The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
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The bard, and minor poems | ||
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
A VISION OF THE MOON.
And dreams are children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air.”
Shakspeare.
When night hath set upon the earth, and caused our cares to cease;
When midnight, brooding o'er the plain, breathes stillness and repose,
And calms and soothes the raging main, as dew the breeze-stirr'd rose;
When through the woods more softly creep the winds which stirr'd the day,
Or on their pinions lull'd to sleep, thus dream the hours away;
And feeds upon the earth-born things, the victims of his force;—
There is an holy, hallow'd hour for feeling and for love,
When Nature wantons in her power, and draws our thoughts above;
When visions float across the soul, and fast in their embrace,
Unaw'd by Reason's stern control, our thoughts are lost in space.
And wander'd through its halls of mirth, unfetter'd and alone;
It seem'd like to our world below in structure and in form,
Yet still, and calm, and undisturb'd by tempest or by storm.
The beings who inhabited its wide and sunny land
Seem'd to my dream of mightier mould than aught on earthly strand:
Their natures were of nobler stamp, their thoughts of wider scan,
And more unlimited in range than those of earthly man.
In palaces of gold they dwelt, yet there was not their sleep,
But 'neath the glorious canopy of heaven's o'er-arching steep;
For theirs was one unvaried clime of brightness and of heat,
And ne'er upon its parched soil had Winter set his feet.
The things of clay, the sons of dust, and all its boasted charms:
How paltry did earth now appear, a speck upon the sky—
A dusky spot on heaven's bright face, to stain its majesty!
Who would have thought that man, so proud, so mighty in his sphere,
All-powerful, all-commanding man, should wholly disappear;
He who hath done such wond'rous things, and vaunted in his pride
All things in earth and sky were his, and in the ocean wide!
The lord of many nations, and the conqueror of the wave,
Where now were all thy bulwarks, thy armaments of power,
Which triumph on the waters unto earth's remotest shore?
And where thine Autumn's smiling fields, thy harvest rolling bright,
Which gently wave beneath the blast in mockery of its might?
Thy blooming fields of fertile spring, thy regal mountain oak,
Which from its seat so long hath braved the whirlwind's fiercest stroke?
And where the wise who, by their nod, light up thy gifted strand?
Thy men of North, thy men of South, are nowhere to be seen,
All centred in that “dusky spot,” as if they ne'er had been.
The scorch'd plains of the distant East, and Afric's dreary wastes,
The Arabs' land, so oft up-turn'd by the Simoon's sweeping blasts;
Kamtschatka, lord of Norland snows, its sons the scoff of men,
The first-born child of the misty storms, and knight of the hurricane.
The West, the East, the North, where now are all your boundless climes—
And thou, sweet South, so oft gone o'er in the poet's glowing rhymes?
The Sea, whose caverns ne'er have been unveil'd to human ken,
Where lifeless forms have oft “repair'd, and will repair again,”—
Where were you all, when from Night's lamp I gazed in quest of each,
In that other orb, from burning Ind to Lapland's sounding beach?
And nought might now distinguish you save a bright and dusky stain,
The bright the scorching southern fields, the dark the watery main;
Which spangled o'er the brighten'd face of earth's unbounded range.
The dews before the sun's hot ray, or a bubble on the wind,—
The joys we felt in dawn of youth, when all our thoughts were bliss,
A shower upon a Summer's eve, the rapture of a kiss;
Yea, even as these, 'tis vanish'd, fled—its fancies all are gone,
No vestige on my soul is left save memory alone;
And there, long as life's lamp may burn, imprinted shall it be,
A phantom of the bygone years—a treasure unto me!
This and the following poems are placed for the most part in the order of their composition, many of them having been written eight or ten years ago. The greater part, however, are of a later date.
TO THE EAGLE.
And swift in thy course as the blast of the night;
Thy proud-glancing eye beameth bright as the sheen
Of the orb, which thou seek'st, in yon lovely serene;
No bird is so fierce, and so stately as thou.
And rouses from slumber the deep mountain floods;
But thou, beauteous bird, sailest forth through the sky,
And towers in delight whilst the storm passeth by—
For the eagle is lord of the wing'd of the earth,
Then why should the tempest disturb his wild mirth?
And the sun passeth on to his couch in the west—
The wrath of the torrent is changed into smiles,
And the azure-spread clouds into light-beaming isles;
And, see! how the full-breasted bird riseth up
To sip from the heavens as a god from his cup!
And seems to rejoice in the sun's burning ray;
Not the war-steed, nor lightning, go swifter than he,
Nor a thought o'er the mind, nor a wave o'er the sea,—
You almost might deem that his home was on high,
So proudly and gladly he sweeps through the sky.
The poet, the warrior, the king in his state;
The brave, the triumphant, we liken to thee;
The bold, and the mighty, the noble, the free;
Yea, all that is noblest and best in our land,
We liken to thee, glorious bird of command!
And the fearful young doves closer creep in their nest;
The ravens are roused from the time-scorning rock,
And the wind-mocking deer rushes forth from his flock;
Even the fierce, lordly lion crawls back to his lair,
And growls out a curse on the King of the air!
And the sun had gone down in his raiment of light;
And the glory that circled around him is fled,
Like the light of an eye that is glassy and dead;
Even so, for a moment, our thoughts brightly soar:
Like the eagle they fade, and we see them no more.
MARY.
And soft, and sweet, and deeply musical!
Thy form—love never gazed on one more perfect,
More graceful, chaste, more delicately full;
And when I look upon thy rounded waist,
Imaged and moulded as from fairy land,
The splendour of th' enchantment fills my soul!
Gliding on summer lake, is half so gentle,
Thy neck hath a diviner, purer lustre,
Thy swelling bosom richer loveliness.
Thy step so light and soft, the full-blown rose
Would scarcely crumble underneath the pressure;
And, had'st thou dwelt in forest solitudes,
Like to those fabled maidens who, of old,
Hunted the wild deer in fair Dian's train,—
No gentle antelope on mountain heights,
Or youthful roebuck 'mong the golden heath,
Could bound along with softer elegance.
Passing for ever o'er its sunny surface?
The blush of love, or joy, or sympathy,
Chasten'd and pure as heaven's at early morn?
The varying shades, now mildly pale, and sad,
Now sweet and cheerful as a summer sky,
Now full of that strange beauty which is given
By deep and strong emotion, hot and glowing,
And ruth, and woe, and tenderness, that give
Such loveliness to woman—heaven-born woman!
Tremble at every touch, or the fair rose
Drooping beneath the dew, or weeping willow,
Or ocean in a shower, or heaven at twilight,
Imparts not to man's heart such imaged sadness,
Glad even though sorrowful, like smiles through tears,
As spring from lovely woman's warm emotion!
Which men so love to gaze on, and which tells
More of a God than all the orbs of heaven;
Her eye, so darkly beautiful, and rich
In youth's mild fire, and passionately bright,
Would light a realm, and prompt the coldest heart!
I know not which of Nature's images
May serve to picture them, for nought is there
Through forest, field, or garden, that can vie
In mild and melting warmth, and rose-red beauty,
With the soft lips of this most lovely maiden.
From the dark clustering locks that crowd along
Thy lofty blue-vein'd brow, to the small foot,
Graceful, and light, and exquisitely form'd,—
I know not of a speck in face or form,
To dim the dear perfection of thy beauty!
The varying eloquence, and magic charm
Of that strange, unknown essence, which kind Heaven
Has given to all, but unto thee most freely,—
But that I cannot: for to speak of this,—
Of all the intellectual joy and bliss
That I have felt from its outpouring stores,
Would claim an angel's pen, dipped in the fire,
Burning, intense, of heaven's far-stretching lightnings!
The wide and heaving sea divides us now,
And long must it roll on ere I behold thee!
Yet never, never, wheresoe'er I roam,
Whether in mine own land, or far-off shores,
Beneath the burning sun of tropic climes,
Or 'mid the icy temples of the North,
Can I forget thy name, or cease to love thee!
And should I ne'er be doomed to see thee more,
There, in the stranger land, I'll love thee still;
And on the bed of death, where darkness broods,
The memory of the past will soothe my spirit,—
The image of thy form will float around me—
Beauteous and lovely as in days of yore!
And, dying, I will breathe thy holy name.
Mary! beloved of my soul—Farewell!
Yet, once again, that sad, wild word—Farewell!
WRITTEN ON ARTHUR'S SEAT.
And think and meditate!”
Anon.
Half hid among the golden, gorgeous clouds,
Which, as if sorrowful to see him go,
Cluster and cling around the glorious orb,
Gathering new charms from him, like a young mother,
And smiling in its laughing, cherub face.
This is an hour of bliss: all earth is calm—
No human voice is heard—and every tree,
And flower, and green field, stretching far beneath,
And stream, and hedgerow, and sweet cottage home,
Village, and mountain side, alike are bathed
In one wide flood of full and dazzling splendour.
The lark is up on high, chanting to heaven
His song of lofty praise; the linnet too,
(That meek and beauteous bird,) warbles his lay
Of love and gladness in the distant wood;
And all the face of fair and boundless heaven,
As if in unison with this deep joy,
Is one bright, glorious, gladdening, blissful smile!
The heaven-inspired and passionate child of song,
Who, as you sun, lightened up rural life,
And threw a shade of splendour o'er the land:
The peasant-poet, who in gladness walked,
Encircled with delight, enrobed in joy,
The glory of his country—Burns, was wont
To lie him down upon this mountain height,
And mourn his hapless and untoward doom!
Here at the dawn of morn, or evening fall,
Did the inspired and heaven-born peasant sit,
And mark the rising and the setting sun;
And many a bright and burning thought, I ween,
Has that proud bard found on this lofty cliff!
How varied, how magnificent, how grand!
Sea, valley, mountain, forest, haughty rock—
Heaven's stateliest, loveliest,proudest gifts are here,
To charm, astonish, and delight the eye!
There, in stern dignity, Edina towers,
The stately “Edinborough throned on crags,”
And from the gloomy mass her castle rears
Its tall and lofty front, majestical,
As if to show afar to Britain's foes,
That science reigns not in proud state alone,
But brave and manly hearts, and powerful arms,
Are centred here to shield and guard her shores.
Lovely amid their rage! the towering waves
Seem in the distance as of gold, and glow
Beneath the farewell splendour of the sun,
Like bright young hopes so soon to sink in woe.
Oh! what imaginings arise within,
When we behold thee, melancholy main!
When we reflect upon the wondrous things,
The wrecks of stately ships, the gems, the pearls,
The wealth, the awful and the ghastly dead,
Gather'd, and hoarded up with greedy care,
Within thy dark and dreary depths below,
Or in thy coral caves and rocky caverns!
Enrobed in mist, upstretching to the sky,
Ben-Nevis proudly rears its giant head,
In solitary pride, and regal might!
There, too, the famous, far-off Grampians lie,
Circled about by heaven's own glorious blue,
Half veiling from dim sight the hundred hills,
Vast, bleak, stupendous, dimly seen beyond!
Emblems of lofty hope, ambition wild,
Which soar in proud sublimity afar!
The fruitful valleys of the Lothians lie—
One mighty sea of splendour. Church, and tower,
And distant castle bathed in liquid light,
Are scatter'd in calm loveliness around;
And the soft, distant, mournful evening bell,
So full of music and melodious sounds—
All here are join'd, t' enchant and charm the soul,
To teach in Nature's wild, harmonious works,
A living, moving, pre-existent God!
The mists of evening gather round my brow;
The landscape, late so beautiful, is dimm'd
By the on-coming darkness; and blue heaven
Each moment gains a deeper, darker hue.
The eternal sea utters a sullen sound:
The distant mountains fade away from sight;
The happy valleys now no longer smile;
The plaining streams look mournfully on high,
The city's noise is hush'd, not even the hum
Of congregated voices, and the crowd,
Can here be heard; the palace and the tower,
The habitations of the great, the low,
The rich, the poor, are mingled all together,
And wreaths of curling smoke roll thick above,
Like the dense vapours of embattling hosts.
And nature lies enrobed in majesty—
Who, when the flowing gales are sweeping on,
And mountains mingle with the azure skies,
Would live in lowly vales, and waste his days
In clogging sloth, and still inglorious ease?
Let him ascend the mountain's height, and gaze
Abroad on earth's wide, thronging, matchless forms!
And, if for his dull soul these have no charm,
No high emotion e'er will kindle there,
No kind, no gentle thought will ever glow
Within the dreary caverns of his breast!
FRAGMENT. FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.
[OMITTED]And the heavens were shadow'd over as a dead man in his shroud;
And, onward driven by the furious storm, the clouds swept through the sky,
As rolls within its bony cave the frenzied madman's eye.
Yea, horribly and grim they roll'd along the bellowing blast,
As rolls about a mighty ship bereft of sail and mast;
And fitfully the sun shone forth with a wild and ghastly gleam,
Fireless and cold, as a dead man's eye in the lonely murderer's dream;
And straggling clouds that had put on the gloomy garb of night,
Seem'd fiends and demons burst from hell, to my distemper'd sight.
I wander'd through this wilderness, whose limits had no bound,—
A drear and boundless wilderness, which, far as eye could see,
Was encircled by the dimness of the heaven's immensity.
Anxious as when, in dreams, starts up the sleeper from his trance;
An eager and a searching glance o'er that vast wild I cast,
As eager and as keen as though that look had been my last.
But only three black castle walls, most miserably bare;
No weed, no shrub, no wild-flower cast its verdure o'er the gloom,
And all the stones were mouldered, like bones within the tomb;
And yet these weedless, mossless walls stood gazing up on high,
And seem'd as firm as proudest towers that ever mocked the sky;
And nigh, two rotten, leafless trees stood staring on each other,
And there they hiss'd with the hissing wind as brothers to a brother;
And I felt as a little child doth feel, when it looks on the raving sea;
For oh, cold, and sad, and withering was that desolateness to me.
I went as if my hope in heaven depended on my haste.
For I sicken'd at the dreariness I had beheld that day.
And still the clouds were o'er the sky, and still the storms raved on,—
You might have deem'd hell's hosts were here, with their lord Apollyon.
And still another day and night I buffeted along,
And still no human face I saw those desert wilds among.
On the third night, way-worn and sad, I laid me down to rest,
The frowning heavens my canopy, my bed the desert waste;
And visions strange came over me, like sunbeams o'er the sea,
Which, ere my tale is finished, shall all narrated be.
Like an infant's face was the smiling sky, so lovingly it shone!
The godlike sun, in glory there, walk'd o'er his azure course;
And the balmy breeze was odour-fill'd from its own sweet unknown source:
Perfumes, which seem'd as if they were from some sweet garden nigh,
Came full upon the burden'd air, as love-thoughts on a sigh.
And sweeter wax'd the odorous gale as the wilderness I sped:
'Twas strange as if soft words had come from the lips of the mould'ring dead.
A glorious sight, which yet doth dwell like heaven within my breast;—
It was the first green lovely thing, that yet had struck my sight,
And I felt as a loosen'd captive feels when he looks on heaven's bless'd light;
I ran as runs the wild-deer when he hears the clarion ring,
Or the Arab's thirsty war-horse when he snorts the desert spring.
Like a lovely herb which angels love it stood in grandeur there.
I thought on the rose and the violet, and I thought on the hare-bell blue,
And the sensitive plant, and anemone with its cup of silver dew;
And I thought on the tulip and hyacinth, and the flowers beneath the wave,
And the poison-staying asphodel erst sown on the dead man's grave;
And I thought on all earth's fragrant flowers, and many and sweet are they—
Of flowers of passion, and scent, and love, which breathe in the poet's lay:
But, oh! dearer, sweeter, lovelier far, was that odour-breathing flower,
Which shed such perfume, faint and deep, the dreary desert o'er!
A soft, a rich, and golden shade, and bright as a moonfill'd stream;
And a warm and odorous scent breathed up, like a breeze of the gentle west,
And a rosy glow tinged every leaf, like the blush on a maiden's breast;
It seem'd as a rare and beauteous flower just dropt from the summer sky,
And a dew-drop dwelt in its rosy cup, like the tear in an angel's eye.
Gentle, and soft, and musical as the breathing of a child;
And its crystal depths no eye could pierce though clear as the moonbeams light,
And its heaving breast was full and fair as a virgin's bosom bright;
And the delicate murmuring melody, which at every throb was heard,
Was deeper, sweeter, more intense, than e'er was sung by bird.
And I knelt me down by that lovely flower, and I knelt by that crystal spring,
And I drank from that stream whose melody was deeper than bird might sing;
To the golden rim of the stately plant, I gave one fervent kiss,
For I could not help but deeply love this flower of the wilderness.
And again my spirit soar'd away to the land of thought and dream;
For the odour of that gentle herb dwelt sweetly in my breast,
And the music of the fountain near, lull'd me to peace and rest;
And I dreamt (so strange are all our dreams, so foolish, and so vain)
That all the glories I had seen were phantoms of the brain—
The wild unmeaning phantoms of the weak and wandering mind,
Which float along with our dreamy thoughts like vapours with the wind!
A glittering thought, a bright-hued dream, as empty as the air!
The things we see we know not of—we know not how we live—
We know not how the sun, and moon, and the stars such glory give.
A thousand things are on the earth, in the air, and in the sea,
Yet e'er to weak and foolish man have they been deep mystery;
And all we know in this selfish world, is that life is a desert drear,
And that sin, and sorrow, and gnawing care, and anger and pale lipp'd fear,
And that pride, wealth, power, are only walls, all rotten, black, and bare,
Which stand alone in nakedness with their heads in sky and air;
And that men resemble the leafless trees which on each other hiss,
And again are hiss'd and groan'd upon by the storms of the wilderness;
And that beauty, virtue, innocence, are like a lovely flower,
One only, solitary sweet, the raging desert o'er;
And that faith, and peace, and charity, are like a crystal spring,
Which to the sad and sorrowing heart deep melody doth bring;
That on this earth we crawl about, the phantoms of a breath,
The subjects of the mighty king, the giant conqueror—Death.
DEDICATORY LINES, TO ------.
Even in its wildest, most fantastic moods:
Dreams of our childhood's hours, of joy and hope,
Dwell in the soul through years of grief and pain.
I who have deeply felt, as poets feel—
Have often, by the midnight lamp, in gloom
And over-mastering melancholy, thought
Upon the happy, joyous days that once
Were unto my glad heart as heavenly food!
The lovely woods where wild doves rear their home,
The fields all clothed in daisied loveliness,
The mighty sea in its enraptur'd mirth,
The mountain streams murmuring their lonely song:
All that was known to me in boyhood's years
Live yet—a hallow'd splendour, in my soul,
A sea of glory, kindling all my thoughts.
And was their no one, in those blissful hours,
To drink of that deep joy which nature gives?
Was there no eye cast up with mine to heaven,
To worship its bright host of stars, and moon,
And glorious sun, moving in majesty?
Was it alone I saw its setting joy,
Its golden radiance, as it sunk from sight—
Its gorgeous beauty as it rose at morn,
Like some proud monarch from his bridal couch
Was it alone I gazed on heaven's blue wastes,
The silv'ry fretwork of bright moving clouds?
Was it alone I walked on the green hills,
And loved the majesty of nature's works
Which crowd in grandeur 'round my own loved home?
Oh think not that a heart attuned as mine,
Should be so selfish in its deepest joys!
An angel from the heavens, most beautiful;
I see her now—her eye full of strange love—
Large and magnificent, as eye may be;
An eye which passeth to the soul of man
And bindeth the proud gazer to her love,
Fastening into his soul, his heart, his peace;
An eye, full of most chasten'd pride and joy,
And dove-like modesty, and music deep,
And beaming that still charm which winneth hearts.
She was most beautiful unto the eye!
She loved the whole vast universe—a bird
Or modest herb—a rose, or violet,
Or gentle lily, (white as her own hand
And heaving bosom,) or the hare-bell blue.
All were to her as sister-children dear,
Claiming her love, her care, her tenderness!—
She loved them, and I loved them, for they were
So beautiful, so sweet, and gentle too,
So full of deep and modest loveliness,
That he who saw in these no passing charm,
No work of heaven's omnipotence and glory,
Scarce could love rosy lips, and violet eyes,
And lily bosoms fair, and sun-flower forms!
Even in the waywardness of youthful hopes;
And as the ivy, growing in its strength,
So in my growing years, hath her bright form,
With its associations of young bliss,
Entwined around my heart in holy love.
Thou hast fair maiden grown in loveliness:
Thine eye hath still the same proud, conquering charm,
Thy form the same most queen-like stateliness:
Thy voice, the same deep, eloquent melody,
Thy lips, the same fair, bright and roseate hue;
Thy cheek, the same full bloom and tenderness,
Which my young heart, in boyhood's early years,
Prized with such adoration and deep love!
Hath gathered a fresh lustre with thy years.
A lamp which dwelleth in some sacred shrine,
The sun still glorious through the clustering clouds,
The face of beauty through the shrouding veil,
Heaven's azure from some forest, black and dark,
A sparkling stream at distance 'mong the hills,
The glow-worm in a dell by midnight gloom,—
Shine not so sweetly to the gazer's eye,
As thy bright mind from out its lovely sphere,
Shedding a splendour and a joy around,
Like that which Sol darts from his throne at noon!
Inspirer of my fancy, and my dreams;—
I dedicate these lines!
NATURE.
Byron.
Ripas et vacuum nemus
Mirari libet.
Horace, Od. III.
