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Title: The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. 2

Author: William Lisle Bowles

Annotator: George Gilfillan

Release date: April 26, 2010 [eBook #32145]
Most recently updated: January 25, 2021

Language: English

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THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES

CANON OF ST PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, AND RECTOR OF BREMHILL.

With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and
Explanatory Notes,

BY THE

REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH:

JAMES NICHOL, 9 NORTH BANK STREET.
LONDON: JAMES NISBET AND CO.
DUBLIN: W. ROBERTSON.

M.DCCC.LV.

MEMOIR AND CRITICISM
ON THE
WORKS OF THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

The poetry of each age may be considered as vitally connected with, and as vividly reflective of, its character and progress, as either its politics or its religion. You see the nature of the soil of a garden in its tulips and roses, as much as in its pot-herbs and its towering trees. We purpose, accordingly, to compare briefly the poetry of the past and of the present centuries, as indices of some of the points of contrast between the two, and to show also how, and through what causes, the one grew into the other. This will be a fitting introduction to a consideration of the life and writings of the first of the poets of this century included in our series, the more as he was in a measure the father of modern poetry.

It is impossible to take up a volume of the poetry of the eighteenth century, such as, for instance, Churchill's, or Pope's, or Johnson's, and to compare it with some of the leading poetical works of the present, such as the poems of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and Byron, and not to feel as if you were reading the productions of two different races of beings—so different are the style, the sentiments, the modes of thought, the imagery, the temperament, and the spirit of the poets and the poetry. It is like stepping, we will not say from the frigid, but from the temperate into the torrid zone. In the one class of authors you find the prevalence of strong sense, flanked by wit and by fancy, but without much that can be called imaginative or romantic. In the other, imagination or fancy is the regnant faculty; and if wit and sense are there too, they are there as slaves, the "Slaves of the lamp," to the imperious imaginative power. The style of the one is clear, masculine, sententious, and measured; that of the other is bold, unmeasured, diffuse, fervid, and sometimes obscure. The one style may be compared to a clear crescent; the other to a full, but partially eclipsed, moon. The sentiment of the one is chiefly the sublimation of passion: bitter contempt, noble indignation, a proud, stern patriotism, sometimes united with a sombre, but manly melancholy, are the principal feelings expressed; that of the other, although occasionally morbid, is far more varied, more profound, purer, on the whole, and more poetical. The thought of the one is acute and logical; that of the other aspires to the deep, if not to the mystical and the transcendental. The subjects of the poets of the eighteenth century are generally of a dignified cast (except in the case of satirical productions), such as "The Temple of Fame," "The Pleasures of Imagination," "The Traveller," "London," and "The Vanity of Human Wishes." The subjects of the other class are as varied as their mode of treatment is often daringly peculiar. The leech-gatherer on his lonely moor, the pedlar on his humble rounds, the tinker linked by a "fellow-feeling" to the animal he beats and starves, a mad mariner, a divorced wife, a wandering roué—such characters as these have called forth the utmost stretch of the powers of our best modern poets. The images of the former race of poets are limited to what are called classical subjects—including in this term the ancient mythologies, the incidents in Grecian and Roman story, the more beautiful objects of nature, and the more popular productions of art. Those of modern poets acknowledge no boundary—from the firmament to the fungus, from Niagara to the nearest puddle, from the cold scalp of Mont Blanc to the snowball of the schoolboy—all things are free and open to the step of their genius, which, like the moonbeam, touches and beautifies every object on which it rests. The temperament of the two races is as distinct as their sentiment and style; that of the one seeming somewhat curbed, if not cold, while that of the other is ardent always, and often enthusiastic and rapturous. Different also their spirit; the one being confined and sectarian, alike in politics, in literature, and in religion; the other, in some of their number, being liberal to latitudinarianism, and genial to a vice.

We are not at present seeking to settle the precedence of these two schools of poetry. We love and honour much in both, and think the criticism small and captious which can be blind to the peculiar merits of either—to the terseness, condensation, force of single lines, vigour of logical thought, and general correctness of the one; or to the boldness, brilliant diffusion, breadth, and variety of mood and music, of subject and of treatment, which distinguish the other. It is more specially our object at present to show how each sprang naturally and inevitably out of the different ages when they appeared.

Poetry is an age in flower; and the poetry of the nineteenth century has been a more gorgeous and more tropical flower, because warmer suns have shone on it, warmer winds blown on it, and larger rains watered its roots. Indeed, it is almost a wonder that the first half, at least, and the middle of the eighteenth century, produced so much and such good poetry. That age was, on the whole, a stagnant and uninteresting one. There was nothing very deeply to rouse the passions and imaginations of men. There was, indeed, the usual amount of political squabbles; but when a Bolingbroke was the most eloquent and admired of parliamentary orators, what moral grandeur could be expected? There was a Jacobite faction, perpetually undermining and sometimes breaking out into open rebellion; but their enthusiasm, save in Scotland, was mingled with no poetical elements, although there certainly it produced many exquisite strains of ballad poetry. Twice or thrice the popular passions broke forth, and reared up an idol for themselves in the shape of a private man, exalted for the nonce into a hero; but it is significant to remember that the two principal of these idols were calves—Sacheverel, namely, and Jack Wilkes. The wars in that age were almost entirely destitute of imaginative interest; those of Marlborough, such as Blenheim and Ramilies, were just large games of chess, played on a blood-red board—who now ever thinks or talks about the battles of Fontenoy or Minden?—some tolerable sea-fights, indeed, there were; on the heights of Abraham a brave man expired in the arms of victory, and a glory still lingers on the field of Prestonpans and on the bloody plains of Culloden; but there was no Trafalgar, no Waterloo, and no Inkermann. The manners of the age were not only dissolute, but grossly and brutally so. In England, there was no Burns to cast a gleam of poetry even on the orgies of dissipation; all was as coarse as it was corrupt; it was a drunken dance of naked satyrs: and disgust at this state of things, we believe, principally made Burke, contrasting the Continent with England, to utter the paradox, that vice, by losing all its grossness, lost half its evil. Foreigners were then, as they are still, more depraved in morals and filthier in personal habits than we; but they had, and have, a grace, a politeness, a reticence, and an ease, which gilded, if they did not lessen, the abominations. The religion of the country was reduced to a very low point of depression; the churches were filled with drowsy divines, drowsily reading what they never wrote, to yet drowsier congregations; many of the upper classes, and of the literary men, were avowed infidels; till the rise of Methodism, religious enthusiasm in any class did not exist—even in Scotland the load of patronage had nearly extinguished the old fires of Covenanting zeal—the state of the lower classes was deplorable, so far, at least, as mental culture and morality were concerned; cock-fighting, grinning through collars, bull-baiting, and hard drinking, were their main amusements; the hallowing and spiritualising influences of the Sabbath-day were scarcely known; and the upper ranks had no feeling that they were in some measure responsible for the ignorance and the vice of the lower, and were bound to circulate education and religion amidst their masses; indeed, how could they be expected, since they themselves had little education and less religion to circulate? In science, philosophy, and general literature, there prevailed a partial syncope and pause. Newton was dead, and had left no successor; Locke was dead, and had left no successor. The wits of Queen Anne's reign, Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Steele, and Addison, were dropping off one by one, and for a season none arose adequate to supply their place. It had altogether become an age of mediocrity; neither an age of stern conflict, like that of the Puritans, nor even a fiercely lawless and riotous age, like that of Charles the Second, nor a transition age, like that of the Revolution, but an age of a negative and slumbrous character; its only positive qualities were a generally diffused laxity of principle and corruption of practice; but its vices, as well as its virtues, were small; it had not virtue to be greatly good, nor daring to be greatly wicked.

All this told on its poetry; and our wonder, we repeat, is, that it did not tell more. That it did not, was probably owing to the continued prevalence of the power of classical literature. That, increased by the influence of the universities and the great schools, and by the translations made of its masterpieces by Dryden and Pope, contributed to produce and maintain purity of taste, in the midst of general depravation of manners, and to touch many opening minds with the chaste and manly inspiration of a long past age. Hence the poetry of the first half of the eighteenth century, while inferior in force and richness to that of the end of the seventeenth, is superior in good taste, and is much freer from impurities. To this the imitation of French models, too, contributed. Still we see the traces of the period very distinctly marked in its works of art and in its poetry. The paintings of Hogarth, next to the infinite richness of the painter's invention, and the accuracy of his observation and touch, testify to the corruption of these times. They are everlasting libels—as true, however, as they are libellous—on the age of the first two Georges; and we are astonished how such an age produced such a genius, as well as grieved to see how such a genius had no better materials to work on than were furnished by such an age. It is much the same with the novels of Smollett and Fielding, and with parts of the poetry of Churchill, Lloyd, and others. The formal wars of that day, too, were certain to produce formal poetry, and Blenheim was fitly celebrated in Addison's "Campaign." The sceptical philosophy then prevalent was faithfully mirrored in Pope's "Essay on Man," which, exquisite as a work of art, is, in thought, a system of naturalism set to music; and, while its art is the poet's own, its doctrine comes from the "fell genius" of St John (Bolingbroke). Up to Thomson's fine "Ode on the Death of Sir Isaac Newton," and the "Night Thoughts," the great discoveries of astronomy obtained no poetical recognition. Religious poetry, properly speaking, there was none; for the hymns of Watts, although full of piety, can scarcely be called poems; and the most popular poetry of the time was either founded on the Latin, or written in imitation of Pope. Johnson's "London" and "Vanity of Human Wishes" are instances of the former; and of the latter, specimens too numerous to mention abounded.

Thus it continued till about the middle of the century, when there began to appear symptoms of a change. First of all, a "fine fat fellow" from Scotland, who had derived inspiration from the breezes of the Tweed and the Jed, wrote that noble strain, "The Seasons," with its daguerreotypic painting of nature, and its generous, healthy enthusiasm, and the "Castle of Indolence," with its exquisite sketches of character and scenery, and its rich reproduction of an antique style of poetry. Thomson's voice did not, indeed, produce a revolution in taste, but it obtained an audience for a species of writing entirely different from what then prevailed. Young, next, in a bolder spirit, having broken the trammels of Pope, which had confined him, soared up through Night and all its worlds, and brought down genuine inspiration on his adventurous wing. Dr Johnson, although considerably hampered in his verse by undue admiration of the mechanical poets, allowed himself greater liberty in his prose, which glowed with a deep, if somewhat turbid life, and rolled on in a strong and solemn current, which often seemed that of high imagination. Collins, smitten with a true "gadfly," born as one out of due time, and, alas! "blasted with the celestial fire," he brought, anticipated, in part, some of the miraculous effects of more modern poetry. Gray, Mason, and Beattie, three men of unequal name, all wrote in a different style from Addison, Swift, and Pope, and two of them displayed genuine, if not very powerful, genius. Then came Percy, with his "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," which showed what wonders our rude forefathers had wrought by the force of simple nature; and to the same end contributed Ossian's Poems, which, whatever their defects, awakened and startled the literary world, here, in France, and in Germany, by a panoramic view of that "land of mountain and of flood," which was yet to attract so many visitors, and to inspire so many bards. The impulse lent to our prose style by Johnson was followed up by Junius and by Burke, both of whom shot into the discussions of politics and of passing events much of the spirit and the power of poetry. Burke especially, even before the French Revolution effectually roused the world, had given specimens of fervid prose, combining with matter of fact and the most compact wisdom, the graces, the spirit, the imagery, and the language of the highest imagination. Cowper, too, had come, setting religion to rhythm; and, although "veiling all the lightnings of his song in sorrow," yet circulating the power of his genius, even more extensively than the contagion of his grief. Burns, in Scotland, had exhibited his vein of ardent native genius. And lastly, the French Revolution lifted up its volcano voice, and said to the world of literature and song, as well as to the world at large, "Sleep no more."

From this date the character of poetry was changed, and began to assume that antagonistic attitude to the school of Dryden and Pope which we described in our commencing remarks, and which yet continues. Britain got engaged in a Titanic warfare, an earthshaking contest—a war of opinion, not of treaties—of peoples, not of kings; and instead of "Campaigns," our poets indited Odes to France, to the Departing Year, hymns to "Carnage, God's Daughter," and "Visions of Don Roderick." Our religion became more intense and earnest, and this produced, on the one hand, the fine religious verses of a Montgomery, the poetical prose of a Foster and a Hall, and the rapt effusions of a Coleridge and Wordsworth; and, on the other hand, told even on our scepticism, which became more impassioned too, and wielded against religion a bar of burning iron, like "Queen Mab," instead of a piece of polished wood, like the "Essay on Man." Our morality improved, in outward decorum, at least, and the last remains of the indecency of former times were swept away—to re-appear, indeed, afterwards partially in "Don Juan." Poetry, too, after coquetting for a little, not very gracefully, with Science in Darwin's "Botanic Garden," and "Temple of Nature," aspired to the hand of Philosophy; and the Lake poets and others not merely found a poetic worship in nature, but set to song many of the wondrous speculations of modern psychology. A taste for ancient, simple poetic writers spread widely, and produced Scott's brilliant imitations of ballad poetry, and Wordsworth's early lyrical strains. Popular principles began to prevail, and knowledge to circulate among the lower classes; and they learned not only to read poems with relish, but their "poor dumb mouths" ever and anon were opened to utter a stern and vigorous poetry of their own. Along with these and other beneficial changes, there were, indeed, much extravagance and exaggeration introduced. With the formality and stiffness, much of the point, pith, and correctness of the old school was lost—a good deal of false enthusiasm and pretence, mingled with the real inspiration; jackdaws and mocking-birds, as well as doves and eagles, abounded. But, on the whole, we question if any age of the world has equalled the early part of the nineteenth century, in the quantity, or in the quality, in the power, depth, brilliance, or variety of its poetry.

William Lisle Bowles—whom we have ventured to call the father of modern poetry, since not only was he first in the field, but since his sonnets inspired the more powerful muse of Coleridge—was descended from an ancient and respectable family in Wiltshire. His grandfather and father were both clergymen in the Church of England. The poet was born in King's Sutton, and baptized there on the 25th of September 1762. In the year 1776 he was placed on the Wykeham foundation at Winchester. His master was Dr Joseph Warton, who, seeing genius disguised under the veil of his pupil's boyish timidity, encouraged him in his efforts, was warmly loved by Bowles in return, and transmitted to him his very moderate estimate of the poetry and character of Pope. Bowles has testified his gratitude to his teacher in his very pleasing "Monody on the Death of Dr Warton." During the last year he passed at Winchester, Bowles was captain of the school. In the year 1781, he was elected a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford, having selected this college, because the brother of his old master, Thomas Warton, was residing there. In 1783, he gained the Chancellor's prize for Latin verse—"Calpe Obessa; or, The Siege of Gibraltar," being the subject of the poem. At college he got no fellowship, nor did he procure his degree till 1792. At an early age, he is said to have been unsuccessful in his suit to a Miss Romilly, a niece of Sir Samuel Romilly; and this rejection it was which first stung him into rhyme and rambling; for, in order to deaden his feelings, he traversed the north of England, Scotland, and parts of the Continent. His first production consisted of fourteen sonnets, published in 1789, and was followed the same year by "Verses to John Howard." In 1790, he reprinted these and various other pieces written in the interval, and in 1798 they were reproduced with illustrations. They became so popular, that by the year 1805 they had reached a ninth edition.

Almost every year from 1798 till the end of his life, Mr Bowles was adding to his works new poems of various merit. In 1798, appeared his "Coombe Ellen, and St Michael's Mount;" in 1799, "The Battle of the Nile;" in 1801, "The Sorrows of Switzerland;" in 1803, "The Picture;" in 1805, the "Spirit of Discovery;" in 1806, "Bowden Hill;" in 1815, "The Missionary of the Andes;" in 1822, "The Grave of the Last Saxon;" in 1823, "Ellen Gray;" in 1828, "Days Departed;" in 1833, "St John in Patmos;" and in 1837, a volume entitled "Scenes and Shadows of Days Departed, a Narrative;" besides "The Village Verse-book," a very popular selection of simple poetry.

The events of this gentleman's private and professional life were of no particular interest. Having entered holy orders, he resided for many years as curate in Donhead St Andrew, in Wilts, where he remained till 1804, when he was appointed vicar of Bremhill—a situation which he continued to fill till the end of his long life. In 1792, he was presented to the vicarage of Checklade, in Wiltshire, which he resigned, after an incumbency of five years, on receiving another presentation to the rectory of Dumbleton, Gloucestershire. This living he retained till his death, although he never resided at either Dumbleton or Checklade. In 1804, through Archbishop Moore, he was made vicar of Bremhill, and, the same year, prebend of Stratford in the cathedral church of Salisbury. In 1828, he was elected canon-residentiary. He had, in 1818, been appointed chaplain to the Prince Regent. He resided constantly at Bremhill for twenty-five years. After he was elected canon, however, he abode partly, and in the latter years of his life principally, in the town of Salisbury. In 1797, he married Magdalene, daughter of the Rev. Charles Wake, D.D., prebendary of Westminster, and grand-daughter of Archbishop Wake. She died some years before her husband, and left no family. Bowles himself expired at Salisbury, after a gradual decay of the vital powers, April 7, 1850, aged eighty-eight years. His life is about to be written at large by his kinsman, Dr J. Bowles, assisted by Mr Alaric Watts, to whom the publisher is indebted for the means of supplying a complete copyright edition of the poet's works.

Bowles was a diligent pastor, an eloquent preacher, an active justice, and in every way an estimable man. Even Byron, who met him at Mr Rogers', in London, speaks of him as a "pleasant, gentlemanly man—a good fellow for a parson." Moore, in his Diary, speaks with delight of his mixture of talent and simplicity. In his introduction to "Scenes and Shadows," Bowles gives some interesting particulars of his early life. In Blackwood, for August 1828, there is a very entertaining account of Bremhill Parsonage.

As an author, he appears in three aspects—as a writer on typography, as an editor and controversialist, and as a poet. In 1828, he produced a volume entitled "The Parochial History of Bremhill," and shortly afterwards, his "History of Lacock Abbey," containing much interesting antiquarian lore. To this succeeded a still more ingenious and recondite work, entitled "Hermes Britannicus," besides some less important writings of a similar kind. His "Life of Bishop Ken," which appeared in 1830 and 1831, might be considered as belonging to the same category of learned antiquarian lucubrations.

In 1807, he published an edition of Pope, in ten volumes, for which he received £300. The life prefixed to this edition led to the celebrated controversy between Bowles, on the one hand, and Campbell, Byron, Roscoe, Octavius Gilchrist, and the Quarterly Review, on the other. In our life of Pope, we hope to devote a few pages to the principal questions which were mooted in this controversy. We may simply say, at present, that we think Bowles was, in the main, right, although he laid himself open to retort at many points, and displayed an animus against Pope, both as a man and a poet, which he in vain sought to disclaim, and which somewhat detracted from the value of his criticisms. He gained, however, the three objects at which he aimed:—he proved that Pope was only at the head of the second rank of poets—that, as a man, he was guilty of many meannesses, and had a prurient imagination and pen—and that the objects of artificial life are, per se, less fitted for the purposes of poetry than those of nature, and than the passions of the human heart. In this controversy, as well as in some after-skirmishes,—in his letters to Lord Brougham, "On the Position and Incomes of the Cathedral Clergy,"—in a letter to Sir James Mackintosh, on the Increase of Crime,—and in a sharp fight with the Rev. Edward Duke, F.S.A., on the Antiquities of Wiltshire—Bowles displayed amazing PLUCK, and no small controversial acuteness and dexterity. Like another Ajax, he took enemy after enemy on his single shield, and by his pertinacity and perseverance, he succeeded in beating them all. He stood at first alone, and had very formidable opponents. But he bated not one jot of heart or hope; and, by and by, Southey, Blackwood's Magazine, and others, came to his aid, and, finally, William Hazlitt saw, with his inevitable eye, the real merits of the case, and (substantially inclining to the Bowles side) settled, by a paper in the London Magazine, the question for ever. As a controversialist, Bowles is rather noisy, flippant, and fierce; and his reply to Byron, while superior to the noble bard's letter in argument, is far inferior in easy and trenchant vigour of style. His writings on the Pope controversy consist of "A Letter to Thomas Campbell," "Two Letters to Lord Byron," "A Final Appeal to the Public relative to Pope," and (more last words!), "Lessons in Criticism to William Roscoe, and Farther Lessons to a Quarterly Reviewer." All are exceedingly readable and clever.

It is curious contrasting the spirit of Bowles' prose—his severity—his pugnacity—his irritability, with the mild qualities of his poetry. The leading element in all his poetical works is sentiment,—warm, mellow, tender, and often melancholy sentiment. He has no profound thought—no powerful pictures of passion—no creative imagination—but over all his poetry lies a sweet autumnal moonlight of pensive and gentle feeling. In his larger poems, he is often diffuse and verbose, and you see more effort than energy. But in his smaller, and especially in his sonnets, and his pieces descriptive of nature, Bowles is always true to his own heart, and therefore always successful. How delightful such sonnets as his "Morning Bells," "Absence," "Bereavement," and his poems entitled, "Monody at Matlock," "Coombe-Ellen," "On Hearing the 'Messiah,'" etc.! We trust that many, after reading these and the others (some of which were never before published) contained in our volumes, will be ready to express the gratitude of their hearts through the medium of the following beautiful sonnet:—

"SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE TO WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

"My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence, not callous to the mourner's pains,
Through youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the mightier throes of mind began,
And drove me forth a thought-bewildered man,
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;
Bidding a strange mysterious pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the Great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep."

His larger poems are perhaps more distinguished by the ambition of their themes than by the success of their treatment. His particular theory about the superiority of the works of nature as poetical subjects perhaps led him to a too uniform selection of its grander features, while undoubtedly his genius fitted him better for depicting its softer and smaller objects. He excels far more in interpreting the language of the bells, now of Ostend, and now of Oxford—in describing the dingles of Coombe Ellen—in echoing the fall of the river Avon, heard in his sick-chamber at Bath—or in catching on his mind-mirror the "Distant View of England from the Sea"—than in coping with the dark recesses of the American forest, following the daring Gama round his Cape of Storms, standing with Noah on the brow of the tremendous mountain Caff, the hill of demons and griffins, and seeing the globe at his feet, or in walking beside the Seer of all time, in that "isle which is called Patmos,"

"Placed far amid the melancholy main."

He is more at home in the beautiful than in the sublime—more a Warton than a Milton—and may be rather likened to a bee murmuring her dim music in the bells of flowers, than to an eagle dallying with the tempest, and binding distant oceans and chains of mountains together by the living link of his swift and strong pinion. Yet his "Spirit of Discovery" contains some bold fancy. Take this, for instance:—

"Andes, sweeping the horizon's tract,
Mightiest of mountains! whose eternal snows
Feel not the nearer sun; whose umbrage chills
The murmuring ocean; whose volcanic fires
A thousand nations view, hung, like the moon,
High in the middle waste of heaven."

"The Missionary" (of which Byron writes in some playful verses to Murray,

"I've read the Missionary,
Pretty! Very!")

contains much vivid description and interesting narrative; and "St John in Patmos," if scarcely up to the mark of the transcendent theme, has a good deal of picturesque and striking poetry. Perhaps the most interesting of all his minor poems is that entitled "Childe Harold's Last Pilgrimage," quoted, we remember, in Moore's Life of Byron. As proceeding from one whom the angry and unhappy Childe had often insulted in public and laughed at in private, it was as graceful in spirit as it is elegant in composition. "Revenge," it has been said, "is a feast for the gods;" and the saying is true if meant of that species of revenge which gains its end by forgiveness. An act so noble and generous as the writing of this, is calculated to set the memory of Bowles still higher than all his poetry.

CONTENTS

| PAGE
BANWELL HILL: A Lay of the Severn Sea:— |
   Preface | 3
   Part First | 9
   Part Second | 20
   Part Third | 42
   Part Fourth | 61
   Part Fifth | 69

THE GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON; or, The Legend of the Curfew:— |
   Introduction | 79
   Introductory Canto | 81
   Canto First | 87
   Canto Second | 102
   Canto Third | 111
   Canto Fourth | 111
   Conclusion | 137
   Illustrations from Speed | 139

ST JOHN IN PATMOS:— |
   Part First | 145
   Part Second | 157
   Part Third | 176
   Part Fourth | 184
   Part Fifth | 199
   Part Sixth | 207
   Apocalyptic Horses | 218

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND:— |
   Part First | 223
   Part Second | 232

THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK:— |
   Path of Life | 241
   Sunrise | 241
   Summer's Evening | 242
   Spring—Cuckoo | 243
   Sheepfold | 243
   Hen and Chickens | 244
   Poor Man's Grave | 244
   Sabbath Morning | 245
   The Primrose | 246
   The Hour-Glass | 246
   The Bird's Nest | 247
   The Mower | 247
   Saturday Night | 248
   Sunday Night | 248
   The April Shower | 249
   The Robin Redbreast | 249
   The Butterfly and the Bee | 250
   The Glow-worm | 250
   The Convict | 251
   The Blind Grandfather | 252
   The Old Labourer | 252
   The Swan | 253
   The Village Bells | 253
   The Caged Bird | 254
   The Dutiful Child Reading the Story of Joseph to a Sick Father | 254
   Little Mary's Linnet | 255
   The Shepherd and his Dog | 255
   The Withered Leaf | 256
   The Gipsy's Tent | 257
   My Father's Grave | 258
   The Swallow and the Redbreast: an Apologue | 258
   The Blind Man of Salisbury Cathedral | 259
   The Blind Soldier and his Daughter | 260
   The Little Sweep | 261
   The Blacksmith | 263
   Hymn for the Anniversary of the Death of the Princess Charlotte | 264
   The Children's Hymn for their Patroness | 264
   Easter Day | 265
   Christmas Hymn | 266
   SONG OF THE CID | 267

POEMS, INEDITED, UNPUBLISHED, &c.

   The Sanctuary: a Dramatic Sketch | 276
   Childe Harold's Last Pilgrimage | 284
   The Egyptian Tomb | 286
   Chantrey's Sleeping Children | 288
   On Miss Fitzgerald and Lord Kerry Planting two Cedars in the Churchyard
      of Bremhill | 289
   The Greenwich Pensioners | 290
   Glastonbury Abbey and Wells Cathedral. Written after viewing the ruins of the
      one, and hearing the Church Service in the other | 292
   Silchester, the Ancient Caleva | 294
   Restoration of Malmesbury Abbey | 296
   On the Funeral of Charles the First, at Night, in St George's Chapel,
      Windsor | 297
   On Seeing Plants in the Windows of Seth Ward's College, endowed for
      Widows of Clergymen, at Salisbury | 298
   Morley's Farewell to the Cottage of Isaak Walton | 300
   The Grave of Bishop Ken | 301
   The Legend of St Cecilia and the Angel | 302
   Supposed Address to Bishop Ken | 303
   On an Eclipse of the Moon at Midnight | 304
   To Lady Valletort, on hearing her sing "Gloria in Excelsis," with
      three other young Ladies, at Lacock Abbey, October 1831 | 305
   On Seeing a Bust of R. B. Sheridan, from a Cast taken after death | 305
   Return of George III. to Windsor Castle | 306
   On Meeting some Friends of Youth at Cheltenham, for the first time since we
      parted at Oxford | 307
   The Lay of Talbot the Troubadour: a Legend of Lacock Abbey | 308
   The Ark: a Poem for Music Written after the Consecration of the New
      Church at Kingswood | 317
   On the Death of Dr Burgess, the late Bishop of Salisbury | 320
   Lines written on Fonthill Abbey | 321
   Epitaph on Benjamin Tremlyn, an Old Soldier, buried in Bremhill
      Churchyard, at the age of ninety-two | 322
   Epitaph on Robert Southey | 322
   Sonnet, written in a copy of Falconer's Shipwreck | 323
   On first Hearing Caradori Sing | 324
   Salisbury Cathedral | 324
   Lockswell | 325
   On Mozart | 326
   Epitaph on John Harding, in the Churchyard of Bremhill | 326
   On the Death of William Linley, Esq. | 327
   Inscribed to the Marchioness of Lansdowne | 328
   Hymn for Music, after the Battle of Waterloo | 328
Inscriptions in the Gardens of Bremhill Rectory:— |
   On a Tree commanding a view of the whole extent of Bowood | 330
   On a Rural Seat | 330
   On the Front of a Hermitage, near a Dial | 330
   Quieti et Musis | 331

BANWELL HILL;

A LAY OF THE SEVERN SEA.

PREFACE.[1]

The estimation of a Poem of this nature must depend, first, on its arrangement, plan, and disposition; secondly, on the judgment, propriety, and feeling with which—in just and proper succession and relief—picture, pathos, moral and religious reflections, historical notices, or affecting incidents, are interwoven. The reader will, in the next place, attend to the versification, or music, in which the thoughts are conveyed. Shakspeare and Milton are the great masters of the verse I have adopted. But who can be heard after them? The reader, however, will at least find no specimens of sonorous harmony ending with such significant words as "of," "and," "if," "but," etc of which we have had lately some splendid examples. I would therefore only request of him to observe, that when such passages occur in this poem as "vanishing," "hush!" etc. it was from design, and not from want of ear.[2]

An intermixture of images and characters from common life might be thought, at first sight, out of keeping with the higher tone of general colouring; but the interspersion of the comic, provided the due mock-heroic stateliness be kept up in the language, has often the effect of light and shade, as will be apparent on looking at Cowper's exquisite "Task," although he has often "offended against taste." The only difficulty is happily to steer "from grave to gay."

So far respecting the plan, the execution, the versification, and style. As to the sentiments conveyed in this poem, and in the notes, I must explicitly declare, that when I am convinced, as a clergyman and a magistrate, that there has been an increase of crime, owing, among other causes, to the system pursued by some "nominal Christians," who will not preach "these three" (faith, hope, and charity) according to the order of St Paul, but keep two of these graces, and the greatest of all, out of sight, upon any human plea or pretension; when they do not preach, "Add to your faith virtue;" when they will not preach, Christ died for the sins of "the world, and not for ours only;" when, from any pleas of their own, or persuaded by any sophistry or faction, they become, most emphatically, "dumb dogs" to the sublime and affecting moral parts of that gospel which they have engaged before God to deliver; and above all, when crimes, as I am verily persuaded have been, are, and must be, the consequence of such public preaching,—leaving others to "stand or fall" to their own God; I shall be guided by my own understanding, and the plain Word of God, as I find it earnestly, simply, beautifully, and divinely set before me by Christ and his Apostles; and so feeling, I shall as fearlessly deliver my own opinions, being assured, whether popular or unpopular, whether they offend this man or that, this sect or that sect, they will not easily be shaken.

I might ask, why did St Paul add, so emphatically, "these three," when he enumerated the Christian graces? Doubtless, because he thought the distinction very important. Why did St Peter say, "Add to your faith virtue"? Because he thought it equally important and essential. Why did St John say, "Christ died for the sins of the whole world, and not for ours only"? Because he thought it equally important and necessary.

Never omitting the atonement, justification by faith, the fruits of the Spirit, and never separating faith from its hallowed fellowship, we shall find all other parts of the gospel unite in harmonious subordination; but if we shade the moral parts down, leave them out, contradict them, by insidious sophistry, the Scripture, so far from being "rightly divided," will be discordant and clashing. The man, be he whom he may, who preaches "faith" without charity; who preaches "faith without virtue," is as pernicious and false an expounder of the divine message, as he who preaches "good works," without their legitimate and only foundation—Christian faith.

One would suppose, from the language of some preachers, the "civil," "decent," "moral" people, from the times of Baxter to the present, want amendment most. We all know that mere morals, which have no Christian basis, are not the gospel of Christ; but I might tell Richard, with great respect notwithstanding, for I respect his sincerity and his heart, that, at least, "decent," and "civil," and "moral" people,[3] are not worse than indecent, immoral, and uncivil people; and when there are so many of these last, I think a word or two of reproof would not much hurt them, let the "decent," "moral," and "civil" be as wicked as they may.

I hope it is not necessary for me to disclaim, in speaking of facts, the most remote idea of throwing a slight on the sincerely pious of any portion of the community; but, if religion does not invigorate the higher feelings and principles of moral obligation; if a heartless and hollow jargon is often substituted for the fundamental laws of Christian obedience; if ostentatious affectation supersedes the meek, unobtrusive character of feminine devotion; if a petty peculiarity of system, a kind of conventional code of godliness, usurps the place of the specific righteousness, visible in its fruits, "of whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are lovely;" if, to be fluent and flippant in the jargon of this petty peculiarity of code, is made the criterion of exclusive godliness; when, by thousands and thousands, after the example of Hawker, and others of the same school, Christianity is represented as having neither "an if, or but," the conclusion being left for the innumerable disciples of such a gospel school; when, because none—"no, not one"—is without sin, and none can stand upright in the sight of Him whose eyes are too pure to behold iniquity, they who have exercised themselves to "have a conscience void of offence toward God and man," though sensible of innumerable offences, are considered, by implication, before God, as no better than Burkes or Thurtles, for the imputation of utter depravity must mean this, or be mere hollow verba et voces; when amusements, or recreations, vicious only in their excess, are proclaimed as national abominations, while real abominations stalk abroad, as is the case in large manufacturing towns, with "the Lord," "the Lord," on the lips of some of the most depraved; when, from these causes, I do sincerely believe the heart has been hardened, and the understanding deteriorated, the wide effects being visible on the great criminal body of the nation,—I conceive I do a service to Evangelical Religion by speaking as I feel of that ludicrous caricature which so often in society usurps its name, and apes and disgraces its divine character.

I am not among those who divide the clergy of the Church of England into classes; and I think it my duty ingenuously to declare, that the opinions I have expressed of the effects of such public doctrines as I have described, be they preached or published by whom they may, were written without communication with any one living. I think it right to declare this, most explicitly, lest the distinguished person to whom this poem is inscribed, might be supposed to have any participation in such sentiments; though, I trust, no possible objection could be made to the manly avowal of my opinion of the injurious effects of Antinomian, or shades of Antinomian doctrines.

Further, the object of my remarks is not piety, but ostentatious publicity and affectation,—far more disgusting in the assumed garb of female piety than under any shape; and often attended by acting far more disgusting than any acting on any stage.

BANWELL CAVE.

The following extract of a letter from Mr Warner will enable the reader to form his own opinion concerning the vast accumulation of bones in this cave:—

"The sagacity of Mr Beard having detected the existence of the cavern, and his perseverance effected a precipitous descent into it, the objects offered to his notice were of the most astonishing and paradoxical description—'an antre vast,' rude from the hand of nature, of various elevations, and branching into several recesses; its floor overspread with a huge mingled mass of bones and mud, black earth (or decomposed animal matter), and sand from the Severn sea, which flows about six miles to the northward of Banwell village. The quantity of bones, and the mode by which they could be conveyed to, and deposited in, the place they occupied, were points of equal difficulty to be explained: as the former amounted to several waggon loads; and as no access to the cavern appeared to exist, except a fissure from above, utterly incapable, from its narrow dimensions, of admitting the falling in of any animal larger than a common sheep; whereas it was evident that huge quadrupeds, such as unknown beasts of the ox tribe, bears, wolves, and probably hyenas and tigers, had perished in the cave. But, though the questions how and when were unanswerable, this conclusion was irresistibly forced upon the mind, by the phenomena submitted to the eye, that, as the receptacle was infinitely too small to contain such a crowd of animals in their living state, they must necessarily have occupied it in succession: one portion of them after another paying the debt of nature, and (leaving their bones only, as a memorial of their existence on the spot) thus making room in the cavern for a succeeding set of inhabitants, of similarly ferocious habits to themselves. The difficulty, indeed, of the ingress of such beasts into the cave did not long continue to be invincible; as Mr Beard discovered and cleared out a lateral aperture in it, sufficiently inclining from the perpendicular, and sufficiently large in its dimensions, to admit of the easy descent into this subterraneous apartment of one of its unwieldy tenants, though loaded with its prey.

"From the circumstances premised, you will probably anticipate my thoughts on these remarkable phenomena; if not, they are as follow:—I consider the cavern to have been formed at the period of the original deposition and consolidation of the matter constituting the mountain limestone in which it is found; possibly by the agency of some elastic gas, imprisoned in the mass, which prevented the approximation of its particles to each other; or by some unaccountable interruption to the operation of the usual laws of its crystallization;—that, for a long succession of ages anterior to the Deluge, and previously to man's inhabiting the colder regions of the earth, Banwell Cave had been inhabited by successive generations of beasts of prey; which, as hunger dictated, issued from their den, pursued and slaughtered the gregarious animals, or wilder quadrupeds, in its neighbourhood; and dragged them, either bodily or piecemeal, to this retreat, in order to feast upon them at leisure, and undisturbed;—that the bottom of the cavern thus became a kind of charnel-house, of various and unnumbered beasts;—that this scene of excursive carnage continued till 'the flood came,' blending 'the oppressor with the oppressed,' and mixing the hideous furniture of the den with a quantity of extraneous matter, brought from the adjoining shore, and subjacent lands, by the waters of the Deluge, which rolled, surging (as Kirwan imagines), from the north-western quarter;—that, previously to this total submersion, as the flood increased on the lower grounds, the animals which fed upon them ascended the heights of Mendip, to escape impending death; and with panic rushed (as many as could gain entrance) into this dwelling-place of their worst enemies;—that numberless birds also, terrified by the elemental tumult, flew into the same den, as a place of temporary refuge;—that the interior of the cavern was speedilly filled by the roaring Deluge, whose waters, dashing and crushing the various substances which they embraced, against the rugged rocks, or against each other; and continuing this violent and incessant action for at least three months, at length tore asunder every connected form, separated every skeleton, and produced that confusion of substances, that scene of disjecta membra, that mixture and disjunction of bones, which were apparent on the first inspection of the cavern; and which are now visible in that part of it which has been hitherto untouched."

Respecting the language of the Poem, I had nearly forgotten one remark. In almost all the local poems I have read, there is a confusion of the following nature. A local descriptive poem must consist, first, of the graphic view of the scenery around the spot from whence the view is taken; and, secondly, of the reflections and feelings which that view may be supposed to excite. The feelings of the heart naturally associate themselves with the idea of the tones of the supposed poetical harp; but external scenes are the province of the pencil, for the harp cannot paint woods and hills, and therefore, in almost all descriptive poems, the pencil and the lyre clash. Hence, in one page, the poet speaks of his lyre, and in the next, when he leaves feelings to paint to the eye, before the harp is out of the hand, he turns to the pencil! This fault is almost inevitable; the reader, therefore, will see in the first page of this Poem, that the graphic pencil is assumed, when the tones of the harp were inappropriate.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This poem, published in 1829, was dedicated to Dr Henry Law, the Bishop of Bath and Wells.

[2] Of blank verse of the kind to which I have alluded, I am tempted to give a specimen:—

"'Twas summer, and we sailed to Greenwich in
A four-oared boat. The sun was shining, and
The scenes delightful; while we gazed on
The river winding, till we landed at
The Ship."

[3] Baxter's "Saints' Rest."

ARGUMENT.

PART FIRST.

Introduction—Retrospect—General view—Cave—Bones—Brief sketch of events since the deposit—Egypt—Druid—Roman—Saxon—Dane—Norman—Hill—Campanula—Bleadon—Weston—Steep Holms—Solitary flower on Steep Holms, the Peony—Flat Holms—Three unknown graves—Sea—Sea treacherous in its tranquillity—Mr Elton's children—Packet-boat sunk.

PART SECOND.

First sound of the sea—First sight of the sea—Mother—Children—Uphill parsonage—Father—Wells clock—Clock figure—Contrast of village manners—Village maid—Rural nymph before the justices—State of agricultural districts—Cause of crime—Workhouse girl—Manufactory ranters—Prosing parson—Prig parson—Calvinistic commentators, etc.—Anti-moral preaching—True and false piety—Crimes passed over by anti-moral preachers—Bible, without note or comment—English Juggernaut—Village picture of Coombe—Village-school children, educated by Mrs P. Scrope—Annual meeting on the lawn of 140 children—Old nurse—Benevolence of English landlords—Poor widow and daughter—Stourhead—Ken at Longleat—Marston house—Early travels in Switzerland—Compton house—Clergyman's wife—Village clergyman.

PART THIRD.

A tale of a Cornish maid—Her prayer-book—Her mother—Widow and son—Tales of sea life—Phantom-ship of the Cape.

PART FOURTH.

Solitary sea—Ship—Sea scenes of Southampton contrasted—Solitary sand—Young Lady—Severn—Walton Castle—Picture of Bristol—Congresbury—Brockley-Coombe—Fayland—Cottage—Poor Dinah—Goblin-Coombe—Langford court—Mendip lodge—Wrington—Blagdon—Author of the tune of "Auld Robin Gray"—Auld Robin Gray—Auld Lang Syne.

PART FIFTH.

Lang syne—Return to the Deluge—Vision of the Flood—Archangel—Trump—Voice—Phantom-horse—Dove of the Ark—Dove ascending—Conclusion.

BANWELL HILL.

PART FIRST.

INTRODUCTION—GENERAL VIEW—CAVE—ASCENT—VIEW—STEEP HOLMS—FLAT HOLMS—SEA.

If, gazing from this eminence, I wake,
With thronging thoughts, the harp of poesy
Once more, ere night descend, haply with tones
Fainter, and haply with a long farewell;
If, looking back upon the lengthened way
My feet have trod, since, long ago, I left
Those well-known shores, and when mine eyes are filled
With tears, I take the pencil in its turn,
And shading light the landscape spread below,
So smilingly beguile those starting tears;10
Something, the feelings of the human heart—
Something, the scene itself, and something more—
A wish to gratify one generous mind—
May plead for pardon.
To this spot I came
To view the dark memorials of a world[4]
Perished at the Almighty's voice, and swept17
With all its noise away! Since then, unmarked,
In that rude cave those dark memorials lay,
And told no tale!
Spirit of other times,
Sad shadow of the ancient world, come forth!
Thou who has slept four thousand years, awake!
Rise from the cavern's last recess, and say,
What giant cleft in twain the neighbouring rocks,[5]
Then slept for ages in vast Ogo's Cave,[6]
And left them rent and frowning from that hour;
Say, rather, when the stern Archangel stood,
Above the tossing of the flood, what arm
Shattered this mountain, and its hollow chasm30
Heaped with the mute memorials of that doom!
Spirit of other times, thou speakest not!
Yet who could gaze a moment on that wreck
Of desolation, but must pause to think
Of the mutations of the globe—of time,
Hurrying to onward spoil—of his own life,
Swift passing, as the summer light, away—
Of Him who spoke, and the dread storm went forth.
The surge came, and the surge went back, and there—
There—when the black abyss had ceased to roar,40
And waters, shrinking from the rocks and hills,
Slept in the solitary sunshine—there
The bones that strew the inmost cavern lay:
And when forgotten centuries had passed,
And the gray smoke went up from villages,
And cities, with their towers and temples, shone,
And kingdoms rose and perished—there they lay!
The crow sailed o'er the spot; the villager
Plodded to morning toil, yet undisturbed49
They lay:—when, lo! as if but yesterday
The Archangel's trump had thundered o'er the deep
The mighty shade of ages that are passed
Towers into light! Say, Christian, is it true,
That dim recess, that cavern, heaped with bones,
Will echo to thy Bible!
But a while
Here let me stand, and gaze upon the scene;
That headland, and those winding sands, and mark
The morning sunshine, on that very shore
Where once a child I wandered. Oh! return,60
(I sigh) return a moment, days of youth,
Of childhood,—oh, return! How vain the thought,
Vain as unmanly! yet the pensive Muse,
Unblamed, may dally with imaginings;
For this wide view is like the scene of life,
Once traversed o'er with carelessness and glee,
And we look back upon the vale of years,
And hear remembered voices, and behold,
In blended colours, images and shades
Long passed, now rising, as at Memory's call,70
Again in softer light.
I see thee not,
Home of my infancy—I see thee not,
Thou fane that standest on the hill alone,[7]
The homeward sailor's sea-mark; but I view
Brean Down beyond; and there thy winding sands,
Weston; and, far away, one wandering ship,
Where stretches into mist the Severn sea.
There, mingled with the clouds, old Cambria draws
Its stealing line of mountains, lost in haze;80
There, in mid-channel, sit the sister holms,[8]
Secure and tranquil, though the tide's vast sweep,82
As it rides by, might almost seem to rive
The deep foundations of the earth again,
Threatening, as once, resistless, to ascend
In tempest to this height, to bury here
Fresh-weltering carcases!
But, lo, the Cave!
Descend the steps, cut rudely in the rock,
Cautious. The yawning vault is at our feet!90
Long caverns, winding within caverns, spread
On either side their labyrinths; all dark,
Save where the light falls glimmering on huge bones,
In mingled multitudes. Ere yet we ask
Whose bones, and of what animals they formed
The structure, when no human voice was heard
In all this isle; look upward to the roof
That silent drips, and has for ages dripped,
From which, like icicles, the stalactites
Depend: then ask of the geologist,100
How nature, vaulting the rude chamber, scooped
Its vast recesses; he with learning vast
Will talk of limestone rock, of stalactites,
And oolites, and hornblende, and graywacke—
With sounds almost as craggy as the rock
Of which he speaks—feldspar, and gneis, and schorl!
But let us learn of this same troglodyte,[9]
Who guides us through the winding labyrinth,
The erudite "Professor" of the cave,
Not of the college; stagyrite of bones.110
He leads, with flickering candle, through the heaps
Himself has piled, and placed in various forms,
Grotesque arrangement, while the cave itself
Seems but his element of breathing! Look!114
This humereus is that of the wild ox.
The very candle, as with sympathy,
Flares while he speaks, in glimmering wonderment!
But who can mark these visible remains,
Nor pause to think how awful, and how true,
The dread event they speak! What monuments120
Hath man, since then, the lord, the emmet, raised
On earth! He hath built pyramids, and said,
Stand there! and in their solitude they stood,
Whilst, like the camel's shadow on the sands
Beneath them years and ages passed. He said,
My name shall never die! and like the God
Of silence,[10] with his finger on his lip,
Oblivion mocked, then pointed to a tomb,
'Mid vast and winding vaults, without a name.
Where art thou, Thebes? The chambers of the dead130
Echo, Behold! and twice ten thousand men,
Even in their march of rapine and of blood,
Involuntary halted,[11] at the sight
Of thy majestic wreck, for many, a league—
Sphynxes, colossal fanes, and obelisks—
Pale in the morning sun! Ambition sighed
A moment, and passed on. In this rude isle,
The Druid altars frowned; and still they stand,
As silent as the barrows at their feet,
Yet tell the same stern tale. Soldier of Rome,140
Art thou come hither to this land remote
Hid in the ocean-waste? Thy chariot wheels
Rung on that road below![12]—Cohorts, and turms,
With their centurions, in long file appear,
Their golden eagles glittering to the sun,
O'er the last line of spears; and standard-flags146
Wave, and the trumpets sounding to advance,
And shields, and helms, and crests, and chariots, mark
The glorious march of Cæsar's soldiery,
Firing the gray horizon! They are passed!150
And, like a gleam of glory, perishing,
Leave but a name behind! So passes man,
An armed spectre o'er a field of blood,
And vanishes; and other armed shades
Pass by, red battle hurtling as they pass.
The Saxon kings have strewed their palaces
From Thames to Tyne. But, lo! the sceptre shakes;
The Dane, remorseless as the hurricane
That sweeps his native cliffs, harries the land!
What terror strode before his track of blood!160
What hamlets mourned his desultory march,
When on the circling hills, along the sea,
The beacon-flame shone nightly! He has passed!
Now frowns the Norman victor on his throne,
And every cottage shrouds its lonely fire,
As the sad curfew sounds. Yet Piety,
With new-inspiring energies, awoke,
And ampler polity: in woody vales,
In unfrequented wilds, and forest-glens,
The towers of the sequestered abbey shone,170
As when the pinnacles of Glaston-Fane
First met the morning light. The parish church,
Then too, exulting o'er the ruder cross,
Upsprung, till soon the distant village peal
Flings out its music, where the tapering spire
Adds a new picture to the sheltered vale.
Uphill, thy rock, where sits the lonely church,
Above the sands, seems like the chronicler
Of other times, there left to tell the tale!
But issuing from the cave, look round, behold180
How proudly the majestic Severn rides
On to the sea; how gloriously in light
It rides! Along this solitary ridge,
Where smiles, but rare, the blue campanula,
Among the thistles and gray stones that peep
Through the thin herbage, to the highest point
Of elevation, o'er the vale below,
Slow let us climb. First look upon that flower,
The lowly heath-bell, smiling at our feet.
How beautiful it smiles alone! The Power190
That bade the great sea roar, that spread the heavens,
That called the sun from darkness, decked that flower,
And bade it grace this bleak and barren hill.
Imagination, in her playful mood,
Might liken it to a poor village maid,
Lowly, but smiling in her lowliness,
And dressed so neatly as if every day
Were Sunday. And some melancholy bard
Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:—
Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here,200
Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
Unseen, let the majestic dahlia
Glitter, an empress, in her blazonry
Of beauty; let the stately lily shine,
As snow-white as the breast of the proud swan
Sailing upon the blue lake silently,
That lifts her tall neck higher as she views
Her shadow in the stream! Such ladies bright
May reign unrivalled in their proud parterres!
Thou wouldst not live with them; but if a voice,210
Fancy, in shaping mood, might give to thee,
To the forsaken primrose thou wouldst say—
Come, live with me, and we two will rejoice:
Nor want I company; for when the sea214
Shines in the silent moonlight, elves and fays,
Gentle and delicate as Ariel,
That do their spiritings on these wild holts,
Circle me in their dance, and sing such songs
As human ear ne'er heard! But cease the strain,
Lest wisdom and severer truth should chide.220
Behind that windmill, sailing round and round,
Like days on days revolving, Bleadon lies,
Where first I pondered on the grammar-lore,
Sad as the spelling-book, beneath the roof
Of its secluded parsonage; Brean Down
Emerges o'er the edge of Hutton Hill,
Just seen in paler light! And Weston there,
Where I remember a few cottages
Sprinkling the sand, uplifts its tower, and shines,
As if in conscious beauty, o'er the scene.230
And I have seen a far more welcome sight,
The living line of population stream—
Children, and village maids, and gray old men—
Stream o'er the sands to church: such change has been
In the brief compass of one hastening life!
And yet that hill, the light, is to my eyes
Familiar as those sister isles that sit
In the mid channel! Look, how calm they sit,
As listening each to the tide's rocking roar!
Of different aspects—this, abrupt and high,240
And desolate, and cold, and bleak, uplifts
Its barren brow—barren, but on its steep
One native flower is seen, the peony;
One flower, which smiles in sunshine or in storm,
There sits companionless, but yet not sad:
She has no sister of the summer-field,
None to rejoice with her when spring returns,
None that, in sympathy, may bend its head,248
When evening winds blow hollow o'er the rock,
In autumn's gloom! So Virtue, a fair flower,
Blooms on the rock of Care, and, though unseen,
So smiles in cold seclusion; while, remote
From the world's flaunting fellowship, it wears,
Like hermit Piety, one smile of peace,
In sickness or in health, in joy or tears,
In summer days or cold adversity;
And still it feels Heaven's breath, reviving, steal
On its lone breast; feels the warm blessedness
Of Heaven's own light about it, though its leaves
Are wet with evening tears!260
Yonder island
Seems not so desolate, nor frowns aloof,
As if from human kind. The lighthouse there,
Through the long winter night, shows its pale fire;
And three forgotten mounds mark the rude graves,
None knows of whom; but those of men who breathed,
And bore their part in life, and looked to Heaven,
As man looks now!—they died and left no name!
Fancy might think, amid the wilderness
Of waves, they sought to hide from human eyes270
All memory of their fortunes. Till the trump
Of doom, they rest unknown. But mark that hill—
Where Kewstoke seems to creep into the sea,
Thy abbey, Woodspring, rose.[13] Wild is the spot;
And there three mailed murderers retired,
To the last point of land. There they retired,276
And there they knelt upon the ground, and cried,
Bury us 'mid the waves, where none may know
The whispered secret of a deed of blood!
No stone is o'er those graves:—the sullen tide,
As it flows by and sounds along the shore,
Seems moaningly to say, Pray for our souls!
Nor other "Miserere" have they had
At eve, nor other orison at morn.
Thou hast put on thy mildest look to-day,
Thou mighty element! Solemn, and still,
And motionless, and touched with softer light,
And without noise, lies all thy long expanse.
Thou seemest now as calm, as if a child
Might dally with thy playfulness, and stand,290
The weak winds lifting gently its light hair;
Upon thy margin, watching one by one
The long waves, breaking slow, with such a sound
As Silence, in her dreamy mood, might love,
When she more softly breathed, fearing a breath
Might mar thy placidness!
Oh, treachery!
So still, and like a giant in his strength
Reposing, didst thou lie, when the fond sire
One moment looked, and saw his blithsome boys300
Gay on the sands, one moment, and the next,
Heart-stricken and bereft, by the same surge,
Stood in his desolation;[14]—for he looked,
And thought how he had blessed them in their sleep,
And the next moment they were borne away,
Snatched by the circling surge, and seen no more;
While morning shone, and not a ripple told307
How terrible and dark a deed was done!
And so the seas were hushed, and not a cloud
Marred the pale moonlight, save that, here and there,
Wandering far off, some feathery shreds were seen,
As the sole orb, above the lighthouse, held
Its course in loveliness; and not a sound
Came from the distant deep, save that, at times,
Amid the noise of human merriment,
The ear might seem to catch a low faint moan,
A boding sound, as of a dying dirge,
From the sunk rocks;[15] while all was still beside,
And every star seemed listening in its watch;
When the gay packet-bark, to Erin bound,320
Resounding with the laugh and song, went on!
Look! she is gone! O God! she is gone down,
With her light-hearted company; gone down,
And all at once is still, save, on the mast,
Just peering o'er the waters, the wild shrieks
Of three, at times, are heard! They, when the dead
Were round them, floating on the moonlight wave,
Kept there their dismal watch till morning dawned,
And to the living world were then restored!

PART SECOND.

REFLECTIONS ON THE MORAL AND RELIGIOUS STATE OF PARISHES, PAST AND PRESENT.

A shower, even while we gaze, steals o'er the scene,
Shrouding it, and the sea-view is shout out,
Save where, beyond the holms, one thread of light
Hangs, and a pale and sunny stream shoots on,
O'er the dim vapours, faint and far away,
Like Hope's still light beyond the storms of Time.
Come, let us rest a while in this rude seat!
I was a child when first I heard the sound
Of the great sea. 'Twas night, and journeying far,
We were belated on our road, 'mid scenes10
New and unknown,—a mother and her child,
Now first in this wide world a wanderer:—
My father came, the pastor of the church[16]
That crowns the high hill crest, above the sea;
When, as the wheels went slow, and the still night
Seemed listening, a low murmur met the ear,
Not of the winds:—my mother softly said,
Listen! it is the sea! With breathless awe,
I heard the sound, and closer pressed her hand.
Much of the sea, in infant wonderment,20
I oft had heard, and of the shipwrecked man,
Who sees, on some lone isle, day after day,
The sun sink o'er the solitude of waves,
Like Crusoe; and the tears would start afresh,
Whene'er my mother kissed my cheek, and told
The story of that desolate wild man,26
And how the speaking bird, when he returned
After long absence to his cave forlorn,
Said, as in tones of human sympathy,
Poor Robin Crusoe!
Thoughts like these arose,
When first I heard, at night, the distant sound,
Great Ocean, "of thy everlasting voice!"[17]
Where the white parsonage, among the trees,
Peeped out, that night I restless passed. The sea
Filled all my thoughts; and when slow morning came,
And the first sunbeam streaked the window-pane,
I rose unnoticed, and with stealthy pace,
Straggling along the village green, explored
Alone my fearful but adventurous way;40
When, having turned the hedgerow, I beheld,
For the first time, thy glorious element,
Old Ocean, glittering in the beams of morn,
Stretching far off, and, westward, without bound,
Amid thy sole dominion, rocking loud!
Shivering I stood, and tearful; and even now,
When gathering years have marked my look,—even now
I feel the deep impression of that hour,
As but of yesterday!
Spirit of Time,50
A moment pause, and I will speak to thee!
Dark clouds are round thee; but, lo! Memory waves
Her wand,—the clouds disperse, as the gray rack
Disperses while we gaze, and light steals out,
While the gaunt phantom almost seems to drop
His scythe! Now shadows of the past, distinct,
Are thronging round; the voices of the dead
Are heard; and, lo! the very smoke goes up—
For so it seems—from yonder tenement,60
Where leads the slender pathway to the door.
Enter that small blue parlour: there sits one,
A female, and a child is in her arms;
A child leans at her side, intent to show
A pictured book, and looks upon her face;
One, from the green, comes with a cowslip ball;[18]
And one,[19] a hero, sits sublime and horsed,
Upon a rocking-steed, from Banwell-fair;
This,[20] drives his tiny wheel-barrow, without,
On the green garden-sward; whilst one,[21] apart,
Sighs o'er his solemn task—the spelling-book—70
Half moody, half in tears. Some lines of thought
Are on that matron's brow; yet placidness,
Such as resigned religion gives, is there,
Mingled with sadness; for who e'er beheld,
Without one stealing sigh, a progeny
Of infants clustering round maternal knees,
Nor felt some boding fears, how they might fare
In the wide world, when they who loved them most
Were silent in their graves!
Nay! pass not on,80
Till thou hast marked a book—the leaf turned down—
Night Thoughts on Death and Immortality!
This book, my mother! in the weary hours
Of life, in every care, in every joy,
Was thy companion: next to God's own Word,
The book that bears this name,[22] thou didst revere,
Leaving a stain of tears upon the page,
Whose lessons, with a more emphatic truth,
Touched thine own heart!
That heart has long been still!90
But who is he, of aspect more severe,
Yet with a manly kindness in his mien,
He, who o'erlooks yon sturdy labourer
Delving the glebe! My father as he lived!
That father, and that mother, "earth to earth,
And dust to dust," the inevitable doom
Hath long consigned! And where is he, the son,
Whose future fate they pondered with a sigh?
Long, nor unprosperous, has been his way
Through life's tumultuous scenes, who, when a child,100
Played in that garden platform in the sun;
Or loitered o'er the common, and pursued
The colts among the sand-hills; or, intent
On hardier enterprise, his pumpkin-ship,
New-rigged, and buoyant, with its tiny sail,
Launched on the garden pond; or stretched his hand,
At once forgetting all this glorious toil,
When the bright butterfly came wandering by.
But never will that day pass from his mind,
When, scarcely breathing for delight, at Wells,110
He saw the horsemen of the clock[23] ride round,
As if for life; and ancient Blandifer,[24]
Seated aloft, like Hermes, in his chair
Complacent as when first he took his seat,
Some hundred years ago; saw him lift up,
As if old Time was cowering at his feet,
Solemn lift up his mace, and strike the bell,
Himself for ever silent in his seat.
How little thought I then, the hour would come,
When the loved prelate of that beauteous fane,120
At whose command I write, might placidly
Smile on this picture, in my future verse,122
When Blandifer had struck so many hours
For me, his poet, in this vale of years,
Himself unchanged and solemn as of yore!
My father was the pastor, and the friend
Of all who, living then—the scene is closed—
Now silent in that rocky churchyard sleep,
The aged and the young! A village then
Was not as villages are now. The hind,130
Who delved, or "jocund drove his team a-field,"
Had then an independence in his look
And heart; and, plodding on his lowly path,
Disdained a parish dole, content, though poor.
He was the village monitor: he taught
His children to be good, and read their book,
And in the gallery took his Sunday place,—
To-morrow, with the bee, to work.
So passed
His days of cheerful, independent toil;140
And when the pastor came that way, at eve,
He had a ready present for the child
Who read his book the best; and that poor child
Remembered it, when, treading the same path
In which his father trod, he so grew up
Contented, till old Time had blanched his locks,
And he was borne—whilst the bell tolled—to sleep
In the same churchyard where his father slept!
His daughter walked content, and innocent
As lovely, in her lowly path. She turned150
The hour-glass, while the humming wheel went round,
Or went "a-Maying" o'er the fields in spring,
Leading her little brother by the hand,
Along the village lane, and o'er the stile,
To gather cowslips; and then home again,
To turn her wheel, contented, through the day.156
Or, singing low, bend where her brother slept,
Rocking the cradle, to "sweet William's grave!"[25]
No lure could tempt her from the woodbine shed,
Where she grew up, and folded first her hands160
In infant prayer: yet oft a tear would steal
Down her young cheek, to think how desolate
That home would be when her poor mother died;
Still praying that she ne'er might cause a pain,
Undutiful, to "bring down her gray hairs
With sorrow to the grave!"
Now mark this scene!
The fuming factory's polluted air
Has stained the country! See that rural nymph,
An infant in her arms! She claims the dole170
From the cold parish, which her faithless swain
Denies: he stands aloof, with clownish leer;
The constable behind—and mark his brow—
Beckons the nimble clerk; the justice, grave,
Turns from his book a moment, with a look
Of pity, signs the warrant for her pay,
A weekly eighteen pence; she, unabashed,
Slides from the room, and not a transient blush,
Far less the accusing tear, is on her cheek!
A different scene comes next: That village maid180
Approaches timidly, yet beautiful;
A tear is on her lids, when she looks down
Upon her sleeping child. Her heart was won,
The wedding-day was fixed, the ring was bought!
'Tis the same story—Colin was untrue!
He ruined, and then left her to her fate.
Pity her, she has not a friend on earth,
And that still tear speaks to all human hearts
But his, whose cruelty and treachery189
Caused it to flow! So crime still follows crime.
Ask we the cause? See, where those engines heave,
That spread their giant arms o'er all the land!
The wheel is silent in the vale! Old age
And youth are levelled by one parish law!
Ask why that maid, all day, toils in the field,
Associate with the rude and ribald clown,
Even in the shrinking April of her youth?
To earn her loaf, and eat it by herself.
Parental love is smitten to the dust;
Over a little smoke the aged sire200
Holds his pale hands—and the deserted hearth
Is cheerless as his heart: but Piety
Points to the Bible! Shut the book again:
The ranter is the roving gospel now,
And each his own apostle! Shut the book:
A locust-swarm of tracts darken its light,
And choke its utterance; while a Babel-rout
Of mock-religionists, turn where we will,
Have drowned the small still voice, till Piety,
Sick of the din, retires to pray alone.210
But though abused Religion, and the dole
Of pauper-pay, and vomitories huge
Of smoke, are each a steam-engine of crime,
Polluting, far and wide, the wholesome air,
And withering life's green verdure underneath,
Full many a poor and lowly flower of want
Has Education nursed, like a pure rill,
Winding through desert glens, and bade it live
To grace the cottage with its mantling sweets.
There was a village girl, I knew her well,220
From five years old and upwards; all her friends
Were dead, and she was to the workhouse left,
And there a witness to such sounds profane223
As might turn virtue pale! When Sunday came,
Assembled with the children of the poor,
Upon the lawn of my own parsonage,
She stood among them: they were taught to read
In companies and groups, upon the green,
Each with its little book; her lighted eyes
Shone beautiful where'er they turned; her form230
Was graceful; but her book her sole delight![26]
Instructed thus she went a serving-maid
Into the neighbouring town,—ah! who shall guide
A friendless maid, so beautiful and young,
From life's contagions! But she had been taught
The duties of her humble lot, to pray
To God, and that one heavenly Father's eye
Was over rich and poor! On Sunday night,
She read her Bible, turning still away
From those who flocked, inflaming and inflamed,240
To nightly meetings; but she never closed
Her eyes, or raised them to the light of morn,
Without a prayer to Him who "bade the sun
Go forth," a giant, from his eastern gate!
No art, no bribe, could lure her steps astray
From the plain path, and lessons she had learned,
A village child. She is a mother now,
And lives to prove the blessings and the fruits
Of moral duty, on the poorest child,
When duty, and when sober piety,250
Impressing the young heart, go hand in hand.
No villager was then a disputant
In Calvinistic and contentious creeds;
No pale mechanic, from a neighbouring sink
Of steam and rank debauchery and smoke,255
Crawled forth upon a Sunday morn, with looks
Saddening the very sunshine, to instruct
The parish poor in evangelic lore;
To teach them to cast off, "as filthy rags,"
Good works! and listen to such ministers,260
Who all (be sure) "are worthy of their hire;"
Who only preach for good of their poor souls,
That they may turn "from darkness unto light,"
And, above all, fly, as the gates of hell,
Morality![27] and Baal's steeple house,
Where, without "heart-work," Doctor Littlegrace
Drones his dull requiem to the snoring clerk!"[28]
True; he who drawls his heartless homily
For one day's work, and plods, on wading stilts,
Through prosing paragraphs, with inference,270
Methodically dull, as orthodox,
Enforcing sagely that we all must die
When God shall call—oh, what a pulpit drone
Is he! The blue fly might as well preach "Hum,"
And "so conclude!"
But save me from the sight
Of curate fop, half jockey and half clerk,
The tandem-driving Tommy of a town,
Disdaining books, omniscient of a horse,
Impatient till September comes again,280
Eloquent only of "the pretty girl
With whom he danced last night!" Oh! such a thing
Is worse than the dull doctor, who performs
Duly his stinted task, and then to sleep,
Till Sunday asks another homily
Against all innovations of the age,
Mad missionary zeal, and Bible clubs,287
And Calvinists and Evangelicals!
Yes! Evangelicals! Oh, glorious word!
But who deserves that awful name? Not he
Who spits his puny Puritanic spite
On harmless recreation; who reviles
All who, majestic in their distant scorn,
Bear on in silence their calm Christian course.
He only is the Evangelical
Who holds in equal scorn dogmas and dreams,
The Shibboleth of saintly magazines,
Decked with most grim and godly visages;
The cobweb sophistry, or the dark code
Of commentators, who, with loathsome track,300
Crawl o'er a text, or on the lucid page,
Beaming with heavenly love and God's own light,
Sit like a nightmare![29] Soon a deadly mist
Creeps o'er our eyes and heart, till angel forms
Turn into hideous phantoms, mocking us,
Even when we look for comfort at the spring
And well of life, while dismal voices cry,
Death! Reprobation! Woe! Eternal woe!
He only is the Evangelical
Who from the human commentary turns310
With tranquil scorn, and nearer to his heart
Presses the Bible, till repentant tears,
In silence, wet his cheek, and new-born faith,
And hope, and charity, with radiant smile,
Visit his heart,—all pointing to the cross!
He only is the Evangelical,316
Who, with eyes fixed upon that spectacle,
Christ and him crucified, with ardent hope,
And holier feelings, lifts his thoughts from earth,
And cries, My Father! Meantime, his whole heart320
Is on God's Word: he preaches Faith, and Hope,
And Charity,—these three, and not that one!
And Charity, the greatest of these three![30]
Give me an Evangelical like this! But now
The blackest crimes in tract-religion's code
Are moral virtues! Spare the prodigal,—
He may awake when God shall "call;" but, hell,
Roll thy avenging flames, to swallow up
The son who never left his father's home
Lest he should trust to morals when he dies!330
Let him not lay the unction to his soul,
That his upbraiding conscience tells no tale
At that dread hour; bid him confess his sin,
The greater that, with humble hope, he looks
Back on a well-spent life! Bid him confess
That he hath broken all God's holy laws,—
In vain hath he done justly,—loved, in vain,
Mercy, and hath walked humbly with his God!
These are mere works; but faith is everything,
And all in all! The Christian code contains340
No "if" or "but!"[31] Let tabernacles ring,
And churches too,[32] with sanctimonious strains
Baneful as these; and let such strains be heard
Through half the land; and can we shut our eyes,
And, sadly wondering, ask the cause of crimes,345
When infidelity stands lowering here,
With open scorn, and such a code as this,
So baneful, withers half the charities
Of human hearts! Oh! dear is Mercy's voice
To man, a mourner in the vale of sin350
And death: how dear the still small voice of Faith,
That bids him raise his look beyond the clouds
That hang o'er this dim earth; but he who tears
Faith from her heavenly sisterhood, denies
The gospel, and turns traitor to the cause
He has engaged to plead. Come, Faith, and Hope,
And Charity! how dear to the sad heart,
The consolations and the glorious views
That animate the Christian in his course!
But save, oh! save me from the tract-led Miss,360
Who trots to every Bethel club, and broods
O'er some black missionary's monstrous tale,
Reckless of want around her!
But the priest,
Who deems the Almighty frowns upon his throne,
Because two pair of harmless dowagers,
Whose life has passed without a stain, beguile
An evening hour with cards; who deems that hell
Burns fiercer for a saraband; that thou—
Thou, my sweet Shakspeare—thou, whose touch awakes
The inmost heart of virtuous sympathy,—371
Thou, O divinest poet! at whose voice
Sad Pity weeps, or guilty Terror drops
The blood-stained dagger from his palsied hand,—
That thou art pander to the criminal!
He who thus edifies his Christian flock,
Moves, more than even the Bethel-trotting Miss,
My pity, my aversion, and my scorn.
Cry aloud!—Oh, speak in thunder to the soul379
That sleeps in sin! Harrow the inmost heart
Of murderous intent, till dew-drops stand
Upon his haggard brow! Call conscience up,
Like a stern spectre, whose dim finger points
To dark misdeeds of yore! Wither the arm
Of the oppressor, at whose feet the slave
Crouches, and pleading lifts his fettered hands!
Thou violator of the innocent
Hide thee! Hence! hide thee in the deepest cave,
From man's indignant sight! Thou hypocrite!
Trample in dust thy mask, nor cry faith, faith,390
Making it but a hollow tinkling sound,
That stirs not the foul heart! Horrible wretch!
Look not upon the face of that sweet child,
With thoughts which hell would tremble to conceive!
Oh, shallow, and oh, senseless! In a world
Where rank offences turn the good man pale,
Who leave the Christian's sternest code, to vent
Their petty ire on petty trespasses,
If trespasses they are;—when the wide world
Groans with the burthen of offence; when crimes400
Stalk on, with front defying, o'er the land,
Whilst, her own cause betraying, Christian zeal
Thus swallows camels, straining at a gnat!
Therefore, without a comment, or a note,
We love the Bible; and we prize the more
The spirit of its pure unspotted page,
As pure from the infectious breath that stains,
Like a foul fume, its hallowed light, we hail
The radiant car of heaven, amidst the clouds
Of mortal darkness, and of human mist,410
Sole, as the sun in heaven![33]
Oh! whilst the car412
Of God's own glory rolls along in light,
We join the loud song of the Christian host,
(All puny systems shrinking from the blaze),
Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!
Saldanna's[34] rocks have echoed to the hymns
Of Faith, and Hope, and Charity! Roll on!
Till the wild wastes of inmost Africa,
Where the long Niger's track is lost, respond,420
Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!
From realm to realm, from shore to farthest shore,
O'er dark pagodas, and huge idol-fanes,
That frown along the Ganges' utmost stream,
Till the poor widow, from the burning pile
Starting, shall lift her hands to heaven, and weep
That she has found a Saviour, and has heard
The sounds of Christian love! Oh, horrible!
The pile is smoking!—the bamboos lie there,
That held her down when the last struggle shook430
The blazing pile![35] Hasten, O car of light!
Alas for suffering nature! Juggernaut,
Armed, in his giant car goes also forth,
Goes forth amid his red and reeling priests,
While thousands gasp and die beneath the wheels,
As they go groaning on, 'mid cries, and drums,
And flashing cymbals, and delirious songs
Of tinkling dancing girls, and all the rout
Of frantic superstition! Turn away!
And is not Juggernaut himself with us?440
Not only cold insidious sophistry
Comes, blinking with its taper-fume, to light,
If so he may, the sun in the mid heaven!
Not only blind and hideous blasphemy
Scowls in his cloak, and mocks the glorious orb,
Ascending, in its silence, o'er a world
Of sin and sorrow; but a hellish brood
Of imps, and fiends, and phantoms, ape the form
Of godliness, till godliness itself
Seems but a painted monster, and a name450
For darker crimes, at which the shuddering heart
Shrinks; while the ranting rout, as they march on,
Mock Heaven with hymns, till, see! pale Belial
Sighs o'er a filthy tract, and Moloch marks,
With gouts of blood, his brandished magazine!
Start, monster, from the dismal dream! Look up!
Oh! listen to the apostolic voice,
That, like a voice from heaven, proclaims, To faith
Add virtue! There is no mistaking here;
Whilst moral education by the hand460
Shall lead the children to the house of God,
Nor sever Christian faith from Christian love.
If we would see the fruits of charity,
Look at that village group, and paint the scene!
Surrounded by a clear and silent stream,
Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray,
A rural mansion on the level lawn
Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade
Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,
Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees470
In front, the village church, with pinnacles
And light gray tower, appears; whilst to the right,
An amphitheatre of oaks extends
Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,474
Where once a castle frowned, closes the scene.
And see! an infant troop, with flags and drum,
Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods,
On to the table spread upon the lawn,
Raising their little hands when grace is said;
Whilst she who taught them to lift up their hearts480
In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"
God, "their Creator," mistress of the scene
(Whom I remember once as young), looks on,
Blessing them in the silence of her heart.
And we too bless them. Oh! away, away!
Cant, heartless cant, and that economy,
Cold, and miscalled "political," away!
Let the bells ring—a Puritan turns pale
To hear the festive sound: let the bells ring—
A Christian loves them; and this holiday490
Remembers him, while sighs unbidden steal,
Of life's departing and departed days,
When he himself was young, and heard the bells,
In unison with feelings of his heart—
His first pure Christian feelings, hallowing
The harmonious sound!
And, children, now rejoice,—
Now, for the holidays of life are few;
Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,
The cracked church-viol, resonant to-day500
Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape
Its merriment, and let the joyous group
Dance in a round, for soon the ills of life
Will come! Enough, if one day in the year,
If one brief day, of this brief life, be given
To mirth as innocent as yours! But, lo!
That ancient woman, leaning on her staff!507
Pale, on her crutch she rests one withered hand;
One withered hand, which Gerard Dow might paint,
Even its blue veins! And who is she? The nurse
Of the fair mistress of the scene: she led
Her tottering steps in infancy—she spelt
Her earliest lesson to her; and she now
Leans from that open window, while she thinks—
When summer comes again, the turf will lie
On my cold breast; but I rejoice to see
My child thus leading on the progeny
Of her poor neighbours in the peaceful path
Of humble virtue! I shall be at rest,
Perhaps, when next they meet; but my last prayer520
Is with them, and the mistress of this home.
"The innocent are gay,"[36] gay as the lark
That sings in morn's first sunshine; and why not?
But may they ne'er forget, as life steals on,
In age, the lessons they have learned in youth!
How false the charge, how foul the calumny
On England's generous aristocracy,
That, wrapped in sordid, selfish apathy,
They feel not for the poor!
Ask, is it true?530
Lord of the whirling wheels, the charge is false![37]
Ten thousand charities adorn the land,
Beyond thy cold conception, from this source.
What cottage child but has been neatly clad,
And taught its earliest lesson, from their care?
Witness that schoolhouse, mantled with festoon
Of various plants, which fancifully wreath537
Its window-mullions, and that rustic porch,
Whence the low hum of infant voices blend
With airs of spring, without. Now, all alive,
The green sward rings with play, among the shrubs—
Hushed the long murmur of the morning task,
Before the pensive matron's desk!
But turn,
And mark that aged widow! By her side
Is God's own Word; and, lo! the spectacles
Are yet upon the page. Her daughter kneels
And prays beside her! Many years have shed
Their snow so silently and softly down
Upon her head, that Time, as if to gaze,550
Seems for a moment to suspend his flight
Onward, in reverence to those few gray hairs,
That steal beneath her cap, white as its snow.
Whilst the expiring lamp is kept alive,
Thus feebly, by a duteous daughter's love,
Her last faint prayer, ere all is dark on earth,
Will to the God of heaven ascend, for those
Whose comforts smoothed her silent bed.
And thou,
Witness Elysian Tempe of Stourhead!560
Oh, not because, with bland and gentle smile,
Adding a radiance to the look of age,
Like eve's still light, thy liberal master spreads
His lettered treasures;—not because his search
Has dived the Druid mound, illustrating
His country's annals, and the monuments
Of darkest ages;—not because his woods
Wave o'er the dripping cavern of Old Stour,
Where classic temples gleam along the edge
Of the clear waters, winding beautiful;—570
Oh! not because the works of breathing art,571
Of Poussin, Rubens, Rembrandt, Gainsborough,
Start, like creations, from the silent walls;
To thee, this tribute of respect and love,
Beloved, benevolent, and generous Hoare,
Grateful I pay;—but that, when thou art dead
(Late may it be!) the poor man's tear will fall,
And his voice falter, when he speaks of thee.[38]
And witness thou, magnificent abode,
Where virtuous Ken,[39] with his gray hairs and shroud,580
Came, for a shelter from the world's rude storm,
In his old age, leaving his palace-throne,
Having no spot where he might lay his head,
In all the earth! Oh, witness thou, the seat
Of his first friend, his friend from schoolboy days!
Oh! witness thou, if one who wanted bread
Has not found shelter there; if one poor man
Has been deserted in his hour of need;
Or one poor child been left without a guide,
A father, an instructor, and a friend;590
In him, the pastor, and distributor[40]
Of bounties large, yet falling silently
As dews on the cold turf! And witness thou,
Marston,[41] the seat of my kind, honoured friend—
My kind and honoured friend, from youthful days.
Then wandering on the banks of Rhine, we saw
Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue,
Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock;599
Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds:
Or heard the roaring of the cataract,
Far off, beneath the dark defile or gloom
Of ancient forests; till behold, in light,
Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,
Through the rent rocks—where, o'er the mist of spray
The rainbow, like a fairy in her bower,
Is sleeping, while it roars—that volume vast,
White, and with thunder's deafening roar, comes down.
Live long, live happy, till thy journey close,
Calm as the light of day! Yet witness thou,610
The seat of noble ancestry, the seat
Of science, honoured by the name of Boyle,
Though many sorrows, since we met in youth,
Have pressed thy generous master's manly heart,
Witness, the partner of his joys and griefs;
Witness the grateful tenantry, the home
Of the poor man, the children of that school—
Still warm benevolence sits smiling there.
And witness, the fair mansion, on the edge
Of those chalk hills, which, from my garden walk,620
Daily I see, whose gentle mistress droops[42]
With her own griefs, yet never turns her look
From others' sorrows; on whose lids the tear
Shines yet more lovely than the light of youth.
And many a cottage-garden smiles, whose flowers
Invite the music of the morning bee.
And many a fireside has shot out, at eve,
Its light upon the old man's withered hand
And pallid cheek from their benevolence—
Sad as is still the parish-pauper's home—630
Who shed around their patrimonial seats
The light of heaven-descending Charity.632
And every feeling of the Christian heart
Would rise accusing, could I pass unsung,
Thee,[43] fair as Charity's own form, who late
Didst stand beneath the porch of that gray fane,
Soliciting[44] a mite from all who passed,
With such a smile, as to refuse would seem
To do a wrong to Charity herself.
How many blessings, silent and unheard,640
The mistress of the lonely parsonage
Dispenses, when she takes her daily round
Among the aged and the sick, whose prayers
And blessings are her only recompense!
How many pastors, by cold obloquy
And senseless hate reviled, tread the same path
Of charity in silence, taught by Him
Who was reviled not to revile again;
And leaving to a righteous God their cause!
Come, let us, with the pencil in our hand,650
Portray a character. What book is this?
Rector of Overton![45] I know him not;
But well I know the Vicar, and a man
More worthy of that name, and worthier still
To grace a higher station of our Church,
None knows;—a friend and father to the poor,
A scholar, unobtrusive, yet profound,
"As e'er my conversation coped withal;"
His piety unvarnished, but sincere.[46]
Killarney's lake,[47] and Scotia's hills,[48] have heard660
His summer-wandering reed; nor on the themes
Of hallowed inspiration[49] has his harp662
Been silent, though ten thousand jangling strings—
When all are poets in this land of song,
And every field chinks with its grasshopper—
Have well-nigh drowned the tones; but poesy
Mingles, at eventide, with many a mood
Of stirring fancy, on his silent heart
When o'er those bleak and barren downs, in rain
Or sunshine, where the giant Wansdeck sweeps,670
Homewards he bends his solitary way.
Live long; and late may the old villager
Look on thy stone, amid the churchyard grass,
Remembering years of kindness, and the tongue,
Eloquent of his Maker, when he sat
At church, and heard the undivided code
Of apostolic truth—of hope, of faith,
Of charity—the end and test of all.
Live long; and though I proudly might recall
The names of many friends—like thee, sincere680
And pious, and in solitude adorned
With rare accomplishments—this grateful praise
Accept, congenial to the poet's theme;
For well I know, haply when I am dead,
And in my shroud, whene'er thy homeward path
Lies o'er those hills, and thou shalt cast a look
Back on our garden-slope, and Bremhill tower,
Thou wilt remember me, and many a day
There passed in converse and sweet harmony.
A truce to satire, and to harsh reproof,690
Severer arguments, that have detained
The unwilling Muse too long:—come, while the clouds
Work heavy and the winds at intervals,
Pipe, and at intervals sink in a sigh,
As breathed o'er sounds and shadows of the past—695
Change we our style and measure, to relate
A village tale of a poor Cornish maid,
And of her prayer-book. It is sad, but true;
And simply told, though not in lady phrase
Of modish song, may touch some gentle heart,700
And wake an interest, when description fails.

PART THIRD.

THE MAIDEN'S CURSE.

I subjoin the plain narrative of the singular event on which this tale is founded, from Mr Polwhele, that the reader may see how far, poetically, I have departed from plain facts, and what I have thought it best to add for the sake of moral, picturesque, and poetical effect. The narrative is as follows:—

"October, 1780. Thomas Thomas, aged 37. This man died of mental anguish, or what is called a broken heart. He lived in the village of Drannock, in the parish of Gwinnear, till an unhappy event occurred, which proved fatal to his peace of mind for more than eight years, and finally occasioned his death. He courted Elizabeth Thomas, of the same village, who was his first-cousin; and it was understood that they were under a matrimonial engagement. But in May 1772, some little disagreement having happened between them, he, out of resentment, or from some other motive, paid great attention to another girl; and on Sunday the 31st of that month, in the afternoon, accompanied her to the Methodist meeting at Wall. During their absence, the slighted female, who was very beautiful in her person, but of an extremely irritable temper, took a rope and a common prayer-book, in which she had folded down the 109th Psalm, and, going into an adjacent field, hanged herself. Thomas, on his return from the preaching, inquired for Betsy; and being told she had not been seen for two or three hours, he exclaimed, 'Good God! she has destroyed herself!' which apprehension seems to show, either that she had threatened to commit suicide in consequence of his desertion, or that he dreaded it from a knowledge of the violence of her disposition. But when he saw that his fears were realised, and had read the psalm, so full of execrations, which she had pointed out to him, he cried out, 'I am ruined for ever and ever!' The very sight of this village and neighbourhood was now become insupportable, and he went to live at Marazion, hoping that a change of scene and social intercourse might expel those excruciating reflections which harrowed up his very soul, or at least render them less acute; but in this he appeared to be mistaken, for he found himself closely pursued by the evil demon

'Despair, whose torments no man, sure,
But lovers and the damned endure.'

"To hear the 109th Psalm would petrify him with horror, and therefore he would not attend divine service on the 22d day of the month; he dreaded to go near a reading school, lest he should hear the dreaded lesson. Whatever misfortunes befel him (and these were not a few, for he was several times hurt, and even maimed, in the mines in which he laboured), he still attributed them all to the malevolent agency of the deceased, and thought he could find allusions to the whole in the calamitous legacy which she had bequeathed him. When he slumbered, for he knew nothing of sound sleep, the injured girl appeared to his imagination, with such a countenance as she retained after the rash action, and the prayer-book in her hand, open at the hateful psalm; and he was frequently heard to cry out, 'Oh, my dear Betsy, shut the book, shut the book!' etc. With a mind so disturbed and deranged, though he could not reasonably expect much consolation from matrimony, yet imagining that the cares of a family might distract his thoughts from the miserable subject by which he was harassed both by day and night, he successively paid his addresses to many girls of Marazion; but they indignantly flew from him, and with a sneer asked him, whether he was desirous of bringing all the curses in the 109th Psalm on their heads? At length, however, he succeeded with one who had less superstition and more fortitude than the rest, and he led her to St Hilary church, to be married, January 21, 1778; but on the road thither, they were overtaken by a sudden and violent hurricane, such as those which not unfrequently happen in the vicinity of Mount's Bay; and he, suspecting that poor Betsy rode the whirlwind and directed the storm, was convulsed with terror, and was literally 'coupled with fear.' Such is the power of conscious guilt to impute accidental occurrences to the hand of vindictive justice, and so true is the observation of the poet,

'Judicium metuit sibi mens mali conscia justum.'

"He lived long enough to have a son and a daughter; but the corrosive worm within his breast preyed upon his vitals, and at length consumed all the powers of his body, as it had long before destroyed the tranquillity of his mind, and he was released from all his pangs, both mental and corporeal, on Friday, October 20, 1780, and buried at St Hilary, the Sunday following, during evening service."

Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
So William cried, with wild and frantic look.
She whom he loved was in her shroud, nor pain
Nor grief can visit her sad heart again.
There is no sculptured tombstone at her head;5
No rude memorial marks her lowly bed:
The village children, every holiday,
Round the green turf, in summer sunshine play;
And none, but those now bending to the tomb,
Remember Mary, lovely in her bloom!10
Yet oft the hoary swain, when autumn sighs
Through the long grass, sees a dim form arise,
That hies in glimmering moonlight to the brook,
Its wan lips moving, in its hand a book.
So, like a bruised flower, and in the pride
Of youth and beauty, injured Mary died.
William some years survived, but years no trace
Of his sick heart's deep anguish could erase.
Still the dread spectre seemed to rise, and, worse,
Still in his ears rang the appalling curse!20
While loud he cries, despair upon his look,
Oh! shut the book, my Mary, shut the book!
The sun is slowly westering now, and lo,
How beautiful steals out the humid bow,
A radiant arch! Listen, whilst I relate
William's dread judgment, and poor Mary's fate.
I think I see the pine, that, heavily
Swaying, yet seems as for the dead to sigh.
How many generations, since the day
Of its green pride, have passed, like leaves, away!30
How many children of the hamlet played
Round its hoar trunk, who at its feet were laid,
Withered and gray old men! In life's first bloom
How many has it seen borne to the tomb!
But never one so sunk in hopeless woe
As she who lies in the cold grave below.
Her Sabbath-book, from which at church she prayed,
Was her poor father's, in that churchyard laid:
For Mary grew as beautiful in youth,39
As taught at church the lore of heavenly truth.
What different passions in her bosom strove,
When first she heard the tale of village love!
The youth whose voice then won her partial ear,
A yeoman's son, had passed his twentieth year;
She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care
Of boding age, oft whispered, Oh, beware!
For William was a thoughtless youth, and wild,
And like a colt unbroken, from a child:
At length, if not to serious thoughts awake,
He came to church, at least for Mary's sake.50
Young Mary, while her father was alive,
Saw all things round the humble dwelling thrive;
Her widowed mother now was growing old,
And bit by bit their worldly goods were sold:
Mary remained, her mother's hope and pride!
How oft when she was sleeping by her side,
That mother waked, and kissed her cheek, with tears
Praying for blessings on her future years,—
When she, her mother, earthly trials o'er,
Should rest in the cold grave, to grieve no more!60
But Mary to love's dream her heart resigned,
And gave to fancy all her youthful mind.
Shall I describe her! Didst thou never mark
A soft blue light, beneath eye-lashes dark?
Such was her eye's soft light;—her chestnut hair,
Light as she tripped, waved lighter to the air;
And, with her prayer-book, when on Sunday dressed,
Her looks a sweet but lowly grace expressed,
As modest as the violet at her breast.
Sometimes all day by her lone mother's side70
She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.
Where winds the brook, by yonder bordering wood,72
Her mother's solitary cottage stood:
A few white pales in front, fenced from the road
The garden-plot, and poor but neat abode.
Before the window, 'mid the flowers of spring
A bee-hive hummed, whose bees were murmuring;
Beneath an ivied bank, abrupt and high,
A small clear well reflected bank and sky,
In whose translucent mirror, smooth and still,80
From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill.
Here the first bluebell, and, of livelier hue,
The daffodil and polyanthus grew.
'Twas Mary's care a jessamine to train.
With small white blossoms, round the window-pane:
A rustic wicket opened to the meads,
Where a scant pathway to the hamlet leads:
And near, a water-wheel toiled round and round,
Dashing the o'ershot stream, with long continuous sound.
Beyond, when the brief shower had sailed away,90
The tapering spire shone out in sunlight gray;
And o'er that mountain's northern point, to sight
Stretching far on, the main-sea rolled in light.
Enter: within, see everything how neat!
One book lies open on the window-seat,
The spectacles are on a leaf of Job:
There, mark, a map of the terrestrial globe;
And opposite, with its prolific stem,
The Christian's tree, and New Jerusalem;[50]
Here, see a printed paper, to record100
A veritable letter from our Lord:[51]
Two books are on the window-ledge beneath,—
The Book of Prayer, and Drelincourt on Death:
Some cowslips, in a cup of china placed,104
A painted shelf above the chimney graced:
Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes,
Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies,
Tib[52] in the sunshine of the casement lies.
'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung,
And Mary's linnet at the window sung.110
Whilst in the air the vernal music floats,
The cuckoo only joins his two sweet notes:[53]
But those—oh! listen, for he sings more near—
So musical, so mellow, and so clear!
Not sweeter, where thy mighty waters sweep,
Missouri, through the night of forests deep,
Resounds, from glade to glade, from rock to hill,
While fervent harmonies the wild wood fill,
The solitary note of "whip-poor-will;"[54]
Mary's old mother stops her wheel to say,120
The cuckoo! hark! how sweet he sings to-day!
It is not long, not long to Whitsuntide,
And Mary then shall be a happy bride.
On Sunday morn, when a slant light was flung
Upon the tower, and the first peal was rung,
William and Mary smiling would repair,
Arm linked in arm, to the same house of prayer.
The bells will sound more merrily, he cried,
And gently pressed her hand, at Whitsuntide:
She checked the rising thoughts, and hung her head;130
And Mary, ere one year had passed—was dead!
'Twas said, and many would the tale believe,
Her shrouded form was seen upon that eve,[55]
When, gliding through the churchyard, they appear—134
They who shall die within the coming year.
All pale, and strangely piteous, was her look,
Her right hand was stretched out, and held a book;
O'er it her wet hair dripped, while the moon cast
A cold wan light, as in her shroud she passed!
I cannot say if this were so, but late,140
She went to Madern-stone,[56] to learn her fate,
What there she heard ne'er came to human ears—
But from that hour she oft was seen in tears.
Mild zephyr breathes, the butterfly more bright
Strays, wavering, o'er the pales, in rainbow light;
The lamb, the colt, the blackbird in the brake,
Seem all the vernal feeling to partake;
The lark sings high in air, itself unseen,
The hasty swallow skims the village-green;
And all things seem, to the full heart, to bring150
The blissful breathings of the world's first spring.
How lovely is the sunshine of May-morn!
The garden bee has wound his earliest horn,
Busied from flower to flower, as he would say,
Up! Mary! up this merry morn of May!
Now lads and lasses of the hamlet bore
Branches of blossomed thorn or sycamore;[57]
And at her mother's porch a garland hung,
While thus their rural roundelay they sung:—

And we were up as soon as day,[58]160
To fetch the summer home,
The summer and the radiant May,162
For summer now is come.

In Madern vale the bell-flowers bloom,[59]
And wave to Zephyr's breath:
The cuckoo sings in Morval Coombe,
Where nods the purple heath.[60]

Come, dance around Glen-Aston tree—
We bring a garland gay,
And Mary of Guynear shall be170
Our Lady of the May.

But where is William? Did he not declare,
He would be first the blossomed bough to bear!
She will not join the train! and see! the flower
She gathered now is fading! Hour by hour
She watched the sunshine on the thatch; again
Her mother turns the hour-glass; now, the pane
The westering sun has left—the long May-day
So Mary wore in hopes and fears away.
Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate180
She stands: Oh! William never came so late!
Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in;
Dream not of bliss on earth—it is a sin:
Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read;
In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need,
By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed,
There only can the weary heart find rest.
Her thin hands, marked by many a wandering vein,
Her mother turned the silent glass again;
The rushlight now is lit, the Bible read,190
Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed,
She listens!—Hark! no voice, no step she hears,—
Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!
When the slow morning came, the tale was told,
(Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.
But hope yet whispers, dry the accusing tear,—
When Sunday comes, he will again be here!
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.
The sun shone bright—the bells were chiming loud—
And lads and lasses, in their best attire,200
Were tripping past—the youth, the child, the sire;
But William came not. With a boding heart
Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart:
And when her mother came, with kerchief clean,
The last who tottered homeward o'er the green,
Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth,
Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.
Next day the tidings to the cottage came,
That William's heart confessed another flame:
That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen,210
At the new tabernacle on the green;
That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove
Alike a traitor to his faith and love.

The bells are ringing, it is Whitsuntide,—
And there goes faithless William with his bride.
Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day,
The dread remembrance wore her heart away:
Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek,
And her too trusting heart was left to break.
Six melancholy months have slowly passed,220
And dark is heard November's hollow blast.
Sometimes, with tearful moodiness she smiled,222
Then, still and placid looked, as when a child,
Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.
Oft, as she strayed the brook's green marge along,
She there would sing one sad and broken song:—

Lay me where the willows wave,[61]
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!230

I to you would fly for rest,
But a stone, a stone,
Lies like lead upon my breast,
And every hope is flown.

Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!

Her mother said, Thou shalt not be confined,
Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind240
The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows,
Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.
So Mary wandered to the northern shore;[62]
There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar
Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew,
And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew,
And all the billowy space was tossing wide,
Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried,
I love thy voice, oh, ever-sounding sea,249
Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!
Then on the surge she gazed, with vacant stare,
Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair,[63]
Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear,
For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here,—
William, she shall know all!—and then again
Her ditty died into its first sad strain:—

Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!260

When home returned, the tears ran down apace;
She looked in silence in her mother's face;
Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried,
How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide,
Then, mother, I shall be a bride—a bride!
Ah! some dire thought seems in her breast to rise,
Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes:
Her mother heeded not; nor when she took,
With more impatient haste, her Sunday book,
She heeded not—for age had dimmed her sight.270
Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.
Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried,
Mary! my Mary!—but no voice replied.

Next morn, light-hearted William passed along,
And careless hummed a desultory song,
Bound to St Ives' revel.[64] Not a ray
Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;
The sun is yet below the hills: but, look!278
There is the tower—the mill—the stile—the brook,—
And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!
Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.
'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,
But Mary always rose before the sun.
Still at the door, a leafless relic now,
Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;
No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:
Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?
Ah! was it fancy?—as he passed along,
He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.[65]
Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.290
Upon the ground there lay an open book;
One page was folded down:—Spirit of grace!
See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!
It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read;
Let him be desolate, and beg his bread![66]
Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless,—
Be his days few,—his children fatherless,—
His wife a widow!—let there be no friend
In his last moments mercy to extend!
It was a prayer-book he before had seen:300
Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,
He read the page:—An outcast let him lie,
And unlamented and forsaken die!
When he has children, may they pine away
Before his sight,—his wife to grief a prey.
Ah! 'tis poor Mary's book!—the very same306
He read with her at church; and, lo! her name:—
The book of Mary Banks;—when this you see,
And I am dead and gone, remember me!
He trembles: mark!—the dew is on his brow:
The curse is hers! he cried—I feel it now!
I see already, even at my right hand,
Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!
I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,
He sunk upon the earth in agony.
Feebly he rose,—when, on the matted hair
Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,
The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance
Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!
The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,320
Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!
Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,
Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes—
They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!
The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!
Alas, poor maid! 'twas frenzy fired thy breast,
Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:
Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,
And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.
William, heart-stricken, to despair a prey,330
Soon left the village, journeying far away.
For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,
His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.
Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?
Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.[67]
He dropped a pebble—mark! no bubble bright336
Comes from the bottom—turn away thy sight!
He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare
How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!
Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see340
Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!
I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid;—
Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:
Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,
There they both rest without a name or stone.
The village maids, who pass in summer by,
Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!
But what of William? Hide me in the mine!350
He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!
Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright,—
Hide me for ever in forgetful night!
In vain—that form, the cause of all his woes,
More sternly terrible in darkness rose!
Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,
The phantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring360
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine,—wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime!—Ocean, be thou my home!
Some say he died: here he was seen no more;
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee,370
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life,380
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,—
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!—
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:390
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes—with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide—400
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide,—
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies,—404
And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.
Years passed away,—at night, or evening close,
Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.
Restored from toil and perils of the main,
Now William treads his native place again.
Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,410
Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,
He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;
All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;
Some competence he gained, by years of toil:
So, in a cottage, on his native soil,
He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale
To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail
Oft o'er the bay,[68] when suns of summer shone,
Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.
At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,420
Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,
The book of God was on his pillow laid,
He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.
He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay,[69]
Which, from the Mississippi, far away,
O'er the Atlantic, to his native land
He brought;—and this poor bird fed from his hand.
In the great world there was not one beside
For whom he cared, since his own mother died.
Yet manly strength was his, for twenty-years430
Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;
His age not forty-two, and in his face
Of care more than of age appeared the trace.
Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees,
The sights and sounds of life began to please.
Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known436
Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.
She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,
First woke to human sympathies his mind.
He looked affectionately, when her child440
Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.
This widow and her child, almost unknown,
Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.
Her husband was a fisher, one whose life
Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:
Night after night exposed upon the main;
Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;
His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
When others to a cheerful home retire,450
And his wife sits before the evening fire,
He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,
Haply is thinking of that social light.
Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain
Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;
The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,
Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.
Seven years had passed, and after evening prayer,
To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son would sometimes stay,460
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear—
Of battles—of the roving buccaneer—
Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,
And fires, and dances of the savage men.
So William spoke of perils he had passed,—
Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;
Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,470
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.[70]
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on, but not a living soul
Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,
Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float480
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,
And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
One night they longer stayed the tale to hear,
And Ruth that night "beguiled him of a tear,490
Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered." Then, she pitying spoke;
And from that night a softer feeling grew,
As calmer prospects rose within his view.
And why not, ere the long night of the dead,
The slow descent of life together tread?
The day is fixed; William no more shall roam,
William and Ruth shall have one heart—one home:
The world shut out, both shall together pray:
Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:500
She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,
And he shall be a father to her child.
Fair rose the morn—the summer air how bland!503
The blue wave scarcely seems to touch the land.
Again 'tis William's wedding-day! advance—
For lo! the church and blue slate of Penzance!
Their faith and troth is pledged, the rites are o'er,
The nuptial band winds slow along the shore,
The smiling boy beside. As thus they passed,
With sudden blackness rushed the impetuous blast;[71]510
Deep thunder rolled in long portentous sound,
At distance: nearer now, it shakes the ground.
Pale, William sinks, with speechless dread oppressed,
As the forked flash seems darted at his breast.
His beating heart is heard,—blanched is his cheek,—
A well-known voice seemed in the storm to speak;
Aghast he cried again, with frantic look,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
By late remorse he died; for, from that day,
The judgment on his head, he pined away,520
And soon an outcast suicide he lay.
By the church-porch rests Mary of Guynear;—
When the first cuckoo startles the cold year,
And blue mint[72] on her grave more beauteous grows,
One small bird[73] seems to sing for her repose.
Near the Land's-end, so black and weather-beat,
He lies, and the dark sea is at his feet.
Thou, who hast heard the tale of the sad maid,
Know, conscious guilt is the accusing shade:
If thou hast loved some gentle maid and true,530
Whose first affections never swerved from you;
Leave her not—oh! for pity and for truth,532
Leave her not, tearful in her days of youth!
Too late, the pang of vain remorse shall start,
And Conscience thus avenge—a broken heart!

PART FOURTH.

WALK ABROAD—VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL—WRINGTON—"AULD ROBIN GRAY."

The shower is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.10
No object on the wider sea-line meets
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship—the very ship I saw
In infancy, and in that very place,
Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old
Since she was first descried; and there she sits,
A solitary thing of the wide main—
As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—20
To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!
Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice22
Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way
Slow up the channel, after many years,
Returning from some distant clime, or lands,
Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes
Count every nearer surge that heaves around!
How many anxious hearts this moment beat
With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,
Intensely fixed upon these very hills,30
Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—
On—on—into the world of the vast sea,
There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,
Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,
Now fading into mist! So let her speed,
And we will pray she may return in joy,
When every storm is past! Such is this sea,
That shows one wandering ship! How different smile
The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,
Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—40
Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—
Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,
And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade
Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore,
Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,[74] and chid
The tide, that came regardless to his feet,
A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike
Yon solitary sea, the summer shines,
There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,
Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,50
And sails, at distance, beautifully swell
To the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,
Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—
Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht
That turns the wooded point, and silently55
Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—
And yet as if she said, as she went on,
Who does not gaze at me!
Yon winding sands
Were solitary once, as the wide sea.60
Such I remember them! No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,
When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,
Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,
Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here
I could have no companion fit for him—
So whispered youthful vanity—for him
Whom Oxford[75] had distinguished,—can my heart70
Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,
I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone
On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,
I listened to the tide's advancing roar,
When, for the old and booted fisherman,
Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze
Of sunrise, I beheld—or was it not
A momentary vision?—a fair form—
A female, following, with light, airy step,
The wave as it retreated, and again80
Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,
As if in play; and she stood beautiful,
Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,
Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.
I looked that she would vanish! She had left,
Like me, just left the abode of discipline,
And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,
When the pale light first glanced along the wave,88
To play with the wild ocean, like a child;
And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,
Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—
Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,
I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,
Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,
And left the scene to solitude. Once more
We met, and then we parted, in this world
To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone
The vision of a moment, on the sands,
Was never seen again! Now it has passed
Where all things are forgotten; but it shone100
To me a sparkle of the morning sun,
That trembled on the light wave yesterday,
And perished there for ever!
Look around!
Above the winding reach of Severn stands,
With massy fragments of forsaken towers,
Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!
Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind
Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,
And deem it some old castle of romance;110
And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,
Above the wave, fancy it was the form
Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,
Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieks
Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no sound
But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!
There is no bleeding apparition there—
No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!
Surrounded by the works of silent art,
And far, far more endearing, by a group120
Of breathing children, their possessor lives;[76]121
And ill should I deserve the name of bard—
Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme
Without a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,
When one, whose smile I never saw but once,
Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—
Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—
A living and a lovely bride![77]
How proud,
Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,130
With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,
Trailing in columns to the midday sun,
Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,
And the great stir of commerce, and the noise
Of passing and repassing wains, and cars,
And sledges, grating in their underpath,
And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts
And pennants from all nations of the earth,
Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,
Hill above hill; and every road below140
Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high
On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—
How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,
Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,
Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girt
With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,
Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—
Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,
That ancient city sits!
From out those trees,150
Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!
How many woody glens and nooks of shade,152
With transient sunshine, fill the interval,
As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,
Dark, or with fits of desultory light
Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,
Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe
Allures the lingering traveller to wind,
Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,
Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously160
The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously
Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,
Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,
While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!
There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock
Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs
From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,
Seem as admonishing the nether woods
Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath
The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge170
One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,
Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.
And who lives in that far-secluded cot?
Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,
Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge
She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,
Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound
Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!
Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy rings
Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,180
Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,
By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled
The rocks, that stern in desolation frown,
Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,[78]
Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite183
More dismal makes its utter dreariness!
But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smiles
The seat of cultivated Addington:[79]
And there, that beautiful but solemn church
Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend[80]190
Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt
Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—
With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,
Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.
Is that a magic garden on the edge
Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;
While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke
(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),
Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens
With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,200
That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,
And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,
England, thou only art the poor man's home!
And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,
Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.
The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,
Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps
The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock
Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.
And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think210
Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—
Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too![81]
He, in retirement's literary bower,
Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,
Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayer
For her, associate of his early fame,216
Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,[82]
Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,
In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,
Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,220
Smiling at time!
But, hark! there comes a song,
Of Scotland's lakes and hills—Auld Robin Gray!
Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed words
More sadly soothing; but the melody,[83]
Like some sweet melody of olden times,
A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.
Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once—
Sung by a maiden[84] of the south, whose look
(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,230
Are sweeter than her song—no minstrel gray,
Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"
But would lay down his harp, and when the song
Was ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,
To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:—

Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"
Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"
I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,
And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.

"I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,[85]240
Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;
Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,242
And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.

The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,
For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;
The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,
Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.

PART FIFTH.

LANG SYNE—VISION OF THE DELUGE—CONCLUSION

The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long ago
It died away—died, and was heard no more!
And where those hills that skirt the level vale,
On to the left, the prospect intercept,
I would not, could not look, were they removed;
I would not, could not look, lest I should see
The sunshine on that spot of all the world,
Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazed
Long since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,
Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,10
Farewell—farewell, for ever!
How sincere,
How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?
Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,
And I look back, and almost seem to hear
The music of the days when we were young,
Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,
Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—
How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,19
Was my fond heart's first love!
The summer eve
Shone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,
Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,
Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,
Borne from those scenes for ever, while with song
The sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.
So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,
Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,
And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,
Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.30
At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwined
Lay withering, for the dream had been too sweet
For human life; yet never, though his love,
All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;
Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,
To drown even the remembrance that he lived—
Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,
Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,
Died on his desultory lyre.
No more!40
Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,
That long has passed away! Uplift the eyes
To Him who sits above the water flood,—
To Him who was, and is, and is to come!
Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,
And marking here the record of earth's doom,
Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—
The sound of the great flood, the peopled earth
Covering and surging in its solitude!
Let us forget the passing hour, the stir50
Of this tumultuous scene of human things,
And bid imagination lift the veil52
Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!
The vision of the deluge! Hark—a trump!
It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern
He stands, whilst the awakening thunder rolls
Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands
Upon Imaus' height!
No voice is heard
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!60
He sounds again his trumpet; and the clouds
Come deepening o'er the world!
Why art thou pale?
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of the Almighty passed
O'er the abodes of man, and hushed at once
The song, the shout, the cries of violence,
The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse
Of blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,
And mocks the deeper thunder!70
Hark! a voice—
Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earth
Answers, from north to south, from east to west—
Perish! The fountains of the mighty deep
Are broken up; the rushing rains descend,
Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,
Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,
Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,
Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—
Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—80
Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!
Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell
Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,
And then a loud voice answers—Victory!
Victory to the rider and his horse!85
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Ride on:—the ark, majestic and alone
On the wide waste of the careering deep,
Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!90
The ark, from its terrific voyage, rests
On Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—
Send out the dove, and as her wings far off
Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,
Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—

Go, beautiful and gentle dove;
But whither wilt thou go?
For though the clouds ride high above,
How sad and waste is all below!

The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast100
Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a night
When she was listening to the hollow wind,
She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;
Or when it murmured in her hand, forgot
The long, loud tumult of the storm without.
She kisses it, and at her father's word,
Bids it go forth.

The dove flies on! In lonely flight
She flies from dawn till dark;
And now, amid the gloom of night,110
Comes weary to the ark.
Oh! let me in, she seems to say,
For long and lone hath been my way!
Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,
And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!

So the bird flew to her who cherished it.116
She sent it forth again out of the ark;—
Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!
An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,120
And kissed its wings again, and smilingly
Dropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,
Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:
Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,
Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:—

Go, beautiful and gentle dove,
And greet the morning ray;
For, lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm have passed away.130
No longer, drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!

Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,
Thy welcome sad will be,
When thou shalt hear no voice of love,
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell;140
Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well![86]

And never more she saw it; for the earth
Was dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,
Again the great Archangel stands; the light
Of the moist rainbow glitters on his hair—146
He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose arch
Spans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,
The ascending dove is for a moment seen,
The last rain falls—falls, gently and unheard.150
Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up!—
Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,
Behold a cross!—and round about the cross,
Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,
Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,
Lift their acclaiming voice—Glory to thee,
Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,
Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnify
Thy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,
For the great dragon is cast down, and hell160
Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!
Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,
And all the visionary pomp is past!
I only see a few sheep on the edge
Of this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,
Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.
Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,
And Banwell Church;[87] and farewell to the shores
Where, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,
Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave170
I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breeze
That wanders from that sea, whose sound I heard
So many years ago.
Yet, whilst the light
Steals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,
I turn a parting look, and lift to Heaven
A parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus,—
With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,178
Her mitred brow tempered with lenity
And apostolic mildness—in her mien
No dark defeature, beautiful as mild,
And gentle as the smile of charity,—
Thus on the Rock of Ages may uplift
Her brow majestic, pointing to the spires
That grace her village glens, or solemn fanes
In cities, calm above the stir and smoke,
And listening to deep harmonies that swell
From all her temples!
So may she adorn—
Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure—190
This happy land, till time shall be no more!
And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,
Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touched
By time, to show a grace, but no decay,
Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,
The traveller beholds, crowning the vale
Of Avalon, with all its towers in light;
So, England, may thy gray cathedrals lift
Their front in heaven's pure light, and ever boast
Such prelate-lords—bland, but yet dignified—200
Pious, paternal, and beloved, as he
Who prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!
And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rock
That Church is founded, though the storm without
May howl around its battlements, preserve
Its spirit, and still pour into the hearts
Of all, who there confess thy holy name,
Peace, that, through evil or through good report,
They may hold on their blameless way!
For me,210
Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,
Hung on my early hopes, that cloud is passed,—
Is passed, but not forgotten,—and the light
Is calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,
Soon to be ended. I may wake no more
The melody of song on earth; but Thee,
Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,
Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no song
Of mine, from youth to age, has left a stain
I would blot out; and grateful for the good
Thy providence, through many years, has lent,
Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high will
Dismiss me,—blessed if, when that hour shall come,
My life may plead, far better than my song.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The reader is referred to Dr Buckland's most interesting illustrations of these remains of a former world. The Bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.

[5] The stupendous Cheddar Cliffs, in the neighbourhood.

[6] Wookey, Antrum Ogonis.

[7] Uphill church.

[8] Flat and Steep Holms.

[9] Mr Beard, of Banwell, called familiarly "the Professor," but in reality the guide.

[10] Egyptian god of silence.

[11] Halt of the French army at the sight of the ruins.

[12] The Roman way passes immediately under Banwell.

[13] The abbey was built by the descendants of Becket's murderers. Almost at the brink of the channel, being secured from it only by a narrow shelf of rocks called Swallow-clift, William de Courteneye, about 1210, founded a friary of Augustine monks at Worsprynge, or Woodspring, to the honour of the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary, and St Thomas à Becket. William de Courteneye was a descendant of William de Traci, and was nearly related to the three other murderers of à Becket, to whom this monastery was dedicated.

[14] See the late Sir Charles Elton's pathetic description of the deaths of his two sons at Weston, whilst bathing in his sight; one lost in his endeavour to save his brother.

[15] Called "The Wolves," from their peculiar sound.

[16] Uphill.

[17] Southey.

[18] Three sisters.

[19] Dr Henry Bowles, physician on the staff, buried at sea.

[20] Charles Bowles, Esq. of Shaftesbury.

[21] The author.

[22] Young's "Night Thoughts."

[23] Clock in the Cathedral.

[24] Traditional name of the clock-image, seated in a chair, and striking the hours.

[25] Vide the old ballad.

[26] A book, called the "Villager's Verse Book," to excite the first feelings of religion, from common rural imagery, was written on purpose for these children.

[27] See "Pilgrim's Progress."

[28] See Rowland Hill's caricatures, entitled "Village Dialogues."

[29] The text, which no Christian can misunderstand, "God is not willing," is turned, by elaborate Jesuitical sophistry, to "God is willing," by one "master in Israel." So that, in fact, the Almighty, saying No when he should have said Yes, did not know what he meant, till such a sophistical blasphemer set him right! To such length does an adherence to preconceived Calvinism lead the mind.

[30] "And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."—St Paul.

[31] Literally the expression of Hawker, the apostle of thousands and thousands. I speak of the obvious inference drawn from such expressions, and this daring denial of the very words of his Master: "Happy are ye, if ye do them!"—Christ. "But in vain," etc.

[32] I fear many churches have more to answer for than tabernacles.

[33] The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.

[34] I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."

[35] See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"

[36] Cowper.

[37] The English landlord has been held up to obloquy, as endeavouring to keep up the price of corn, for his own sordid interest; but rent never leads, it only follows, and the utmost a landlord can get for his capital is three per cent., whereas the lord of whirling wheels gains thirty per cent.

[38] These lines were written at Stourhead.

[39] The Bishop of Bath and Wells. Ken was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James. He had character, patronage, wealth, station, eminence: he resigned all, at the accession of King William, for the sake of that conscience which, in a former reign, sent him a prisoner to the Tower. He had no home in the world; but he found an asylum with the generous nobleman who had been his old schoolfellow at Winchester. Here, it is said, he brought with him his shroud, in which he was buried at Frome; and here he chiefly composed his four volumes of poems.

[40] The Rev. Mr Skurray.

[41] The seat of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.

[42] Mrs Heneage, Compton House.

[43] Mrs Methuen, of Corsham House.

[44] For the "Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge," on which occasion a sermon was preached by the author.

[45] A book, just published, with this title, "The Duke of Marlborough is rector of Overton, near Marlborough."

[46] Rev. Charles Hoyle, Vicar of Overton, near Marlborough.

[47] "Killarney," a poem.

[48] Sonnets.

[49] "Exodus," a poem.

[50] Large coloured prints, in most cottages.

[51] The letter said to be written by our Saviour to King Agbarus is seen in many cottages.

[52] Tib, the cat.

[53] The notes of the cuckoo are the only notes, among birds, exactly according to musical scale. The notes are the fifth, and major third, of the diatonic scale.

[54] The "whip-poor-will" is a bird so called in America, from his uttering those distinct sounds, at intervals, among the various wild harmonies of the forest. See Bertram's Travels in America.

[55] In Cornwall, and in other countries remote from the metropolis, it is a popular belief, that they who are to die in the course of the year appear, on the eve of Midsummer, before the church porch. See an exquisite dramatic sketch on this subject, called "The Eve of St Mark," in Blackwood.

[56] Madern-stone, a Druidical monument in the village of Madern, to which the country people often resort, to learn their future destinies.

[57] Such is the custom in Cornwall.

[58] Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.

[59] Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis.

[60] Erica multiflora, common in this part of Cornwall.

[61] The rhythm of this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."

[62] The bay of St Ives.

[63] Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.

[64] Revel is a country fair.

[65] It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.

[66] The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages:—

"May his days be few."

"Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow."

"Let there be none to extend mercy."

"Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."

[67] The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids.—Polwhele.

[68] Bay of St Michael's Mount.

[69] The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."

[70] Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.

[71] Sudden storms are very common in this bay.

[72] A wild flower of the most beautiful blue, adorning profusely, in spring, the green banks of lanes and hedgerows.

[73] Called Chickell, in Cornwall, the wheat-ear. This should have been mentioned before, where the small well is spoken of in the garden-plot:—

"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."

[74] Alluding to the well-known story.

[75] Having gained the University prize the first year.

[76] J. P. Miles, Esq., whose fine collection of paintings, at his magnificent seat, Leigh Court, is well known.

[77] Married, whilst these pages were in the press, to a son of my early friend.

[78] A wild, desolate, and craggy vale, so called most appropriately, and forming a contrast to the open downs of Fayland, and the picturesque beauties of Brockley.

[79] Langford Court, the seat of the late Right Hon. Hely Addington.

[80] The Rev. Thomas Wickham, Rector of Yatton.

[81] Langhorne, the poet, Rector of Blagdon.

[82] Mrs Hannah More, of Barley-Wood, near Wrington, since dead.

[83] The Rector of Wrington, Mr Leaves, was the composer of the popular melody; but there is an old Scotch tune, to which the words were originally adapted. By melody, I mean the music to the words.

[84] Miss Stephens, now the Countess Dowager of Essex.

[85] "She looked in my face, till my heart was like to break."—Auld Robin Gray. Nothing can exceed the pathos with which Miss Stephens sings these words.

[86] This song, set to music by the author, was originally written for an oratorio.

[87] Banwell church is eminently beautiful, as are all the churches in Somersetshire. Dr Randolph has lately added improvements to the altar-piece.

THE
GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON;
OR,
THE LEGEND OF THE CURFEW.

INTRODUCTION.

The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public.

The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.[88] His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.

When the battle was gained, he knew not on what course to determine: instead of marching to London, he retired towards Dover. When he was met by the Kentish men, with green boughs, the quaint historian says, "He was daunted." These and many other incidental circumstances may occur to the reader.

In representing him, therefore, as under the control of superstitious impressions, I trust I have not transgressed, at least, poetical verisimilitude. An earthquake actually happened about the period at which the poem commences, followed by storms and inundations. Of these facts I have availed myself.

I fear the poem will be thought less interesting, from having nothing of love in it, except, in accordance with the received ideas of the gentleness of Atheling's character, I have made him not insensible to one of my imaginary females; and have, therefore, to mark his character, made him advert to the pastoral scenes of Scotland, where he had been a resident. There is a similarity between my "Monk," and "The Missionary," but their offices and the scenes are entirely different, and some degree of resemblance was unavoidable in characters of the same description.

Filial affection, love of our country, bravery, sternness (inflexible, except under religions fears); the loftier feelings of a desolate female, under want and affliction, with something of the wild prophetical cast; religious submission, and deep acquiescence in the will of God;—these passions are brought into action, around one centre, if I may use the word, The Grave of the last Saxon.

That Harold's sons landed with a large fleet from Denmark, and were joined by an immense confederate army, in the third year of William's reign, is a well-known historical fact. That York was taken by the confederate army, and that all the Normans, except Sir William Malet, and his family, were killed, is also matter of record.[89] That afterwards, the blow against William failing, the whole country, from the Humber to Tyne, from the east to the west, was depopulated by sword and famine, are facts which are also to be found in all historians.

Some slight anachronisms may I hope, be pardoned—if anachronisms they are—such as the year in which the Tower was built, etc.

The plan of the Poem will be found, I trust, simple and coherent, the characters sufficiently marked and contrasted, and the whole conducive, however deficient in other respects, to the excitement of virtuous sympathy, and subservient to that which alone can give dignity to poetry—the cause of moral and religious truth.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] See the picture in Stodhard's Travels.

[89] Vide Drake's History of York, and Turner's History of England.

THE
GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON.

INTRODUCTORY CANTO.

Subject—Grave and children of Harold—Confederate army of Danes, Scottish, and English arrived in the Humber the third year of the Conqueror, and marching to York.

"Know ye the land where the bright orange glows!"
Oh! rather know ye not the land, beloved
Of Liberty, where your brave fathers bled!
The land of the white cliffs, where every cot
Whose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky,
On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secure
As the proud Norman castle's bannered keep!
Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,
(Albeit, that the richest colours warm
His tablet, glowing from the master's hand,)10
And thee forget, his country—thee, his home!
Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-groves
A lovelier light empurples, or when morn
Streams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine,
Or more majestic eve, on the wide scene
Of columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,
Sits, like reposing Glory, and collects
Her richest radiance at that parting hour;18
While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine out
More solemnly, 'mid the gray monuments
That strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these,
Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sun
Sinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome,
A holy interest wake, intense as that
Which visits his full heart, who, severed long,
And home returning, sees once more the light
Shine on the land where his forefathers sleep;
Sees its white cliffs at distance, and exclaims:
There I was born, and there my bones shall rest!
Then, oh! ye bright pavilions of the East,30
Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas,
By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing far
A gray illumination through the haze
Of orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades,
Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave;
Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty dead
As mourning, heavily rolls; or Anio
Flings its white foam; or lucid Arno steals
On gently through the plains of Tuscany;
Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.40
Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to call
The thunder of thy cataracts, or paint
The mountains and the vast volcano range
Of Cordilleras, high above the stir
Of human things; lifting to middle air
Their snows in everlasting solitude;
Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lord
Of summits inaccessible, looks down,
Unhearing, when the thunder dies below!
Nor, 'midst the irriguous valleys of the south,50
Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,
Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,52
Brightest and least of all its kind, that spins
Its twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,
Like a gem of flitting light!
To these adieu!
Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are mute
For ever, whilst the stealing day goes out
With slow-declining pace, I would essay
One patriot theme, one ancient British song:60
So might I fondly dream, when the cold turf
Is heaped above my head, and carping tongues
Have ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hills
Might then remember.

Time has reft the shrine
Where the last Saxon, canonized, lay,
And every trace has vanished,[90] like the light
That from the high-arched eastern window fell,
With broken sunshine on his marble tomb—
So have they passed; and silent are the choirs,70
That to his spirit sang eternal rest;
And scattered are his bones who raised those walls,
Where, from the field of blood slowly conveyed,
His mangled corse, with torch and orison,
Before the altar, and in holy earth,
Was laid! Yet oft I muse upon the theme;
And now, whilst solemn the slow curfew tolls,
Years and dim centuries seem to unfold
Their shroud, as at the summons; and I think
How sad that sound on every English heart80
Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea[91]
Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke82
First on the silence of the night, far heard
Through the deep forest! Phantoms of the past,
Ye gather round me! Voices of the dead,
Ye come by fits! And now I hear, far off,
Faint Eleesons swell, whilst to the fane
The long procession, and the pomp of death,
Moves visible; and now one voice is heard
From a vast multitude, Harold, farewell!90
Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable car
Bears the last Saxon to his grave; the last
From Hengist, of the long illustrious line
That swayed the English sceptre. Hark! a cry!
'Tis from his mother, who, with frantic mien,
Follows the bier: with manly look composed,
Godwin, his eldest-born, and Adela,
Her head declined, her hand upon her brow
Beneath the veil, supported by his arm,
Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there100
Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand!
Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears,
Follow their father to the dust, beneath
Whose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,
Magnus,[92] subduing the deep sigh, with brow
Of sterner acquiescence. Slowly pace
The sad remains of England's chivalry,
The few whom Hastings' field of carnage spared,
To follow their slain monarch's hearse this night,
Whose corse is borne beneath the escutcheoned pall,110
To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,111
Imagination thus embodies it,
Moves onward to the abbey's western porch,
Whose windows and retiring aisles reflect
The long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks,
Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,
Along the pillared nave, with crucifix
Aloft, begin the supplicating chant,
Intoning "Miserere Domine."
Now the stone coffins in the earth are laid120
Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,[93]
Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day.
And hark! again the monks and choristers
Sing, pacing round the grave-stone, "Requiem
Eternam dona iis." To his grave
So was King Harold borne, within those walls
His bounty raised: his children knelt and wept,
Then slow departed, never in this world,
Perhaps, to meet again. But who is she,
Her dark hair streaming on her brow, her eye130
Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheld
At distance the due rites, nor wept, nor spake,
And now is gone!
Alas! from that sad hour,
By many fates, all who that hour had met
Were scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,
Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge found
From England's stormy fortunes. Three long years
Have passed; again they tread their native land.
The Danish armament beneath the Spurn[94]140
Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms141
Follow huge Waltheof, on his barbed steed,
His battle-axe hung at the saddle-bow;
Morcar and Edwin, English earls, are there,
With red-cross banner, and ten thousand men
From Ely and Northumberland; they raise
The death-song of defiance, and advance
With bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,
From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths,
From Lothian villages, along the banks150
Of Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold,
And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurl
The banner of St Andrew; by his side
Mild Edgar Atheling, a stripling boy,
His brother, heir to England's throne, appears;
The dawn of youth on his fresh cheek; and, lo!
The broadswords glitter as the tartaned troops
March to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trump
Brays like a gong, heard to the holts and towns
Of Lincolnshire.160
With crests and shields the same,
A lion frowning on each helmet's cone,
Like the two brothers famed in ancient song,[95]
Godwin and Edmund, sons of Harold, lead
From Scandinavia and the Baltic isles
The impatient Northmen to the embattled host
On Humber's side. The standards wave in air,
Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and arms
Flash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray,
Heralds or armourers from tent to tent170
Are hurrying; crests, and spears, and steel-bows gleam,
Far as the eye can reach; barbed horses neigh,
Their mailed riders wield the battle-axe,
Or draw the steel-bows with a clang; and, hark!474
From the vast moving host is heard one shout,
Conquest or death!—as now the sun ascends,
And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur[96]
Flings its first beam—one mighty shout is heard,
Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!—to York!

CANTO FIRST.

Castle of Ravenspur, on the Humber—Daughter of Harold—Ailric, the monk.

Let us go up to the west turret's top,
Adela cried; let us go up—the night
Is still, and to the east great ocean's hum
Is scarcely heard. If but a wandering step,
Or distant shout, or dip of hastening oar,
Or tramp of steed, or far-off trumpet, break
The hushed horizon, we can catch the sound
When breathless expectation watches there.
Upon the platform of the highest tower
Of Ravenspur, beneath the lonely lamp,10
At midnight, leaning o'er the battlement,
The daughter of slain Harold, Adela,
And a gray monk who never left her side,
Watched: for this night or death or victory
The Saxon standard waits.
Hark! 'twas a shout,
And sounds at distance as of marching men!
No! all is silent, save the tide, that rakes,18
At times, the beach, or breaks beneath the cliff.
Listen! was it the fall of hastening oars?
No! all is hushed! Oh! when will they return?
Adela sighed; for three long nights had passed,
Since her brave brothers left these bastioned walls,
And marched, with the confederate host, to York.
They come not: Have they perished? So dark thoughts
Arose, and then she raised her look to heaven,
And clasped the cross, and prayed more fervently.
Her lifted eye in the pale lamp-light shone,
Touched with a tear; soft airs of ocean blew
Her long light hair, whilst audibly she cried,30
Preserve them, blessed Mary! oh! preserve
My brothers! As she prayed, one pale small star,
A still and lonely star, through the black night
Looked out, like hope! Instant, a trumpet rang,
And voices rose, and hurrying lights appeared;
Now louder shouts along the platform peal—
Oh! they are Normans! she exclaimed, and grasped
The old man's hand, and said, Yet we will die
As Harold's daughter; and, with mien and voice,
Firm and unfaltering, kissed the crucifix.40
They knelt together, and the old man spoke:
All here is toil and tempest—we shall go,
Daughter of Harold, where the weary rest.
Oh! holy Mary, 'tis the clank of steel
Up the stone stairs! and, lo! beneath the lamp,
In arms, the beaver of his helmet raised,
Some light hairs straying on his ruddy cheek,
With breath hastily drawn, and cheering smile,
Young Atheling: The Saxon banner waves!
Oh! are my brothers safe? cried Adela,50
Speak! speak! oh! tell me, do my brothers live?
Atheling answered: They will soon appear;52
My post was on the eastern hills, a scout
Came breathless, sent from Edmund, and I hied,
With a small company, and horses fleet,
At his command, to thee. He bade me say,
Even now, upon the citadel of York,
Above the bursting fires, and rolling smoke,
The Saxon banner waves.
I thank thee, Lord!60
My brothers live! cried Adela, and knelt
Upon the platform, with uplifted hands,
And look to heaven;—then rising, with a smile:
We have watched, I and this old man here,
Hour after hour, through the long lingering night,
And now 'tis almost morning: I will stay
Till I have heard my brother's distant horn
From the west woods;—but you are weary, youth?
Oh, no! I will keep watch with you till dawn;
To me most soothing is an hour like this!70
And who that saw, as now, the morning stars
Begin to pale, and the gray twilight steal
So calmly on the seas, and wide-hushed world,
Could deem there was a sound of misery
On earth; nay, who could hear thy gentle voice,
Fair maid, and think there was a voice of hate
Or strife beneath the stillness of that cope
Above us! Oh! I hate the noise of arms—
Here will I watch with you. Then, after pause,
Poor England is not what it once has been;80
And strange are both our fortunes.
Atheling,
(Adela answered) early piety
Hath disciplined my heart to every change.
How didst thou pass in safety from this land85
Of slavery and sorrow?
He replied:
When darker jealousy and lowering hate
Sat on the brow of William, England mourned,
And one dark spirit of conspiracy90
Muttered its curses through the land. 'Twas then,
With fiercer glare, the lion's eye was turned
On me:—My sisters and myself embarked—
The wide world was before us—we embarked,
With some few faithful friends, and from the sea
Gazed tearful, for a moment, on the shores
We left for ever (so it then appeared).
Poor Margaret hid her face; but the fresh wind
Swelled the broad mainsail, and the lessening land,
The towers, the spires, the villages, the smoke,100
Were seen no more.
When now at sea, the winds
Blew adverse, for to Holland was our course:
More fearful rose the storm; the east wind sang
Louder, till wrecked upon the shores of Forth
Our vessel lay. Here, friendless, we implored
A short sojourn and succour. Scotland's king
Then sat in Dunfermline; he heard the tale
Of our distress, and flew himself to save;
But when he saw my sister Margaret,110
Young, innocent, and beautiful in tears,
His heart was moved.
Oh! welcome here, he cried:
'Tis Heaven hath led you. Lady, look on me—
If such a flower be cast to the bleak winds,
'Twere meet I took and wore it next my heart.
Judged he not well, fair maid?
Thou know'st the rest;118
Compassion nurtured love, and Margaret
(Such are the events of ruling Providence)
Is now all Scotland's queen!
To join the bands
Of warriors in one cause assembled here,
King Malcolm left his land of hills; his arm
Might make the Conqueror tremble on his throne!
Even should we fail, my sister Margaret
Would love and honour you; and I might hope,
(Oh! might I?) on the banks of Tay or Tweed
With thee to wander, where no curfew sounds,
And mark the summer sun, beyond the hills,130
Sink in its glory, and then, hand in hand,
Wind through the woods, and—
Adela replied,
With smile complacent, Listen; I will be
(So to beguile the creeping hours of time)
A tale-teller. Two years we held sojourn
In Denmark; two long weary years, and sighed
When, looking on the southern deep, we thought
Of our poor country. Give me men and ships!
Godwin still cried; oh! give me men and ships!140
The king commanded, and his armament—
A mightier never stemmed the Baltic deep,
Sent forth by sea-kings of the north, or bent
On hardier enterprise; for not some isle
Of the lone Orcades was now the prize,
But England's throne.
His mighty armament
Now left the shores of Denmark. Our brave ships
Burst through the Baltic straits, how gloriously!
I heard the trumpets ring; I saw the sails150
Of nigh three hundred war-ships, the dim verge
Of the remote horizon's skiey track152
Bestudding, here and there, like gems of light
Dropped from the radiance of the morning sun
On the gray waste of waters. So our ships
Swept o'er the billows of the north, and steered
Right on to England.
Foremost of the fleet
Our gallant vessel rode; around the mast
Emblazoned shields were ranged, and plumed crests160
Shook as the north-east rose. Upon the prow,
More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,
And milder Edmund, on whose mailed arm
I hung, when the white waves before us swelled,
And parted. The broad banner, in full length,
Streamed out its folds, on which the Saxon horse
Ramped, as impatient on the land to leap,
To which the winds still bore it bravely on;
Whilst the red cross on the front banner shone,
The hoar deep crimsoning.170
Winds, bear us on;
Bear us as cheerily, till white Albion's cliffs
Resound to our triumphant shouts; till there,
On his own Tower, that frowns above the Thames,
Even there we plant these banners and this cross,
And stamp the Conqueror and his crown to dust!
They would have kept me on a foreign shore;
But could I leave my brothers! I with them
Grew up, with them I left my native land,
With them all perils have I braved, of sea180
Or war, all storms of hard adversity;
Let death betide, I reck not; all I ask
Is yet once more, in this sad world, to kneel
Upon my father's grave, and kiss the earth.
When the fourth morning gleamed along the deep,
England, Old England! burst the general cry:186
England, Old England! Every eye, intent,
Was turned; and Godwin pointed with his sword
To Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge.
Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear on
The death-storm of our vengeance! Godwin cried.
Soon, like a cloud, the northern Foreland rose—
Know ye those cliffs, towering in giant state!
But, hark! along the shores alarum-bells
Ring out more loud, blast answers blast, the swords
Of hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,
Flash to the sun. On yonder castle walls
A thousand bows are bent; again our course
Back to the north is turned. Now twilight veiled
The sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heard200
A long deep toll from many a village tower
On shore—and, lo! the scattered inland lights,
That sprinkled winding ocean's lowly verge,
At once are lost in darkness. God in heaven,
It is the curfew! Godwin cried, and smote
His forehead. We all heard that sullen sound
For the first time, that night; but the winds blew,
Our ship sailed out of hearing; yet we thought
Of the poor mother, who, on winter nights,
When her belated husband from the wood210
Was not come back, her lonely taper lit,
And turned the glass, and saw the faggot-flame
Shine on the faces of her little ones:
Those times will ne'er return.
Darkness descends;
Again the sun is rising o'er the waves;
And now hoarse Humber roars beneath our keels,
And we have landed
Yea, and struck a blow,219
Such as may make the crowned Conqueror quail,
Edgar replied.
Grant Heaven that we may live,
Adela cried, in love and peace again,
When every storm is past. But this good man
Is silent. Ailric, does no hope, even now,
Arise on thy dark heart? Good father, speak!
With aspect mild, on which its fitful light
The watch-tower lamp threw pale, the monk replied:
Youth, on thy light hair and ingenuous brow
Most comely sits the morn of life; on me,230
And this bare head, the night of time descends
In sorrow. I look back upon the past,
And think of joy and sadness upon earth,
Like the vast ocean's fluctuating toil
From everlasting! I have seen its waste
Now in the sunshine sleeping; now high-ridged
With storms; and such the kingdoms of the earth.
Yes, youth, and flattering fortune, and the light
Of summer days, are as the radiance
That flits along the solitary waves,240
Even whilst we gaze, and say, How beautiful!
So fitful and so perishing the dream
Of human things! But there is light above,
Undying; and, at times, faint harmonies
Heard, by the weary pilgrim, in his way
O'er perilous rocks, and through unwatered wastes,
Who looks up, fainting, and prays earnestly
To pass into that rest, whence sounds so sweet
Come, whispering of hope; else it were best
Beneath the load the forlorn heart endures250
To sink at once; to shut the eyes on things
That sear the sight; and so to wrap the soul
In sullen, tearless, ruthless apathy!253
Therefore, 'midst every human change, I drop
A tear upon the cross, and all is calm;
Yea, full of blissful and of brightest views,
On this dark tide of time.
Youth, thou hast known
Adversity; even in thy morn of life,
The springtide rainbow fades, and many days,260
And many years, perchance, of weal or woe
Hang o'er thee! happy, if through every change
Thy constant heart, thy steadfast view, be fixed
Upon that better kingdom, where the crown
Immortal is held out to holy hope,
Beyond the clouds that rest upon the grave.
Oh! I remember when King Harold stood
Blooming in youth like thee; I saw him crowned—
I heard the loud voice of a nation hail
His rising star; then, flaming in mid-heaven270
The red portentous comet,[97] like the hand
Upon the wall, came forth: its fatal course
All marked, and gazed in terror, as it looked
With lurid light upon this land. It passed;
Old men had many bodings; but I saw,
Reckless, King Harold, in his plumed helm,
Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry,
That, when the fierce Norwegian passed the seas,
Met his host man to man; I saw the sword,
Advanced and glittering, in the victor's hand,280
That smote the Hardrada[98] to the earth! To-day
King Harold rose, like an avenging God;
To-morrow (so it seemed, so short the space),283
To-morrow, through the field of blood, we sought
His mangled corse amid the heaps of slain:
Shall I recount the event more faithfully?
Its spectred memory never since that hour
Has left my heart.
William was in his tent,
Spread on the battle-plain, on that same night290
When seventy thousand dead lay at his feet;
They who, at sunrise, with bent bows and spears,
Confronted and defied him, at his feet
Lay dead! Alone he watches in his tent,
At midnight; 'midst a sight so terrible
We came; we stood before him, where he sat,
I and my brother Osgood. Who are ye?
Sternly he asked; and Osgood thus replied:
Conqueror, and lord, and soon to be a king,
We, two poor monks of Waltham Abbey, kneel300
Before thee, sorrowing! He who is slain
To us was bountiful. He raised those walls
Where we devote our life to prayer and praise.
Oh! by the mercies which the God of all
Hath shewn to thee this day, grant our request;
To search for his dead body, through this field
Of terror, that his bones may rest with us.
Your king hath met the meed of broken faith,
William replied. But yet he shall not want
A sepulchre; and on this very spot310
My purpose stands, as I have vowed to God,
To build a holy monastery: here,
A hundred monks shall pray for all who fell
In this dread strife; and your King Harold here
Shall have due honours and a stately tomb.
Still on our knees, we answered, Oh! not so,
Dread sovereign;—hear us, of your clemency.317
We beg his body; beg it for the sake
Of our successors; beg it for ourselves,
That we may bury it in the same spot
Himself ordained when living; where the choirs
May sing for his repose, in distant years,
When we are dust and ashes.
Then go forth,
And search for him, at the first dawn of day,
King William said. We crossed our breasts, and passed,
Slow rising, from his presence. So we went,
In silence, to the quarry of the dead.
The sun rose on that still and dismal host;
Toiling from corse to corse, we trod in blood,330
From morn till noon toiling, and then I said,
Seek Editha, her whom he loved. She came;
And through the field of death she passed: she looked
On many a face, ghastly upturned; her hand
Unloosed the helmet, smoothed the clotted hair,
And many livid hands she took in hers;
Till, stooping o'er a mangled corse, she shrieked,
Then into tears burst audibly, and turned
Her face, and with a faltering voice pronounced,
Oh, Harold! We took up, and bore the corse340
From that sad spot, and washed the ghastly wound
Deep in the forehead, where the broken barb
Was fixed.
So weltering from the field, we bore
King Harold's corse. A hundred Norman knights
Met the sad train, with pikes that trailed the ground.
Our old men prayed, and spoke of evil days
To come; the women smote their breasts and wept;
The little children knelt beside the way,
As on to Waltham the funereal car350
Moved slow. Few and disconsolate the train351
Of English earls, for few, alas! remained;
So many in the field of death lay cold.
The horses slowly paced, till Waltham towers
Before us rose. There, with long tapered blaze,
Our brethren met us, chanting, two and two,
The "Miserere" of the dead. And there—
But, my child Adela, you are in tears—
There at the foot of the high altar lies
The last of Saxon kings. Sad Editha,360
At distance, watched the rites, and from that hour
We never saw her more.
A distant trump
Now rung—again!—again!—and thrice a trump
Has answered from the walls of Ravenspur.
My brothers! they are here! Adela cried,
And left the tower in breathless ardour. York
Flames to the sky! a general voice was heard—
The drawbridge clanks; into the inner court
A mailed man rides on—York is no more!370
The cry without redoubles. On the ground
The rider flung his bloody sword, and raised
His helm, dismounting: the first dawn of day
Gleamed on the shattered plume. Oh! Adela,
He cried, your brother Godwin! and she flew,
And murmuring, My brave brother! hid her face,
Clasping his mailed breast. Soon gazing round,
She cried, But where is Edmund? Was he wont
To linger?
Edmund has a sacred charge,380
Godwin replied. But trust his anxious love,
We soon shall hear his voice. I need some rest—
'Tis now broad day; but we have watched and fought:
I can sleep sound, though the shrill bird of morn384
Mount and upbraid my slumbers with her song.
Tranquil and clear the autumnal day declined:
The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shades
On the gray bastioned walls; airs from the deep
Wandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,
Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred390
Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright sea
Lay silent in its glorious amplitude,
Without; far up, in the pale atmosphere,
A white cloud, here and there, hung overhead,
And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge,
Far as the sight could reach; beneath the rocks,
That reared their dark brows beetling o'er the bay,
The gulls and guillemots, with short quaint cry,
Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air,
Or, skimming, almost touched the level main,400
With wings far seen, and more intensely white,
Opposed to the blue space; whilst Panope
Played in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,
Inland, went sounding on, by rocks and sands
And castle, yet so sounding as it seemed
A voice amidst the hushed and listening world
That spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's point
One piping red-breast might almost be heard.
Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceable
The hour: the very swallows, ere they leave410
The coast to pass a long and weary way
O'er ocean's solitude, seem to renew
Once more their summer feelings, as a light
So sweet would last for ever, whilst they flock
In the brief sunshine of the turret-top.
'Twas at this hour of evening, Adela
And Godwin, now restored by rest, went forth,
Linked arm in arm, upon the eastern beach,418
Beyond the headland's shade. If such an hour
Seemed smiling on the heart, how smiled it now
To him who yesternight, a soldier, stood
Amid the direst sight of human strife
And bloodshed; heard the cries, the trumpet's blast,
Ring o'er the dying; saw, with all its towers,
A city blazing to the midnight sky,
And mangled groups of miserable men,
Gasping or dead, whilst with his iron heel
He splashed the blood beneath! How changed the scene!
The sun's last light upon the battlements,
The sea, the landscape, the peace-breathing air,430
Remembered both of the departed hours
Of early life, when once they had a home,
A country, where their father wore a crown.
What changes since that time, for them and all
They loved! how many found an early grave,
Cut off by the red sword! how many mourned,
Scattered by various fates, through distant lands!
How desolate their own poor country, bound
By the oppressor's chain! As thoughts like these
Arose, the bells of rural Nevilthorpe440
Rang out a joyous peal, rang merrily,
For tidings heard from York: their melody
Mingled with things forgotten. Until then,
And then remembered freshly, Adela
That instant turned to hide her tears, and saw
Her brother Edmund leading by the hand
A boy of lovely mien and footstep light
Along the sands. My sister, Edmund cried,
See here a footpage I have brought from York
To serve a lady fair! The boy held out450
His hand to Adela, as he would say,
Look, and protect me, lady. Adela,452
Advancing with a smile and glowing cheek,
Cried, Welcome, truant brother; and then took
The child's right hand, and said, My pretty page,
And have you not a tale to tell to me?
The boy spake nothing, but looked earnestly
And anxiously at Edmund. Edmund said,
If he is silent, I must speak for him.
'Twas when the minster flamed, and, sword in hand,460
Godwin, and Waltheof, and stern Hereward,
Directed the red slaughter; black with smoke
I burst into the citadel, and saw,
Not the grim warder, with his huge axe up,
But o'er her child, a frantic mother, mute[99]
With horror, in delirious agony,
Clasping it to her bosom; stern and still
The father stood, his hand upon his brow,
As praying, in that hour, that God might make,
In mercy, the last trial brief. Fear not—470
I am a man—nay, fear not me, I cried,
And seizing this child's hand, in safety placed,
Amidst the smoke, and sounds and sights of death,
Him and his mother! She with bursting heart
Knelt down to bless me: when I saw that boy,
So beautiful, I thought of Adela,
And said, Oh! trust with his preserver him
Whom every eye must view with tender love,
Oh! trust me; for his safety, lo! I pledge
My honour and my life.480
And I have brought
My trusted charge, that you, my Adela,
May show him gentler courtesy than those
Whom war in its stern trade has almost steeled.
His sister kissed the child's light hair and cheek,485
And folded his small hands in hers, and said,
You shall be my true knight, and wear a plume,
Wilt thou not, boy; and for a lady's love
Fight, like a valiant soldier! I will die,
The poor child said, for friends like those who saved490
My father and my mother; and again
Adela kissed his forehead and his eyes,
And said, But we are Saxons!
As she spoke,
The winds began to muster, and the sea
Swelled with a sound more solemn, whilst the sun
Was sinking, and its last and lurid light
Streaked the long line of cumbrous clouds, that hung
In wild red masses o'er the murmuring deep,
Now flickering fast with foam. The sea-fowl flew500
Rapidly on, o'er the black-lifted surge,
Borne down the wind, and then was seen no more.
Meantime the dark deep wilder heaves, and, hark!
Heavily overhead the gathered storm
Comes sounding!
Haste!—and in the castle-keep
List to the winds and waves that roar without.

CANTO SECOND.

Waltham Forest—Tower—William and his Barons.

There had been fearful sounds in the air last night
In the wild wolds of Holderness, when York
Flamed to the midnight sky, and spells of death
Were heard amidst the depth of Waltham woods;4
For there the wan and weird sisters met
Their imps, and the dark spirits that rejoice
When foulest deeds are done on earth, and there
In dread accordance rose their dismal joy.

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

Around, around, around,
Troop and dance we to the sound,10
Whilst mocking imps cry, Ho! ho! ho!
On earth there will be woe! more woe!

SPIRIT OF THE EARTHQUAKE.

Arise, swart fiends, 'tis I command;
Burst your caves, and rock the land.

SPIRIT OF THE STORM.

Loud tempests, sweep the conscious wood!

SPIRIT OF THE BATTLE.

I scent from earth more blood! more blood!

SPIRIT OF THE FIRE.

When the wounded cry,
And the craven die,
I will ride on the spires,
And the red volumes of the bursting fires.20

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

Around, around, around,
Dance we to the dismal sound
Of dying cries and mortal woe,
Whilst mocking imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!

FIRST SPIRIT.

Hear!25
Spirits that our 'hests perform
In the earthquake or the storm,
Appear, appear!

A fire is lighted—the pale smoke goes up;
Obscure, terrific features through the clouds30
Are seen, and a wild laughter heard, We come!

FIRST MINISTERING SPIRIT.

I have syllables of dread;
They can wake the dreamless dead.

SECOND SPIRIT.

I, a dark sepulchral song,
That can lead hell's phantom-throng.

THIRD SPIRIT.

Like a nightmare I will rest
This night upon King William's breast!

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

Around, around, around,
Dance we to the dismal sound
Of dying shrieks and mortal woe,40
Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!

They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood.

