Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes |
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WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT. |
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
221
WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
Oh! for a cottage on the shady brow
Of this green Island, where the Channel flows
With less tumultuous wave, and sends abroad
The many sails of England to the world,
And beareth to his home the mariner,
Who shouts to view the light blue hills, that dawn
O'er Wight's gay plains; and soon he spies the woods,
That shade its shores, and brighter tints of corn
And pastoral slopes and all their “green delights.”
Advancing gently, 'mid the sleepy tide,
Soon he marks some long-left object clear,
A lofty watch-tower, or some village church,
Or the white parsonage peeping through the trees,
To which, when last beheld, he sighed farewell
With throbbing grief.—These now he hails with joy,
As he steers onward to the well-known shore.
Of this green Island, where the Channel flows
With less tumultuous wave, and sends abroad
The many sails of England to the world,
And beareth to his home the mariner,
Who shouts to view the light blue hills, that dawn
O'er Wight's gay plains; and soon he spies the woods,
That shade its shores, and brighter tints of corn
And pastoral slopes and all their “green delights.”
Advancing gently, 'mid the sleepy tide,
Soon he marks some long-left object clear,
A lofty watch-tower, or some village church,
Or the white parsonage peeping through the trees,
To which, when last beheld, he sighed farewell
222
As he steers onward to the well-known shore.
Oh! for a cottage on the breezy cliff,
That points the crescent of thy harbour, Cowes!
And bears the raptured glance o'er seas and shores—
A boundless prospect, tinted all around
With summer shades of soft ethereal blue!—
O'er the wide waters rise the far-famed downs
Of Sussex; while thy forests, Hampshire, vast,
Spread their dark line, for many a winding mile,
By the blue waves, till, failing, the sight rests
Where yon dim hill-tops overlook the main.
There Purbeck's summits rise, while broader hills,
Marking their grey lines on the forest shade,
Lead back the eye to where Southampton's vale
Pours forth th' abundant wave, and spreads its lawns,
Its jutting slopes, with villas gaily crowned,
Its sheltered cots, the rough wood's shade, whence peers
The village fane 'mid the high foliage:—
Southampton's vale, where lurks the twilight glade,
Whose ancient oaks their branches stretch austere,
And half conceal that Abbey's fretted arch,
As if to guard from eye and hand profane
The mouldering stones, whose pious founder once
Dropped them, green acorns, in this hallowed ground,
To shelter and adorn the sainted walls,
Whose long-forgotten sons mused 'neath their shade,
Blest thoughts of sure Eternity; and now
Leave here all that was mortal of themselves.
Oh! reverence this ground; for it is holy,
Sacred to pious thought; for worldly grace
By the high-gifted poet often praised.
Here winged steps have passed, and brightest thoughts,
Creative as the sun-beam, have up-flown.
Here pensive Gray some sad sweet moments passed,
And breathed a spell that saved these falling walls;
There walks that solemn vision , telling his beads;
Where 'neath the leafy gloom, the Poet's glance
Espied him! Still athwart yon vista dark
Shoots the white sail; still in the sun the waves
Glitter, as when Gray's musing abbot viewed them,
Measuring the moments with his pangs. Oh! pause
Awhile, and shed a melancholy tear
To the departed shade of him, who sung
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave:”
Weep o'er the memory of that wondrous Bard,
That master of the song, whose full-toned harp
Called round him loftiest themes of Fantasy,
Whose voice, rolling on the midnight thunder,
Waked sublimest awe; or played in cadence,
While the Graces danced; or, still oftener, mourned
O'er mortal doom and life's brief vanities,
While early youth and all the train of joy
Would leave their sports, listening the strain that bade
Them woo the languishments of Melancholy.
Farewell! thou mighty master, who, with high
Disdain of vulgar fame, “knew thine own worth
And reverenced the lyre,” and kept thy still
Footstep far away from the thronged path and
Vanity's dull round. Farewell! thou doff'st
Thy mortal weeds, and the same strain sublime,
That moralized th' unstoried lives and deaths
Of villagers, is oft repeated o'er thy grave,
With faltering voice, by those, who walk thy path
From Eton's shades to Stoke, and view the scene
That filled thy youthful eye and charmed thy mind—
Where, years ago, thy “careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain.”—
That points the crescent of thy harbour, Cowes!
