On Hearing the Woods of Canon-Teign in Devon Were to Be Cut Down
Sweet were thy banks, O Teign! thy murmurs sweet,
Thy dark brown wave that brawls along the grove,
Where the lone Druid oft was wont to rove
And 'midst the Ivy-mantled Caves retreat:
Thou too hast seen, in later times, the sport
Of tilts and tournaments, when Chudleigh's line
Rous'd many a Baron bold in arms to shine,
And claim the fairest guerdon of the Court!
But ah! no more from yonder hallow'd mould:
Lo, the base gambol, lo! the baser Lord
Barters thy broad brown oaks for filthy gold.
So may no trophy'd honors deck his board
Degenerate,—or well wrought cups unfold
The steed's success, and ill earned joys afford!
Thy dark brown wave that brawls along the grove,
Where the lone Druid oft was wont to rove
And 'midst the Ivy-mantled Caves retreat:
Thou too hast seen, in later times, the sport
Of tilts and tournaments, when Chudleigh's line
Rous'd many a Baron bold in arms to shine,
And claim the fairest guerdon of the Court!
But ah! no more from yonder hallow'd mould:
Lo, the base gambol, lo! the baser Lord
Barters thy broad brown oaks for filthy gold.
So may no trophy'd honors deck his board
Degenerate,—or well wrought cups unfold
The steed's success, and ill earned joys afford!
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