The River Axe

First of Devon's thousand streams
(Beside whose banks no poet dreams,
Since to her praise old Drayton framed
His pastoral reed, yet scarcely named),—
Silver Axe,—who, though her course
She fetches from a distant source.
And Dorset's Downs, as on she glides,
From fruitful Somerset divides,
Yet justly I Devonian name her,
And for that nobler province claim her
(No less than Exe, or western Tamar),
Amongst whose nymphs she's always numbered,
And christens seaport, burgh, and hundred.
From London cares and London follies,
To Devon's verdant oaks and hollies.
As, year by year, the dog-star leads me.
And with sweet thoughts of childhood feeds me
(Those best and purest thoughts that ever,
Through life's long intermittent fever,
Like health-restoring cordials enter.
And in the inmost bosom center),
Thee first, sweet nymph, my eyes salute,—
Thee last, when autumn's faded fruit,
Falling in lap of sad November,
Bids me the waning months remember.
And leave the country's tranquil joys
For city crowds and wrangling noise.
Hail, modest streamlet!—on whose bank
No willows grow, nor osiers dank,
Whose waters form no stagnant pool.
But ever sparkling, pure, and cool,
Their snaky channel keep, between
Soft swelling hills of tender green,
That freshens still as they descend
In gradual slope of graceful bend,
And in the living emerald end,—
On whose soft turf supinely laid
Beneath the spreading beechen shade,
I trace, in Fancy's waking dream.
The current of thine infant stream.
Then crowd upon my mental gaze
Dim visions of the elder days;
Shrouded in black Cistercian cowl,
They pass like spectres o'er my soul.
On each pale cheek and furrowed brow
Impressed the wretched exile's woe.

But pious Adeliza, there,
Fair Devon's Countess,—rich as fair,
And, more than fair or rich, devout,
Beheld them on their homeward rout,
With liberal hand relieved their woes,
And Ford's majestic abbey rose.

Age after age since then has rolled.
O'er generations dead and cold,
From sire to son twice ten times told,—
Yet flows, and will flow on forever,
The current of that peaceful river,
While priest and monk have passed away.
And sable cowl, and amice gray.
And 'broidered cope with jewels' shine.
High rood, and consecrated shrine.
In dust the holy relics lie,—
The hands that rifled them hard by,—
The mitred abbot dispossest,
The leveller with his ribald jest,
The wily lawyer, by whose craft
Was tempered the destructive shaft
That kept its destined aim concealed
Behind religion's frowning shield.
The work of reformation ended,
And in one common ruin blended
All holy and all hallowed things.
Altars and thrones, and priests and kings.

The solemn pageant passed away.
Where next, sweet river, wilt thou stray?
To Wycroft's bridge, and mouldering wall.
Which faintly marks the embattled hall,
By lordly Cobham once possest,
And trod by high and princely guest.
In Thorncombe's aisle you still may trace
The features of a gentle face.
Of knight's degree, and Cobham's race,—
Glorious in brass,—and at his side,
The image of his lady bride,
And charactered in letters fair,
THOMAS BROOK, KNYGHT engraven there.
No more remains,—the when, the where,
The how, he lived and fought and died,
Or who the lady at his side.
The brass has long forgot to tell;
Nor, can the keen explorer spell
(With all his pains) one smallest trace
Of the short, pious prayer for grace
That ends the monumental scroll,—
"The Lord have mercy on his soul.'
Yet to the heart it teaches more
Than tomes of theologic lore;
A proverb, or grave homily.
Of most sententious brevity
On mortal durability.
Such wisdom is in crumbled bones!
Such are the sermons preached by stones!
Let but a few short lustres pass,
The tablet of recording brass
(Raised for eternity) may show
No more than he who sleeps below,—
Nay, even his feeble fleshly form.
Spite of corniption and the worm.
Outlasts, within its bed of earth,
The pompous verse that boasts its worth.

Now to old ocean's hollow cave
Axe pours a broader, deeper wave,
Swoln by a thousand nameless rills.
Fast trickling from the western hills.
That with their woody summits crown
Old Colyton's baronial town,
And Colcombe's walls (with ivy dark).
And Shute's gray towers and mossy park,—
No longer now defiance breathing,
As when stout Devon's Earl, unsheathing
The sword in sainted Henry's right.
Challenged fierce Bonville to the fight
(Plantagenet's devoted knight).
This is no dream! I see them yet.
As when on Clyst's brown heath they met
(Radiant in arms), and with them, set
In meet array on either side
(As swayed by favour, or allied
In kindred ties of blood and name),
All Devon's worthies crowding came,
Eager to try the desperate game.
Alike regardless of the cause.
Each for his feudal chieftain draws
The ready glaive, content to share
With him the toils and meed of war.
And leave the schoolmen to debate
Those knottier subtleties of state,
Whether the red rose or the white,
The king in fact or king by right,
Holds Heaven's commission in the fight.