will furnish every want and wish,
For there he'll find good flesh, good fowl, good fish;
And those who on crimp salmon wish to feast,
In great perfection there will find it dressed.
Here is good ale, good cider and good wine
So that like sons of kings we here may dine.
In this snug town good meat and drink abound
But, strange to tell, there cannot here be found
One single inch of horizontal ground:
To social joys folks therefore here incline,
By way of exercise sit down to dine,
Grow plump and rosy, like the god of wine.

If strait the gate and narrow be the way
That leads from earth to realms of endless day,
Then through this town must be the road to heaven,
Whose gate is strait, streets narrow and uneven.
Such is the town of Chepstow, rugged, steep,
But a choice place to revel in, and sleep.