"Ribbledin"

"Ribbledin" is the name that Ebenezer Elliott invented for a stream that is in reality called Black Brook. It descends from Lodge Moor to the west of Sheffield, plunging to The River Rivelin below.  It was here, in the 1830's,  that he would sit to cogitate and absorb Nature's beauty. The Scottish poet, Robbie Burns (1759-1796) is referenced in the poem. He was one of Elliott's literary heroes - another "man of the people".

Ebenezer Elliott

RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING 

No name hast thou! lone streamlet

That lovest Rivilin. 

Here, if a bard may christen thee, 

I’ll call thee “Ribbledin;” 

Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, 

Thy voice deep joy expresses; 

And down the rock, like music, flows 

The wildness of thy tresses. 

Here, while beneath the umbrage 

Of Nature’s forest bower, 

Bridged o’er by many a fallen birch, 

And watch’d by many a flower, 

To meet thy cloud-descended love,

All trembling, thou retirest – 

Here will I murmur to thy waves 

The sad joy thou inspirest. 

Dim world of weeping mosses! 

A hundred years ago, 

Yon hoary-headed holly tree 

Beheld thy streamlet flow: 

See how he bends him down to hear 

The tune that ceases never! 

Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems, 

While thou art young for ever. 

Wildest and lonest streamlet! 

Grey oaks, all lichen’d o’er! 

Rush-bristled isles! ye ivied trunks 

That marry shore to shore! 

And thou, gnarl’d dwarf of centuries, 

Whose snaked roots twist above me! 

O for the tongue or pen of Burns, 

To tell you how I love ye! 

Would that I were a river, 

To wander all alone 

Through some sweet Eden of the wild, 

In music of my own;

And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew, 

Distill’d o’er mountains hoary, 

Return unto my home in heav’n 

On wings of joy and glory! 

Or that I were the lichen, 

That, in this roofless cave, 

(The dim geranium’s lone boudoir,) 

Dwells near the shadow’d wave, 

And hears the breeze-bow’d tree-tops sigh, 

While tears below are flowing, 

For all the sad and lovely things 

That to the grave are going! 

O that I were a primrose, 

To bask in sunny air! 

Far, far from all the plagues that make 

Town-dwelling men despair! 

Then would I watch the building-birds, 

Where light and shade are moving, 

And lovers’ whisper, and love’s kiss, 

Rewards the loved and loving! 

Or that I were a skylark, 

To soar and sing above, 

Filling all hearts with joyful sounds, 

And my own soul with love! 

Then o’er the mourner and the dead, 

And o’er the good man dying, 

My song should come like buds and flowers, 

When music warbles flying. 

O that a wing of splendour,

Like yon wild cloud, were mine! 

Yon bounteous cloud, that gets to give, 

And borrows to resign! 

On that bright wing, to climes of spring 

I’d bear all wintry bosoms, 

And bid hope smile on weeping thoughts, 

Like April on her blossoms;

Or like the rainbow, laughing 

O’er Rivilin and Don,  

When misty morning calleth up 

Her mountains, one by one, 

While glistening down the golden broom, 

The gem-like dew-drop raineth, 

And round the little rocky isles 

The little wave complaineth. 

O that the truth of beauty 

Were married to my rhyme! 

That it might wear a mountain charm 

 Until the death of Time! 

Then, Ribbledin! would all the best 

Of Sorrow’s sons and daughters 

See Truth reflected in my song, 

Like beauty on thy waters. 

No longer, nameless streamlet, 

That marriest Rivilin! 

Henceforth, lone Nature’s devotees 

Would call thee “Ribbledin,” 

Whenever, listening where thy voice 

Its first wild joy expresses, 

And down the rocks all wildly flows 

The wildness of thy tresses.