Flowers, rivers, mountains, trees, have been to me
As gods to them of old, a hope and love;
And oft has stern contempt and bitter scorn
Gather'd within mine eye, and on my brow,
Whilst thinking of the coldness of vain man
Who loves not Nature's charms, but idle gold.
So much of grandeur and of love away!
Oh, that the everlasting hills and wilds,
And forests and proud rivers, thus should be
Unloved and scoff'd by man's uncaring eye!
Full of his own base, clinging selfishness,
Which twineth as a serpent round his soul,
Or ivy to the drooping mountain-ash,
He coldly looks on Nature's majesty!
I oft have wept e'en o'er a little flower,
I oft have wept to see the lily hand
Of maiden fair, snatch with unfeeling haste
The gentle, lovely rose from its sweet bower;
For then I thought of her young beauty's bloom,
How soon the hand of death might pluck it thence.
Moving in sullen, vast magnificence,
Like some proud monarch from the battle's wreck,
And almost cursed it for its ceaseless roar.
I have seen men walking on mountain tops,
And o'er the lofty heights of sky-loved cliffs
That laugh'd in bitter mirth upon the storms
Raging in idle wrath and hate below,
In whose dark bosoms no high feelings glowed.
I have seen men, who, on the river's banks,
Could see no moral in the rolling flood.
I have seen men who gazed on heaven's far host
Of shining worlds—the bright, celestial stars—
And saw in them no vast Omnipotence.
And I have seen the inspired of soul, whose eye
Compass'd, as eagle's doth, the verdant plain,
Drinking in every glory which was there.
I have walked with them at the midnight hour,
And mark'd their quivering lip and gather'd brow,
Whilst gazing on the glorious vastitude
I have been with them on the mountain top,
And heard the bursting word of swelling joy,
Whilst contemplating o'er the far expanse;
The proud, the mighty, and the vast, which lay
In dim magnificence enrobed around!
With them I have beheld the gorgeous clouds
Which came and kiss'd the sun ere he should go
Down to his realms of warmth, and love, and bliss!
The sea, which in its giant majesty
Doth roll and heave for ever o'er its bed.
The waving of the gloomy forest trees,
Like plumes of battling warriors in hosts!
And oh, how far, how wide apart, are these
From the vile mass that worships nought but gold!
I sooner would be one who in the fields,
And on the mountain, and by ocean's shores,
And in a little flower, and in a star,
And on a river's fair and grassy banks,
And 'mid the fury of the storm, could see
A glory and a grandeur everywhere,
Than be the mightiest monarch that ere held
Sceptre and power o'er an obsequious world!
When gazing on their parent Nature's stores.
A doting mother loves not more her child,
Nor thinks it lovelier in the calm of sleep—
A lover sees not in his charmer's eyes,
Nor in her sylph-like form, or queen-like air,
A deeper, wilder, more enchanting joy,
Than do the lovers of earth's majesty
See in each holy form that dwelleth there.
Shaped out in rocks, in mountains, and in clouds?
Show me an eye, in passion, or in love,
Lovelier than is yon glorious evening star!
Show me a bosom whiter than the snow
Which gleams in winter on the mountain height!
Show me a cheek of fairer bloom and shade
Than blushing sky at morn—or modest rose!
So deeply, passionately musical,
So full of fainting, warbling harmony,
Melodious as their own pure thoughts in sleep,
Their own soft sighs in dreams of love and joy—
But I have heard a small, bright, mountain stream,
As it hath murmur'd through its paths of bliss,
Kissing each shining pebble on its way,
Afford far deeper music to the ear,—
And I have heard most gentle instruments,
The soft-toned lute, and harp, and harpsichord,
And sweet guitar, which Spanish maidens love,
Mingled with lover's song and lover's sighs!
But oh! the evening breeze, so softly sweet,
Gliding away amongst the sunny trees,
Kissing, like fainting lover, each fond leaf,
And give fresh joyaunce to the melody,
Hath a far deeper music even than these.
Sweeping along in terror and in storm
'Mid the wild dashing of the mountain brooks,
Which as in anger fret, and heave, and fume,
Bear in their thunders music more intense,—
More terrible and potent in their roar,
Whether amid the Alpine summits rude,
Or through the cavern'd cliffs and Lapland pines,
Than aught of earthly skill, or practised art
Of cunning mechanist from metal ore,
Or many-measured pipes can e'er devise
In belfry sounding, or cathedral aisle.
There is not in the monarch's gilded hall
Lady, so gaily drest in gem and gold,
And purples of the east so madly prized,
That hath a robe of such fine workmanship,
(So thin and delicate, that, whilst it hides
The fulness of the beauty from man's eye,
Scatters bright gleams of silent loveliness,)
As that rich fret-work, which at midnight hour,
Oft throws its silvery mantle o'er the sky,
And as the balmy breezes lift their skirts,
The glimmering stars, like seraph-eyes look forth,
And the clear azure with its luminous orb,
Is opened to our sight, as we have seen
Glimpses of heaven beneath young beauty's veil.
Of glory, joy, and bliss with sadness mixed.
For him who loves to gaze on lovely things,
On objects, whereon beauty hath her mark,
Birds to his soul will lend their sweetest song;
The woods will teem with melody for him;
The stars all gazing in each other's eyes;
The winds that ever whisper to the groves;
The modest sweetness of the midnight moon;
The silent grandeur of the boundless sky;
The trees, which laugh together as the breeze
Wantons among them like a lover true,
These, with ten thousand everlasting charms,
Will rouse, to bliss divine, his aching soul!
With all its train of coldness, pride, and hate?
Have ye loved beauty, and hath beauty been
Unto your heart a scorpion lurking there?
Have ye found falseness under friendship's mask,
Baseness and lies for sympathy and love?
Have ye found children whom ye fondly nursed
In your own bosom, fed from your own blood,
Start up like fiends against their parent's peace,
And blast your cup of hope with grim despair?
Have you found hatred watch at every step,
And black-lipp'd envy, and cold, bitter hate,
To hem you on all sides, like fiends of hell?
Then go, at dead of night, when all your foes
Lie sleeping, (if remorse and hate can sleep?)
Go listen to the thunder and the storms
That revel in wild mirth among the woods,
And rouse from out their rest the frighted deer;
Go look upon the angry, raging sea,
That heaves its giant waves in proud contempt
Of all the bellowing tempest's furious strife,—
(Whilst far within its waves some gallant ship,
Which late was full of life, and mirth, and joy,
Sinketh with all its shrieking inmates down!)
Go far into the waste of wilderness
Where no shunn'd human foot hath ever trod,
Where no rude human voice was ever heard!
Go to the mountain top, whilst she alone,
The maiden, loved by poets, walks on high,
Amid her glorious garniture of stars,
And cast around your eye on heaven and earth—
Here is a noble and a great revenge,
For thou art quaffing now the cup divine,
Sacred to prophets, poets, and the gods.
He who would seek to stay the atheist's vile
And boisterous blasphemy, and crush him down,
As we would crush a viper 'neath our feet,
May in each beauteous object that is near
See the vast impress of the mighty God!
The stars, so beautiful, like angel's eyes
Looking from heaven on man as he doth sleep,
And weeping o'er his sins, black as the night,
Show that a God hath set them in their sphere.
The universal sun, at whose broad glance
Roses shake off the dew, and violets weep
The dimness all away which hid their bloom.
(As love or joy doth drive from maiden's eye
The filmy tear which veiled its light before!)
The mighty sun, at whose imperial look
Flowers start from out the earth in youth and joy;
And Love, like some gay giant, sits enthroned
The mighty monarch of the whole green world,
Listening unto the melody of earth—
The birds, and woods, and breezes, and bright streams,
All mingling in wild mirth,—as we have known
A thousand instruments in festal throng,
All musical, though various, strike at once
Into some soul-enchanting, magic strain;
The mighty sun, at whose imperial front
Nations bow down and worship as a god,
And tremble in the glory of his beam!
The mighty sun, the sov'reign of the skies,
Doth speak at once unto the heart of man,
There is a God, vast and omnipotent,
Who, as a mother leading her young child,
Guides him across the heaven's eternal vault!
Herbs, flowers, and plants would lose their hue and bloom,
This earth would be a waste where howling winds
Would wildly revel in unconquering rage;
No more afford their light,—the tameless sea
Rush forth upon the world, and revel there;
Vapours, all death and poison, wander o'er
The earth like blasts from hell, and ruin reign
With tempest and with darkness, monarch sole,
O'er an upturn'd, chaotic, desert world.
The ever-heaving sea, on whose dark waves
Commerce erects its throne—and ships track o'er
With wealth and produce of most distant lands;
The everlasting mountains, on whose heads
Heaven rests its weary load, and circling clouds
Form a tiara for their Monarch's brow,
More costly far than Persia's diadem.
The mighty forests in their gloom
Abode of all that fiercest is of earth,
The lordly, kingly lion, monarch there;
The tiger gorgeously marked out like heaven
At evening, all streaked o'er with golden light;
Sea, mountain, forest, all with one acclaim
Tell of a mighty God, whose single power
Commands old Ocean's wilderness of waves,
Sustains the mountains and the forests wide;—
Sole, silent monarch of the mighty world!
The very stone that strikes his wand'ring foot
Holds mystery and wonder in its breast,
Which he in vain attempts to open out.
The rose-leaf which he snatches from its bower
And streaks of beauty, delicate, divine,
Spread all about by some angelic hand,
Is monarch o'er philosophy, and thwarts
The boldest efforts of vain-glorious man.
Say, can he light the liquid blood of life
To dart along, in passion or in shame?
Can he shoot lava-lustre in the eye?
Can he form lips that quiver to love's breath?
Can he shape out a vein like that which spreads
Along the marble brow of loveliness?
Can he infuse heaven's rapture in the voice
Heard at soft twilight 'mid the bowers of bliss?
Can he infuse a richness to the face,
Like that which glorifies the bridal vow—
Love's purest challenge, and the heart's reply?
Can he weave ringlets of so dark a gloss,
That pine-tree of the heath, nor midnight cloud,
So dazzle in their raven loveliness!
One leaf to Nature's verdure, nor one stone
To her gigantic cliffs and mountains high;
Or virgin whiteness unto bosom bright;
Who can'st not even wreathe a nest as bird's;
Nor honey-comb as bee's; nor hall as ant's;
Thou who art but a crawling, obscene worm,
Who liveth for a day, and then art cast
To rot away among thy brother worms
In hideous ghastliness; who can'st not tell
Thou, who in all thy stately manhood's pride
May, by a lightning flash, or tempest blast,
Or ocean wave, or falling of a tree,
Be hurl'd for ever to that land of mist,
“That bourne from whence no traveller returns.”
Hush, hush, vain reptile! think not to arraign
The mighty mysteries of Providence;
Or with thy brutish clamour to put down
The innate principle which lives in man,
And lifteth up his thoughts from earth to heaven,
From lovely “Nature's works to Nature's God.”
Each beauteous thing of Nature's bounteous stores:
The moving of the wind doth speak to us
Of Time's gigantic stride—the blooming trees
Speak to our heart of youth with all its joy
And dawning happiness, and careless mirth!
The Autumn leaf, wither'd, and sear'd, and dead,
And floating in the wild, tempestuous blast,
Doth show us dreary-hearted, snow-hair'd age,
Beat by the storms of time, and cast about
Helpless, uncared for by the winter storm.
She is the Monitor that points on high;
She is the Warder of the gate of Truth,
She watches at her portals. He who seeks
And owns her rightly, claims a mighty doom,
He who in purest poetry ascends,
Nor idly worships, but with breath of prayer,
Raises an altar in the wilderness,
And consecrates an offering unto God!
EMMELINE.
Her woods, her walks, her running streams;
And slaves that hear her wishes all,
And tend her in her dreams.
Of beauty vast, that clothes her round;
And God hath rained on her a shower
Of graces without bound.
With languid step, and 'wildered look,—
She heareth not the ocean's shout,
The murmur of the brook.
Life hath no verge beyond its sky;
Yet for her grief she knows no name,
No solace where to fly.
That floats with changing wind;
Stately with each she moves her hull,
Yet never shore can find.
This melancholy maid:
Her soul as various as a song
Of blackbird in the glade.
Love to her breast hath never come;
And quietly her life-time flows
Amid this woodland home!
Hath passion wild awoke her heart;
Its strings have stirr'd to winds of balm,
And given a new-learnt art.
Have told her of the world afar;
And she hath learnt of love's sweet prayer,
By yon sweet evening star.
She sees the streamlets mix together;
She sees the insects on the breeze,
The joys of summer weather.
That kindle on the midnight's breast;
The moon, night-dreamer o'er the heaven,
She sees—and feels the rest.
Still shall Hope's gentlest memories move;
Till fair reality shall wed
This form, and teach it Love!
HANNIBAL AT THE ALTAR.
And from her hidden palaces arise
Loud sounds, that cause the stormy isle to shake,
Loud noises, that disturb the silent skies:
And mighty warriors stalk in high majestic wise!
And who is he, that hero-vested man?
What is't that makes their eyes to glisten wild,
As though some fiend before their visions ran,
As though their hearts were chain'd unto a demon's ban?
Eternal enmity to craven Rome!
Thy fathers hear thee from their bloody shroud,
The murdered sons of Carthage shake their tomb,
The church-yards hear thy voice, and know thy glorious doom!
And dyed the rivers of the South with blood?
Sardinia, once our own, is sunk to earth;
And fruitful Sicily hath felt the flood:
Saguntum now is dust, that once majestic stood!”
The thunder of the drum and trump were heard;
The gods of Carthage smiled, and the rude bear
And lion of the Alps in terror stirr'd,
And Cannæ groan'd with fear to know that dreadful word.
Of proud St Peter stands; where blacken'd Rhone
And yellow Tiber roll'd;—'twas heard at Rome:
Yea, that stern vow was felt o'er conquest's groan,
And for the streaming blood of millions did atone!
Her pillars tremble 'neath the setting sun!
The death-weed fattens on each monarch's grave,
And rankest ivy o'er those temples run,
That shouting millions rear'd for mighty conquests won.
ADDRESS TO THE MOON.
Is of the pine-like clouds, and the perfume
Of dying flowers sends up thy halo pure;
Thou hast affections that for aye endure.
What though a stain will gloom the whitest brow—
What though harsh rains will break the honey-dew
Of human joy from off life's heather bloom;
Still dost thou stream forth love, knowing our doom.
And we love thee!—thee and thy walks we love:
In the dim wood, where wandering spirits move;
By the white hawthorn, when the sun goes down;
On the high mountains, dreaming forth alone;
And when, in quiet paths, we see thy pearly crown.
Thy empire worlds unknown; and thou art led
Onward, as one stone-blind; and thou art free—
Oppression cannot forge its chains for thee!
Death hath no whiteness for thy queenly face;
Thy great love plants thy paleness—and the trace
Of this earth's worms thy clear robes cannot slime;
Man cannot dim thy majesty sublime—
His footsteps are not thine—thy walks he cannot climb.
Heaven's best ambassador to Ocean sent.
Round thee, and lifts thee onward as with wings,
Making thee look more holy, even as one
Repentant, after years of injury done.
Thou movest on: the child hath lost the dance,
The curl of hair, the laughter-loving glance;
The man—king, lord, or clown—waits in the clay
For the loud summons of the judgment day.
What carest thou, fair spirit! for the loud
Glory of olden time? thy step is proud,
Even now, above their deeds; and all they did,
Is unto thee as what the grave hath hid.
Sheddest no tear for past mortality—
For monuments worn down—for pictures fair,
Rotted away—for temples, that made clear
Night's gloom by their great splendour—for the spell
Of speech oracular in groves—the well
Of inspiration clear, where the glad Muses dwell!
That which may meet thee? Is the plumage fair,
And many hues of birds aught like to thee?
Dwelleth thy semblance in the cavern'd sea?
Hath the smooth panther, hath the lion strong,
Glory like thine, roaring in joy along?
Veil of Heaven's inner glory, where doth lie
The central point of God's great majesty?
The righteous on their children; thee no frown
Or shadow of the world can dim with fear;
The galaxies all join thy presence clear,
And in thine arms their mingling glories meet!
Thou art a spectral wanderer without heat,
A love-lorn ghost, that through heaven's boundless arch
Weavest perpetually thy weary march,
Whilst he, thy brother, hides him in the sea,
And never can be found. Thy step is free,—
The world is all thine own—its wealth is thine,
Its might, its virtue, these the gems that shine
Upon its coronet, thou all divine!
The poet walks beneath the pensive sky,
And thinks of thee; thou fillest up his brain
With glorious impulse, till he seems insane,
And laughs and weeps by turns: the silent grove
Owns thee, and the first maiden dream of love.
Topmost toward heaven, the silver dew-drops glow,
Children of thee, fill'd with thy sovereign light;
With bridal dress, making the forests bright.
Thou walkest forth, and all the earth is still!
The birds lie dead asleep, the mountain rill
Seems a low wail some chained spirit breathes:
Thou round each flower a crown of gold enwreathes;
Sleep is thy sister; and thy opiate charms,
Dropp'd like heaven's dew, soothe the wild heart's alarms.
And earth, delighted, seems more heavenward grown;
Religion soars more proudly; the strong might
Of lofty deed glows in more lustrous light;
As stirr'd the waves by thee, so leaps aloft
Frenzied ambition; thou to heaven canst waft
On cloven wing the dreamers holiest dream;
Thou art best teacher—thou art loftiest theme;
Thy stature is the heavens, thy will is the Supreme!
An infant dreaming on its mother's breast—
A sleeping shadow in some rippling well—
The wandering music of a silver bell,—
Thou art in heaven. Thy substance hath no shade:
Thou hast no love, though beautiful; thy head
No cincturing wreaths enfold; amid thy bowers
Of cloud no music soars. The wild sea-bird
To his far cliff in love is onward stirr'd,—
The hill-fox hath his den; thou hast no place
To rest thy footsteps—to withdraw thy face:
The blue sky is the path where thou must go;
There sound thy greetings, there thy footsteps flow.
The thunderbolt that sounds can scare not thee,
Nor lightning, nor the earthquake, nor the sea
In terror and in tempest: Sin walks on,
And pestilence hath sway 'mid tear and groan;
But what carest thou? Thy face is cold and pale;
Time cannot harm thee with his iron flail,
With spot or wrinkle; thine is sovereign scorn,
Such as old martyrs felt; thou art not worn
Thou joyful sit'st, nor heed'st our mortal fate.
The sun hath his own glories,—he makes known
The everlasting splendour of God's throne;
Earth owes him all her hues; and the young morn,
And noon, and the dim evening, would be shorn
Of all things without him—Then where art thou?
Where hidest thou now thy heaven-commanding brow?
Where, that the twilight fades not, that the line
Of rivers blue upon heaven's gold divine,
With hills all round, is not spun out by thee?
Are not thy noiseless footsteps ever free?
Yet is the world thine own;—brightly of old
Diana shone amid thy forests bold,
Aided by thee, and bathed in crystal well,
Shrouded by birch trees, that no tongue might tell.
As now, so hadst thou joy in olden time;
Men bore no sneers for lauding thee in rhyme:
Thou wast the child of pomp, and thy far light
Was gazed on by old poets in their flight;
Wise men then worshipp'd thee: thou wert the place
Of airy dreams, and warriors loved thy face.
In Arcady, through thee, awoke the lyre:
The large horn'd deer, the panther of the glade,
Seen by thy light, had glorified the shade,
And lofty cedars had a crown of gold
Amid their green,—so rose the songs of old.
The realms of air—the ever sounding sea?
Glorious old ocean!—in the days of yore,
When youth was joy, when the fresh dreams I wore
Clad me as doth a garment, how I felt
(As on the white sands worshipping thee I knelt)
High rapture, wandering by thy joyous side!
And the moon seem'd thy newly married bride—
Thy bride and daughter both! Still, in the sky,
Still all God's gather'd glories seem to lie,
Embracing moonlight,—holier rapture still!
And there the heart may ever drink its fill.
And what are woodland walks, though through their bound
All birds rejoice, and heavenly waters sound?
And what are summer dreams and winter thought?
And what is love—and thou existing not?
What time first waved thy heaven-supported wing?
Link'd wert thou with old Chaos?—Hadst thou home
Amid young worlds?—where did thy footsteps roam?
Through what strange wonders? Glorious was thy path,
Erewhile untrod; calming earth's early wrath,
Filling all birds and beasts with new delight,
For then they slept not in thy angel light!
Glory be with thee! still, through every time,
Through change and fear, be thine through heaven to climb,
Filling its rounded dome with melody sublime!
THE WINDS.
Your hymns on every instrument
Of rock, and mount, and cave;
The trees their joyful notes will bring,
Each flower, each blade of grass, will sing
Your measures, glad or grave.
That to your minstrelsy belongs,
Of joys that never cease;
The lonely spring, the quiet stream,
The lake low murmuring as in dream,
Have heard your hymns of Peace.
To you her lone complaint hath brought,
To you each bird hath sung;
The weed-clad tower of ancient time,
The church bell's solitary chime,
Have join'd your banner'd throng.
In what far region of the skies?
In what high forest tree?
As loosen'd cataracts heard afar,
As thunders of the sea.
Or by the moon's cold pathways sing
Along the milky way;
Or through fierce caves and arches high,
Where Ruin mocks the morning sky,
Ye woo the love-worn day.
That wakes the soul's Æolian hymn
To measures glad and gay?
That breathes unto the midnight hour
Such spell of mystery and power,
And holds monarchic sway?
That gathers tears in Beauty's eye,
And dreams around its head;
That, breathed in sounds of awe and fear,
Doth sing unto crazed lover's ear,
Old songs of maiden dead?
That murmurs where no fount can flow,
Where no proud pennant streams;
That to the stars and to the moon
Doth ever sing a slumbering tune—
The very Queen of Dreams?
Ye call'd the laurel-seeking dove
Out from the foundering ark;
Ye came to Ruth among the corn,
Singing of distant lands forlorn,
Beyond the waters dark.
Of Moses, when the lady saw
God's chosen nod his head;
Ye caught the stir of Jordan's sea,
To Israel's king ye sang in glee
Ere Absalom was dead.
One hour of calm, one hour of strife,
Now bright, now dark your form!
At morn ye sing to tree and flower,
The evening hears your voice of power,
And trembles in the storm.
We know not where,—ye have a flow
Wilder than ocean wave;
Heaven scarce can hold ye, and the bound
Of earth knows not your various sound
More than the secret grave.
Like thunder-clouds, ye brave the sky,
Now sleep ye by the streams;
And then make music, as a child
That singeth in its dreams.
I feel no more upon my brow
The mountain breezes fall:
The stars are out, and I must go
Down to my quiet home below,
Among the poplars tall.
Will list your dirges o'er my head,
And think ye sing to me,
And dream that I have wings like you,
To fan the locks on heaven's clear brow,
And roll unchain'd and free.
LINES WRITTEN NEAR A WATERFALL.
Like a proud lady, waves her tresses long;
This sovereign oak's proud beauties flutter free,
Singing sweet undersong;
Like a dead giant, Silence lone doth brood,
Her banners black unfurl'd on all the solitude.
I weep, because so little I have done;
The burning years of youth all sunk to sleep,
And yet no Trophy won;
My yearnings all in vain—my soarings high
Hurl'd down into the dust, that late had touch'd the sky.
And yet, methinks, I am too young for care;
My feelings, passions, thoughts, all sunk away,
All life's illusions fair;
And here I faint, a wither'd leaf of spring,
Whilst all the forest trees are bright and blossoming.
There glows no Memnon for the sunlight now;
The oracle inspired hath lost her tongue,
Persuasion's eloquent flow.
Oh! had my time, my feelings waste, my thought,
Chimed with my sounding harp, what garlands I had wrought!
Ye dead, bear witness! they are now no more!
Mine earliest love is rotting in the grave,
Beneath yon ruins hoar!
Hope's rainbow hues are dead, her voice asleep,
Her faithful champion's slain, and therefore do I weep.
New times have fallen upon old England's fields;
No sword the patriot wields!
Black clouds of death on the high mountains curl—
Rear up the oriflamme, the blood red flag unfurl.
Ingulf'd with all his heavenly armour on;
No Cincinnatus, in his cottage great;
No Tell—no Washington;
No God to save, though wax'd the oppressor more;
The Tyrant, many mouth'd, yells at our very door!
To scare the Tyrant minions from the throne?
Is there, throughout the land, no terrible form,
To hurl the traitors down?
Shall fire consume our halls, blood stain our hearth,
And yet no warrior forth, to hunt them from the earth?
Forgive me, that harsh thoughts disturb thy sound!
Thou only know'st these shadows, and the sky,
These solitudes profound!
But when I see even lofty names so vain
Worshipping unknown gods, how can I then refrain?
Thy language felt more widely through the earth,
Less frequent wouldst thou hear the sigh and moan
Amid the general mirth;
Forgetting each his woes, unto thy God would call.
The stag starts up to hear thy mellow voice;
And the dried leaves, that haunt thy pinions free,
Thou makest to rejoice!
Oh, ever could I dream the eventide,
And, with exulting heart, behold thy waters glide!
So long rejoicing on thy pathway fair;
And this white house must glory in the light,
Glimmering everywhere:
No flower that haunts thy wave, no silver'd moss,
No pebble, but hath joy where thy glad footsteps pass.
I shall behold thee in the heavens of dream;
And I will brood o'er what I felt this day—
Thee for my theme;
And I will strive to mould my future life
As pure, as clear as thou, and as devoid of strife.
SKETCH OF AN EVENING.
And such the sea, the air, the rivers, strong;
Her palaces all echo'd unto song.
I see more greatly, and not less profound;
I know that God hath traced this picture bright
With his own hand—this glory without bound.
See how fine lines, of heavenly radiance, stream;
Lightning with water blended—so the sun
Such grandeur bears him on his throne supreme.
That light unchanging of the heavenly blue,
Flowing, immortal, through celestial lands,
With heaven's eternal and unchanging hue:
The light, the darkness, moulded all in all,
The yellow sun, the rivers, the blue hills,
The groves, the meadows, and the waterfall.
That flow of stream might bear a seraph's bark;
Those are Elysian bowers, that bloom for aye;
And lo! the pastures green, folding the forests dark!
With voices that do sound of every shore,
Of music, that shall live for evermore.
I have no voice for this enduring feast—
Too large for utterance seem my raptures strong,
That swell the heart's blood, labouring in my breast.
When those great impulses shall find a tongue,
Not all in vain be this wild youth-time's glow,
'Mid seraph utterings—that shall yet be sung.
LINES TO A PIECE OF WHITE HEATH.
Thou spot of snow upon a raven's wing—
Thou fragrant tear-drop of an angel's eye,
Fallen on the brightness of the white-robed Spring.
The winds, the sunlight, all delight in thee;
And, through the blossoming scents of summer's day,
Clad with her treasures, sings the honey bee.
And savage beasts do fear thy blessed feet;
Thou art of Nature—Nature's only child,
For all her nicest ministrations meet.
And radiant frostwork fear thy perfect bloom;
The burning summer harm not thee so fair,
Nor steal away from thee thy faint perfume.
Even as poor helpless maiden, so art thou!
We rudely steal away the precious flower,
And break the pearls that deck her snooded brow.
My love shall come and see thee in thy place;
And whilst she of thy wealth shall take her fill,
I'll gaze upon the rapture of her face.
Her zephyr tread among the purpling heath—
How beautiful among the mountains high!—
And 'mid her flowering hair entwine thy wreath.
Encasing sunbright souls; though rude thy stalk,
Yet art thou lovelier in the mountain storm,
Than all the gaudy bloom of garden walk.
Heaven's sweetest dews make music with thy bells;
May all this love still clothe thee with strong light,
This rock still guard, that echoes my Farewells.
JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA.
This giant bulk of monumental stone!
For here the pilgrim saint of other lands
First preach'd the new-born God, erstwhile unknown,
Whose body he but late beneath the sod laid down.
To hear this good old man's enraptured tongue,
To see his shining head, and kindling gaze—
To know the starry world of which he sung,
That never yet they knew the forest shades among.
And leafy trees, and sounds that never fade;
They had beheld no martyr'd Saviour die,
His holy look fill'd not the forest shade,
Whilst wondrously from Him this old man's heart was sway'd.
He had beheld a martyr'd God in pain—
The thunder roaring o'er the affrighted plain—
The lightning's terrible glare, the temples rent in twain.
A holy lustre shone where'er he went;
His speech was as the spheric tunes of night,
That with strange music fill the firmament:
Glad tidings of great joy he bore, this holy saint.
The darkness of old Night was scattered;
The proud religion of the former day
In adoration bow'd its bleeding head,
And light divine from Heaven rejoiced the earthly dead.
And shook the stately altars to the ground,
As of the thunder of a coming Doom!—
Vast rushing hosts came listening to the sound,
Whilst on the Apostle walk'd, showering God's blessings round.
To hear each word the holy man may say;
Each note of inspiration thunders loud;
Upon his face shines heaven's most perfect day,
Whilst still the Saint doth preach the one and only way.
Among the flowers a flowering thorn doth bloom—
That fills the wilderness with dense perfume,
And to the clouds it shoots and shakes its seraph plume.
Louder than is the brawl of rocky stream,
Sounds the loud shout of wonder, awe, and fear,
To view this greater wonder than a dream,
Who this might cause but Him, the apostle's God supreme.
That thorn, the pilgrimage of many an age;
And 'neath its scented boughs since then hath worn
Pure virgin hearts that burnt in tender rage
With fires that nought might quench, no solace might assuage.
And the believing valleys came and heard,
And wash'd in the Redeemer's cleansing blood,
That like sweet music round their heart-strings stirr'd,
And men of pomp, and kings, listen'd to hear the word.
The wandering moon hath shed its holy light;
The various sky through rolling years hath made
A fitting shadow o'er its lustre bright,
Whilst still the blossoming thorn blooms freshly day and night.
His body in the proud cathedral lies;
Now the loud organ thunders o'er his head;
Sweet choristers chant forth the mysteries
His sainted soul beholds amid the starry skies.
LINES ADDRESSED TO AN EAGLE.
That spurnest human dust, and takest thy way
Like some Archangel, making heaven thy goal;
Thou hast a dwelling in eternal day,
Bearing a spirit's trust in breast of human clay.
Some winged vessel float along in glee;
I've seen the Arab steed in glory sweep—
Fast like a tempest—like a monarch free,—
But, joyous mountain bird, ne'er saw I aught like thee!
Volcanic, that dost dare that sovereign height?
Where the lone clouds of heaven alone may rest—
Where only the loud winds may take their flight—
Thou, heaven-hearted bird, hast dwelling and a right.
The dim eternal stars are part of thee,
Untrodden depths of ether thou hast won,
And through the concave swept uncurb'd and free,
And won the azure deep for home and liberty.
Let the fierce forest monarch dwell alone,
Thou art with troops of winged seraphim
And midst the storms and tempests hast thy throne,
Bearing o'er human hearts a high and kingly tone.
Ruffle the feathers on thy swelling breast;
Summer's ethereal tones of music ring
Within thy heart, and lull thee into rest,
And thou hast dwelling there, within its bowers thy nest.
On woods that wave in Summer's robes of green,
The loveliest vales delight thine eager eye,
Fair bloom the landscapes—quiet and serene—
And the deep heaving sea rolls in the moonlight sheen.
Breathing sweet love-tales to the enamoured air;
Where peace and truth and beauty have their home,
In pure content 'mid dwellings calm and fair,
Thou, from thy paths on high, behold'st them ling'ring there.
Nor care, nor agony, disturbs thy breast,
For thou amid the clouds, in some lone spot
Of everlasting beauty, hast thy rest,
By sorrow never harm'd, by human woe opprest!
Still hold thy flight and shun the curse below;
Soar thou aloft beneath the evening star
Nor bow thy regal head to worldly woe,
But through the realms of air, in power and triumph go.
Fann'd by the evening breezes, in the light
Of joy and splendour, when the day is done:
This is no land for thee, but, pure and bright,
Walk thou the heavenly Isles, in splendour and delight!
LINES TO A GLED-HAWK,
FLYING IN REGENT'S PARK, LONDON.
From thy dwelling far and free?
What dost thou here, whose joy it was
'Mid the towering hills to be?
The wilderness thy home,
And soaring through the heaven it is
Thy privilege to roam.
Nought gladdens here thine eye,
Whose heart is with the desert place,
And with thy native sky.
The pine-tree forest there,—
These are the slumbering memories
That greet thee in the air.
This beauteous summer day;
The hills of childhood then were mine,
The valley far away!
BURNS.
Following his plough along the mountain side.”
Wordsworth.
Nobler far than monarch's crown—
Than laurell'd victor of the fight,
Than lords of old renown!
Be thy hallow'd spirit nigh,
And light with ecstacy my dream
With visions from on high!
Cataracts that scatter fear,
Tempests from your stormy dome
Attend your Poet's bier!
You he loved as well as they—
Songsters from your forests glide,
And join around his clay!
Nature, come with footsteps slow,
Hie thee forth, and sound his knell,
And raise thy notes of woe!
Drop a tear, thy bard is dead—
Passion, truth, and song are gone
To their funereal bed!
And let thy gory plume droop low—
O, Liberty, stand forth and wail
Thy champion's bitter woe!
As martyrs for your country's good—
Ye, who perished, side by side,
All dabbled in your blood.
With your laurell'd brows array'd—
Burns hath found his latest home,
And in the dust is laid!
Burns is gone, you loved so well:
Strike your lyres, let angels know,
Let angels sound his knell!
These lines were inspired on hearing the splendid recitation of “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” by G. W. Sutton, Esq. of Elton Hall, near Stockton-on-Tees.
POLAND.
Where's thy glory now?
Once, when chain'd slave touch'd thee,
Freedom clad his brow.
From her home afar—
Stood upon the heaving sea
Thy giant ships of war!
The tyrant chains her down!
The fell usurper weaves her shroud,
And tramples on her crown.
Glares red before mine eye?
A spectre terrible as night
Unto the winds doth cry!—
Her rivers roll with blood;
Bells of death are tolling
Across the gory flood!
Her sires and matrons shriek:
Death rots within her fountains,
And walks each craggy peak.
Let thy sword the vulture slay,
His pinions overshade us,
And darken Freedom's day.”
Red vengeance stalks abroad:
Her mighty shout appals you—
A people and their God.
Stalk forth with regal brow,
A million living heroes brave,
From Poland call to you.
LINES TO A LADY OF NINETEEN.
Being of the upper air;
Why, thou creature of the skies,
Kill so with thy dazzling eyes?
That within their circles shine?
Where those glancing beauties won—
From the earth or from the sun?
Those mild blushes on thy cheek—
Blushes like the evening's glow
Sleeping on a bed of snow?
Where the holy seraphim
In perpetual hymns rejoice—
That thou hast so sweet a voice?
Or, with thee, high vigils keep,
That thy nature is so great—
That thou seem'st with heaven to mate.
Every earthly good be thine;
May all raptures glide around thee—
May all human truth surround thee!
Watch and gird thee with delight;
Hope's sweet blossoms round thy brow
In perpetual sunshine flow!
Heavenly in form and feature;
Oft within my dreams thou'lt come—
In my spirit find a home.
LINES TO THE SAME.
That the light of love is gone,
That from these eyes the lustre dies
That once so brightly shone.
It is the night's despair,
It is the breath of coming death,
The agony of care.
How strong, how deep it is—
The more I weep, the more I keep
Thy love's true tenderness.
Thou art the flower of earth;
In sea, or air, is nought so fair
As thou, sweet child of mirth!
Like thy cheek's transcendent hue—
The loveliest flower, in woodland bower,
Is not so fair as thou.
To me is so divine,
The songs of spheres to mortal ears
Are not so sweet as thine.
Nor in cloud-grove of skies,
A glow of light so pure and white,
As o'er thy bosom lies.
And lull me to thy heart,
Thou hast a spell, I know it well,
That bids us never part.
And win me to repose;
I sigh for thee, I die for thee,
Oh come and heal my woes!
SUMMER DEPARTED.
In thy holy light?
To some distant region,
Beautiful and bright,
Is the creature wandering in her young delight?
From the heath-bell's breast:
Every lovely valley,
Where the wild flowers rest,
Bears her hue of glory to the golden west.
For deep rapture gone:
Tree, and “trysting stone,”
Lose the spell of gladness that in summer shone.
Snow-wreaths on her brow;
The red leaves are falling
In the valley low,
And dim with shades of death each mountain streamlet's flow.
FIRST AND LAST LOVE.
Amid the summer woods;
A murmuring stream, an evening sky,
A song of birds and solitudes,
Delighted ear and eye.
All drest in snowy white,
There I beheld my blooming maid,
And like an angel she was bright,
And like a saint array'd.
A harp was hanging on the tree;
She woke the chords to minstrelsy,
“That lady of the land.”
Yet white as snow her brow;
And her lovely bosom beat full high,
As she spake in accents sweet and low,
And gazed upon the sky.
Was she a Naïad, Sylph, or Queen?
For many a silent solitude,
And many a fair maid I have seen,
But none so bright and good!
Some lovely shape of morning dream?
A form in beauty all array'd,
That casts on earth a heavenly gleam,
A glory on the shade?
Where holy angels ever rest?
For surely never thing so bright
Save angels, shone on man's unrest
To dazzle human sight.
The birds that sang in air;
Those trees, that maiden in the grove,
(So beautiful, and very fair!)
Attuned my soul to love.
To see me gazing on her face;
She lifted up her dazzling eyes—
She seemed a thing of perfect grace,
An angel from the skies.
Mine eyes were dim with weight of joy—
Upon my knees myself I cast—
I loved—I loved without alloy—
She was my first—my last!
In summer when the woods were green—
And oft when all the heavens were free,
And moon, and stars illumed the scene,
I met that lovely she.
Nor love, nor truth might bind her here—
Around her bier the night-winds sweep—
Her spirit treads a loftier sphere—
And I am left to weep!
POLAND
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MY DEAR FRIEND, THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq., “THE BARD OF POLAND AND OF HOPE.”
From rank to rank your volley'd thunders flew,
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime.
Found not a generous hand, nor pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe;
Fell from her senseless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and dimm'd her proud career;
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd when Kosciusko fell!”
Campbell.
I
What sound is that I hear?What wild convulsive breath
Of agony and death,
That breaks upon mine ear?
Poland shouts across the sea,
'Tis Poland shrieks aloud for life and liberty.
II
'Tis freedom's frenzied groans!Freedom wailing o'er the dead,
To see the hideous vulture fed
On Poland's noblest sons:
To see each murder'd sire,
Each ravish'd maid in tears, 'round Poland's funeral pyre.
III
Her patriots' hopes are dead;Her halls, her peaceful solitudes,
Her fields, and pleasant woods,
Have felt the invader's tread.
Poland's wrongs, and Poland's woe,
Record to endless time that Russia was her foe!
IV
Awake, ye ancient kings,—Ye who trod the battle field
With helm and blazing shield!
Let Victory wave her wings.
Awake, awake each mighty name,
Till the Barbarian shrink from Poland's ancient fame.
V
France, get thee up—arise!Is there no spark remains
Of all thy former gains,
Thy valorous enterprise?
Let Gaul's triumphant hosts array for liberty!
VI
England, where art thou?Where are now the notes of war,
That sounded high at Trafalgar
When Neptune wreath'd thy brow?
Where Cressy's fame—where Agincourt—
And Waterloo's fierce day, and laurels drench'd in gore?
VII
Freedom, bare thy bloody arm!Hie thee from Thermopylæ,
From the cities of the free,
And smite the ruffian swarm.
Hurl thy shafts along the sky—
Come forth—and all the earth shall listen to thy cry.
VIII
Poland, Poland is not dead,She shall revive—she shall be free—
She shall regain her liberty,
And lift to heaven her head.
God looks down upon her cause—
The Assyrian hosts shall fall, and Heaven maintain its laws!
These lines were to have been spoken by a friend at the dinner intended to be given to the Prince Czartoriski in 1833, in the arrangements of which Campbell the Poet took particular interest, along with the author, and others. On that occasion, Lord Mahon, the constant and indefatigable friend of Poland, consented to occupy the chair, but when the Prince Czartoriski was waited on by a deputation, he strongly solicited that the banquet might be postponed; and one or two of the parties having left London, the original intention was abandoned.
LINES ADDRESSED TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.
Amid the glorious and the free;
Not in the old world's prime
Of truth and chivalry;
Liveth ought so bright in Fame,
As the Poet's name!
Glory circles round thy brow;
Thou hast gain'd the victory,
Death and time are vanquish'd now;
Campbell's name shall live for aye,
In eternal day!
Queenly beauty walks in state;
Where by lonely waterfall,
Simple hearts with nature mate:
And far as rolls the eternal sea,
Campbell's fame shall be!
Amid the untrodden woods;
'Mid India's mystic lore,
And palm-clad solitudes;
Each maid and youth thy pages ope—
The Bard of Love and Hope!
Shouts across the stormy deep;
All her shattered banners wave
From rock and towering steep:
Each patriot links his cause with thee
Campbell and liberty!
High above the cannon's roar,
Each Mariner of England hears
Thy lyre from shore to shore.
Each British heart responds from far,
Thy trumpet-notes of war.
Demand for thee the praise;
Each chord of thought hath felt the tone
And magic of thy lays;
No impulse swells the human heart,
But thou hast felt a part.
Responsive heave with mine.
And marks thy page divine;
Yea, glorious as the stars on high,
Thou'lt live in Fame's clear sky.
Rejoice with lingering beam;
May nature bless each minstrel tune,
And gild each poet-dream.
And Campbell's epitaph shall be,
“Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he.”
These lines also appeared in the Rev. Mr Dudley Ryder's “Gift of all Seasons,” and were written to illustrate the splendid bust of the Poet, by Patric Park, Esq., an engraving of which adorns that work.
LINES ADDRESSED TO THE LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.
Thy polish'd forehead, and poetic eye,
To me, unknown may be thy cheek's fair hue,
Imperial air, and motion proud and high—
But, I do love thee: not for worldly state,
Not thy fair lineage, and ancestral pride—
Thee love I, who with poetry dost mate,
Leaving the haughty ranks of pomp, to glide
With Nature's lovely forms, and wander at her side.
The everlasting hills are part of thee;
Thou listenest to old Ocean's gentle flow,
Winning from stream and grove, sweet poetry:—
Where birds are in the trees, where young flowers bloom,
Thy spirit lingerest, and dost love to dream,
Yea, thou hast won thyself a lofty doom,
Seeking high Nature for thy constant theme,
And through her golden isles thy spirit walks supreme.
For that were vain; but for the glad delight
Thy strains have caused within my soul to move:
Thy strains so soft, so beautiful and bright!—
O, blessed be thy visions: take thy way
Thus proudly onward, and harsh fears forget!
What is dim earth, to that eternal day
Of poetry in constant summer set,
Where Nature's hymns are thine—her stars thy coronet!
The “still small voice” of Poetry hath come;
The ancient dreams of Sappho are with thee,
The ancient hymns once more have found a home;
Onward, fair lady: be no doubtings thine:
Follow thy soul's strong impulse, there is light,
A glorious light in heaven—behold it shine!
Thy future path shall be serene and bright,
Steady, and strong, and clear, as are the stars of night.
At this lone hour of midnight, such as ne'er
Before I felt—pleasure without alloy;
And half I see thee in the radiant air!
Oh, may all holy spirits floating near,
Guard thee, and with glad song and jubilee,
Seraphic music murmur in thine ear;
All heavenly raptures gladden over thee,
Dim sounds of hallow'd harps and heavenly minstrelsy!
LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF LORD VISCOUNT MILTON.
And shower fresh hopes and fortunes on his head,
When sudden closed the sharpen'd shears of Fate,
And cut in twain, alas! the expanded thread.
Death spake, and Milton mingled with the dead!
O, had he lived, the shadow of his fame,
Perchance, with those immortal ones had wed,
Who, to their country, left a glorious name,
Bequeathed to man a trust, to history an aim.
Among the ancestral halls a voice of woe;
Sorrow shall fill fair Wentworth's solitudes,
For him who loved amid their charms to go.
The fields will lose a foot they wont to know.
Shall mourn his loss; each songster, singing low,
Shall weave his dirge in symphony most sweet,
And every little flower adorn his winding-sheet!
The senate, battle-field, each lofty place
A scholar miss, who answered to their call.
Milton is gone, who every part did grace,
Milton, whose memory Time can ne'er efface,
In youthful prime and hope is with the dead!
Man never more shall look upon his face—
The rich no more shall bless his noble head,
Nor Poverty's sad tribe, whose wants so oft he fed!
Where shall his sire behold the like again?
The tree hath fallen from its mountain throne,
And lies all prostrate on the groaning plain.
Death is the conqueror, and did cause his pain.
Yet will that sire lament with weeping eyes
His darling gone, whose steps he loved to train;
And all the father's fondest dreams arise,
For him, the glorious youth, who now is in the skies.
Left desolate, her lordly husband gone;
O, Death, how could'st thou loose the fatal tide,
And calmly gaze on her now left alone?
Could those sad eyes, loose locks, that sorrowing tone
Surely thy heart is as the pitiless stone,
That did'st not melt to see that lady's fate—
The eagle stricken low, beside the sorrowing mate.
Can touch him not,—earth's tempests cannot fall
Around him, who hath found a higher sphere.
The racks and cares, and woes that ever call
On mortal hearts, are left behind him here.
His memory lives in trusting hearts and dear;
Virtues like his made every man his friend;
Spotless he was in spirit, pure and clear,
And thus in glory met his latter end,
And made our loss his gain, and did to heaven ascend.
THE CONSTITUTION-CITADEL!
The noblest of the land,
When Freedom's hopes yet tower'd on high
And sceptred was her hand,
Swore they would rear a citadel—
That brave heroic band.
Huge oak-trees from the hill,
Were furnished at their will,
Till proud uprose that mighty pile—
Our glorious citadel!
When the giant thing was done;
The princely Barons met and swore
That hallow'd was each stone,
And crown'd and sceptred came the King
And planted there his Throne!
And the rivers laughed in pride;
Our valleys, rich with plenty,
Pour'd forth wealth on every side;
Whilst the thunder of her cannon
Scatter'd terror far and wide!
The Gallic eagle fled;
And the vast empire of the sea
Obey'd her martial tread:
Then Trafalgar and Waterloo
Bore her victorious dead.
A thousand winters stood;
The people banded round its walls
The great, the wise, the good!
Was still unstained with blood.
The brave who loved it well,
The fiendish ranks of treason seiz'd
That glorious citadel;
The traitors spiked its cannon,
And the haughty fabric fell!
And Carnage shriek'd for gore;
The King was butcher'd on his throne,
And his snowy locks they tore,
And the little altar where he pray'd
Was never heard of more.
At glorious Runnymede;
At Cressy and at Agincourt
For liberty did bleed,
Were murder'd all or burnt alive,
By that inhuman breed.
And murder revell'd then;
Gaunt Famine glutton'd joyously
On twice ten thousand men;
Whilst Carnage fed on innocents
In his accursed den!
A citadel remains!
And King and Constitution
Still hold the victor's reins.
Up! up!—be firm!—or fall! and rot
In Treason's fiery chains!
THE GIANT HILLS OF ENGLAND!
Their frowning heads appear;
Monarchical and sceptered
Their crowned brows they rear;
Where soars the sweeping eagle,
And roams the desert deer!
Have guarded them the same;
Old England's mighty warriors
Have given them deathless fame;
Serene as evening's sunlight
Hath been their glorious name!
Defy the raging sea,
And still they tower in splendour,
The birth-place of the free;
Nor thunder, nor the tempest
Have bow'd their stubborn knee!
Nor spear of foeman daunt;
They hurl, with proud defiance, back
Each haughty armament;
And scorn the opposing nations
With walls of adamant!
Our navy's prop and pride,
That sweep the mountain billows
The sovereign world divide—
That waft our wealth and glory
O'er every breeze and tide.
For the hero and the sage;
Our temples and our columns,
That with Time's invasion wage;
And bear immortal glory
To each remotest age!
Her proudest and her best;
The strong, the bold, the valiant sleep
Where the eagle builds her nest;
And to treason's fiery tempests
Bare manhood's dauntless breast!
Hail dwellings of the free!
Eternal as the sea:
Enduring as the giant hills
Be English liberty!
PASQUIN'S PILLAR.
Most persons are aware that the word pasquinade is derived from the custom in Rome, of secretly pasting up against the column of Pasquin, any private or public scandal, lampoon, or entertaining joke. To such an extent does this prevail in the eternal city, that an individual is often surprised to find all the inhabitants, in the morning, acquainted with some adventure of his over night; and not a little sore to discover some unhappy denouement of an amour, the word in every mouth.
I. PART I. THE DEVIL AND THE POPE.
Unto the Pope at Rome;
And told him, “When it isn't Lent,
I'll come and pick a bone.”
“Whenever you are able;
The Pope is always glad to see
The Devil at his table.”
The Devil came at five,
“Because,” he said, “he always liked
To keep the game alive.”
Broils, devils, and fried soles,
Stews, and all kinds of tortured dishes,
Eat between the poles.
Under St Peter's seal;
And the Pope and Devil drank 'till all
Around began to reel.
To quarrel with, must drink—
And as nothing mortal dares to sit
Beside a Pope, I think—
And men are frail, alas!
And Popes are men, they must take who
Will come and take a glass.
The Pope may do the civil,
I wonder not that he should choose
A dinner with the Devil.
Said, “Nick, I'll give a toast!
“Conservatives of England!!—when
In holy fires they roast!”
“And if your Holiness
Will give me leave, I'll drink another,
Devilish good, I guess.
Without preambulation—
Here's to O'Connell!—Dan's the child!
Dan and the Irish nation!”
“Hip, hip, hurrah for Dan!”
“Hurrah, hurrah! for Darrynane!
And the Irish Beggarman!”
“We know a trick or two—
But, that ‘broth of a boy,’ as the Irish say,
Can beat us black and blue.
Disgrace—nay, no offence!
But Dan's is the glory of his land,
And the Holy Church's defence.
But, pardon me—if you
Don't mind your eye, Dan's tail will leave
Your's little work to do.”
The rascal my assistance,
And now in the race he leaves his friend,
The Devil, in the distance!”
“The Irish should rebel,
And St Peter, out of gratitude,
Would turn the keys of ---.”
With the point of his long tail—
“The time's not ripe, and Daniel knows
When the wind is fair to sail.
Woe to the British nation!”
“What mean you, Nick? a majority
For the Irish Corporation!”
Emancipation? ha!
Ha! ha! ha! ha! here's a cup to the blood
Of the Sassenagh! hurra!”
Their God and country sold!
And you and I by the Boyne shall sup,
Ere that moon be twelve months old.”
And he rubbed his muddled pate;
“Good night, my boy! we'll perpend of that—
Hist! 'tis the cock; how late!”
Old England's noble Peers,
Will send Dan, you, and I, to ---, phew!”
In a flame Nick disappears.
II. PART II. THE SUPPER.
All who've essay'd to tell
The wonders, glories, mysteries
That in Avernus dwell,
Assist me with your ancient might
And power to sing them well!
Which small Diavolo bore;
And knocked at Satan's door.
Grim, bristled Cerberus asked him in,
And supper was set for four.
The supper party were;
Four greater scamps in Christendom
Did never sit so near—
“Of all my friends,” Old Nick replied,
“You are to me most dear.”
Upon the table stood,
In sepulchres of ancient kings
Was served the reeking food;
Of murderers' blades the knives were cut,
And Dan's was stained with blood.
Fill high these skulls with wine;
Tap the best hogsheads—those that came
With Horace the divine—
It is not every day such men
With Satan sup or dine!
No heel-taps!—higher still!—
‘The Pope!’ ‘The Pope!’ with three times three:
Each one a bumper fill!
Of every human ill.
In every clime hath stood:
The epitaph of every Pope
Is writ in innocent blood!
Oh! as I heard the victims shriek—
By heaven—it did me good!
At solemn dead of night,
To soothe my ears with virgins' groans—
(For Racks are my delight!)
And with rich glee I saw the heart
Leap up, and die with fright.
Sent here from Palestine;
When the Crusaders' swords let out
Their blood like streaming wine!
Oh, joy! upon the Alpine heights,
The thousands that were mine.
That night of glorious glee—
When Christian blood through Paris ran,
High as my charger's knee:
Nor when fierce Smithfield's fiery surge
Raged with the good and free.
Long may his empire last!
The Inquisition's dreadful throes—
The howlings on the blast—
The death of martyrs and their shrieks,
Throw glory on the past!”
The four, upstanding, gave—
Till Night's reverberate caverns shook
Loud as the stormy wave:
Then, all again was calm and still,
And solemn as the grave!
Rose briefly to reply:
“Good Gentlemen, I thank you much
For this your courtesy.
My brother Popes have done great things,
I grant—and so have I.
But Satan's in particular—
And all that I can do for him,
By poison, dagger, war—
(Great cheers!)—he may rely upon!
May nought my purpose mar.”
Sceptred and crown'd the gloomy Monarch stood;
Whilst by some secret sign, awoke from trance,
Rush'd to the banquet Hell's innumerous brood!
Fierce Moloch first, fair Belial, Mammon swart,
And all the demons of revenge and blood.
Who, with me, in your proud ambition fell—
I have a health to give—the health of one
Whom all of you, compatriots, cherish well;
The best and merriest gentleman, I'm sure,
Who ever past an evening in hell.
Ireland's big Agitator, our ally;
My ‘roaring lion seeking to devour.’
I'm getting old, in fact, and he shall try
His arts awhile! His huge success you know!
He shall be chosen Devil when I die.
Loud as autumnal thunder!) “He has done
More for my trade than any man I know,
And d---d more souls (besides I'm sure his own!)
Pope, priest, nor devil do deserve the half
Of thanks and glory as this jolly one.
Her peasants paupers, and her patriots slaves!
And Carnage leaps for joy upon the graves.
More blood and groans have come from thence last year,
Than from the influenza, winds, or waves!
You march to England, that accursed land
Of Protestants, brave men, and virtuous women:
Why, thou deserv'st my sceptre in thy hand
Just for the mischief thou hast brewing there—
I ne'er in England yet could make a stand.
Rejoice, proud Potentates, for such a guest!
None better here has enter'd since the fall—
None that I know has better done his best.
Shout louder, valiant comrades!—louder still!
And Cerberus, howl thou, among the rest!”
Till April twenty-eight;
And then, mayhap, we shall again
Put all our friends to right
Upon the question how these things
Have ever come to light:
We then shall condescend another
Pasquin to indite.
III. PART III. THE SUPPER (CONCLUDED.)
“Friends, devils, demons, all!
I thank you for the compliments
That you have just let fall!
Proud, very proud am I, to meet
You here in Satan's hall!
For this, my bosom friend:
I've labour'd hard for Ireland's bane,
And shall unto the end:
And England's haughty insolence
I still have power to bend.
And planted treason there;
Her hope is turned to misery,
Her joy to black despair—
And shrieks and lamentations sound
For ever on the air!
The prelate of his right;
And Ireland, once a land of bloom,
Is now a land of blight.
By heaven! I ne'er will let her rest,
Till all is grim as night.
Traitors and murderers here,
Ye, who in antique monarchies
Upheld the sword and spear,
Have I perplex'd those loyal men,
That England once held dear.
Their warriors things of straw,
Their maidens harlots, and defied
Each institute and law;
And soon I shall devote their church,
Sir Nicholas, to thy claw!
So soon to be destroyed;
England too long hath now defied
Your power—your plans annoyed:
Proud England yet, ere long, will be
By Satan's snares decoyed!
And Treason rear her pyre;
Her peaceful homes shall fiercely rage,
In war's rebellious fire;
And I shall then be Ireland's king,
And to her throne aspire!”
The Pope and Roebuck swore,
A long-resounding roar,
Whilst the black cauldron of the damn'd
With hell-broth bubbled o'er.
To young Diavolo, “bring
That crown which bloody Nero wore,
And place upon your king,
The sceptre of Caligula dead,
And Dionysius' ring.”
Upon his legs arose:
“There is another here,” quoth he,
“Deserves our best applause;
'Tis Roebuck, he of Canada,
The worst of England's foes.
But in ambition great;
And though a pigmy and a thrall!
And one of poor estate,
Yet hath he quite enough design
To fill a larger pate.
For lo! the morn is near—
Fill higher yet, for soon, you know,
My friends must disappear;
Take up his dwelling here!”
The morning star peep'd out,
Shrill chanticleer crow'd lustily
Amid the motley rout,
And every demon fast retired
With mimicry and shout.
The wine-cups hiss'd away,
And chaos groan'd most audibly,
To view the light of day;
Old Nick, with tail between his legs,
In terror ran away.
Rush'd with his chaise and six,
Whilst all the party, scorch'd and grimed,
Each kiss'd his crucifix:
Three gentlemen of earthly kin
Did ne'er so strangely mix.
And only this I know,
That they were seen proceeding on,
As fast as they could go,
And, it is said, Diavolo dropt
Them all into the Po.
ADDRESS TO THE PRINCESS VICTORIA,
ON ATTAINING HER MAJORITY.
Fair heiress of the land,
Born to ancestral monarchies
Of splendour and command!
Gigantic nations honour thee,
And kiss thy queenly hand.
Is kneeling at thy feet;
The old monarchic chieftains
Thy rising glory greet;
And each rejoicing British heart
Doth now exultant beat.
Are circled o'er thy brow;
The victories of all her kings
Are of thy trophies now:
For Cressy fierce, and Agincourt,
Do now resplendent glow.
Each valley rich and fair,
Is proud of England's heir:
All Nature joins in chorus sweet,
Delighting 'neath thy care.
The mighty and the wise,
Are link'd to guard thee on thy throne,
And beard thy enemies;
And poets, in immortal lays,
Will hymn thee to the skies.
Rebellion shall not fright;
A million gleaming swords would leap
Their scabbards for the fight:
For the old warriors of the land
Can well defend the right.
Fair Princess of the Isle;
For youth adorns thy radiant brow,
And Joy is in thy smile;
And Hope and Beauty shroud thee
From every earthly guile!
Beyond or sun, or star,
Hath led thy infant footsteps,
Hath loved thee from afar:
By his paternal care.
The empire of the sea;
The courtly adulation
Of smiles, and bended knee;
But, more than all, proud lady,
A nation of the Free!
For valour and renown,
Will swear the oath of loyalty,
Allegiance to thy crown;
And let him die, the traitor
Who shall thy power disown!
The sceptre in thy hand,
Remember, how old England won
Her glory and command;
How, by her Church, and Lords, and Laws,
She is so great a land.
Religion's surest good;
Sustain the aristocracy
From anarchy and blood;
And, oh, let Freedom firmly stand
Where it hath ever stood!
And millions cheer thy name;
The fertile vales will paint thy praise,
Thy triumph, power, and fame;
And History's pages consecrate
Thy reign in words of flame.
Britannia's dearest gem;
Let all unite in common pride,
To glorify her name:
And may the God of heaven protect
Her crown and diadem.
QUEEN VICTORIA AT WINDSOR.
It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she scarcely seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her first above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,— glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy.” —Edmund Burke—Essay on the French Revolution.
This poet-tribute at thy sovereign feet.
O! Queen of England, glorious was the day
When thou wert call'd to the monarchic seat—
Ruler of willing isles, and ocean's rolling sheet.
In triumph as thy palfrey pranced along;
Joy gleam'd in every straining British eye,
And aged men and matrons join'd the throng;
Whilst youths and maidens danced, or swell'd the choral song.
As if the skies were glad to view thee there;
Nature seem'd happy, as a bride new wed,
And wafted strains of music through the air,
To bless her as she went, our Sovereign, young and fair.
Hearts that would leap to battle at thy call;
Men strong and firm—breasts of the sternest clay,
Whom Danger's fiercest shafts could ne'er appal,
Nor Death's grim terrors daunt—an adamantine wall!
Who rear'd thy banners, and thy laurels bore:
Whilst lovely virgins breathed thy royal name,
And strewed fresh garlands o'er thy chariot door,
And pray'd that England's Queen might reign for evermore.
Bidding defiance to the raging blast—
Pause! kings and mighty potentates there lie,
Proud Queen! even thou must cease this lofty state at last!
Oaks that a thousand years have mock'd at Time!
These stalwart boughs for tempests have no fear,
But seem as steadfast now as in their prime:
Grim watchmen of the past—in hoary age sublime!
In terror o'er that fearless solitude;
A thousand summers have the wild-birds kept
Their halcyon holiday in field and wood;
A thousand years those brooks have swell'd the eternal flood.
Throw wide the gates—another sovereign reigns!
Last time the bolts fell, past a monarch's bier—
A sainted corpse was borne along the plains.
Youth, beauty, enters now—the King of kings ordains!
Feet scarcely heard, and mournful sighs supprest!
Now, shouts of triumph roll'd around the pile,
Loud joy and gladness swell'd each heaving breast—
And where pale Death had trod, the cheering people prest!
Frown from their solemn sculptur'd niches dread;
Or, crown'd and sceptred, swarm along the wall
In portraits, by some ancient limner, dead—
Lines sanctified by age, by genius garlanded.
Of mighty Alfred, chief of sword and lyre;
Harold the dauntless—dreadless—without fear,
Who charged the Norman with a brand of fire;
And Cœur-de-Lion King, of battles' boasts the sire.
One like thyself, whilst yet that Queen was young—
Elizabeth, the proudest princess then,
Who wore a crown, or was by poets sung,
Or rose in history's page, on Fame's triumphant tongue.
Error, and fraud, and tyranny sank down;
Truth flourish'd stronger—had a brighter day;
And genius mightier grew around her throne;
Whilst freedom triumph'd high, nor cared for tyrant's frown.
Thy noble mind, and bend thy willing soul:
She stood aloft, in virtue calm and clear,
And swept away the tempests that might roll,
Strong in her native self—beyond all base control!
The Queen of one who bravely fought the fight—
A Prince who, when his Papist foes grew wild,
Drove them before him with a giant's might,
And by his valour proved the true and ancient light.
Thy grandsire from his canvass looketh down;
He was the saviour of a falling land,
And wore with honour his ancestral crown—
Nor wrought a single act that history may disown.
Gather their memories o'er thy youthful head,
Dim visions of the past—of hopes and fears—
Crowd from these noiseless phantoms of the dead;
Ghost-kings inurn'd from sleep—from Death's funereal bed.
They won old England life and liberty,
They rescued her from fell oppression's claws,
And proved her empire o'er the brave and free—
The victor of the earth, the empress of the sea!
Amid those princely halls and sculptur'd aisles?
The poet's lay is faded—gone the prime
Of strength and glory that erst fill'd the isles—
And other strains must win the gladness of thy smiles.
And beauty sits enshrined upon thy brow:
Millions of subjects guard thy throne, and bless
Their lovely Queen, and at her footstool bow:
And distant nations kneel in reverent homage low.
Did Treason dare to plant her footsteps near!
A million beating hearts would join to keep
Thy sceptre safe, thy honour bright and clear—
Queen of the Isles! be glad—these loyal hearts are here!
CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.
THE ROYAL PROGRESS TO THE CITY.
And trip the steps where she doth tread, that keeps her country thus,
In peace and rest, and perfect stay; wherefore the God of peace,
In peace by peace, our peace preserve, and her long life increase.
Bristol Poem to Elizabeth.
Rapid and clear, as at a victory won?
Far-streaming banners wanton proudly there,
And wave their gorgeous colours to the sun—
Old England leaps with joy—Britannia's hope is nigh.
And cheering thousands greet her on her way.
In regal robes the lofty maid is seen,
And sweeter smiles she than the smiling day;
Peace, innocence, and beauty clothe her brow—
Oh, may she aye remain the angel she is now!
Ladies and knights, and lords of high estate,
Warriors and statesmen who in battle throng,
Or councils' wisdom, well may guard the state!
Yea, such as sway'd with Pitt, the gallant few,
Or bled on Blenheim's plain, or won at Waterloo!
Loud swell the trumpets o'er the gladden'd scene!
For lo! the ponderous gates of Temple Bar
Throw wide their welcome to the anointed Queen.
Ay! where a legion arm'd might crash in vain,
Sweeps now a spearless maid, and not a warrior slain.
Streams from the roof, more radiant than the moon.
The massive argents glow upon the sight—
The merchant-wealth from farthest regions won.
Whose ships, on every sea, wave high their pennants fair.
Glistens her eye, and glows her virgin breast!
Youth throws his arrows o'er each glossy braid,
And hope and tremulous love disturb her rest.
Sweet dreams, and memories sweet, surround her brow,
E'en as a breeze-stirr'd lake in summer's evening glow.
Princes, by valour raised, yet princes still!
Barons and lords, in freedom all elate,
Owning allegiance, with a freeman's will;
Such as maintained their rights at Runnymede,
Conquer'd at Agincourt, or did at Cressy bleed.
The cannon's lightning wears no dread for them;
Their haughty souls still burn with valorous thought,
When traitors crouch 'round Britain's diadem.
Like oak-trees are their limbs—their hearts the sea—
Quenchless as deep, unfathomable as free!
Drink they the Queen of England's broad domains:
(An empire that o'er half the earth doth lie—
The sister vales and India's golden plains;)
And fervently with earnest hearts they pray
That, like the ancestral line, our Sovereign Queen may sway!
She may preserve the immemorial laws,
That the old lineage, people, church, divide
With her the Sovereign power, the imperial cause:
Be even a second Elizabeth, as good,
Firm, virtuous, great as she—to rule in peace, not blood.
Defend the faith of Christ from fraud and guile,
Watchful, lest savage wolves attack the fold,
Or the red harlot rear her standard vile!
Be even as Una, (lamb of heavenly light,)
A star o'er clouds of wrong, a champion of the right.
Around whose walls the brave and pious stand;
Till, like a giant oak-tree that uprears,
Majestical, its shadow o'er the land—
The ancient Constitution, unsubdued
In grandeur battle still, the monarch of the wood.
And the glad people in thy good rejoice;
Thy praise reverberate from shore to shore,
Sweep storm-like onward on exultant voice;
And all shall know thee Empress of the sea,
Queen of the island homes, and Sovereign of the free.
In power and glory to the admiring world;
Boreal lights, by winter's grasp unfurl'd;
And on thy tomb the enduring memory be
“England, Britannia, ne'er had nobler Queen than she!”
This, and several of the preceding poems, appeared in the Metropolitan Conservative Journal, a weekly newspaper of politics and literature, established by the author in the year 1835; and of which he remained several years the proprietor and editor. This circumstance will sufficiently explain the cause of some little bias and political acrimony which has crept into the poems, and especially “Pasquin's Pillar.”
EPITHALAMIUM FOR QUEEN VICTORIA I.
FIRST VOICE.Strike the cymbal, sound the horn!
'Tis the Sovereign's nuptial morn.
Swell the trumpet, strike the drums—
'Tis the Lord's anointed comes!
SECOND VOICE.
Lo! the flag of beauty falls
Gracefully o'er Windsor's walls;
Peals St James's with the notes
Of gladness, from a thousand throats:
And the marble pillars groan
With the garlands round them thrown!
THIRD VOICE.
Hark! the silver clarions ring
Loud and joyous welcoming!
Hark! from tower and steeple swells
Music of the marriage bells:
Rushes like a mighty tide.
FIRST VOICE
(repeated.)
Lo! in bridal robes array'd,
Albert, and the Royal Maid!—
Valiant heroes, statesmen hoary,
Names renown'd in English story;
Men of Trafalgar, and you
Who fought and bled at Waterloo;
Reverend judges of the land,
Men of station and command;
Lords, whose halls and castles swell
Through each old ancestral dell:
All, whom England calls her own,
Circle round your Monarch's throne;
Heads unbared, approach the scene
Where she comes, Britannia's Queen!
SECOND VOICE.
Through the dim Cathedral aisle
Walks the lady of the isle;
Brighter beauty spreads around
As she treads the sacred ground;
And a holy lustre glows
O'er the marble where she goes!
THIRD VOICE.
“Strike the cymbal! sound the horn!”
Welcomes for the nuptial morn;
Wait the bridegroom and the bride:
Hush! the solemn oath is o'er—
Louder let the music roar—
Swell the notes from shore to shore!
CHORUS.
Fairy dances, notes of mirth;
When young Cupid's roses shine,
When Titania walks the earth,
When the royal Oberon
Blesses all he looks upon.
Primrose, cowslip, violet;
Buds shoot forth on every bough,
With the crystal dew-drops wet:
And the heavens wear softer light,
Lady, for thy bridal night!
Cupid hold thy envious dart;
Spirits that through ether rove,
Banish Sorrow from her heart:
Veil, oh Moon, thy curious beams
From the Royal Maiden's dreams!
OMNES.
The note of joy and merriment resounds:
Millions of welcomes load the burthen'd air:
Oh guard her well, young Prince, a prize is thine,
So fair, so great, ne'er graced a royal line!
Not haughty Sidon, towering to the skies,
Not marble Babylon, not Imperial Rome,
Not Greece, nor Macedon—the world their home—
Nor these, nor Venice, Bridal of the Sea,
Possess'd, Victoria, realms so rich as thee!
On them heaven's sunbeams never cease to shine.
From the cold, frosty North, to burning Ind,
Thy fame is borne in triumph on the wind;
Strange nations, creeds, and races own thy sway
Of dusky Paynim, and of swart Malay.
That bows, Victoria, to thy mild command.
It is the land of mountains, woods, and vales,
Of temperate seasons, and of healthful gales:
It is the land where social virtues glow,
Where justice, right, and pure religion grow;
It is the land of patriots, and the free,
The darling home of truth and liberty.
A myriad swords would cleave the ruffian down.
Egypt, and India, still will guard thy reign;
The navies of the Nile and Trafalgar,
Still launch the thunders of resistless war;
The tenants of thy cliffs and mountains free,
Will proudly shed their dearest blood for thee:
Let foreign foemen to thy harbours run,
A million spears would glitter in the sun!
FIRST VOICE.
Festal gladness marks the day
Of fair Cupid's regal sway;
Whilst the wine-cup, glittering clear,
Stirs each loud and loyal cheer:
Echo, answering, sends reply,
And swells the chorus to the sky!
SECOND VOICE.
Bumpers three of beaded wine
For the brave St Valentine!
Maids and matrons, old and young,
Join, and let his praise be sung;
Valentine is king and lord,
Greet him to our festal board.
THIRD VOICE.
Mirth and music, let them flow!
Stir “the light fantastic toe.”
Frolic, fun, and gay delight,
Hold their carnival to-night;
Cupid aim thy darts of love.
CHORUS.
Love the god-like, Love the free.
Love controls the powers above,
Rules the earth, the air, the sea.
Far as utmost bounds of day
Love exerts resistless sway.
Every dweller of the hill,
All that crowd the ocean-flow,
All that tenant stream or hill,
Own thy spell, thy influence prove,
Droop beneath thy lightnings, Love.
And its lambent flames impart;
Pierce the lordly palace-hall,
Chain the mightiest monarch's heart:
Through the earth its blessings run,
Universal as the sun.
Flowers and garlands hither bring—
Haste, for Cupid's self doth call,
As he floats on ambient wing;
Haste, and crown our maid divine,
Queen of good St Valentine!
That crowns with bliss our Queen, Victoria!
May all the happy spirits of the air
Unite their blessings for the royal pair!
Dryads and Hamadryads of the woods,
Resound their praises through your solitudes!
And thou, old Neptune, sound thy wreathed shell,
And all the ocean-caves thy chorus swell!
Hope, wing thy golden rainbows in the sky,
Peace, let thy snow-drop virtues now descend—
Truth, Justice, Right, your fadeless glories lend!
Let Mirth, with all her fairy trains, lead on,
And crown with balm the royal Maiden won—
Heaven pour thy treasures on the monarch's head,
And, with sweet increase, bless the marriage bed!
Defender of the ancient faith divine;
The martyr'd spirits of the murder'd slain,
Demand the shield of her protecting reign;
Millions on millions greet the auspicious day
That fills with hope a virgin monarch's sway—
Millions on millions join the heartfelt prayer
That heaven may grant thee empire and an heir!
Omen auspicious for Old England's crown!
Incense and balm, and festival array:
May never cloud nor storm disturb her dower—
Her reign all peaceful as this balmy hour,
And as earth's breast with Spring's first increase teems,
So fruit and foliage crown her nuptial dreams!
With constant wretchedness and fears dismay'd—
For thee may sunbeams dart, and flowerets bloom,
And heaven's own radiance pierce the midnight gloom!
For thee, pure good, true greatness, calm repose,
Possess thy heart, and banish all thy woes;
From thy fair side a mighty lineage flow—
Pillars of strength around thy feet to grow—
And noble blossoms cheer thy youthful prime,
To grace the British throne to endless time!
LINES WRITTEN BESIDE THE TWO OLD RUINED TOWERS OF DOVER CASTLE.
And dallies with the breezes as they flow!
The glowing depths with heaven's rich hues are wed,
And kiss the shadowing clouds that wander slow,
And clasp the snow-white cliffs that to their caverns go.
Fresh waves that leap and dance about in glee;
White ships spread out their beauty to the scene,
And gentle sea-birds wander far and free—
Yea, every sight and sound breathes love and liberty.
Ye have beheld in your great strength and prime:
O, ye have heard the storm's tempestuous calls,
And Winter shouting to the ghosts of Time;
And the loud thunders roll along their march sublime.
And hope, and love, hath sunk beneath the sea;
Full many a shriek from out the tempest's strife,
Hath struck these snowy cliffs that tower so free,
And the huge waves have come and dash'd about your knee.
Have mix'd their screams with shrieks of woe and death;
Mothers and little children, 'neath the war
Of winds and waves, have sigh'd their latest breath,
And wailing lovers sunk into the caves beneath.
Or revell'd with the wanton wavelet's flow;
And when the tempest left its shatter'd home,
And smote the billows like an angry foe,
Ye still have stood afar, and proudly gazed below.
And woo'd his latest ray: the tempest's tide
Could shake them not; nor winter's snows o'errun
Their strength; nor lightning fires subdue their pride:
To pierce their stubborn depths, in vain, the sunbeams tried.
Vain was the cannon's thunder; all in vain
Gaul's legion'd hosts; in vain each noisy threat:
England, to meet them, sent a glorious train,
Who from these watch-towers hurl'd defiance o'er the main.
And fear'd not for their country's good to die;
Their well-aim'd darts, like showers of hail, were sent,
And with bold breasts they did the foe defy—
Shedding their hearts'-blood fast for truth and liberty.
Your portals, nor o'erthrow your adamant stone;
Nor stormy Ocean's whirling tempests cope
With those firm buttresses, now mouldering down,
And o'er those rugged towers where now the nightwinds groan.
Those lofty turrets now are moulder'd low;
Trench, moat, and battery, where bold heroes fought,
Scarce now have space to hold a single foe,
And, like two aged men, their hoary foreheads bow.
The bat at midnight snuffs the ocean air;
The trailing ivy clasps each shrivell'd breast,
And gnaws for food, and climbs each broken stair—
Though once the tramp of knights and warriors sounded there.
Now bloom sweet wild-flowers all in fragrant show;
Where sounded the clear trumpet's shrilly note,
Now gentlest breezes murmur to and fro;
And where poor captives groan'd, soft strains of music flow.
Temple, and pyramid, and towering pile,
And bust colossal—all—shall swiftly pay
Their dues to Time, and feel his withering smile;
And kings and kesars rot beneath the marble aisle.
Bright, as of old, her glorious dwellings rise:
No pearl hath fallen from her streaming hair—
No dimness darkens o'er her glistening eyes—
Her lessons still have power to make us good and wise.
And trees, as far as vision's bounds can go;
Brightly the murmuring brooks and streamlets pass
Along their banks, still singing as they flow,
And gaily hymn the birds from every sylvan bough.
A crown and diadem!—The holy moon
Is fair, as when these towers first met the light;
Still glows the sun—blue are the heavens at noon—
And the fresh breezes greet the poet late and soon!
And mermaids float along each coral cave;
These snowy rocks still tower in grandeur high—
The patriot's trust, the bulwark of the brave—
And far your pastures spread, and broad your meadows wave.
And token of a might than yours more strong;
A moral speaks in every mouldering stone,
That life, and love, and beauty, last not long—
A voice, as from the grave, echoes these walls among!
Appeared in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine; and was written amidst the ruins of Dover Castle, after accompanying my friend, the late M. S. Milton, Esq., author of “The Songs of the Prophecies,” &c., on his way to Italy. —J. W. O.
HOME REVISITED.
Where, in happy boyhood, breeze-like I stray'd;
Glad were my wanderings o'er your wastes of heather,
Paths of my youth!
There dwelt the raven in his towering home;
There swept the gled-hawk, like a meteor darting
Swift on his prey.
Roll'd the harsh thunder, shriek'd the loud blast;
Dash'd the fierce cataract, loos'd from its caverns—
Voices of dread!
The mild summer breezes bore fragrance and balm;
And the lark's joyous music ascended the azure—
Songs of the spheres!
Rich golden furze, and the bright purple heath!
Plenteous your pastures, glad your summer beauty,
Homes of the bee.
Crowd like spots of sunshine round the traveller's path;
Old hoary cairns record the hero's grave-house,
Rear'd where he fell.
Idly reposing in the blaze of noon;
Or, in rude numbers, paints his maid's perfections—
Pride of the vale.
O'er your springy pathways, bounding apace,
To tempt his rapid prey among the mountain torrents,
Golden and bright!
Pyre on pyre of glory in the western clouds;
Whilst heaven's blazing windows flash upon his spirit
Visions of bliss!
Far-spreading oak-tree, and wild-ash abide,
Gladly I greet your dear shades, your rich verdure,
Prized as of old.
Here float the breezes, like whispers from heaven;
Here grow fair wild-flowers, the richest, the rarest,
Fragrant as frail!
Love for my paradise, Hope for my guide:
Glazed are those angel-eyes, hush'd is that seraph-voice,
Sweetest on earth.
Home of the butter-cups, daisies, I sought:
Still wealth and plenty your hedgerows encircle,
Spots of delight.
Calmly the groves wave their locks in the breeze;
Freshly the meadows, deep vales, and wide pastures,
Bask in the sun.
Flourish, dear Nature! the worshipp'd, the true;
And when Death's fingers freeze up mine eyelids,
Make me thine own!
Here, where the loved and the cherish'd repose—
Here, where the abbey salutes the last sunbeams,
Grant me a grave!
SPRING.
And soft the sound of waters!—Far, I hear
The moorland music, and the voice of groves,
The brooding notes of happiness and love!
The hare runs sportively o'er daisied mead:
The partridge and his mate, in grassy beds
Peaceful rejoice. High through the stilly air
Swell notes of gladness—from each budding spray
Angelic raptures, and seraphic quires.
Spangles the rocks, and perfumes all the air.
The wither'd fern springs forth again to life,
And every desert spot assumes the robes
Of youth and beauty, for the awakening morn:—
Yea, morning, like some oriental queen,
Lifts her bright eye, and steps serenely forth
With pearls of dew-drops, that like emeralds glow!
From moor, and mountain, and the silent sky!
Not earth alone, but all the stars of heaven,
And sun and moon, the influence announce.
The crystal rain-drops as they dance to earth,
The woodland breezes wing'd with light and balm,
The morning mists, so luminous, and clear,
Investing hill and dale with heavenly hues,
All speak the praises of the new-born year.
See how the silken moss in splendour shines—
Silver and gold! The smallest blade of grass
Seems fresher in the radiance of its youth;
Meekly the virgin primrose shields its head
Within the birchen grove; the cowslip, too,
Nods faintly on the gale; and blue as heaven,
At noontide, blooms the violet in its bower.
For peace and blessedness; when hearts as young
Rejoice in dreams of bliss and happiness:
And, 'neath the shade of patriarchal trees,
In silent groves, the evening star their guide,
Sigh tales of truth, and promises of faith,
That angels on their thrones rejoice to hear.
He gathers wealth richer than Crœsus knew—
Or all the marvels of Aladdin's cave.
The songs of birds are his—the scent of flowers—
The sound of waters, and the hush of woods—
All the mute wilderness, and desert waste:—
Nature, in joy, and terror, and delight,
As with a zone of glory, clasps him round,
And with Elysian raptures thrills his soul!
The voice of memory o'er hill and dale,
Evoking, from the midnight of the past,
Bright, beauteous shapes, and venerable forms,
Visions, and dreams, and portraitures sublime,
Such as the youthful fancy did create,
Or youthful passion pictured in the soul,
When first the muse inspired, or nature taught.
Thus did I feel thy blessings when a boy!
O, not in vain, ye hills of giant mould,
Ye woodlands, in your beautiful array!
With fearless hand, and firm, thy ancient reign—
Old Nature's reign—eternal through the earth—
And godlike bright, that, when I cease to be,
My name may live in monuments of thine.
THE CRUSADER'S LAMENT.
And she was dear to me;
I had a house and fireside hearth
When I went o'er the sea.
When I went o'er the sea—
The sweetest flower in all the land
Is stolen away from me.
And the scars are on my brow;
But what are Glory's palms to me,
Life, Hope, what are they now?
That I left behind the sea;
And the heart it is another's
That once did beat for me.”
FIRST SONG OF SPRING.
Is ringing in mine ear,
The birds their music bring
From hill and starry sphere:
The merry woodland round,
The hawthorn and the broom,
And all the valleys sound
A dirge o'er Winter's tomb.
The blackbird on the spray,
The throstle piping nigh,
In chorus tune their lay:
It is a note of mirth,
Of joyaunce bright and clear;
And gladness fills the earth
From field and forest near.
Of loves and memories gone;
For Winter bows his head,
And breathes his latest moan.
The Winter storms are past—
The snow-wreath and the rain,
And every raging blast
That thunder'd o'er the plain.
From twice ten thousand throats,
That swells along the grove
And lifts to heaven their notes;—
Love—Omnipresent love—
Wakes every impulse now:
It guides the stars above,
And rules the world below.
It springs they know not where;
And warmest raptures rest
On every breath of air;
For passion's sacred fires
In court nor palace brood,
But rear their holiest pyres
In wilderness and wood!
Of Summer's balmy bowers—
The breezes of the heath,
The fragrance of the flowers:
And every primrose dell,
And violet-scented glade,
With song and incense swell
The sunshine and the shade.
O, creatures of delight!
A tide of rapture springs
To hear your carols light:
Such notes of gladness pour,
That greet the golden West
With song's melodious shower.
A myriad hymns they raise;
The various music rains
From heaven, in streams of praise
To Him who reigns on high,
And spreads the azure calm,
For glories of the sky,
For Spring and Summer balm.
Of poet wandering near,
Along the mountain crest
Your melody to hear:
Nor human skill can bring
Such harmony and art
As now divinely ring
Within the poet's heart.
Of town or courtly sphere:
To me, that little bird
Hath raptures far more dear:
The fine Italian trill
Can no such meanings bear,
As from that cherub bill
Are borne along the air!
The heavens so deeply blue;
The hills are clad with light,
The vales with golden hue:
The peeping buds rejoice,
And every hazel bough;
Whilst Nature joins her voice
And listens to your vow.
The heavens are all your own;
Your music fills my breast
With every sweetest tone:
And, oh! this blessed hour,
Each various note and theme,
Will bring your woodland bower
To memory's dearest dream!
ODE TO MARSDEN ROCK.
Grim fortress of this stern and rock-bound shore,
Around thy base a thousand billows sweep,
Around thy head a thousand tempests roar,
And still thou dost maintain thy sway for evermore.
The winter storms can hurl it to the plain:
What the Norwegian pine and forests free?—
The avalanche can sweep them in her train:
Whilst thou, defying rock, dost still as sovereign reign!
The Simoon's blast hath buried in the sand:
Etna and red Vesuvius, with their showers,
Have held with fires of earthquake their command,
But thou controll'st the deep, even with a tyrant's hand.
What feelings rush along the poet's soul,
Viewing from thy far heights the expanse wide:
How doth he joy to hear the waters roll,
When, like the notes of war, their thunders rise and fall.
White as the clouds, swift as the rushing blast;
To view the fairy barks glide gently by,
Or the grim cormorant sail croaking past,
Or bright rejoicing ships, that rear the stately mast!
And meditate upon the weary waves!
Wondering when all that anguish will have rest,
Whose notes are requiems, and whose gulphs are graves
O'erhundreds, bright and brave, enshrouded in their caves!
Of deadly battles, and the foeman's fate;
Each pointed crag that wrestles with the deep,
Hath struck some mariner with fangs of hate,
And every treacherous bay become a funeral gate.
Since Noah's bark first plough'd the untrodden sea,
Still hast thou match'd with Time's incessant shock,
Maintain'd thy place, unconquerable and free,
The emblem of our island goddess, Liberty!
And shaped fair portals, and a passage wide,
Thou claim'st the treasures from each coral bay,
And sea-nymphs disport there in amorous pride,
And mermaids of the deep along thy caverns glide.
And rainbow glories of the moonlit night:
The sea pours songs and melodies divine,
And thunder-tones that sound with prophet might,
And all the winds of heaven do greet thee with delight.
This heart that now beats fresh, and strong, and high,
And joys to hear the waves tempestuous roar,
And watch the cloudy vestures of the sky,
Less proudly shall record these sights that greet the eye.
When he who loves thee hymns thy praise no more:
Stronger than lords and monarchs, and more free,
Thy empire still shall stretch along the shore,
And dare the tempest's strife, and brave the surge's roar.
A celebrated rock, standing in the midst of the sea, on the northern coast, not far from Tynemouth, in Northumberland. The neighbouring scenery is exceedingly sublime and picturesque, and perhaps equal to an part of the sea-coast of Great Britain.
THE TRYSTING-PLACE REVISITED.
It is the self-same tree;
The self-same streamlet swelling
Its notes for thee and me.
The clouds all golden-bright:
Thus to the gates of heaven
The sky-lark caroll'd light.
And every floweret there,
Perfumed the summer weather
With fragrance rich and rare.
Even thus thy gentle eyes,
With love and pity laden,
Were kindled by my sighs.
Shone not so pure and strong;
And oh, that voice so tender,
Outmatch'd the linnet's song!
What sorrow has been thine!
But still I must adore thee,
For still thou art divine.
Or slander should prevail:
Two lovers broken-hearted,
Now tell the mournful tale.
They bore her o'er the sea;
Who wert my life—my glory,
The universe to me!
My sighing fill'd the night,
Whilst o'er the rolling billow
They swept thee from my sight.
Thy vision lit mine eyes,
With beauties that outnumber
The treasures of the skies.
And stript each forest tree,
Quench'd not my soul's emotion
The love I bore to thee.
As in the summers gone:
Immoveable in duty,
My vows are still thine own.
Of gods! (for so thou art:)
I'll spill my blood like water
Ere thou and I shall part.
CHARTIST ECLOGUE.
TIME—MIDNIGHT.- Jack Cade,
- Wat Tyler.
Propria Personæ—
musing.
The fire burns low, the taper's nearly out;
Ah me! what are these Chartists all about?
Swore that our cause must win without a blow—
Declared that Freedom's sons must nobly stand
And rear the flag of triumph through the land?
Alas! poor Chartism, like the lights, looks blue,
And still no brighter prospect meets my view.
Where are the dreams of triumph, wealth, and power,
That came, like Danaæ, in a golden shower?
Where are the fields and acres that we sought?
Like Rachel, still I call, and they are not.
Where are the rich men's goods, the equal rights,
For which we bawl'd the weary winter nights?
Where the paid members, annual parliaments,
For which we pour'd such loud and long laments?
Where, where the ballot, suffrage—say, oh where?
Alas! they're visions of the baseless air:
All, all our meetings, speeches, threats, are vain,
Our daggers, pistols, pikes, and fields of slain;
Still I am only Cade, and Tyler rues
That ere we ventured on the sale of news;
For Liberators, Northern Stars, are sour,
And those who bought them once will buy no more. (Suddenly leaps up as if alarmed.)
'Tis but the wind that howls against the door—
I thought 'twas Satan that had cross'd the moor;
For Belzebub and I myself are even—
I am against the Queen, he arm'd 'gainst heaven.
Arms!—there's the rub!—arm, brother Chartists, arm!
Pikes, blunderbusses—raise the loud alarm;
Clergy, and squires, and Commons—they must fall.
Down with the middle classes, merchants too,
Strike them to earth, the scoundrels yet shall rue;
Their castles, churches, palaces, shall blaze,
And all the world on this bold action gaze:
Then, gallant brethren, when the battle's o'er,
And all the rich are butcher'd in their gore,
We'll seize their treasures, and need work no more.
[Falls asleep.
THE DREAM.
Scene—Mount Vesuvius in a state of eruption. Pluto is discovered at the edge of the crater engaged in culinary operations, assisted by his Imps. He is stirring with much eagerness an enormous cauldron.PLUTO
sings.
Still my labour's scarce begun;
Twice ten million mortals more
Surge-like through these caverns roar.
Join with me the choral song;
Stir the cauldron to our measure,
With our toil we'll mingle pleasure.
Richest blood that ever ran;
Cheeks of maidens fair and slender.
Funeral tears a gallon more;
Then, my younkers, quickly ride,
For a new kill'd suicide.
Sprites of metal, fiends of might;
Ride like lightning, swifter, harder,
Each new grave must help my larder.
Enter
SPIRIT OF FIRE.
What, ho! good Pluto? What's the matter?
Why, I declare, I think you're fatter.
PLUTO.
No thanks to you, nor yours, good master!
But why so long—why wern't you faster?
What business has detained you thus?
What puts you, sir, in such a fuss?
SPIRIT OF FIRE.
Fuss! devil take it, why, these Chartists
Are worse than all the Buonapartists!
I thought that Moscow business o'er,
My toil all done, I'd work no more.
But, curse them, I've been all the way
To Brummagem, this very day.
To Brummagem!—What business brought you?
I'm sure there's blaze enough without you!
SPIRIT OF FIRE.
It was a glorious sight, as ever
Flamed from Avernus' fiery river.
Oh, how the reeking rafters sent
Their glow into the firmament.
The lurid pillars stream'd on high,
Till even the moon was hid; the sky
Seem'd nought but blackness to the eye.
PLUTO.
How happen'd this? Was't accident?
Or was the conflagration meant?
SPIRIT OF FIRE.
Oh, had you seen the embers dart,
I'm sure it would have joyed your heart!
The Chartists, too, carousing, quaffing—
You would have split your sides with laughing.
They jump'd and danced with such mad play,
Like Cannibals around their prey—
What pity they were driven away!
PLUTO.
Methinks they'll have a glorious blow
Whene'er they visit us below.
But brother Slaughter comes—what, ho!
What, ho, good friends! how goes the feast?
I'm hungry—I've been travelling east;
The wind blows cold, the tempest's high,
And all the way from Wales am I.
PLUTO.
Right welcome, best and trustiest friend,
Without whose aid my reign must end.
Apicius would have rode from Rome
To such a feast; but, Newport, come!
SPIRIT OF MASSACRE.
Last evening as I sharp'd my knife
To stab a jealous Spaniard's wife,
I heard a noise across the sea,
Which seem'd as from the Tuilleries;
I listen'd on the western gales,
And, lo! the clamour rose from Wales!
Oh, 'twas a glad and glorious sight
To see that brief, but bloody fight!
(Though Frost, the leader, “ran away,
And lives to fight another day.”)
There, lying on the gory ground,
Lay numbers rent with mortal wound:
I saw their gashing limbs—I saw
The mark of many a deadly blow,
The forehead's damp, the fever'd eye,
The last proud look when heroes die;
I heard the shout of battle swell,
The rush of horsemen down the dell,
The noise then faded on mine ears:
The last dull sounds that struck me then,
Were as the moans of dying men;
But one poor sufferer, struggling near,
Call'd faintly on his children dear,
Then sought his soul another sphere!
PLUTO.
Who brought them there: what wretch imbrued
His fingers in his country's blood?
SPIRIT OF MASSACRE.
Frost—that's the name! a rebel he,
Whose doom should be the gallows tree.
PLUTO.
Still, brother Slaughter, we should starve,
If traitors did not help to carve.
When Freedom's carnival of gore
Begins, the richer is our store;
When rebels stalk across the land,
More strongly, proudly, we command:
When fools and knaves the chorus swell,
There's gladness through the vaults of hell. (Puts his ear to the crater.)
Hark! I hear a mighty roar,
Like billows 'gainst a rocky shore;
Like a thousand eagles rushing;
Like a thousand torrents rushing;
Sweeping forest, root and branch;
Like the earthquake, like the thunder:
What the devil is't, I wonder?
Enter
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
Hail, hail! great Pluto! king of gods and men,
Lord of hell's gulphs, and all that they contain!
How is your wife?—how is fair Proserpine?
What have you got for dinner?—How's your wine?
PLUTO.
Right glad am I to see thee once again!
Whence hast thou come?—From what red fields of slain?
What king is dead?—What nation most in tears?
I have not seen thy face for fifty years!
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
Great king! majestic monarch! conqueror
Of earth and hell—from Styx to Afric's shore,
Listen, whilst I my ghastly tale unfold,
Of sovereigns murder'd, and of empires sold.
Since last we dined on Etna's fiery plain,
When war's red blood-hounds thunder'd through the Seine,
Hearing the shrieks of murder sounding past,
Thither I journeyed on the swiftest blast,
And reach'd my dearest Paris just in time
To see some fighting on a scale sublime.
Bravely and gallantly the soldiers fought,
Till beat by hosts, they perish'd on the spot;
Till raging thousands spilt their warrior blood:
Men fought like demons, and my heart-strings beat
To see such heaps of carnage at my feet.
I strayed till gentle Marie Antoinette
Bequeathed to France her life and coronet.
I strayed till Robespierre had cut his throat,
And lives of Frenchmen were not worth a groat;
And then, when massacre had done its part,
I left the scoundrels to friend Buonaparte.
PLUTO.
Where went you then, good crony, Revolution?
What empire, people, king, were next undone?
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
From Versailles, where I called on Louis Philippe,
I journeyed southward to give Spain a fillip.
Then left my card on Portugal's young Queen,
And sent Don Miguel to the bloody scene.
But ne'er, good Pluto, have I seen such tricks,
Since thou baptized me in the lethal Styx,
As Russia play'd my friend and thine, old Nicks.
PLUTO.
Be civil, sir, my name is Pluto—Nick's
A modern name: mine beats it all to sticks.
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
I gazed on Warsaw's shrieking walls,
And heard the rattling thunder-balls,
Carnage then madly clapp'd his hands,
And grinn'd to see those hero bands
All butcher'd in their pride.
Joy, joy! the massive temple fell;
The ruin'd homes of princes tell
The force of Cossack steel:
Thousands of deathless patriots stood
In hostile strength: alas! their blood
Was but the vulture's meal.
PLUTO.
And whither then?
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
England, the land of all, I hate,
The proud, the fearless, and the great,
Land of pure laws and liberties,
Where revolution pines and dies;
There I had heard some rumours rife
Of fire, and blood, and battle's strife!
So, having had no work to do
Since Hunt's affair at Peterloo,
By way of penance on my trade,
I call'd on Tyler and on Cade.
PLUTO.
Well, think you, friend, there's any chance
That England will resemble France?
Of hate, revenge—a deadly load;
Rank treason stalks across the land,
Fearless of man's or God's command:
Rebellion's now commenced its march,
With pistol, dagger, pike, and torch;
And, if I scent aright the wind,
A train of blood remains behind.
War, civil war—the orphan's tears—
The widow's groans, the good man's fears;
Father and son, in fierce array,
And kinsmen met in battle fray;
The pillaged town, the ravish'd maid,
The flaming street—war's dreadful trade;
Castles consumed, and famine gaunt,
With madness, penury, and want;
Deserted cities, ruined homes,
Each village now a place of tombs.
What joint is that—is't cold or hot?
PLUTO.
That fine fish I caught near Mona,
It's the whale that swallow'd Jonah!
The soup, I warrant, it is made
From the first King Charles's head,
With a slice of Afric mutton
From the rump of Sambo Sutton:
Cuts from Burke's and Bishop's breast,
And Greenacre forms the rest.
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
And these joints?
PLUTO.
These my imps brought, every one—
And they're rich as venison.
That's a wing of Cleopatra,
That's the famous king of Hayti.
Lo! the fiery dragon's haunch,
Fit for aldermanic paunch,
Which St George of England slew—
England's champion, brave and true.
Tongue of lizard, tail of snake,
Liver of a murder'd rake;
Miser's jaundiced hands are these,
With some pirates from the seas.
Alexander's carving knife,
That which took his Clitu's life,
Is for you: whilst Fire and Slaughter
Take what slew Virginius' daughter,
And spilt Cæsar's blood like water.
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
And that chair, what other wight
Expect you at our feast to-night?
A friend of yours, the Chartist, Cade. (Shouts loudly.)
Cade, awake, awake, arise!
Hasten to our sacrifice.
Revolution, Slaughter, Fire,
Wait you at our orgies dire.
Up! awake! the blood is streaming,
Wild Vesuvius' flames are streaming.
Up! we greet thee: brother, come
Hither, unto Pluto's home!
Cade
starting up wildly.
What dream is this? What horrid, hideous dream?
My blood boils, and a dizzy madness creeps
All through my brain and heart! Hence, hence,
Ye grisly phantoms! Hence, foul demons, hence!
Me miserable! what penalty is mine?
And yet, forgive me heaven, if punishment
Is due, that I have wronged thy high commands;
I will repent me! Never, never more,
Will I incite rebellion in the land,
Nor spout seditious speeches to the mob.
O! I feel faint; these shadows have unmann'd me!
It is the Northern Times has brought this dream
Thus palpably before me! Spare, oh spare!
Good editor: though strong, be merciful,
And I will ne'er provoke your vengeance more.
Alas, alas!
[Exit to bed.
This poem was written during the great political excitement of 1839 and 1840, and was chiefly aimed at the Chartist leaders of Sunderland, where the author was residing for a short time. The heroes of Chartism are mentioned under the celebrated cognomina of Jack Cade and Wat Tyler.
THE WRECK OF THE SYRIA,
OFF SUNDERLAND, FRIDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 13, 1840.
This voyage of the Syria was her first. She sailed from the port the preceding evening, and had only been launched a few days. Amongst the sailors was a youth making his first voyage, and his afflicted mother saw him perish from the shore.
Light clouds, bright sun, a clear and lovely sky—
These were thy dower, bright ship, the offerings dear
Bestow'd by Nature with a parting sigh,
As o'er the azure deep thou swep'st in glory by.
The breezes revell'd in thy sails with pride;
Bravely thy pennant flutter'd to and fro,
As keen to track the watery prospect wide,
And pierce the far obscure, a monitor and guide.
Dauntless for deeds of triumph on the wave;
They feared not sleety rains, nor murky air,
Nor lowering clouds, nor when the tempests rave,—
Alas! that smiling deep, how soon to be their grave!
What angry thunders roll along the shore:
Wild, black, and threatening are the broken clouds,
And the fierce storms like hunted tigers roar,
Whilst torrents, biting cold, a constant deluge pour.
Furious and fierce—ten thousand armies strong!
Lo! like battalions, armed for death, they call,
And madly rush like famish'd wolves along—
Again, and lo, she towers almost the clouds among!
Wars with the wave, and wrestles with the storm;
And now, as in despair, she welters low,
Again to rise more giant-like in form,
Whilst ruder swells the blast, more fell the billows swarm.
See, how they strain each sinew in despair!
That beacon-star but lights them to their grave;
Yon lurid red but aggravates their care,
And pierces through the storm as with a demon's glare.
A taper that will light them to their bier;
The haven, late their trust, will be their tomb;
Their succour farthest when it seems most near—
And Hope itself is turn'd to agony and fear.
That swept at morning o'er the hills afar,
The huntsman's shaft has entered near its heart,
It struggles homeward through the tempest's war,
And drops, with straining eyes bent on its dwelling far!
And stares in stony terror on the sky;
His white hair streams along the wintry blast,
White as the clouds of spray that o'er him fly;
And, far across the deep swells each despairing cry.
See how the thundering billows o'er him tread!
A few short hours, a mother's tears ran fast
Along that gentle face, now cold and dead—
No more—oh, never more!—the Ocean is his bed!
Lo, how her timbers shiver in the strife.
Can ye not save that ship?—Alas, the day!
As well control the clouds when storms are rife,
Or in the ribs of Death place confidence and life!
The boat is gone, the blasts more wildly rave:
One shriek from sea and land, 'mid Ocean's roar,
That swells in anguish o'er the howling wave—
'Tis past, that ship is gone—the cavern'd rock her grave.
The loved, the blest, the cherish'd, the most dear;
Life's cares, life's joys, the memories of old,
The clasping hand, the smile of hope, the tear—
All, all are cold for you, within your stormy bier.
And in the plaining wind your requiem know;
Your dirge be heard in Ocean's hollow moan
At evening, when the sun is sinking low;
And in the Poet's hymn, narrating as he saw!
LINES.
[How oft, oh! Guisborough, 'mid the blackened walls]
Of mighty cities have I thought of thee!
The crowded marts, dense streets, and stately halls,
The paths of commerce or festivity,
The pomp of human life had still no charm for me.
And gaze upon the infinity of space!
I hear the music of a hundred rills;
I view the distant ocean's smiling face;
Each far-extending vale and lonely dwelling-place.
And the gaunt trees, with ivy garlanded,
Wave their green foreheads to the breezes' swell;
And, lo! that graceful creature o'er my head,
The gled-hawk of the woods, sails far with pinions spread.
And the world's tumults would pursue his way,
When here might flow a pure and noiseless life,
With Nature's triumphs, and a Poet's sway,
High dreams, unfettered thoughts, and blissful dreams alway.
The gentle winds breathe audibly above;
A thousand songs rejoice my listening ear,
From lone, untrodden bowers of peace and love;
And every quiet nook breeds raptures where I rove.
Farewell, each noisy and tempestuous scene;
Far from your maddening revelries I go,
Your festive bowers, where all too long I've been,
And here I dwell again, reposing and serene.
These peaceful vales, and solitudes remote;
Dear Nature's works shall now be all my care,—
To con the wild-flowers, hear the wild-birds' note,
And meditate alone in purity of thought.
First-born of God, and empress of the earth;
These regions, which have been thy chosen sphere,
And where, from chaos, thou emerged'st forth,
Shall claim the Poet's lays in honour of thy birth.
So shall my strains arise in praise of thee;
And, as thy treasures were vouchsafed by heaven,
So may thy impulses extend to me,
That I may sound thy praise in measures bold and free!
A REMEMBRANCE.
Careering over hill and tree,
What memories gather in mine eye,
As, wandering forth, I gaze on thee!
The harvest song is sounding near;
No sound of woe, no dream of sin
Methinks can reach thy holy sphere.
The ocean waves are dimly heard;
And, slumbering 'neath thy hallow'd light,
The smallest leaf is scarcely stirr'd.
I gazed upon thy sinless brow—
Even so, enraptured and alone,
I watch'd thy printless steps, as now.
By sweet Winander's dulcet shore:
Ah me, that vision too is gone—
That bliss is past—that dream no more!
Beneath the magic of thy ray?
Can I forget the woodbine bower,
Whose memory ne'er shall pass away!
Those ringlets glancing in the light—
The vows, the sighs—the deep despair
That haunts me since that fatal night.
That angel voice shall sound again:
Another's arms encircle thee—
Another bosom soothes thy pain.
When all the winds of heaven are still,
The vision sweeps across my sight—
That moonlight hour, that moonlight hill!
VERSES INSCRIBED ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF JACOB MINNIKIN,
MASTER OF THE BRIG SYRIA, OF SUNDERLAND, WHO WAS DROWNED FROM THE WRECK OF THAT VESSEL IN THE GREAT STORM OF NOV. 13, 1840.
Stop, stranger, stop! in silence treadAmidst the dwellings of the dead.
This stone records the second grave
Of one, first buried in the wave;
This sod enshrouds the gallant form
Of him who perish'd in the storm:
A man of virtue, honour, trust,
Reposes here, in hallow'd dust.
Then think, and weep, for, in a breath
He sunk within the jaws of death;
And haven'd here his body lies,
His spirit safe beyond the skies.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF DURHAM.
I
Splendour, and power, and greatness pass away.All things that dwell on earth, or haunt the air,
Disport awhile, then glide, we know not where;
Yea all must fade—the brightest and most fair.
The Lord of lordly Lambton is no more!—
The narrow bier is now his sole domain;
He shall not hear again old Ocean's roar,
Nor view with pride the castellated plain.
Wealth, station, lineage, nor the pomp of place,
Can daunt dread Azrael in his fell career;
The winged chargers sweep their viewless race,
Nor reck of weeping wife, nor children dear,
Nor sorrow's lengthen'd groan and sad lamenting tear.
II
What though obsequious vassals own'd his thrall,And liveried menials tended at his nod;
What though he ruled proud Lambton's princely hall,
And own'd the acres where his footsteps trod;—
They could not save—their lord is but a clod!
Death spares nor sceptred kings, nor houseless poor;
Prince, peer, and peasant own alike his sway;
He tramps the palace roof, and cottage floor,
And rules as Conqueror over human clay!
Then pine not, ye of low and mean estate,
Nor grudge the penalties by Heaven decreed;
Though girded round by tyranny and hate,
Ye all are equal—sprung of heavenly seed,—
The grave a nurturing urn, from whence your souls are freed.
III
And thou, sad widow, in thy mourning pall,Lament not, though thy early dreams are o'er:
Christ is thy husband—He will hear thy call,
Though earthly hope and solace be no more:—
What use for tears, why needlessly deplore?
And you that largely tasted of his love,
And basked in joy and beauty at his side,
Grieve not too wildly in each silent grove,
Though once adored, and once your father's pride:—
Wife, children, orphans, who in love and choice,
Like trees of summer, blossom'd 'neath his eye,
O, mourn not, that ye hear no more his voice,
Whose sainted spirit walks the realms on high,
Shrived of his mortal sins, a dweller of the sky!
This and several of the other poems arranged in this part of the work, first appeared in the Northern Times—a paper which the author established and conducted in the North of England, after retiring from the Conservative Journal.
BOMBARDMENT OF ST JEAN D'ACRE.
Our giant vessels stood,
Defied the battle's shock
Of massacre and blood:
Whilst Napier, gallant tar,
Led foremost in the war,
Nor fear'd that hostile star
Could them mock.
Those bulwarks of the sea—
The sails all snowy white,
The banners floating free:
And every iron throat
In fiery thunders smote
Each fortress—did they not?—
On the lea!
Of ruddy lightning glows;
More hot the molten sleet
On flag and crescent flows:
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
Be your thunders heard this day,
O'er each continent and bay
Of your foes.
Of Death ascends on high;
Again, like gleams of hell,
The rockets fiercely fly:
But, hark! that horrid roar,
Like an earthquake-riven shore,
Or Etna's lava-shower,
Rends the sky!
And the brand in circle play—
On twelve hundred warriors lay;
The heavens were shook with dread,
And the smoke hung overhead,
Like mourners for the dead,
On that day.
In the battle's fearful strife;
For the widow and the bride,
For the daughter and the wife:
Yes! one bitter tear of woe
Can our heroes spare a foe,
Even to them that struggled so
For their life!
Let the joyous wine-cup blaze,
Your high libations pour
To the victor and his bays:—
Three cheers for England's tars
Triumphant from the wars,
Who shall boast of honoured scars
All their days.
TO THE CUCKOO.
Spirit of the grove,
Charmer of the fountains—
Whence that voice of love?
Sounds the changeful note—
Now from forest swelling,
Now from vale remote!
Nor the birds of night,
(All the groves adorning!)
Match thy voice of might:
With its tale of mirth—
Glories of the even,
Melodies of earth.
Freshest of the Spring;
Where the palm-tree soarest,
Where the wild-birds sing.
Rapture and delight,
When the mountains hoary
Rise in verdure bright:
When the violets bloom;
When mute nature bringeth
Flowers for Winter's tomb.
From some distant tree,
Came the solemn measure
Greeting unto me.
Thus the earth was bright:—
Heart and soul unsadden'd;
Spirit calm and bright.
Shall the echo near
Spread through field and meadow
Music o'er my bier.
NAPOLEON.
The ceremony of disentombing the corpse of Napoleon Buonaparte commenced at midnight, and was not concluded till the morning. The soldier proceeded by torchlight; and the scene is described as having been peculiarly impressive and mournful.
These warriors all around—
The torches burning clear
Athwart that hallowed mound?
'Tis proud Napoleon's grave
By St Helena's shore—
And, hark the rolling wave
Its awful requiem pour!
The willow's drooping leaf,
But sadder far, are heard
The tones of bitter grief.
The clouds are dark and still
Along the troubled sky;
But blacker shadows fill
Each warrior's streaming eye.
The haughty conqueror, where?—
Alas! the raven wing
Of death is floating there!
Why mourn the mouldering clay—
The grave-damps track his bier,
The grave-worms seek their prey!
The same majestic face—
The same monarchic brow—
Death's cold and lingering trace!
Behold, 'tis he who brake
The Imperial gates of Rome—
Who made the Austrian quake—
Behold, behold his tomb!
His conquests all are o'er—
And triumph's trumpet-blast
Shall sound his fame no more.
Then, wherefore, would you bear
The sleeper from his rest—
The Gallic eagle tear
That slumbers on his breast?
O'er Jena march again—
Or wield ambition's lust
On Austerlitz' red plain?
The lightning eye is cold
That glanced o'er Egypt's sand,—
That arm no more shall wield
The falchion and the brand.
Is lustreless and dim;
The sword that won the West,
Shall never flash for him:
Then shield him from your view,
And close the mouldering bier—
Go, think of Waterloo,
And why he slumbers here!
With Gaul's triumphant host—
But lo, your Champion hurl'd
From conquest to the dust:
Even thus Sesostris fell,
Even Alexander so—
And Rome's great annals tell
Of glory sunk as low.
Behold thy hero's tomb;
And mark Ambition's doom:
A mightier King than this,
Shall mark thee from the sky;
Whose lightnings never miss,
His vengeance always nigh!
Your pastime, strife and blood,
Around your fallen star
In solemn sadness brood:
Behold Ambition laid,
The mighty with the low—
Your Conqueror dismayed,
And Death the victor now!
After he (Sesostris) had reigned three and thirty years, he fell blind, and wilfully put an end to his own life; “for which,” says the author, Diodorus Siculus, “he was admired not only by priests, but by all the rest of the Egyptians; for that as he had before manifested the greatness of his mind by his actions, so now his end was agreeable to the glory of his life”—a Stoical doctrine, which threw a similar dignity and lustre, in the minds of his followers, over the death of Cato.
Julius Cæsar, it is known, was slain by conspirators, and Alexander the Great, according to the best authors, was poisoned by his Egyptian viceroy, Antipater, at one of the grand sacrifices to the gods, held in Babylon. The fate of Hannibal, and other celebrated heroes of antiquity, might also be cited as specimens of the retribution which often befalls those who sacrifice the good of mankind to the glory of ambition.
TYNEMOUTH PRIORY.
Thy battlements have frown'd above the wave:
Thou, 'midst the passion of earth's hopes and fears,
Hast met the stormy tempests when they rave,
The ocean thy domain—thy home—perchance thy grave!
Grim fragments of a remnant now no more;
How proudly still ye hold your ancient sway
And stretch your giant shades along the shore,
A warning for the past, a theme for future lore.
Secluded far from human eye or ear,
Now mouldering ruins chronicle in air;
Where the loud organ-notes resounded clear
The night-winds linger round, and hold their revels near.
O'er storied marble and unwasted tomb,
Now the green earth looks to the open sky
And the slant sunbeams penetrate the gloom,
Or spirits walk the night, lamenting for thy doom.
Or the proud Danish navies swept the sea,
Now lave thy bulwarks the unconquer'd main
(The firm foundations of the brave and free,)
And dash in joy and pride, around thy belted knee!
Of fallen grandeur, and of grim decay!
Ah, little deemed thy Prior as he stood
Gazing upon that wide and watery way,
Of perils yet to come, and penalties to pay;
The solemn dream, the venerable rite,
Her prayers and ceremonials decried!
That Time's rude blasts, and War's convulsive blight
Should crush her mouldering piles, her venerable might.
Of the old worship, and the notes of praise;
The wild-bird nestles in thy ancient tower—
The wild-flower blossoms in each lonely place,
And where pale monks reposed, the ev'ning breezes race.
Warnings prophetic, memories sublime,
How life and foul corruption still are wed,
Manhood and youth, our infancy and prime,
Age, sex, the first, the last, Eternity and Time!
A not unfilial tear for those who sleep:
Behold, you walk upon a dead man's bier—
One who, like you, could hope, and think, and weep;
For you such slumber waits, as lasting and as deep.
Yon beauteous ships depart, those trees decay;
Each living man lose what he most doth cherish;
Love, beauty, hope, ambition, pass away,—
Dreams, phantoms of the hour, creations of a day.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LATE APPALLING ACCIDENT AT SOUTH SHIELDS.
Pride, pomp, nor pageantry;
The monarch on his throne,
The haughty and the high—
Not these alone demand the lay!
The muses have a tear for all,
The humblest dust, the simplest pall,
The universal clay!
These spirits wrapt in endless night,
This mighty human grave:—
Hark! the wild shrieks that rend the air,
Voices of misery and despair,
No helping hand to save.
The black funereal blast:
The suffocating groan
Tells of the spirit past.
Or lightning flash, or whirlwind's roar,
Or billows o'er a rocky shore,
The blast sweeps o'er the dead.
This barbs each heart with agony,
And rends the breast with woe;
Azrael, grim king, is hovering near
And rides upon his solemn bier—
Azrael the murderous foe!
The birth of that sad day!
Children, and men of might
Beheld the matin ray—
Now gone to everlasting rest;
And mothers weep aloud,
Their offspring in the shroud
That slumbered at their breast!
And wives lament in bitterness
Their husbands' funeral bed;
Deep wailings far salute the air
Of little children's wild despair,
O'er parents cold and dead.
Your God looks down with eyes of love—
Triumphant over sin and death,
The earthly wears a heavenly wreath
In temples of the sky.
Immortal hopes, for narrow cares,
Removed from base desires;
With crowns of glory, lo! they stand,
Each with a sceptre in his hand,
Amidst the heavenly quires.
This poem refers to an awful coal-pit explosion, by which a great many lives were lost, and was written on a visit to my friend D. R. Leitch, Esq., M.D.
GUISBOROUGH ABBEY.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like an unsubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a wreck behind.”
Tempest.
Inspired by thee, I harp unto the gale.
No fabled gods, Apollo, nor the Nine,
Exalt my notes, the spell alone is thine;
Thy towering spires are burthen of my strain,
Pride of the poet, glory of the plain.
That lingering wild-flower, fragrant and alone,
Nor all the wonders of yon azure dome,
That showers its splendours o'er thy desert home,
Not these alone inspire the poet-hour,
But all the Past starts forth with mighty power.
The pilgrim-fathers rear this giant mould;
Ere Roman guile, or Popes' imperious fraud,
Or Norman tyranny the patriot awed;
When Thor and Odin trembled and grew pale,
This lofty fabric rose to grace our vale.
Rose calm and gentle, as a poet's lays;
Pure was the creed, angelic was the faith,
In truth eternal through the Saviour's death;
These holy monks no carnal falsehood knew,
The gold of Mammon, nor the harlot's hue,
But Christ himself, descended from the cross,
Truth undefiled, Religion without dross.
See rites of joyaunce, list the shouts of mirth,
When all our quarries echoed with the glee
Of busy workmen toiling still for thee;
Thy giddy spires and domes to ether burst,
And all the mighty gladness fills mine eyes
To see thy towers and battlements arise.
In Tadmor, Baelbec, or Dodona's wood!
Then from afar, to view thy arches, came
Whose praise was worship, whose devotion fame;
And maids and matrons in ecstatic glow,
Gazed on the lofty pile with sacred awe.
Ignoblest, meanest of the rout of Hell,—
With slime of snakes and adders dared defile
The noblest bulwarks that adorn'd our Isle;
Truth fled aghast, Religion bled and died,
And Christ again for gold was crucified.
Theirs was no idle, nor ignoble theme;
Did Lust incite, Idolatry enchain?
Their creed was heavenly, heavenly their domain:
What though their faith were languid, cold, and chill,
Religion breathed from every vale and hill;
These sov'ran heights, this fresh and verdant glade,
These Eden-gardens, and reposing shade,
And all the wonders Nature holds in store,
Would cheer their spirits with seraphic lore.
The starry concave and the domes on high,
Or, when the seasons ran their various race,
Had power all darker passions to efface;
Those peaceful clouds, each calm and azure spot,
Yon holy moon might quench all restless thought;
And love, and beauty, raise th' aspiring glow,
Such as the Prophet-Bard in Patmos saw!
Even thus I saw thee in sweet boyhood's hour:
Even so, in majesty thou didst appear
Ere hope was dim, ere sorrow left a tear.
Bright were thy towers and lovely—bright and fair,
When first with dread I clomb each broken stair;
Since then, what fears, what exultations mine,
But thou art still erect and half divine!
Thus wilt thou brood along my funeral-bed;
Yea, from thine eyrie, where the owl doth dwell,
Hooting to night its sad and dismal knell,
Thou hast beheld the monumental stone,
The sepulchres of generations gone!
Of manly sires, in woe and silence dead,
Of silver'd matrons, to oblivion wed,
Of youth and beauty mouldering in the tomb,
Of cherub-childhood in its final home;
Hast heard (if ought of consciousness be thine!)
The husband weep, the lover mourn and pine,
View'd genius perish in its proudest prime;
And, like Palmyra weeping o'er its woes,
Felt human pains, and agonizing throes!
Of her the most beloved, the ever dear;
Sister and friend, and teacher, always good,
Pride of the vale, and grace of womanhood;
Gentle of heart, of pure and lofty mind,
To me, to all, most generous, most kind;
O, snatch'd in bloom of loveliness and youth,
The soul of virtue, cynosure of truth;
Too early taken from this vale of tears,
Too early nipt by Fate's unbidden shears,
Why should I hide the impulse of my heart?
Why chain the lyre, beloved as thou wert?
Thy dying words and blessings were for me,
The Poet's Epitaph I leave to thee:
And 'neath that Abbey's venerable shade,
Beside thy hallow'd bones shall mine be laid!
Referring to primitive Christianity, as introduced amongst the Saxons, before it became polluted by the usurpations and abominations of Rome.
The oriel beams no longer light the floor!
Yon eastern clouds, with morn's effulgence bright,
No more shall touch thy fanes with golden light;
Still is the organ's voice, the song of prayer,
The sacred incense faded on the air;
The holy altar,—all its glory gone:
The blasts of winter sweep each lonely way,
Where once the cowled fathers knelt to pray;
And all that solemn pomp and pageantry
Is bare and bleak to tempests and the sky!
That erst extended far, and unsubdued,
Now swells a purer dome to greet the air,
Now joyful sounds the vesper-bell of prayer;
The swains and shepherds hear it o'er the hills
Notes sweeter than the music of the rills;
The peasant, brooding in the distant dell,
Hears the soft chimes 'midst evening's breezes swell;
At Christ's own shrine their purest homage pay,
And crowding onward greet each Sabbath day:
Blessings be with them!—may such incense rise
From age to age in rapture to the skies!
LINES WRITTEN ON THE WRECK OF THE SHIP “LOCKWOOD.”
The American ship “Lockwood” presented a still more afflicting sight. When the people from the steamer reached her, they found in the poop alone thirty dead bodies, while below there were about the same number. They took all the survivors except two, a man, and his wife who was dying, and the man would not leave her, so was drowned. —Liverpool paper.
To one that will not leave the dead.”
Byron.
The loud waves roll'd below;
But louder than the tempest's roar,
And the winds o'erwhelming flow,
Were the shrieks that rent the firmament,
Where that ship reel'd to and fro.
O'er the wild sea-caverns there;
But blacker than the murky night,
Or the dread tempestuous air,
Was the gloom that bound these mariners
In that midnight of despair.
Affection's passionate faith—
When the whirlwind's stormy thunder
Stopt fast each seaman's breath;
That will not part in death!
That sad and woeful day,
To tell what weight of living trust
In Death's embraces lay:
How mightier far than mountain wave
Was Nature's giant sway.
The lover and the wife!
So true the heart—so firm the clasp—
Unwrench'd 'mid Ocean's strife—
That gave for love earth's dearest gift
And sacrifice—his life!
The mourners, where are they?
Far o'er the wide Atlantic,
His laughing children play;
And the two, so fondly cherish'd,
Dwell in eternal day.
Where nor storms nor tempests rave;
Beyond the world's commotion,
Beyond or wind or wave—
They join the blest Redeemer,
The Conqueror of the grave.
LINES TO A LITTLE GIRL.
And in the light, or in the shade,
Thine eyes are calm and clear;
Thy footsteps touch the living flowers,
As if an angel from the bowers
Of heaven were lingering near.
Bright dreams, and memories that entwine
Their fairy wreaths around;
The spirits of the stars, in sleep,
Around thy couch their vigils keep,
And seraph voices sound.
There is no shadow on the plain
Whereon thy footsteps flow;—
No storm upon the smiling sky—
No tear-drop in thy lustrous eye—
No sorrow on thy brow.
A little angel in thy glee,
A fay in bower and hall;
A mermaid on the summer wave,
When evening's breezes call!
And not behold a heavenly trace—
A something from on high?
And when thou ramblest forth afar,
Not Dian by the morning star,
Was fairer to the eye!
To wake the harp-strings, all divine,
To weave the winning song;
Knowledge shall wave her wings of light,
The heavens shower glories on thy sight,
And wisdom clothe thy tongue.
The awakening Loves shall glide along
That bosom pure and fair;
And when the evening shades are near,
Affection's words shall thrill thine ear—
A lover murmur there.
And the low breezes sing as now,
A lover court thy side—
And touch the lapses of thy heart,
And woo thee with a lover's art,
And win thee for his bride.
Thy years shall wear a healthful prime
Of beauty, love, and joy;
And gentle children round thy knee,
Enchant the hours with jocund glee—
Delights without alloy.
On that sweet brow like moonlit skies,
And on that cherub face,
Mortality hath not a care,
Nor grief can have its dwelling there,
To dim such heavenly grace.
Blessings when I am far and gone,
And all thy life be bliss:
Blessings surround thy radiant brow,
Blessings in distant years as now,
And peace and happiness!
“WHAT IS LOVE?”
Full of labour, full of leisure,
Without limit, without measure—
Never understood.
Neither earth, nor sea, nor air;
Rain nor sunshine, dark nor fair,
Fashion, shape, nor form.
On its lips an angel's kiss—
Full of balm, and peace, and bliss—
Full of hope and truth.
Beauteous as the sunlit West,
Gentle as an infant's rest
In the hush of sleep.
Winds of ether not more sweet;
Cold, yet warm'd with summer's heat—
Chaste, and pure, and free.
For the breath of rude desire
Quenches quite its sacred fire,
Lambent and serene.
Earth, ere stain'd with Abel's blood—
Charm and grace of womanhood—
Long may it be thine.
TO A GIRL OF FIFTEEN.
Creature of delight!
Whence dost thou inherit
Loveliness so bright?
Locks that mock the noon,
Cheeks like eve's adorning,
Forehead like the moon!
Mermaid of the sea,
Fairy of the mountain,
Scarce can match with thee.
Not the hare-bell blue,
Not the violet sleeping,
Are more pure than thou.
Love and truth divine,
Blessings without measure,
Charming maid, are thine.
Dreams of thought and sense—
All bright things adore thee,
Shapes of innocence!
Or the azure way,
When the stars outnumber
All the blooms of May.
And the Winter's near,
Thy spirit meekly soaring,
Shall reach its heavenly sphere!
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MARY CHAPMAN,
DAUGHTER OF R. W. CHAPMAN, ESQ., M.D., ÆT. SIX YEARS.
Sweet angel, fare-thee-well!
Frail was the chord, and tender,
That bound thy mortal shell.
So gentle, soft, and low;
Those eyes of winning gladness
Have lost their summer glow.
Thou wert a mother's love;
But now thy seraph-spirit
Regains the realms above.
They will not sing for thee;
The spring-flowers blooming brightly—
Alas! thou canst not see.
Upon thy early tomb;
The birds thy requiem carol,
Lamenting o'er thy doom.
The little children all,
In heaven's celestial mansions
To thee from dust shall call.
Thy sainted soul will shine;
All shrived from earthly sorrow,
Immortal and divine.
LINES TO A SNOW-DROP.
That rises gently on the gale;
And meekly fair within thy bower,
Like maid that lists her lover's tale.
And ghost-like wan thy silver bell:
Of earliest Spring thou art the gem—
Of Winter's grave, the funeral knell.
And lovely is thy cup of gold;
They dwell about thy heart serene,
Like dreams of youth ere life is old.
Of summer and its sunny hours!
The birds shall greet thee with their lays,
And bless thee in their summer bowers.
Where Noah and his children stood;
So at thy smile shall Winter cease,
And gladness spread o'er field and wood.
No more shall rage o'er hill and plain;
That Spring renews her ancient reign!
Shall heap its pall on grass and flower;
The gales of Spring already blow
In triumph o'er each woodland bower.
TO THE COUNTESS B---.
That plants a fresher Paradise on earth,
That scatters sweetest flowers upon our track,
And fills the vales with songs of joy and mirth—
Beauty of stars, and sky, and summer tree:
This is the poet's joy, his hope, or misery.
When first the spheres their primal music brought;
When Chaos from his rocky throne was hurl'd,
And heaven illumed the caves of human thought—
Then was the birth of beauty, then the ray,
The morning sunlight of Love's cloudless day.
The meadows lovely, and the heavens serene?—
Nor star more radiant on the azure sheen,
Nor flower that breathed more fragrant to the wind
Than her the first,—the mother of mankind!
That spake on earth, the joyous tones are gone;
But, though the lights of Eden please no more,
And Beauty, like a mourner sighs alone:—
Yet, Lady, such as thou can'st bring again,
The dream seraphic, and the Orphic strain!
It mingled with thy life, and made thee wise
With heart entrancements, harmony divine,
As morn with warmer light illumes the skies;
And he the lord and king of British Song
Thee worshipp'd most, amid the courtly throng:—
To wander where old Alps majestic reigns;
Where Jura, in his giant terror lies,
And Arno rolls through wide and fertile plains—
And Beauty mingling with the Poet's lyre,
Waken'd the chords, and lit the Prophet fire.
Was bounded by my native hills and vales;
Whose strain is known but to the desert spot,
Or, murmurs faintly to the mountain gales—
Infuse fresh impulse to the work of Fame.
The flash of feeling glistens in thine eye;
Still are thy motions ripe with winning grace,
And white-robed thought illumes thy forehead high:
Nor courtly halls, nor concourse proud and gay,
Have dimm'd thy soul, nor quench'd thy former sway.
From the far valley, hear a Poet's strain;
If poor the gift, the offering is free—
Free from a heart that bows to Beauty's reign;
Nor gold could buy it, nor the monarch's throne,
But loveliness, and truth, and thee alone!
THE BELOVED.
Of memory far away;
How gentle the returning
Of each delightful day:
Within the Summer groves,
Or on the hills of heather,
Proclaim'd our youthful loves.
Along the burnish'd skies,
Told not so sweet a story
As thy celestial eyes.
The voice that once I heard:
Like some lone, enchanted river—
Like some gentle fairy bird.
O'er that glad and child-like face;
The glow that burn'd so brightly—
Still, still I fondly trace.
“Didst thou live within my prayer?”
Yea, the azure heavens above thee
I deem'd not half so fair.
Thy vision dwelt in mine;
And beauties without number
Proclaim'd thee all divine.
Of that spring-time doth appear;
The glad, the bright revealing,
Of an angel once so dear.
LAURA.
When the storm-clouds meet the blast;
Dark as pine-groves, when the blight
Of autumn's winds float wildly past.
Veiling neck and bosom fair;
And in raven clusters throng
O'er the snowy hillocks there.
Soft as shadows in a stream,
Mild as moonbeams through the mist
Of a youthful bridegroom's dream.
Absent memories, raptures gone;
Glances from a holier sphere,
Like a prayer-entranced nun.
Forehead fair, and pure, and high;
Crown and garland there might grow
Where the locks so careless lie.
With thy velvet cheeks compare;
Like the eastern heavens divine,
Warm and soft as summer air.
When the ocean clasps the sun;
Fragrant as the winds of heaven
That o'er violet-blossoms run.
Walls of ivory all around:
Sweetly do the murmurs flow
Of each note's melodious sound.
Like snow-wreaths in the early spring,
When the sunbeams warm and clear
Touch them with their orient wing.
'Neath that lovely citadel—
Rarest charms of woman's breast
In its sacred caverns dwell.
Chamois, or the bounding fawn;
And she glances far and near,
Like creature of the silver dawn.
Blessings crown thee, Love divine;
Brighter maid ne'er poet sung—
Sweeter ne'er was pledged in wine.
Raise the bumper—fill it high—
“Laura of the village green,
Laura of the coal-black eye!”
“DO YOU REMEMBER?”
False siren as thou art?
Why, ingrate, wouldst thou task me?
Behold this breaking heart!
These weary eyes can tell!
When passion never moved thee,
Where should remembrance dwell?
Say, doth it love the moon?
That ploughs the vaults of heaven,
Nor leaves it late or soon!
When spring-flowers blossom free,
There is not bird adorest
Its mate, as I loved thee.
With sunshine of thy feet;
To hear thee made me lighter,
My heart with passion beat.
In silence thou wert there;
Or, sweeping o'er the billow,
I saw thee bright and fair.
When morning dews arise;
Sweet as a woodbine bower
Wert thou unto mine eyes.
Ungrateful though thou be:
I weep whene'er I name thee—
Yea, still I worship thee!
SONG OF MIRIAM.
Come forth from your tents, (all unbraided their hair,
Their dark eyes wild flashing, their arms waving high,)
And beat the loud timbrel with dances of joy.
And sung to the people the festival song;
O none of the children of Judah like her,
With the sackbut, and timbrel, and sweet dulcimer.
Behold where your cohorts and legions have trod!
Those waves that roll slow in the beams of the sun,
O'er the bones of ten thousand brave warriors run.
And crouch'd like young fawns at the sound of His name;
But the heathen swept onward in darkness and gloom,
The weed is their laurel, their harvest the tomb!
Let the shout of your triumph be heard o'er the plain;
And the rivers and forests in chorus unite.
The God of our fathers, the chosen to save:
He smote the Egyptian,—He spake—we were free—
He guided our legions o'er mountain and sea.
The armies of Egypt encompass'd us round;
But the voice of the Lord like a trumpet was heard,
And the waves stood abash'd and acknowledged His word.
The cliffs of the ocean now pillow his head;
The arm that was strong in the press of the fight,
And the breast all undaunted, are quench'd in their might.
Woe, woe for the mighty, the monarch, the throne!
The bright and the lovely shall mourn for the hour,
When Pharaoh encompass'd our tents in his power.
With sunbeams and starlight in radiance lay;
And the God of our people shall hear us afar,
To shield us in quiet, and guard us in war.”
THE BELIEVER AND THE SOCIALIST.
A DIALOGUE.
SOCIALIST.There is no God! God is a monster God!
Hatred and curses 'tend your idol's nod.
God is a tyrant king, a king of blood,
Who damns alike the wicked and the good.
BELIEVER.
That thus to heaven darest lift thy mocking brow?
Say, rude blasphemer, who, but God the wise,
The great, the good, lit up yon azure skies?
Who framed yon sun, so glorious and so bright,
To bless the nations with his genial light?
Who spread yon fleecy clouds, sustains yon arch,
Through which the storms, heaven's fierce battalions, march?
Who lit yon myriad eyes that watch the earth?
Who gave the thunders and the lightnings birth?
Proclaims Almighty gentleness and power.
The wild-bird's note, the rapid eagle's flight,
The wild-deer rushing like a flash of light,
The stormy ocean, and the inland bay,
Even that small insect, glittering in the sun,
Tells of a First Great Cause—a mighty One;
Earth, ocean, air, morn, night, alike proclaim
God, the beginning, God the primal name!
To brave high heaven with this unseemly vow!
Who gave thee sight—that strangely curious power—
One narrow circle for its priceless dower?
That sweeps the realms of ether's boundless space
And clasps broad nature in its wide embrace.
Who tuned the harmonious shell that o'er thy brain
Breathes music sweeter than young Orpheus' strain;
And through the sinuous caverns of thine ears
Pours notes more wondrous than the fabled spheres?
Who shaped that fleshy tube, that so the air
Might steep thy soul in fragrance rich and rare—
That wings sweet odours on the balmy west,
Borne from each vale, each wild-flower's virgin breast?
Who, with nice sense, robed every mortal part,
Attuned each pulse that swells thy beating heart?
Braced every muscle, 'stablish'd nature's reign,
Strung every nerve that thrills along thy brain?
Who? All mankind obey His sovereign nod,
The great, the just, the omnipresent God!
SOCIALIST.
Prate on vain babbler! In such strain hath man
Worshipp'd a Phantom, since the world began.
Each in their turns have ruled the realms above!
Think'st thou I heed the dogmas of thy schools,
The rage of pedants, and the gaud of fools?
Thou kneel'st! So doth the senseless Pagan pray
To stocks and stones, to things of wood and clay.
Thou kneel'st! What seest thou? Aught but idle air?
Go, chase the clouds—to echo give thy prayer.
If God there be—lo! let thy God come down:
I spurn his mandates and defy his frown!
BELIEVER.
Heaven's fires will scorch thee and earth's mildews rot?
Fear'st thou not Him who stay'd the ocean's wave,
Ere roll'd its billows o'er proud Pharoah's grave?
Who sent grim Azrael to the Assyrian king,
And swept his hosts with death's destroying wing!
Tamed the fierce lions, curb'd Belshazzar's will,
Made heaven's majestic orb—the sun, stand still.
Poor crawling worm, the God thou darest to scorn,
May crush thee, doom thee, ere to-morrow's morn:
For what art thou? A rain-drop in the sea,
A moment's space to all eternity!
Though different names the self-same Godhead prove.
Since Chaos first his shadows roll'd away,
Since first the sun-god spread his cheering ray,
The nations still have hail'd the self-same God.
“God, God the Father!” was the shepherd's song,
As o'er the earth's fresh hills he roam'd along;
The earliest mother praised the unknown power
That bore her harmless through dark sorrow's hour;
The aged patriarch, with his latest sigh,
Stretched forth his wither'd palms unto the sky!
And laughing children shrunk with sudden awe
When heaven obey'd the mighty monarch's law—
When thunders roll'd, or stormy winds might blow
CONCLUSION.
Hail, hail, ye nations! Hail the mighty king!Creeds, empires, races, to his glory sing!
Thou, tawny son of Afric, hear his word,
And thou, dwarf'd son of Lapland, praise the Lord!
From India's centre to the frozen pole
Arise and glorify the God of all!
Obey Him winds—waves, tempests, stay your wrath,
Thunders and earthquakes tread not in His path;
And you, ye fiery meteors that disturb
The midnight stillness of yon starry orb;
And you, dim shapes, that eclipse and deform—
The heralds of the tempest and the storm:
And you, volcanoes, that in fiery crowds
Shoot forth your lurid lightnings to the clouds,—
Praise, praise the great Omnipotent above
Who guides your terrors with the hand of love.
LINES, WRITTEN IN NEWCASTLE THEATRE, TO MISS F. B---.
Lady of the earth or air!—
Is she of the earth or air?—
Lovely Fanny Brandling
White her neck as driven snow,
And her cheek hath summer's glow,
Charming Fanny Brandling!
In the depths of her dark eye,
If she smile, or if she sigh,—
Graceful Fanny Brandling!
Musing in some woodland bower!
Thine the spell, and thine the power,
Gentle Fanny Brandling.
Happier then than I with thee!
Loving hearts and fancies free,
Angel Fanny Brandling.
LINES DESCRIPTIVE OF A DAY'S ANGLING AMONG THE HILLS.
So bright the sun's awakening ray,
So glorious in the east:
And, lo! what showers of radiance fall
O'er hill, and vale, and waterfall,
A treasure and a feast.
And incense, from each floweret sweet,
Perfumes the glowing mead;
Like diamonds from Golconda's deep
Morn's dew-drops with the heath-bells sleep,
In rainbow-spangles spread.
I hear the joyous minstrelsy
Of summer's early time;—
The firstling music of the year,
When youth is fresh, and hope is clear,
And nature feels her prime.
The woods a darker shadow cast
And woo us to their shade;
Each moonlit dell, where fairies play,
Each nook and mossy glade.
This fragrant smell, this music clear,
This thick embowering wood:
Here Love might fix her surest home,
Here Peace and Contemplation come
And dwell with Solitude.
Where oak-trees, in their vernal prime,
And swarthy firs ascend;
And lo, this almost noiseless spring!
What memories do thy waters bring,
What boyhood visions send.
Grim Desolation rudely cast
In wilder'd fragments round;
A savage stillness, black as night,
Unstirr'd, save by the plover's flight,
Or heath-cock's shrilly sound.
Of silken grass, and moss-grove spread,
The tiny streamlet laves;—
That little stream, a thread of gold,
Which soon shall sing with music bold,
And mix with Ocean's waves.
Unhallow'd touch, pollution's hue,
Pure as the skies above:
Whose voice is sweet as childhood's is,
Whose face is innocence and bliss,
Whose bowers are bowers of love!
Wild notes and measures in the skies,
Far creatures of the air;
Or, with a motion proud and high,
The graceful heron seeks the sky,
As heaven's own colours fair!
The lambkins wanton to and fro,
So beautiful, so bright!
Or, distant as a summer cloud,
The lonely gled-hawk shrieks aloud
Amid the azure light.
Not oft the wandering pilgrim sees,
Thus lofty, thus serene;
In giant heaps of massy mould,
The mountains stretch their foreheads bold,
A vast Titanic scene.
That dread not winter's thunder-shock,
Nor autumn's fiercest blast;
Breasting the tempest and the flood,
In earth's embraces fast.
The chosen sons of liberty,
Her lion-champions brave;—
Britons, and heroes, such as bore
Caractacus through seas of gore,
The wilderness their grave!
Your beacon-fires illumed the North,
And glared upon the night,—
Pyres potent as a wizard's spell,
To summon up from every dell
Arm'd warriors for the fight.
Vales fragrant as the summer rose,
Rejoice the admiring eye;
Field, cottage, hedgerow, garden-plot,
And many a rare and sunny spot
In rich profusion lie.
Uprooted by the torrent's march,
(The growth of winter snows;)
Invites the angler's silent art,
And speaks unto his brooding heart
Of Time's incessant throes.
Summers ago, when, towering lone,
This ancient relic stood—
With weeds and ivy garlanded,
And wild-flowers deck'd around its head,
The temple of the flood.
Murmurs, like voices in a dream,
A thousand various notes;
Now, tinkling like a silver bell,
Now, gushing with a trumpet's swell,
Or, like a zephyr floats.
Snow-white, or pink, or azure blue,
Primrose, and violet fair;
And mossy streaks that kiss the wave,
Or, stringy heath the waters lave,
Like locks of kelpies' hair.
Or arrows in the thickest fight,
The finny creatures fly;
The choicest of the watery brood,
Monarchs and rulers of the flood,
Delight of angler's eye.
Grand triumphs for the festive fray,
Rare spoils to deck the board:
Of gold and silver half so bright,
Achieved by warrior-sword.
How rich his burnish'd corslet glows,
Deep and intense and clear!
The sunbeams scarce can match with him,
Topal and finest pearl look dim
Within that crystal sphere.
Let us the neighbouring grove explore
Beneath yon cottage lone:
A birch-tree grove, with silver stems,
The mountain-tower of diadems,
High on its rocky throne.
Tender and trim with shooting gleams,
White as the virgin snow;
Or ghostly fair, like rays that rove
At midnight, through a fir-tree grove,
Which wandering moonbeams throw!
Such as our fathers might behold
Ere Rome's proud legions came;
Where, erst the giant elk might roam,
The wild-deer find his mountain-home,
Or prophet kneel to Fame.
Whose spiral wreaths ascend the air,
And curl above the trees;
That simple hut will find us food,
Fare that might make a monarch proud,
And liberal as the breeze.
Not craving as for sustenance,
But hospitable and free:
Oh, it is gladness to my heart,
To think, my country, what thou art,
Thou empress of the sea!
Pride of the land that gave them birth,
Still generous, undefiled;
Theirs is the liberty of soul,
The open hand, the heart for all,
In equal measure piled.
Firm and undaunted in the right;
Outspoken, frank, and bold;
Free from pretence or shallow airs,
Of England's glory still the heirs,
And valiant as of old.
But bold and vigorous as the morn,
And fresh as morning's hues:
And the wild winds that o'er them ride,
And what the hills infuse.
These noble standards of the soil,
Or break their iron power?
Such are the champions of the land,
Such are old England's Spartan band,
Her bulwark and her tower!
No more the joyous shepherd calls
His lambkins o'er the moor;
No more the pretty milkmaid sings
Her even-song, and carollings,
Or featly treads the floor.
The chimney nook, so glad of old,
Is blank and fireless grown!
The happy father, where is he?
The cheerful matron, where is she?
Where are the children gone?
Dwelt sweet affections, memories dear,
Of human hopes and fears:
Now sweep the night-winds, roars the blast,
Pleasure, and love, and joy, are past—
It is a place for tears!
Nor summer's breezes waft perfumes
Along thy crumbling wall;
Nor less the peaceful shades of heaven
Glide softly o'er thy roof at even,
Than greet the palace-hall!
O'er sedgy swamp, and mildew'd log,
A wild and desert way;
Such pilgrimage of old was made
By wandering minstrel undismay'd,
Ere scorn'd the poet's lay!
And Neville's pile graced yonder wood;
There dwelt the bold De Bruce:
And ladies, loveliest of the land,
Rejoiced to hear the poet's hand
His dulcet notes diffuse!
That passion spread o'er beauty's eye—
The smile that kindled then.
The poet's bays are sear and dead,
The laurel faded from his head,
The glory from his pen.
In steady splendour gazes down;
The sky is bright and clear:
The mountains stretch in vast amaze,
And dim the hemisphere.
The wandering bees in giddy swarm
Hum sweetly all around;
And voices, as of mighty things,
Roll solemn, like archangel's wings,
A strange, majestic sound!
Electric from ten thousand dells?
Or Ocean's hollow roar?
Or, have the rocks and caves a voice,
When Nature's self is bid rejoice
Till Time shall be no more?
Lone monuments of kings or slaves,
Drear tombs and sepulchres—
A heap of dust, a pile of stones,
Is record sole of warriors' bones,
Of human loves and cares!
Who bore for Briton's queen the brand,
And perish'd in the fight?
Shroud these the limbs of giant mould?
Champions of freedom, heroes bold,
Defenders of the right!
And, kneeling by the victor's bier,
Lament for them who fell:
“Honour, and praise, and glory due,
Immortal ones, be given to you,
Who lived and died so well!”
What glory from this mountain's brow,
What splendour strikes the view!
Say, is it mortal vision this?
That gorgeous vale, those bowers of bliss?
Yon heaven's empurpled hue?
And cloud on cloud with light opprest,
Like willing vassals crowd:
Not Indian prince, nor Persian king,
Not even Aladdin's wondrous ring,
Can rear such temples proud!
Pillar and dome—such scope is ours—
A realm of glorious size:
Like vision never dawn'd before,
Or glow'd on pale enthusiast's lore,
Or opium-dreamer's eyes.
Oh happy vales, like Eden fair,
Pure gardens of delight;
Circled with many an orient glow,
And like a seraph bright!
Thus were my raptures turn'd to tears,
My ecstasy to pain;
The weight of Nature, and her power,
The joy of inspiration's hour,
The glory and the gain!
The vain, the ambitious, and the proud—
The heavens are dim to them:
Poets alone, or they whose hearts
Know wisdom which the muse imparts,
Shall wear the diadem.
Tracing each wild and dreary track,
Watchful I turn to thee:
Yea, with a longing, deep and warm,
As true love seeks the embracing arm,
Or child its mother's knee.
Once pride and glory of the isle,
And consecrate for all;
Ere Rome's imperious mandates fell
On Christendom, like bolts of hell,
Then toppled to its fall!
Modest and fragrant as a rose,
In peace and beauty dwelt;
And holy monks their vespers sung,
Or, praising God these shades among,
Beside his altar knelt.
The oriel beams have left the floor,
The cloister walks are gone;
Sole remnant now, that giant arch,
Through which the winter tempests march
With dirge, and funeral moan.
The dews are moistening on my brow;
The chords are mute and still:
The shades of evening gently fall
O'er church and abbey, grove and hall,
O'er every vale and hill.
Break steadfast on the rocky shore,
Or breeze that sadly wails;
I only see the vesper star,
Guiding the moon's celestial car,
As through the night she sails!
LINES ON SEEING PORTION OF A WRECK ON THE SEA-SHORE.
And sounds amid the pauses of the waves!—
Rare glory this for poet's glistening eye
To hear the tempest's trumpet how it raves,
And hear the thundering sea, among the rocky caves.
What shore resounded to her fearless prow?
What people echo'd forth the farewell song,
As through the waves her stately footsteps plough,
With streamers red and white upon her queenly brow?
Their greetings murmured in the savage tongue:
Great hearts long nourished in the solitudes,
Where, in the chase, their sounding feet have rung—
Perchance in fertile fields their choral voices sung.
What multitudinous voices sigh'd around,—
What many glories of the night and day
Have clothed it like a fiery vision round,
While scarce her footsteps stirr'd the echo of a sound.
The human life of that small greedy space;
Ocean, amid his wanderings far and free,
Hath borne her pictured colours on his face,
And, like a lover, sigh'd to see her queenlike pace.
Nor carved voice, nor stir of winged feet;
All minds are here undaunted, bold and free,
To daring enterprise for ever meet:
None e'er should venture here who walks the city street.
Pale spectres shrouded in the ocean deep,
Unearthly forms that in the caverns brood,—
Fierce, restless wanderers, that never sleep,
That still, as on they go, for ever sob and weep.
When the fair sails that clad thee nestled down;
When all the many human hearts were stirr'd
To hideous fears in quiet fields unknown;
When the battalion'd waves rush'd on with shriek and groan.
Sleep all thy souls within the pearly cave?
Roll'd the wild tempest on thy crowded deck?
And is the gem-paved ocean now their grave?
Alas, that God's still voice murmur'd not then to save!
For well I know the giant would not spare:
He cared not for affections far away,
For sunny childhood with its rolling hair,
Or youth that fares in joy, or age that pines in care.
Swell'd all thy crew to one intense desire?
Stood they in glee amidst the cannon's light,
Amid the thunder of the meeting fire,
When rose the towering sea to be their funeral pyre?
With home-wrought merchandise moved'st thou along?
I know not—here I greet thee in my way,
Still listening as in joy to Ocean's song,
While nightly spirits glide, procession-like, along.
Now sound drear winds where joyous voices sung!
The lively gladness evermore is gone,
That, circling every heart, embracing hung—
All sunk away, their knell by pitiless Ocean rung.
Where thou may's silently upbraid the sea;
With piteous voicelessness thy storm-worn face
Reproacheth its ingratitude to thee,
Who, all thy glorious youth, had loved its waters free!
That we should nourish this our fluttering heart,
Nor hunt of pleasures every wandering band,
Nor offer up our love at every mart,
But hold to peaceful dreams, lest we and they should part.
LINES.
[Fair is the Moon, and lovely! through the night]
Silent she wanders: not a cloud is there—
Nor mountain mist disturbs her equal light:
And lonely, save yon star that gems the air.
Forests, and groves, and seas of vast domain;
Where beauty in each sylvan bower reposes,
And sylphs and fairies dance along the plain.
Where the vast creatures through thy dwellings wander;
Temples august, and palaces divine,
And sparry caverns, where the streams meander!
Where Skiddaw and Helvellyn touch the skies!
MARY'S EYE.
How brightly bold, how beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells.”
Byron.
Oh bright are the stars of the night!
And bright is the glow of the sunlit dew,
As it dwells in the cup of the hare-bell blue,
Gleaming with silvery light;
But I know of an eye that is brighter far
Than dew-drop in flower, or midnight star.
Oh dark is the midnight sky!
And dark are the depths of the shoreless sea,
As deeply dark as dark can be
To the midnight gazer's eye;
But I know of an eye of darker sheen
Than hath e'er in the sea or sky been seen.
Soft and clear is the gentle moon!
And soft in its languid tenderness
Is the mist from the flower of the wilderness,
In the blaze of the sun at noon;
Is softer than flower-mist, or dew at night.
Oh bright is an angel's eye!
When the dreaming man doth feel its ray,
In his sinful soul, like dawn of day,
A herald from the sky.
But oh, even that is not so bright
As my Mary's eye of love and light.
The bard, and minor poems | ||