The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems

By William and Mary Howitt

Howitt, Mary Botham (1799-1888)

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“Now juge thay me baith guid and ill,
And I may no man's tongue hald still;
To do the best my mynd sall be,
Latt every man say quhat he will.”
William Dunbar.

EPISTLE DEDICATORY

TO H. H---, AND F. T. H---.

I

I thank ye, Mister wights, that ye have deem'd
So fairly of these lightly caroll'd lays
That I have chanted; albeit they seem'd
But silly rhymes, unworthy of all praise;
And never, surely, otherwise esteem'd
Than a bird's song, that, fill'd with sweet amaze
At the bright opening of the young, green spring,
Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling.

II

For never yet was mine the proud intent
To give the olden harp a thrilling sound,
Like those great spirits who of late have sent
Their wizard tones abroad, and all around
This wond'rous world have wander'd; and have spent,
In court and camp, on bann'd and holy ground,
Their gleaning glances; and, in hall and bower,
Have learn'd of mortal life the passions and the power:

III

Eyeing the masters of this busy earth,
In all the changes of ambition's toil,
From the first struggles of their glory's birth,
Till robed in power—till wearied with the spoil
Of slaughter'd realms, and dealing woe and dearth
To miserable men—and then the foil
To this great scene, the vengeance, and the frown
With which some mightier hand has pull'd those troublers down:

IV

Eyeing the passages of gentler life,
And different persons, of far different scenes;
The boy, the beau—the damsel and the wife—
Life's lowly loves—the loves of kings and queens;
Each thing that binds us, and each thing that weans
Us from this state, with pains and pleasures rife;
The wooings, winnings, weddings, and disdainings
Of changeful men, their fondness and their feignings:

V

And then have brought us home strange sights and sounds
From distant lands, of dark and awful deeds;
And fair and dreadful spirits; and gay rounds
Of mirth and music; and then mourning weeds;
And tale of hapless love that sweetly wounds
The gentle heart, and its deep fondness feeds;
Lapping it up in dreams of sad delight
From its own weary thoughts, in visions wild and bright:—

VI

Oh! never yet to me the power or will
To match these mighty sorcerers of the soul
Was given; but on the bosom, lone and still,
Of nature cast, I early wont to stroll
Through wood and wild, o'er forest, rock, and hill,
Companionless; without a wish or goal,
Save to discover every shape and voice
Of living thing that there did fearlessly rejoice.

VII

And every day that boyish fancy grew;
And every day those lonely scenes became
Dearer and dearer, and with objects new,
All sweet and peaceful, fed the young spirit's flame.
Then rose each silent woodland to the view,
A glorious theatre of joy! then came
Each sound a burst of music on the air,
That sank into the soul to live for ever there!

VIII

Then did I gather, with a keen delight,
All changes of the seasons, and their signs:
Then did I speed forth, at the first glad sight
Of the coy spring—of spring that archly shines
Out for a day—then goes—and then more bright
Comes laughing forth, like a gay lass that lines
A dark lash with a ray that beams and burns,
And scatters hopes and doubts, and smiles and frowns, by turns.

IX

On a sweet, shining morning thus sent out,
It seem'd what man was made for, to look round
And trace the full brook, that, with clamorous route,
O'er fallen trees, and roots black curling, wound
Through glens, with wild brakes scatter'd all about;
Where not a leaf or green blade yet was found
Springing to hide the red fern of last year,
And hemlock's broken stems, and rustling rank grass sere.

X

But hazel catkins, and the bursting buds
Of the fresh willow, whisper'd “spring is coming;”
And bullfinches forth flitting from the woods,
With their rich silver voices; and the humming
Of a new waken'd bee that pass'd; and broods
Of ever dancing gnats, again consuming,
In pleasant sun-light, their re-given time;
And the germs swelling in the red shoots of the lime:

XI

All these were tell-tales of far brighter hours,
That had been, and again were on their way;
The breaking forth of green things, and of flowers,
From the earth's breast; from bank and quickening spray
Dews, buds, and blossoms; and in woodland bowers,
Fragrant and fresh, full many a sweet bird's lay,
Sending abroad, from the exultant spring,
To every living heart a gladsome welcoming.

XII

Oh, days of glory! when the young soul drank
Delicious wonderment through every sense!
And every tone and tint of beauty sank
Into a heart that ask'd not how, or whence
Came the dear influence; from the dreary blank
Of nothingness sprang forth to an existence
Thrilling and wond'rous; to enjoy—enjoy
The new and glorious blessing—was its sole employ.

XIII

To roam abroad amidst the mists, and dews,
And brightness of the early morning sky,
When rose and hawthorn leaves wore tenderest hues:
To watch the mother linnet's stedfast eye,
Seated upon her nest; or wondering muse
On her eggs' spots, and bright and delicate dye;
To peep into the magpie's thorny hall,
Or wren's green cone in some hoar mossy wall;

XIV

To hear of pealing bells the distant charm,
As slow I wended down some lonely dale,
Past many a bleating flock, and many a farm,
And solitary hall; and in the vale
To meet of eager hinds a hurrying swarm,
With staves and terriers hastening to assail
Polecat, or badger, in their secret dens,
Or otter lurking in the deep and reedy fens;

XV

To pass through villages, and catch the hum
Forth bursting from some antiquated school,
Endow'd long since by some old knight, whose tomb
Stood in the church just by; to mark the dool
Of light-hair'd lads that inly rued their doom,
Prison'd in that old place, that with the tool,
Stick-knife or nail, of many a sly offender,
Was carved and figured over, wall, and desk, and window;

XVI

To meet in green lanes happy infant bands,
Full of health's luxury, sauntering and singing,
A childish, wordless melody; with hands
Cowslips, and wind-flowers, and green brook-lime bringing;
Or weaving caps of rushes; or with wands
Guiding their mimic teams; or gaily swinging
On some low sweeping bough, and clinging all
One to the other fast, till, laughing, down they fall;

XVII

To sit down by some solitary man,
Hoary with years, and with a sage's look,
In some wild dell where purest waters ran,
And see him draw forth his black-letter book,
Wond'ring, and wond'ring more, as he began,
On it, and then on many an herb to look,
That he had wander'd, wearily and wide,
To pluck from jutting rocks, and woods, and mountain side;

XVIII

And then, as he would wash his healing roots
In the clear stream, that ever went singing on,
Through banks o'erhung with herbs and flowery shoots,
Leaning as if they loved its gentle tune,
To hear him tell of many a plant that suits
Fresh wound, or fever'd frame; and of the moon
Shedding o'er weed and wort her healing power,
For gifted wights to cull in her ascendant hour;

XIX

To lie abroad on nature's lonely breast,
Amidst the music of a summer's sky,
Where tall, dark pines the northern bank invest
Of a still lake; and see the long pikes lie
Basking upon the shallows; with dark crest,
And threat'ning pomp, the swan go sailing by;
And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone,
Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun:

XX

The duck, deep poring with his downward head,
Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave;
The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shed
The water o'er him, his rich plumes to lave;
The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spread
His clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave,
Into the stream; the coot and water-hen
Vanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again;

XXI

And when warm summer's holiday was o'er,
And the bright acorns patter'd from the trees;
When fires were made, and closed was every door;
And winds were loud, or else a chilling breeze
Came comfortless, driving cold fogs before:
On dismal, shivering evenings, such as these,
To pass by cottage windows, and to see,
Round a bright hearth, sweet faces shining happily;

XXII

These were the days of boyhood! Oh! such days
Shall never, never more return again—
When the fresh heart, all witless of the ways,
The sickening, sordid, selfish ways of men,
Danced in creation's pure and placid blaze,
Making an Eden of the loneliest glen!
Darkness has follow'd fast, and few have been
The rays of sunlight cast upon life's dreary scene.

XXIII

For years of lonely thought, in morning-tide
Of life, will make a spirit all unfit
To brook of men the waywardness and pride;
Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;
Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,
And deeming only glorious the soul lit
With the pure flame of knowledge, and the eye
Fill'd with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.

XXIV

Fancy's spoil'd child will ever surely be
A thing of nothing in the worldly throng:
Wrapp'd up in dreams that they can never see;
Listening to fairy harp, or spirit's song,
Where all to them is stillest vacancy:
For ever seeking, as he glides along,
Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt,
And can aread each thought that with him long has dwelt.

XXV

But place him midst creation!—let him stand
Where wave and mountain revel in his sight,
Then shall his soul triumphantly expand,
With gathering power, and majesty, and light!
The world beneath him is the temple plann'd
For him to worship in; and, pure and bright,
Heaven's vault above, the proud eternal dome
Of his Almighty Sire, and his own future home!

XXVI

With such inspiring fancies, mortal pride
Shrinks into nothing; and all mortal things
He casts, as weeds cast by the ocean tide,
From its embraces; the world's scorn he flings
Back on itself, disdaining to divide,
With its low cares, that sensitive spirit that brings
Home to his breast all nature's light and glee,
Holding with sunshine, clouds, and gales, unearthly revelry.

XXVII

Here comes the winding of my tale at last,
That witching youth has led so far about;—
As the world's frowns, and nature's smiles have pass'd
O'er me, the voice of passion would break out—
Transport or scorn; for who longs not to cast
Forth into shape each thought, sensation, doubt?
Eye them a moment; then, like sibyl leaves,
Scatter to the idle winds, what idler fancy weaves?

XXVIII

But now 'tis spring, and bards are gathering flowers;
So I have cull'd you these, and with them sent
The gleanings of a nymph whom some few hours
Ago I met with—some few years I meant—
Gathering “true-love” amongst the wild-wood bowers;
You'll find some buds all with this posy blent,
If that ye know them, which some lady fair
Viewing, may haply prize, for they are wond'rous rare.

XXIX

And now good-bye!—to you and verse good-bye!
At least as long as poets keep their vows;
And if, while up these fainting blooms ye tie
Into a nosegay, ye should witness brows
Arching with scorn, or knit most angrily,
Twine them a poppy-garland, to compose
Them into slumber; a far pleasanter thing
Than chafing at the tender, early blooms ye bring.

THE FOREST MINSTREL.

Old Mariner.

“Talk not of lofty stations being full
Of change and fate, and lowlier ones secure:
Too much of that we've heard. Sorrow and guilt,
Like two old pilgrims guised, but quick and keen
Of vision, evermore plod round the world
To spy out pleasant spots, and loving hearts,
And never lack a villain's ready hand
To work their purpose on them. Hear ye me.”
Mariner's Story.

'Tis merry Whitsuntide, and merrily
Holiday goes in hamlet and green field;
Nature and men seem join'd, for once, to try
The strength of care, and force the carle to yield:
Summer abroad holds flowery revelry;
For revelry the village bells are peal'd;
The season's self seems made for rural pleasure,
And rural joy flows with o'erflowing measure.

Go where you will through England's happy valleys,
Deep grows the grass, flowers bask, and wild bees hum;
And, ever and anon, with joyous sallies,
Shouting, and music, and the busy drum,
Tell you afar where mirth her rustics rallies
In dusty sports, or 'midst the songs and hum
Of the royal oak, or bowling-green's enclosure,
With bower and bench, for smoking and composure.

May's jolly dance is past, and, hanging high,
Her garlands swing and wither in the sun;
And now abroad gay posied banners fly,
Follow'd by peaceful troops, and boys that run
To see their sires go marching solemnly,
Shouldering their wands; and youths with ribbons won
From fond fair hands, that yielded them with pride,
And proudly worn this merry Whitsuntide.

And then succeeds a lovelier sight,—the dames,
Wives, mothers, and arch sigh-awakening lasses;
Filling each gazing wight with wounds and flames,
Yet looking each demurely as she passes,
With flower-tipp'd wand, and bloom that flowers outshames;
And, in the van of these sweet happy faces

Marches the priest, whose sermon says, “be merry!”
The frank good squire, and sage apothecary.

At this sweet time, the glory of the spring,
Young verdurous June's delightful opening;
When leaves are loveliest, and young fruits and flowers
Fear not the frosts of May's uncertain hours;
Rich, rife, luxuriant, yet with tenderest hues,
Waves the full foliage; and with morning dews,
And showers that gush down from the radiant skies,
To bring below the air of Paradise,
Awakening freshest fragrance as they pass;
There is a peerless greenness on the grass,
Yet somewhat darken'd with the loftier swell,
And purple tinge, of spike and pannicle;
While vivid is the gleam of distant corn,
And long and merry are the songs of morn;
'Tis wise to let the touch of nature thrill
Through the full heart; 'tis wise to take your fill
Of all she brings, and gently to give way
To what within your soul she seems to say:
“The world grows rich in beauty and in bliss;
Past springs were welcome, none so much as this.”
At this sweet time, when wand'ring far and near,
The cawings loud of jealous rooks you hear,
That late have seen their annual war, and rued
Tremendous slaughter of their earliest brood;

And led with fearful haste, and anxious cries,
The remnant forth, and still, with careful eyes,
Watching for man, a black and glossy crew,
Rustling arise, and fly to haunts anew.
When many a migratory bird is come,
With its loved voice, to its old summer home;
There is the martin chuckling in the eaves,
The fly-catcher, that confidently weaves
Her yearly nest upon the pear-tree bough,
Beside your door, and flitting to and fro,
Is ever present when you pass without;
At eve the bat is circling about;
And in the afternoons, so calm and fair,
The restless swallow sporting in the air;
And higher still, the screaming swifts pursue
Each other loudly in the ether blue;
Again the wryneck chanteth forth pee, pee,
From his old haunt, the hollow apple-tree;
The redstart wails about the garden wall;
And deep and liquid is the cuckoo's call
From field and forest, bringing with its tone
Feelings and scenes in blissful boyhood known.
For those who nothing have, or wish, like me,
To busy them, but 'neath the greenwood tree
To listen in this glorious season quietly,
To showers that patter on the oak leaves young,
And various ditties that meanwhile are sung

By small birds sheltering on the inner boughs;
Then stepping forth as the grand rainbow glows
Upon the dark, blue cloud's far-traveling shade;
And rain-drops twinkle upon leaf and blade;
And richly smiles the sun; and louder swell
The songs of happy birds in wood and dell;
And every bathed leaf and blossom fair
Pours out its soul to the delicious air.

For those who love, in a reflective mood,
To climb the steep where some old castle stood,
And from its broad foundations, scarcely seen
Through the rank nettles, and the chervil green,
To muse o'er all that smiling landscape wide,
More fair than when that tower was in its pride:
For those who love, where the brook chiming falls
Down the still vale, to find the abbey walls,
Cluster'd about with the fresh opening leaves,
And sit down while the sun serenely weaves,
As the light breezes through the foliage go,
Soft shades, and casts them on the grass below,
Through which the cold, stone, massy coffins peep
Of lovely forms, that long have lain asleep:
For those who love to watch how flush and die
The alternate tribes of summer's progeny;
Who, in spring's earliest hours, rejoicing met
Primrose, and cowslip, and sweet violet,

And azure gleam of blue-bells' odorous ranks,
From the still forest, or green southern banks;
And now go forth to feast the conscious spirit
With all of beauty nature does inherit,
Fragrance, and sun, and greenness;—to behold
Beautiful herds, in lawns of living gold,
Couch'd on voluptuous flowers, or 'neath the shade
Of the thick chestnut, gloriously array'd;
For in its honour prodigal nature weaves
A princely vestment, and profusely showers,
O'er its green masses of broad palmy leaves,
Ten thousand waxen, pyramidal flowers;
And gay and gracefully its head it heaves
Into the air, and monarch-like it towers,
Dimming all other trees;—all, only one,
The beautiful hawthorn, that has now put on
Its summer luxury of snowy wreaths;
Bending its branches in exuberant bloom,
While to the light enamour'd gale it breathes,
Rife as its loveliness, its rathe perfume:
Glory of England's landscape! favourite tree
Of bard and lover! it flings, far and free,
Its grateful incense: whether you arise
To catch the first long sun-gleam in the skies,
And list the earliest bird-notes; whether you
Linger amidst the twilight and the dew—

There, through the silent air its odour strays,
Sweet as in home-scenes of your earliest days.

