The Druids A Poem, Which Obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, July 1827. By Christopher Wordsworth |
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 | The Druids |  |
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THE DRUIDS.
“Proudly in
Mona's bay thy gallies ride,
“Bound o'er the wave, or stem the foaming tide;
“Proudly on high thy crested eagles sail,
“Thy pictured banners float upon the gale,
“Thy conquering legions throng the echoing shore—
“Her doom is passed—and Mona is no more.”
“Bound o'er the wave, or stem the foaming tide;
“Proudly on high thy crested eagles sail,
“Thy pictured banners float upon the gale,
“Thy conquering legions throng the echoing shore—
“Her doom is passed—and Mona is no more.”
Thus sang the Druid bard on Kora's brow,
While Cæsar's legions trod the vale below.
On high he stood. Beneath, a frantic band
Swept down the hills, and hover'd o'er the strand;
Each female form array'd in sad attire,
Rais'd her bare arm, and shook the smouldering fire,
Curs'd the proud host, and on the rocky pier
Scream'd to the winds, and bade the ocean hear:
Then hurl'd the brand, and loose with streaming hair
Rush'd headlong to the vale,—and perish'd there.
While Cæsar's legions trod the vale below.
On high he stood. Beneath, a frantic band
Swept down the hills, and hover'd o'er the strand;
Each female form array'd in sad attire,
Rais'd her bare arm, and shook the smouldering fire,
Curs'd the proud host, and on the rocky pier
Scream'd to the winds, and bade the ocean hear:
Then hurl'd the brand, and loose with streaming hair
Rush'd headlong to the vale,—and perish'd there.
Rang'd round their lord, Trevarthen's holy king,
The Druids stand, a venerable ring:
Their's is the form unbow'd; the spirit brave,
Reckless of wars, of seasons, and the grave:
The tearless eye fix'd firm in proud despair,
The lip scarce quivering to the stifled prayer,
That asks with lifted hand and stedfast gaze,
If thus the Gods reward their Mona's praise.
The Druids stand, a venerable ring:
Their's is the form unbow'd; the spirit brave,
Reckless of wars, of seasons, and the grave:
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The lip scarce quivering to the stifled prayer,
That asks with lifted hand and stedfast gaze,
If thus the Gods reward their Mona's praise.
“
Andate! dost thou sleep? 'twas Cæsar's spear
“Hurtled on high! Belinus, wake and hear!—
“Why stay the wheels of Hesus?—o'er the dead
“His coursers prance no more,—and Taranis is fled!”—
Fled, all are fled! no more the sacred throng
Winds through the trees, the cloistral woods along,
Nor lengthen'd hymnings thrid the mazy glades,
On lingering wings, and wander through the shades:
And now sole remnant on the naked plains,
Perchance some pile of rugged rock remains,
A mystic circle, or a pendant stone,
Where looks the way-worn traveller, and is gone.
“Hurtled on high! Belinus, wake and hear!—
“Why stay the wheels of Hesus?—o'er the dead
“His coursers prance no more,—and Taranis is fled!”—
Fled, all are fled! no more the sacred throng
Winds through the trees, the cloistral woods along,
Nor lengthen'd hymnings thrid the mazy glades,
On lingering wings, and wander through the shades:
And now sole remnant on the naked plains,
Perchance some pile of rugged rock remains,
A mystic circle, or a pendant stone,
Where looks the way-worn traveller, and is gone.
But yet the pensive soul delights to stray
From life's dull home, and steal us from to-day.
Parent of years! on whose unwearied pole
The mighty months, and sweeping seasons roll:
How sweet it is to track with searching eye
The deep abysses of thy gloomy sky
With living visions sown by sportive phantasy!
Where to the dreaming sight forgotten forms
Start from thy clouds, and darkle in thy storms:
—I halt, and listen to the breezy air:—
Thy dying voice, Caractacus, is there.—
A charm, a spirit lingers still behind,
Breathes from the ground, and whispers in the wind.
From life's dull home, and steal us from to-day.
Parent of years! on whose unwearied pole
The mighty months, and sweeping seasons roll:
How sweet it is to track with searching eye
The deep abysses of thy gloomy sky
With living visions sown by sportive phantasy!
Where to the dreaming sight forgotten forms
Start from thy clouds, and darkle in thy storms:
—I halt, and listen to the breezy air:—
Thy dying voice, Caractacus, is there.—
A charm, a spirit lingers still behind,
Breathes from the ground, and whispers in the wind.
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So from her son the Goddess turn'd away,
Fled his fond grasp, and melted into day:
Her dove-borne car to fair Cythera flies:
Or calmly sails, and lessens in the skies.
Still lingering perfumes hover in her train,
Prolong her stay, and make her speak again.
Fled his fond grasp, and melted into day:
Her dove-borne car to fair Cythera flies:
Or calmly sails, and lessens in the skies.
Still lingering perfumes hover in her train,
Prolong her stay, and make her speak again.
Then weep not Mona! though thy silvan shade
Of tufted oaks in ruin bare be laid:
Weep not thine altars, courts, with grass o'ergrown,
The ivy mantling o'er the Druid's throne:
Though lightly tripping through the allies green
The antler'd hind and dappled fawn is seen:
And now, where mystic matins once were sung,
I hear the stock-dove brooding o'er her young,
Or shepherd's whistle from the darkling dell:
The woodman's axe, the curfew's sullen knell:
Weep not! for oh! 'tis sweeter through the haze
Of living things on airy worlds to gaze:
To lift the veil, and view the distant scene—
The fairy theatre of what has been.
Of tufted oaks in ruin bare be laid:
Weep not thine altars, courts, with grass o'ergrown,
The ivy mantling o'er the Druid's throne:
Though lightly tripping through the allies green
The antler'd hind and dappled fawn is seen:
And now, where mystic matins once were sung,
I hear the stock-dove brooding o'er her young,
Or shepherd's whistle from the darkling dell:
The woodman's axe, the curfew's sullen knell:
Weep not! for oh! 'tis sweeter through the haze
Of living things on airy worlds to gaze:
To lift the veil, and view the distant scene—
The fairy theatre of what has been.
Thus hanging o'er the prow the sailor sees
His distant cot, his flowers and waving trees,
More sweetly pictured to his longing view,
In the green wave, than were the vision true.
And while the forms upon the mirror play,
Flash through the deep, and melt upon the spray,
He pores upon the scene, and dreams himself away.
His distant cot, his flowers and waving trees,
More sweetly pictured to his longing view,
In the green wave, than were the vision true.
And while the forms upon the mirror play,
Flash through the deep, and melt upon the spray,
He pores upon the scene, and dreams himself away.
Hark! 'twas the voice of harps that pour'd along
The hollow vale the floating tide of song.
I see the glittering train in long array
Gleam through the shades, and snowy splendours play.
I see them now: with measured steps and slow
'Mid arching groves the white-rob'd sages go.
The oaken wreath with braided fillets drest,
The crescent beaming on the holy breast,
The silver hair which waves above the lyre
And shrouds the strings,—proclaim the Druid quire.
They halt, and all is hush'd:—no voices rude
To break the still, expectant calm intrude,
And listening thousands seem a solitude.
The hollow vale the floating tide of song.
I see the glittering train in long array
Gleam through the shades, and snowy splendours play.
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'Mid arching groves the white-rob'd sages go.
The oaken wreath with braided fillets drest,
The crescent beaming on the holy breast,
The silver hair which waves above the lyre
And shrouds the strings,—proclaim the Druid quire.
They halt, and all is hush'd:—no voices rude
To break the still, expectant calm intrude,
And listening thousands seem a solitude.
“Twine, twine the wreath: the milk-white victims bring!”
With lifted arm exclaims the Druid king.
“Lo! lurking 'neath its parent shelter—lo!
“Gleams with its buds of gold, the quivering misletoe.”
Straight at the word he bares the knife of gold
And spreads on high the sagum's broider'd fold:
And while his fingers cull the bending spray,
In silent awe his eyes are turn'd away.—
With lifted arm exclaims the Druid king.
“Lo! lurking 'neath its parent shelter—lo!
“Gleams with its buds of gold, the quivering misletoe.”
Straight at the word he bares the knife of gold
And spreads on high the sagum's broider'd fold:
And while his fingers cull the bending spray,
In silent awe his eyes are turn'd away.—
The
moon is softly sailing through the sky,
The stars look downward with a silent eye.
While hazy dews pour down a teeming flood,
And hang in filmy lustre o'er the wood,
Or on the grass, with glistering spangles strung,
Their silver lamps by fairy hands are hung.
The stars look downward with a silent eye.
While hazy dews pour down a teeming flood,
And hang in filmy lustre o'er the wood,
Or on the grass, with glistering spangles strung,
Their silver lamps by fairy hands are hung.
