The Irish Poet and the Natural World: An Anthology of Verse in English from the Tudors to the Romantics

Walter Chamberlaine(?) (c.1706–1741–1754)

201 WALTER CHAMBERLAINE(?) (c.1706–1741–1754) Though it appeared anonymously, this poem has been ascribed to Rev. Walter Chamberlaine (c.1706–54), brother of the playwright Frances Sheridan and one of the wits in Trinity College Dublin in the 1730s. After a shaky start (in which the clergyman-poet complains that he seems ‘doom’d to a Country Church remote and Poor’), the poem gathers pace and interest as the muse persuades the poet to ‘paint’ the ‘Eye-enchanting Scene’ of the newly reconstructed Powerscourt House and its magnificent demesne.After considering the tasteful ‘improvements’and ‘classick Landskips’, the poet turns his attention to the famous waterfall in the grounds of Powerscourt and gives a fine verse description of one of the main tourist attractions of eighteenth-century Ireland. The poem is dedicated to Richard Wingfield, the owner of the house and estate. from: A Poem occasioned by a view of Powers-court House, the Improvements, Park etc., … O let my rapt Imagination trace The Site and Sylvan Genius of the Place, Where Nature varies, yet unites each Part, And Chance reflects Advantages to Art; Or let my Eyes in bold Excursions gain The swelling Vista, and the sinking Plain, (Where a free Heav’n the Sight’s wide Empire fills, Then melts in distant Clouds, and blueish Hills.) Or gently catch’d by Views more regular Take in the verdant Slope, and rais’d Parterre. 10 Hence, from this Taste, are Numbers pleas’d and fed, The Wise have Pleasure, the Distress’d have Bread, This Taste brings Profit, and improves with Sense, And through a thousand Channels turns Expence, Benevolence in num’rous Streams imparts, And ends in Virtue what began in Arts, Removes sharp Famine, Sickness, and Despair, Relieves the asking Eye, the rising Tear, Such Woe, as late o’er pale Hibernia past1 , And such (ye Guardian Powers) we wish the last. 20 i.e. the great frost and famine of 1739–41. 1 202 If publick Spirit shines, ’tis just at least To give some Glory too, to publick Taste, Which bids proud Art the pillar’d Fabrick raise, Scoops the rough Rock, and levels vast High-ways, Plans future Woods for Prospect and Defence, And forms a Bower a hundred Summers hence, Ideal Groves, and Beautys just in View— But such (my Friend)2 as Time shall bring to you, Fresh blow your Gardens! intermingl’d Scene! Soft Carpet Walks, and Green encircling Green, 30 A chequer’d Space, alternate Sun and Shade, The Country round, one wide delicious Glade! Enamel’d Vales with fair Horizons bound, Here tow’ring Woods, and pendant Rock-work round! With graceful Sweeps here mazy Windings run, Or gently meet in Lines where they begun, Here gushes down steep Steps a ductile Rill, There spreads in fluid Azure, broad, and still, So mix’d the Views, so exquisitely shewn, Each flow’ry Field and Valley seems your own, 40 While Nature smiles, obsequious to your Call, Directs, assists and recommends it all. At last she gives (O Art how vain thy Aid) To crown the beauteous Work, a vast Cascade. Say Muse, who listens where the Shannon roars, Which once divided Empires with its Shoars, Tell in her western Course immense and fair, Can all the Falls and Cataracts compare? Let grand Versailles her liquid Landskips boast, Pure Scenes of Nature here delight us most, 50 Her rudest Prospects bid the Fancy start, And snatch the Soul beyond the Works of Art— O would some Master Hand adorn thy Walls And catch the living Fountain as it falls, The gay Original would crown thy Dome, —And you then boast your noblest Scene at Home. i.e. Richard Wingfield. 2 203 Anonymous (Walter Chamberlaine?) Lo! down the Rock which Clouds and Darkness hide In wild Meanders Spouts a Silver Tide; Or sprung from dropping Mists or wintry Rills, Rolls the large Tribute of the Cloud-topp’d Hills; 60 But shou’d the damp-wing’d Tempest keenly blow With whistling Torrents, and descending Snow, In one huge Heap the show’ry Whirlpools swell, And deluge wide the Tract where first they fell ’Till from the headlong Verge of yon black Steep, A tumbling River roars intense and deep. From Rock to Rock its boiling Stream is broke, And all below, the Waters fall in Smoak. … The Soul from Indolence to Rapture wakes, ’Till on th...