These pages were produced by Roy Mat for his Wilford & Clifton Index in 1997


Extracts From The Poem Clifton Grove

Clifton Grove
The Grove in 1997
River From Grove
Clifton Grove


Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, I come to pass the meditative hour;

To bid awile the strife of passion cease, And Oh! Thou sacred power, who rear'st on high

Thy leafy throne, where waving poplars sigh! Genius of woodland shades!

Whose mild controul Steals with resistless witchery to the soul.

Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, A livelier light upon my vision flows,

No more above the embracing branches meet, No more the river gurgles at my feet,

But seen deep, down the cliffs impending side, Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight, Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight,

And nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives him alone bliss to know,

Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,

Now apss'd what'er the uplands heights display, Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way;

Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, The timid hare from its accustom'd seat.

What rural objects steal upon the sight!

What rising views prolong the calm delight;

High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend, Around, what sounds, what magic sounds, arise,

What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes!

Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed,

The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head,

Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, To thee will memory lead the wanderer back.

Still, still to thee, where'er mt footsteps roam, My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home,

When splendour offers, and when Fame incites, I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights

Turn once again to these scenes, these well-known scenes once more, trace once again old Trents romantic shore

And tir'd with words, and all their busy ways, Here waste the little remnant of my days

Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove

Henry Kirke White