The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles ... with memoir, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan |
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 | The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles |  |
1. 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,
Gazed on the setting sun, as it went down
In glory o'er the distant hills of Greece.
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,
146
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 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.
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 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,
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: 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;
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 passed
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!
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: 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;
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—
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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,
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.
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,
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 cave
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. 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 orb
Is hid, yet far away the cloudy track
Reddens with its departing glory.
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 cave
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. 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 orb
Is hid, yet far away the cloudy track
Reddens with its departing glory.
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Hark!
A voice, and, lo! seven “golden candlesticks,”
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 stood,
Now recognised the same, in the same shape.
His hair was white as snow; his eyes were flame;
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:
A voice, and, lo! seven “golden candlesticks,”
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 stood,
Now recognised the same, in the same shape.
His hair was white as snow; his eyes were flame;
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:
And now, behold, I live for evermore—
For evermore, and have the keys of hell
And death!
I am the first and last; the last and first:
Lo, I am he that liveth, and was dead:
And now, behold, I live for evermore—
For evermore, and have the keys of hell
And death!
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 isle
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;
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 head
Upon the cross: he heard that thrilling voice
Even from the cross, Woman, behold thy son!
Son, look upon thy mother!
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 isle
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,
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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 head
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 long
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 proclaim
Thyself a god—a living god on earth?
Let the pit hide thee! But thou art a god!
Then bid the fury of these flames assuage
Ere they reach thee! Who shrieked?
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 long
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 proclaim
Thyself a god—a living god on earth?
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 ancient and the solitary man
Started from sleep
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The cold gray dawn appeared,
When, standing opposite, with steadfast look,
And in the glimmer of the inmost cave,
He saw a stranger.
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:
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.
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:
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.
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 laid
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 died
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.
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.
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 laid
His hands upon the sick, and they looked up
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Forgot the vows they made; him, too, who died
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,
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:
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 woe
Have done their destined work. The living drops
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!
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;
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 light
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!
Where is the Temple? where Jerusalem?
Ah! wretched city! Famine, war, and woe
Have done their destined work. The living drops
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!
The tender words—dost thou remember them?
Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how oft
Would I have gathered up those little ones,
152
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 light
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!
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!
He founded it upon a rock—a rock,
Which time, the rushing earthquake, or the storm,
Whilst earth endures, shall never shake!
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!
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!
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 voice
Inquired, What vision comes? The seer replied:
There is a throne in heaven, 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,
So red and bright that form!
VOICE.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 voice
Inquired, What vision comes? The seer replied:
There is a throne in heaven, 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
153
So red and bright that form!
Thou seest the throne
Of the Eternal Justice. Look again.
JOHN.
There is a rainbow round about the throne,
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,
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;
And four and twenty elders, clothed in white,
Each having on his head a crown of gold,
Are on those seats.
154
Dost thou not hear a voice?
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, 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 cherubims
Give honour, glory, praise, and thanks to Him
Who sitteth on the throne,—
VOICE.
To Him who lives
For ever and for ever!
155
They fall down,
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!
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 found
To loose the seals, and open that dark book!
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.
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Weep not; but say what follows.
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:
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?
157
I hear the voice,
Of shining mighty troops, about the throne,
Angels, and seraphim, and cherubim,
Ten thousand and ten thousand hierarchies,
Lift up their voices:
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!
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 goes clamouring by; the old man raises
His eyelids, and the vision floats away.
His eyelids, and the vision floats away.
| The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles | |