Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
RAMBLES
IN
WALTHAM FOREST.
A
STRANGER’S CONTRIBUTION
TO
THE TRIENNIAL SALE
FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE
Wanstead Lying-in Charity.
“Silver and gold have I none;—but such as I have, give I thee.”
Acts, iii. 6.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. L. COX, 75, GREAT QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S-INN FIELDS.
1827.
WALTHAM FOREST.
Land of soft showers and far-extending vales,
And woodlands fanned by summer’s gentlest gales,
And streams, that glisten as they steal, half hid
The tangled brake and waving sedge amid;
Land!—where rich plenty with abounding flow, 5
Bids ’neath her smile the golden meadow glow,
And from the juicy herbage—Nature’s wealth!
Draws the pure stream of sustenance and health;
Land—where, beneath Wealth’s hospitable dome,
Refinement dwells, and Science finds a home,— 10
In whose sweet sylvan shades the classic Muse
Her richer buds upon thy green lap strews;
With thy soft breath her tuneful whisper blends,
And to the Poet’s home her brightness lends,—
Smiles at his hearth, dispels the gath’ring tear, 15
And—dating all from Heaven—makes one here.
Nor fears the power of her spell will cease,
Breathed from the altar of domestic peace;[[1]]
Land! where my pilgrim foot in peace hath strayed,
And traced out many a fresh and grassy glade, 20
Smiling in sunlight, whilst, like former dreams,
Dimly afar the mighty City gleams;
Where o’er its lines the dancing sunbeams play,
Gilding each roof with morning’s brilliant ray—
I hail thee!—not mine own—but still dear clime! 25
Fair spread thy vales! and bright thy waters shine!
Thy flowers,—thy glens, and health-restoring breeze
Fraught with the song of birds, the hum of bees,
The low of kine, and voices clear and sweet,
That link us to the world in our retreat,— 30
These, and the grateful spell—that magic zone—
Of social pleasures o’er thy beauties thrown—
Endear thy shades, and give thy forest bowers
The tranquil charm of gay and guiltless hours.
Peaceful the day rolls here! and Friendship’s tongue— 35
That sweetest music!—breathes thy glades among,
Charming life’s harsher discords into peace;
Bidding anxiety’s sad warning cease,—
Twining with wreaths of hope a falling shrine,
Crowning with flowers the pale cold brow of Time. 40
I love thy calm! The storm-beat pinnace, driven
Before the stern breath of the threat’ning heaven,
Lies in some little bay, whose waters sleep,
Cradled by rocks from the surrounding deep:
And thus thy gentle shades seem formed to be 45
A quiet haven from a troubled sea.
Here Nature walks in brightness, and each star
Is as an altar, lit by her afar,
To His great name who bound the radiant sphere.
Each on its path foreknown, their song we hear 50
Hymning along the pure and cloudless sky
The awful story of their mystery;
For the mind tracks them, as their course they take,
E’en as with tongues of men their voices spake.
Then,—Day!—with her bright chaplet’s rosy braid, 55
In all her living hues of light arrayed,
Comes fresh o’er the green heath, and shakes the dew
From her light sandall’d foot, whose blushing hue
Seems as she trod on roses.—And, at eve,
With ling’ring steps, as weary pilgrims leave 60
The shrine they love, calm sinks the sun’s last ray,
And dovelike silence soothes the wearied day;
And Time’s swift sand in noiseless current flows,
There is nought here to break the still repose.—
Nought of the stir—the strife—the mental war— 65
Of that vast Babylon, scarce seen afar;
Where on the blue horizon’s distant verge,
Its cloudy breath floats like a rolling surge;
And in dim majesty its sacred dome,
As it would rise to seek a purer home, 70
Soaring sublime above the denser sky—
A type of Time and Immortality!—
Beams through the yellow mist, and brings again
The dreams of splendour—affluence—pleasure—gain.
And better visions:—for within thy walls, 75
London! the silent, secret blessing falls
Promised to those who, bowing not the knee
To Baal, ’mid the land’s idolatry,
The scoff of science, and the smile of pride,—
The flash of wit, and talent misapplied,— 80
Blush not to own, to serve with humble zeal
(Impressed with self-denial’s graven seal)
The God who formed them! nor reject the hand
That beckons onward t’wards the promised land;
And, pierced for us,—sets the world’s captive free— 85
His hardest service this—“believe on me.”
Aye, there be many ’mid thy darkest cells,
City, where ev’ry vice and sorrow dwells!
Who bind the harvest in no pleasant field,
Reaping with tears the increase it may yield! 90
Yet on the tablets of the age record—
“I and my house will humbly serve the Lord!”
Amid thy darkness bid Truth brightly shine,
Strong to redeem the evil of the time.
Vast City! from my dwelling’s quiet shade 95
I see thee in thy cloudy pomp arrayed,
And scarce can deem thy rush of crowds so near,
Whilst nought but Nature’s voice is stirring here!
And bees, and birds, and forest glades are nigh,
To soothe the ear and tempt the gladden’d eye. 100
Here the fawn looks from out the blossom’d brakes,—
From dewy lawns the lark’s clear hymn awakes;
The dimpling stream marks where the bright fish glide,
And the fair lily clusters o’er its tide;
The kine in scatter’d groups, with patient gaze, 105
Shine, golden-chestnut, in the sun’s glad rays;
And the gale breathes as fresh, the sky as bright,
As if no fane of Mammon met the sight!
No city on the dimm’d horizon lay
A cloud, which but a breeze might waft away: 110
So faint the trace of yon stupendous mart,
Where gold can buy—all!—genius—fame, and art!
And yet, fair scenes! these charms so well thine own,
Live to the many slandered or unknown;
Capricious Fancy, with fantastic choice, 115
For distant beauties, gives her casting voice;
To the remotest shores our isle supplies
Turns the faint gaze of her long dazzled eyes;
Shuns the rich plenty of a daily feast,
What most attainable, still valued least! 120
When from the thronged metropolis we rove
To seek the healthful gale, and bow’ry grove;
By the far Lakes, or Caledonia’s shore,
She bids our steps her mazy path explore;
In Katrine’s mirror watch the mountains sleep, 125
And wander on Helvellyn’s mighty steep;
Or where the belting Severn rolls sublime
Her copious stream, full as the tide of time,
By rock and headland wander idly by;—
Or trace thy bowers—my own romantic Wye! 130
Oh pardon!—no false renegade to thee,
With well pleased eye these milder shades I see;—
Their’s is the grace of Nature, deck’d by art,
But thou art ever nearest to my heart!
And I the well-remember’d past should wrong, 135
Neglecting thee, e’en in a transient song!
Oh! who could silent pass a scene less fair,
If life had dawned, and hope had blossom’d there!
If youth’s bright flowers in gay variety
Thy soil had nursed—no matter where to die, 140
If happiness—that gift of early years!
Had marked each scene which contrast more endears;
If long-loved voices seem to haunt the place,
And forms there hover, which no hand may trace;
If the dread seal of the all-silent grave, 145
Still uneffaced by Time’s slow-rolling wave,
Had marked the lines of some one treasur’d spot
On memory’s tablet;—who that page would blot!
No;—far from my fond hand to snatch one gem
From thy soft beauty’s regal diadem: 150
Queen of the rock! nymph of the silent shade!
Muse of the glen where my young feet have strayed;
Though now, a pilgrim, from those paths I fly,
’Mid all the goodly scenes that greet mine eye,
Their rich variety of vale and hill— 155
Thy smile is brightest—purest—loveliest still!
Away—thy banks I may not linger near;
Sweet stream! whose murmurs yet are on my ear;—
The scene around me, rich in autumn’s glow,
Untrack’d by path, unbroken by the plough, 160
Where all unseen the pensive foot may roam,
Is best befitting a recluse’s home.
It is a place of trees; their sweeping boughs
Clash in the autumn’s gusts, their crowned brows
Rise upon ev’ry steep, and throng the glade 165
With a rich mass of varied light and shade.
I love the wildness of the far spread scene:
Now lost, now caught the golden checquer’d beam,
Dancing the mossy trunks and boughs amid,
And now in depths of thicker verdure hid; 170
Whilst the far rolling of the laden wain,
Rich in its autumn store of golden grain,
Or the faint sound of the revolving wheel
Through the low-sighing branches seems to steal
Broken and fitful, o’er the extatic song 175
Of the free lark, his summer clouds among.
I love thee, Land! and where such beauties shine,
Ask not, in niggard phrase, if thou art mine?
That here the eye is pleased—the foot is free—
And the pulse healthful, is enough for me! 180
Yet art thou wrong’d—the pen, that seal of fame
Whose magic impress gilds or blights a name,
Hath striken thee;[[2]]—a base and coward dart!
I fain would pluck the arrow from thy heart;
Erase th’ accusing blot with just applause, 185
Nor spare a lance to skirmish in thy cause!
Oh! say not health avoids this balmy gale,
Or flies the pathway down that dewy vale!