And bears the raptured glance o'er seas and shores—
A boundless prospect, tinted all around
With summer shades of soft ethereal blue!—
O'er the wide waters rise the far-famed downs
Of Sussex; while thy forests, Hampshire, vast,
Spread their dark line, for many a winding mile,
By the blue waves, till, failing, the sight rests
Where yon dim hill-tops overlook the main.
There Purbeck's summits rise, while broader hills,
Marking their grey lines on the forest shade,
Lead back the eye to where Southampton's vale
Pours forth th' abundant wave, and spreads its lawns,
Its jutting slopes, with villas gaily crowned,
Its sheltered cots, the rough wood's shade, whence peers
The village fane 'mid the high foliage:—
223
Whose ancient oaks their branches stretch austere,
And half conceal that Abbey's fretted arch,
As if to guard from eye and hand profane
The mouldering stones, whose pious founder once
Dropped them, green acorns, in this hallowed ground,
To shelter and adorn the sainted walls,
Whose long-forgotten sons mused 'neath their shade,
Blest thoughts of sure Eternity; and now
Leave here all that was mortal of themselves.
Oh! reverence this ground; for it is holy,
Sacred to pious thought; for worldly grace
By the high-gifted poet often praised.
Here winged steps have passed, and brightest thoughts,
Creative as the sun-beam, have up-flown.
Here pensive Gray some sad sweet moments passed,
And breathed a spell that saved these falling walls;
There walks that solemn vision , telling his beads;
Where 'neath the leafy gloom, the Poet's glance
224
Shoots the white sail; still in the sun the waves
Glitter, as when Gray's musing abbot viewed them,
Measuring the moments with his pangs. Oh! pause
Awhile, and shed a melancholy tear
To the departed shade of him, who sung
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave:”
Weep o'er the memory of that wondrous Bard,
That master of the song, whose full-toned harp
Called round him loftiest themes of Fantasy,
Whose voice, rolling on the midnight thunder,
Waked sublimest awe; or played in cadence,
While the Graces danced; or, still oftener, mourned
O'er mortal doom and life's brief vanities,
While early youth and all the train of joy
Would leave their sports, listening the strain that bade
Them woo the languishments of Melancholy.
225
Disdain of vulgar fame, “knew thine own worth
And reverenced the lyre,” and kept thy still
Footstep far away from the thronged path and
Vanity's dull round. Farewell! thou doff'st
Thy mortal weeds, and the same strain sublime,
That moralized th' unstoried lives and deaths
Of villagers, is oft repeated o'er thy grave,
With faltering voice, by those, who walk thy path
From Eton's shades to Stoke, and view the scene
That filled thy youthful eye and charmed thy mind—
Where, years ago, thy “careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain.”—
Now let us leave the vale, thus dedicate
To memory, sweet and melancholy,
And trace the landscape o'er yon chalky ridge
To Portsdown, shielding in its concave all
That tract of greyer land, that banks the sea.
On the low point extends the busy port,
Its forts and ramparts rising o'er the main,
And wide o'erlooking all its anchored fleets.
Oh! for the magic pencil of Lorraine!
To give the soft perspective, where the waves
Fade to thin air in tints of mildest blue,
And the dark masts and cobweb-shrouds and lines
Of spiry shipping trace themselves in light.
To memory, sweet and melancholy,
And trace the landscape o'er yon chalky ridge
To Portsdown, shielding in its concave all
That tract of greyer land, that banks the sea.
On the low point extends the busy port,
Its forts and ramparts rising o'er the main,
And wide o'erlooking all its anchored fleets.
226
To give the soft perspective, where the waves
Fade to thin air in tints of mildest blue,
And the dark masts and cobweb-shrouds and lines
Of spiry shipping trace themselves in light.
Midway the sails of various vessels swell,
Gliding their silent course; here the swift-winged
Slant cutter skims the sea; and there the skiff,
Low on the mighty waters, shows a speck,
Invisible, but that its tiny sail
Catches the sunbeam, and, wondrous! tells that
Human life dwells in the moving atom
Amidst the waters. While we gaze, each wave
Threatens to whelm it; and the shores appear
Too distant for its small and feeble wing;
Yet on it goes in safety, and displays
Regular purpose, well-considered rules,
And skill, which guides its weakness through the strength
Of waves, o'er pathless distance, to the sheltering port.
Gliding their silent course; here the swift-winged
Slant cutter skims the sea; and there the skiff,
Low on the mighty waters, shows a speck,
Invisible, but that its tiny sail
Catches the sunbeam, and, wondrous! tells that
Human life dwells in the moving atom
Amidst the waters. While we gaze, each wave
Threatens to whelm it; and the shores appear
Too distant for its small and feeble wing;
Yet on it goes in safety, and displays
Regular purpose, well-considered rules,
And skill, which guides its weakness through the strength
Of waves, o'er pathless distance, to the sheltering port.
227
Oh! that the old Spirit of Song
Would sound his harp from this high aery brow,
And bid its sweet tones languish, till the Nymphs,
That dwell beneath its waves, wake at the strain,
And send up answering music, now scarce heard,
Now lost, now heard again with wondering doubt,
Till, rising slow, a clearer chorus swells
In the soft gale, and makes its voice its own:
Then, the full sounds float over woods and rocks;
And then, descending on the wave, retire,
Die with the 'plaining of the distant tide,
And leave a blessed peace o'er all the soul.
Would sound his harp from this high aery brow,
And bid its sweet tones languish, till the Nymphs,
That dwell beneath its waves, wake at the strain,
And send up answering music, now scarce heard,
Now lost, now heard again with wondering doubt,
Till, rising slow, a clearer chorus swells
In the soft gale, and makes its voice its own:
Then, the full sounds float over woods and rocks;
And then, descending on the wave, retire,
Die with the 'plaining of the distant tide,
And leave a blessed peace o'er all the soul.
Raise such a strain, O Nymphs! whose spell may spread
A sweeter grace on all the eye beholds,
That the fine vision of these seas and shores
May paint their living colours on the mind,
With charm so forceful, as Time cannot fade.
Then Memory with their own truth shall give
The blue shades of the main, under these dark
And waving boughs upon the steep; the mast
Now seen, or lost, in the smooth bay, as choose
The dancing leaves; the grey fort on the strand,
Its low, round tower o'ercanopied with elms,
The pacing sentinel, beneath their gloom,
Safe from the noon-day sun. Then would she paint
The slopes, that swell beside thy harbour, Cowes,
With pasture gay and oft with groves embrowned,
That amid veiling leaves, half show the villa,
Gay mimic of a cottage, or the trim crest
Of some proud castle, falsely old. Thy town
Would still be seen to climb the craggy bank;
Thy vale, withdrawing from the sunny bay,
Would wind beneath these green hills' shade, where droops
The sail becalmed, that on Medina's tide
Bears the full freight to Newport. Memory then
Would give these nearer scenes of gentle beauty,
Those spreading waters and the dim-seen coast,
Fading into the sky. Then, gentle Nymphs,
Borne far upon the winds, my song might tell
Of your sweet haunts, perchance in Indian seas—
Of them, who dance before the rising sun,
With songs of joyance breathing spicy gales.
Methinks, I hear their far-off notes complain:
“Oh! ne'er yet tripp'd we on the yellow sands,
That Fame says base the cliffs of English land;
Never yet danced we on those heights, that send
Airs from their mantling woods; never yet trod
The ridges of her stormy waves, nor watched
The tender azure melt into the green,
Then deepen to the purple's changing shades,
Beneath the sleepy indolence of noon.
For such delights we'll leave our splendid clime,
Our groves of cassia and our coral bowers,
Our diamond-beaming caves and golden beds,
'Broidered with rubies, with transparent pearl,
And emeralds, that steal the sea-wave's hue,
And shells of rainbow-tint, fairy pavilions:
All but our tortoise cars; they shall bear us
O'er many a curling surge and chasm deep,
Farther than where the blended sea and sky
Hide from our sight the cooler, better oceans.
