Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CHIGWELL REVISITED, by JAMES SMITH (1775-1839)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHIGWELL REVISITED, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Deputed by the tuneful nine
Last Line: And wormwood at the bottom.
Subject(s): Death; Fate; Life; Time; Dead, The; Destiny


DEPUTED by the tuneful Nine,
A pilgrim to an Eastern shrine,
I once again out-sally;
Again to Ch gwell wander back,
And, more excursive, aim to track
Each neighbouring hill and valley.

Strange that a village should survive,
For ten years multiplied by five,
The same in size and figure.
Knowing not plenty nor distress --
If foiled by fortune, why no less?
If favoured, why no bigger?

Say, why has population got
Speed-bound upon this level spot,
Undamaged by profusion?
A tyro, I the question ask --
Be thine, Miss Martineau, the task
To tender the solution.

I pass the Vicar's white abode,
And, pondering, gain the upward road,
By busy thoughts o'erladen,
To where "The pride of Chigwell-row"
Still lives -- a handsome widow now,
As erst a lovely maiden.

Here hills and dales and distant Thame,
And forest glens, green proof proclaim
Of Nature's lavish bounty,
And dub thee, lofty region, still
Surrey's tall foe, the Richmond Hill
Of this our eastern county.

Diverging from the road, the sod
I tread that once a boy I trod,
With pace not quite so nimble --
But where's the May-pole next the lane?
Who dared to banish from the plain
That wreathed-encircled symbol?

ABRIDGE, her tank, and waterfall,
The path beneath Sir Eliab's wall,
I once again am stepping;
Beyond that round we rarely stirred,
LOUGHTON we saw, but only heard
Of Ongar and of Epping.

Seek we "the river's" grassy verge,
Where all were destined to immerge,
Or willing or abhorrent;
I view the well-known "Mill-hole" still --
But time has dwindled to a rill
What seemed, of yore, a torrent.

Here, fell destroyer, many a wound
The woodman's axe has dealt around;
Lee Grove in death reposes.
Yet while her dryads seek their tombs,
The miller's moated garden blooms
With all its wonted roses.

There, in yon copse, near Palmer's Gate,
Reclined, I mourned my hapless fate,
Zerbino amoroso,
Glad to elope from both the schools,
"The world shut out," intent on Hoole's
"Orlando Furioso."

Twilight steals on: I wander back;
The listless ploughman's homeward track,
Again in thought I follow;
Or sit the antique porch within,
Awed by the belfry's deafening din,
And watch the wheeling swallow.

Chigwell, I cease thy charms to sing --
Time bears me elsewhere on his wing;
Perhaps, ere long, the poet,
Who now, in mental vigour bold,
Parades, erect, thy churchyard mould,
May sleep, supine, below it.

So let it be: Time, take thy course;
Let dotards with tenacious force
Cling to this waning planet --
I'd rather soar to death's abode
On eagle wings, than "live a toad"
Pent in a block of granite.

Grant me the happier lot of him,
Elate in hope, alert in limb,
Who hurls Bellona's jav'lin;
Fame's laurel ardent to entwine,
Dares death above the countermine,
And meets him on the rav'lin.

I fear not, Fate, thy pendant shears --
There are who pray for length of years;
To them, not me, allot'em:
Life's cup is nectar at the brink,
Midway a palatable drink,
And wormwood at the bottom.





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