For those who love such solitary joys,
And seek them with a zest that never cloys;
For those to whom the wealth of life is given,
In thought, in quiet, and the smiles of heaven;
Who love to gather up, in field and cot,
The tales of those the proud world heedeth not;
Here, on the greensward by this woodland stream,
My pipe is ready for their favourite theme.

There is a town, that, ages past, did lie
In a low glade, and sent up tranquilly
Its fleecy smoke among old Sherwood's boughs;
From age to age, no tumult did arouse
Its peaceful dwellers; there they lived and died,
Passing a dreamy life, diversified
By nought of novelty, save, now and then,
A horn, resounding through the neighbouring glen,
Woke them as from a trance, and led them out
To catch a brief glimpse of the hunt's wild route;
The music of the hounds; the tramp and rush
Of steeds and men; and then,—a sudden hush
Left round the eager listeners;—the deep mood
Of awful, dead, and twilight solitude,

Fallen again upon that forest vast;
Or pilgrim's tale, who through its heart had pass'd,
Full of adventures dread with outlaw bands,
And kindly alms from holy hermit's hands;
Strange creatures met;—strange ills escaped by chance;
Fairies surprised amid their jocund dance;
Wood-nymphs that 'thwart a narrow glade would glance;
Or bowers that rose with knights and ladies gay;
Or saintly friars chanting solemn lay
Amidst the inmost wild—then vanish'd all away.

But this has long been past; a busier race,
Swarming and various, now possess the place;
And travellers find it, not amidst a sea
Of woods immense, but rich fertility,
On cultivation's ever-milky breast,
With whistling hinds, and flocks, and herds at rest.
Though not all traces of that state are gone,
But, at a trifling distance from the town,
Spreads a wild waste o'er many a sunny hill,
Unclaim'd and rude, and where, at freedom, still
Wanders the flock, and the rejoicing bee
Visits the fox-glove and the heather bells;
Where, bounding on the warm turf happily,
The harping grasshopper in summer dwells;

And, here and there, an oak, knotted and hoary,
Stands, as if sorrowing for its former glory.

There was a country bard, I knew him well,
His name ye know not, and I need not tell;
But he was one who, yet in youth's dear morning,
Loved to go out in the day's earliest dawning,
And roam to dimmest eve, watching each change
Of quiet beauty through the summer's range;
For yet ambition slept, and he was blest,
Nursing sweet thoughts and feelings in his breast.
This was a favourite haunt; for here, in years
Earliest of those that memory endears,
There was a something in its silence rude,
That charm'd his spirit, and inspired a mood
Novel, and dearer than all former things;
It was the birth of sentiment, that springs
Like a fresh fountain in the youthful breast,
Welling and sparkling, never more to rest;
But fraught with every draught of weal and woe,
That the soft heart in life and death can know.
It was a favourite haunt for more than this:
In some succeeding years of vigorous bliss,
With two—the first whose choice seem'd to express
Somewhat of heart, and not mere playfulness—
Many a bright hour of summer he had spent;
Hours, such as only to the young are sent;

Hours, full of dreams that pass, and yet are not
Even in age's dimmest day forgot.
The younger had a frame graceful and strong,
That seem'd to promise a life bright and long;
A freshness of clear tint, an opening bloom,
As if in mockery of the distant tomb;
And through his open countenance you might see
A soul that moved in pure simplicity;
Generous and manly, and to fervour fill'd
With nature's feelings, by the world unchill'd.

The other was far different. 'Neath a steep
And pale high forehead, searching, and cold, and deep,
Shrouded his eye, that darkly seem'd to speak
In sad conjunction with his pale, thin cheek.
Offspring of poverty; it was his lot
To feel all pangs that poverty has got.
Charity had spread, religious charity,
The book of knowledge open to his eye;
Then, while his heart was warm, and his young mind
Glow'd with proud hopes, splendid, but undefined,
Left him, amidst the busy world, to know
What dreadful gifts the wise sometimes bestow.
He sought far distant scenes—he join'd the press
Of the throng'd city—his was loneliness.
He met with smiling youths who late had been
His fellow-students; he was scarcely seen,

And coldly noticed: he then turn'd aside
From the gay walks of pleasure and of pride,
And sought the dwelling of a simple sage,
Whose words his swelling bosom might assuage;
For often he had heard, and deem'd in truth,
His fervent prayers for the beloved youth.
But there was something in his mien that seem'd
To tell him now, that sure he had misdeem'd.
He rush'd again into the crowded street,
Where all he heard, and all that he did meet,
Spoke still of happiness. The rich roll'd by
In splendid state, and with gay laughing eye:
And all around were groupes that seem'd to swim
In joy's sweet stream, that never flow'd for him.
He saw, at length, the key to human bliss,
And his heart sank,—he saw it was not his.
Stung to the soul, he turn'd, in hate and scorn,
Back from the race with whom he had been born,
But claim'd no sympathy;—a drop that fell
Into a sea, and lost amidst its swell.

He came back to the scenes that gave him birth,
Bleeding at heart, and withering to the earth:
There his peculiar wrongs he scorn'd to tell,
Yet much on pride and grossness would he dwell,
And bitter were the words that often fell

From him, when human kindness was his theme;
Warning his young friends of the foolish dream
Of honour, or of love, from brilliant sense,
Or knowledge deep, or aught but affluence.
Yet, sometimes when beneath a lovely sky,
Amongst the crimson heath-bells they would lie;
Or, arm in arm, wander'd the forest free,
Rapt in the melting mood of poesy;
Or, with some glorious topic on the tongue,
Such as is loved when life and thought are young;
The scene, the subject, would at times beguile
His frozen spirit to a transient smile.
Such were the youths whose memory had impress'd
A hallow'd feeling in the poet's breast
For these wild walks, for both alike had perish'd,
The blighted bud, and the flower loved and cherish'd.

He loved these wild walks, too, because they bore
Many a tradition of the days of yore.
Who has not known, from childhood's wond'ring hours,
Of merry outlaws in green Sherwood's bowers?
And it was here those merry outlaws dwelt;
'T was here their feats were done, their fear was felt.
Here, by fair Fountaine Dale, where still is found
The moat that did the friar's cell surround,

Fancy would often bid them still be seen,
With bugle shrill, and jackets of Lincoln green;
With song and dance beneath the wide-arm'd oak,
Easing rich priests, with solemn whim and joke;
Or in full state and goodly triumphing,
Feasting fair lady or their marvelling king.

And where upon that ancient forest stood
Some hoary remnant of its old greenwood,
When morning's sunny smile and wand'ring breeze
Scatter'd a tide of beauty through the trees;
Or basking noon had made all voices dumb
In the sweet woodland, thither would he come;
And slowly wand'ring, as for wand'ring's sake,
Yet with ear, eye, heart livingly awake,
Through the dry rustling leaves by wild winds swept
To shelter'd hollows, where they lay and slept
From year to year;—through the deep sinking moss,
And bilberry clumps, each soft swell that emboss
With living green, and berries red and crude;
There, stretching him in that loved solitude,
Drank with a deep and never-sated draught
All the glad spirit of that glorious time;
Eyeing above the radiant blue that laugh'd
Through the young leaves of the luxuriant lime,
Or spreading sycamore, from which the chime

Of thousand busy and exulting bees,
With odour of its pendant racemes,
Came soothingly; and his enamour'd sight
Traced the green veins along the tender leaves,
Transparent in the falling food of light,
As o'er his head they quiver'd, soft and bright,
Embowering him in freshness that bereaves
The bosom of each clinging care and pain:
Then, as his eye with lower glance would go
Through all the stillness of the scene below,
And far around him saw each rugged oak
Wrapp'd in a grey and mossy-fringed cloak,
Or shrouded in dark ivy; yet aloft
Unfolding to the sun its buds again,
And smiling, like a widow in her weeds;
While listening to the larches sighing soft,
Or birches shivering in the gale, the deeds,
And wood-walk spirits of the older times,
Would gather round him, and awake his rhymes.

A WOODNOTE.

Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood;
Loudly the blackbird is singing,
The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud,
And the curled fern is springing:
Here ye may sleep
In the moss so deep,

While the noon is so warm and so weary,
And sweetly awake
As the sun through the brake
Bids the fauvette and whitethroat sing cheery.

The quicken is tufted with blossoms of snow,
And is throwing its perfume around it;
The wryneck replies to the cuckoo's halloo,
For joy that again she has found it;
The jay's red breast
Peeps over her nest,
In the midst of the crab-blossoms blushing;
And the call of the pheasant
Is frequent and pleasant,
When all other calls are hushing.

Then come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood,
Ye spirits that wander'd of old here;
Will Scarlet, Will Stutely, and bold Robin Hood,
And all your merry men told here:
I would not have met,
In a mantle of jet,
On good steed, or with gold in my poke,
By day, or by night,
In the time of your might,
With your jolly band under the oak.

But ages have roll'd o'er your old forest haunts,
And scarcely an old oak remaineth;
Where they threw their broad arms, there the slender larch flaunts,
Or on still heaths the pewit complaineth;
Where twang'd your long bows,
The green corn grows;
And the flock winds meekly along,
Where fled the good deer,
From the arrow and spear,
Or the roar of your banquet and song.

Yet, bold king of outlaws, I honour thy name,
For thou hadst a generous spirit;
And seldom the heroes of loftier fame
So loyal a bosom inherit.
When I dream of your cheer,
Lo! I see you appear,
All jollity, friendship, and glory!
Oh! just as they tell us,
Thou king of good fellows,
The scenes of thy bonny old story!

Then, still while an old oak in Sherwood shall stand;
Or the leaves shall “grow large and long;”

Or the name even of Sherwood be left in the land;
Thy name shall be honour'd in song.
And still shall be seen,
In their mantles of green,
Thy “merrymen all in a row,
Tripping over the hill,”
At the sound so shrill,
Of the blast thou wert wont to blow.

Close by this forest's edge, the traveller sees
A walled copse of tempest-driven trees,
Twisted and torn, as impotent to cope
With the fierce winds,—there lies a misanthrope;
And those who visit that strange tomb are sure
To note, as 'twere, mountains in miniature,
Stretch'd on the slope beside it,—sandy piles,
Along whose ridges many a flow'ret smiles.
The crimson heath, the thyme, and golden hue
Of frail tormentil, and the milkwort blue.
Between, run hidden vales and rocky shelves,
Placed as for lovers to repose themselves.

Our bard had stroll'd that way one eve in spring,
Ere yet the bloom brighten'd the waste of ling;
But o'er the heath's dark breast the oaks were seen
Spreading their amber leaves out in the sunny sheen.

Far distant sounds, unmingled, soft, and clear,
Eve's pensive notes were falling on his ear.
The watch-dog's listless bark, the alternate lay
And whistle of the hind along his homeward way;
The twitter of the bird that sprang afraid
Before his feet, though seen not in the shade;
The plaintive bleating of the new-yean'd lamb,
And the hoarse answer of its watchful dam.
The shades were falling fast, and far around
A dun and gloomy waste the forest frown'd;
Yet wrapt in Fancy's and in Memory's pall,
He wander'd on, and still there seem'd to fall
Upon his vision shapes of glorious things,
Youth's glowing, fair, and bright imaginings.
He saw, once more, the gallant outlaws speed,
With bow, and bugle, and impetuous steed,
To fleece Sir Abbot, to relieve some dame;
Or heard their carols round the evening flame;
Or, waking up the thoughts of his young breast,
In summer scenes of sunshine and of rest,
He roved with lovely forms, and laughing eyes,
And heard dear tones of raillery and surprise.
As, thus absorb'd amidst the twilight gloom,
He had arrived beside that lonely tomb,
From out the adjoining glen, a form as light
As fairy feign'd, sprang forward into sight.

This way, and that, she gazed; and through the shade,
With hasty arm, of notice as afraid,
He saw her beckon; then, with speedy pace,
Retreat again to that obscurer place.
Amazed, and pondering what the sight could mean,
At such an hour, in such a desert scene,
He paused a moment; but, in beauty's guise,
When mystery woos a boyish minstrel's eyes,
Pauses are brief. With wondering intent,
He follow'd her as swiftly as she went;
And as more near upon her steps he drew,
He scrutinized her with a curious view.
Her dress was rustic, but her form and gait
Spoke to his fancy of far different state.
She stopp'd—she turn'd—on his astonish'd glance,
Oh! what a heavenly, beaming countenance
Shone in bewitching beauty!—Never yet
Had such a face his gaze of wonder met.
Beauty, in populous scenes, had often dealt
Her power, and glowing in his heart was felt;
Beauty had stolen upon his noonday dream,
On sunny hill-side, or by woodland stream;
But never had he seen it throned, as now,
In seraph glory, on that polish'd brow.
Her lineaments were such as sculptors mould
To express a spirit generous, warm, and bold.

Dark, clustering locks those lovely features raise,
In purer ivory, to the impassion'd gaze;
And to them eyes of deepest beam dispense
A bright, but mild and sweet intelligence.
But, had you seen how smilingly she turn'd,
And how that smile at once was quench'd, discern'd;
And what a blankness mark'd the stripling's face,
As all confused, yet with a witching grace,
In hasty, but in sweetest tones she spake,
And begg'd his pardon for a strange mistake;
You would have wonder'd at the curious scene,
And laugh'd, right merrily, at each marvelling mien.
But our young bard, who felt that chance had sent
Him to an audience for another meant,
Yet loth to bid that glorious face adieu,
Ere it had bless'd him with a longer view,
Put useless wonderings carelessly away,
And in prompt accents, jocular and gay,
“Perhaps the lady in the forest wide
Had lost her way, and sought a trusty guide?
He was her servant.”—“No; she knew it well.”
“Oh! then it most unluckily befell!
Nor would he, for the world, delay the greeting
Of youthful bosoms, at their twilight meeting!”
She laugh'd—“Good heavens! what could she meet, at most,
In such a place—an owlet—or a ghost!”

“These were but grisly comrades. But in vain,
There had she hoped to meet some favour'd swain;
The dolt, who, such a heavenly lot in store,
Had not been watching for it hours before,
Deserved from grace to be expell'd for ever.”
With laughing voice, she cried, “O never! never!”
While thus they parlied, they were walking down
The path descending towards that ancient town;
And still, at every word, at every view,
The enthusiast stripling's admiration grew.
Such light, luxuriant, buoyant grace was thrown
O'er her fine form, and living in each tone,
As seldom to the lowly damsel falls,
But dwells the charm of palaces and halls.
But lo! that stile,—a smile, a sweet good night,
And she is gone, like sunshine, from his sight.

The youth went slowly pacing down the hill,
But busied with the charming vision still:
Her voice, her features, glowing on his brain,
He ponder'd over all the interview again;
With every question fancy's power could frame,
Whom she might be? and wherefore thus she came?
Till, half-chagrined, he strove at once to wrest
The beauteous, clinging phantom from his breast;
And, speeding faster on, essay'd to fence
His bosom with harsh thoughts against her influence.

