The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles ... with memoir, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan |
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INTRODUCTORY CANTO. |
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 | The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles |  |
81
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,)
And thee forget, his country—thee, his home!
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,)
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;
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,
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.
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
82
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,
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.
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!
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,
Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,
Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,
Brightest and least of all its kind, that spins
Its twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,
Like a gem of flitting light!
Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,
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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:
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.
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:
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, 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,
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 heart
Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea
Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke
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!
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 there
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, 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,
To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,
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.”
Where the last Saxon, canonized, lay,
And every trace has vanished, 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,
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 heart
Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea
84
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!
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 there
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, 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,
85
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 laid
Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,
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 eye
Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheld
At distance the due rites, nor wept, nor spake,
And now is gone!
Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,
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 eye
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
Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms
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 banks
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.
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
86
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 banks
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.
With crests and shields the same,
A lion frowning on each helmet's cone,
Like the two brothers famed in ancient song,
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 tent
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!
From the vast moving host is heard one shout,
Conquest or death!—as now the sun ascends,
And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur
Flings its first beam—one mighty shout is heard,
Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!—to York!
A lion frowning on each helmet's cone,
Like the two brothers famed in ancient song,
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 tent
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,
87
From the vast moving host is heard one shout,
Conquest or death!—as now the sun ascends,
And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur
Flings its first beam—one mighty shout is heard,
Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!—to York!
| The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles | |