A View From The Tandle Hills, In The Month Of May. Poem by Samuel Bamford

The eye of the morning is open wide,
And the sun comes up from the heaving tide
That rolls at the foot of his burning throne,
The girdle of regions that are not known;
And the bright clouds are lying all tranquilly,
Like islands of glory far away;
And the wan moon is hung in the deep abyss,
Like something lost from the realms of bliss,
She leans on her lurid and waning side;
As if she were seeking her face to hide
From the light intense, and the amber glare,
That flash from the God in the eastern air.

Over the earth as mine eye is cast,
The mists of the morning away have pass'd;
The moorlands dark and far are seen,
The pastures are mantled all in green;
The trees are adorn'd with spicy buds,
Like scattered gems on the sunbright woods;
Whilst down in the dell doth the rindle spring,
Glimmering dimly, and murmuring,
Where pebbles are dark and waters clear,
As a sloe black eye and a pearly tear;
And the woodbine is hung over that pale gleam,
And the green moss is creeping towards the stream,
And the tall oaks are up at the light of day,
And waving aloft where the winds do play.

And, lo! what a world is before me spread,
From the fringed dell to the mountain head!
From the spangled turf, whereon I stand,
To the bend of heaven and the verge of land!
Like an ocean cradle deep it lies;
To the right, to the left, dark hills arise,
And Blackstone-Edge, in his sunless pride,
Doth York from Lancaster divide;
Whilst, on to the south if away we bear,
Oh! what shall bar our progress there?
Nought, save the blending of earth and sky,
Dim, and afar as eternity!

But where the vision begins to fail
There seem to be hills of a cloudy pale,
And next is a track of level land,
As if rollèd flat by a mighty hand!
And the kindling smoke of a waking town,
And meadows' sheen and mosses brown,
And windows glittering in the light,
And a long canal like a streamlet bright,
And the park, once famed for bowmen's play,
And the lorldly dome of the noble Grey,
And the vale where Assheton dwelt of yore,
And the hall which Radcliffe knows no more!

What mountain is yonder so dark and cold?
A spirit hath said, 'I am Oaphin of old,—
I am Oaphin of old, erst the dwelling place
Of the British as well as the Roman race.
I have glens that are deep, I have moorlands wide,
Which I give to thy gaze on the Yorkshire side;
I have valleys all shining and waters dumb,
And caverns and rocks where thou darest not come.
I can point to the path which the Romans made—
To the forts where their summer camps have stay'd;
And altars and symbols are still to be seen,
The relics of nations that here have been—
That here have been, and that are no more—
For one is dust on the Adrian shore,
Of one doth a remnant alone remain,
In the land where their fathers held their reign.
Oh, daughter of Cambria! lone and fair,
With thine harp that is mute, and thy flowing hair,
And thy cheek so pale, and thy sad look east
Whence freedom and glory for ever have past!
It is but a cloud that is floating by—
Llewellyn's bright banner no more will fly!
It is not the shout of thine armed men,
Rushing with Glendower to battle again:
But from thine ocean that cannot abide,
Ariseth the roar of the ceaseless tide;
And, 'stead of the song of thy olden day,
Comes the moan of the winds as they hurry away!'