But there was something so divine about her,
It seem'd itself an abject sin to doubt her.
Yet, wherefore muse upon her?—Still in vain
He quell'd the thought, it rose and lived again.
He reach'd his home; the spell pursued him there;
He seized a book that well might war with care,
And gazed upon it, but his eye alone
Perused the page, the obedient soul was flown
To its enchantress. Thence he sought his bed;
There the strong charm still hover'd round his head:
At length he slept; and then, with tenfold power,
Came the bright vision of the evening hour.
Feverish he woke. The morn was soft and fair;
He sought the balmy freshness of the air;
And his feet led him, with unconscious haste,
To the same scenes,—the lone tomb, and the waste.
But there, nor in his frequent summer rounds
Along the forest's solitary bounds,
Through farm, or hamlet of the busier plain,
The beauteous stranger ne'er appear'd again.

Where, far along that forest's confines, rise
Oaks of old days, and of stupendous size;
And it is pleasant, in the summer hours,
Musing upon the thymy sward to lie,
When bees are humming in the odorous flowers,
And, now and then, the lone woodpecker's cry,

Shrill from his covert, like a wild colt's neigh,
Flits to the ear, but far more laughingly;
And it is pleasant, while the eye is straying
O'er ferny hills, to dream, with soul intent,
Of chivalrous days, of battle's proud arraying,
Of gala, show, and princely tournament;
Heroic knights, and glorious ladies donn'd
Antiquely gorgeous; steeds caparison'd
In golden tapestry, held by smiling pages,
All quaintly beauteous, like those high-soul'd ages.
That charming woodland's inner skirts infold
A hamlet, that itself doth seem as old.
Upon the green, thatch'd roofs, from year to year,
The houseleek, and the golden stonecrop, rear
Their ancient crests, and spicy wall-flowers blow,
And clinging ivy shrouds the walls below;
And on the very benches by each door
Where sate their sires before,
Old grey-lock'd men sit with prophetic eye,
Reading all changes of the summer sky;
And watch, with secret joy, young children's pranks,
Enthroned in bliss upon the grassy banks;
Amidst the ruins of fallen pigmy bowers,
And a bright waste of torn and wither'd flowers;
Their little, eager voices heard alone
Through the deep stillness of the basking noon.

No dwelling there seems of a later age,
But that sweet home, the modest parsonage.
Nor dome is that, in sooth, design'd to please
Swoln priestly pride, but built for learned ease
And pious meditation; all about
Smile tasteful scenes, and sunny walks without.
Its snowy walls, with leafy boughs embraced,
Its porch with roses and frail plants inlaced;
And round, fresh shrubs and ever-opening flowers
Exhale their essence to the morning hours.
There the liburnum's flaming locks are seen,
Entwined with wreaths of spring's divinest green;
The guelder-rose displays its balls of snow,
And rich seringas bid their perfumes flow,
Mingling, with every scent, their honied balm,
To bless the wanderer in the twilight's calm.
But oh! there bloom'd within the loveliest flower!
The youthful pastor's fair and gentle bride;
The glory of this sweet, sequester'd bower;
The watching angel of each home beside.
The priest himself, though smiled upon by fame,
Sought not its wreaths, but gladly hither came;
His sole ambition to distribute good,
And muse on nature in her loneliest mood.
Stolen from the world's bright scenes, they hither brought
All that is by its eager votaries sought;

Souls full of light, and bosoms overflowing
With love's pure tide, no ebb nor tempest knowing;
A flow of happiness that fill'd each cleft
Of the gay heart, and little longing left.
They read of troubles in the weekly news,
Of learned toils in journals and reviews;
Within their blest abode, for years the same,
Pleasures refined, but rarely trouble came.
The muse's triumphs and delights were theirs,
Mix'd with the pastor's and the parent's cares.

In harvest time, when the abounding earth
Is full of solemn beauty, and the mirth
Of gleesome peasants seems to stay awhile
The fleeting grace of summer's radiant smile;
When dryads from the silent woods look out,
To see the jocund rout,
Hearing loud laughs, and airy voices borne
From sunlit fields of thickly piled corn;
A peerless lustre fills the high-arch'd sky,
And the brisk breeze goes wand'ring pleasantly,
Nodding each whisking bush and dark green tree,
Or waving the rich velvet of the verdant lea;
Though not a flower perfumes its wanton breath,
And woods are hush'd, as with the hush of death:
For every living thing that seem'd to long
To fill the musical madness of its tongue

With summer's passionate and fervid glow,
That thrill'd them through and through,
Now pause, as if exhausted, and all lie
In a deep trance of dreamy luxury.
You hear no small bird's carol, nor the loud talk
Of merry blackbirds, in the forest walk;
The redbreast only, with a low-piped strain,
Seems welcoming wild autumn back again.

But to our story:—It was at this time,
When all was bright, but solemn and sublime,
Our bard was this priest's guest; and with him went
To visit one in life's last languishment.
Descending quickly from the town, their way
Through a deep glen of wond'rous wildness lay:
So rude, so bold, at once they seem'd to stand
In a stern hollow of some mountain land;
Seem'd to the eye as if that sylvan plain
By the fierce earthquake had been rent in twain.
Huge, splinter'd, frowning in alternate spaces,
On either hand rear'd high the answering faces
Of giant crags, with narrow slopes between,
With velvet turf, or tangling wild briers green.
From many a rocky steep the clinging yew
Its gloom athwart the narrow valley threw;

And ancient trees stretch'd forth, from height to height,
Their meeting arms, as to exclude the light.
Up from the deep, dim hollow rose the sound
Of waters dash'd o'er many a rocky mound:
Anon, and they beheld the white stream flow
In foam and mist along the dell below,
That, still expanding, led the charmed eye
Through its glad course of sweet variety;
Now checking its fleet race, gently to play
Where some small mead in emerald brightness lay,
Scatter'd, perchance, with huge, enmossed blocks,
From the bare crests of the surrounding rocks;
And canopied with trees where bards might lie
And waste whole days in glorious reverie;
Now, gushing past some cliff that dimly shows
Its grey bulk through a world of tossing boughs;
Till, out afar beneath the jocund sun,
Through woods and farms, the gathering waters run.
But, onward as they trod this hidden vale,
The priest was busied in a mournful tale.
“Cast o'er this sweet, sequester'd scene thine eye;
Two only dwellings thou wilt here descry;
Distant as yet; o'er one the thin blue reek
Curls slowly upwards—'tis the one we seek.

Two yeomen here their quiet lives have spent,
As in a world where they alone were sent.
Together here toil'd on in youth and health;
Together felt the advance of age and wealth;
Together here their children too have sported;
Along this dell life's first fair objects courted;
Traversed its every nook with curious eyes,
The rocks re-echoing to their mirthful cries;
No other playmates known, but making still
Comrades of every flower, and bird, and rill.
Three merry rangers in this flowery wild:
Maria Gray, her parents' only child,
All life, and beauty, and young joy's excess,
A little, laughing, dancing shepherdess;
And Gilburne's two young boys, who warmly strove
To bless the girl, each with a brother's love;
While she her young associates daily eyed,
With the fond feelings of a sister's pride;
Though readily might it at a glance be seen,
Her little heart did on the younger lean;
As one more of her own peculiar age,
More prone in her soft pastimes to engage;
A delicate boy, in spite of sun and storm,
Who still was fair, still show'd a fragile form.
And as he look'd, so tenderly he felt;
A very girl's mild spirit in him dwelt.

With him she here would stray in summer hours,
To spy the birds in their green leafy bowers,
And learn their various voices; to delight
In the gay tints, and ever bickering flight
Of dragon-flies upon the river's brim;
Or swift king-fisher in his gaudy trim
Come skimming past, with a shrill, sudden cry;
Or on the river's sunny marge to lie,
And count the insects that meand'ring trace,
In some smooth nook, their circuits on its face.
Now, in a childish frolic, shower a tide
Of green leaves on the stream, and run with pride
On to the flood's next turn, and see them there
Go sailing down, O far!—they knew not where!
Now gravely ponder on the frothy cells
Of insects, hung on flowery pinnacles;
Now, wading the deep grass, exulting trace
The corn-crake's curious voice from place to place;
Now here—now there—now distant—now at hand—
Now hush'd, just where in wond'ring mirth they stand.
Such were their joys: but Walter's elder mould
And spirit were less soft; and, uncontroll'd
By gentle feelings, he would lead them forth
To ruder sports, and love to see them both

At his wild deeds filling their eyes with tears,
Or gazing pale, and trembling with their fears.
Where the glede hung her nest upon the bough
Over the stream, upon the tall cliff's brow,
There would he scale its horrid battlement,
Scattering the stones behind him as he went;
And, creeping to the far-suspended prize,
Look down, and glory in his comrades' cries;
And while the fierce birds round his forehead scream,
Drag forth their young, and hurl them to the stream.
Or he would scale the pines, so dark and tall,
The crackling, dead boughs menacing a fall,
To storm the squirrel's hold, with blood and wound,
And bring her, with her young ones, to the ground.
But these days past, they parted for the strife
Of schools, and toils that wait maturing life.
Then met they;—met, as thou thyself perchance,
After long years, the full-blown countenance
Of one, thy boyhood's mate, and felt the strange,
But sweet, fresh feelings touch'd by that bright change,
When, as thou gazedst on that form and face,
Once so beloved, thou couldst the semblance trace
Of what they were, yet all so blent and lost
In new expression, memory was tost

In dark perplexity; yet, looking on,
There came a clearer cognizance anon;
And then a smile, a shade of thought would call
Back the old face, and thou wouldst catch it all.
And thenceforth to thy spirit it would be
Dear and familiar as in infancy.

“So met they here: Maria in the glow
Of all that Heaven on woman can bestow;
Beauty's full bloom, a countenance and a grace
That, like the noon, lit up this shadowy place.
And for her mind—'twas like that sky above,
As lofty and pure, all clearness, and all love.
'Twas like it, when the sun is shining there;
So fell her smiles upon the heart of care.
'Twas like it when a frail cloud dims its blue,
For so soft pity touch'd her spirit too;
A spirit finely toned, that still would be
With joy or sorrow link'd in sympathy.
How saw she her two playmates? Now, alas!
That I may not from painful tidings pass!
But yet, 'twas so, who saw them boys, as men,
Might have foretold them much as they were then.
Henry, a slender, graceful, gentle youth,
Piteous, sincere, and artless as the truth;

Social and blithe, yet for his pleasures choosing
Soft pensive hours, and lonely quiet musing;
A nightingale, gathering each joyous tone,
But with a sad, a sweet one all its own.
Not so was Walter: that rude, savage power
Of frame and soul seen in life's earliest hour,
Was grown to fulness. Beautiful, but stern,
One glance into his face, and you would learn
A tale of passionate vehemence and flame,
A will that shot like lightning to its aim;
Unawed by fear, unfollow'd by remorse,
Hot as the bolt, and desperate in its course.
His daring hand would, in a ruder time,
Have snatch'd at power, with violence and crime.
Here, joying in his bosom's fiery glow,
His muscular might, his spirits' boist'rous flow;
The wrestlers' crowded ring, the field, the course,
Saw, with strange awe, his skill and giant force.
No sweet mild thrill of feeling, no control
Of gentle fancy brighten'd on his soul:
His mirth was the roar of bacchanals, that bless
With flattery's balm, blind, prodigal excess.
And with his name were told such deeds as thrill
The stricken hearer with a shivering chill.
His sire was dead; his wild and demon sway
Had forced his brother from his home away.

“Such were they all, when in Maria's bower
Both brothers met, and both confess'd her power.
Oh! bodest thou not, when two such youths engage
For one fair prize, keen woe, or fearful rage?
Walter his suit with ready ardour press'd,
Deeming his hopes accomplish'd ere confess'd.
And such, in sooth, his power as might impart
A proud delight to many a smiler's heart;
But somewhat was there, which Maria saw,
In his fine face, that struck her soul with awe;
And she had more of his fierce actions heard
Than had a less reflective maid deterr'd.
But more—oh! more than all—she still had not
The beautiful moments of young life forgot;
Those bright and sunny scenes, those frolic hours,
When Henry led her all midst birds and flowers,
And left in her young eyes, upon her heart,
A look, a tone, that never would depart;
Spells that still lived in pleasure and distress,
Love's genuine glance, the voice of happiness.
Impell'd by these, she frankly spoke her thought:
‘His brother claim'd the poor boon that he sought.’
Lighten'd the scorn in Walter's laughing eye,
And curl'd his lip, at this unhoped reply;
And, whether deem'd he it were feign'd or real,
He urged his wishes with redoubled zeal.

To nurse one generous thought it was not his,
Or for a brother waive worse hope than this.

“But when he found Maria still unmoved,
And more, saw Henry loving, and beloved,
Then boil'd his haughty rage, and all the might
Of demon nature rush'd at once to sight.
Cruel and stern his every deed became;
His brain seem'd madd'ning with a quenchless flame.
Midst an inebriate rout he sate, and threw
Forth threats so fell, as quail'd even that wild crew.
Oh! at that time, what mingled bliss and care
Threw their twined influence o'er this gentle pair;
When every hope was full, each prospect bright,
Past, present, future, cast their mingled light
Upon them, like a summer day's full glow,
All clear above, all green and glad below!
In those loved scenes, by those sweet waters where
In childhood they were happy—happy there,
They deem'd to them a life of love was given,
Like a dear dream, to break alone in heaven.
But, in the pure sky of their joy, o'erhead
Hung that black cloud of sorrow and of dread,
A brother's causeless hate, and the heart's chill
That his harsh nature might too well instil.

And oft, in those days of dear anxious thought,
When to the maid some mutter'd fear was brought,
She'd sit and muse upon it, till o'erwrought
With frenzied horror, she would hurry forth,
Reckless of danger—of the tempest's wrath—
Of the worst ills that to this life belong,
The world's sharp eye, and ready scorpion tongue,
By night, by day, at lone eve's closing hour,
To turn her lover's footsteps from her bower.
But these alarms urged onward that event
Which Walter's threats were powerless to prevent;
And the glad day was swiftly hastening on,
That makes the lovers' hopes and fortunes one.

“But, meanwhile, poor old Alice Gilburne—what
Were the sad sufferings of her widow'd lot!
Her trembling heart had lived to bleed with all
The wounds that on the mother's heart can fall;
To see her long life's mate, the gentle stay
Of tremulous age, pass from her side away,
And gall and poison from that fountain spring,
Whence weak age looks for balm and cherishing;
To see, with brutal deeds, her savage son
Drive from her breast her gentler, kindlier one;
To see him hotly court, as if he lay
'Neath some cursed spell, swift ruin and decay;

Drive forth each toiling hind in wayward mood,
And make his house a desolate solitude;
Where she might sit, from day to day, alone,
Haunted with weary thoughts; and bitterly groan,
And wish that she could die;—yet worlds might not
Have borne her living from that sorrowful spot.
Askest thou why?—And need I then impart
The patient mystery of a mother's heart?
Oh! know'st thou not, that when a mother's eye
Sees all her darling group bask cheerily
In gladness, how her spirit clasps them round,
As heaven does, with its glorious crystal bound,
The white waves of a soft and sunny sea?
But part that blessed troop,—and should there be
One sad or guilty wanderer,—where is she?
Oh! will she not, leaving the happier band,
Follow that lost one with all blessings and tears,
Scattering, as shadows, with her desperate hand,
Perils and taunts, the heart-aches and the fears,
That freeze or madden grief; yea, even the worst
Of mortal pangs, ingratitude accursed;
And farther, farther, as the wretch may track
His way in sin or sorrow, her sad heart
More close and agonizedly will cling
Round him, and call on Heaven to bear him back:
And though despair may cry, depart! depart!

It cannot be!—anguish must break her heart,
Or home again the wanderer she will bring.

“So lived poor Alice,—so she linger'd on,
Though life's few blossoms from her path were gone.
Long, and a bare, a rude, and desolate way
It was, with but one glimmering light to play
Upon it; hope's frail beam—a beam, alas!
That would to all for very darkness pass,
But the fond madness of a mother's breast:
And even to her, faint, lonely, and oppress'd
With age's sorest burdens, cast a glare
At length so pale, 'twas rather dim despair.
That faint, that baseless hope, was yet to see
Walter, what never, never might he be!
And therefore in his house, by all forsaken,
Like a sad ghost, that ever loves to waken
When others sleep, and evermore to stray
Where horrid thoughts keep mortal feet away,
She linger'd on through years of hidden sorrow,
Still gathering, deep'ning, fresher every morrow.
At times, a passing rustic would descry
Her tall, bow'd figure, and groan piteously,
To see the wasted, wretched, trembling thing
Of woman made by age and sorrowing,

As out she pass'd, with palsied impotence,
To drag the dry sticks from the mouldering fence;
Then, often pausing, stagger back to steal
From her small hoard, to furnish forth a meal
For him, who, coming like a fiend, would frown
In sullen silence, or would spurn it down.

“Yet patiently she bore it;—yes, she bore
It with that desperate patience in the core
Of her torn heart, that locks its anguish fast,
And will not vent it till it throbs its last.
She spoke not—no, not even in that tone
Of gentle love dear woman knows alone;
And from a suffering mother's lips should fall,
In melting power, upon the hearts of all.
For well she knew even that would rouse to rage
His choleric heart, nought human might assuage.
But she would sit, with a sad, sedulous eye,
Quick every want to note, and to supply;
Until, in savage gloom, he would depart,
Then pray for blessings on his obdurate heart.
Oh! if there be a sight on earth to break
The rugged spirit down—a sight to wake
Soft human feelings in a heart of stone,
It were that sight, though it were that alone;

A mother worn with age, with grief, and pain,
Not seeking from her offspring back again
Those tender solacings, those ministrant fears
That she had dealt them through laborious years;
For ever near, with those protecting charms,
Her warm soft breast, and fondly folded arms,
But outraged, crush'd by those she bless'd before,
Yet bearing all, and ready to bear more.
But him it touch'd not; nothing can unlock
The heart with envy callous;—'tis a rock.

“One night alone she sate, as she was wont,
Waiting his coming from some abject haunt,
Till midnight had watch'd out, and she had bore
That weary time as many such before;
Seated beside an ample grate, where lay
A few faint brands, now dying fast away;
Her thin and wither'd arms cross'd on her breast,
And her head sunk down in uneasy rest;
Till rousing up, she look'd around, and heaved
A sigh that left her bosom unrelieved.
Stripp'd, naked, dismal was that spacious room,
And deadly silent as the voiceless tomb:
For not a living thing beside was there
To know her grief, and almost—her despair.

Poor, fond, devoted woman! Oh! it stirs
My soul to think, that for such hearts as hers
Should spring such misery;—yet earth a mother
Might find so fond, so wretched not another.
The very moon, as if touch'd with distress
And sympathy for such sad loneliness—
Herself a lonely traveller—as she hung
In the blue heavens, her pallid radiance flung
Down through the low, wide chimney, and upon
The desert hearth, with a cold light that shone
Over the ashy brands, so faint and low,
And seem'd to quench them, and at once to show
All the drear void of that most wretched place,
And threw a wan, wild lustre on her face.
Up, with a sudden glance, she turn'd her eye
As if it woke the thought that from the sky,
From heaven alone, must comfort fill her heart,
That earth still held, but by its noblest part.

“There came a footstep—'twas her son's—she rose
To unbar the door, and fast again to close.
He enter'd with a countenance—Oh! fell
And fix'd malignity, how horrible
And fiend-like is thine impress! If there be
A curse to blast man's beauty, it is thee.

His dark, swoln features pictured to excess
All horrid thoughts on flame with drunkenness:
And his red eyes had in their sullen glare
Ferocious madness, felon, cursed despair.
Even Alice shrunk; but, monster most abhorr'd!
He grasp'd her arm, and snatching from the board
A knife, that in her kindness she had laid,
Swore a demand that he had often made;
‘Where was that secret hoard whence, night and morn,
Her never-failing sustenance she had drawn?’
How reel'd her heart at that rude wound! yet she
Shrunk not in fear; but, looking patiently,
Said, in pleading tone, whose piercing power
Might touch a savage in his bloodiest hour,
‘Walter, thou wilt not hurt me!’ But, O heaven!
When the cursed blade she felt that moment driven
On through her wither'd fingers—when she saw
Her blood gush upon hands that every law,
Of every land,—God's holiest decree,
Proclaim'd her genuine guardians to be,
Then fail'd her spirit. With a low, piteous cry,
She sunk to earth—Oh! surely there to die!
No!—for, at length, a groan of anguish told
That life too firmly still retain'd its hold:

And, gathering up her strength, she sate, and drew
Forth, with her gory hand, a key, and threw
It, with a wild laugh, towards her murderous son;
Then cried, exultingly, ‘'tis done! 'tis done!’
Then raving fell, and grovel'd on the floor;—
But 'tis too horrid—pass we the rest o'er.

“'Twas near this time, as closed a summer day,
I chanced, as often, to stroll down this way.
I love to feel the cool, fresh eve come on,
In the hay harvest, when hot day is gone;
See its soft light flush o'er green slope and lea,
And the long shades stretch on from tree to tree;
And lads and lasses from the fields retreating,
And, passing, with them change a friendly greeting.
I love to meet them, sunny all and warm,
With shoulder'd forks, and basket on the arm;
Light open garbs, and faces that express
Hearts that still laugh, in spite of weariness.
But there were none of these:—A strange alarm
Seem'd spreading swiftly round from farm to farm.
There was one running breathless towards a band
Of harvesters, that made a solemn stand
As he approach'd; and as he spoke each hand
Let go its implement; the men stood still;
The women shriek'd out fearfully and shrill:

And then away they rush'd; and, as they flew,
Beckon'd each distant man that came in view.
They pass'd by other labourers, and they lent
To them too their contagion:—on they went
With wild impetuous speed. A passing breath
Fell on me—'twas of drowning, and of death;
And I too ran, till on this very spot
I saw a thickly-wedged and busy knot
Of people, over something bending low,
With mingled, earnest talking and loud woe;
Like young bees knit upon a bough in spring,
And such their deep, thick, plaintive murmuring.
I broke into the press—Oh! Sire of all!
May never more such horror on me fall!
A drowned man—'twas Henry Gilburne lay;
The water stream'd from his drench'd corse away:
But there was more than sorrow;—there was loud
And gathering indignation in the crowd;
And questions of dire import;—and strong doubt
How this dread thing should here have fallen out.
Here, where this knotted oak's rough, burly trunk,
Rear'd through a thousand years, at length has sunk,
And bridged, and stemm'd, with its huge bulk, the tide,
Gathering the yesty foam upon its side,

They found him plunged, as though his feet had slid
Smooth with the summer grass, and there, half hid
In the thick foam, he'd perish'd. On his brow
There rose a livid tumor,—but that too
Might be received in his disastrous fall.
Thus the crowd reason'd—then denied it all.
'Twas violence—'twas murder could explain
Alone the dreadful secret to their brain.
Shallow the stream—secure the broad trunk lay,
And often pass'd by peasants in the day.
But whose the deed?—There was but one—no other
That loved him not—and that one was—his brother!
And when they call'd to memory all their feud,
And Walter's deeds, and fell demoniac mood,
Conviction ran amongst them, like the flame
Through dark electric clouds, and as it came,
Furious, and fill'd with that impetuous zeal
That nature framed man's kindred heart to feel,
When monstrous crimes to daylight venture out,
Away they sprang in a tumultuous rout.
They flew—they stopp'd not in their wrath, until
They reach'd his home; and then at once there fell
A sudden influence on them; one and all
Paused in blank awe;—'twas ruin did appal
Their hearts with its grim aspect; for around
There seem'd no living being, light, nor sound.

