| |
| WHEN I climb to the top of some neighboring height | |
| Where the walls of old Wallingford break on the sight, | |
| My fancy the scenes of the past will renew | |
| Till the forms of my forefathers rise to my view. | |
| |
| The fur-coated savage, the armor-clad knight, | 5 |
| Issue forth from its portals to join in the fight; | |
| And past generations repeople the town, | |
| As o’er it the castle’s high battlements frown. | |
| |
| I see the bold Briton contend for his home | |
| In battle forlorn with the legions of Rome; | 10 |
| And the flaxen-haired Saxon defending the plain | |
| Against the wild rush of the death-dealing Dane. | |
| |
| Then the Norman invader appears on the scene, | |
| On whose brow are the laurels of Hastings still green; | |
| And onward resistless his followers sweep | 15 |
| Till the proud flag of Normandy floats from the keep. | |
| |
| Next, when civil contentions the country divide, | |
| By the river an army is seen on each side; | |
| But the high-swollen torrent bids bloodshed to cease, | |
| And the factions of England are blended in peace. | 20 |
| |
| Yet again and again are the ranks in array | |
| Of Briton with Briton in mortal affray; | |
| And the air rings aloud with a Puritan cheer | |
| Or the answering shout of the gay cavalier. | |
| |
| But the vision has vanished, and faded away | 25 |
| Like the dreams of the night at the dawning of day; | |
| And the feuds of old Wallingford rest and are still | |
| As the ivy-crowned ruin that sleeps on its hill. | |
| |
| All hushed are the din and the tumult of war, | |
| And the banners of battle are unfurléd no more; | 30 |
| While the husbandman ploughs and the meadow-grass waves, | |
| Where forgotten the warriors lie in their graves. | |
| |
| Calm, quiet, contented, the little town stands, | |
| Surrounded by fertile and prosperous lands; | |
| And, crowned with antiquity, dwells at its ease, | 35 |
| Encircled by hills and embosomed in trees. | |
| |
| What though restless spirits may murmur and say | |
| That its glories have with former times fled away; | |
| And o’er its decay heave a pitying sigh | |
| That the busy world passes it heedlessly by? | 40 |
| |
| So rest thee, fair Wallingford, just as thou art; | |
| Yet still to thy country fulfilling thy part, | |
| And rearing thy children, though humble they be, | |
| To stand in the ranks of the land of the free: | |
| |
| So live, though obscure and unhonored thy name, | 45 |
| Content in thy duty to seek for thy fame; | |
| And so thy old age uneventfully fleet, | |
| As calm as the river that flows at thy feet. | |
| |
