Bentley Poem

This poem was written by William Marsh of Bentley and published in his book 'Songs and Poems' in 1867.

Bentley.

Recollections of Home.

Down in the valley of the Don,
'Mong flowery meadow lands,
A little rural village town
In quiet retirement stands.

It boasts no old Baronial Court
Of great historic fame,
Nor lordly house whose sons have bled
T'immortalize its name.

Bentley! To thee, my native home,
My sweetest song should be,
Could I but woo Euterpe's muse
T'inspire the melody.

There is no spot so dear as home,
Tis ever dear to me,
Nor love more pure than that which binds
My memory still to thee.

I've been a wanderer many years
In many distant lands,
And yet the love I have for thee
Fresh and unbroken stands.

In all my wanderings still I dream
Of boyhood's golden days,
And back to thee, my native home,
My truant spirit strays.

Methinks I hear the Linnet's song
In Ratcliffe's bosky glen,
Warbling her sweet melodious strain,
To lure me back again.

 Oft too I hear the village bells,
Loud pealing through the vole
Their sweet harmonious symphony
And Sabbath-telling tale.

I wander through the old Church-yard,
O'er many a mossy mound,
Where long-lost cherish'd memories sleep
Low in the cold, cold ground.



I kneel me by the oaken seat
Along the letter'd aisle,
And breathe again my humble prayer
Within the sacred pile.

Oft of a pensive summer's eve,
When fancy's wont to roam,
It soars o'er Cusworth's upland side,
To dream awhile of home.

Down in the distant vale I see,
Curling above the trees,
The old Mill chimney's smoke arise.
And mingle with the bree/A1.

And many a moonlight-stroll I've had
Through Wheatley's sylvan glades,
And heard St. George's midnight Chime
Awake its slumbering shades.

Beneath its stately elms I’ve roam'd,
Where hangs the wild-rooks nest,
And heard the watch-dog's measured bay
Break nature's peaceful rest.

Through Park and wood and shady grove
I've chased night's gloom away.
Until the distant Factory bell
Proclaimed the dawn of day.

Again I thread the crooked Don
Through cowslip-scented meads.
Springing the wild-duck from its haunt
Among the sedgy reeds.

How oft when but a boy I've sought
The river's grassy marge,
To watch the merry boatman steer
His heavy laden'd barge.

His cheerful song so fitfully sweet
Still lingers on my ear,
Each well-known strain old themes bring back
Life's chequer'd path to cheer.

Once more my steps I homeward turn
O'er verdant field and dell,
And every spot I gaze upon
Some rustic tale can tell.

Anon I cross the old mill-bridge
Which spans the brawling brook.
Or linger at the school-house door
To con the puzzling book.

I mark the laborer wending home
Along the rutty lane.
Care-warp'd he stoops beneath the weight
Of many an untold pain.

And yet a smile lights up his eye
When near his cottage gate,
Where laughing children, wife, and meal,
His tardy steps await.

The village forge, the Wheel-wright's shop.
The alehouse on the green;
Fancy in flattering colors paints
The panoramic scene.

There stands the old parental home.
A whitewash'd wayside cot,
Its sanded floor and old fireside
Was life's first treasured spot.

Twas in that cottage first I felt
A mother's tender care,
There at her sainted knee I knelt
To lisp my infant prayer.

Twas there the Holy Book was read
Both earl}' morn and night,
And there my youthful mind was taught
To reverence what was right.

There in that little croft I roll'd
Among the new-mown hay.
There on that primrose bank I woo'd
The summer hours away.

There in the pear-tree's hollow trunk
The starling hatch'd her young,
And there the black-bird and the thrush
Their daily matins sung.

There Plenty crown'd surrounding fields
With yellow crops of corn,
And there the fragrant woodbine climb'd
The blossoming hedge of thorn.

There in the meadows by the mill.
Among the lowing kine,
The milkmaid sang her artless song,
Love's absence to repine.

Beneath the green umbrageous elms
The drowsy cattle laid,
Or roam'd the hedgeland's shady side,
To crop the tender blade.

Down in the swampy old mill field
Our rustic games we play'd;
And o'er the knolls and hillocks green
I and poor Laura stray'd.

These, and a thousand other scenes
To fond remembrance rise,
Which while my memory lingers o'er
A tear bedims my eyes.

No more my rambling truant feet
Those flowery meads will tread,
No more beneath yon old house roof
I rest my weary head.

No more to chant my humble prayer
Beneath that old church tower,
Nor listen to the Linnet's song
In Ratcliffe’s bosky bower.

No more to climb old Cusworth's Hill.
Or roam the upland side.
No more the bridge, the brook, the mill.
My plaintive muse will guide.

No more those hawthorn shaded lanes
In pensive mood to tread,
No more through meadow, dell, and glade,
The crooked Don to thread.

Shades of ray boyhood's happiest hours,
Belov'd for evermore,
If God should deign to hear my prayer.
I'll visit you once more.

Whate'er betides, where'er I be,
Whatever land I roam,
I'll kindly speak and dream of thee,
My own dear native home.

For information about William Marsh, click here.