 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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HUCKNALL TORKARD.
[“Every sight and sound seemed calculated to summon touching recollections of poor Byron. The chime was from the village spires of Hucknall Torkard, beneath which his remains lie buried.”]—
Irving.
Oh! what a power in sights and sounds about
Earth's hallowed ground—eloquent battle-fields,
Wrecks of monastic pomp, or crumbling halls—
Sad, haunted places, where heroic veins
Have poured their crimson out in honor's cause,
Or lonely grave that holds some mighty heart
In voiceless custody.
Earth's hallowed ground—eloquent battle-fields,
Wrecks of monastic pomp, or crumbling halls—
Sad, haunted places, where heroic veins
Have poured their crimson out in honor's cause,
Or lonely grave that holds some mighty heart
In voiceless custody.
Such thoughts were thine,
Immortal pilgrim from our western world!
When Hucknall Torkard, on the breeze of morn,
Sent from its gray and venerable spire
A deep-toned mellow chime:—another voice
Found echo in the chambers of his heart
While listening, with charmed ear, to that old bell—
A still mysterious voice that told of bard,
At rest beneath the pavement of the church,
Who needed not heraldic blazonry
To make his name undying.
Immortal pilgrim from our western world!
When Hucknall Torkard, on the breeze of morn,
Sent from its gray and venerable spire
A deep-toned mellow chime:—another voice
Found echo in the chambers of his heart
While listening, with charmed ear, to that old bell—
A still mysterious voice that told of bard,
At rest beneath the pavement of the church,
Who needed not heraldic blazonry
To make his name undying.
On the spot
Through dim, stained glass of gothic window poured
Attempered, softened light—oh! contrast strange
To wild and dazzling radiance that around
The noble bard of Britain fell in life;
Warming the buried grandeur of the past,
Till dim, dismembered empires from their sleep,
Re-clothed with majesty, arose once more,
And icy gyves, by the pale tyrant forged,
Dropped from the bony arms of buried power,
Dissolved like sunlit dew.
Through dim, stained glass of gothic window poured
Attempered, softened light—oh! contrast strange
To wild and dazzling radiance that around
The noble bard of Britain fell in life;
Warming the buried grandeur of the past,
Till dim, dismembered empires from their sleep,
Re-clothed with majesty, arose once more,
And icy gyves, by the pale tyrant forged,
280
Dissolved like sunlit dew.
A landscape fair
Before the vision of the pilgrim spread,
In all its features whispering of peace.
The vale of Newstead, with its silver waves,
Tall patriarch oaks in which the rook found home,
Lawns populous with hardy English flowers,
Memorials of knighthood and the monk,
And hamlets sending up blue, smoky wreaths,
Were objects unto which poetic heart
Might cling through changing years, and never feel
The burden of satiety:—and yet
The wayward lord of such an Eden bright
Went forth in youth to battle with the world,
Its passions and its perils—feel the shaft
From bow of ambushed slander darkly sent—
Hear the loud cry of envy's craven brood,
Eclipsed in brightness by his young renown,
Or read the lying verse of scribbling hate,
Until his heart, by nature kind, became
A fount, like Mara, bitter:—then he roved
Far from his household gods and princely towers—
His genius waking wonder in all lands,
While an abiding sorrow made the locks
That clustered round his glorious forehead gray,
And woke, alas! although his years were few,
A yearning for the shroud.
Before the vision of the pilgrim spread,
In all its features whispering of peace.
The vale of Newstead, with its silver waves,
Tall patriarch oaks in which the rook found home,
Lawns populous with hardy English flowers,
Memorials of knighthood and the monk,
And hamlets sending up blue, smoky wreaths,
Were objects unto which poetic heart
Might cling through changing years, and never feel
The burden of satiety:—and yet
The wayward lord of such an Eden bright
Went forth in youth to battle with the world,
Its passions and its perils—feel the shaft
From bow of ambushed slander darkly sent—
Hear the loud cry of envy's craven brood,
Eclipsed in brightness by his young renown,
Or read the lying verse of scribbling hate,
Until his heart, by nature kind, became
A fount, like Mara, bitter:—then he roved
Far from his household gods and princely towers—
His genius waking wonder in all lands,
While an abiding sorrow made the locks
That clustered round his glorious forehead gray,
And woke, alas! although his years were few,
A yearning for the shroud.
Oh! that his life
Beneath the shades of Newstead might have passed—
No chord of his unequalled harp deranged,
Wedded to one in boyhood's hour adored
With love that knew no limit to its strength—
His Mary—Annesley's bright Morning Star.
Beneath the shades of Newstead might have passed—
No chord of his unequalled harp deranged,
Wedded to one in boyhood's hour adored
With love that knew no limit to its strength—
His Mary—Annesley's bright Morning Star.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |