Moss Covered Technology - River Slows Pt.1

New track from Moss Covered Technology; forthcoming on Fluid Audio... Dartmoor! thou wert to me, in childhood's hour, A wild and wondrous region. Day by day Arose upon my youthful eye they belt Of hills mysterious, shadowy, clasping all The green and cheerful landscape sweetly spread Around my home; and with a stern delight I gazed upon thee. How often on the speech Of the half-savage peasant have I hung, To hear of rock-crowned heights on which the cloud For ever rests; and wilds stupendous swept By mightiest storms; of glen, and gorge, and cliff, Terrific, beetling o'er the stone-strewed vale; And giant masses, by the midnight flash Struck from the mountain's hissing brow, and hurled Into the foaming torrent; and of forms That rose amid the desert, rudely shaped By Superstition's hands when time was young; And of the dead, the warrior dead, who sleep Beneath the hollowed cairn! My native fields, Though peerless, ceased to please. The flowery vale, The breezy hill, the river and the wood, Island, reef, headland, and the circling sea, Associated by the sportful hand Of Nature, in a thousand views diverse, Or grand, or lovely, -to my roving eye Displayed in vain their infinite of charms; I thought on thy wild world, -to me a world,- Mysterious Dartmoor, dimly seen, and prized For being distant and untrod; and still Where'er I wander'd, -still my wayward eye Rested on thee! In sunlight and in shade, Repose and storm, wide waste! I since have trod Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again I seek thy solitudes profound, in this Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests The sunbeam on thee, and thy desert seems To sleep in the unwonted brightness, calm, But stern; for though the spirit of the Spring Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper kind Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on A robe of beauty, as the fields that bud And blossom hear thee. Yet I love to tread They central wastes when not a sound intrudes Upon the ear, but rush of wing or leap Of the hoarse waterfall. And oh, 'tis sweet To list the music of thy torrent-streams; For thou too hast thy minstrelsies fro him Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights To trace thy waters, as from source to sea They rush tumultuous. Yet for other fields Thy bounty flows eternal. From thy sides Devonia's rivers flow; a thousand brooks Roll o'er they rugged slopes; -'tis but to cheer Yon Austral meads unrivalled, fair as aught That bards have sung, or Fancy has conceived 'Mid all her rich imaginings: whilst thou, The source of half their beauty, wearest still Through centuries, upon they blasted brow, The curse of barrenness. - Noel Thomas Carrington