“Awake!” 'twas Nature's voice: aloud she spake:
She calls her nightly priests: “Awake, Awake!”—
Forth winds the Druid train: I see them now
Upon the heights that crown Talallyn's brow:
In bright relief their giant forms on high
Dilated rise, and stand against the sky:
Their shapeless altars rudely ranged around,
In zonelike circles skirt the holy ground;
O'er the grey piles, where clust'ring lichens stray,
With amber sheen the glancing moonbeams play,
And gild the Runic rhyme that lurks between
The moss-grown stones, and holly's glossy green.—
She calls her nightly priests: “Awake, Awake!”—
Forth winds the Druid train: I see them now
Upon the heights that crown Talallyn's brow:
In bright relief their giant forms on high
Dilated rise, and stand against the sky:
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In zonelike circles skirt the holy ground;
O'er the grey piles, where clust'ring lichens stray,
With amber sheen the glancing moonbeams play,
And gild the Runic rhyme that lurks between
The moss-grown stones, and holly's glossy green.—
No
wreaths are theirs in mazy fretwork scroll'd
For them no portals flame with burnish'd gold:
No swelling domes, no marble columns rise,
Nor pictur'd roofs to screen them from the skies:
Nor pendant tapers fling a misty ray,
Through cloistral aisles, and chase the night away.
—For them the vaulted firmament is spread,
And spangled courts and halls where Angels tread:
—For them, for them, the everlasting sky
Has hung its thousand lamps that never die:
And seas to them of cloudless light are given,
And all the mighty blazonry of heav'n.
For them no portals flame with burnish'd gold:
No swelling domes, no marble columns rise,
Nor pictur'd roofs to screen them from the skies:
Nor pendant tapers fling a misty ray,
Through cloistral aisles, and chase the night away.
—For them the vaulted firmament is spread,
And spangled courts and halls where Angels tread:
—For them, for them, the everlasting sky
Has hung its thousand lamps that never die:
And seas to them of cloudless light are given,
And all the mighty blazonry of heav'n.
All hail, ye saintly band, whose souls aspire
With vows that burn, and feed a holier fire.
What though your hearths no spicy sweets exhale,
Nor scented incense loads the languid gale;
Nor marble halls are yours, nor sculptur'd stone,
To lure the great Creator from his throne.
But oh! 'tis yours the bright ascent to try
And soar serenely wafted to the sky:
To ope the gate, to tread the bright abode,
The gorgeous chambers of the living God.
With vows that burn, and feed a holier fire.
What though your hearths no spicy sweets exhale,
Nor scented incense loads the languid gale;
Nor marble halls are yours, nor sculptur'd stone,
To lure the great Creator from his throne.
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And soar serenely wafted to the sky:
To ope the gate, to tread the bright abode,
The gorgeous chambers of the living God.
'Tis morn again: now quit the steep to rove
Through oaken glades and pass along the grove.
This is the spot: above the tangling vine
Hangs o'er the rocks, and ivy ringlets twine.
These are the shades, and this the sparry cell
Where erst an aged Druid lov'd to dwell:
Here ranged around his youthful hearers hung,
And drank eternal wisdom from his tongue.
The table now, the seats of living stone,
All, all are left deserted and alone.—
—They are not left! again the holy seer
Tunes his rapt lyre, and bids his votaries hear.
He sings “of other worlds and happier isles,
“Of longer days, and spring's eternal smiles,
“Of sunny vales, and lands beyond the sea,
“Where Romans never came; but all are free:
“No crystal hail congeals the balmy air,
“No swords are forg'd, no arrows tainted there.
“Oh! happy, happy land, where Camber's strain
“Thrills through the shade, and Mador lives again.
“Where through the vale together Angels stray,
“And in sweet converse wear the fleeting day.”
Through oaken glades and pass along the grove.
This is the spot: above the tangling vine
Hangs o'er the rocks, and ivy ringlets twine.
These are the shades, and this the sparry cell
Where erst an aged Druid lov'd to dwell:
Here ranged around his youthful hearers hung,
And drank eternal wisdom from his tongue.
The table now, the seats of living stone,
All, all are left deserted and alone.—
—They are not left! again the holy seer
Tunes his rapt lyre, and bids his votaries hear.
He sings “of other worlds and happier isles,
“Of longer days, and spring's eternal smiles,
“Of sunny vales, and lands beyond the sea,
“Where Romans never came; but all are free:
“No crystal hail congeals the balmy air,
“No swords are forg'd, no arrows tainted there.
“Oh! happy, happy land, where Camber's strain
“Thrills through the shade, and Mador lives again.
“Where through the vale together Angels stray,
“And in sweet converse wear the fleeting day.”
“And is it then to die—to soar afar
“Beyond the sweeping storm, and din of war?
“Is this to die—to find a blissful home
“Unravaged still, unenvied yet by Rome?
—“Then seize the spear, and mount the scythed wheel,
“Lash the proud steed, and whirl the flaming steel:
“Sweep through the thickest host: and scorn to fly:
“Arise! arise! for this it is to die.”—
“Beyond the sweeping storm, and din of war?
“Is this to die—to find a blissful home
“Unravaged still, unenvied yet by Rome?
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“Lash the proud steed, and whirl the flaming steel:
“Sweep through the thickest host: and scorn to fly:
“Arise! arise! for this it is to die.”—
Thus 'neath his vaulted cave the Druid sire
Lit the rapt soul, and fed the martial fire:
And oft of worlds in silver æther hung,
Of blissful worlds, the ravish'd Poet sung:
Or told of weeping stars—the Pleiad quire—
Of huge Orion and his belt of fire:
Of rushing winds he sang, the swelling tide,
The lightning's bed, and clouds where thunders ride;
The driving hail, the mountain's furrow'd brow
Where sleeps in soft repose the pillow'd snow;
And all the plants that deck the vernal glade,
Blush in the sun, or twinkle in the shade.
—'Tis heard no more! and on the vacant stone
I gaze, and listen to the wind's wild moan:
While through the cave in wheeling eddies fly
The yellow leaves, and plaintive echoes sigh.
How sad and lonely is the gloom that broods
Upon the heath, and blackens o'er the woods!
And yet we mourn not—holier rites are given:
Pure is the song of morn, the praise of even:—
And here, amid the walks and forests green,
E'en here a silent monitor is seen—
To tell of joy and love that ne'er decay
Of darkness past, and everlasting day—
Yon modest walls where sin and sorrow flees;
Yon gleaming spire that peeps above the trees;
The Gothic porch, with monitory rhyme
Inscrib'd; the music of the blithesome chime,
And winding o'er the hill yon sabbath train
Of holier Druids to a purer fane:—
—These bid aloud to check the starting tear,
And hail the blissful light—for God is here.
Lit the rapt soul, and fed the martial fire:
And oft of worlds in silver æther hung,
Of blissful worlds, the ravish'd Poet sung:
Or told of weeping stars—the Pleiad quire—
Of huge Orion and his belt of fire:
Of rushing winds he sang, the swelling tide,
The lightning's bed, and clouds where thunders ride;
The driving hail, the mountain's furrow'd brow
Where sleeps in soft repose the pillow'd snow;
And all the plants that deck the vernal glade,
Blush in the sun, or twinkle in the shade.
—'Tis heard no more! and on the vacant stone
I gaze, and listen to the wind's wild moan:
While through the cave in wheeling eddies fly
The yellow leaves, and plaintive echoes sigh.
How sad and lonely is the gloom that broods
Upon the heath, and blackens o'er the woods!
And yet we mourn not—holier rites are given:
Pure is the song of morn, the praise of even:—
And here, amid the walks and forests green,
E'en here a silent monitor is seen—
To tell of joy and love that ne'er decay
Of darkness past, and everlasting day—
Yon modest walls where sin and sorrow flees;
Yon gleaming spire that peeps above the trees;
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Inscrib'd; the music of the blithesome chime,
And winding o'er the hill yon sabbath train
Of holier Druids to a purer fane:—
—These bid aloud to check the starting tear,
And hail the blissful light—for God is here.
Andate, the Goddess of Victory: Belinus, the Apollo: Hesus, the Mars: Taranis, the Thunderer: of the Druids.
Henry, Hist. I. p. 175. “All their places of worship were in the open air, and generally on eminences, whence they had a full view of the heavenly bodies.” Morhof. Polyhist. tom. I. p. 129. Sacer illis cultus purissimus sub dio: nullum illis vel templum, vel idolum.
Holingshed, tom. I. p. 7. “Druis (the author of the famous sect called Druids) was excellent not only in Philosophy and the Quadrivialles, but alsoe in the true Theologie, whereby the service of the true God has been kept in purity: He did preach that the soule of man is immortall: that God is omnipotent, mercifull.”
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