Though thy fabric stands,
The boast of Severn's winding sands
If grandeur, beauty, grace, can stay
The traveller on his homeward way.
There rests the Norman prince who rose
In zeal against the Christian's foes,
Yet doom'd at home to pine and die,
Of birthright rob'd, and liberty;
Foil'd was the lance he well could fling,
Robert[A], who should have been a king;
[Footnote A: The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprisoned
eight-and-twenty years by his own brother!]
His tide of wrongs he could not stem,
His brothers filch'd his diadem.
There sleeps the king who aim'd to spurn
The daring Scots, at Bannockburn,
But turn'd him back, with humbled fame,
And _Berkley's "shrieks_"[B] declare his name.
[Footnote B: "Shrieks of an agonizing king."]
Cease, cease the lay, the goal is won,
But silent memory revels on;
Fast clos'd the day, the last bright hour,
The setting sun, on DURSLEY tower,
Welcom'd us home, and forward bade,
To ULEY valley's peaceful shade.
Who so unfeeling, who so bold,
To judge that fictions, idly told,
Deform the verse that only tries
To consecrate realities?
If e'er th' unworthy thought should come,
Let strong conviction strike them dumb.
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