On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble

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.

'T would blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'T is the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 't was 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 't was the Roman, now 't is I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 't will soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.