That night, King William first within the Tower
Received his vassal barons; in that Tower
Which oft since then has echoed to night-shrieks
Of secret murder, or the lone lament.46
Now other sounds were heard, for on this night
Its canopied and vaulted chambers rang
With minstrelsy; whilst sounds of long acclaim
Re-echoed, from the loopholes, o'er the Thames50
The drawbridge, and the ponderous cullis-gate,
Frowned on the moat; the flanking towers aspired
O'er the embattled walls, where proudly waved
The Norman banner. William, laugh to scorn
The murmurs of conspiracy and hate
That round thee gather, like the storms of night
Mustering, when murder hides her visored mien!
Now, what hast thou to fear! Let the fierce Dane
Into the centre of thy kingdom sweep,
With hostile armament, even like the tide60
Of the hoarse Humber, on whose waves he rode!
Let foes confederate; let one voice of hate,
One cry of instant vengeance, one deep curse
Be heard, from Waltham woods to Holderness!
Let Waltheof, stern in steel; let Hereward,
Impatient as undaunted, flash their swords;
Let the boy Edgar, backed by Scotland's king,
Advance his feeble claim, and don his casque,
Whose brows might better a blue bonnet grace;
Let Edwin and vindictive Morcar join70
The sons of Harold,—what hast thou to fear?
London's sole Tower might laugh their strength to scorn!
Upon that night when York's proud castle fell,
Here William held his court. The torches glared
On crest and crozier. Knights and prelates bowed
Before their sovereign. He, his knights and peers
Surveying with a stern complacency,
Inclined not from his seat, o'ercanopied
With golden valance, woven by no hand,
Save of the Queen. Yet calm his countenance80
Shone, and his brow a dignified repose
Marked kingly; high his forehead, and besprent
With dark hair, interspersed with gray; his eye
Glanced amiable, chiefly when the light
Of a brief smile attempered majesty.
His beard was dark and heavy, yet diffused,
Low as the lion ramping on his breast
Engrailed upon the mail.
Odo approached,
And knelt, then rising, placed the diadem90
Upon his brow, with laurels intertwined.
Again the voice of acclamation rang,
And from the galleries a hundred harps
Resounded Roland's song! Long live the King!
The barons, and the prelates, and the knights,
Long live the Conqueror! cried; a god on earth!
That instant the high vaulted chamber shook
As with a blast from heaven, and all was mute
Around him, and the very fortress rocked,
As it would topple on their heads. He rose100
Disturbed and frowning, for tumultuous thoughts
Crowded like night upon his heart; then waved
His hand. The barons, abbots, knights retire.
Behold him now alone! before a lamp
A crucifix appears; upon the ground
Lies the same sword that Hastings' battle dyed
Deep to the hilt in gore; behold, he kneels
And prays, Thou only, Lord, art ever great;
Have mercy on my sins! The crucifix
Shook as he spoke, shook visibly, and, hark!110
There is a low moan, as of dying men,
At distance heard.
Then William first knew fear.113
He had heard tumults of the battle-field,
The noise, the glorious hurrahs, and the clang
Of trumpets round him, but no sound like this
Ere smote with unknown terror on his heart,
As if the eye of God that moment turned
And saw it beating.
Rising slow, he flung120
Upon a couch his agitated limbs;
The lamp was near him; on the ground his sword
And helmet lay; short troubled slumbers stole,
And darkly rose the spirit of his dream.
He saw a field of blood,—it passed away;
A glittering palace rose, with mailed men
Thronged, and the voice of multitudes was heard
Acclaiming: suddenly the sounds had ceased,
The glittering palace vanished, and, behold!
Long winding cloisters, echoing to the chant130
Of stoled fathers; and the mass-song ceased—
Then a dark tomb appeared, and, lo! a shape
As of a phantom-king!
Nearer it came,
And nearer yet, in silence, through the gloom.
Advancing—still advancing: the cold glare
Of armour shone as it approached, and now
It stands o'er William's couch! The spectre gazed
A while, then lifting its dark visor up—
Horrible vision!—shewed a grisly wound140
Deep in its forehead, and therein appeared
Gouts, as yet dropping from an arrow's point
Infixed! And that red arrow's deadly barb
The shadow drew, and pointed at the breast
Of William; and the blood dropped on his breast;
And through his steely arms one drop of blood146
Came cold as death's own hand upon his heart!
Whilst a deep voice was heard, Now sleep in peace,
I am avenged!
Starting, he exclaimed,150
Hence, horrid phantom! Ho! Fitzalain, ho!
Montgomerie! Each baron, with a torch,
Before him stood. By dawn of day, he cried,
We will to horse. What passes in our thoughts
We shall unfold hereafter. By St Anne,
Albeit, not ten thousand phantoms sent
By the dead Harold can divert our course,
They may bear timely warning.
'Tis yet night—
Give me a battle-song ere daylight dawns;160
The song of Roland, or of Charlemagne—
Or our own fight at Hastings.
Torches! ho!
And let the gallery blaze with lights! Awake,
Harpers of Normandy, awake! By Heaven,
I will not sleep till your full chords ring out
The song of England's conquest! Torches! ho!
He spoke. Again the blazing gallery
Echoed the harpers' song. Old Eustace led
The choir, and whilst the king paced to and fro,170
Thus rose the bold, exulting symphony.

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

The Norman armament beneath thy rocks, St Valerie,
Is moored; and, streaming to the morn, three hundred banners fly,
Of crimson silk; with golden cross, effulgent o'er the rest,
That banner, proudest in the fleet, streams, which the Lord had blessed.
The gale is fair, the sails are set, cheerily the south wind blows,
And Norman archers, all in steel, have grasped their good yew-bows;
Aloud the harpers strike their harps, whilst morning light is flung
Upon the cross-bows and the shields, that round the masts are hung.
Speed on, ye brave! 'tis William leads; bold barons, at his word,
Lo! sixty thousand men of might for William draw the sword.

So, bound to England's southern shore, we rolled upon the seas,
And gallantly the white sails set were, and swelling to the breeze.
On, on, to victory or death! now rose the general cry;
The minstrels sang, On, on, ye brave, to death or victory!
Mark yonder ship, how straight she steers; ye knights and barons brave,
'Tis William's ship, and proud she rides, the foremost o'er the wave.
And now we hailed the English coast, and, lo! on Beachy Head,
The radiance of the setting sun majestical is shed.
The fleet sailed on, till, Pevensey! we saw thy welcome strand;
Duke William now his anchor casts, and dauntless leaps to land.

The English host, by Harold led, at length appear in sight,
And now they raise a deafening shout, and stand prepared for fight;
The hostile legions halt a while, and their long lines display,
Now front to front they stand, in still and terrible array.
Give out the word, God, and our right! rush like a storm along,
Lift up God's banner, and advance, resounding Roland's song!
Ye spearmen, poise your lances well, by brave Montgomerie led,
Ye archers, bend your bows, and draw your arrows to the head.
They draw—the bent bows ring—huzzah! another flight, and hark!
How the sharp arrowy shower beneath the sun goes hissing dark.

Hark! louder grows the deadly strife, till all the battle-plain
Is red with blood, and heaped around with men and horses slain.
On, Normans, on! Duke William cried, and Harold, tremble thou,
Now think upon thy perjury, and of thy broken vow.
The banner[100] of thy armed knight, thy shield, thy helm are vain—
The fatal shaft has sped,—by Heaven! it hisses in his brain!
So William won the English crown, and all his foemen beat,
And Harold, and his Britons brave, lay silent at his feet.
Enough! the day is breaking, cried the King:
Away! away! be armed at my side,
Without attendants, and to horse, to horse!

CANTO THIRD.

Waltham Abbey and Forest—Wild Woman of the Woods.

At Waltham Abbey, o'er King Harold's grave
A requiem was chanted; for last night
A passing spirit shook the battlements,
And the pale monk, at midnight, as he watched
The lamp, beheld it tremble; whilst the shrines
Shook, as the deep foundations of the fane
Were moved. Oh! pray for Harold's soul! he cried.
And now, at matin bell, the monks were met,
And slowly pacing round the grave, they sang:

DIRGE.

Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade10
Of him who here in earth is laid:
Saints and spirits of the blessed,
Look upon his bed of rest;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!

When, from yonder window's height,
The moonbeams on the floor are bright,
Sounds of viewless harps shall die,
Sounds of heaven's own harmony!20
Forgive his sins, propitious be;21
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!

By the spirits of the brave,
Who died the land they loved to save;
By the soldier's faint farewell,
By freedom's blessing, where he fell;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!30

By a nation's mingled moan,
By liberty's expiring groan,
By the saints, to whom 'tis given
To bear that parting groan to heaven;
To his shade propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!

The proud and mighty—

As they sung, the doors
Of the west portal, with a sound that shook40
The vaulted roofs, burst open; and, behold!
An armed Norman knight, the helmet closed
Upon his visage, but of stature tall,
His coal-black armour clanking as he trod,
Advancing up the middle aisle alone,
Approached: he gazed in silence on the grave
Of the last Saxon; there a while he stood,
Then knelt a moment, muttering a brief prayer:
The fathers crossed their breasts—the mass-song ceased;
Heedless of all around, the mailed man50
Rose up, nor speaking, nor inclining, paced51
Back through the sounding aisle, and left the fane.
The monks their interrupted song renewed:

The proud and mighty, when they die,
With the crawling worm shall lie;
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine!
Saviour Lord, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!60

"Pacem" (as slow the stoled train retire),
"Pacem," the shrines and fretted roofs returned.
'Twas told, three Norman knights, in armour, spurred
Their foaming steeds to the West Abbey door;
But who it was, that with his visor closed
Passed up the long and echoing fane alone,
And knelt on Harold's gravestone, none could tell.
The stranger knights in silence left the fane,
And soon were lost in the surrounding shades
Of Waltham forest.70
He who foremost rode
Passed his companions, on his fleeter steed,
And, muttering in a dark and dreamy mood,
Spurred on alone, till, looking round, he heard
Only the murmur of the woods above,
Whilst soon all traces of a road were lost
In the inextricable maze. From morn
Till eve, in the wild woods he wandered lost.
Night followed, and the gathering storm was heard
Among the branches. List! there is no sound80
Of horn far off, or tramp of toiling steed,
Or call of some belated forester;
No lonely taper lights the waste; the woods83
Wave high their melancholy boughs, and bend
Beneath the rising tempest. Heard ye not
Low thunder to the north! The solemn roll
Redoubles through the darkening forest deep,
That sounds through all its solitude, and rocks,
As the long peal at distance rolls away.
Hark! the loud thunder crashes overhead;90
And, as the red fire flings a fitful glare,
The branches of old oaks, and mossy trunks,
Distinct and visible shine out; and, lo!
Interminable woods, a moment seen,
Then lost again in deeper, lonelier night.
The torrent rain o'er the vast leafy cope
Comes sounding, and the drops fall heavily
Where the strange knight is sheltered by the trunk
Of a huge oak, whose dripping branches sweep
Far round. Oh! happy, if beneath the flash100
Some castle's bannered battlements were seen,
Where the lone minstrel, as the storm of night
Blew loud without, beside the blazing hearth
Might dry his hoary locks, and strike his harp
(The fire relumined in his aged eyes)
To songs of Charlemagne!
Or, happier yet
If some gray convent's bell remote proclaimed
The hour of midnight service, when the chant
Was up, and the long range of windows shone110
Far off on the lone woods; whilst Charity
Might bless and welcome, in a night like this,
The veriest outcast! Angel of the storm,
Ha! thy red bolt this instant shivering rives
That blasted oak!
The horse starts back, and bounds116
From the knight's grasp. The way is dark and wild;
As dark and wild as if the solitude
Had never heard the sound of human steps.
Pondering he stood, when, by the lightning's glance,120
The knight now marked a small and craggy path
Descending through the woody labyrinth.
He tracked his way slowly from brake to brake,
Till now he gained a deep sequestered glen.
I fear not storms, nor thunders, nor the sword,
The knight exclaimed: that eye alone I fear,
God's stern and steadfast eye upon the heart!
Yet peace is in the grave where Harold sleeps.
Who speaks of Harold? cried a woman's voice,
Heard through the deep night of the woods. He spoke,130
A stern voice answered, he of Harold spoke,
Who feared his sword in the red front of war,
Less than the powers of darkness: and he crossed
His breast, for at that instant rose the thought
Of the weird sisters of the wold, that mock
Night wanderers, and "syllable men's names"
In savage solitude. If now, he cried,
Dark minister, thy spells of wizard power
Have raised the storm and wild winds up, appear!
He scarce had spoken, when, by the red flash140
That glanced along the glen, half visible,
Uprose a tall, majestic female form:
So visible, her eyes' intenser light
Shone wildly through the darkness; and her face,
On which one pale flash more intently shone,
Was like a ghost's by moonlight, as she stood
A moment seen: her lips appeared to move,
Muttering, whilst her long locks of ebon hair
Streamed o'er her forehead, by the bleak winds blown149
Upon her heaving breast.
The knight advanced;
The expiring embers from a cave within,
Now wakened by the night-air, shot a light,
Fitful and trembling, and this human form,
If it were human, at the entrance stood,
As seemed, of a rude cave. You might have thought
She had strange spells, such a mysterious power
Was round her; such terrific solitude,
Such night, as of the kingdom of the grave;
Whilst hurricanes seemed to obey her 'hest.160
And she no less admired, when, front to front,
By the rekindling ember's darted gleam,
A mailed man, of proud illustrious port,
She marked; and thus, but with unfaltering voice,
She spake:
Yes! it was Harold's name I heard!
Whence, and what art thou? I have watched the night,
And listened to the tempest as it howled;
And whilst I listening lay, methought I heard,
Even now, the tramp as of a rushing steed;170
Therefore I rose, and looked into the dark,
And now I hear one speak of Harold: say,
Whence, and what art thou, solitary man?
If lost and weary, enter this poor shed;
If wretched, pray with me; if on dark deeds
Intent, I am a most poor woman, cast
Into the depths of mortal misery!
The desolate have nought to lose:—pass on!
I had not spoken, but for Harold's name,
By thee pronounced: it sounded in my ears180
As of a better world—ah, no! of days
Of happiness in this. Whence, who art thou?
I am a Norman, woman; more to know183
Seek not:—and I have been to Harold's grave,
Remembering that the mightiest are but dust;
And I have prayed the peace of God might rest
Upon his soul.
And, by our blessed Lord,
The deed was holy, that lone woman said;
And may the benediction of all saints,190
Whoe'er thou art, rest on thy head. But say,
What perilous mischance hath hither led
Thy footsteps in an hour and night like this?
Over his grave, of whom we spake, I heard
The mass-song sung. I knelt upon that grave,
And prayed for my own sins, I left the fane,
And heard the chanted rite at distance die.
Returning through these forest shades, with thoughts
Not of this world, I pressed my panting steed,
The foremost of the Norman knights, and passed200
The track, that, leading to the forest-ford,
Winds through the opening thickets; on a height
I stood and listened, but no voice replied:
The storm descended; at the lightning's flash
My good steed burst the reins, and frantic fled.
I was alone: the small and craggy path
Led to this solitary glen; and here,
As dark and troubled thoughts arose, I mused
Upon the dead man's sleep; for God, I thought,
This night spoke in the rocking of the winds!210
There is a Judge in heaven, the woman said,
Who seeth all things; and there is a voice,
Inaudible 'midst the tumultuous world,
That speaks of fear or comfort to the heart
When all is still! But shroud thee in this cave
Till morning: such a sojourn may not please
A courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy.217
I have but some wild roots, a bed of fern,
And no companion save this bloodhound here,
Who, at my beck, would tear thee to the earth;
Yet enter—fear not! And that poor abode
The proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.
Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,
Remote from towns, nor start at the dire sound
Of that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,
Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurned
All charities in thy own native land,
Yes, thou wouldst know what injured Britons feel!
Nay, Englishwoman, thou dost wrong our king,
The knight replied: conspiracy and fraud230
Hourly surrounding him, at last compelled
Stern rigour to awake. What! shall the bird
Of thunder slumber on the citadel,
And blench his eye of fire, when, looking down,
He sees, in ceaseless enmity combined,
Those who would pluck his feathers from his breast,
And cast them to the winds! Woman, on thee,
Haply, the tempest of the times has beat
Too roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.
The indignant woman answered, He requite!240
Can he bring back the dead? Can he restore
Joy to the broken-hearted? He requite!
Can he pour plenty on the vales his frown
Has blasted, bid sweet evening hear again
The village pipe, and the fair flowers revive
His bloody footstep crushed? For poverty,
I reck it not: what is to me the night,
Spent cheerless, and in gloom and solitude?
I fix my eye upon that crucifix,
I mourn for those that are not—for my brave,250
My buried countrymen! Of this no more!251
Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knight
Would scorn to wrong a woman; and if death
Could arm my hand this moment, thou wert safe
In a poor cottage as in royal halls.
Here rest a while till morning dawns—the way
No mortal could retrace:—'twill not be long,
And I can cheat the time with some old strain;
For, Norman though thou art, thy soul has felt
Even as a man, when sacred sympathy260
This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.
The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirred
The embers, or with fern or brushwood raised
A fitful flame, but cautious, lest its light
Some roving forester might mark. At times,
The small and trembling blaze shone on her face,
Still beautiful, and showed the dark eye's fire
Beneath her long black locks. When she stood up,
A dignity, though in the garb of want,
Seemed round her, chiefly when the brushwood-blaze270
Glanced through the gloom, and touched the dusky mail
Of the strange knight; then with sad smile she sung:

Oh! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green—
Oh! then 'tis sweet,
In some remote retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,280
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 'tis winter weather,283
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,—
Oh! then 'tis sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,290
We roamed through the greenwood together.

The bloodhound slept upon the hearth; he raised
His head, and, through the dusk, his eyes were seen,
Fiery, a moment; but again he slept,
When she her song renewed.

Though thy words might well deceive me—
That is past—subdued I bend;
Yet, for mercy, do not leave me
To the world without a friend!
Oh! thou art gone! and would, with thee,300
Remembrance too had fled!
She lives to bid me weep, and see
The wreath I cherished dead.

The knight, through the dim lattice, watched the clouds
Of morn, now slowly struggling in the east,
When, with a voice more thrilling, and an air
Wilder, again a sad song she intoned:

Upon the field of blood,
Amidst the bleeding brave,
O'er his pale corse I stood—310
But he is in his grave!
I wiped his gory brow,312
I smoothed his clotted hair—
But he is at peace, in the cold ground now;
Oh! when shall we meet there?

At once, horns, trumpets, and the shouts of men,
Were heard above the valley. At the sound,
The knight, upstarting from his dreamy trance,
High raised his vizor, and his bugle rang,
Answering. By God in heaven, thou art the king!320
The woman said. Again the clarions rung:
Like lightning, Alain and Montgomerie
Spurred through the wood, and led a harnessed steed
To the lone cabin's entrance, whilst the train
Sent up a deafening shout, Long live the king!
He, ere he vaulted to the saddle-bow,
Turned with a look benevolent, and cried,
Barons and lords, to this poor woman here
Haply I owe my life! Let her not need!
Away! she cried, king of these realms, away!330
I ask not wealth nor pity—least from thee,
Of all men. As the day began to dawn,
More fixed and dreadful seemed her steadfast look;
The long black hair upon her labouring breast
Streamed, whilst her neck, as in disdain, she raised,
Swelling, her eyes a wild terrific light
Shot, and her voice, with intonation deep,
Uttered a curse, that even the bloodhound crouched
Beneath her feet, whilst with stern look she spoke:
Yes! I am Editha! she whom he loved—340
She whom thy sword has left in solitude,
How desolate! Yes, I am Editha!
And thou hast been to Harold's grave—oh! think,
King, where thy own will be! He rests in peace;
But even a spot is to thy bones denied;345
I see thy carcase trodden under foot;
Thy children—his, with filial reverence,
Still think upon the spot where he is laid,
Though distant and far severed—but thy son,[101]
Thy eldest born, ah! see, he lifts the sword350
Against his father's breast! Hark, hark! the chase
Is up! in that wild forest thou hast made!
The deer is flying—the loud horn resounds—
Hurrah! the arrow that laid Harold low,
It flies, it trembles in the Red King's heart![102]
Norman, Heaven's hand is on thee, and the curse
Of this devoted land! Hence, to thy throne!
The king a moment with compassion gazed,
And now the clarions, and the horns, and trumps
Rang louder; the bright banners in the winds360
Waved beautiful; the neighing steeds aloft
Mantled their manes, and up the valley flew,
And soon have left behind the glen, the cave
Of solitary Editha, and sounds
Of her last agony!
Montgomerie,
King William, turning, cried, when this whole land
Is portioned (for till then we may not hope
For lasting peace) forget not Editha.[103]
In the gray beam the spires of London shone,370
And the proud banner on the bastion
Of William's tower was seen above the Thames,
As the gay train, slow winding through the woods,
Approached; when, lo! with spurs of blood, and voice
Faltering, upon a steed, whose labouring chest
Heaved, and whose bit was wet with blood and froth,376
A courier met them.
York, O king! he cried,
York is in ashes!—all thy Normans slain!
Now, by the splendour of the throne of God,380
King William cried, nor woman, man, nor child,
Shall live! Terrific flashed his eye of fire,
And darker grew his frown; then, looking up,
He drew his sword, and with a vow to Heaven,
Amid his barons, to the trumpet's clang
Rode onward (breathing vengeance) to the Tower.

CANTO FOURTH.

Wilds of Holderness—Hags—Parting on the Humber—Waltham Abbey, and Grave—Conclusion.

The moon was high, when, 'mid the wildest wolds
Of Holderness, where erst that structure vast,
An idol-temple,[104] in old heathen times,
Frowned with gigantic shadow to the moon,
That oft had heard the dark song and the groans
Of sacrifice,
There the wan sisters met;
They circled the rude stone, and called the dead,
And sung by turns their more terrific song:

FIRST HAG.

I looked in the seer's prophetic glass,10
And saw the deeds that should come to pass;
From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,12
The reeking soil was heaped with dead.

SECOND HAG.

The towns were stirring at dawn of day,
And the children went out in the morn to play;
The lark was singing on holt and hill;
I looked again, but the towns were still;
The murdered child on the ground was thrown,
And the lark was singing to heaven alone.

THIRD HAG.

I saw a famished mother lie,20
Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye;
The tempest was rising, and sang in the south,
And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth.

FOURTH HAG.

By the rolling of the drums,
Hitherward King William comes!
The night is struggling with the day—
Hags of darkness, hence! away!

William is in the north; the avenging sword
Descended like a whirlwind where he passed;
Slaughter and Famine at his bidding wait,30
Like lank, impatient bloodhounds, till he cries,
Pursue! Again the Norman banner floats
Triumphant on the citadel of York,
Where, circled with the blazonry of arms,
Amid his barons, William holds his state.
The boy preserved from death, young Malet, kneels,
With folded hands; his father, mother kneel,
Imploring clemency for Harold's sons;
For Edmund most. Bareheaded Waltheof bends,39
And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:
What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled;
Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland,
Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to hide
Their broken hopes—their troops are all dispersed.
Malcolm alone, and the boy Atheling,
And the two sons of the dead Harold, wait
The winds to bear them to the North away.
Bid forth a thousand spearmen, William cried:
Now, by the resurrection, and the throne
Of God, King Malcolm shall repent the hour50
He ere drew sword in England! Hence! away!
The west wind blows, the boat is on the beach,
The clansmen all embarked, the pipe is heard,
Whilst thoughtful Malcolm and young Atheling
Linger the last upon the shore; and there
Are Harold's children, the gray-headed monk,
Godwin, and Edmund, and poor Adela.
Then Malcolm spoke: The lot is cast! oh, fly
From this devoted land, and live with us,
Amidst our lakes and mountains! Adela,60
Atheling whispered, does thy heart say Yes?
For in this world we ne'er may meet again.
The brief hour calls—come, Adela, exclaimed
Malcolm, and kindly took her hand. She looked
To heaven, and fell upon her knees, then rose,
And answered:
Sire, when my brave father fell,
We three were exiles on a distant shore;
And never, or in solitude or courts,
Was God forgotten—all is in his hand.70
When those whom I had loved from infancy
Here joined the din of arms, I came with them;
With them I have partaken good and ill,73
Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid,
The same eye gazed on us with tenderness,
And the same mother prayed prosperity
Might still be ours through life! Alas! our lot
How different!
Yet let them go with you,
I argue not—the first time in our lives,80
If it be so, we here shall separate;
Whatever fate betide, I will not go
Till I have knelt upon my father's grave!
'Tis perilous to think, Atheling cried,
Most perilous—how 'scape the Norman's eye?
She turned, and with a solemn calmness said:
If we should perish, at the hour of death
My father will look down from heaven, and say,
Come, my poor child! oh, come where I am blessed!
My brothers, seek your safety. Here I stand90
Resolved; and never will I leave these shores
Till I have knelt upon my father's grave!
We never will forsake thee! Godwin cried.
Let death betide, said Edmund, we will go,
Yes! go with thee, or perish!
As he spoke,
The pilot gave the signal. Then farewell!
King Malcolm cried, friends lately met, and now
To part for ever! and he kissed the cheek
Of Adela, and took brave Godwin's hand100
And Edmund's, and then said, almost in tears,
It is not now too late! yet o'er my grave
So might a duteous daughter weep! God speed
Brave Malcolm to his father's land! they cried.
The ships beyond the promontory's point
Were anchored, and the tide was ebbing fast.
Then Ailric: Sire, not unforeseen by me107
Was this sad day. Oh! King of Scotland, hear!
I was a brother of that holy house
Where Harold's bones are buried; from my vows
I was absolved, and followed—for I loved
His children—followed them through every fate.
My few gray hairs will soon descend in peace,
When I shall be forgotten; but till then,
My services, my last poor services,
To them I have devoted, for the sake
Of him, their father, and my king, to whom
All in this world I owed! Protect them, Lord,
And bless them, when the turf is on my head;
And, in their old age, may they sometimes think120
Of Ailric, cold and shrouded in his grave,
When summer smiles! Sire, listen whilst I pray
One boon of thy compassion: not for me—
I reck not whether vengeance wake or sleep—
But for the safety of this innocent maid
I speak. South of the Humber, in a cave,
Concealed amidst the rocks and tangled brakes,
I have deposited some needful weeds
For this sad hour; for well, indeed, I knew,
If all should fail, this maiden's last resolve,130
To kneel upon her father's grave, or die.
For this I have provided; but the time
Is precious, and the sun is westering slow;
The fierce eye of the lion may be turned
Upon this spot to-morrow! Adela,
Now hear your friend, your father! The fleet hour
Is passing, never to return: oh, seize
The instant! Thou, King Malcolm, grant my prayer!
If we embark, and leave the shores this night,
The voice of fame will bruit it far and wide,140
That Harold's children fled with thee, and sought141
A refuge in thy kingdom. None will know
Our destination. In thy boat conveyed,
We may be landed near the rocky cave;
The boat again ply to thy ships, and they
Plough homeward the north seas, whilst we are left
To fate. Again the pilot's voice was heard;
And, o'er the sand-hills, an approaching file
Of Norman soldiers, with projected spears,
Already seemed as rushing on their prey.150
Then Ailric took the hand of Adela;
She and her brothers, and young Atheling,
And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked.
Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight shades
The sinking hills. The solitary boat
Has reached the adverse shore.
Here, then, we part!
King Malcolm said; and every voice replied,
God speed brave Malcolm to his father's land!
Ailric, the brothers, and their sister, left160
The boat; they stood upon the moonlit beach,
Still listening to the sounds, as they grew faint,
Of the receding oars, and watching still
If one white streak at distance, as they dipped,
Were seen, till all was solitude around.
Pensive, they sought a refuge for that night
In the bleak ocean-cave. The morning dawns;
The brothers have put off the plumes of war,
Dropping one tear upon the sword. Disguised
In garb to suit their fortunes, they appear170
Like shipwrecked seamen of Armorica,
By a Franciscan hermit through the land
Led to St Alban's shrine, to offer vows,
Vows to the God who heard them in that hour
When all beside had perished in the storm.175
Wrecked near his ocean-cave, an eremite
(So went the tale of their disastrous fate)
Sustained them, and now guides them through a land
Of strangers. That fair boy was wont to sing
Upon the mast, when the still ship went slow180
Along the seas, in sunshine; and that garb
Conceals the lovely, light-haired Adela.
The cuckoo's note in the deep woods was heard
When forth, they fared. At many a convent gate
They stood and prayed for shelter, and their pace
Hastened, if, high amid the clouds, they marked
Some solitary castle lift its brow
Gray in the distance—hastened, so to reach,
Ere it grew dark, its hospitable towers.
There the lithe minstrel sung his roundelay:190

Listen, lords and ladies bright!
I can sing of many a knight
Who fought in paynim lands afar;
Of Bevis, or of Iscapar.
I have tales of wandering maids,
And fairy elves in haunted glades,
Of phantom-troops that silent ride
By the moonlit forest's side.
I have songs (fair maidens, hear!)
To warn the lovelorn lady's ear.200
The choice of all my treasures take,
And grant us food for pity's sake!

When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall,
In some romantic and secluded glen,
They sat, and heard the blackbird overhead
Singing, unseen, a song, such as they heard
In infancy.[105] So every vernal morn207
Brought with it scents of flowers, or songs of birds,
Mingled with many shapings of old things,
And days gone by. Then up again, to scale
The airy mountain, and behold the plain
Stretching below, and fading far away,
How beautiful; yet still to feel a tear
Starting, even when it shone most beautiful,
To think, Here, in the country of our birth,
No rest is ours!
On, to our father's grave!
So southward through the country they had passed
Now many days, and casual shelter found
In villages, or hermit's lonely cave,220
Or castle, high embattled on the point
Of some steep mountain, or in convent walls;
For most with pity heard his song, and marked
The countenance of the wayfaring boy;
Or when the pale monk, with his folded hands
Upon his breast, prayed, For the love of God,
Pity the poor, give alms; and bade them speed!
And now, in distant light, the pinnacles
Of a gray fane appeared, whilst on the woods
Still evening shed its parting light. Oh, say,230
Say, villager, what towers are those that rise
Eastward beyond the alders?
Know ye not,
He answered, Waltham Abbey? Harold there
Is buried—he who in the fight was slain
At Hastings! To the cheek of Adela
A deadly paleness came. On—let us on!
Faintly she cried, and held her brother's arm,
And hid her face a moment with her hand.
And now the massy portal's sculptured arch240
Before them rose.
Say, porter, Ailric cried,
Poor mariners, wrecked on the northern shores,
Ask charity. Does aged Osgood live?
Tell him a poor Franciscan, wandering far,
And wearied, for the love of God would ask
His charity.
Osgood came slowly forth;
The light that touched the western turret fell
On his pale face. The pilgrim-father said:250
I am your brother Ailric—look on me!
And these are Harold's children!
Whilst he spoke,
Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried,
We are his children! I am Godwin, this
Is Edmund, and, lo! poor and in disguise,
Our sister! We would kneel upon his grave—
Our father's!
Come yet nearer, Osgood said,
Yet nearer! and that instant Adela260
Looked up, and wiping from her eyes a tear,
Have you forgotten Adela?
O God!
The old man trembling cried, ye are indeed
Our benefactor's children! Adela,
Edmund, brave Godwin! welcome to these walls—
Welcome, my old companion! and he fell
Upon the neck of Ailric, and both wept.
Then Osgood: Children of that honoured lord
Who gave us all, go near and bless his grave.270
One parting sunbeam yet upon the floor
Rested—it passed away, and darker gloom
Was gathering in the aisles. Each footstep's sound
Was more distinctly heard, for all beside274
Was silent. Slow along the glimmering fane
They passed, like shadows risen from the tombs.
The entrance-door was closed, lest aught intrude
Upon the sanctity of this sad hour.
The inner choir they enter, part in shade
And part in light, for now the rising moon280
Began to glance upon the shrines, and tombs,
And pillars. Trembling through the windows high,
One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stone
Is flung—the word "Infelix"[106] is scarce seen.
Behold his gravestone! Osgood said. Each eye
Was turned. A while intent they gazed, then knelt
Before the altar, on the marble stone!
No sound was heard through all the dim expanse
Of the vast building, none but of the air
That came in dying echoes up the aisle,290
Like whispers heard at the confessional.
Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down—
Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed:
Have mercy on his soul—have mercy, Lord!
They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads,
Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;
Then rising slowly up, looked round, and saw
A monk approaching near, unmarked before;
And in the further distance the tall form
As of a female. He who wore the hood300
And habit of a monk approached and spoke:
Brothers! beloved sister! know ye not
These features?—and he raised his hood—Behold
Me—me, your brother Marcus! whom these weeds,
Since last we met, have hidden from the world:
Let me kneel with you here!
When Adela407
Beheld him, she exclaimed, Oh! do we meet
Here, my lost brother, o'er a father's grave?
You live, restored a moment in this world,
To us as from the grave! And Godwin took
His hand, and said, My brother, tell us all;
How have you lived unknown? Oh! tell us all!
When in that grave our father, he replied,
Was laid, ye fled, and I in this sad land
Remained to cope with fortune. To these walls
I came, when Ailric, from his vows absolved,
With you was wandering. None my lineage knew,
Or name, but I some time had won regard
From the superior. Osgood knew me not,420
For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth.
To our superior thus I knelt and prayed:
Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God,
And of our Lady Mary, and St John,
You would receive me here to live and die
Among you. What most moved my heart to take
The vows was this, that here, from day to day,
From year to year, within the walls he raised,
I might behold my father's grave. This eve
I sat in the confessional, unseen,430
When you approached. I scarce restrained the tear,
From many recollections, when I heard
A tale of sorrow and of sin. Come near,
Woman of woe!—and a wan woman stood
Before them, tall and stately; her dark eyes
Shone, as the uncertain lamp cast a brief glare,
And showed her neck, and raven hair, and lips
Moving. She spoke not, but advanced and knelt—
She, too—on Harold's grave; then prayed aloud,
O God, be merciful to him—and me!440
Who art thou? Godwin cried.
Ah! know ye not
The wretched Editha? No children's love
Could equal mine! I trod among the dead—
Did I not, fathers?—trod among the dead
From corse to corse, or saw men's dying eyes
Fixed upon mine, and heard such groans as yet
Rive, with remembrance, my torn heart: I found
Him who rests here, where then he lay in blood!
When he was buried, I beheld the rites450
At distance, and with broken heart retired
To the wild woods; there I have lived unseen
From that sad hour. Late when the tempest rocked,
At midnight, a proud soldier shelter sought
In my lone cell; 'twas when the storm was heard
Through the deep forest, and he too had knelt
At Harold's grave! Who was it? He! the king!
Say, fathers, was it not the hand of God
That led his footsteps there!—but has he learned
Humility? Oh! ask this bleeding land!460
Last night a phantom came to me in dreams,
And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave!
I came, by some mysterious impulse led;
I heard the even song, and when the sound
Had ceased, and all departed, save one monk,
Who stood and gazed upon this grave alone,
I prayed that he would hear me, at this hour,
Confess my secret sins, for my full heart
Was labouring. It was Harold's son who sat
In the confessional, to me unknown;470
But all is now revealed—and lo! I stand
Before you!
As she spoke, a thrilling awe473
Came to each heart: loftier she seemed to stand
In the dim moonlight; sorrowful, yet stern,
Her aspect; and her breast was seen to beat;
Her eyes were fixed, and shone with fearful light.
She raised her right hand, and her dark hair fell
Upon her neck, whilst all, scarce breathing, heard:
My spirit labours! she exclaimed. This night!480
The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strains
My senses to oppression! Marked ye not
The trodden throne restored—the Saxon line[107]
Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?
Lady, I look on thee! In distant years,
Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share,[108]
A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm,
In concert with this country, now bowed low,
Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp,
Far greater than this Norman!490
Spare, O God!
My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,
Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave!
They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said,
Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore!
He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet here
Thou shalt behold, behold from day to day,
This honoured grave! But where in the great world
Shall be thy place of rest, poor Adela?
O God, be ever with her! Marcus cried,500
With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part,
Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate,
I shall remember with a brother's love,
And pray for you; but all my spirit rests504
In other worlds—in worlds, oh! not like this!
Ye may return to this sad scene when I
Am dust and ashes; ye may yet return,
And visit this sad spot; perhaps when age
Or grief has brought such change of heart as now
I feel, then shall you look upon my grave,510
And shed one tear for him whose latest prayer
Will be: Oh, bless you! bless my sister, Lord!
Then Adela, with lifted look composed:
Father, it is performed,—the duty vowed
When we returned to this devoted land,
The last sad duty of a daughter's love!
And now I go in peace—go to a world
Of sorrow, conscious that a father's voice
Speaks to my soul, and that thine eye, O God!
Whate'er the fortunes of our future days,520
Is o'er us. Thou, direct our onward road!
O'er the last Saxon's grave, old Osgood raised
His hands and prayed:
Father of heaven and earth,
All is beneath Thine eye! 'Tis ours to bend
In silence. Children of misfortune, loved,
Revered—children of him who raised these roofs,
No home is found for you in this sad land;
And none, perhaps, may know the spot, or shed
A tear upon the earth where ye are laid!530
So saying, on their heads he placed his hands,
And blessed them all; but, after pause, rejoined:
'Tis dangerous lingering here—the fire-eyed lynx
Would lap your blood! Westward, beyond the Lea,
There is a cell where ye may rest to-night.
The portal opened; on the battlements
The moonlight shone, silent and beautiful!
Before them lay their path through the wide world—538
The nightingales were singing as they passed;
And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,
They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven,
Through the lone forest held their pensive way.

CONCLUSION.

William, on his imperial throne, at York
Is seated, clad in steel, all but his face,
From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,
And his eyes show the unextinguished fire
Of steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heart
Yet labours, like the ocean after storm.
His sword unsheathed appears, which none besides
Can wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,550
Below the casque is spread; the lion ramps
Upon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.
Behind him stand his barons, in dark file[109]
Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;
Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,
Above their heads are raised. Though all alike
Are cased in armour, know ye not that knight
Who next, behind the king, seems more intent
To listen, and a loftier stature bears?
'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels560
Before the seat, his armour all with gules
Chequered, and chequered his small banneret,
Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scroll
In his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:
All these, the forfeited domains and land565
Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,
From Ely to the banks of Trent, I give
To thee and thine!
Fitzalian lowly knelt,
And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,570
Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king!

This is thy song, William the Conqueror,
The tale of Harold's children, and the grave
Of the last Saxon! The huge fortress frowns
Still on the Thames, where William's banner waved,
Though centuries year after year have passed,
As the stream flows for ever at its feet;
Harold, thy bones are scattered, and the tomb
That held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,[110]
Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard580
The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,
A fragment stands, and none will know the spot
Where those whom thou didst love in dust repose,
Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,
If haply it awake one duteous thought
Of filial tenderness.
That day of blood
Is passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaks
Even to the kingdoms of the earth:
Behold590
The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,
When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,
England, thy proud majestic policy
Slowly arose! Through centuries of shade
The pile august of British liberty
Towered, till behold it stand in clearer light596
Illustrious. At its base, fell Tyranny
Gnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;
Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skies
Uplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft600
Sounds o'er the subject seas, from east to west,
From north to south, her trumpet—England, live!
And rule, till waves and worlds shall be no more!

ILLUSTRATIONS FROM SPEED.

"This victory thus obtained, Duke William wholly ascribed unto God, and by way of a solemne supplication or procession, gave him the thankes; and pitching for that night his pavilion among the bodies of the dead, the next day returned to Hastings, there to consult upon his great and most prosperously begun enterprise, giving first commandement for the buriall of his slain souldiers.

"But Morcar and Edwin, the unfortunate Queenes' brethren, by night escaping the battaile, came unto London, where, with the rest of the peeres, they beganne to lay the foundation of some fresh hopes; posting thence their messengers to raise a new supply, and to comfort the English (who, through all the land, were stricken into a feareful astonishment with this unexpected newes) from a despairing feare, showing the chance of warre to be mutable, their number many and captaines sufficient to try another field. Alfred, Archbishop of Yorke, there present, and president of the assembly, stoutly and prudently gave his counsell forthwith to consecrate and crowne young Edgar Atheling (the true heire) for their king, to whom consented likewise both the sea-captaines and the Londoners. But the Earles of Yorkeshire and Cheshire, Edwin and Morcar (whom this fearefull state of their country could not disswade from disloyaltie and ambition), plotting secretly to get the crown themselves, hindred that wise and noble designe. In which, while the sorrowfull Queene, their sister, was conueyed to Westchester, where, without state or title of a Queene, she led a solitary and quiet life.

"The mother of the slaine King did not so well moderate her womanly passions as to receive either comfort or counsell of her friends: the dead body of her sonne shee greatly desired, and to that end sent to the Conquerour two sage brethren of his Abbey at Waltham, who had accompanied him in his unfortunate expedition. Their names (as I finde them recorded in an olde manuscript) were Osegod and Ailric, whose message to the Conquerour, not without abundance of teares and feare, is there set downe in the tenour as followeth:

"'Noble Duke, and ere long to be a most great and mightie King, we thy most humble servants, destitute of all comfort (as we would we were also of life) are come to thee as sent from our brethren, whom this dead King hath placed in the monastery of Waltham, to attend the issue of this late dreadfull battaile (wherein God favouring thy quarrell, he is now taken away and dead, which was our greatest comforter, and by whose onely bountifull goodenesse we were relieved and maintained, whom hee had placed to serve God in that church). Wherefore wee most humbly request thee (now our dread lord) by that gracious favour which the Lord of lords hath showed unto thee, and for the reliefe of their soules, who in this quarrell have ended their dayes, that it may be lawfull for us by thy good leave safely to take and carry away with us the dead body of the King, the founder and builder of our church and monasterie; as also the bodies of such others as whom, for the reverence of him and for his sake, desired also to be buried with us, that the state of our church by their helpe strengthened, may be the stronger, and endure the firmer.' With whose so humble a request, and abundant teares, the victorious and worthy Duke moved, answered:

"'Your King (said he) unmindfull of his faith, although he have for the present endured the worthy punishment of his fault, yet hath he not therefore deserved to want the honour of a sepulchre or to lie unburied: were it but that he died a King, howsoever he came by the kingdom, my purpose is, for the reverence of him, and for the health of them who, having left their wives and possessions, have here in my quarrel lost their lives, to build here a church and a monastery with an hundred monkes in it, to pray for them for ever, and in the same church to bury your King above the rest, with all honour unto so great a prince, and for his sake to endow the same with great revenewes.'

"With which his courteous speech and promises, the two religious fathers, comforted and encouraged, again replied:

"'Not so, noble Duke, but grant this thy servants' most humble request, that we may, for God, by thy leave, receive the dead body of our founder, and to bury it in the place which himself in his lifetime appointed, that wee, cheered with the presence of his body, may thereof take comfort, and that his tombe may be unto our successors a perpetual monument of his remembrance.'

"The Duke, as he was of disposition gracious, and inclined to mercy, forthwith granted their desires, whereupon they drew out stores of gold to present him in way of gratulation, which he not only utterly refused, but also offered them plenty to supply whatsoever should be needfull for the pompe of his funerall, as also for their costs in travaile to and fro, giving strait commandments that none of his souldiers should persume to molest them in this businesse or in their returne. Then went they in haste to the quarry of the dead, but by no meanes could find the body of the King; for the countenances of all men greatly alter by death, but being maimed and imbrued with bloud, they are not known to be the men they were. As for his other regall ornaments which might have shewed him for their King, his dead corps was despoyled of them, either through the greedy desire of prey (as the manner of the field is) or to be the first bringer of such happy news, in hope of a princely reward, upon which purpose many times the body is both mangled and dismembred, and so was this King after his death by a base souldier gasht and hackt into the legge, whom Duke William rewarded for so unsouldier like a deed, cashiering him for ever out of his wages and warres. So that Harold, lying stript, wounded, bemangled, and goared in his bloud, could not be founde nor knowne till they sent for a woman named Editha (for her passing beautie surnamed Swan-shals, that is, Swan's-necke), whom hee entertained in secret love before he was King, who by some secret marks of his body, to her well knowne, found him out, and then put into a coffine, was by divers of the Norman nobilitie honourably brought unto the place afterward called Battle Bridge, where it was met by the nobles of England, and, so conveyed to Waltham, was there solemnly and with great lamentation of his mother, royally interred, with this rude epitaph,[111] well beseeming the time, though not the person.

"Goodwine, the eldest son of the King Harold, being growne to some ripenesse of years in y^e life of his father, after his death and overthrow by the Conquerour, took his brother with him and flew over into Ireland, from whence he returned and landed in Somersetshire, slew Edmoth (a baron sometimes of his fathers) that encountered him, and taking great preyes in Devonshire and Cornwell, departed till the next yeare; when, comeing again, he fought with Beorn and Earle of Cornwall, and after retired into Ireland, and thence went into Denmarke to King Swayn, his cosen-german, where he spent the rest of his life.

"Edmund, the second sonne to King Harold, went with his brother into Ireland, returned with him into England, and was at the slaughter and overthrow of Edmoth and his power in Somersetshire, at the spoyles committed in Cornwall and Devonshire, at the conflict with the Cornish Earle Beorn, passed, repassed with him in all his voyages, invasions, and warres, by sea and by land, in England and Ireland; and at the last departed with him from Ireland to Denmarke, tooke part with him of all pleasure and calamitie whatsoever, and attending and depending wholly upon him, lived and died with him in that country.

"Magnus, the third sonne of the King Harold, went with his brothers into Ireland, and returned with them the first time into England, and is never after that mentioned amongst them, nor elsewhere, unlesse (as some conjecture) he be that Magnus, who, seeing the mutability of humane affaires, became an anchoret, whose epitaph, pointing to his Danish originall, the learned Clarenciaux discovered in a little desolate church at Lewes, in Sussex, where, in the gaping chinks of an arch in the wall, in a rude and over worne character, certain old imperfect verses were found."

A daughter, whose name is not known, left England with her brothers, and sought refuge with them in Denmark.

Speed quotes Saxo Grammaticus, who says, "She afterwards married Waldemar, King of Russia." To this daughter I have given the name and character assigned to her in the poem.

FOOTNOTES:

[90] Part of the abbey remains; but there is no trace of the tomb, which was of gray marble. That portion of the edifice is entirely destroyed.

[91] The river Lea, near which the abbey called Waltham Holy Cross was founded.

[92] There is a quaint epitaph in Speed, describing him as having been buried in a convent at Lewes. I have so far adhered to historical tradition, as to represent him under the character and in the habit of a religious order. The abbey founded by his father seemed more appropriate than a convent or cell at Lewes. The wife of Harold is not introduced at the funeral, as she had fled to a convent.

[93] Altered from the real name for the sake of euphony. I have also taken the liberty of representing the "religious" at Waltham Abbey as monks, although they were in fact canons.

[94] Spurnhead, at the entrance to the Humber.

[95] Fratres Helenæ.

[96] This town and castle have vanished, but the name has often been recorded in English history.

[97] A comet appeared at the time of Harold's coronation.

[98] Hardrada of Norway had invaded England a short time before the arrival of William. Harold defeated him with immense slaughter in the north, and was called from thence to a more desperate and fatal struggle.

[99] One family only was saved in the massacre of the Normans at York.

[100] Harold's banner had the device of an armed knight.

[101] Robert of Normandy.

[102] William Rufus, called the Red King.

[103] It is a singular fact, that the name of Editha Pulcherrima occurs in Domesday (see Turner).

[104] This temple Camden places at Delgovitia.

[105] William took the field in spring

[106] In some accounts it is said the only inscription on the tomb was, "Infelix Harold."

[107] The Saxon line was restored through the sister of Atheling.

[108] A daughter of Harold married Waldimir of Russia.

[109] The picture is taken from an original, preserved in Drake, in which William and his barons are thus represented. He is shown in the act of presenting his nephew Alain with the forfeited lands of Earl Edwin.

[110] Waltham is, literally, the Ham in the Wold.

[111] For this epitaph, see Speed.

ST JOHN IN PATMOS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to write, I have added, from volumes long out of print, some selected verses of my earliest days of song.[112]

Since these were written, I have lived to hear the sounds of other harps, whose masters have struck far more sublime chords, and died. I have lived to see among them females[113] of the highest poetical rank, and many illustrious masters of the lyre, whose names I need not specify, crowned with younger and more verdant laurels, which they yet gracefully wear. Some who now rank high in the poet's art have acknowledged that their feelings were first excited by these youthful strains, which I have now, with melancholy feelings, revised for the last time.

It is a consolation that, from youth to age, I have found no line I wished to blot, or departed a moment from the severer taste which I imbibed from the simplest and purest models of classical composition.

Time—Four days.

Characters.—St John—Mysterious Stranger—Præfect of the Roman Guard—Robber of Mount Carmel, converted—Grecian Girl and Dying Libertine—Elders of Ephesus—Visions.

ST JOHN IN PATMOS.

War, and the noise of battle, and the hum Of armies, by their watch-fires, in the night, And charging squadrons, all in harness bright, The sword, the shield, the trumpet, and the drum— Themes such as these, too oft, in lofty song Have been resounded, while the poet strung His high heroic lyre, and louder sung Of chariots flashing through the armed throng:— But other sights and other sounds engage, Fitlier, the thoughts of calm-declining age, More worthy of the Christian and the sage; Who, when deep clouds his country have o'ercast, And sadder comes the moaning of the blast, To God would consecrate a parting lay Of holier homage, ere he pass away.

PART FIRST.

Cave in Patmos—Apparition—Mysterious Visitant—Day, Night, and Morning.

'Twas in the rugged and forsaken isle
Of Patmos, dreariest of the sister isles
Which strew the Ægean, where the pirate, wont
To rove the seas with scymitar of blood,
Now scowled in sullen exile, an old man,
Tranquilly listening to the ocean-sounds,
And resting on his staff, beside a cave,7
Gazed on the setting sun, as it went down
In glory o'er the distant hills of Greece.
Pale precipices frowned above the track
Of dark gray sands and stone; nor wood nor stream
Cheered the lone valleys, desolate, and sad,
And silent; not a goat amid the crags
Wandering, and picking here and there a blade
Of withered grass, above the sea-marge hung.
The robber[114] scowled, and spoke not; his dark eye
Still flashed unconquered pride, and sullen hate
To man, and, looking on his iron chain,
He muttered to himself a deeper curse.
The old man had his dwelling in a cave,20
Half-way upon the desert mountain's side,
Now bent with the full weight of eighty years
And upwards; and that caverned mountain-crag
Five years had been his dwelling:[115] there he sat,
Oft holding converse, not with forms of earth,
But, as was said, with spirits of the blessed,
Beyond this cloudy sphere, or with the dead
Of other days. A girdle bound his loins;
Figs and Icarian honey were his food;
An ill-carved cup by a clear fount was seen;30
His long locks and his white descending beard
Shook when he tottered down into the sun,
Supported by a slender cross of pine,
His staff; and when the evening star arose
O'er Asia, a brief time he stood and gazed,
Then sought his melancholy cave and prayed.
And who, in this sad place, was this old man?
Who, in this island, where the robber scowled,
Was this old man, exiled and destitute—
Old, but so reverenced, the murderer passed40
His rocky dwelling, and bade peace to it?
'Twas he who leaned upon our Saviour's breast
At the last supper; he to whom the Lord,
Looking upon his countenance of youth,
His calm, clear forehead, and his clustering hair,
Said, What if he shall tarry till I come!
Long years—and many sorrows marked these years—
Had passed since this was said; and now that face
Was furrowed o'er with age; and weariness
And exile, in the last lone days of life,50
Were now his lot; for they whom he had loved—
They, the disciples of "Him crucified"—
Professing one warm faith, one glorious hope,
Were all, in the same faith and the same hope,
Laid down in peace, after their pilgrimage,
Where the world ceased from troubling.
He alone
Lingered when all were dead, with fervent prayer
Soon in the bosom of his Lord to rest.
And now he comes forth from his rocky cave60
To gaze a while upon the silent sea,
In the calm eventide of the Lord's day;
To think on Him he loved, and of that voice
Once heard on earth: so, pondering, on his staff,
The old man watched another sun go down
Beyond the Cape of Tenos.[116] The still sea
Slept, in the light of eve, beneath his feet,
And often, as in very gentleness,
It seemed to touch his sandals, and retire.
And now the last limb of the sinking orb70
Is hid, yet far away the cloudy track
Reddens with its departing glory.
Hark!73
A voice, and, lo! seven "golden candlesticks,"[117]
The "Angels of the Churches" upon earth,
"Seven golden candlesticks," and He, the Lord,
Among them, like unto that Son of God
Who radiant on the mount of vision[118] stood,
Now recognised the same, in the same shape.
His hair was white as snow; his eyes were flame;80
His voice, the sound of waters; in his hand—
His raised right hand—seven stars; his countenance
As the bright sun, that shineth in his strength;
And yet serene as the descending day.
It was the Lord: the old man at his feet
Fell down as dead; the apparition stood
Glorious above his head, and spoke:
Fear not;
I am the first and last; the last and first:
Lo, I am he that liveth, and was dead:90
And now, behold, I live for evermore—
For evermore, and have the keys of hell
And death![119]
The glory passed—and all around
Is still as death: the old man sinks to earth,
Astonied, faint, and pale. When the slow sense
Struggled to recollection, he looked around,
Yet trembling; but no voice was heard; no form
Stood, bending in its glory, o'er him.
Then seemed the hills of that forsaken isle100
More dreary; and the promontories bare
Lifted their weather-beaten brows more dark
And desolate. Back to his lonely cave
The old man passed; and, wrapped in thoughts of heaven,
Lifted in prayer his clasped emaciate hands;105
Then on his bed of rushes in the cave
Lay down to rest till dawn. What was his dream?
He saw again, as when the rocks were rent,
And "darkness at midday was o'er the land,"
His Saviour calmly bowing his meek head110
Upon the cross: he heard that thrilling voice
Even from the cross, Woman, behold thy son!
Son, look upon thy mother!
Then he saw
The forms of those whom he had loved on earth,
And heard their voices still; and stood entranced,
With Peter and with James, upon the mount
Of glorious vision; now he saw, in dreams,
Again the glistening apparition rise,
And stand above him. He has tarried long120
And lonely in the world: the vision comes
To animate his hopes—to say, Live, live
With me, for evermore! And, lo, the keys!
This opens the bright mansions of the blessed;
This closes the eternal gates of hell,
Upon the gnashing of the teeth, and groans
Unutterable. So the Saviour spoke,
As seemed in his sleep. Ah! the stern shade
Of murdered Cæsar rises: Art thou dead,
King of the world? for this didst thou proclaim130
Thyself a god—a living god on earth?[120]
Let the pit hide thee! But thou art a god!
Then bid the fury of these flames assuage
Ere they reach thee! Who shrieked?
At the sound,
The ancient and the solitary man
Started from sleep
The cold gray dawn appeared,138
When, standing opposite, with steadfast look,
And in the glimmer of the inmost cave,
He saw a stranger.
Whence and who art thou?
With trembling voice he asked—whence? who art thou?
Perhaps the spirit of this dismal isle!
Or, cast upon these melancholy rocks,
A poor and world-forsaken thing, like me!
The stranger gazed unmoved, and answered not:
His looks were those of pity—of respect—
As mingling thoughtful wisdom with the grace
Of beauty. In his hand he held a book:150
He opened it; and never light appeared
So fair as that on his majestic brow,
For now the sun had risen, and its beams
Shot far into the cave.
John gazed with awe
On that majestic man, he knew not why;
And well might he have gazed with reverence,
For here, in this rude spot, he only saw
Men the most dark and savage of their kind,
Murderers, and ruthless criminals in chains.160
He spoke to them of truth and righteousness—
He spoke of an offended God! Some looked
To the bright sun, defying; others turned
Muttering. He spoke of pity, and they heard,
Even as the relentless hurricane
Hears the last prayer of the faint mariner,
Whom wintry waves had dashed upon the rocks.
Yet ever with the gentlest offices,
With tears and prayers the holy exile strove
To wake their better feelings, for he laid170
His hands upon the sick, and they looked up
With hope and blessed him, and, restored to strength,
Forgot the vows they made; him, too, who died173
Hardened, and, as to human eyes, in sin,
He laid in the cold grave, and said a prayer
For mercy to the God of all, the Judge,
To whom all hearts be open, and from whom
No secret thought is hid—and, self-accused,
Mortal himself, presumed not to condemn.
So passed this ancient holy man his days,180
Peaceful, amid the banished criminals,
Banished and poor himself, but living thus,
Among the sternest of their kind, he prayed
For their salvation:—so he passed his days
Peaceful, but sad; and now, with anxious gaze,
He turned his look to the mysterious man,
Who, steadfastly beholding him, thus spoke:
The voice of prophecy has been fulfilled;
Where is the Temple? where Jerusalem?
Ah! wretched city! Famine, war, and woe190
Have done their destined work. The living drops[121]
Dead on the carcase he is burying!
That famished babe is black! Oh! turn away!
All—all is silent now; and thou hast seen
This prophecy fulfilled, for not one stone
Of beautiful and sacred Solima
Is left upon another! He who died,
When he beheld the city, o'er it wept,
And said, O daughters of Jerusalem!
Weep not for me, but for your little ones!200
The tender words—dost thou remember them?
Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how oft
Would I have gathered up those little ones,
Even as a hen beneath a mother's wing;204
But ye would not: and now, behold your house
Is left unto you desolate! Alas!
How desolate! But even in those last days
Warning was given, if yet they would repent.
A bloody sword, like a red comet, hung
Above the Temple, and a strange sad light210
Sat on the altar; while the inner gate,
Untouched, at midnight burst its brazen bars,
And stood wide open; armed men did fight
Amid the clouds; and, in the dead of night,
The pale priest heard a voice, Depart! depart![122]
So the fair city of Jerusalem
Perished: but, lo! Christ's holy Church shall rise—
Rise from its ashes—yea, is risen now;
Its glorious gates shall never be cast down,
Till He, the King of glory, shall appear!220
He founded it upon a rock—a rock,
Which time, the rushing earthquake, or the storm,
Whilst earth endures, shall never shake!
Old man,
Beloved of the Lord, wouldst thou know more—
What things shall be hereafter? rise and mark!
The old man, lifting up his eyelids, slow,
Saw a door opened in the heaven, and heard
A voice, as of a trumpet: Come and see!
Straight he was in the Spirit, and the voice230
Inquired, What vision comes? The seer replied:
There is a throne in heaven,[123] and on the throne
One sitteth, and he seems, to look upon,
Red as a sardine-stone—a deep, deep red
Is round about, yet, as a jasper, bright
His face! The sun is of an ashy pale,236
So red and bright that form!

VOICE.

Thou seest the throne
Of the Eternal Justice. Look again.

JOHN.

There is a rainbow[124] round about the throne,240
Tempering the fiery red.

VOICE.

It is the bow
Of mercy, and of pardon, and of peace;
Of mercy, as when, stealing from the clouds,
It came forth, beautiful and silently,
Above the waste of waters, and the flood,
Receding—token of the covenant
Of grace restored; while the great orb of day
Shone westering, and some few small drops of rain
Fell transient in the sunshine, where, far off,250
The wings of the ascending dove were seen,
And by the altar, in the rainbow-light—
That light upon the altar and his brow—
The world's survivor stood. What seest thou more?

JOHN.

About the throne are four and twenty seats;[125]
And four and twenty elders, clothed in white,
Each having on his head a crown of gold,
Are on those seats.

VOICE.[126]

Dost thou not hear a voice?259

JOHN.

Yea! voices, such as earth ne'er heard; and, lo!
There are seven lamps of fire, before the throne.

VOICE.

They are the Spirits of the living God.

JOHN.

Four mighty cherubims,[127] which blaze with eyes,
Having six wings, and full of eyes within,
Are 'round the throne: I see their radiant forms.

VOICE.

These rest not night nor day.

JOHN.

I hear them now,
Proclaiming, Holy, holy, holy Lord,
Lord God Almighty, Him who was, and is,
And is to come! And while these cherubims270
Give honour, glory, praise, and thanks to Him
Who sitteth on the throne,—

VOICE.

To Him who lives
For ever and for ever!

JOHN.

They fall down,275
The four and twenty elders, at the feet
Of Him who sitteth on the throne, and cast
Their crowns before the throne, and cry, O Lord
Almighty! thou art worthy to receive
Glory and honour, majesty and might!280
Thou hast created all things; and for thee
They are and were created!

VOICE.

Oh that earth
Might answer their glad voices! Oh that earth
Might listen and repeat! What more?

JOHN.

I see,
In His right hand who sitteth on the throne,
A book; without, within darkly inscribed,
Having seven seals. Now, a strong angel cries,
With a loud voice, What man is worthy found290
To loose the seals, and open that dark book![128]

VOICE.

Ah! no one, in the heaven or on the earth,
May open that same book, or look thereon!
Why dost thou weep?

JOHN.

I weep because no man
Is worthy found to open, or to read,
Or look upon that book. I weep for this.[129]

VOICE.

Weep not; but say what follows.298

JOHN.

Lo! a Lamb,
As it were slain—it hath seven horns and eyes.
He takes the book from the right hand of Him
Who sitteth on the throne!

VOICE.

What follows? mark!

JOHN.

The elders and the mighty cherubims
Fall down before the Lamb, the Lamb of God,
With solemn harps, and golden vials full
Of odours.

VOICE.

These are prayers of saints on earth:
They sing a new song to the Lamb!

JOHN.

And shout:310
Thou only, Lamb of God! art worthy found
To take the book, and ope the seals thereof;
For thou wert slain, thou hast redeemed us
From every tongue and nation upon earth!

VOICE.

Hearest thou aught beside?

JOHN.

I hear the voice,316
Of shining mighty troops, about the throne,
Angels, and seraphim, and cherubim,
Ten thousand and ten thousand hierarchies,
Lift up their voices:
Worthy is the Lamb,
Slain from the world's foundation, to receive
Riches and wisdom. Blessing, glory, power
Be unto Him that sitteth on the throne,
And to the Lamb, for ever and for ever!
The quail[130] goes clamouring by; the old man raises
His eyelids, and the vision floats away.

PART SECOND.

Morning in the Ægean—Contemplative view—Seven Churches of Asia—Superstitions—Crete, Egypt—Spread of Gospel Light through the Pagan World.

How beautiful is morning on the hills
Of Asia, stretching far, and faint descried!
While, nearer, all the sunny Sporades,[131]
That break the blue Ægean, shine in light,
On this autumnal dawn!
How musical
The fresh airs, and the ocean's solemn sound
Come to the mountain grot!
Let us go forth,9
Said then the unknown and mysterious man.

JOHN.

First on that mossy stone, beneath the arch,
Kneel we, and offer up our orisons
To Him who bade the sun go forth:
O God,
Thou didst create this living world! Thy voice,
When darkness sat upon the lonely deep,
Spoke—Be there light, and there was light! Thy hand
Spread out the heavens, and fashioned from the dust
Man, the high habitant of earth, now fallen,
And to return to dust again: but thanks20
Be unto thee, O Christ! who, when the trump
Shall sound, and all this mortal pomp is passed,
Shalt call the dead up, incorruptible!
And glory be to Thee, O Spirit pure!
Who hast infused into our hearts of flesh
The love of God, through faith in Jesus Christ!
Oh! in the hour of death, and in the day
Of judgment, Lord, to us be merciful!
So prayed they, suppliant, when morning shone
Upon the seas; so they together prayed,30
Giving God thanks that one more day of light
Was granted to the feeble and the old,
Ere long to rest in peace. Upon their heads,
As slow they rose, a halo seemed to rest,
Touching the forehead of the aged man:
The features of the younger, as he stood,
Were mild, but awful; thoughtful, yet not sad;
Whilst, from the caverned rock, into the sun,
The lonely and the last Apostle came.
As both together stood and gazed a while40
Upon the deep blue sea, the younger said:
Listen, old man: I was at Antioch,
When mild Evodias[132] filled St Peter's chair;
And fair that place, as well beseems the spot
Where first the Christian name[133] was heard.
The Vale
Of Tempe, sung through Greece, is not so fair
As that green valley, where Orontes winds,
Beneath the grove of Daphne, to the sea;
Scarce Eden fairer, where the first-formed man50
Stood up majestic, in the world's new day.
I heard Evodias, and from youth I loved
To wander 'mid the scenes of old renown,
Hallowed by prophets, and by holy men,
Who long from earth had passed. How beautiful
Upon those hills and mountains were the feet
Of them who brought glad tidings of the light,
Now risen on the darkened world!
I sat
Upon a stone of fallen Jerusalem,60
Sat down and wept, when I remembered thee,
O Sion! and thy Temple, and thy sons
Scattered in the wide world—scattered or dead!
Like him, the mighty prophet,[134] who of yore
Watched the dark gathering of the clouds and rain,
I stood upon Mount Carmel, and beheld
The great sea westward. Hark! Euroclydon[135]
Is up; the tempest rushes from the east;
Fire and the whirlwind follow; but, O God!
Thou art not in the whirlwind nor the fire.70
And, after, came a still small voice, which said,
Go, visit John, sad and in solitude.
We sailed from Joppa, in a Tyrian ship,
To Rhodes: a skiff was waiting near the shore,
On which the shadowy moonlight seemed to rest;
Then a pale mariner, who never spoke,
Conveyed me hither, swift as silently—
Swift, though the passing keel no murmur made,
As the dim sail no shadow cast. I looked,
When I had reached the shore, and it was gone!80
I saw thy mountain-cave: I stood and gazed
A while on thy gray hairs as thou didst sleep,
And the same voice which came, after the wind,
Said audibly, Reveal to him the things
That shall hereafter be, as I unfold.
I watched when the great vision came to thee,
Hearing the voice and answer: it was sent
To animate thy hope! Art thou refreshed,
As now these airs of morn blow soothingly,
And breathe a sad repose? John placed his hand,90
Pale and emaciate, on his breast, and said:
Thy words might raise from earth the heaviest heart.
Then both in silence gazed on the blue sea,[136]
And heard it murmuring. John his full look
Towards his face who spoke now turned intent,
To mark his features. Dignity serene
Was on that face; and as the freshening airs
Stirred the dark locks that clustered round his brow,
A faint rose mantled on his cheek; his cloak,
Gathered upon his breast, descending touched100
His sandals; whilst, with more majestic mien,
Pointing to Asia's hills, he spoke again:
Old man, lift up thine eyes—turn to the east:103
How fair, with tower and turret, by the stream
Of clear Cayister, shines that Ephesus,
The "angel" of whose "golden candlestick"
Here droops in banishment!
Hail, Smyrna, hail!
Beneath thy towers, and piers, and bastions,
Far-seen through intermingled cypresses,110
Ships from all nations, with their ensigns, float
Silent; but, lo! a purer light from heaven
Is on thy walls, while from the citadel
Streams the triumphant banner of the Cross.
And beautiful thy sisters of the faith,[137]
First, in the east, when the wide world was dark,
Laodicea, Philadelphia,
And Pergamos, and Thyatira, shine,
While Sardis, at the foot of Tmolus high,
Seems from the wildering plains below, to gleam120
Like a still star that guides the sailor's way
O'er Adria![138] But, alas! here Antichrist
Shall rise with power, permitted from on high!
Mourn, Ephesus, thy glory and thy light
Extinguished! Sardis,[139] Thyatira, mourn:
Yet the blessed kingdom of the Lamb again
Shall be restored, and all the earth bow down
To the "unarmed Conqueror of the world."[140]
Turn to the south, there are the pines of Crete,
And, hark! the frantic Coribantes[141] shout130
To Cybele, the mother of the gods,
Drawn, by gaunt lions, in her car: they move
In stern subjection, and with foot-fall slow,
And shaggy necks hung down, though their red eyes134
Flash fire beneath; silent and slow they pace.
'Mid cymbals, shouts, and songs, and clashing swords,
Pipes, and the dissonance of brazen drums,
She bears aloft her calm brow, turreted.

JOHN.

Oh, pomp of proud and dire idolatry!
Crete, other sounds thy sister-island heard,140
Far other sounds, when, on his seat of power,
Amid the altars of the Queen of Love,[142]
The Christian faith there touched a heathen's heart.
Paul was in Cyprus: the Proconsul prayed
To hear of faith from the Apostle's lips,
But Elymas withstood him, Elymas
The sorcerer. He beckoned up his legions dire
Of fierce and frowning shadows. Paul, unmoved,
Smote him, amid his gaunt and grisly troop,—
Smote him with instant blindness, and he stood150
Dark in the midday sun.

STRANGER.

Was not the hand
Of God so visible, that ships of Tyre
Might bear the tidings from the east to west
From Tyre to Thule? South from Crete, behold
The land of ancient Egypt, scarce discerned
Above the sea-line, the mysterious land
Of Isis, and Anubis; of the Sphynx,
Of Memnon, resonant at early dawn,[143]
When the red sun rose o'er the desert sands;160
Of those vast monuments[144]—their tale unknown—161
Which, towering, pale and solemn, o'er the waste,
Stand mocking the uplifted mace of Time,
Who, as he smites in vain, mutters, and hies
To other spoil! Yet there the timbrelled hymn
Rings to Osiris; there, great Isis reigns,
Veiled, and no mortal hath removed her veil;
There, Thoth,[145] first teacher of the mysteries
Of sacred wisdom, hid in signs obscure,
Is still invoked to lead the ghosts, that pass170
Through the dim portal, to hell's silent king.

JOHN.

Hast thou forgotten, that in this dark land,
The passover—meet emblem of the Lamb
Of God—was first ordained? That here his power
In wonder and in judgment was displayed?
"Fire ran along upon the ground,"[146] with hail
Mingled; and darkness, such as might be felt—
Darkness, not earthly, was on all the land.
Arrested and suspended at God's word,
On either side the billows of the deep180
Hung over those who passed beneath their shade,
While Pharaoh's charioteers and horsemen sank
In the Red Sea: "not one of them is left."

STRANGER.

And Miriam took a timbrel in her hand,184
And all the women went out after her,
With timbrels, and with dances, and they sang:
And Miriam answered them, Sing to the Lord,
For he hath triumphed—triumphed gloriously!
The rider and his horse hath he cast down
Into the sea—the rider and his horse!190
And the dark sea was silent over them.
But Israel's children safely held their way,
And the Lord went before them in a cloud
Like to a pillar, and a fire by night,
Till Moses, bearing with him Joseph's bones,
Beheld, from Pisgah's top, far off, in clouds,
The land of promise—saw that blessed land,
And died in peace.

JOHN.

Oh! may the pilgrimage
Of the tired Christian, in the wilderness200
Of life, so lead him to his home of rest!

STRANGER.

Look northward—for the sheet let down from heaven
Had "its four corners knit:" and are not these
The north, the south, the east, the west—in bonds
Of brotherhood, and faith, and charity?
Mountains and forests by the Caspian, plains
Of Scythia, and ye dwellers on the shores
Of the Black Sea, where the vast Ister hurls,
Sounding, its mass into the inner deep;
Shout, for the banners of the cross of Christ210
Far as your dark recesses have been borne,
By Andrew and by Thomas,[147] messengers212
Of the slain Lamb—even to the utmost bounds
Of wild and wintry Caucasus! Aloft,
In silence, high above the rack of earth,
That solitary mountain stands, nor hears
The thunder bursting at its base.

JOHN.

So stands
The Christian, calm amid the storms of life,
Heaven's sunshine on his head, and all the cares220
And sorrows of the world beneath his feet!

STRANGER.

Yea! and the Cross shall further yet be borne,
To realms of pagan darkness and deep night!
The cymbals to the gods of fire and blood
Shall clash no more; the idol-shapes are fled;
Grim Moloch's furnace sinks in smoke, to sounds
Strange and unutterable; but that shriek!
It came from Tauris, from the altars red
Of Scythian Diana[148] terrible!
She, too, has left that altar and its blood,230
As when her image young Orestes[149] bore
(So fable masters of the pagan harp)—
Bore in his ship o'er the black waves to Greece.
Greece! who can think of thee, thou land of song,
Of science, and of glory, and not feel
How in this world illustrious thou hast been,
If triumphs such as thine may be pronounced
Illustrious, worthy thine own Plato's fame!
Here the proud Stoic[150] spoke of constancy,239
Of magnanimity, which raised the soul
Above all mortal change; of Jove's high will;
Of fate;—and here the master,[151] from the schools
Of human wisdom, to his votaries,
Spoke of the life of man but as the flower
Blooming to fade and die; alas! to die,
And never bloom again! Vain argument!
'Twas on that hill, named of the fabled lord
Of battle and of blood,[152] amid the shrines
And altars of the Grecian deities,
Before the temple of the Parthenon,[153]250
That shone, on this illustrious hill, aloft,
And as supreme o'er all the lesser fanes,
Fronting the proud proficients in the code
Of such vain wisdom, vain philosophy,
Fearless amid this scene of earthly pomp,
Eloquent, ardent, and inspired by Heaven,
The loved Apostle stood. With look upraised,
And hands uplifted, he spoke fervently;
Spoke of that God, whose altar he had marked,
"The unknown God," who dwelleth not on earth,260
In temples made with hands, but in the heavens,
'Mid inaccessible and glorious light.
In Him we live and move; He giveth life,
And breath, and all things. Him alone behoves
To worship and adore with prayer and praise.
That God is now revealed, who, by his Son,
Shall judge the world in righteousness, when earth
And heaven shall pass away; when the last trump268
Shall sound above the graves of all who sleep;
When all who sleep, and all who are alive,
Shall be caught up together in the clouds,
To stand before the judgment-seat of Him
Whom God appointed Judge; who shall descend
From heaven, with a shout, and with the voice
Of the Archangel, and the trump of God,
While sun, and moon, and stars, are blotted out,
And perish as a scroll!
As Paul thus spoke—
Spoke of the resurrection of the dead—
'Mid the proud fanes of pagan deities,280
At Athens, the stern Stoic mocked; the flowers
Seemed withering on the brow of that fair youth,
Whom Epicurus taught that life was brief,
Brief as those flowers which in the garden bloom
Of that philosopher of earthly bliss.[154]
And what the moral? Let us eat and drink,
For we to-morrow die. Oh! heartless creed!
Far other lessons Christ's Apostle taught,
Of faith, of hope, of judgment, in a world
To come, of light and life beyond the grave.290
So Athens, Corinth, Macedonia, heard
The tidings of salvation.[155] Hark! the sound
Is gone forth to all lands: the glorious light
Extends—the light of faith, and hope, and joy—
The light from Heaven; whilst he, so falsely called
The God of Day,[156] shorn of his golden hair,
And rays of morn, shall leave his Delphian shrine,
Discomfited, and hide his head in night.
The dayspring of Heaven's purer light hath reached
Imperial Rome: the tyrant[157] on his throne300
Starts; at his voice the famished lion springs
And crashes the pale martyr at his feet;
While the vast amphitheatre is hushed,
And not a sound heard through the multitude,
But that dire crash, and the breath inly drawn,
The moment it is heard, from the still throng
Shuddering; the blood streams from the lion's beard,
Whilst that vast, breathless amphitheatre
Bursts into instant thunders to the skies.
But not the lion, with blood-matted mane,310
Nor the fierce fires about the martyr's stake,
With rolling smoke, that the winds warp away
In surges, when the miserable man
Blackened and half-consumed appears; not these,
Nor famine, nor the sword, nor death, nor hell,
Shall move the Christian's heart or hope, or fray
Him, steadfast and victorious, though he die.
Farther and farther yet the light is spread:[158]
And thou hast lived to see this gospel-dawn
Kindling from Asia, like a beacon-flame320
Through darkness—oh! more cheering than the morn,
With all its lovely hues, on sea or shore,
As now it shines around us!

John replied:
Teacher of wisdom, or from heaven or earth,
We know that Paul, our brother in the faith,
Proclaimed the tidings of "Him crucified"
From Rome to Spain; but Paul is in his grave:
Soon must I follow him, and be at rest:
Who then shall bear these tiding of great joy,330
To all the people of all lands?

STRANGER.

That book
Which the Lamb opened, as a "flying roll"
Angels of light shall bear with wings unseen,
From shore to shore; and thus, though Paul be dead,
He still shall speak, and millions yet unborn
Shall bless the boon. Thou shalt reveal the things
That thou hast seen; but that same book, which none
In heaven or earth could open, but the Lamb,
None but the Lamb shall close. Awake, awake,340
Ye who now slumber in the shades of death!
Yes! every nation shall confess the Lord;
Till all shall be fulfilled, and there shall be,
Through the wide world, "one Shepherd and one fold."
For deem not this small frith, called "the Great Sea,"[159]
That girds yon promontories, girds the world:
Without is the great ocean, the main sea,
Rocking in tempest and in solitude;
Ten thousand isles are scattered o'er the waste
Of those dark waters, and each isle and land,350
All earth, shall be one altar; and from earth
To heaven one flame of incense, and one voice
Of prayer and praise and harmony shall rise!

So these two held communion on the shore
Of melancholy Patmos, when a sound
As of a griding chain was heard, and, lo!
A criminal is kneeling at the feet
Of the old man: God has been kind to me,
He cried, and hid his forehead with his hands.
Oh! listen to my tale, and pray for me.360
'Twas when the Roman sentinel, who paced
The platform of the dungeon where we slept,
Had called the midnight watch, and overhead
Bright Aldebaran held his course in heaven,
Westering o'er yonder Cape, I waked, and mused
On my eventful life.
Then to my heart
Came words which I had heard from thee: I wept
Even as an infant, and I smote my breast.
The brave companion of my fortunes died—370
Died yesterday, stern and impenitent
As he lived, pitiless; and, left alone,
I cried for mercy, mercy of that God
Whom thou didst call thy Father; and I prayed
To Christ, and cried, Me—me—oh! pardon me!
I dare not lift my eyes. Thou, father, hear.
I am a free-born citizen of Rome,
My name, Pedanius,[160] the Decurion.
When Titus led his legions to the East,
Against the city of Jerusalem,380
To raze it from the earth; at the last day,
When the third wall shook to the battering-rams,
Amid the shrieks of horror and despair,
Flung from the tottering battlements, a babe
Fell at my horse's feet.[161] Famished and black,
With livid lips and ghastly, on the ground
It lay; when, frantic from the crowd within,
A wretched and bereaved woman rushed,
And held my bridle, fearless of the swords
That flashed above her head. I heard her cries—390
Protect me!—he is dead!—my child, my child!
Brave soldier, for the love of God! I looked392
A moment, there was famine in her face,
Wasted, yet beautiful. Pitying, I spoke:
Follow; and through the clouds of smoke we passed
To the green olive trees, and then she sank
Upon the ground, and, pale and still as death,
Lay long—the winds just stirring her dark hair:
I brought her water from the spring that wells,
Soft murmuring, from the brook of Siloa:400
She drank, and feebly opened her dark eyes,
Which seemed more large, for all her flesh was shrunk;
Then she looked up, and faintly spoke again;
My mother—and my husband—and my child—
Are—and she sobbed aloud. By Him, I cried,
Who rules among the gods, I will protect
Thy life with mine! Her tears fell fast and warm
Upon the bloody hand which held the sword;
The other checked my fierce and foaming horse.
Hark! hark! a turret falls! Hark! hark! again—410
They shout, ten thousand voices rend the skies,
The Temple, the proud Temple to the ground!
The Temple, the proud temple to the dust!
Her infant she had taken from the ground,
To lay it in her bosom, while the tears
Fell on its folded hands; but when she saw
Still its wan livid lips, and the same glare
Of its dead eyes, she turned away her face,
Half looking down, half raised to heaven, and shed
Her tears no more: one hand as thus she sat,420
With fingers spread, held fast her infant's arm,
O'er its right shoulder, while its arid lips
She drew, in vain, towards her open breast,
Still fearing to look down: her other hand,
Instinctively, she laid on its cold feet,
As if to cherish them: the gouts of blood426
Fell heavy from its matted hair, and stained
Her bosom; but she had composed its hands,
Which now, though cold and dead, each other clasped,
Beneath her neck, as living. So she sat,
Nor sighed, nor moved her face, nor shed a tear
I gently took the infant from her arms,
And buried it beside the sacred brook,
And then, with muttered prayer, she turned and wept—
Wept, as bereaved of all she loved on earth!
Fly! and I placed her on the horse with me—
Leaving behind the sounds and sights of death—
The shrieks of massacre, the crash of towers
Falling, the heavy sound of battering-rams:
We passed the victims, blackening in the sun,440
And some, yet breathing, on the crucifix.[162]
On, through the valley of Jehoshaphat,
I spurred my horse; we passed the sepulchre
Of Lazarus, restored from the dark grave,
So those who own the faith of Christ affirm,
With eye-balls ghastly glaring in the light,
At the loud voice of Him who cried, Come forth!
We held our eastern way from Bethany,
Till now we reached the "Plain of Blood."[163] I paused
A moment, ere we entered that sad plain.450
Ah! there are tents upon the southern edge
Of the horizon! Fly! it is the camp
Of Arabs: see! with long and couched spears,
A troop is flying o'er the sands! We hear
Their cries—this way they rush—this way—
Fly! fly! and instant, as an arrow speeds,
(My pale companion breathless, and scarce held)
We bounded o'er the desert, till the track458
Was lost. The voices died away: she sank
Faint in my arms, and with her head declined
Upon my breastplate. We will rest a while;
For she was now so feeble, it behoved
Thus oft to rest, if haply she might feel
Some cool reviving airs breathe on her face,
Gently; a few dry dates were all our food.
We gazed in silence on the sun, that, red,
Was sinking now beyond the lonely sands,
And hurriedly again renewed our flight.
The track is lost! Fear not—those are the bones,
Not of a murdered traveller. Look out!470
Is that a cloud? or seest thou not the smoke
Of some lone cottage on the hills? List! list!
Is it the tinkle of some rivulet,
Wandering in solitude? On, on, my steed!
We reached the hills, and, looking back, beheld
The western cope of heaven, as night came down,
All fiery red. It was the light, far off,
Of the proud Temple flaming! Through the night
We held our toiling way, when, at gray dawn,
We saw, beneath us, palms, and city walls,480
And Jordan, slowly flowing to the south.
Yes! these are palms and walls of Jericho;
But all was silent and forsaken. War
Had blown his trump; and Pity, at the blast,
Had knelt in tears, and hid her face to hear
That deep, dire groan; but it is heard no more,
For Silence, Solitude, and Ruin sit,
Mocking each other, at the city gates.
Here were no murmurs of tumultuous life.
We joined a mourning train, that held their way,490
Women, and children, and white-headed men,
Forlorn, by Jordan's banks, to Galilee,492
Seeking the city of Tiberias.
With many tears, my poor companion told
Her tale: a daughter of Jerusalem
Implored their pity; and the daggers, raised
To pierce a Roman soldier to the heart,
Were in the act arrested, for her sake—
Trifosa, of the tribe of Benjamin,
Who owed her life and safety to his sword.500
We reached the city: here she had a friend,
Widowed like her, who wept to hear her tale.
Here, wedded, and by Israel's laws made one,
I lived—a fisher toiling with his net
To gain our daily bread; but soon my heart
Beat for a wider scene—for enterprise,
The soul of a young soldier; and with thoughts
Stirring and restless, after twelve long months,
We came, by Tabor, to the western sea.
I had a robber's cavern at the foot510
Of Carmel, and oft skirred the neighbouring plains
On my fleet battle-horse, with spurs of blood.
Here I was joined by soldiers, desperate
And outcast as myself; we were a band
Of secret and of fearful brotherhood
That tenanted these caverns. But my wife,
When we were absent, and the cave was still,
Wept, for the love of those who were no more;
Trembled, and wept for me. When I returned,
Weary, at night, she sat and sang to me;520
And sometimes, when she was alone whole days,
She wandered o'er the mountains, gathering flowers,
Hyacinths, lilies, and anemones;[164]
And when my hands were bloody, gave me them,
With trembling hand, and sadness in her look.525
Why should I think, or sigh, or feel remorse!
Was I not leader of the bravest band
That ever shook their flashing scymitars
Against the morning sun! But, oh! that look!
How has it thrilled, even to my inmost heart:530
One child, the pledge of warm affection, died,
And now she roved in morning dew no more;
And oft, when I returned with gore-stained brow,
I saw a strange, sad wandering in her eyes.
Alas! her gentle mind was gone! She sang—
She gazed upon my face—she smiled—she died—
And her last words were, O Jerusalem,
Jerusalem! I buried her in peace,
Without a name, among the mountain flowers.
And now my heart was hardened as a rock540
Against the world. I heard no soothing voice;
I never looked upon a human face
With tenderness again; a darker shade
Of passions gathered on my lonely heart,
Till love, and charity, and pity died.
I may not say what I have seen and done:
Here I have lived a fettered slave seven years;
Here thy mild voice has called back to my heart
Sad recollections. Father,—and he knelt
And kissed his withered hand, and cried again,550
Oh! father, pray for me!
The stranger stood
Unmoved, but tears were on the old man's cheek.

PART THIRD.

The sounds of an approaching storm—Vision, etc.

The east is overcast; the nearer isles
Are hidden by a sudden spleen; the clouds
Upon Elijah's promontory[165] now
Are mustering gloomily; there is a sound
Of rain, and as, with interrupted gusts,
The winds are rising, a long murmur comes,
More hollow, from the seas; at times a wail,
At distance, seems to mingle with the wind,
Audibly; even the sea-birds on the cliffs
Cower, while the sounds as of a trump are heard,10
Prophetical and sad. Let us retire,
For Sagittarius rules the wayward year.[166]
Pensive, they both retired into the cave.
The eyes of John were heavy, and ere long
He sank into deep slumber, like a child,
Hushed by the ocean sounds; and now arose
Visions more dark and terrible. He saw
The Lamb of God open the book. Hark! hark!
The thunder and the tempest roll! John saw
Four cherubims, and they said, Come and see!20
He looked, and, behold! on a white horse
Sat one who had a bow, and he there was crowned;
And with his bow, and crowned, he went forth,
"Conquering and to conquer."
Hark! a moan
Comes up from all the earth! The second seal
Is opened, and the second cherubim27
Cries, Come and see! Behold another horse,
And it is red;[167] and he who sits thereon
Is like a warrior, waving in his hand
The sword of slaughter; so he goeth forth
To kill and to destroy, and "to take peace
From all the earth." Listen! for the third seal
Is opening now, and the third cherubim
Cries, Come and see! Then said a voice to John,
What dost thou see?

JOHN.

Lo! a black horse appears—
Its rider has a balance in his hand.
Ride on—ride on! Justice and Equity
Visit the earth, with Plenty.[168]40
The fourth seal
Is opened now, and the fourth cherubim
Cries, Come and see!

VOICE.

What seest thou?

JOHN.

A pale horse—

VOICE.

And rider?

JOHN.

Yes—a dire anatomy.
As he rides on, nations with terror shriek—
Death! and the gulf of hell shoots out its flame
After the footfall of that ghastly horse.50
The rider shouts, and haggard Famine crawls,
With wan and wasted visage, from her cave;
And Pestilence, speeding unseen in air,
Breathes, and ten thousand perish, and wild beasts
Howl in the city of the dead, and feed
Upon the black and countless carcases.[169]
Low thunders rolled, and sounds of woe were heard,
When the fifth seal was opened; and John saw
A burning altar, and beneath it, souls
Of those who had been slain—the witnesses,60
Confessing Christ in torments, and they cried,
How long, O Lord, holy, and just, and true,
Dost thou not judge—judge and avenge our cause!
And robes of white were given to each of them,
And a voice said, Oh! rest ye yet a while,
Rest ye till persecution's cup be drained;
The judgment leave to Him who sits in heaven.
The thunders louder rolled, as the sixth seal
Was opened. Ah! the sun is black above
As sackcloth, and the round moon red as blood;70
Earth rocks from east to west; the stars are fallen,
And falling, as the fig-tree casts its figs,
When shaken by the mighty hurricane.
Heaven is departing, like a scroll; the kings,
And the chief captains, and the mighty men,
Bondmen and free, have hid them in the caves,
And mountains, and dark places of the earth,
And to the mountains and the rocks they cry,
Fall on us! hide us—hide us from the face
Of the incensed Lamb, for his great day80
Of wrath is come, and who on earth may stand![170]
And after this, John saw four angels stand82
On the four corners of the earth; they held
The rushing winds, that not a wind should blow
Tumultuous on the earth, or on the sea,
Whilst they stood silent; then with radiant wings,
Bright as the sun ascending from the east,
Another glorious angel came, who bore
Thy seal, O living God; and a loud voice
To the four angels cried, Hurt not the earth90
Or seas, till on their foreheads we have sealed
The servants of our God. And they were sealed
Of all the tribes of Israel. After this,
A multitude which no man on the earth
Could number, of all nations and all tongues,
Clothed in white robes, and bearing in their hands
Palms, as triumphant, stood before the throne
Of glory, and before the Lamb of God,
And cried aloud, Salvation to our God,
Which sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb.[171]100
And all the angels stood about the throne,
The elders, and the mighty cherubims,
And on their faces fell, before the throne,
And worshipped God, and cried aloud, Amen:
Blessing and glory, wisdom, honour, power,
Be to our God, for ever and for ever!
Then seemed that one among the elders spake
To John, and said, What are these multitudes
Who bear triumphant palms, all clothed in white?
John answered, Sir, thou knowest. He replied,110
These are victorious saints, who have come out
From the great tribulation, and have washed
Their bloody garments, and have made them white—
White through His blood who died upon the cross;
Therefore they stand before the throne of God,115
And in his temple serve him day and night,
And He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell
Among them. They shall hunger now no more,
Nor thirst; the sun shall cheer them, but not burn;
The Lamb shall feed them, and shall lead them forth120
To pleasant pastures, and to fountains bright,
And from their eyelids wipe away all tears
For ever.
There was silence in the heavens,
When the seventh seal was opened, and John saw
Seven angels standing by the throne of God,
Having seven trumpets; and an angel came,
Who, hovering, with a golden censer, stood
Before an altar, and the smoke went up,
Of incense, from the altar. These are prayers130
Of all the saints on earth—prayers which ascend,
Like incense, from the censer in the hand
Of that bright angel, to the throne of God.
Ah! he has cast his censer to the earth;
And suddenly the earthquake and the storm
Awoke, and through the darkness, rolled and flashed
Deep thunders and the lightning; and, behold!
The seven angels lift their trumpets high,
Lift, and prepare to sound. And now the first
Sounds—and there follows instant hail, and fire140
Mingled with blood, which on the earth was cast;
So that the trees stood bare and desolate,
And the green grass was withered and burnt up.
The second angel sounded, and, behold!
A burning mountain cast into the sea.
The third part of all creatures in the sea
Died, a third part of all the ships that sailed
Upon the sea was smitten and destroyed.
And the third angel sounded; and there fell149
A star from heaven. It fell on the third part
Of rivers, and the fountains of the deep;
And swollen and livid carcases were left,
Weltering, beside the dark, blood-heaving sea.
And the fourth angel sounded; and the sun
For the third part was smitten, and the moon
For the third part was darkened; and John saw
And heard an angel flying in mid heaven,
And crying with a mighty voice, Woe, woe,
Woe to the earth, by reason of the voice
Of the three trumpets that are yet to sound!160
And the fifth trumpet sounded; and John saw
A star fall from the heavens to the earth;
And to the angel of the star was given
The key that shuts the nethermost abyss
Upon the groans of those that groan therein.
The pit is opened, and the volumed smoke,
Shooting red flames, as from a furnace, rolls,
And out of it there issued crawling things,[172]
Like scorpions; but they had no power to hurt
The green grass of the earth, but those alone170
Who on their foreheads had no seal of heaven:
These shall seek death, but find him not, for death
Shall fly from them, when they most pray to die.
Like horses trained for battle, a dire troop
Comes sounding; on their heads are crowns, like gold;
Faces are theirs, like men; and they have hair
As women, and teeth white and terrible
As lions; and their iron breastplates shake,
With hurtling noise; the sounding of their wings
Is as the chariots and the steeds of war,180
Rushing to the thick war. Who is their king?181
Apollyon, angel of the deep abyss.
One woe is past, yet two more woes remain;
For the sixth angel sounded, and John heard
A voice like thunders: The four angels loose,
In the great river of Euphrates bound.
And the four giant angels are unbound,
And they go forth to slaughter. And John saw
The horses in the vision, and he saw
Those who sat on them, with breastplates of fire,190
Of jacinth, and of sulphur; and the heads
Of the gaunt horses were as lions' heads,
And from their mouths issued red fire and smoke.
But men repented not, nor turned away
From their dark idols, or their sorceries,
From worshipping their gods of gold, or stone,
Or brass, or silver! Hush! the sound of wings!
Another mighty angel comes from heaven,
And lights on earth, clothed in a radiant cloud.
There is a rainbow on his head; his face200
Is as the orient sun; his feet appear
Pillars of fire; in his right hand a book.
He sets his right foot on the seas, his left
Upon the earth, and cries, with a loud voice,
Till the world shrinks: and when he thus has cried,
Seven thunders answer, uttering to heaven
Their voices.
Then the angel said to John,
Art thou about to write? Seal up the things
Which the seven thunders uttered: write them not.210
The angel which John saw stand on the seas,
And on the earth, raised his right hand to heaven,
And swore by Him which liveth, who shall live
For ever and for ever—swore by Him
Who made the heaven, the earth, and all therein,215
That time shall be no more: the mystery
Of God shall be concluded in the days
Of this last angel's voice. That awful voice
John heard entranced; and the voice said to him,
Take from the angel's hand,—the hand of him220
Who standeth on the seas and on the earth,—
That book thou markest open in his hand.
That book, the rapt Apostle cried, that book!
The angel mildly answered, Let thy heart
Feed on it; sweet and bitter it shall be,
And thou shalt prophesy of things to come,
Of dark things yet to be upon the earth.
The seventh angel lifted high his trump,
And sounded; when from heaven a voice was heard—
The kingdoms of this world they are become230
The kingdoms of our Lord and of his Christ:
For ever and for ever, he shall reign,
For ever and for ever.
Now the ark
Of God appeared; and round about the ark
There was a rainbow stealing through the rain,
The ark of the new covenant: and, lo!
A shining company stood with the Lamb
Upon Mount Zion, and a song was heard
Of harpers, harping a new song—the song240
Of life and immortality. And John
Then heard a voice—a voice from heaven, which said,
Write, write, From henceforth blessed are the dead
Which in the Lord shall die, for they shall rest
From all their labours! Blessed are the dead!
The shadows are departed; horse and trump
Are seen and heard no more; the trumpet's clang
Dies far away: the Apostle turned and prayed,
With eyes upraised; and now, for pealing trumps,249
Heard in the wind the lessening sound of harps,
Still lessening, and still lessening, till the cave
Was silent; and the stirring winds without
Alone were heard, like sweet, sad melodies,
Remembered in old times; whilst he who stood
Beside him watched; and after, as the day
Slowly declined, they two conversing sat,
Conversing of God's judgment—of the voice
Which said to man the sinner, Dust thou art,
And unto dust thou shalt return—of death,
And immortality through Christ restored;260
So they deceived the time, till John, oppressed
With sights and sounds so terrible, lay down,
And sank to sleep, not to awake till dawn.

PART FOURTH.

Morning—Roman Commander—Vision—Babylon—New Jerusalem—Evening—Night Scene—Stars—Temptation—Dream.

John woke from slumber, when the early trump
Rang from the Roman camp below, at break
Of the gray dawn; and when the sun arose,
After his orisons to Heaven, he sat
On the rude stone before his cave, and marked
His staff and form shadowed against the rock,
Watching the fitful gleams that, here and there,
Chequered the pale Ægean, far away;
While he, who never left his side, appeared
Now more majestic, as the beams of day10
Shone on his waving tresses, when he raised11
His look to heaven, and stood sublime in light.
But see, with vitis[173] of command, and plume
And crest, in momentary sunshine bright,
The præfect of the Roman guard approach,
Hail, father, hail! he cried.
And hail to thee,
The old man answered, mildly. Art thou come
With tidings from the Mistress of the World?

ROMAN COMMANDER.

The world's great sun is set—Cæsar is dead!20

JOHN.

Cæsar! Ah! in my dream did I not see
His shadow stern and sad; the purple robe
Dropping with blood!

ROMAN COMMANDER.

Why, was he not a god?—
So he proclaimed himself—a god on earth!
Giving command that altars to his name
Should blaze, as to great Jupiter! Old man,
Art thou not prisoner for gainsaying this?[174]
But, father, if a soldier might pronounce,
With all respect to thy gray hairs, I deem30
The sole, imperial master of the world
Might worthier claim that title, than a man
Mocked, scourged—ay, scourged!—and crucified with thieves!

Rose and ascended into heaven! replied
The meek old man—a hectic on his cheek—
Rose, and ascended into heaven, to sit36
At the right hand of God, from thence to come,
Judge of the quick and dead! Proud soldier, hear—
Hear how a prisoner for Jesus Christ
Can answer thee!
When King Agrippa sat
Upon his throne, in oriental state,
Surrounded by the Roman soldiery,
With axe and fasces of imperial sway,
Fair Berenice seated on his right,
And on his left Festus the governor,
Paul, a poor prisoner of Jesus Christ,
Before him stood, in chains; and as he spoke
Of "resurrection," and the world to come,
He cried, King of the Jews, dost thou believe50
The prophets! Yes! I know thou dost believe.
The king, with faltering voice, tremblingly cried,
Paul, Paul, thou dost persuade even me, almost—
To be a Christian! Paul, with lifted hand
And steadfast look, thus answered him, Almost!
Oh! would that the whole world were not "almost,"
But "altogether" such as I am now,
Except these bonds.
Soldier, I say the same.
But hie thee to thy eagle; I am here,60
A poor old man, like Paul, a prisoner,
And thou, an officer of mighty Rome;
Yet would I pray to God, that thou may'st be,
Oh! not "almost," but "altogether," such
As I am now, except these few gray hairs,
Old age, and many sorrows; yet even here
My soul hath been sustained by Him who said,
Lo! I am with you alway, and I know
He still is with me. I have heard his voice,
And seen his look of glory and of love70
Turned on me, in this solitude; and he—
He who did shudder with me at the voice
Of thy bold blasphemy, here lately came
With words of comfort, and these aged eyes
Have seen the things that must hereafter be;
Yet know, stern soldier, if my days were passed
Lonely as hopeless, I would not exchange
These few gray hairs for thy green laurel crown—
This solitude, for living Cæsar's throne,
Or Cæsar's subject world!80
The soldier turned
Disdainful, and his crest shook in the wind;
Then, lifting high his ensign of command,
He bade the trumpet sound the second watch.
John knelt, and prayed, Thy kingdom come, O Lord!
Then he who stood beside him, spoke unmoved:
Rome—Rome shall be no more! At dead of night,
Hark! the barbarian trump; Jerusalem
Shall be avenged; and those of distant days,
Pondering the fate of empires, there shall come90
To muse upon the fragments of her might,
Her ancient glory passed as morning clouds,
And tremble for the judgments of the Lord
In all the world!
Now to the cave retire,
For other visions of the things to come,
And other fearful shadows, must thou see.
John sat, and held his hands upon his brow:
The earth seems to retire, and all the sounds
Of tumult and of woe at once to cease.100
Then John was in the Spirit, and he saw
Seven angels, and, beneath, a sea of glass
Mingled with fire; and on the sea of glass
Those who had gained, on earth, the victory104
Over the beast, all standing on the sea
Of glass, and in their hands the harps of God,
And thus they sung, Oh! great and marvellous
Art thou, Almighty God, and just and true
Are all thy ways, thou King of saints! Amen.
Now from the temple a loud voice was heard,110
Which said to the seven angels, Go your ways,
Pour out the vials of the wrath of God
Upon the earth.[175] Then on the men which bore
The mark upon their foreheads of the beast,
Or fell down to his image, noisome sores
And plague-spots fell.
The second angel poured
His vial on the sea, and it became
The blood of a dead man; and every thing
Which had the breath of life died in the sea.120
And the third angel poured his vial out
Upon the rivers, and fresh fountains clear,
And they became red blood. And then John heard,
In trance, the angels of the waters say,
Righteous art thou, O Lord! and righteously,
O thou which art, and was, and which shall be,
Thus hast thou judged, for they have shed the blood
Of prophets and of saints! A voice replied,
From out the altar, Even so, O Lord!
Almighty God, thy judgments are most true!130
And the fourth angel poured his vial out
Upon the sun, and power was given to him
To scorch men with the fire, and they blasphemed
The name of God, and still repented not,
Looking with gnashing teeth upon the sun.
And the fifth angel poured his vial out
Upon the kingdom of the beast, and, lo!137
The kingdom of the beast at once was dark:
But men repented not—even while they gnawed
Their tongues for pain, blaspheming God in heaven.
And the sixth angel poured his vial out
Where the great river of Euphrates rolls,
And it was quick dried up, and so became
A highway for the armies of the east,
And for the kings of earth, and the whole world,
Gathering to battle, on the dreadful day
Of the incensed Lord, into a place
Called "Armageddon," in the Hebrew tongue.
And the seventh angel poured his vial out
Into the air, and a loud voice was heard150
Out of the temple's inmost shrine, which cried,
All is fulfilled! At once an earthquake shook
The ground, and lightnings, red and terrible,
Flashed, and the thunders rolled along the sky,
And strange and fearful voices in the air
Were heard, so dreadful was that storm. Aghast,
The nations fell; and the great Babylon
Came in remembrance before God, to pour
On her the fierceness of his wakened wrath.
And now John saw another angel fly160
In clouds, and coming down with power from heaven
Unto the earth; and all the earth beneath
Was lighted with his glory; and he cried,
With the loud voice of judgment, Babylon
The great is fallen! And then another voice
Answered, Come out of her! Hath she not said,
I sit a queen, mighty as Ashtoreth?
The kings of earth shall tremble when they see
The smoke of her great torment; they shall stand
Afar off from her burning, and shall cry,170
That mighty city, Babylon, alas!171
In one hour is her judgment come! The voice
Of harpers and of trumpeters no more
Shall in her streets be heard: the blood of saints,
Of prophets, and of martyrs, is avenged!
The cries are heard, the smoke is seen, no more.
And after this, John lifted up his eyes,
And heard the voice of mighty companies,
Which sang and shouted, Alleluia! reign
For ever, Lord of lords and King of kings!180
Salvation, honour, glory, power, and praise,
Be unto thee, O Lord! for thou hast judged
With righteousness! They, with acclaiming voice,
Still sang and shouted, Alleluia—reign
For ever, Lord of lords and King of kings!
Heard through the empyrean, the great voice
Again went up, whilst all the courts of heaven
Rang, Alleluia! glory be to thee,
Glory and power, Lord God Omnipotent![176]
Then the heaven opened, and, behold! a horse190
As white as snow, and he who sat thereon
Was called "True and Faithful;" on his head
Were crowns on crowns, and underneath a name
Which no man knew, save he who bore that name.
His vesture was a robe of blood, and they
Who followed him proclaimed, The Word of God!
And all the heavenly armies followed him
On horses white like his; and on his robe
Was written—King of kings and Lord of lords.
The pomp is passed, and now John raised his eyes,
And saw an angel standing in the sun.201
The angel in his watch looked down to earth,
And all the armies of the earth came forth
To war with the bright chivalry of heaven,204
And Him who sat on the white horse! And, lo!
Before the mighty cherubims advanced
Michael, the great archangel, while a shout
Rang, that the sun in heaven might seem to stand
Still at a sound so terrible. Opposed
To the great armies of the living God,210
Frown the Satanic host, far as the eye
Can reach; and horses black as night,
And spectre armies, led, in front, by Death,
Appear, receding into farther depths
Of blackness; while, anon, a dragon, scaled,
Moves weltering onward. Michael, from the ranks
Of cherubim advancing, lifts on high
His mace, and full on the scaled dragon's crest
Smites. At his feet the dragon lay, and, lo!
The sable phantom-horsemen at the sight220
Are vanished. Raise the victor-song to Him
Who rides on the white horse, and to his God
In heaven, for the great dragon is cast down
Into the bottomless and burning lake!
Another angel, with white waving plume,
Descends; an iron chain is in his hand,
And the dark key of destiny, which shuts
The bottomless abyss, from whence the smoke
Ascends—ascends, but not a groan is heard.
The ancient dragon is cast down, and bound—230
Bound for a thousand years, in chains, and thrown,
Howling, into that nethermost abyss;
While mercy, equity, and peace, and truth,
Like angel forms, visit the earth, and move,
Radiant as light, among the sons of men,
And only sounds are heard of harmonies,
Such as in heaven are sung about the throne,
O'er which, in dewy light, the rainbow bends.238
The trump of bannered war, the sighs and groans
Of miserable slaves, that rise from earth,
In one deep murmur, to high heaven, are ceased;
For love and mercy walk among mankind,
And so shall walk, till the last trump shall sound.
Now a new heaven and new earth appear;
And, coming down from heaven, even as a bride
Adorned to meet her husband, John beheld
The City of the New Jerusalem,
Glittering beyond the clouds; and then he heard
A voice from a bright cloud, The Lord shall come
And dwell with men, and he shall be their God;250
And God shall wipe from every eye the tear,
And death shall be no more!
John spread his hands,
And cried, with eyes upraised to heaven, Oh! stay,
Visions of bliss! I am bowed down with age,
Forlorn on earth, and I have tarried long
Alone and sad. Oh! come, Lord Jesus Christ!
A voice replied, Thou shalt be where he is!
Hark! 'twas the billow beating on the rocks
Of melancholy Patmos, and John wept,260
As, slowly fading, like a summer dream,
He saw the towers, and gates, and palaces,
Of New Jerusalem fade in the clouds
Of eve, which shot its gleaming pinnacles
Aloft in the pale sky, and flushed the track
Of the sun's westering orb with crimson light.
As the sun sunk, the sound of trump and horn
Shrilled, and the old man, starting from his trance,
Beheld below the cave the Roman troop,
Stationed to guard the island criminals,270
Wind slow, in martial file, with banners spread,271
Returning to their tents.
Ah! where are now
The temples of the New Jerusalem,
Glittering amid the clouds of parting day?
Gone, like the rack; and Patmos' dreary isle
And melancholy caves return the sound
Of marching men, and the hoarse Roman trump.
The Apostle to the entrance of his cave,
The last remaining light on his gray hairs,280
Comes slowly forth, and rests upon his staff,
When the rock-pigeon, at the trump disturbed,
Flew to his withered hand. With plumed crest
Upon his brazen helmet, holding high
The ensign of command, an eagle borne
Before him, on a spear, the præfect leads
His legionary band; and as aloft
The banners wave, and shields and corslets throw
Back a pale glimmer, mark a mournful train
Of fettered men move sullenly, with whom,290
Thoughtful, and with his hands upon his breast,
His eyes, at times, uplifted to the heavens,
One, as a soldier worn with toil, but marked
With a stern sadness on his manly brow,
Comes silently, a tear on his dark cheek.
Near him, a youth, wan and emaciate,
Leans on a female, by his side, in bloom
Of youthful beauty; while, at intervals,
Whene'er the trumpet ceased to ring, is heard
The breath of muttering, and the clank of chains.300
John sighed, and, turning to the stranger, said
(For both were at the entrance of the cave):
Even to this desert spot in the lone waves,
War, and the ensigns and the sounds of war,304
Have reached.
His guest illustrious, with a smile,
Answered: Yet this is the mere mimickry
Of that appalling spectacle, that fills
The world's wide scene with havoc and with blood;
The murmur of whose mighty coil goes up310
Still to the ear of Heaven. So man, the worm,
Preys on his fellow-worm. Turn from the earth,
As gradual evening shades the sinking scene,
And think upon its sins and strife no more.
Come, let us, on the stone, before the cave,
For all above is still and glorious,
Sit down, and watch the stars as they steal out,
One after one, and garnish the pale cope
Of heaven. How bright the troops of Hesper shine,
Above the shadow of yon farther rock,320
Whose western side is lustrous; for the moon,
Ascending in her car of glory, casts
A meditative and a solemn light
From cape to cape! Look! there is Helice,[177]
Watched by the Grecian traders of the deep—
How clear she shines to-night above the sea!
High in the zenith, here and there, apart,
Some solitary stars, now scarce discerned,
Seem to retire into the farthest space,
As if to shun the prouder planet's gaze,330
Each in his watch, with never-blenching eye,
Steadfast. Nor marvel, then the stranger said,
When all the silent host of the blue sky
Appear so beautiful, Idolatry
Should deem them gods, and to the Sun and Moon,
Bel and Astarte, pay the worship due136
To the invisible, Almighty Lord,
Who rules in heaven and earth.
Is there a God?
Yes! Nature cries aloud, There is a God,
Visible in his works, and infinite
In power! There is a God, and he is just!
There is a God, and he is merciful!
Yet might we rather say, there is no God,
Than think, that to a being such as man
No revelation of bright hope was given:
That man, created in God's image, placed
Amid this vast and unknown universe,
To sojourn upon earth a few brief years
Of feverish life, should look, for the last time,350
Hopeless, upon the setting sun, and die.
Oh! better be the worm that feeds on him.
With lifted gaze, the last Apostle cried,
Fervently cried, Oh! yes, Lord Jesus Christ,
Thou art the Christian's hope! but most of me—
Of me, whom thou hast visited, and cheered
Through life's long pilgrimage; of me, of me,
In age and solitude; I, too, shall live
When all the clouds of time are rolled away,
For ever live in glory where thou art!360
Retiring to the cave, pausing, he turned
To his companion, but he was not there;
The moon shone, but there was no form or shape
Of living thing; so lonely to his cave,
O'erwearied, John retired, there musing lay
On what he saw and heard, till sleep unawares
Oppressed him, and that night—that only night—
He had not fallen upon his knees, and prayed,
Protect me through this night, O Lord my God!
When, suddenly, a hiss was heard without,370
And the dull hurtle, as of iron wings,
And short and intermitted flames, at times,
Lighted the cavern roof; then all again
Was dark, save when the moon dilated hung,
And all again was still. John's heavy eyes
Were closed; and dreaming half, and half awake,
He slumbered in the cavern. Who art thou?
Starting, he cried, and trembled, for strange eyes
Glared through the dusk, and seemed to look at him.
It was the coinage of the aged brain,380
When sadness and the sense of loneliness
Oppress the weary heart! His eyes are closed
A moment, when strange voices, in the air,
Syllable words unknown, as mocking him,
Then all is hushed again: from the dark roof
Fantastic and deriding shapes, half seen,
Point down long fingers, and a laugh is heard
From the dark fissure of the rocky cave,
Till even his shadow, by a moon-glance seen,
Seems joining the fantastic mockery.390
Strange forms of beasts and birds, with monstrous beaks
Solemnly nodding, in the dusk appear.
Yonder, by moonlight, all with heads hung down,
There moves a shrouded and a moping train,
But not a form distinctly visible,
Save of a corpse, that silently they bear,
On which the moonlight falls. Now a dark cloud
Is interposed, and the dim troop dissolves.
Forthwith a spectre, towering to the skies,
Moves onward—on, directly to the cave;400
And, towering higher as he moves, he lifts—
Half cloud and half anatomy—a dart,
Barbed with fire, and a deep voice is heard,
Through the involving clouds about his head:404
I am Apollyon; dost thou sleep, old man?
Tremble—and die!
John raised his eyes, and prayed,
Still shuddering, Save me, save me, Jesus Christ!
The spectre vanished: some faint lightning shone
At distance; and now gentler forms drew nigh,410
With airy minstrelsy of harps unseen,
Surrounding him, like shadows of the blessed:
Here, radiant female forms came gliding by;
There, in a stream of light, an angel turned
His look upon him, while soft voices sing:

Christian, dost thou yet remain
In this weary world of pain?
Dost thou bend thy hoary head
When all beloved on earth are dead?
Hast thou oft, by years oppressed,420
Prayed for rest, eternal rest?
Lo! we come, ere morning peep,
To sing thee to thy rest asleep.

ECHO FROM THE CAVE.

Asleep.

VOICES.

Asleep.
Sing thee to thy rest asleep.

ECHO.

Asleep.

Then came another song, like lullabies
Of ocean, mingled with the airs of night:
Whilst a mother's only child430
Rests in short and sweet repose,
All her troubles are beguiled
When its placid eyelids close!
But angels watch beside the bed
Where aged Christians rest their head,
And as their watchful vigils cease,
Parting, they whisper, Peace!

ECHO FROM THE CAVE.

Peace.

PARTING VOICES.

Peace.

Tired nature sank to sleep, like infancy440
Soft-breathing, and as calm. Then, in a dream,
The shades of mitred and majestic James,
Peter, and Paul, came up. He heard their voice,
And saw their forms, as when they lived on earth.
James looked upon his beard of snow, and said:
We have borne witness to the truth in blood;
But thy old age shall calmly pass away,
Till death be lost in sleep. Then thou shalt wake
In everlasting bliss, to weep no more,
For He whom thou hast seen shall be with thee,450
And we shall live together—where He is.
After a placid and refreshing sleep,
The last Apostle raised his eyes, and saw
The same majestic and mysterious man
Who stood before him in the cave, and now
The dim dawn broke on the Ægean deep.

PART FIFTH.

Day-break—Ascend the highest Mountain—Comparison with the Vision on Mount Tabor—Transfiguration—View to East and West—Ship descried from the East—Descend.

John, gazing on the glimmering eastern surge,
Sat with fixed eyes, when thus the stranger spake:
Up! for the Word and Spirit of the Lord
Are come to me. Let us ascend, old man,
The summit of Elijah's cliff, that hangs
High o'er the ocean surge, and see the sun
Rise o'er the Ægean solitude to-day.
John answered, Can these feeble limbs sustain
The labour up the long and slow ascent,
Step by step, when I feel my strength decay10
Daily, and draw my breath with pain?
Thy God
Will give thee strength, the stranger said, and took
His trembling hand, and led his feeble step
Slow up the hill; and ever as they went,
And the horizon widened, in his heart
John felt a strange reviving power, that braced
His sinews, and gave a vigour to his steps,
Conquering the pain and labour of the way:
But needs not pain or labour, for a thought20
Hath brought them there, the white hairs, in the wind,
Of John, yet gently stirring, and his cheek
Just lighted with a transient glow; and now
Both stood upon the promontory's point,
Thoughtful and silent: soon they saw the sun
Slowly emerging, a vast orb of fire,
Above the shadowy edge of ocean; now
Flaming direct o'er Asia, with a stream28
Of long illumination, on the clouds,
Marked with confusion of rich hues, and thence
Touching the nearer promontory's height,
Pale cliffs, and eagles' wings above the clouds,
And now careering through the heaven, supreme,
Full and magnificent, in loneliness
Of glory. When the rays first touched his brow,
Then more exalted, and of larger frame,
The stranger seemed to grow, as not of earth,
Or earth's inhabitants; so tall his form,
So glorified his aspect. John had fallen
Upon his knees, but a mild voice rebuked:40
See that thou do it not; hast thou received
Or strength or comfort, give the thanks to God.
John, resting on the crag of the wild rock,
Looked up, and then to his companion spoke:
Not uninstructive hath thy converse been,
Nor unrefreshing to my weary heart
Thy presence; more so, in a scene like this,
Raised, as it were, above the shade and clouds
Of transient time. And so, long since, my soul
Felt a divine refreshment, when I stood50
Upon the mount of vision with our Lord
That day when in transfigured form he rose.
Oh! well do I remember it, who saw,
With James and Peter, by the sight oppressed,
The glorious apparition. Each stray cloud
Wandered far off, and lost in the blue sky,
And not a freckle stained the firmament
High overhead. The mystic mount itself,
Tabor, seemed rising up to heaven, and loomed
In such illumination, that the track60
Below, and all the plains of Galilee,
Rivers and lake to the great western sea,62
Looked cold and dim, even in the morning sun;
Such was the glory of the sudden blaze
That wrapped the mount. The crowd of lesser hills
On to the city of Tiberias,
Appeared below o'er which the eagle sailed,
Mute, for his eyes yet blenched from the excess
Of light, unlike the sun, that startled him,
With bursting splendour, where he slept. He flew,70
High soaring o'er the hills of Jezreel,
On to the mountains of Samaria.
We fell upon the ground, and with our hands
Covered our faces, when we raised our eyes,
We saw three glorified appearances;
Two, as of aged prophets, with their beards
Streaming; each held a book, and in the midst,
And, buoyant in the air, his countenance
Bright as the sun, our Saviour's form appeared
Above them, while his vest, intensely white,80
Floated, as thus transfigured he arose.
With clasped hands, and eyes upraised to heaven,
Peter, in joy and wonder, ardently
Cried: Let us build three tabernacles here,
To Moses, and Elias, and to thee,
Saviour and God! not knowing what he said.
A cloud now interposed between the light,
Softening its glory, while a voice was heard
From the bright cloud, Lo, my beloved Son—
Hear him! At once the shadowy imagery,90
The visionary pomp, the radiant cloud,
Were rolled away, and Jesus stood alone;
For they who held high converse, and whose forms,
Appeared in thinner air, above the blaze,
Were gone with the departing cloud: his hand
He placed upon our heads, and said, Fear not!96
And that calm look of dignity and love
Was placed upon us, as before. Again
We saw the sun—the cloudless cope of heaven—
The long green valley of Esdraelon—100
The pines of dewy Hermon, and the smoke
Of Nain, where once a widowed mother wept
Her lost and only son, whom Jesus raised
From death's cold sleep, restoring to her tears
Of joy; we saw the cavern and the cliffs
Of Endor, where the wizard-woman called
Up from his sleep of death the prophet[178] old,
To tell to trembling Saul his hour was come.
Oh! hills, and streams, and plains of Palestine;
Scenes where we heard, long since, our Master's voice,
And saw his face! how often, with a tear,111
Have I remembered you, how often sighed:
Oh! for the swiftness of an eagle's wing,
That I might flee away, and visit you
Once more! But this great vision of the mount,
With shadowings of glory, was displayed,
That we might be sustained in the dread day
Of trial, when the very rocks should burst—
When, through deep darkness, the loud cry should come:
My God, my God, hast thou forsaken me?120
That we might be prepared, through every ill,
In peril and in pain, in life, in death;
Though persecution, famine, and the sword,
Fronted our way, prepared to hold right on;
Calm to take up our cross, and follow Him
Who meekly bowed his head upon that cross;
For if in this life only we had hope,
We were of all most miserable. Lord,
Thee have I followed, now in age, and poor,139
Thy sufferings were for us—for us? for me;
For me thy bleeding side was pierced, for me
Thy spirit groaned! Oh! come, Lord Jesus Christ!
Oh! come, for I have tarried long on earth;
Come, Lord and Saviour! have I prayed in vain?
Thou didst appear in glory on the mount;
And thou hast come, even now, and cried, Fear not,
I live for evermore, and have the keys
Of death and hell. And wherefore should I fear,
Now waiting only to depart in peace!
But I have wandered in my thoughts; this view150
From this high mountain, and congenial thoughts,
Have waked the memory of that vision bright,
When once we saw, above the clouds of earth,
Our Lord in glistening apparel shine.
Then he who stood upon the mountain's van
With John, and gazed upon the seas below,
Said, Look towards the East: what dost thou see?
John answered, There is nothing but the clouds
And seas. And both were silent.

STRANGER.

Look again.160
John answered, There is nothing but the clouds
And seas, and the great sun above the waves,
That goeth forth in beauty.

STRANGER.

Look again.
John answered, Yes, upon the farthest line
Of the blue ocean-track, there is a speck
Of light; no; yes; there is a distant sail
In sight; it seems as speeding hitherward.

STRANGER.

Enough. Look to the west: what seest thou there?

JOHN.

Ah! all that hid the vast and various scene170
Slowly withdraws, like morning mist. I see
Regions, in light and shade, beyond the isles,
Delos and Mycone, mountains and capes
Unfolding, through the mist, as if they stood
Beneath our feet. There, bays, and gulfs, and plains,
And wandering streams appear; and o'er them, high
Upon a hill, in the pale atmosphere,
A temple vast, as of some god renowned
In pagan lands.

STRANGER.

Thou seest the shores of Greece,180
And that the illustrious city, so renowned,
Athens; upon that hill, the hill of Mars,
Paul stood, when, pointing to the skies above,
He spoke of fanes "not made with hands;" of God,
Who liveth in the heaven. What seest thou more?

JOHN.

Another land, stretched, like a giant's arm,
Across the deep, with seas on either side.
There, on seven hills, I see a city, crowned
With glittering domes; the nether champagne spread
With aqueducts, and columns, arches, and towers.190

STRANGER.

It is the Imperial Mistress of the World,
Rome—Rome—now pagan; but a power unknown
Shall rise, and, throned on those seven hills—193
When Cæsars moulder with their palaces,
Shall hold dominion o'er the prostrate world,
Not by their glittering legions, but the power
Of cowled Superstition, that shall keep
Kingdoms and kings in thrall; till, with a shout,
A brighter angel, from the heaven of heavens,
As ampler knowledge shoots her glorious beams,200
Shall open the Lamb's book again, and night,
Beckoning her dismal shadows, and dark birds,
Fly hooting from the dayspring of that dawn.[179]
Burns not thy heart to think upon those days!
But long and dire shall be the tale of blood;
Let it be hid for ever! Look again:

JOHN.

I see the pillars and the rocky bounds
That gird this inland sea.

STRANGER.

What seest thou more?

JOHN.

I see a ship burst through the narrow frith210
Into the sea of darkness and of storms,
There lost in boundless solitudes. Oh! no,
There is an island; with its chalky cliffs,
Beauteous it rises from the billowy waste.

STRANGER.

Thither that ship is bound: nor storms, nor seas,
Rocking in more terrific amplitude,
Impede its course. Long years shall roll away,217
And when deep night shall wrap again the shores,
Of Asia; where the "golden candlestick"
Now gleams, illumining the pagan world;
And where a few poor Christian fishermen
Shall here and there be found; even where thy Church
Of Ephesus stood in the light of heaven,
From that far isle, amid the desert waves,
Back, like the morning on the darkened east,
To lands long hid, in ocean-depths unknown,
The radiance of the gospel shall go forth,
And the Cross float triumphant o'er the world.

JOHN.

Even now, in vision rapt of days to come,
I see her Christian temples, pale in air,230
Above the smoke of cities; o'er the deep
I see her fleets, innumerable, spread,
Chequering, like shadows, the remotest main;
And, lo! a river, winding in the light,
Silent, amid a vast metropolis,
Beneath the spires, and towers, and glittering domes!
Ah! they are vanished, and a sudden cloud
Hides, from the straining sight, temple, and tower,
And battlement.

STRANGER.

Pray that it pass away.240

JOHN.

Ah! the pale horse and rider! the pale horse
Is there! silence is in the streets! The ark
Of her majestic polity, the Church—
The temple of the Lord—I see no more!

STRANGER.

Pray that her faith preserve her: the event245
Is in His hands who bade his angels sound
Their trumps, or pour the avenging vials out.
Let us descend, the wind is fresh and fair,
Direct from the north-east, let us descend.
And they descended, silently and slow,250
Towards the craggy cave, and rested there,
Looking upon the sunshine on the waves
Of the pale-blue Ægean, still intent,
Watching the sail, that, by the western beam
Illumined, held its course towards the shore.
Icarian figs furnished a scant repast,
With water from the rock, after their toil;
While they, within the cave, conversing sat
Of virtue and of vice, of sin and death,
Of youth and age, and pleasure's flowery path,260
Leading to sorrow and untimely death.

PART SIXTH.

Reflections—Grecian Girl and Dying Libertine—Reflections on Past History of the World—Angel's Disappearance—Ship brings the Elders of Ephesus to invite John to return—Parting from Patmos, and Last Farewell.

Then the mysterious and majestic man
Thus spoke: Among the banished criminals,
As they passed yesterday, didst thou not mark
A pale, emaciate youth, and by his side,
Oft looking in his altered face, with tears,
A beauteous Grecian female! He was one6
Who crowned his hair with roses; trod the path
Of love and pleasure, till the vision fled.
And left him here, an outcast criminal,
Soon, without hope, to sink into the grave,
And leave his young companion desolate!
So ends a life of pleasure! Woe for them,
The young, the gay, the guilty, who rejoice
In life's brief sunshine, then are swept away,
Forgotten as the swarms in summer time.
As thus he spake, smiling amid her tears,
With eyes that flashed beneath dishevelled hair,
A female stood before them.
Look on me,
She sighed, and spake:20
No! father, hear my prayer:
At Corinth I was born; my mother died
When I was yet a very child; my sire
Trafficked to Tyre, and when my mother died,
He left the woods, the hills, and shores of Greece
To seek a dwelling-place in Asia,
At Tyre or Smyrna; but the tempest rose,
And cast his vessel on the rocky coast
Of Cyprus. I was found upon the shore,
Escaped I know not how, for he was dead;30
And pitying strangers bore me to the fane
Of Paphian Venus.[180] There my infancy
Grew up in opening beauty, like the rose,
Ere summer has unfolded it; I looked
Upon the dove's blue eyes; how sorrowful,
That it must die—upon the altar die;
And then it seemed still dearer, and I heard
Its murmuring on my bosom with a tear,38
Kissing it; but a young Athenian,
Whom Epicurus taught that life's sweet prime
Was like the rose; for whom Anacreon
Sang, Let us seize the moments as they fly,
And bind our brows with clusters of the vine;
Roaming, in summer, the Ægean deep,
Enticed me from the shrines of her I served,
And led me with him (for he had a boat,
Charmed by the syrens) led from isle to isle.
Joyous and reckless were his youthful crew,
Their hair with myrtle and with roses wreathed,
Who dipped the oar, in cadence, to the sound50
Of dulcimer, and tambourine, and lute,
While damsels, like immortal goddesses,
Their light hair gently waving to the breath
Of summer, in the bloom and light of youth,
Sang with accord of dulcet harmony,
As if to charm the seas; and Cupid sat
Aloft, his small right hand upon the helm,
While with the left he loosed the purple sail[181]
Free to the morning zephyrs. So we sailed,
With music on the waters, sailed along,60
And thought not of the sounds of a sad world
We had forsaken; while the lute thus woke
The echoes of the listening Cyclades:

Go, tell that pining boy to cast
His willow wreath away;
For though life's spring too soon is past,
Though youth's sweet roses fade too fast,
They shall not fade to-day.

Nay, father, frown not thus like withering care,69
He who is old may yet remember hours
Of happiness like these, and will forgive;
And wilt not thou, my father, wilt not thou?
From Cyprus, island of the Queen of Love,
We came to Naxos, and I joined the train
Of bacchanals, still singing, as we danced
Upon the mountains, to the bell and pipe,
Evoe, Bacchus! Thence we sailed away,
Careless, in the bright sunshine of the morn,
And never thought the tempest would arise
To cloud our happy days; but, hark! the storm80
Of night is howling round us; not a star
In heaven appears, to light our wintry way;
Alas! the pinnace, with its company,
Was dashed upon the rocks of Attica,
Where stern Minerva stood, and with her spear
Shivered it into fragments at her feet.
Cast on the shore, again I sought the fane
Of her I served in Paphos, and once more
Danced round the altars of the Queen of Love.
He, scarce escaping, all his substance gone,90
Joined the sea-robbers; and of late, I heard,
Was banished to this isle, a criminal,
Wasted by slow disease, and soon to die.
My father, I have heard that thou canst call
Spirits from heaven, of such strange potency,
They can awake the dead, restore to life
The dying: oh! restore the youth I loved,
And bring the rose to his pale cheek again!

JOHN.

Unhappy child! the path of pleasure leads
To sorrow in this world, and in the next.100

GRECIAN GIRL.

The next! the next! My father, I have heard101
That thou dost worship a new God—a God
Who has no priestess. I can dance and sing
Light as Euphrosyne, and I can weep
For pity, and can sigh, how tenderly!
For love; and if thou wilt restore that youth
To health and love, oh! I will kneel to thee,
And offer sacrifice, morning and eve
To thy great God, and weave a coronal,
When I have culled the choicest flowers of Rhodes,[182]110
Father, to crown those few white hairs of thine.
John answered, I will pray for him and thee;
But leave me, child, now leave me to those prayers.
The man of loftier wisdom spoke again:
How sing the thoughtless in their songs of joy,
Our days of happiness, at best, are short[183]
And profitless, and in the death of man
There is no remedy, for we are born,
And we shall sleep hereafter in the dust,
As we had never been; so all our days120
Are vanity, our breath but as a smoke,
A vapour, and we turn again to earth,
And this high spirit vanishes in air—
Into thin air; our very name shall be
Forgotten, and Oblivion on our works
Sit silent, while our days have sped away
As clouds that leave no trace, or as a mist
Dispersed and scattered by the noonday sun!
Time is itself the shadow of a shade,
Hurrying; and when our tale of days is told,130
The tomb is sealed, and who ever rose,131
To stand again beneath the light of day!
Then let us crown with rosebuds, ere they fade,
Our brows, and pass no blooming flower of spring!
Such heartless sophistries have still deceived
Earth's poor wayfarers, they who know not God,
For God created man—oh! not to die
Eternally, but live, for ever live
(So he be found holy, and just, and pure),
The image of himself! What dost thou see?140
Thine eyes are fixed, and turned on vacancy.
John said, I see the dead, both great and small,
Stand before God; the loud archangel's trump
Hath ceased to thunder o'er the bursting graves;
How deep, how dread the silence, as that book
Is opened! Ah! there is another book.

STRANGER.

It is the Book of Life; the dead are judged
According to their works.

JOHN.

Above the throne150
Interminable space of glorious light
Is spread, and angel-troops and hierarchies,
With golden harps, half-seen, into the depths
Of that interminable light recede,
Till the tired vision shrinks. The sea, the sea,
Gives up its dead! and Death and Hell pour forth,
All hushed and pale, their countless multitudes,
Shivering to meet the light; and millions pray,
In silence: Hide us, hide us, earth, again!
A gulph, beneath them, black as tenfold night,160
Glaring at times with intermittent flames,161
Opens; and, hark! sad sounds, and shrieks of woe,
Come through the darkness. At the dreadful voice,
Depart from me, ye cursed! John, amazed,
Looked 'round: he saw the blue Ægean shine,
And the approaching sail white in the wind.
Then he who stood by him thus spoke: Awake;
Let us toward the sea, for, look! the ship
Approaches nearer to the eastern bay.
As near, and still more near, she speeds her course,170
On this gray column, prostrate in the dust,
Its tale unknown, the sole sad relic here
Of perishable glory,[184] and, who knows,
Perhaps a pillar of some marble fane,
Raised to dark pagan idols, let us rest,
And muse upon the change of mortal things.
The Apostle sat, and as he watched the sail,
Leaned on his staff to hear.
The stranger spoke:
Lo! the last fragment of departed days,180
This shaft of a fallen column; and even so
Shall all the monuments of human pride
Be smitten to the desert dust, like those
Who raised them, long to desert dust returned.
Where are the hundred gates of regal Thebes!
Let the clouds answer, and the silent sands.
Where is the Tower of Babel, proudly raised,
As to defy the Lord, above the clouds!
He raised his arm, and, as a dream, it sank.
Waters of Babylon, by thy sad shores190
The children of captivity sat down,
Sat down and wept, when they remembered thee,
O Sion! But the trump and cornet bray;193
It is Belshazzar's midnight feast! He sits
A god among his lords and concubines.
A thousand torches flame aloof; the songs
Of wantonness and blasphemy go up!
And are those golden vessels, from the shrine
And temple of the living God, brought forth,
In impious derision? Does the hymn200
Resound to Baal, and the gods of gold?
And at this hour, do all the princes rise?
Is the wine poured from vessels which the Lord
Had consecrated? Do they drink, and cry,
The King shall live for ever? Ah! how changed
His countenance! he trembles, and his knees,
Smite one against the other! Look, how changed!
God of eternal justice, what is that?
The fingers of a man, against the wall,
Moving in shadow, and inscribing words210
Of dreadful import, but which none may read.
Call the Chaldeans and Astrologers!
Are they all mute? Call the poor captive slave,
Daniel, the prophet of the Lord! The crowd
All turn their looks in silence, with their breath
Hushed by their terrors. Has he spoken? Yes!
Thy sceptre is departed! Hear, O King!
He hears and trembles; and that very night,
He who blasphemed is gone to meet his Judge!
Proclaim the conquering Persian; it was God220
Who led his armies forth, who called his name
Cyrus;[185] and under him again shall rise
The temple at Jerusalem, shall rise
In beauty and in glory, till the day
Of tribulation smite it to the earth,
As we have seen! Weep for Jerusalem;226
But in the light of heaven, the Church of Christ
Shall lift its battlements, till He shall come,
With all his jubilant, acclaiming hosts,
Amid the clouds!
The old man raised his eyes,
And on his forehead placed his withered hand,
A moment musing; then he turned his look
Again to his companion at his side.
Ah! he is gone; but, hark! a rustling sound
Is heard, and, bright above the eastern cliffs,
Behold, a glorious angel's pennons spread.
Look! he ascends into the azure depth
Of light; he still ascends, till the blue sky
Is only interrupted by some clouds240
Of lightest brede and beauty, o'er the sea
Transparent hung. John gazed with hands outspread,
But nothing in the airy track was seen,
Save those small clouds. Then pensive he sat down,
His withered hands extending as in prayer.
But, lo! the vessel drops its sail; a boat
Is hurrying, smooth and rapid, through the spray—
The sounds of men are heard—see, they approach!
Yes, they are messengers of peace! they come
With tidings to the lonely habitant.250
Two elders of the Church of Ephesus
Greet him with salutations from the ship
Whose banner streams—the banner of the Cross—
Beneath the rocks of Patmos: from the beach
The elders slow advanced, and one thus spoke:
Hail, father! Cæsar is no more! Thy Church
At Ephesus again, by us, implores
Thy presence and thy guidance; and, behold!
The bark now waits to bear thee o'er the deep,
For Nerva has reversed the stern decree200
Passed for thy banishment: arise, return,
Return; for now the light of heaven again
Gleams on the temple of our infant faith;
The radiance of the "golden candlestick,"
That shone in the deep darkness of the earth,
Shall flame more bright. Arise—arise—return!
John took their hands, and, blessing them, gave thanks
To God who rules above; then cried, I go—
With many thronging thoughts—back to the world,
To wait how Heaven may yet dispose my lot,270
Till the grave close upon my pilgrimage.
Yet would I stay a while, to bid farewell
To that, my cave,[186] where I have seen strange things,
And heard strange voices, and have passed five years
In loneliness and watching, and in prayer.
Let me not part till I have said farewell!
Hereafter I shall tell what I have seen.
But now, O Lord and Saviour! strengthen me,
A poor old man, returning to the world;
Oh! look and let me feel thy presence now,280
Whom I have served so long I shall not see
Again thy glorious form upon the earth,
But I have lived to see thy Church arise,
Now in its infancy, and gathering power
From day to day; and thou shalt be adored
Till the remotest isles, and every land,
Shall praise and magnify thy glorious name!
My days are well-nigh told, and few remain,
But I shall live, protected, to record,
O Lord and Saviour! all which I have seen,290
High and mysterious; as I declared,
In the beginning was the Word; the Word,292
In the beginning, was with God; the Word
Was God!
And now farewell! Oh! may I pass
What yet remains of life in faith and hope,
Till Christ shall call me in his mercy hence,
And lead me gently to my last repose.
Then may his Church, which he has raised on earth,
Stand, though the tempest shake its battlements,300
Stand, till the trumpet, the last trumpet sound,
And He shall come in clouds who founded it!
As thus he spoke, his stature seemed to grow
More lofty, with a step more firm he trod;
Whilst a mild radiance, lambent on his face,
Shone, as the radiance from the mercy-seat.
He held his way, oft looking back to mark
The cave where he had lived, when, lo! the dove,
So often fed from his pale hand, has left
The cliff, and flies, faint-murmuring, round his hair.310
And now he turns his eyes upon the deep;
Yet scarce had reached the margin, when he saw
The sullen dwellers on these rugged shores,
Led on by him who had confessed his sins—
The robber of Mount Carmel, in his chains—
Kneel at his feet. They blessed him, sorrowing
That they should see his face on earth no more.
The stern centurion hid a starting tear;
The poor emaciate youth knelt down, and she
Who tended him with love and tenderness,320
Wept, as he faintly sank, and breathed his last,
His hands extending feebly, as he sunk,
To John, in fervent prayer! The Grecian girl
Fell, desolate and sobbing, on his breast.
But, lo! the wind has veered, and, streaming out,
The red cross pennant points to Asia,326
As heaven-directed. Speed, ye mariners!
The sails are swelling, and the widening deep
Is all before you, surging to the gale.
So they kept on their course to Ephesus,
And o'er the Ægean waves beheld, far off,
The cave, the lonely sands and lessening capes
Of dreary Patmos sink to rise no more.

APOCALYPTIC HORSES.

WHITE HORSE, RED HORSE, BLACK HORSE, PALE HORSE.

Black Horse.—The period of the "black horse and rider with the balance" is generally referred to the reign of Severus. But here the commentators are at a loss. "The balance" sometimes betokens justice; sometimes is considered as indicative of a season of scarcity. The "black horse" is always associated with calamity. I humbly differ from all commentators. The "horse is black," say some, to show the "severity of the nature" of this emperor. But his nature was generally the reverse of severity. Now I shall give reasons for considering that "the balance" is the balance of Justice, and the "bread for a penny, and oil and wine," indicative of plenty, not scarcity—of plenty owing entirely to the prudent provisions of this emperor; and in proof of this, as well as what I shall say further on the subject, I adduce, not the testimony of professed Christian commentators, but the undesigned testimony—the stronger for that reason—of one of the most astute adversaries of Christianity—Gibbon.

Now, Christian reader, mark his undesigned corroboration of the veracity of this prophecy, as applied to Severus.

Scripture—"Balances in his hand."

What says Gibbon? "Salutary laws were executed with inflexible firmness." "In the administration of justice, the judgments of the emperor were characterised by attention, discernment, and impartiality;[187] and whenever he deviated from the strict line of equity, it was generally in favour of the poor and oppressed."—Gibbon.

Scripture.—"A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine."

Gibbon.—"He left in the public granaries a provision of corn for seven years, at the rate of 2500 quarters a day."

But the "black horse." Does this colour seem suitable to a period of general equity and justice? How simple is one explanation, at least so it appears to me, the first, I believe, who ever remarked the circumstance, and how minutely does the singular fact tend to attest the awful truth of the prophecy—"Severus was an African!"—Gibbon. And the "horse is black," not as indicative of calamity, but of the country of which Severus was a native.

The prophecy connected with the "horses" seems as regular as possible, beginning from the times of the Apostle. The white horse and rider is universally considered as emblematic of the gospel, going forth "conquering and to conquer." The red horse is the horse of blood, under Trajan, who literally took "peace from all the earth." The pale horse designates the famine and dreadful pestilence under Gallienus. I have shown, not from the writers in favour of Christianity, but from the attestation of the most astute and insidious writer against it, the regular succession and wonderful accordance, in the several successive periods, of the fact and the prophetic adumbrations. Under Gallienus, how remarkable are these words, as applicable to the "pale horse," and pestilence, in the third century, commencing about one hundred and fifty years after the death of John! "Famine is almost always followed by epidemical diseases: other causes, however, must have contributed to the furious plague which, from the year 250 to the year 265, raged, without interruption, in every province, every city, and almost every family of the Roman empire. Five thousand died daily in Rome; and we might suspect, that war, pestilence, and famine had, in a few years, consumed the moiety of the human race."—Gibbon.

The Red Horse.—"Take peace from all the earth." Trajan's conquests. "Every day the astonished Senate received intelligence of new names and new nations that acknowledged his sway. The kings of Bosphorus, Colchis, Albania, &c.; the tribes of the Median and Carducian hills had implored his protection; Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Assyria were reduced to provinces."—Gibbon.

For the elucidations of this last book, I have referred, generally, to commentators, chiefly Bishop Newton, though the reader may sometimes be disposed to smile rather than acquiesce.

But I cannot omit my own views of some particular passages. One head of the beast, wounded, "but not to death," is most singularly descriptive of the Roman empire, restored to strength and power, under Claudius the Second and Aurelius. "And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion." How unexpectedly do they tally with what Gibbon says of the Roman empire at the time, consisting of the "tyrants" (lions)—"soldiers," scattered through the vast and various provinces, and "barbarians"—Goths, indicated by the bear!

I may observe, further, that the "locusts and crawling things like scorpions," issuing out of the smoke, are, first, locusts—the innumerable northern armies; secondly, "crawling things like scorpions"—the loathsome vileness attributed to nature by the succession of Gnostic sects, depraving the beautiful code of Christianity, and all agreeing in one doctrine, derived from the Chaldean philosophers. The Genius of Evil, according to the philosophy of the Chaldeans, produced the body, as Orosmades the soul! Hence "forbidding to marry," unnatural austerities, &c.; and remark, one book of Tertullian to the Gnostics is called—what? Scorpio.

FOOTNOTES:

[112] These sonnets have been printed in their chronological order in the preceding volume of Mr Bowles' poems.

[113] Particularly Joanna Baillie, Mrs Hemans, Miss Landon, and my namesake—no otherwise related than by love of kindred music—Caroline Bowles.

[114] Criminals were banished to this island.

[115] The period is uncertain.

[116] Now Tino.

[117] See the first chapter of Revelation.

[118] Transfiguration on Mount Tabor.

[119] Rev. i. 17, 18.

[120] Domitian, who had banished him, and who had so proclaimed himself, was now dead, but without its being known to St John.

[121] See the harrowing account of the siege of Jerusalem, when the prophecy in St Matthew was fulfilled to the letter.

[122] Josephus.

[123] Rev. iv. 3.

[124] Rev. iv. 3.

[125] Rev. iv. 4.

[126] A chasm is shown in the cave, from which it is said the voice in the Revelation proceeded.

[127] Rev. iv. 6. I follow the best expositors in making those appearances (translated "beasts") the higher order of angels.

[128] Rev. v. 2.

[129] The book would be utterly and for ever sealed, but for our Lord Jesus Christ.

[130] Quails and rock pigeons are the only land-birds on the island, as there are no bushes.

[131] The islands of the Ægean are divided into the Sporades and Clycades; Patmos is among the Sporades.

[132] Evodias succeeded St Peter as Bishop of Antioch; Ignatius, disciple of St John, succeeded Evodias (Eusebius).

[133] The disciples were first called Christians at Antioch.

[134] "And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel" (1 Kings xviii. 42).

[135] The wind which blew when St Paul was shipwrecked, now called Levanter, from its violence.

[136] Οροων επ οινοπα ποντον (Homer.)

[137] Seven Churches of Asia.

[138] Adriatic.

[139] Sardis, now Sart. Thyatira, now Ist-kissar, or White Castle.

[140] A fine expression of Sharon Turner.

[141] Priests of Cybele.

[142] There were a hundred altars to the goddess in Cyprus.

[143] The names of the illustrious visitors who heard the sound, twelve centuries past, may be seen in Pocock.

[144] The pyramids. The first time the author met the celebrated Dr Clarke, before the publication of his Travels, the first question eagerly asked was, "Of what colour are the pyramids?" To his surprise, the answer was, "As white as snow." But I have used the word "pale," as more in harmony with the picture, and less startling.

[145] The Hermes of the Greeks, the Mercury of the Romans, the Teut of the Celts, and the great teacher of the one unknown God, before Egypt sank into the grossest superstition.

[146] Perhaps the idea may be fanciful, but, to my ear, nothing more clearly reflects the image than the very words of the sentence—

"R[']an ăl[']ong ŭp[']on thĕ gr[']ound"

Handel, in his sublime Oratorio, "Israel in Egypt," seems to have felt this.

[147] Thomas, as by tradition we receive, chose Parthia; Andrew, Scythia (Eusebius).

[148] "Scythicæ non mitior ara Dianæ" (Lucan).

[149] See the exquisite tragedy of "Iphigenia in Tauris," by Euripides. Euripides may be alluded to here, as St Paul quoted Menander.

[150] "Then certain philosophers of the Epicureans and of the Stoics encountered him" (Acts xvii. 18),—a singular and most interesting circumstance.

[151] Epicurus.

[152] The Hill of Mars. How striking the coincidence! Ovid says—

"Mavortis in Arce."

[153] Temple of Minerva, on the Acropolis.

[154] The celebrated gardens of Epicurus.

[155] Philippi and Thessalonica, in Macedonia.

[156] Grecian Apollo.

[157] Nero.

[158] See that most interesting chapter in Irenæus, descriptive of the progress of the gospel to the Celts, and to the "extremities of the earth."

[159] Mediterranean.

[160] See, in Josephus, the account of Pedanius.

[161] This was not an uncommon circumstance during the famine and this most terrible siege. See Josephus.

[162] Jews crucified, by order of Titus, without the walls.

[163] Adommin, the supposed scene of the wounded traveller in the Gospel.

[164] Flowers of Carmel, growing wildly.

[165] The highest point of the island.

[166] It should be remembered, that Domitian was murdered on the 18th of October; this could not have been known at Patmos before the beginning of November.

[167] Applied, generally, to the conquests of Trajan.

[168] Allusive, as generally conceived, to the Emperor Severus.

[169] "To kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth" (Rev. vi. 8).

[170] Rev. iv.

[171] Rev. vii.

[172] I must refer to the commentators in general for an illustration of these striking passages.

[173] The ensign of military command in the Roman legions.

[174] This seems no improbable cause.

[175] Rev. xvi.

[176] Rev. xix.

[177] Ελικη γε μεν ανδρες Αχαιοι
Ειν αλι τεκμαιρονται, ινα χρη νηας αγινειν (Aratus).

[178] Samuel.

[179] The dawn of knowledge and the Reformation; ignorance only being the parent of superstition.

[180] The classical reader will remember the beautiful tragedy of "Ion" in Euripides, from whom were named the Ionian islands.

[181] A beautiful image from Ovid.

[182] The Island of Roses.

[183] See that beautiful chapter in the Wisdom of Solomon.

[184] A broken column on the shore is spoken of by early writers, supposed to have been a relic of the earliest ages.

[185] See the 45th chapter of Isaiah.

[186] The classical reader will remember the farewell of Philoctates to his solitary cave in Lemnos.

[187] He published, it is true, one edict against the increase of the Jews and Christians in the empire.

THE
SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.[188]

PART FIRST.

Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!
To these green vales and streams, o'erhung with wood;
These hills, where, far from life's discordant throng,
The lonely goat-maid chaunts her matin song;
This sylvan glen, where age in peace reclines,
Soothed by the whisper of his native pines;
Where, in the twilight of his closing days,
Upon the glimmering lake he loves to gaze;
And, like his life, sees on the shadowy flood,
The still, sweet eve descending! Man of blood,10
Break not his holy musings! Innocence
And peace these vales inhabit. Hie thee hence
To the waste wilderness, the mournful main,
To caves where silence and deep stillness reign,
Where God's eye only can the gloom pervade;
And shroud thy visage in their dreariest shade!
Or, if these scenes, so beauteous, may impart
A momentary softness to thine heart,
Let nature plead, plead for a guiltless land,
Ere yet thou lift'st the desolating brand;20
Ere yet thou bidst the peaceful echoes swell21
With havoc's shouts and many a mingled yell!
Pause yet a moment! By the beard
Of him whose eyes to heaven are reared;
By her who frantic lifts her helpless hand;
By those poor little ones, that speechless stand;
If thou hast nature in thee, oh relent,
Nor crush the lowly shed of virtue and content!
No golden shrines can tempt thy plunder here,
No jealous castles their dark turrets rear.30
Peeping at dawn among the mountain vines,
The village pastor's simple mansion shines
Beneath the tower, the music of whose bells
Soft o'er the azure lake each Sabbath swells.
No lighted halls that blaze till morn reply
To sounds of proud, voluptuous revelry;
But one sweet pipe, by lingering lover played,
Cheers the dim valley as the day-tints fade;
Whilst, 'mid the rocks, the torrents, and the trees,
Her little world, with pride, affection sees.40
Survey the prospect well. Soldier! dost thou
(Thy blood-red plumage waving o'er thy brow)
Bid the poor villagers, who in the shed
Of their forefathers eat their virtuous bread,
To hard oppression bend the prostrate knee,
Or learn benevolence and love from thee!
And dost thou talk of freedom! Freedom here
Lifted with death-denouncing frown her spear;
Here joining her loud voice's solemn call
To the deep thunders of the waterfall,50
She hailed her chosen home: these dark woods rang
As her bold war-song on the rocks she sang.
At once a thousand banners to the air
Streaming, a thousand falchions brandished bare,
Proclaimed her sons' dread homage: We will die55
Or live thy children, holiest Liberty!
Oh think of this! Alas! the voice is vain;
Poor injured land, thy brave, thy blameless train,
Thy lovely landscapes, bursting bright around,
Thy gleam that echoed every cheering sound,60
Thy rocks that gleamed with many a high-hung cot,
And Freedom's holy name, avail thee not!
Then rise, insulted country! in despair
Lift thy brave arm so terrible, and swear,
Swear thou wilt never sheathe the avenging steel
Till thou hast made the fell invader feel
How vain the terrors of his glittering crest,
How warm the flame that fires a patriot's breast!
How nerved their arm, opposed to tenfold might,69
Who for the dearest hopes, their homes, their offspring fight!
And, hark! even now, methought stern Freedom called,
From the wild shores of rocky Underwald!
Rush like the mountain avalanche on those
Who, foes to you, my sons, are Virtue's foes!
Lo, where the legions of insulting France
Already on your ravaged plains advance;
See your pale daughters, they for mercy plead;
Behold your white-haired sires, they sink, they bleed!
Oh! yet your patriot energies unite
To quell the insolent oppressor's might!80
Behold the scene where your forefathers broke
And sternly trampled on the Austrian yoke!
Behold the spot where the undaunted band
First met, and, clasping each his brother's hand,
Bade the Almighty hear their solemn vow,
That never should their injured country bow,
A slave! then lifted in the midnight air
Their spears, whilst the dun rocks echoed—We swear!
Think that the dead behold you! He whose bow89
Laid the grim tyrant of these valleys low,
On yonder eminence yet seems to stand;
To you he dimly wares his awful hand:
Go forth, my sons, in each bold bosom swell
The injured spirit of another Tell!
And rush, like yon huge avalanche, on those
Who, foes to you, are Freedom's, Virtue's foes!
So Freedom spake: she stood august and high;
Like a pale meteor shone her troubled eye;
She smote her shield, and, with indignant look,
More awful her uplifted war-spear shook.100
From many a wild and woodland solitude,
O'erhung with snowy-silvered mountains rude;
From glassy lakes, or where the brawling brook
Wells, sparkling, through some beech-embowered nook;
From scattered chalets, decked with mantling vines,
Above whose blue smoke wave the impending pines;
From many a covert green, or gleaming rock,
The bold defenders of their country flock!
Upon a cliff, that at gray morning throws
Its shadow o'er the deep clear lake's repose,110
Their gallant leader stands. Children, he cries,
And one sad tear-drop gathers in his eyes,
Their arms prevail! Helvetia mourns in vain!
Bound by the ruthless victor's galling chain,
We only 'mid these rocky ramparts find
Brief shelter from the vultures of mankind;
Hither they speed their desolating sway,
They flap their bloody pinions o'er their prey;
But we have hearts, my brethren, and we know
What to our country and our God we owe;120
And we have arms, arms that may make them rue
(Though rude our ramparts, our defenders few),
The hour when they assailed this last retreat.123
Feel we our hearts beat high, our pulses beat?
Death calls us, yet, oh, lowly let us bend,
And pray to Him who is the poor man's friend,
That he would guard our orphans when we bleed,
And shield them in the bitter hour of need!
Now, soldier, let thy huge artillery roar,
Thy marshalled columns flash along the shore,130
Thy armed transports with long shadow ride
Terrific o'er the lake's once tranquil tide,
And thy loud trumpets bray, as in disdain
Of the poor tenants of the snowy plain.
They fear thee not, they are oppression's foes;
Unscared, thy march of carnage they oppose;
Though their fallen brethren have in vain withstood;
Though yet thy sword be red with their best blood;
Thy sword, thy steeds, thy legions, they defy,
And death is couched within their flashing eye!140
Age has new energies; in traces weak
An angry hectic rises on his cheek;
And as his time-touched features kindling glow,
Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!
Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,
Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,
Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!
And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!
Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,
The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might!150
Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,
And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.
The frantic mother, hushing every grief,
Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chief
All pale with rage, with desperation wild,
Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!
Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er;157
Mother and child lie side by side in gore!
When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,
No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,
No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,
No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;
At intervals, wild accents of despair,
Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;
But all is dark and silent near yon heap
Where the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;
Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,
Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;
Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,
Moans as he watches yet his master's breath;170
Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,
He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.
The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the air
Sighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;
Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,
And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!
Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,
Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.
O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bell
That sounds of every earthly hope the knell!180
Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,
The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;
Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,
Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;
And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,
Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.
Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bay
Shone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;
Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,
And touched the rock with colours not their own;190
Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness,191
Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!
What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield,
The sparkling cataract, the pendent field,
'Mid hoar declivities, the sunny tower
Peering o'er beeches that its roof embower,
And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slow
O'er the gray vapours looming far below!
Who shall ascend proud Pilate's[189] height, and mark
The motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark,200
Now breaking in fantastic forms, and now
Dappling the distant promontory's brow?
Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high,
And far away the scattered volumes fly,
Look up to the great God that rules the world,
By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled,
And feel a glow of holy gratitude,
That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude,
Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell,
Content with Love and Happiness should dwell.210
Who now along those banks shall, listening, stray
When evening lights each inlet west away,
And hear the solitary boatman's oar
Dip duly as he nears the shaded shore;
Or catch the whispers of the waterfall
That through the ivied clefts swell musical?
These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart,
With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heart
Was sick with many sorrows, resting here
At such an hour, forgot his starting tear;220
He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep,
Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deep
And clear repose of the unruffled lake223
His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake;
And still the water, as it whispered near,
Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear,
Like the remembrance of a melody
Heard in his infant, happy years gone by.
Now in his distant country, when, with tears,
The tale of ruffian violence he hears;230
Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam,
Like some sweet image of a tender dream,
Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore,
Its harmless tenants weltering on the shore;
He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he draws
A deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O God, their cause!
Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heart
That ever bore in human woes a part;
That ever felt affection's genuine flame;
That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name;240
Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,
And swell with indignation at her fate!
If thus her lot of sorrow have impressed
Grief and resentment on a stranger's breast,
How must he hear the cruel tale of death,
He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!
'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,
Far from the shelter of his early home;
Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he sees
His father's cottage, and the mountain trees;250
Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;
He hears the voice of her who won his love,
His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,
Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;
The mountain's van together they ascend;
They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;
They mark the casual sunshine light the mass,257
Or vernal showers along the valley pass;
Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glow
The braided colours of heaven's humid bow.
But now the maid he loved, with whom all day
He used in summer o'er the hills to stray,
The faithful maid he loved—oh! cold despair,
Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,
Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,
He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,
Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,
And madness harrow up his broken heart!
How touching was the simple strain! The tear
Of memory started when it met the ear;270
And he whose front was rough with many a scar,
Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,
Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,
Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.
Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,
Since in its native nooks he heard it last;
And when again its well-known music thrilled,
A thousand thronging recollections filled
His soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;
Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved,280
Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,
More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;
And sighed again to think how it might fare
With sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;
For be its music and its name forgot,
The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!

PART SECOND.

I was a child of sorrow when I passed,
Sweet country, through your rocky valleys last;
For one whom I had loved, whom I had pressed
With honest, ardent passion to my breast,
Was to another vowed: I heard the tale,
And to the earth sank heartless, faint, and pale.
Till that sad hour when every hope had flown,
I thought she lived for me, and me alone;
Yet did I not, though pangs my heart must rend,
Prove to thy weakness a sustaining friend?10
Did I not bid thee, never, never more
Or think of me or mine? As firm I swore
To cast away the dream, and bury deep,
As in oblivion of the dead man's sleep,
All that once soothed, and from the soul to tear
Each longing wish that youth had cherished there.
But when 'twas midnight, to the woods I hied,
Despairing, and with frantic anguish cried:
Oh, had relentless death with instant dart
Smitten and snatched thee from my bleeding heart;20
Through life had niggard fortune bid us pine,
And withered with despair thy hopes and mine;
Yes, yes, I could have borne it; but to see
The accusing tear, and know it falls for me;
Oh cease the thought—a long and last farewell—
We must forget—nor shall my soul rebel!
Then to my country's cliffs I bade adieu,
And what my sad heart felt God only knew.
Helvetia, thy rude scenes, a drooping guest,
I sought, and sorrowing sought a spot of rest.30
Through many a mountain pass and shaggy vale31
I roamed an exile, passion-crazed and pale.
I saw your clouded heights sublime impend,
I heard your foaming cataracts descend;
And oft the rugged scene my heart endued
With a strange, sad, distempered fortitude;
Oft on the lake's green marge I lay reclined,
Murmuring my moody fancies to the wind;
But when some hanging hamlet I surveyed,
A wood-cot peeping in the sheltered glade,40
A tear, perforce, would steal; and, as my eye
Fondly reverted to the days gone by,
How blest, I cried, remote from every care,
To rest with her we loved, forgotten there!
Then soft, methought, from the sequestered grove,
I heard the song of happiness and love:

Come to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!50
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more;
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love?
Thee the stream that gushes clear,
Thee the birds that carol near,
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie,
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!60

Start from the feeble dream! The woodland shed
Flames, and the tenants of that vale are dead!
All dark the torrent of their fate hath rushed;63
Each cheering echo of the plain is hushed;
And every joyous, every tender sound,
In the loud roaring of the night-storm drowned.
How cheerily the rocks, from side to side,
Oft to the tabor's festive sounds replied!
There, when the bells upon a holiday
Rang out, and all the villagers were gay,70
In summer-time, the happy groups were seen;
Youth linked with beauty bounded on the green,
And age sat smiling, as the joyous train
Round the tall May-pole, tapering from the plain,
Their locks entwined with ribands streaming red,
And crowned with flowers, the rural pastimes led.
Oh! on the bleeding turf the sad flowers throw,
And weep for them that sleep in dust below;
There sleep together, in their deathbed cold,
The beautiful, the brave, the young, the old!80
No voice is heard that charmed their earthly road:
Around their desolate and last abode
The blast that swept them to the earth yet raves,
And strews with havoc their insulted graves.
As on the lucid lake's unruffled breast
Soft silvery lights and blending shadows rest,
Above, around the heavens' blue calm is spread,
And sleeps the sunshine on the mountain's head;
Then purple rocks and woods smile to the eye,
Like fairy landscapes of the evening sky;90
And all is sad, save where some forest bird,
With small and solitary trill, is heard.
Sudden the scene is changed, the hurricane
Is up among the mountains, wind and rain
Drive, and strange darkness closes on the vale;
And high rocks to the lightning glimmer pale;
And nought is heard but the deep thunder's roar,97
Or vultures screaming round the desert shore.
So mourns the prospect, changed and overcast,
And shrieks the spirit in the passing blast!
But ah! how feller burst the ruthless storm
That speeds the moral prospect to deform!
To-morrow, and the man of blood may see
Again fresh verdure deck the dripping tree;
Again pure splendour light yon bursting views,
And the clear lake reflect the fairest hues;
Whilst the gay lark seems, with a livelier voice,
In scorn of his stern spirit, to rejoice.
But, hapless land, what dayspring shall restore
The lovelier morals that now smile no more!110
Affection tender as the murmuring dove,
That in the noiseless wood her home-nest wove;
And piety, that the blue mountains trod,
With kindling eyes upraised to nature's God;
Virtues that made thy streams, and woods, and hills,
Thy lakes all sunshine, and thy shaded rills
Like pictures of no earthly paradise,
Beaming remote from sorrow and from vice.
Far from the earthly scenes that wasteful lie,
Virtue and peace, and arts and freedom fly;120
Arts which the wild surrounding views inspired,
And freedom, such as genuine patriots fired.
When the great sun sinks in the crimson west,
And all the pines in golden pomp are dressed,
Whose daring hand shall snatch the vivid light,
That purples o'er the promontory's height;
And with a Loutherbourg's rich pencil throw
On the warm tablet all the lucid glow?
When the slow convent's bell sounds from afar,
And the dim lake reflects the evening star;130
When shall again the rapt enthusiast rove131
And deck the visionary bower of love?
Hushed be the Doric strain, that, in the shade
Of his own pines, the pensive Gesner played;
Which oft the homeward-plodding woodman, near,
Paused with his gray beard on his staff to hear;
Whilst his lean dog, whose opening lips disclose,
Just peeping forth, his white teeth's even rows,
Lifted his long ears with sagacious heed,
And fixed his full eye on his trilling reed!140
High on the broad Alps' solitary van,
Where not a sound is heard of busy man,
Hark! with loud orgies, o'er the bloody dew,
Lewd Comus leads his nightly madding crew!
Strong shouts and clangours through the high wood run,
And distant arms flash to the sinking sun;
Dark forests their lone empire, the tall rocks
Their shelter, and their wealth their wandering flocks.
To the proud Macedon, whose conquering car
Rolled terrible through the ranks of armed war;150
Whose banners chilled the plain with fearful shade;
Whose sovereignty a thousand trumpets brayed,
The Scythian chiefs spoke nobly: What have we,
King of the world, to do with thine or thee?
Far o'er the snowy solitudes we roam,
Or by wild rivers fix our casual home.
O'er the green champagne let thy cities shine;
We ne'er invaded fields or seats of thine;
Nor will we bow, proud lord, at thy decree;
Hence, hence, and leave us to our forests free!160
But the stern soldier, with war's banners spread,
Through thy still vales his glittering squadrons led;
And wild despair, and unrelenting hate.163
Stalk o'er thine inmost valleys desolate;
And she, that like the nimble mountain roe,
With step scarce heard, went bounding o'er the snow;
She whose green buskins swept the frosts of morn,
Who walked the high wood with her bugle horn;
She who once called these hills her own, and found
Her loveliest sojourn 'mid the hallowed ground,170
Blessing the spot where, shaded with high wood,
And decked with simple flowers, her altar stood;
Freedom insulted sees, as pale she flies,
A monster phantom in her name arise!
On weltering carcases it seems to stand,
Waving a dim-seen dagger in its hand;
Its look is unrelenting as the grave,
Around its brow the muttering whirlwinds rave;
Its spreading shadow chills the scene beneath,
Ah! fly—it onward moves, and murmurs, Death!180
Earth fades beneath its footstep, and around
Long sighs and distant dying shrieks resound![190]
Could arms alone o'er thy brave sons prevail,
Helvetia? No, it was the fraudful tale
Of this false phantom which the heart misled;
That spoke of peace, peace to the poor man's shed,
Then left him, houseless, to the tempest's gloom
That swept his hopes and comforts to the tomb!
High towered the grisly spectre, half concealed,
And gathering clouds its dismal forests veiled;190
The clouds disperse, and lo! 'mid murderous bands,
Dark in its might the hideous phantom stands!
Now see the triumph of its reign complete!
Behold it throned in its own sovereign seat!
The orgies peal, the banners wave on high,195
And dark rocks ring to shouts of liberty!
Now, soldier, lift thy loud acclaiming voice!
Children of high-souled sentiment, rejoice!
Round the scathed tree, upon the desert plain,
Dance o'er the victims of the village slain!200
Thou who dost smiling sit, as fancy flings
Her hues unreal o'er created things,
And as the scenes in gay distemper shine,
Dost wondering cry, How sweet a world is mine!
Ah! see the shades, receding, that disclose
The direst spectacle of living woes!
And ye who, all enlightened, all sublime,
Pant in indignant thraldom till the time
When man, bursting his fetters, proud and free,
The wildest savage of the wilds shall be;210
Artful instructors of our feeble kind,
Illumined leaders of the lost and blind,
Behold the destined glories of your reign!
Behold yon flaming sheds, yon outcast train!
Hark! hollow moaning on the fitful blast,
Methought, Rousseau, thy troubled spirit passed;
His ravaged country his dim eyes survey.
Are these the fruits, he said, or seemed to say,
Of those high energies of raptured thought,
That proud philosophy my precepts taught?220
Then shrouding his sad visage from the sight,
Flew o'er the cloud-dressed Alps to solitude and night.
Thou too, whilst pondering History's vast plan,
Didst sit by the clear waters of Lausanne,[191]
(What time Imperial Rome rose to thy view,
And thy bold hand her mighty image drew),
Thou too, methinks, as the sad wrecks extend,227
Dost seem in sorrow o'er the scene to bend.
With steady eye and penetrating mind,
Thou hast surveyed the toil of human kind;
Hast marked Ambition's march and fiery car,
And thousands shouting in the fields of war.
But direr woes might ne'er a sigh demand,
Than those of hapless, injured Switzerland!
Oh, may they teach, whatever feelings start,
One awful truth, that here we know in part:
Whatever darkness round his ark may rest,
There is a God, who knows what is best.
Submissive, still adoring may we stand
Beneath the terrors of his chastening hand!240
And though the clouds of carnage dim the sun,
Bend to the earth and say, Thy will be done!

Donhead, 1801.

FOOTNOTES:

[188] Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.

[189] Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.

[190] Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.

[191] Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.

THE
VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.

PREFACE.

The following compositions were written originally to be learned by heart by poor children of my own parish, who have been instructed every Sunday through the summer, on the garden lawn before the parsonage house, by Mrs Bowles. The object, which, to the best of my knowledge, is entirely novel, was briefly to describe the most obvious images in country life, familiar to every child; and in the smallest compass to connect every distinct picture with the earliest feelings of humanity and piety, in language which the simplest might understand; but which, from the objects represented, might be read, perhaps, with some interest by those whose minds were more cultivated. About fourteen of these little poems were composed with this view many years ago; but it was not thought of extending their knowledge beyond the village circle, to which they were originally limited, except by a very few copies given away. I have now added to the number, and revised the whole; thinking that, when early education is so greatly extended, they may be found upon a wider scale to answer the purpose for which they were written. They may also prove acceptable to mothers in a higher station of life, who might wish to impress upon the memory of their children as they grow up, a love of natural scenes, combined with the earliest feelings of sympathy and religion. Some of these verses, such as "The Mower," "The Swan," etc., are purposely designed for the exercise of a more advanced intellect.

THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.

PATH OF LIFE.

1 O Lord, in sickness and in health,
To every lot resigned,
Grant me, before all worldly wealth,
A meek and thankful mind!

2 As, life, thy upland path we tread,
And often pause in vain,
To think of friends and parents dead,
Oh, let us not complain!

3 The Lord may give or take away,
But nought our faith can move,
Whilst we to heaven can look and say,
Our Father lives above.

SUNRISE.

1 When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning sun,
That, glorious in the eastern skies,
Its journey has begun,

2 I think of the Almighty Power
Which called this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.

3 And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the Hand
Which gives their daily bread.

SUMMER'S EVENING.

1 As homeward by the evening star
I pass along the plain,
I see the taper's light afar,
Shine through our cottage pane.

2 My brothers and my sisters dear,
The child upon the knee,
Spring when my hastening steps they hear,
And smile to welcome me.

3 But when the fire is growing dim,
And mother's labours cease,
I fold my hands, repeat my hymn,
And lay me down in peace.

SPRING—CUCKOO.

1 The bee is humming in the sun,
The yellow cowslip springs,
And, hark! from yonder woodland's side
Again the cuckoo sings!

2 Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other note
She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.

3 And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice
In my Redeemer's praise.

SHEEPFOLD.

1 The sheep were in the fold at night,
And now a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

2 How anxiously the mother tries,
With every tender care,
To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

3 The hailstorm of the east is fled,
She seems with joy to swell,
Whilst ever as she bends her head,
I hear the tinkling bell.

4 So while for me a mother's prayer
Ascends to heaven above,
May I repay her tender care
With gratitude and love!

HEN AND CHICKENS.

1 See, sister, where the chickens trip,
All busy in the morn!
Look how their heads they dip and dip,
To peck the scattered corn!

2 Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,
And to the sight be blind,
Nor think of Him who food supplies
To us and all mankind?

3 Whether our wants be much or few,
Or fine or coarse our fare,
To Heaven's protecting care is due
The voice of praise and prayer.

POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

1 Old Andrews of the hut is dead,
And many a child appears,
Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,
Around his grave in tears.

2 A good man gone where small and great,
And poor, and high and low,
And Dives, proud in worldly state,
And Lazarus, must go.

3 May we among the just be found,
Though short our sojourn here,
Who, when the trump of death shall sound,
May hear it without fear!

SABBATH MORNING.

1 The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,
The summer morn how fair!
Whilst father, mother, children go,
And seek the house of prayer.

2 Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,
Some turn their heads with sighs,
And gaze upon the new-made ground
Where old Giles Summers lies.

3 But see the pastor in his band,
The bells have ceased to knoll;
Now enter, and at God's command,
Think, Christian, of thy soul.

4 Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,
As in God's presence live,
And calmer comforts shall be thine,
Than all the world can give.

THE PRIMROSE.

1 'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,
Yet beautiful, it looks;
As just a lesson it may teach
As that we read in books.

2 While gardens show in flowering pride
The lily's stately ranks,
It loves its modest head to hide
Beneath the bramble banks.

3 And so the little cottage maid
May bloom unseen and die;
But she, when transient flowerets fade,
Shall live with Christ on high.

THE HOUR-GLASS.

1 As by my mother's side I stand,
Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray,
I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,
To mark how wears the night away.

2 Though age must many ills endure,
As time for ever runs away,
This shows her Christian comforts sure,
And leads to heaven's eternal day.

THE BIRD'S NEST.

1 In yonder brake there is a nest;
But come not, George, too nigh,
Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,
Should leave her young, and fly!

2 Think with what pain, for many a day,
Soft moss and straw she brought;
And let our own dear mother's care
Be present to our thought.

3 And think how must her heart deplore,
And droop with grief and pain,
If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,
She ne'er should see again.

THE MOWER.

1 Hark to the mower's whistling blade!
How steadily he mows!
The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,
All scattered as he goes.

2 The flowers of life may bloom and fade,
But He in whom I trust,
Though cold and in my grave-clothes laid,
Can raise me from the dust.

SATURDAY NIGHT.

1 Come, let us, ere we go to bed,
O'er the decaying embers chat,
Though little Mary hangs her head,
And strokes no more the purring cat.

2 And let us tell how prisoners pine
In silent dungeons dark and drear;
Whilst on each face the embers shine,
And all is calm and peaceful here.

3 The English cot is free from cares;
But, see, the brand is wasted quite;
Come, little Mary, say your prayers;
Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!

SUNDAY NIGHT.

1 Let us unfold God's holy book,
And by the taper's light,
With hearts subdued, and sober look,
So spend the Sabbath night.

2 Where now the thoughts of anxious life,
Its guilty pleasures, where?
Here dies its loud and mourning strife,
And all its sounds of care.

3 Let other views our hearts engross,
To our Redeemer true,
Who seems expiring on the cross,
To say, I died for you!

THE APRIL SHOWER.

1 When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,
Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.

2 She sees no rainbow in the sky,
But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.

3 But God, who comforts want and age,
Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.

THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

1 Poor Robin sits and sings alone
When showers of driving sleet,
By the cold winds of winter blown,
The cottage casement beat.

2 Come, let him share our chimney nook,
And dry his dripping wing;
See, little Mary shuts her book,
And cries, "Poor Robin, sing!"

3 Methinks I hear his faint reply:
When cowslips deck the plain,
The lark shall carol in the sky,
And I shall sing again.

4 But in the cold and wintry day,
To you I owe a debt,
That in the sunshine of the May
I never can forget!

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

1 Methought I heard a butterfly
Say to a labouring bee,
Thou hast no colours of the sky
On painted wings, like me.

2 Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
And colours bright and rare,
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
Are all beneath my care.

3 Content I toil from morn till eve,
And, scorning idleness,
To tribes of gawdy sloth I leave
The vanities of dress.

THE GLOW-WORM.

1 Oh, what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place
Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace!

2 It is a glow-worm, still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, O nightingale,
Seem listening to thy song!

3 And so amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.

THE CONVICT.

Luke Andrews is transported! Never more
To see his sisters, mother, or the shore
Of his own country! Never more to see
The cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree;
Never again beneath the morning beam,
Jocund, to drive afield his tinkling team!
When first the path of idleness he trod,
And left on Sabbath-days the house of God,
The fellowship of wild companions kept,
How oft at night his mother waked and wept!
When he is homeless, and far off at sea,
She now will sigh, Does he remember me!
Remember her! alas, the thought is vain!
She ne'er will see him in this world again.
And she is broken-hearted; but her trust,
Is still in Him whose works and ways are just.
Oh! may we still revere His dread command,
And die remembered in our native land!

THE BLIND GRANDFATHER.

1 Though grandfather has long been blind,
And his few locks are gray,
He loves to hear the summer wind
Round his pale temples play.

2 We'll lead him to some quiet place,
Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace
The borders of the brook.

3 There he shall sit, as in a dream,
Though nought can he behold,
Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem
The voice of friends of old.

4 Think no more of them, aged man,
For here thou hast no friend;
Think, since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.

THE OLD LABOURER.

1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!
The drops are on your brow;
Your labour with the sun began,
And you are labouring now!

2 I murmur not to dig the soil,
For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.

3 The lark awakes me with his song,
That hails the morning gray,
And when I mourn for human wrong,
I think of God, and pray.

4 Let worldlings waste their time and health,
And try each vain delight;
They cannot buy, with all their wealth,
The labourer's rest at night.

THE SWAN.

1 Look at the swan! how still he goes!
His neck and breast like silver gleam;
He seems majestic as he rows;
The glory of the lonely stream.

2 There is a glory in the war,
A glory when the warrior wears
(His visage marked with many a scar)
The laurel wet with human tears.

3 Such scenes no glory can impart,
With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,
Like that which fills his silent heart
Who walks with God in quietude.

THE VILLAGE BELLS.

1. Who does not love the village bells,
Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!
One of the rustic wedding tells,
And one bespeaks a parting soul.

2 The lark in sunshine sings his song,
And, dressed in garments white and gay,
The village lasses trip along,
For this is Susan's wedding-day.

3 Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue,
Young violets from the bank's green side,
And on poor Mary's coffin strew,
For in the bloom of life she died.

4 So passes life! the smile, the tear,
Succeed, as in our path we stray,
Thy kingdom come, for we are here
As guests who tarry but a day.

THE CAGED BIRD.

Oh, who would keep a little bird confined,
When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind;
When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings,
And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!
Oh! who would keep a little bird confined
In his cold wiry prison? Let him fly,
And hear him sing: How sweet is liberty!

THE DUTIFUL CHILD

READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER.

Brother and sister are a-Maying gone;
By my sick father's bed I watch alone;
Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,
To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home;
I sit and read of Joseph, in the land
Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand
Before him—but they know him not; aside
He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide:
Scarce to these words an utterance can he give;
I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live,
My father, the old man of whom ye speak?
And tears are falling on my father's cheek.
Though my loved mother rests among the dead,
And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,
We think not, whilst we turn the holy page,
Of this vain world—of sorrow and of age!
And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed,
Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!

LITTLE MARY'S LINNET.

1 Dear Mary, if thy little bird
Should, all the winter long,
Pleased from the window to be heard,
Repay thee with a song;

2 A lesson let it still convey
To all with sense endued;
And such the voice, oh! let it say,
The still small voice of love.

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG.

1 My dog and I are both grown old;
On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:

2 The gray stone circlet is below,
The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.

3 Far off, the early horseman hies,
In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.

4 Though solitude around is spread,
Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee!

5 I marked his look of faithful care,
I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both, I cried.

THE WITHERED LEAF.

1 Oh! mark the withered leaves that fall
In silence to the ground;
Upon the human heart they call,
And preach without a sound.

2 They say, So passes man's brief year!
To-day, his green leaves wave;
To-morrow, changed by time, and sere,
He drops into the grave.

3 Let Wisdom be our sole concern,
Since life's green days are brief!
And faith and heavenly hope shall learn
A lesson from the LEAF.

THE GIPSY'S TENT.

1 When now cold winter's snows are fled,
And birds sing blithe again,
Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,
In the green village lane.

2 Oft by the old park pales, beneath
The branches of the oak,
The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath,
Curls o'er the woods the smoke.

3 No home receives the wandering race;
The panniered ass is nigh,
Which patient bears from place to place
Their infant progeny.

4 Lo! houseless o'er the world they stray,
But I at home will dwell,
Where I may read my book and pray,
And hear the Sabbath-bell.

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

1 My father's grave, I heard her say,
And marked a stealing tear;
Oh, no! I would not go away,
My father's grave is here!

2 A thousand thronging sympathies
The lonely spot endear,
And every eve remembrance sighs,
My father's grave is here!

3 Some sudden tears unbidden start,
As spring's gay birds I hear,
For all things whisper to my heart,
My father's grave is here!

4 Young hope may blend each colour gay,
And fairer views appear;
But, no! I will not go away,
My father's grave is here!

THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST.

AN APOLOGUE.

The swallows, at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu,
To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As counsel and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake.
Then one, disdainful, turned his eye,
Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn:
Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay;
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where summer, still on some green isle
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile?
Thus speeding, far and far away,
We leave behind the shortening day.
'Tis true (the red-breast answered, meek)
No other scenes I ask, or seek;
To every change alike resigned,
I fear not the cold winter's wind.
When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;
But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,
I learn to pity those that roam,
And love the more my humble home.

THE BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

There is a poor blind man, who, every day,
In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,
Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chaunted service, pealing full and clear.
Ask why alone in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year. Oh, the wide world is cold,
As dark, to him! Here he no longer feels
His sad bereavement. Faith and Hope uphold
His heart; he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid the unpitying tumult of his mind.
As through the aisles the choral anthems roll,
His soul is in the choirs above the skies,
And songs far off of angel companies,
When this dim earth hath perished like a scroll.
Oh! happy if the rich, the vain, the proud—
The plumed actors in life's motley crowd—
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,
Would learn one lesson from a poor blind man!

THE BLIND SOLDIER AND HIS DAUGHTER.

1 Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,
That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,
And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,
Old soldier!

2 The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,
No longer are heard on the battle-field red;
Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,
Old soldier!

3 Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,
By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land
Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,
Old soldier!

4 Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,
Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,
Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,
Old soldier!

5 That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,
And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,
To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,
Old soldier!

6 Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,
Or turn from a desolate father away,
That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,
Old soldier!

7 But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,
Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,
Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,
Old soldier!

8 Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,
And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,
Old England for ever, and God save the King!
Old soldier!

THE LITTLE SWEEP.

WRITTEN FOR JAMES MONTGOMERY'S CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S ALBUM.

1 They sing of the poor sailor-boy, who wanders o'er the deep,
But few there are who think upon the friendless little sweep!
In darkness to his dreary toil, through winter's frost and snows,
When the keen north wind is piping shrill, the shivering urchin goes.

2 He has no father; and from grief, his mother's eyes are dim,
And none beside, in all the world, awakes to pray for him;
For him no summer Sundays smile, no health is in the breeze;
His mind is dark as his face, a prey to dire disease.[192]

3 O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,—
You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;
He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,
But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.

4 And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,
Shall human wrongs, in your own land, call forth no generous tear?
Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,
And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.

5 When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns blow,
The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:
Kind-hearted lady, may thy soul in heaven a blessing reap,
Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.[193]

6 'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;
'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;
But one day in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,
Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.

THE BLACKSMITH.

1 How cheerful in the winter's night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!

2 The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.

3 While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.

HYMN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

1 Lo! where youth and beauty lie,
Cold within the tomb!
As the spring's first violets die,
Withered in their bloom.
O'er the young and buried bride,
Let the cypress wave:
A kingdom's hope, a kingdom's pride,
Recline in yonder grave.

2 Place the vain expected child,
Gently, near her breast!
It never wept, it never smiled,
But seeks its mother's rest.
Hark! we hear the general cry!
Hark! the passing bell!
A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh,
A long and last farewell!

THE CHILDREN'S HYMN FOR THEIR PATRONESS.

1 On God, whose eyes are over all,
Who shows to all a father's care,
First, with each voice, we children call,
And humbly raise our daily prayer.

2 And next, to her, who placed us here,
The path of knowledge to pursue,
(Oh! witness all we have—a tear!)
Our heartfelt gratitude is due.

3 Our parents, when they draw their breath,
In pain, and to the grave descend,
Shall smile upon the bed of death,
To think their children have a friend.

4 As slow our infant thoughts expand,
And life unfolds its opening road,
We still shall bless the bounteous hand
That kind protection first bestowed.

5 And still, with fervour we shall pray,
When she to distant scenes shall go;
That God, in blessing, might repay
The blessings which to her we owe!

EASTER DAY.

1 Who comes (my soul no longer doubt),
Rising from earth's wormy sod,
And whilst ten thousand angels sing,
Ascends—ascends to heaven, a God?

2 Saviour, Lord, I know thee now!
Mighty to redeem and save,
Such glory blazes on thy brow,
Which lights the darkness of the grave.

3 Saviour, Lord, the human soul,
Forgotten every sorrow here,
Shall thus, aspiring to its goal,
Triumph in its native sphere.

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

1 Hark! angel voices from the sky
Proclaim a Saviour's birth;
Glory, they sing, to God on high,
Peace and goodwill on earth!

2 Catch the glad strain, ye seraphs bright!
The glorious tidings spread;
Wake, wake to wonder and to light,
The dark sleep of the dead!

3 Let the wide earth, from shore to shore,
One loud hosannah raise,
Glory to God, whom we adore,
Glory and hymns of praise!

FOOTNOTES:

[192] The terrible soot cancer to which climbing boys are subject.

[193] The late Mrs Montague, whose bounty, distributed on May-day, to climbing boys, is so well known.

SONG OF THE CID.[194]

1 The Cid is sitting, in martial state,
Within Valencia's wall;
And chiefs of high renown attend
The knightly festival.

2 Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop
Of gallant men, were there;
And there came Donna Ximena,
His wife and daughters fair.

3 When the footpage bent on his knee,
What tidings brought he then?
Morocco's king is on the seas,
With fifty thousand men.

4 Now God be praised! the Cid he cried,
Let every hold be stored:
Let fly the holy Gonfalon,[195]
And give, "St James," the word.

5 And now, upon the turret high,
Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman blew his trump,
And cried, They come! they come!

6 The Cid then raised his sword on high,
And by God's Mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,
Or bathe their base in gore.

7 My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!
Nay, hang not thus your head;
For you shall see how well we fight;
How soldiers earn their bread.

8 We will go out against the Moors,
And crush them in your sight;
And all the Christians shouted loud,
May God defend the right!

9 He took his wife and daughter's hand,
So resolute was he,
And led them to the highest tower
That overlooks the sea.

10 They saw how vast a pagan power
Came sailing o'er the brine;
They saw, beneath the morning light,
The Moorish crescents shine.

11 These ladies then grew deadly pale,
As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tambours beat,
They turned their heads away.

12 The thronged streamers glittering flew,
The sun was shining bright,
Now cheer, the valiant Cid he cried,
This is a glorious sight!

13 Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,
These fearful ladies stood,
The Cid, he raised his sword, and cried,
All this is for your good:

14 Ere fifteen days are gone and past,
If God assist the right,
Those tambours that now sound to scare,
Shall sound for your delight.

15 The Moors who pressed beneath the towers,
Now Allah! Allah! sung;
Each Christian knight his broadsword drew,
And loud the trumpets rung.

16 Then up, the noble Cid bespoke,
Let each brave warrior go,
And arm himself, in dusk of morn,
Ere chanticleer shall crow;

17 And in the lofty minster church,
On Santiago call,—
That good Bishop Hieronymo,
Shall there absolve you all.

18 But let us prudent counsel take,
In this eventful hour;
For yon proud infidels, I ween,
They are a mighty power.

19 Then Alvar Fanez counselled well,
I, noble Cid, will go,
And ambush with three hundred men,
Ere the first cock doth crow:

20 And when against the Moorish men
You, Cid, lead on your powers,
We, dauntless, on the other side
Will fall on them with ours.

21 This counsel pleased the Chieftain well:
He said, it should be so;
And the good Bishop should sing mass,
Ere the first cock did crow.

22 The day is gone, the night is come;
At cock-crow all appear,
In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,
And holy mass to hear:

23 On Santiago there they called,
To hear them and to save;
And that good Bishop, at the mass,
Great absolution gave.

24 Fear not, he cried, when thousands bleed,
When horse on man shall roll!
Whoever dies, I take his sins,
And God be with his soul.

25 A boon! a boon! the Bishop cried,
I have sung mass to-day;
Let me the brunt of battle bear,
Cid, in the bloody fray.

26 Now Alvar Fanez and his men
Had gained the thicket's shade;
And, with hushed breath and anxious eye,
Had there their ambush laid.

27 Four thousand men, in glittering arms,
All issued from the gate;
Whilst the bold Cid, before them all,
On Bavieca sate.

28 They passed the ambush on the left,
And marched o'er dale and down,
Till soon they got the Moorish camp
Betwixt them and the town.

29 The Cid then spurred his horse, and set
The battle in array.
Pero Bermudez proudly bore
His standard on that day.

30 When this the Moors astonied saw,
Allah! began their cry:
The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,
As they would rend the sky.

31 Banner, advance! the Cid he cried,
And raised aloft his sword:
And all the host set up the shout,
St Mary and our Lord!

32 That good Bishop Hieronymo,
Bravely his battle bore;
And shouted, as he spurred his steed,
For bold Campeador!

33 The Moorish and the Christian host
Now mix their dying cries;
And many a horse along the plain,
Without his rider flies.

34 Now sinks the Crescent, now the Cross,
As the fierce hosts assail;
But what against o'erwhelming might
Can valour's self avail?

35 Campeador, all bathed in blood,
Spurred on his horse amain;
And, Santiago! cried aloud,
For Bivar and for Spain!

36 Now Alvar Fanez and his men,
Who crouched in thickets low,
Leaped up, and, with the lightning glance,
Rushed, shouting, on the foe.

37 The Moors, who saw their pennons gay
All waving in the wind,
Fled in dismay, for still they feared,
A greater host behind.

38 The Crescent falls. Pursue! pursue!
Haste—spur along the plain!
See where they sink—see where they lie,
The fainting and the slain!

39 Of fifty thousand, who at morn
Came forth in armour bright,
Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,
To tell the tale at night.

40 The Cid then wiped his bloody brow,
And thus was heard to say:
Well, Bavieca, hast thou sped,
My noble horse, to-day!

41 If thousands then escaped the sword,
Let none the Cid condemn;
For they were swept into the sea,
And the surge went over them.

42 There's many a maid of Tetuan,
All day shall sit and weep,
But never see her lover's sail
Shine on the northern deep.

43 There's many a mother, with her babe,
Shall pace the sounding shore,
And think upon its father's smile,
Whom she shall see no more.

44 Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,
Upon thy billowy bed;
For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep,
O'er thousands of the dead.

FOOTNOTES:

[194] This ballad was written to be introduced in "The Missionary," but was omitted, as calculated to distract attention from the leading incidents of the story. It has, indeed, no connexion whatever with the poem.

[195] Banner consecrated by the Pope.

POEMS,
INEDITED, UNPUBLISHED, ETC.

POEMS, INEDITED, UNPUBLISHED, ETC.

THE SANCTUARY:

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

In this wise the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young King, whom, with much honour and humble reverence, he conveyed towards London. But the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following; and that, in secret wise, her son was taken, her brother and other friends arrested, and sent no man wist whither, to be done with God wot what. With which tidings the Queen, with great heaviness, bewailed her child's reign, her friend's mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she dissuaded the gathering of powers about the King; got herself, in all haste possible, with her young son and her daughter, out of the palace of Westminster, in which they then lay, into the Sanctuary; lodging herself and company there in the Abbott's place.—Speed's "History of England," book ix.

Scene I.

Elizabeth, widow of Edward IV., in the palace of Westminster, watching her youngest son, Richard, sleeping.

Eliz. The minster-clock tolls midnight; I have watched
Night after night, and heard the same sad sound
Knolling; the same sad sound, night after night;
As if, amid the world's deep silence, Time,
Pausing a moment in his onward flight,
From yonder solitary, moonlit pile,
More awful spoke, as with a voice from heaven,
Of days and hours departed, and of those
That "are not;" till, like dreams of yesterday,
The very echo dies!
Oh, my poor child!
Thou hast been long asleep; by the pale lamp
I sit and watch thy slumbers; thy calm lids
Are closed; thy lips just parted; one hand lies
Upon thy breast, that scarce is seen to heave
Beneath it; and thy breath so still is drawn,
Save to a sleepless mother's listening ear,
It were inaudible; and, see! a smile
Seems even now lighting on thy lip, dear boy,
As thou wert dreaming of delightful things
In some celestial region of sweet sounds,
Or summer fields, and skies without a cloud;
(Ah! how unlike this dark and troubled world!)
Let not one kiss awaken thee, one kiss,
Mingled with tears and prayer to God in heaven.
So dream; and never, never may those eyes
Awake suffused with tears, as mine are now,
To think that life's best hopes are such a dream!
Now sleeps the city through its vast extent,
That, restless as the ocean-waves, at morn,
With its ten thousand voices shall awake,
Lifting the murmur of its multitude
To heaven's still gate! Now all is hushed as death;
None are awake, save those who wake to weep,
Like me; save those who meditate revenge,
Or beckon muttering Murder. God of heaven!
From the hyena panting for their blood,
Oh save my youthful Edward! and, poor child!
Preserve thy innocence to happier hours.
Hark! There is knocking at the western gate.

A messenger enters, and announces to her that
her brother had been arrested on the road, by
the Duke of Glo'ster.

Eliz. O my poor child, thou sleepest now in peace!
Wilt thou sleep thus another year? shall I
Hang o'er thee with a mother's look of love,
Thus bend beside thy bed, thus part the hair
Upon thy forehead, and thus kiss thy cheek?
Richard, awake! the tiger is abroad.
We must to sanctuary instantly.

Richard awaking.

Rich. Oh! I have had the sweetest dreams, dear mother!
Methought my brother Edward and myself
And—

Eliz. Come, these are no times to talk of dreams;
We must to sanctuary, my poor boy;
We'll talk of dreams hereafter. Kneel with me.

Takes him from his couch, and kisses him.

Rich. Mother, why do you weep and tremble so?

Eliz. I have a pain at heart! Come, stir thee, boy!
Lift up thy innocent hands to Heaven; here kneel
And pray with me before this crucifix.

Her daughters enter, and they all kneel together.

Scene II.

The Sanctuary at Westminster.

Rich. O my dear mother! why do we sit here,
Amid these dusky walls and arches dim,
When it is summer in the fields without,
And sunshine? Say, is not my brother king,
Why will he not come here to play with me;
Shall I not see my brother?

Eliz.           My own child,
Oh! let me hide these tears upon thy head!
Thy brother, shalt thou see him? Yes, I hope.
Come, I will tell a tale:—There was a boy
Who had a cruel uncle—

Rich.            I have heard
My uncle Glo'ster was a cruel man;
But he was always kind to me, and said
That I should be a king, if Edward died;
I'd rather be a bird to fly away,
Or sing—

Eliz.           The serpent's eye of fire,
With slow and deadly glare, poor bird, I fear,
Is fixed on thee and Edward—God avert it!

Rich. And therefore must not I go out to play?

Eliz. Go, play among the tombs—I will go too;
Go, play with skulls and bones; or see the train
Of sceptred kings come slowly through the gloom,
And widowed queens move in the shroud of death
Along the glimmering aisles and hollow vaults.
Would I were with them—I shall be so soon!

Rich. Mother, methought I saw him yesterday—

Eliz. Saw whom?

Rich.           My father; and he seemed to look—
I cannot say how sadly. Could it be
His spirit? He was armed, but very pale
And sorrowful his countenance. I heard
No sound of footsteps when he moved away
And disappeared among the distant tombs
In further darkness.

Eliz.           O my son, my son!
Thou hadst a king thy father—he is dead;
Thou hadst been happier as a peasant's child!

Rich. Oh! how I wish I were a shepherd's boy,
For then, dear mother! I would run and play
With Edward; and we two, in primrose-time,
Would wander out among the villages,
Or go a-Maying by some river's side,
And mark the minnow-shoals, when morning shone
Upon the yellow gravel, shoot away
Beneath the old gray arch, or bring home cowslips
For all my sisters, for Elizabeth,
And you, dear mother, if you would not weep so.

Eliz. Richard, break not my heart; give me your hand,
And kneel with me by this cold monument.
Spirit of my loved husband, now in heaven,
If, at this moment, thou dost see thy son,
And me, thus broken-hearted,—oh! if aught
Yet human touches thee, assist these prayers,
That him, and me, and my poor family,
God, in the hour of peril, may protect!
Let not my heart yet break.
Come, my poor boy!

Scene III.

The Cardinal of York[196]—Queen—Richard.

Eliz. Now, my Lord Cardinal, what is the will
Of our great lords with me? Your Grace well knows
I am a helpless woman, have no power;
My only wish, for what of life remains,
Prayer and repose, and for my poor child here
Safety.

Car. The Council, madam, wish no less;
But, for your son, they deem his durance here
Breeds ill report. This separation, too,
Of those in blood allied, almost of years
The same, who have been cradled in one lap,
What can it say, but that one brother stands
In peril of the other? And, besides,
Were it not for the comfort of them both
That they should be together? Sport, not care,
Becomes their early years.

Eliz.           I say not nay;
It is most fitting that my youngest son
Were with the king, his brother; in good faith,
I know it would be comfort to them both:
But, when I think upon the tender years,
Even of the eldest, I must also think
A mother's custody were best for either.
You have no children, else I would not ask,
Is there a guardian like a mother's love?
Richard, look up! This good man here intends
No harm to me or you. Look up, my boy!
No power on earth, nothing but death itself
Shall sever us.
What would you more, my Lord?

Car. Madam, no man contendeth that your Grace
Is not the fittest guardian of your child,
And tenderest; but, if so it pleases you
Here to lie hid, shut out from all the world,
Be it for humour or for jealousy,
We hold it meetest, that no power on earth
Should so detain a brother of the King.
And let me add, when reasons of the state
Required the absence of your eldest son,
Yourself were well content.

