The inward torrent pours along;
Then ebbing turns, and turns again,
To meet the Severn and the Main,
Beneath the dark shade sweeping round,
Of beetling PERSFIELD'S fairy ground,
By buttresses of rock upborne,
The rude APOSTLES all unshorn.

Long be the slaught'ring axe defy'd;
Long may they bear their waving pride;
Tree over tree, bower over bower,
In uncurb'd nature's wildest power;
Till WYE forgets to wind below,
And genial spring to bid them grow.

And shall we e'er forget the day,
When our last chorus died away?
When first we hail'd, then moor'd beside
Rock-founded CHEPSTOW'S mouldering pride?
Where that strange bridge[1], light, trembling, high,
Strides like a spider o'er the WYE;
[Footnote 1: "On my arrival at Chepstow," says Mr. Coxe, "I walked to the
bridge; it was low water, and I looked down on the river ebbing between
forty and fifty feet beneath; six hours after it rose near forty feet,
almost reached the floor of the bridge, and flowed upward with great
rapidity. The channel in this place being narrow in proportion to the
Severn, and confined between perpendicular cliffs, the great rise and fall
of the river are peculiarly manifest."]
When, for the joys the morn had giv'n,
Our thankful hearts were rais'd to heav'n?