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Poem by Aubrey Thomas De Vere


To Wordsworth, on Visiting the Duddon


I.

SO long as Duddon twixt his cloud-girt walls
Thridding the woody chambers of the hills
Warbles from vaulted grot and pebbled halls
Welcome or farewell to the meadow rills;
So long as linnets chant low madrigals
Near that brown nook the laborer whistling tills,
Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls
Mid dewy brakes the autumnal redbreast thrills,
So long, last poet of the great old race,
Shall thy broad song through Englands bosom roll,
A river singing anthems in its place,
And be to later England as a soul.
Glory to Him who made thee, and increase
To them that hear thy word, of love and peace!

II.

WHEN first that precinct sacrosanct I trod
Autumn was there, but Autumn just begun;
Fronting the portals of a sinking sun,
The queen of quietude in vapor stood,
Her sceptre oer the dimly crimsoned wood
Resting in light. The years great work was done;
Summer had vanished, and repinings none
Troubled the pulse of thoughtful gratitude.
Wordsworth! the autumn of our English song
Art thou; t was thine our vesper psalms to sing:
Chaucer sang matins; sweet his note and strong,	
His singing-robe the green, white garb of Spring:
Thou like the dying year art rightly stoled,
Pontine purple and dark harvest gold.



Aubrey Thomas De Vere

Poem Themes: Rivers, Rivers of England, Duddon

Aubrey Thomas De Vere's other poems:
  1. Kinsale
  2. The Dirge of Athunree
  3. A Ballad of Athlone; Or, How They Broke down the Bridge
  4. Roisin Dubh; Or, the Bleeding Heart
  5. Early Friendship


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