That way seek we those temperate islands, now
Wearing green Neptune's livery, crowned with oak,
And terraced with bright cliffs; such Oberon,
The fairy, told of, to win our music.
'Twas a charmful moon-time, and he perched him
In a purple shell, he called his mantle,
And basked him in the pure light, and then asked
A lullaby to soothe his care, for he
Was sad and weary, and had, all the day,
Toiled on a north-beam; and now Titania,
For whom he sought, had left the spicy steeps
Of India, on a bat's wing, at twilight.
We asked a story of the northern clime
To pay our melody, and I remember
It told of castles moving on the waves,
Of a soft emerald throne upon an isle,
Beyond the falling sun, and other wonders,
That we, all night, could well have listened him,
But that he craved our pity and our song.
On that we breathed a soul into our shells,
And charmed him into slumber!”
A sweeter grace on all the eye beholds,
That the fine vision of these seas and shores
May paint their living colours on the mind,
With charm so forceful, as Time cannot fade.
Then Memory with their own truth shall give
The blue shades of the main, under these dark
And waving boughs upon the steep; the mast
228
The dancing leaves; the grey fort on the strand,
Its low, round tower o'ercanopied with elms,
The pacing sentinel, beneath their gloom,
Safe from the noon-day sun. Then would she paint
The slopes, that swell beside thy harbour, Cowes,
With pasture gay and oft with groves embrowned,
That amid veiling leaves, half show the villa,
Gay mimic of a cottage, or the trim crest
Of some proud castle, falsely old. Thy town
Would still be seen to climb the craggy bank;
Thy vale, withdrawing from the sunny bay,
Would wind beneath these green hills' shade, where droops
The sail becalmed, that on Medina's tide
Bears the full freight to Newport. Memory then
Would give these nearer scenes of gentle beauty,
Those spreading waters and the dim-seen coast,
Fading into the sky. Then, gentle Nymphs,
Borne far upon the winds, my song might tell
Of your sweet haunts, perchance in Indian seas—
Of them, who dance before the rising sun,
With songs of joyance breathing spicy gales.
229
“Oh! ne'er yet tripp'd we on the yellow sands,
That Fame says base the cliffs of English land;
Never yet danced we on those heights, that send
Airs from their mantling woods; never yet trod
The ridges of her stormy waves, nor watched
The tender azure melt into the green,
Then deepen to the purple's changing shades,
Beneath the sleepy indolence of noon.
For such delights we'll leave our splendid clime,
Our groves of cassia and our coral bowers,
Our diamond-beaming caves and golden beds,
'Broidered with rubies, with transparent pearl,
And emeralds, that steal the sea-wave's hue,
And shells of rainbow-tint, fairy pavilions:
All but our tortoise cars; they shall bear us
O'er many a curling surge and chasm deep,
Farther than where the blended sea and sky
Hide from our sight the cooler, better oceans.
That way seek we those temperate islands, now
Wearing green Neptune's livery, crowned with oak,
And terraced with bright cliffs; such Oberon,
230
'Twas a charmful moon-time, and he perched him
In a purple shell, he called his mantle,
And basked him in the pure light, and then asked
A lullaby to soothe his care, for he
Was sad and weary, and had, all the day,
Toiled on a north-beam; and now Titania,
For whom he sought, had left the spicy steeps
Of India, on a bat's wing, at twilight.
We asked a story of the northern clime
To pay our melody, and I remember
It told of castles moving on the waves,
Of a soft emerald throne upon an isle,
Beyond the falling sun, and other wonders,
That we, all night, could well have listened him,
But that he craved our pity and our song.
On that we breathed a soul into our shells,
And charmed him into slumber!”
“In the bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie the ruins of Nettley Abbey; there may be richer and greater houses, but the abbot is content with his situation. See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade of those old trees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking slowly, and bidding his beads for the souls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile, that lies beneath him.” Letter of Mr. Gray to Mr. Nichols, Nov. 19, 1764.—Mason's Life of Gray, p. 381.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |