ON Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.’Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: ’Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood.Then, ’twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then ’twas the Roman, now ’tis I.The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, ’twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.
