Tamar, the River. THE TAMAR SPRING. THE Source of this storied river of the West is on a rushy knoll, in a moorland of this parish. The Torridge also flows from the selfsame mound. FOUNT of a rushing river! wild-flowers wreathe The home where thy first waters sunlight claim: The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe, Sweet Tamar Spring! the music of thy name. On through thy goodly channel, on to the sea! Fair is the future scenery of thy days, Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride: Depths that give back the soft-eyed violets' gaze, Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide. Thine, leafy Tetcott, and those neighboring walls, Scenes fierce with men thy seaward current laves, Thou heedest not! thy dream is of the shore, My soul! my soul! a happier choice be thine, Robert Stephen Hawker. Tamworth. PLAIN NEAR TAMWORTH. Enter, with drum and colors, RICHMOND, OXFORD, SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and others, with Forces, marching. RICHMON ICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoil'd your summer-fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms, this foul swine Lies now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn. OXF. Every man's conscience is a thousand men, To fight against that guilty homicide. HERB. I doubt not but his friends will turn to us. BLUNT. He hath no friends but who are friends for fear; Which, in his dearest need, will fly from him. RICHM. All for our vantage: then, in God's name, march. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings, Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. William Shakespeare. THEY Taunton. FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON. HEY suffered here whom Jeffreys doomed to death In mockery of all justice, when the judge Unjust, subservient to a cruel king, Performed his work of blood. They suffered here, The victims of that judge and of that king; In mockery of all justice, here they bled, Slow to revenge. A miserable man, He fell beneath the people's rage, and still SWEET TAUNTON DENE. WEET Taunton Dene! thy smiling fields Once more reviving Nature yields Who rules with calm, resistless power; Through all creation's boundless zone, Nor wind within the fragrant bower Sweet Taunton Dene! O, long abide Each sound that haunts the woodland scene; Gerald Griffin. A Tavy, the River. THE TAVY. LITTLE grove is seated on the marge Of Tavy's streame, not over thicke nor large, Where every morn a quire of Silvaus sung, And leaves to chatt'ring winds serv'd as a tongue, By whom the water runs in many a ring, As if it fain would stay to heare them sing, And on the top a thousand young birds flye, To be instructed in their harmony. Neere to the end of this all-joy some grove A dainty circled plot seem'd as it strove |