Eliz.           Not very well;
Nor is the case the same; one was in health,
The other here declines; and let me marvel
That he, the Lord Protector of this realm,
Should wish him out; for, should aught ill betide,
Suspicion, in some tempers, might arise
Against the keeping of his Grace. My Lord,
Do they complain that my child Richard here
Is with his desolate and widowed mother,
Who has no other comfort? Do they claim
His presence, for that here his residence
Consorts not with his fortunes? I am fixed
Not to come forth and jeopardy his life.

Car. Jeopardy! Where, and how;—why should, indeed,
Your friends have any fears? Can you say why?

Eliz. Truly; nor why in prison they should be,
As now they are, I know no reason why.
But this I know, that they who, without colour,
Have cast them into prison, if they will,
Their deaths may compass with as little cause.
My Lord, no more of this.

Car.           My gracious queen,
This only let me say; if, by arrest,
Your Grace's high and honourable kin
Be now confined, when trial has been had,
They shall do well; and for your Grace's self,
There never was, nor can be, jeopardy.

Eliz. Why should I trust? That I am innocent!
And were they guilty? That I am more loved,
Even by those enemies, who only hate
Them for my sake!
Therefore I will not forth,
Nor shall my son,—here will we both abide.
These shrines shall be the world to him and me;
These monuments our sad companions;
Or when, as now, the morning sunshine streams
Slant from the rich-hued window's height, and rests
On yonder tomb, it shall discourse to me
Of the brief sunshine in the gloom of life.
No, of heaven's light upon the silent grave;
Of the tired traveller's eternal home;
Of hope and joy beyond this vale of tears.

Car. Then pardon me. We will not bandy words
Further. If it shall please you, generous queen,
To yield your son, I pledge my life and soul,
Not only for a surety, but estate.
If resolutely still you answer no,
We shall forthwith depart, for nevermore
Will I be suitor in this business
Unto your Majesty, who thus accuse,
Either of want of knowledge or of truth,
Those who would stake their lives on the event.
Madam, farewell!

Eliz. [after a pause]. Stay, let me think again.
If you say sooth—and I have found you ever,
My Lord, a faithful friend and counsellor—
Into your hands I here resign, in trust,
My dearest treasure upon earth, my son.
Of you I will require him, before Heaven;
Yet, for the love which his dead father bore you,
For kindnesses of old, and for that trust
The king, my husband, ever placed in you,
Think, if a wretched mother fear too much,
Oh think, and be you wary, lest you fear
Too little!
My poor child, here then we part!
Richard! Almighty God shower on your head
His blessings, when your mother is no more.
Farewell, my own sweet son! Yet, ere we part,
Kiss me again, God only knows, poor babe,
Whether in this world we shall meet again!
Nay, my boy Richard, let me dry thy tears,
Or hide them in my bosom; dearest child,
God's blessing rest with thee!—farewell, farewell!
My heart is almost broken—oh, farewell!

CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!
Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried,
Liberty! and the shores, from age to age
Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,
Liberty! But a spectre at his side
Stood mocking, and its dart uplifting high
Smote him; he sank to earth in life's fair pride:
Sparta! thy rocks echoed another cry,
And old Ilissus sighed, Die, generous exile, die!

I will not ask sad pity to deplore
His wayward errors, who thus early died;
Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more,
Will I say aught of genius misapplied;
Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride.
But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,
And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,
That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave.

So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!
Ends in that region, in that land renowned,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,
And on the Muses' consecrated ground;
His pale cheek fading where his brows were bound
With their unfading wreath! I will not call
The nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound,
But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall,
And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral.

Slow move the plumed hearse, the mourning train,
I mark the long procession with a sigh,
Silently passing to that village fane
Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie;
Where sleeps the mother, who with tearful eye
Pondering the fortunes of thy onward road,
Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;
Who here, released from every human load,
Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode.

Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak,
When first the earth is heaped upon thy head,
In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,
She thus might give the welcome of the dead:
Here rest, my son, with me—the dream is fled—
The motley mask and the great coil are o'er;
Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed,
Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar
Of earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.

Here rest!—on all thy wanderings peace repose,
After the fever of thy toilsome way;
No interruption this long silence knows;
Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray;
The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey:
Here both shall sleep in peace till earth and sea
Give up their dead, at that last awful day,
King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me;
And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!

THE EGYPTIAN TOMB.

Pomp of Egypt's elder day,
Shade of the mighty passed away,
Whose giant works still frown sublime
'Mid the twilight shades of Time;
Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude,
That strew the sandy solitude,
Lo! before our startled eyes,
As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,
Glimmering larger through the gloom!
While on the secrets of the tomb,
Rapt in other times, we gaze,
The Mother Queen of ancient days,
Her mystic symbol in her hand,
Great Isis, seems herself to stand.

From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim,
Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?
And saw ye not in order dread
The long procession of the dead?
Forms that the night of years concealed,
As by a flash, are here revealed;
Chiefs who sang the victor song;
Sceptred kings,—a shadowy throng,—
From slumber of three thousand years
Each, as in light and life, appears,
Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast,
Three thousand years have silent passed,
Suns of empire risen and set,
Whose story Time can ne'er forget,
Time, in the morning of her pride
Immense, along the Nile's green side,
The City[197] of the Sun appeared,
And her gigantic image reared.

As Memnon, like a trembling string
When the sun, with rising ray,
Streaked the lonely desert gray,
Sent forth its magic murmuring,
That just was heard,—then died away;
So passed, O Thebes! thy morning pride!
Thy glory was the sound that died!
Dark city of the desolate,
Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great!
This busy-peopled isle was then
A waste, or roamed by savage men
Whose gay descendants now appear
To mark thy wreck of glory here.

Phantom of that city old,
Whose mystic spoils I now behold,
A kingdom's sepulchre, oh say,
Shall Albion's own illustrious day,
Thus darkly close! Her power, her fame
Thus pass away, a shade, a name!
The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke;
A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke;
It answered not, but pointed as it fled
To the black carcase of the sightless dead.
Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife,
And the streets ringing to the stir of life.

CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

Look at those sleeping children; softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nigh
Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,
'Tis morn, awake! awake! Ah! they are dead!
Yet folded in each other's arms they lie,
So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly,
So breathing and so beautiful, they seem,
As if to die in youth were but to dream
Of spring and flowers! Of flowers? Yet nearer stand—
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,
As if its cup with tears were wet.
So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death,
And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,
As when she first did lay her head to rest
Gently on that sister's breast,
And kissed her ere she fell asleep!
The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.
Take up those flowers that fell
From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!
Your spirits rest in bliss!
Yet ere with parting prayers we say,
Farewell for ever to the insensate clay,
Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!
Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wrought
This work of nature, feeling, and of thought;
Thine, Chantrey, be the fame
That joins to immortality thy name.
For these sweet children that so sculptured rest—
A sister's head upon a sister's breast—
Age after age shall pass away,
Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.
For here is no corruption; the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form:
This smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age!
Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
Shall gaze with tears upon the monument!
And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath:
How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!

July 2, 1826.

ON MISS FITZGERALD AND LORD KERRY PLANTING TWO CEDARS IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.

Yes, Pamela, this infant tree
Planted in sacred earth by thee,
Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow
Whilst I am mouldering dust below.
This churchyard turf shall still be green,
When other pastors here are seen,
Who, gazing on that dial gray,
Shall mourn, like me, life's passing ray.
What says its monitory shade?
Thyself so blooming, now shalt fade;
And even that fair and lightsome boy,
Elastic as the step of joy,
The future lord of yon domain,
And all this wide extended plain,
Shall yield to creeping time, when they
Who loved him shall have passed away.
Yet, planted by his youthful hand,
The fellow-cedar still shall stand,
And when it spreads its boughs around,
Shading the consecrated ground,
He may behold its shade, and say
(Himself then haply growing gray),
Yes, I remember, aged tree,
When I was young who planted thee!
But long may time, blithe maiden, spare
Thy beaming eyes and crisped hair,
Thy unaffected converse kind,
Thy gentle and ingenuous mind.
For him when I in dust repose,
May virtue guide him as he grows;
And may he, when no longer young,
Resemble those from whom he sprung!
Then let these trees extend their shade,
Or live or die, or bloom or fade,
Virtue, uninjured and sublime,
Shall lift her brightest wreath, untouched by time.

THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.

When evening listened to the dipping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Reflects that stately structure on his side,

Within whose walls, as their long labours close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We wore, in social ease, the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I lingered on the river's marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.

As thus I mused amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,
Two sailors,—well I marked them, as the beam
Of parting day yet lingered on the stream,
And the sun sank behind the shady reach,—
Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.

The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight,
For ever. As I drew, more anxious, near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word. He who was blind,
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind,
That gently lifted his gray hair—his face
Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.

The other fixed his gaze upon the light,
Parting, and when the sun had vanished quite,
Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,
Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,
Back, hand in hand, they went, and left the shore.

As they departed through the unheeding crowd,
A caged bird sang from the casement loud,
And then I heard alone that blind man say,
The music of the bird is sweet to-day!

I said, O heavenly Father! none may know
The cause these have for silence or for woe!
Here they appeared heartstricken and resigned
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.

There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time,
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder bell
Pealed slow, and bade the dying day farewell,
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to night,
They thought upon that world of distant light!
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;
Then sighed, as the blithe bird sang o'er his head,
No morn shall shine on me till I am dead!

GLASTONBURY ABBEY AND WELLS CATHEDRAL.

WRITTEN AFTER VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE ONE, AND HEARING THE CHURCH SERVICE IN THE OTHER.

Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale,
How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!
Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale,
Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose,
When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows,
Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]
How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close,
Came blended with the airs of eventide,
When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!

But all is silent now! silent the bell,
That, heard from yonder ivied turret high,
Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell;
Silent the vesper-chant, the litany
Responsive to the organ!—scattered lie
The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray,
Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh!
And even the mouldering shrine is rent away,
Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.

Now look upon the sister fane of Wells!
It lifts its forehead in the summer air;
Sweet, o'er the champagne, sound its Sabbath bells,
Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer.
Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare,
Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state!
Oh! say,—shall time revere the fabric fair,
Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate,
Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate!

No! to subdue or elevate the soul,
Our best, our purest feelings to refine,
Still shall the solemn diapasons roll,
Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shine
From the tall windows on the sculptured shrine,
Tinging the pavement! for He shall afford,
He who directs the storm, his aid divine,
Because its Sion has not left thy word,
Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!

SILCHESTER, THE ANCIENT CALEVA.[199]

The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,
Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,
Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]
The buried coins of mighty men are found,
Silent remains of Cæsars and of kings,
Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,
In its sad story! These have had their day
Of glory, and have passed, like sounds, away!

And such their fame! While we the spot behold,
And muse upon the tale that Time has told,
We ask where are they?—they whose clarion brayed,
Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed;
Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way,
Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray!

Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands,
That, now, a lone and broken column stands!
Ask of that road—whose track alone remains—
That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and plains;
And still along the silent champagne leads;
Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds?
Ask of the dead, and silence will reply;
Go, seek them in the grave of mortal vanity!

Is this a Roman veteran?—look again,—
It is a British soldier, who, in Spain,
At Albuera's glorious fight, has bled;
He, too, has spurred his charger o'er the dead!
Desolate, now—friendless and desolate—
Let him the tale of war and home relate.
His wife (and Gainsborough such a form and mien
Would paint, in harmony with such a scene),
With pensive aspect, yet demeanour bland,
A tottering infant guided by her hand,
Spoke of her own green Erin, while her child,
Amid the scene of ancient glory, smiled,
As spring's first flower smiles from a monument
Of other years, by time and ruin rent!

Lone city of the dead! thy pride is past,
Thy temples sunk, as at the whirlwind's blast!
Silent—all silent, where the mingled cries
Of gathered myriads rent the purple skies!
Here—where the summer breezes waved the wood—
The stern and silent gladiator stood,
And listened to the shouts that hailed his gushing blood.
And on this wooded mount, that oft, of yore,
Hath echoed to the Lybian lion's roar,
The ear scarce catches, from the shady glen,
The small pipe of the solitary wren.

RESTORATION OF MALMESBURY ABBEY.[201]

Monastic and time-consecrated fane!
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung;
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order go;
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,
As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light;
Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows,
Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose,
Amid the silent sanctity of death,
Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the holy pile,
Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?
O mightiest Master! thy immortal strains
These roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow,
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.
And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chant
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?
More softly now, imploring litanies,
Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs
Of penitence from yon altar rise;
Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings—
"Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"
Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime;
Reckless alike of injuries or time;
Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied and shalt defy!
The temple of our Sion so shall mock
The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,
Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!

ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,

AT NIGHT, IN ST GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

1 The castle clock had tolled midnight:
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,
His corse in earth we laid.

2 The coffin bore his name, that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

3 "Peace to the dead" no children sung,
Slow pacing up the nave,—
No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.

4 We only heard the winter's wind,
In many a sullen gust,
As, o'er the open grave inclined,
We murmured, "Dust to dust!"
5 A moonbeam from the arch's height
Streamed, as we placed the stone;
The long aisles started into light,
And all the windows shone.

6 We thought we saw the banners then,
That shook along the walls,
Whilst the sad shades of mailèd men
Were gazing on the stalls.

7 'Tis gone! again on tombs defaced
Sits darkness more profound;
And only by the torch we traced
The shadows on the ground.

8 And now the chilling, freezing air
Without blew long and loud;
Upon our knees we breathed one prayer,[202]
Where he slept in his shroud.

9 We laid the broken marble floor,—
No name, no trace appears,—
And when we closed the sounding door,
We thought of him with tears.

ON SEEING PLANTS IN THE WINDOWS OF SETH WARD'S COLLEGE,

ENDOWED FOR WIDOWS OF CLERGYMEN, AT SALISBURY.

There is but one stage more in life's long way,
O widowed women! Sadly upon your path
Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends,
Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;
And lonely age is yours, whose tears have fallen
Upon a husband's grave,—with whom, long since,
Amid the quietude of village scenes,
We walked, and saw your little children grow
Like lovely plants beside you, or adorned
Your lowly garden-plot with summer flowers;
And heard the bells, upon the Sabbath morn,
Chime to the village church, when he you loved
Walked by your side to prayer. These images
Of days long passed, of love and village life,
You never can forget; and many a plant
Green growing at the windows of your home,
And one pale primrose, in small earthen vase,
And bird-cage in the sunshine at the door,
Remember you, though in a city pent,
Of morning walks along the village lane,
Of the lark singing through the vernal hail,
Of swallows skimming o'er the garden pond,—
Remember you of children and of friends
Parted, and pleasant summers gone! 'Tis meet
To nurse such recollections, not with pain,
But in submission to the will of Heaven;
Thankful that here, as the calm eve of life,
In pious privacy, steals on, one hearth
Of charity is yours; and cold must be
That heart, which, of the changes of the world
Unmindful, could receive you but as guests,[203]
Who had seen happier days!
Yet one stage more,
And your long rest will be with him you loved.
Oh! pray to God that each may rest in hope!

MORLEY'S FAREWELL TO THE COTTAGE OF ISAAK WALTON.

TO KENNA.

England, a long farewell! a long farewell,
My country, to thy woods, and streams, and hills!
Where I have heard in youth the Sabbath bell,
For many a year now mute: affection fills
Mine eyes with tears; yet resolute to wait,
Whatever ills betide, whatever fate;
Far from my native land, from sights of woe,
From scaffolds drenched in generous blood, I go.[204]
Sad, in a land of strangers, when I bend
With grief of heart, without a home or friend,
And chiefly when with weary thoughts oppressed,
I see the sun sink slowly in the west;
Then, doubly feeling my forsaken lot,
I shall remember, far away, this cot
Of humble piety, and prayer, and peace,
And thee, dear friend, till my heart's beatings cease.
Warm from that heart I breathe one parting prayer:
My good old friend, may God Almighty spare—
Spare, for the sake of that poor child,[205] thy life,—
Long spare it for thy meek and duteous wife.
Perhaps o'er them, when the hard storm blows loud,
We both may be at rest and in our shroud;
Or we may live to talk of these sad times,
When virtue was reviled, and direst crimes
Faith's awful name usurped. We may again
Hear heavenly truths in the time-hallowed fane,
And the full chant. Oh! if that day arrive,
And we, old friend, though bowed with age, survive,
How happy, whilst our days on earth shall last,
To pray and think of seasons that are past,
Till on our various way the night shall close,
And in one hallowed pile, at last, our bones repose.[206]

THE GRAVE OF BISHOP KEN.

1 On yonder heap of earth forlorn,
Where Ken his place of burial chose,
Peacefully shine, O Sabbath morn!
And, eve, with gentlest hush, repose.

2 To him is reared no marble tomb,
Within the dim cathedral fane;
But some faint flowers, of summer bloom,
And silent falls the wintry rain.

3 No village monumental stone
Records a verse, a date, a name—
What boots it? when thy task is done,
Christian, how vain the sound of fame!

4 Oh! far more grateful to thy God,
The voices of poor children rise,
Who hasten o'er the dewy sod,
"To pay their morning sacrifice."[207]

5 And can we listen to their hymn,
Heard, haply, when the evening knell
Sounds, where the village brow is dim,
As if to bid the world farewell!

6 Without a thought that from the dust
The morn shall wake the sleeping clay,
And bid the faithful and the just
Upspring to heaven's eternal day!

THE LEGEND OF ST CECILIA AND THE ANGEL.

'Twas when, O meekest eve! thy shadows dim
Were slowly stealing round,
With more impassioned sound
Divine Cecilia sang her vesper hymn,
And swelled the solemn chord
In hallelujahs to thy name, O Lord!
And now I see her raise
Rapt adoration's gaze,
With lips just opening, and with humid eyes
Uplifted; whilst the strain
Now sinks, now swells again;
Now rising, seems to blend with heaven's own harmonies.
But who is that, divinely fair,
With more than mortal beauty in his mien;
With eyes of heavenly hue and glistening hair,
His white and ample wings half seen!
O radiant and immortal guest!
Why hast thou left thy seraph throng,
On earth the triumph to attest
Of Beauty, Piety, and Song!

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO BISHOP KEN.[208]

1 Though his words might well deceive me,
Though to earth abased I bend,
Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,
Thus on earth without a friend!

2 I thought his vows were oaths in heaven,
Nor dare I here my fault deny;
For all my soul to him was given,
God knows how true, how tenderly!

3 Though wronged and desolate and dying,
His pride, his coldness, I forgot,
And fell upon his bosom, crying,
Forsake me not—forsake me not!

4 I left my father, and my mother,
Whom I no more on earth may see,
But I have found a father, brother,
And more than every friend, in thee!

5 Although his words might well deceive me,
Though wronged, and desolate I lie,
Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,
Oh, teach me to repent and die!

ON AN ECLIPSE OF THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT.

Up, up, into the vast extended space,
Thou art ascending in thy majesty,
Beautiful moon, the queen of the pale sky!
But what is that which gathers on thy face,
A dark mysterious shade, eclipsing, slow,
The splendour of thy calm and steadfast light?
It is the shadow of this world of woe,
Of this vast moving world; portentous sight!
As if we almost stood and saw more near
Its very action—almost heard it roll
On, in the swiftness of its dread career,
As it hath rolled for ages! Hush, my soul!
Listen! there is no sound; but we could hear
The murmur of its multitudes, who toil
Through their brief hour. The heart might well recoil;
But this is ever sounding in His ear
Who made it, and who said, "Let there be light!"
And we, the creatures of a mortal hour,
'Mid hosts of worlds, are ever in his sight,
Catching, as now, dim glimpses of his power.
The time shall come when all this mighty scene
Darkness shall wrap, as it had never been.
O Father of all worlds! be thou our guide,
And lead us gently on, from youth to age,
Through the dark valley of our pilgrimage;
Enough if thus, bending to thy high will,
We hold our Christian course through good or ill,
And to the end with faith and hope abide.

TO LADY VALLETORT,

ON HEARING HER SING "GLORIA IN EXCELSIS," WITH THREE OTHER YOUNG LADIES, AT LACOCK ABBEY, OCTOBER 1831.

Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneath
Whose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death,
Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays,
Thy gentleness, thy grace, thy virtue praise!
Be mine to breathe one prayer; when all rejoice,
One parting prayer, still mindful of that voice,
And musing on the sacred song which stole,
Sweet as the spell of peace, upon the soul;
In those same scenes, where once the chapel dim
Echoed the cloistered sisters' vesper hymn:—
Live long! live happy! tranquil through the strife
And the loud stir of this tumultuous life!
Live long, live happy! and when many a day
Hath passed in the heart's harmony away;
When Eve's pale hand the gates of life shall close,
And hush the landscape to its last repose;
May sister seraphs meet with welcome song,
And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?

ON SEEING A BUST OF R. B. SHERIDAN,

FROM A CAST TAKEN AFTER DEATH.[209]

Alas, poor Sheridan! when first we met,
'Twas 'mid a smiling circle, and thine eye,
That flashed with eloquent hilarity
And playful fancy, I remember yet
Freshly as yesterday. The gay and fair,
The young and beautiful,—now in their graves—
Surrounded us; while on the lucid wave
Of Hampton's waters, to the morning air
The streamer softly played of our light boat,
Which seemed as on a magic sea to float.

I saw thee after in this crowd of life,
Conflicting, but yet blandly, with its strife.
As the still car of Time rolled on, thy cheek
Wore the same smile, yet with a trace more weak.
Lone sorrow came as life declined, and care,
And age, with slowly furrowing line, was there.

I could have spared this fearful sight! Most strange
Is the eventful tale of mortal change,
Inevitable; but death, brought so nigh,
In form so tangible, harrows the eye.
As all the past floats like a cloud away,
Alas, poor Sheridan! I turn and say,
Not without feelings which such sights impart,
Sad, but instructive, to the Christian's heart!

May 18, 1826.

RETURN OF GEORGE III. TO WINDSOR CASTLE.

Not that thy name, illustrious dome! recalls
The pomp of chivalry in bannered halls,
The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights
Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;
Not that young Surrey there beguiled the hour
With "eyes upturned unto the maiden's tower;"
Oh! not for these the muse officious brings
Her gratulations to the best of kings;
But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn,
Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn;
That here among these gray primeval trees,
He may inhale health's animating breeze;
That these old oaks, which far their shadows cast,
May soothe him while they whisper of the past;
And when from that proud terrace he surveys
Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze
(Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen
Winding through lawns and woods, and pastures green),
May he reflect upon the waves that roll,
Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole;
And own (ambition's proudest boast above)
A king's best glory is his country's love.

ON MEETING SOME FRIENDS OF YOUTH AT CHELTENHAM,

FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE WE PARTED AT OXFORD.

"And wept to see the paths of life divide."—Shenstone.

Here the companions of our careless prime,
Whom fortune's various ways have severed long,
Since that fair dawn when Hope her vernal song
Sang blithe, with features marked by stealing time
At these restoring springs are met again!
We, young adventurers on life's opening road,
Set out together; to their last abode
Some have sunk silent, some a while remain,
Some are dispersed; of many, growing old
In life's obscurer bourne, no tale is told.
Here, ere the shades of the long night descend,
And all our wanderings in oblivion end,
The parted meet once more, and pensive trace
(Marked by that hand unseen, whose iron pen
Writes "mortal change" upon the fronts of men)
The creeping furrows in each other's face.
Where shall we meet again? Reflection sighs;
Where? In the dust! Time rushing on replies:
Then hail the hope that lights the pilgrim's way,
Where there is neither change, nor darkness, nor decay!

THE LAY OF TALBOT, THE TROUBADOUR.[210]

A LEGEND OF LACOCK ABBEY.

PART FIRST.

1 At Rouen Richard kept his state,
Released from captive thrall;
And girt with many a warrior guest
He feasted in the hall!

2 The rich metheglin mantled high,
The wine was berry red,
When tidings came that Salisbury,
His early friend, was dead;

3 And that his sole surviving child,
The heiress of his wealth,
By crafty kinsmen and allies
Was borne away by stealth;

4 Was borne away from Normandy,
Where, secretly confined,
She heard no voice of those she loved,
But sighed to the north wind.

5 Haply from some lone castle's tower
Or solitary strand,
Even now she gazes o'er the deep,
That laves her father's land!

6 King Richard cries, My minstrel knights,
Who will the task achieve,
To seek through France and Normandy
The orphan left to grieve?

7 Young William Talbot then did speak,
Betide me weal or woe,
From Michael's castle[211] through the land
A pilgrim I will go.

8 He clad him in his pilgrim weeds,
With trusty staff in hand,
And scallop shell, and took his way,
A wanderer through the land.

9 For two long years he journeyed on,
A pilgrim, day by day,
Through many a forest dark and drear,
By many a castle gray.

10 At length, when one clear morn of frost
Was shining on the main,
Forth issuing from a castle gate
He saw a female train!

11 With lightsome step and waving hair,
Before them ran a child,
And gathering from the sands a shell,
Ran back to them, and smiled.

12 Himself unseen among the rocks,
He saw her point her hand;
And cry, I would go home, go home,
To my poor father's land.

13 The bell tolled from the turret gray,
Cold freezing fell the dew,
To the portcullis hastening back
The female train withdrew.

14 Those turrets and the battlements,
Time and the storm had beat,
And sullenly the ocean tide
Came rolling at his feet.

15 Young Talbot cast away his staff,
The harp is in his hand,
A minstrel at the castle gate,
A porter saw him stand.

16 And who art thou, the porter cried,
Young troubadour, now say,
For welcome in the castle hall
Will be to-night thy lay;

17 For this the birthday is of one,
Whose father now is cold;
An English maiden, rich in fee,
And this year twelve years old.

18 I love, myself, now growing old,
To hear the wild harp's sound:
But whence, young harper, dost thou come,
And whither art thou bound?

19 Though I am young, the harper said,
From Syria's sands I come,
A minstrel warrior of the Cross,
Now poor and wandering home.

20 And I can tell of mighty deeds,
By bold King Richard done,
King Richard of "the Lion's heart,"
Foes quail to look upon.

21 Then lead me to the castle hall,
And let the fire be bright,
For never hall nor bower hath heard
A lay like mine to-night.

22 The windows gleam within the hall,
The fire is blazing bright,
And the young harper's hair and harp
Are shining in the light.

23 Fair dames and warriors clad in steel
Now gather round to hear,
And oft that little maiden's eyes
Are glistening with a tear.

24 For, when the minstrel sang of wars,
At times, with softer sound,
He touched the chords, as mourning those
Now laid in the cold ground.

25 He sang how brave King Richard pined
In a dark tower immured,
And of the long and weary nights,
A captive, he endured.

26 The faithful Blondel to his harp
One song began to sing;
It ceased; the king takes up the strain;
It is his lord and king!

27 Of Sarum then, and Sarum's plain,
That poor child heard him speak,
When the first tear-drop in her eye
Fell silent on her cheek.

28 For, as the minstrel told his tale,
The breathless orphan maid
Thought of the land where, in the grave,
Her father's bones were laid.

29 Hush, hush! the winds are piping loud,
The midnight hour is sped,
The hours of morn are stealing fast,
Harper, to bed! to bed!

PART SECOND.

1 The two long years had passed away,
When castle Galliard rose,
As built at once by elfin hands,
And scorning time or foes.[212]

2 It might be thought that Merlin's imps
Were tasked to raise the wall,
That unheard axes fell the woods,
While unseen hammers fall.

3 As hung by magic on a rock,
The castle-keep looked down
O'er rocks and rivers, and the smoke
Of many a far off town.

4 And now, young knights and minstrels gay
Obeyed their masters' call,
And loud rejoicing held the feast
In the new raftered hall.

5 His minstrels and his mailed peers
Were seated at the board,
And at his side the highest sat
William of the Long Sword.

6 This youthful knight, of princely birth,
Was dazzling to behold,
For his chain-mail from head to foot
All glistened o'er with gold.

7 His surcoat dyed with azure blue
In graceful foldings hung,
And there the golden lions ramped,
With bloody claws and tongue.

8 With crimson belt around his waist
His sword was girded on;
The hilt, a cross to kiss in death,
Radiant with jewels shone.

9 The names and banners of each knight
It were too long to tell;
Here sat the brave Montgomery,
There Bertrand and Rozell.

10 Of Richard's unresisted sword
A noble minstrel sung,
Whilst to an hundred answering harps
The blazing gallery rung.

11 So all within was merriment—
When, suddenly, a shout,
As of some unexpected guest,
Burst from the crowd without.

12 Now not a sound, and scarce a breath,
Through the long hall is heard,
When, with a young maid by his side,
A vizored knight appeared.

13 Up the long hall they held their way,
On to the royal seat;
Then both together, hand in hand,
Knelt at King Richard's feet.

14 Talbot, a Talbot! rang the hall
With gratulation wild,
Long live brave Talbot,[213] and long live
Earl William's new found child!

15 Amid a scene so new and strange,
This poor maid could not speak;
King Richard took her by the hand,
And gently kissed her cheek;

16 Then placed her, smiling through a tear,
By his brave brother's side:
Long live brave Longspe! rang the hall,
Long live his future bride!

17 To noble Richard, this fair child,
His ward, was thus restored;
Destined to be the future bride
Of Him of the Long Sword.

THE ARK: A POEM FOR MUSIC.

MICHAEL, ARCHANGEL.

High on Imaus' solitary van,
Which overlooked the kingdoms of the world,
With stature more majestic, his stern brow
In the clear light, the thunder at his feet;
In his right hand the flaming sword that waved
O'er Eden's gate; and in his left the trump,
That on the day of doom shall sound and wake
Earth's myriads, starting from the wormy grave,
The great archangel stood: and, hark, his voice!

AIR.

It comes, it comes, o'er cities, temples, towers;
O'er mountain heights I see the deluge sweep;
Heard ye from earth the cry at that last hour?
Heard ye the tossing of the desert deep?
How dismal is its roar!
I heard the sound of multitudes no more.
Great Lord of heaven and earth, thy voice is fate;
Thou canst destroy, as first thou didst create!

He stood and sounded the archangel's trump;
And now a choir of seraphim drew near,
By Raphael led: in sad and solemn strains,
They raised their supplication to Heaven's throne.

CHORUS.

O Thou whose mighty voice, "Let there be light!"
Dread Chaos heard, when the great sun from night
Burst forth, and demon shadows fled away,
And the green earth sprang beautiful to day!
Oh! merciful in judgment, hear our prayer;
Behold the world which Thou hast made so fair,
And man the mourner, man the sinner, spare.

GABRIEL (RECITATIVE).

Oh! what a change have sin and sorrow made!
In the beginning, God created heaven
And earth; and man, amid the works of God,
Majestic stood, his noblest creature, formed
In God's own image; and his fair abode
Was visited by seraph shapes of light,
And sin and death were not.

TRIO.

Mourn, mourn, ye bowers
Of paradise, ye pleasant hills and woods!
Mourn; for the dreadful voice hath passed that shrunk
Your streams, and withered all your blooming flowers.
And thou, created in God's image, man!
Go forth into the nether world; "for dust
Thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

RECITATIVE.

So, led by Sin and Death, and his pale troop,
Impatient came, and all this goodly scene,
As at the withering of a demon's curse, was blasted.
Then they two went forth, from whom
Their children sorrow and sin and death derived:
They two went forth into the forlorn world,
Heart-struck, but not despairing.
From that hour
Death's shadow walks on earth, a hideous form,
Saddening the very sun; and giant crimes
Have multiplied, till to the throne of God,
And the serene air of untroubled bliss,
The noise of violence, and the cries of blood,
Have from the ground ascended.
Therefore God
Me hath commissioned to uplift the trump
Of doom, and sweep this world of sin away!

WRITTEN AFTER THE CONSECRATION OF THE NEW CHURCH AT KINGSWOOD.

When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen,
Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken,
Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,
Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,
When thousands listened to the prelate[214] there,
Who called on God, with consecrating prayer;—
I saw a village-maid, almost a child,7
Even as a light-haired cherub, undefiled
From earth's rank fume, with innocent look, her eye
Meekly uplifted to the throne on high,
Join in the full choir's solemn harmony.
Oh, then, how many boding thoughts arose,
Lest, long ere varied life's uncertain close,
Those looks of modesty, that open truth
Lighting the forehead of ingenuous youth—
Lest these, as slowly steal maturing years,
Should fade, and grief succeed, and dimming tears;
Then should the cheek be blanched with early care,
Sin mark its first and furrowing traces there,
With touch corroding mar the altered mien,20
And leave a canker where the rose had been;
Then the sweet child, whose smiles can now impart
Joy overpowering to a mother's heart,
Might bring down, when not anxious love could save,
That mother's few gray hairs with sorrow to the grave!
But, hark! the preacher's voice, his accents bland,
Behold his kindled look, his lifted hand;
What holy fervour wakes at his command!
He speaks of faith, of mercy from above,
Of heavenly hope, of a Redeemer's love!30
Hence every thought, but that which shows fair youth
Advancing in the paths of peace and truth!
Which shows thy light, O pure religion! shed,
Like a faint glory, on a daughter's head,
Who shall each parent's love, through life, repay,
And add a transport to their dying day!
I saw an old man, on his staff reclined,
Who seemed to every human change resigned:—
He, with white locks, and long-descending beard,
A patriarch of other years appeared:40
And thine, O aged, solitary man!41
Was life's enchanted way, when life began,
The sunshine on each mountain, and the strain
Of some sweet melody, in every plain;
Thine was illusive fortune's transient gleam,
And young love's broken, but delicious dream;
Those mocking visions of thy youth are flown,
And thou dost bend on death's dark brink alone
The light associates of thy vernal day,49
Where are they? Blown, like the sere leaves, away;
And thou dost seem a trunk, on whose bare head
The gray moss of uncounted days is spread!
I know thee not, old man! yet traits like these,
Upon thy time-worn features fancy sees.
Another, or another year, for thee,
Haply, "the silver cord shall loosed be!"
Then listen, whilst warm eloquence portrays
That "better country" to thy anxious gaze,
Who art a weary, way-worn "pilgrim here,"
And soon from life's vain masque to disappear.60
O aged man! lift up thine eyes—behold
What brighter views of distant light unfold;
What though the loss of strength thou dost deplore,
Or broken loves, or friends that are no more?
What though gay youth no more his song renews,
And summer-light dies, like the rainbow hues?
The Christian hails the ray that cheers the gloom,
And throws its heavenly halo round the tomb.
Who bade the grave its mouldering vault unclose?
"Christ—Christ who died; yea, rather, Christ who rose!"
Hope lifts from earth her tear-illumined eye,71
She sees, dispersed, the world's last tempest fly;
Sees death, arrested 'mid his havoc vast,
Lord, at thy feet his broken weapons cast!
In circles, far retiring from the sight,75
Till, undistinguished, they are lost in light,
Admiring seraphim suspend their wings,
Whilst, hark! the eternal empyrean rings,
Hosannah, Lord of lords, and King of kings!
Such thoughts arose, when from the crowded fane80
I saw retire the mute, assembled train;
Their images beguiled my homeward way,
Which high o'er Lansdowne's lonely summit lay.
There seemed a music in the evening gale,
And looking back on the long-spreading vale,
Methought a blessing waited on the hour,
As the last light from heaven shone on the distant tower.

ON THE DEATH OF DR BURGESS,

THE LATE BISHOP OF SALISBURY.

Sainted old man, for more than eighty years,
Thee—tranquilly and stilly-creeping—age,
Led to the confines of the sepulchre,
And thy last day on earth—but "Father—Lord—
Which art in heaven"—how pure a faith, and heart
Unmoved, amid the changes of this life,
And tumult of the world,—and oh! what hope,—
What love and constancy of the calm mind,
And tears to misery from the inmost heart
Flowing—at times, a brief sweet smile and voice
How bland, and studies, various and profound,
Of learned languages—but, ever first,
That learning which the oracles of God
Unfolds, even to the close of life's long day
Thy course accompanies!
But, thou, farewell,
And live—this mortal veil removed—in bliss;
Live with the saints in light, whom Christ had loved.
But pardon us, left in this vale of tears,
For one last tear upon thy cold remains—
Pardon, beloved and venerated shade!

LINES WRITTEN ON FONTHILL ABBEY.

The mighty master waved his wand, and, lo!
On the astonished eye the glorious show
Burst like a vision! Spirit of the place!
Has the Arabian wizard with his mace
Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread,
And bade the enchanted palace rise instead?
Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend,
High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend?
And starting from the umbrageous avenue
Spread the rich pile, magnificent to view?
Enter! From the arched portal look again,
Back on the lessening woods and distant plain!
Ascend the steps! The high and fretted roof
Is woven by some elfin hand aloof;
Whilst from the painted windows' long array
A mellow light is shed as not of day.
How gorgeous all! Oh, never may the spell
Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well!

EPITAPH ON BENJAMIN TREMLYN,

AN OLD SOLDIER, BURIED IN BREMHILL CHURCHYARD AT THE AGE OF 92.

A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown,
Without a verse, and this recording stone.
'Twas his in youth o'er distant lands to stray,
Danger and death companions of his way.
Here in his native village, drooping, age
Closed the lone evening of his pilgrimage.
Speak of the past, of names of high renown,
Or his brave comrades long to dust gone down,
His eye with instant animation glowed,
Though ninety winters on his head had snowed.
His country, whilst he lived, a boon supplied,
And faith her shield held o'er him when he died;
Hope, Christian, that his spirit lives with God,
And pluck the wild weeds from his lowly sod,
Where, dust to dust, beside the chancel's shade,
Till the last trumpet sounds, a brave man's bones are laid.

EPITAPH ON ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Christian! for none who scorns that holy name
Can gaze with honest eyes on Southey's fame;
Christian! bow down thy head in humble fear,
And think what God-given powers lie silenced here:
Wit, judgment, memory, patience unsubdued,
Conception vast, and pious fortitude.
Learning possessed no steeps, and truth no shore,
Beyond his step to tread, his wing to soar;
His was the historian's pen, the poet's lyre,
The churchman's ardour, and the patriot's fire;
While fireside charities, Heaven's gentlest dower,
Lent genius all their warmth and all their power.
O Church and State of England! thine was he
In living fame, thine be his memory!
Thou saw'st him live, in faith expire,
Go, bid thy sons to follow, and admire!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK."

What pale and bleeding youth, whilst the fell blast
Howls o'er the wreck, and fainter sinks the cry
Of struggling wretches ere, o'erwhelmed, they die,
Yet floats upborne upon the driving mast!
O poor Arion! has thy sweetest strain,
That charmed old ocean's wildest solitude,
At this dread hour his waves' dark might subdued!
Let sea-maids thy reclining head sustain,
And wipe the blood and briny drops that soil
Thy features; give once more the wreathed shell
To ring with melody! Ah, fruitless toil!
O'er thy devoted head the tempests swell,
More loud relentless ocean claims his spoil:
Peace! and may weeping sea-maids sing thy knell!

ON FIRST HEARING CARADORI SING.

Spirit of beauty, and of heavenly song!
No longer seek in vain, 'mid the loud throng,
'Mid the discordant tumults of mankind,
One spirit, gentle as thyself, to find.

Oh! listen, and suspend thy upward wings,
Listen—for, hark! 'tis Caradori sings;
Hear, on the cadence of each thrilling note,
Airs scarce of earth, and sounds seraphic float!

See, in the radiant smile that lights her face;
See, in that form, a more than magic grace;
And say (repaid for every labour past)
Beautiful spirit, thou art found at last!

SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

Here stood the city of the dead; look round—
Dost thou not mark a visionary band,
Druids and bards upon the summits stand,
Of the majestic and time-hallowed mound?
Hark! heard ye not at times the acclaiming word
Of harps, as when those bards, in white array,
Hailed the ascending lord of light and day!
Here, o'er the clouds, the first cathedral rose,
Whose prelates now in yonder fane repose,
Among the mighty of years passed away;
For there her latest seat Religion chose,
There still to heaven ascends the holy lay,
And never may those shrines in dust and silence close!

April 1834.

LOCKSWELL.

Pure fount, that, welling from this wooded hill,
Dost wander forth, as into life's wide vale,
Thou to the traveller dost tell no tale
Of other years; a lone, unnoticed rill,
In thy forsaken track, unheard of men,
Melting thy own sweet music through the glen.
Time was when other sounds and songs arose;
When o'er the pensive scene, at evening's close,
The distant bell was heard; or the full chant,
At morn, came sounding high and jubilant;
Or, stealing on the wildered pilgrim's way,
The moonlight "Miserere" died away,
Like all things earthly.
Stranger, mark the spot;
No echoes of the chiding world intrude.
The structure rose and vanished; solitude
Possessed the woods again; old Time forgot,
Passing to wider spoil, its place and name.
Since then, even as the clouds of yesterday,
Seven hundred years have well-nigh passed away;
No wreck remains of all its early pride;
Like its own orisons, its fame has died.
But this pure fount, through rolling years the same,
Yet lifts its small still voice, like penitence,
Or lowly prayer. Then pass admonished hence,
Happy, thrice happy, if, through good or ill,
Christian, thy heart respond to this forsaken rill.

ON MOZART.

Oh! still, as with a seraph's voice, prolong
The harmonies of that enchanting song,
Till, listening, we might almost think we hear,
Beyond this cloudy world, in the pure sphere
Of light, acclaiming hosts the throne surrounding,
The long hosannahs evermore resounding,
Soft voices interposed in pure accord,
Breathing a holier charm. Oh! every word
Falls like a drop of silver, as the strain,
In winding sweetness, swells and sinks again.
Sing ever thus, beguiling life's long way,
As here, poor pilgrims of the earth, we stray;
And, lady, when thy pilgrimage shall end,
And late the shades of the long night descend,
May sister seraphs welcome with a song,
And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?

EPITAPH ON JOHN HARDING,

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.

Lay down thy pilgrim staff upon this heap,
And till the morning of redemption sleep,
Old wayfarer of earth! From youth to age,
Long, but not weary, was thy pilgrimage,
Thy Christian pilgrimage; for faith and prayer
Alone enabled thee some griefs to bear.
Lone, in old age, without a husband's aid,
Thy wife shall pray beside thee to be laid;
For more than a kind father didst thou prove
To fourteen children of her faithful love.
May future fathers of the village trace
The same sure path to the same resting-place;
And future sons, taught in their strength to save,
Learn their first lesson from a poor man's grave!

April 1835.

ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM LINLEY, ESQ.,

THE COMPOSER OF THE MUSIC OF "THE DUENNA," ETC.

Poor Linley! I shall miss thee sadly, now
Thou art not in the world; for few remain
Who loved like thee the high and holy strain
Of harmony's immortal master.
Thou
Didst honour him; and none I know, who live,
Could even a shadow, a faint image give,
With chord and voice, of those rich harmonies,
Which, mingled in one mighty volume, rise,
Glorious, from earth to heaven, so to express
Choral acclaim to Heaven's almightiness,
As thou! Therefore, amid the world's deep roar,
When the sweet visions of young Hope are fled,
And many friends dispersed, and many dead,
I grieve that I shall hear that voice no more.

INSCRIBED TO THE MARCHIONESS OF LANSDOWNE

Go to assemblies of the rich and gay,
The blazing hall of grandeur, and the throng
Of cities, and there listen to the song
Of festive harmony; then pause, and say,
Where is she found, who in her sphere might shine,
Attracting all? Where is she found, whose place
And dignity the proudest court might grace?
Go, where the desolate and dying pine
On their cold bed; open the cottage door;
Ask of that aged pair, who feebly bend
O'er their small evening fire, who is their friend;
Ask of these children of the village poor;
For this, at the great judgment, thou shalt find
Heaven's mercy, Lady, merciful and kind.

HYMN FOR MUSIC,

AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Perish! Almighty Justice cried,
And struck the avenging blow,
And Europe shouts from side to side,
The tyrant is laid low!
Said not his heart, More blood shall stream
Around my sovereign throne?
He wakes from dire ambition's dream,
Pale, trembling, and alone.

ARIA WITH CHORUS.

Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

Sad mother, weep no more thy children slain;
The trumpets and the battle clangours cease:
Uplift to heaven the loud, the grateful strain,
And hail the dawn of Freedom and of Peace.

CHORUS.

Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

ARIA.

For joy returned, for peace restored,
Lord of all worlds, to thee we raise,
While Slaughter drops his weary sword,
To thee the hymn of gratitude and praise.

CHORUS.

Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

INSCRIPTIONS IN THE GARDENS OF BREMHILL RECTORY.

ON A TREE COMMANDING A VIEW OF THE WHOLE EXTENT OF BOWOOD.

When in thy sight another's vast domain
Spreads its long line of woods, dost thou complain?
Nay, rather thank the God that placed thy state
Above the lowly, but beneath the great!
And still His name with gratitude revere,
Who blessed the Sabbath of thy leisure here.

ON A RURAL SEAT.

Rest, stranger, in this decorated scene,
That hangs its beds of flowers, its slopes so green;
So from the walks of life the weeds remove,
But fix thy better hopes on scenes above.

ON THE FRONT OF A HERMITAGE, NEAR A DIAL.

To mark life's few and fleeting hours
I placed the dial 'midst the flowers,
Which one by one came forth and died,
Still withering by its ancient side.
Mortals, let the sight impart
Its pensive moral to thy heart!

QUIETI ET MUSIS.

Be thine Retirement's peaceful joys,
And a life that makes no noise;
Save when Fancy, musing long,
Wakes her desultory song;
Sounding to the vacant ear,
Like the rill that murmurs near.

FOOTNOTES:

[196] The Cardinal, sent by the Duke of Glo'ster and the High Commissioners, to persuade the Queen to resign her son to them. The dialogue is almost entirely from Speed.

[197] Thebes.

[198] The vale of Avalon was surrounded by waters at the time. King Arthur is described as buried in the island of Avalon. Part of a sculptured lion remains; and it may be observed that Leland, in his "Itinerary," speaks of "Duo leones sub pedibus Arthuri." The masonry over the sacred well, discovered by Mr Warner, is eminently beautiful. It is a singular fact, that the last meeting of the Bible Society was held amidst the august desolation of Glastonbury Abbey.

[199] A celebrated station and city, on the great Roman road from Bath to London; the walls of which, covered with trees, yet remain nearly entire.

[200] The Amphitheatre.

[201] This majestic but dilapidated pile has been repaired at great expense, and with taste and judgment, in every respect consonant to and worthy of its ancient character. These verses were written under the contemplation of this singularly beautiful and unique pile being open again for public worship by a sacred musical performance.

[202] The service by the prayer-book was forbidden.

[203] Seth Ward, Bishop of Salisbury, built and endowed at Salisbury, Collegium Matronarum, the college of matrons, widows of clergymen. They are entertained by each canon during his residence. These lines were written when they were the guests of the author.

[204] He returned to Walton's cottage from the scene of execution of his brave friend, Lord Capel.

[205] Anne, born 1677, and mother of William Hawkins.

[206] Walton died 1683, aged ninety; Morley, the year after, 1684, aged eighty-seven. They are buried in the same Cathedral.

[207] In allusion to Bishop Ken's well-known morning and evening hymns.

[208] Supposed to have been addressed to Bishop Ken, by Princess Mary of Orange, before her marriage with William III., who, but for the interposition of the Bishop, would have broken his engagement to marry her.

[209] See Moore's Life of Sheridan.

[210] The legend on which this ballad is founded, is related in Latin, in the Book of Lacock.

[211] Mount St Michael, in periculo maris, and answering to St Michael's Mount in Cornwall.

[212] This magnificent ruin of the favourite castle of Richard I. is on the banks of the Seine, near Les Andelys, the birth-place of Poussin, and the retreat of Thomas Corneille. A single year sufficed to form its immense fosses, and to raise those walls which might seem to be the structure of a lifetime. When Cœur de Lion saw it finished, he is said to have exclaimed with exultation, "How beautiful she is, this daughter of a year!" It was the last hold of the English in Normandy; and, under the command of Roger de Lacy, long mocked the efforts of Philip Augustus, who came in person to invest it in August 1203. The siege was memorable for its length, the incredible exertions of De Lacy, and the sufferings endured by the besieged until its capture in the following March.—Wiffen's "Memoirs of the House of Russell," vol. i. p. 548.

[213] It is a remarkable coincidence, that the present possessor of Lacock Abbey should be a Talbot.

[214] The Bishop of Gloucester.

THE END.

BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

Transcriber's note

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 35: Was 'Christain' (A Christian loves them; and this holiday)

Page 35: Was 'Christain' (His first pure Christian feelings, hallowing)

Page 43: Was 'mall' ('Judicium metuit sibi mens mali conscia justum.')

Page 76 (Footnote 61): Was 'rythm' (The rhythm of this song is taken from a ballad)

Page 211: Was 'Forgotton' (Forgotten, and Oblivion on our works)

Page 239: Was 'is is' (There is a God, who knows what is best.)

Page 257: Was 'the the' (Lo! houseless o'er the world they stray,)

Page 270: Was 'Cheftain' (This counsel pleased the Chieftain well:)

Page 286: Was 'Iris' (Great Isis, seems herself to stand.)

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