Barnham Water

Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung,
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The midday sun in all his power
The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,
Where one small streamlet crossed the way.

What was it roused my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,
And never brook seemed half so clear.
Cool passed the current o'er my feet,
Its shelving brink for rest was made,
But every charm was incomplete,
For Bamham Water wants a shade.

There, faint beneath the fervid sun,
I gazed in ruminating mood ;
For who can see the current run
And snatch no feast of mental food?
"Keep pure thy soul," it seemed to say;
"Keep that fair path by wisdom trod,
That thou mayst hope to wind thy way
To fame worth boasting, and to God."

Long and delightful was the dream,
A waking dream that Fancy yields,
Till with regret I left the stream,
And plunged across the barren fields;
To where of old rich abbeys smiled
In all the pomp of Gothic taste,
By fond tradition proudly styled
The mighty "City in the East."

Near, on a slope of burning sand,
The shepherd boys had met to play,
To hold the plains at their command.
And mark the traveller's leafless way.
The traveller with a cheerful look
Would every pining thought forbear,
If boughs but sheltered Barnham brook
He'd stop and leave his blessing there.

The Danish mounds of partial green,
Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene
Proclaim their wondrous length of days.
My burning feet, my aching sight,
Demanded rest,—why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heaven! it was a sin to sleep.

All rushing came thy hallowed sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
"'Tis here that Eastern greatness lies,
That might, renown, and wisdom rest!
Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
To chiefs who swayed prodigious powers,
The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,
From Framlingham's imperial towers."

Full of the mighty deeds of yore,
I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar.
Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Blessed be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made;
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet Barnham Water wants a shade.

Whatever hurts my country's fame.
When wits and mountaineers deride,
To me grows serious, for I name
My native plains and streams with pride.
No mountain charms have I to sing,
No loftier minstrel's rights invade;
From trifles oft my raptures spring;
Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade.