The Banks of Wye: A Poem — Context and Discussion

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Authors: Bloomfield, Robert, 1766-1823 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2005 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Wye, River (Wales and England) -- Poetry; Wales, South -- Poetry Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 16,005

Reading time 70 min

Text sections 2

The Banks of Wye: A Poem — Context and Discussion can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 16,005 words, 1 hr 10 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Wye, River (Wales and England) -- Poetry,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #9047

Robert Bloomfield's 1811 poem recounts a ten-day journey down the River Wye through Gloucestershire and South Wales, capturing the awe of a first-time mountain viewer. The verse blends precise topographical detail with emotional responses, self-deprecating humor about his inexperience, and a tribute to Robert Burns, all while acknowledging the limits of a hurried tour.

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Such was the call; with instant ardour hail'd. The syren Pleasure caroll'd and prevail'd; Soon the deep dell appear'd, and the clear brow Of ULEY BURY [A] smil'd o'er all below, [Footnote A: Bury, or Burg, the Saxon name for a hill, particularly for one wholly or partially formed by art.] Mansion, and flock, and circling woods that hung Round the sweet pastures where the sky-lark sung. O for the fancy, vigorous and sublime, Chaste as the theme, to triumph over time! Bright as the rising day, and firm as truth, To speak new transports to the lowland youth, That bosoms still might throb, and still adore, When his who strives to charm them beats no more!

One August morn, with spirits high, Sound health, bright hopes, and cloudless sky, A cheerful group their farewell bade To DURSLEY tower, to ULEY'S shade; And where bold STINCHCOMB'S greenwood side. Heaves in the van of highland pride, Scour'd the broad vale of Severn; there The foes of verse shall never dare Genius to scorn, or bound its power, There blood-stain'd BERKLEY'S turrets low'r, A name that cannot pass away, Till time forgets "the Bard" of GRAY.

Quitting fair Glo'ster's northern road, To gain the pass of FRAMELODE, Before us DEAN'S black forest spread, And MAY HILL, with his tufted head, Beyond the ebbing tide appear'd; And Cambria's distant mountains rear'd Their dark blue summits far away; And SEVERN, 'midst the burning day, Curv'd his bright line, and bore along The mingled _Avon_, pride of song.

The trembling steeds soon ferry'd o'er, Neigh'd loud upon the forest shore; Domains that once, at early morn, Rang to the hunter's bugle horn, When barons proud would bound away; When even kings would hail the day, And swell with pomp more glorious shows, Than ant-hill population knows. Here crested chiefs their bright-arm'd train Of javelin'd horsemen rous'd amain, And chasing wide the wolf or boar, Bade the deep woodland vallies roar.

Harmless we past, and unassail'd, Nor once at roads or tumpikes rail'd: Through depths of shade oft sun-beams broke, Midst noble FLAXLEY'S bowers of oak; And many a cottage trim and gay, Whisper'd delight through all the way; On hills expos'd, in dells unseen, To patriarchal MITCHEL DEAN. Rose-cheek'd _Pomona_ there was seen, And _Ceres_ edg'd her fields between, And on each hill-top mounted high, Her sickle wav'd in extasy; Till Ross, thy charms all hearts confess'd, Thy peaceful walks, thy hours of rest And contemplation. Here the mind, With all its luggage left behind, Dame Affectation's leaden wares, Spleen, envy, pride, life's thousand cares, Feels all its dormant fires revive, And sees "the _Man of Ross_" alive; And hears the Twick'nham Bard again, To KYRL'S high virtues lift his strain; Whose own hand cloth'd this far-fam'd hill With rev'rend elms, that shade us still; Whose mem'ry shall survive the day, When elms and empires feel decay. KYRL die, by bard ennobled? Never; "_The Man of Ross_" shall live for ever; Ross, that exalts its spire on high, Above the flow'ry-margin'd WYE, Scene of the morrow's joy, that prest Its unseen beauties on our rest In dreams; but who of dreams would tell, Where truth sustains the song so well?

The morrow came, and Beauty's eye Ne'er beam'd upon a lovelier sky; Imagination instant brought, And dash'd amidst the train of thought, Tints of the bow. The boatman stript; Glee at the helm exulting tript, And way'd her flower-encircled wand, "Away, away, to Fairy Land." Light dipt the oars; but who can name The various objects dear to fame, That changing, doubting, wild, and strong, Demand the noblest powers of song? Then, O forgive the vagrant Muse, Ye who the sweets of Nature choose; And thou whom destiny hast tied To this romantic river's side, Down gazing from each close retreat, On boats that glide beneath thy feet, Forgive the stranger's meagre line, That seems to slight that spot of thine; For he, alas! could only glean The changeful outlines of the scene; A momentary bliss; and here Links memory's power with rapture's tear.

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Robert Bloomfield, best known for The Farmer's Boy, here turns his hand to a travel poem based on a real ten-day excursion down the Wye in 1807. The preface is unusually candid: Bloomfield warns that the party moved too fast for “correct and laborious description,” and that the poem reflects the “language and feelings of a man who had never before seen a mountainous country.” This self-awareness shapes the entire work, as the poet repeatedly measures his own astonishment against the imagined sophistication of a Swiss or Scottish Highlander. The result is a poem that is as much about the psychology of first encounter as about the landscape itself.

The Poet as Inexperienced Observer

Bloomfield’s preface frames the poem as a journal written by a man who “had never before seen a mountainous country.” This is not false modesty but a structural principle. In Book I, he describes the urge to climb higher as “that deathless wish of climbing higher,” and when he reaches a summit, the reaction is not triumph but a kind of speechless awe: “E’en the clos’d lip, half useless grown, / Drops but a word, ‘Look down; look down.’” The poem repeatedly contrasts the grandeur of the scenery with the poet’s own limited frame of reference. He calls the mountains “Alps to me,” acknowledging that what is ordinary to a native of Switzerland is extraordinary to him. This tension between the objective scale of the landscape and the subjective experience of the viewer gives the poem its distinctive voice.

A Tribute to Burns and the Question of Scale

In a striking passage, Bloomfield addresses the spirit of Robert Burns, whom he calls “the daring child / Of glorious freedom, rough and wild.” He imagines Burns on the same mountain top and wonders whether the Scottish bard would find the Welsh hills too modest for his “loud northern lyre.” Bloomfield speculates that “boasted PEN-Y-VALE had been / For thy loud northern lyre too mean,” and that “Broad-shoulder’d BLORENGE a mere knoll, / And SKYRID … a dwarfish bully.” This is not mere deference; it is a way of testing his own responses against a canonical poet of landscape. The passage ends with a firm assertion: “These are Alps to me.” The footnote on mountain heights (Sugar-Loaf 1852 feet, Blorenge 1720, Skyrid 1498) underscores the modesty of these elevations, making the poet’s awe seem both genuine and slightly self-mocking.

The Texture of the Journey: Weather, Light, and Motion

Bloomfield is attentive to the fleeting effects of weather and light. In one sequence, the party is enveloped in “a light gray haze” with “momentary drops” borne on the breeze, then the haze clears. He describes “th’ illumin’d clouds, that o’er the sky / Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped, / Dipping to every mountain’s head.” The verbs emphasize motion and transformation: the clouds “sped,” “dipped,” “dark-mingling, fading, wild.” The poet’s eye follows them “till admiration, in suspense, / Hung on the verge of sight.” This is not a static picturesque but a dynamic process of seeing. The poem’s four-book structure follows the actual route (from the Vale of Uley to Monmouth), and the table of contents for Book I lists specific locations—Ross, Wilton Castle, Goodrich Castle, Coldwell Rocks, Symmon’s Yat—giving the work a topographical precision that anchors its emotional flights.

Because the excerpts cover only Book I and the preface, the full arc of the journey—including the remaining three books—is not represented here. Readers should expect the poem to continue blending precise place-names with personal reflection, and to maintain its self-conscious stance as the work of a first-time mountain visitor. The footnotes and the preface’s apology for “inaccuracies in distances” suggest that Bloomfield is more interested in the impression of the landscape than in its exact measurement. This is a poem to be read for its honest, sometimes awkward, enthusiasm rather than for topographical authority.

Reading Bloomfield’s honest stumble at the Wye’s grandeur, I recalled a grey afternoon long ago, seated by a window, when Wordsworth’s lines first slowed my breath. Both poets share that quiet humility before a landscape they cannot fully hold. That same ache of beauty’s inadequacy lingers here, in The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 3 (of 8) — A Closer Reading, like an old familiar sigh.