Skim o’er the plain! thread the wide mazy heath,
Bright with her smile, and fragrant with her breath! 190
Doubt the dry slander of the technic sage,
And, closing his, read Nature’s gentler page!
Come with me where, o’er blythe and fertile meads,
My step untired the mould’ring abbey[[3]] leads;
Shorn of its beams, still o’er its woods it tow’rs, 195
A wreck, which yet recals its prouder hours.
Gaze on the sculptur’d arch, the massive aisle,
The niche where saint or martyr seemed to smile;
(Dwellers in heaven, and only called below
Our faith to strengthen, or to soothe our woe;) 200
The plunder’d altar in its fall behold,
Once heaped with far-sought relics, gems, and gold;
Where a king knelt,[[4]] the penance vow to pay,
And the mailed warrior came his spoils to lay;
Where the doomed Saxon, zealous for his race, 205
Deemed he endowed their last proud dwelling-place;
With wealth—and lands—enriched the holy shrine
Where he should sleep—the latest of his line!
Come to that vacant shrine—though—such the doom
Of greatness—here we trace not e’en his tomb! 210
All that this pile so changed can now record,
Is that, bowed down before the Norman’s sword,
Here the pale mother, with vain fondness, gave
Her murder’d Harold that sad boon—a grave!
Or, turning from the deeds of other days, 215
Towards yon deep groves direct the pensive gaze.
Come with me where, from many a foreign clime,
The varied marbles rise, the gildings shine;
To the free sky and laughing summer’s beam,
The paintings glow, the costly frescoes gleam; 220
And, by the idle winds of heaven laid bare,
Pomp’s gaudy pageant smiles in mock’ry there.
Wanstead!—thou spell to stay mirth’s flowing tide,
Warning!—to daunt the regal brow of pride,
Ruin!—which sunk in premature decay, 225
From ev’ry levell’d column seems to say:
“Thus human wisdom plans for endless time,
“Thus vice and folly mar the proud design;”
’Tis good to wander through thy palace bowers,
And tread the site of thy once stately towers! 230
From thy thick shades what mournful thoughts arise!
Through thy far groves the sounding axe replies;
Down sinks the pile! and ruin spreads o’er all
The silence of its dark funereal pall.
Dower of woe! a rich but fatal boon, 235
The “gilding fretted from the toy too soon;”
Is this thy wreck, a beacon, raised to tell
How vain the wealth—the pomp—we love so well?
How nothing all the splendour and the taste,
Once redolent upon this mournful waste! 240
Turn to your humbler roofs! and bless your lot,
Ye, who can claim the bliss-ennobled cot!
If, ’neath the russet thatch and lowly dome,
Peace—and her sister virtue, make their home;
Lament not thou thy board of frugal fare, 245
But with full heart ask heaven’s blessing there!
Thy prayer as free will come, as pure will rise,
As if through column’d roofs it sought the skies.
It is not marble—sculpture—painting—gold—
Can deck the page of life by time unrolled! 250
And grandeur moulders—levelled with the mean,
To warn us of the reed on which we lean.
Alas! her breast who owned this wide domain
Sighed for the calm of cottage homes in vain!
She dwelt within this master-piece of art 255
With blighted visions—and a breaking heart.
Turned on its pomps a faint accusing eye,
And asked—and vainly asked—in peace to die.
Come, from this scene so desolately fair,
Where through “the Grove”[[5]] soft plays the summer air; 260
And wooingly the sun with ev’ry breeze
Kisses the glad leaves of the whisp’ring trees;
Gilding their trunks, and on each dewy spray
Hanging a gem that sparkles in his ray.
There the magnolia’s snowy blossoms gleam, 265
Amid their glossy leaves’ umbrageous screen;
There the pale orange scents the languid gales,
And starry jasmine its sweet breath exhales;
There the rich tribes of far Columbia’s plain,
In clustering bloom awake to life again; 270
Glow the acacia’s trembling shade beneath,
Or through the crimson sumach’s palm-like leaf;
On the bright turf a gem-like radiance throw,
And glisten on the tranquil wave below.
Trace thou that bowery vista’s green alcove! 275
Through the long avenue in silence rove—
Look through the woven boughs’ fine tracery,
On the clear, blue, and joy-inspiring sky!
Oh, lovely face of Nature!—who can view
Thy smile rejoicing, nor be happy too? 280
What heart can thy enduring wonder scan,
And see unrolled thy wide and glorious plan;
Bask in thy glow, drink in thy living hues,
Yet the deep homage of the heart refuse,