It was a scene of deadest gloom; the shade
Of night was coming down, and they survey'd
A mansion large, and offices that stood
As in a rude and unclaim'd solitude.
Their tread aroused not the stern mastiff's howl;
They heard no stamp of horse, no clack of fowl,
For ever watchful; nor the milky breath
Of cattle met;—it seem'd a place of death.
Green weeds, that love in desolate haunts to grow,
Flourish'd on falling roofs, and path below:
Grey crumbling doors, and windows broken out,
And mould'ring thatch and wood were strewn about.
But their wrath slept not long, they swiftly past
Through this waste scene; the door was closed and fast,
And loudly did they thunder, but in vain,
There came no sound, no answering voice again.
Where was old Alice Gilburne?—Was she dead?
Or was she silenced by that monster's dread?
Roused at the thought, they rush'd against the door;
Down with a hollow echo on the floor
It fell—up rose a cloud of carious wood,
And forward rush'd the furious multitude.
But oh! the fearful scene! the wretch they sought,
Fallen in the dreadful ruin he had wrought,

Lay stiffening in his gore; and fast beside
His mother's woes had stretch'd her; she had died,
Tumbled, as if from her accustom'd seat
She had sprung forth and perish'd at his feet.
Striving to avert his last infernal deed,
Her heart had burst, from that mad horror freed.
Numb'd, blasted with the vision, the mazed crew,
Shuddering with terror, from that sight withdrew.

“For me, I saw it not; for I had sped
To ward the storm that o'er Maria's head
Was bursting down; but not the wild dove's wing
Can outstrip tidings of an evil thing.
All had she heard;—yes, all this withering tale
Of death and crime, that on this once blest vale
Had fallen with such malignant, horrent sway,
As blasted and polluted it for aye.
All she had heard; and, smitten, sank beneath
This sudden bolt of bitterness and death.
And there she lay, oh pity!—her young heart
Struggling and quivering with the o'erwhelming smart;
And sinking in unconsciousness, and then
Waking to grief's wild agonies again,
And praying to depart; but like the lime
Scathed by the lightning in the summer time,

Still feebly living on, and putting out
Its shrivell'd leaves when all is green about:
So youth's strong powers have, all averse to bow,
Bound her bruised spirit unto life till now;
And as a rose torn up, and rudely thrown
To wither in the sultriness of noon,
Showers cannot save, but they will make it smile,
And breathe around delicious balm awhile;
So sweet religion, though it could not heal
Her throbbing wounds, has yet avail'd to steal
Their anguish out, and round a halo cast
Of angel love and beauty to the last.

“But we have reach'd her home.” He ceased, and they
Anon stood where a slumb'ring damsel lay
Upon a rustic couch, as hastily there
She had reclined; and near an ancient pair
Sate fondly watching, like two saints of old,
Over a creature of heaven's brightest mould,
Sleeping amidst a wilderness of flowers,
Tired with its voyage to this world of ours.
But ah! no happy spirit she;—for lo!
Her fragile form laid waste by mortal woe:
And that pale face, those features pure, that still
The soul with thoughts of heaven's own beings fill,

Though wan and wasted; and that delicate arm,
And long, fine fingers, with a careless charm
Laid lightly on her breast, all richly fraught
Like Italy's pure marble, proudly wrought
By some great hand, with grace and power that steep
The gazer's soul too tenderly and deep
With dying beauty's image. But her sleep
Was passing; and her lips, that did possess
Yet a soft flush of former ruddiness,
Moved, and there fell upon the listening ear
A waking sigh, and inly-toned “Oh dear!”
Then, as she oped her bright but languid eyes,
She saw the priest, and said, with glad surprise,

“Oh! this is kind! How have I long'd to see,
On earth once more, thy Margaret and thee!
And now I feel death's summons; he is near;
Yes, I have had his brightest heralds here;
A dream of bliss, a sudden strength that fell
Upon me, like a pleasant miracle.
This morning I awoke, as with a word,
A gentle calling from a loved voice heard;
And, musing as I lay, I wond'ring felt
As if strong health again within me dwelt;
A buoyancy of heart, a power, a tone,
And a sweet joy o'er frame and spirit thrown:

All grief, all weakness gone, it seem'd as though
One night had cancell'd all these months of woe.
With that I rose,—yes rose, and issued out,
And view'd my favourite plants, and gaily look'd about;
My mother, with a sad foreboding smile,
And wond'ring gaze, beholding me the while.
But I could not forebode—I could not feel
One grief, one pain,—oh! nothing but a zeal,
A sweet, o'erflowing tenderness of love;
And as I gazed on the blue sky above,
And the green earth, my spirit seem'd to cling
In joy to all, yea to the meanest thing
That lives; and in its fervent depths to bless
The soul of all this world's wide happiness.
Then wearied here I slept;—I slept, but seem'd
To be with Henry, where around us teem'd
Beauty, and joy, and wonder; and on high,
Above us shone, O such a glorious sky!
Where glared no sun upon the drooping eye.
Greenness, and flowers, and streaming waters fair,
Were round us; in the soft, delicious air
Living, inspiriting perfumes flow'd wide,
And music's 'trancing voice breathed out, and died.
Then wander'd we by many a bowery dwelling,
Where blissful creatures, in glad groupes, were telling

How they had sported through blue space afar;
Of forms divine in many a distant star;
Of scenes beheld as traversed they the earth;
Wild, mingled tales of sorrow and of mirth.
Some, in hot deserts, when nigh perishing,
Had led the pilgrim to the bubbling spring;
Some roused the sleeping Indian to descry,
Crouch'd in the jungle, the fell tiger nigh;
Some, midst the sea-wreck's horror and despair,
Buoy'd up the strugglers by their floating hair,
Hovering unseen; and some, in city throngs,
Where heartless villany decreed its wrongs
For young, rejoicing innocence, had shed
Fear through his vitals, till the monster fled;
And some had snatch'd up heedless infants found,
Smiling in glee, where perils thicken'd round;
And, as they told how these blest deeds were done,
Joy and applause through the bright creatures run.

“Then roam'd we through a forest pleasantly dim,
Beneath strange trees, of hoary trunk and limb;
Huge, but all fresh in ever-during age;
And pass'd, and gazed on awful seer and sage,
And monarch, and dread name of the old time;
Frames of august, proud beauty, and sublime

Of countenance, yet full of love that shone
And revell'd, with paternal light, upon
Thronging majestic sons, and glorious daughters,
Numerous as waves upon the ocean waters.
Their talk was of those times, those times that we
Would fain charm out from hoar antiquity;
Of giant wars, and men, and monsters strange,
That on the earth's young breast did mightily range;
Of Mamre, and sweet Paran's pastoral scenes;
Of simple patriarch kings, and peerless shepherd-queens;
Matchless old tales, that heaven enough would be,
To lie and listen to eternally.

“But onward still a gladsome impulse bore;
And now we stood upon the sounding shore
Of a wide sea, whose crystal waters kiss'd,
Still as they came, emerald and amethyst,
Ruby and sapphire, and huge diamond's glow;
And on that strand glanced lightly to and fro,
Link'd lovingly, young, blissful, smiling things;
And some aloft shot forth their starry wings
Over the deep, and sportively would lave
Their snowy bosoms in a rushing wave;
And some put out, from distant, basking isles,
Their little barks, with sails of light and smiles

Woven; and voyaging that delicious main,
Sent o'er its billows a rejoicing strain.

“And then—ineffable!—then, piled in light!
Dazzling, intense, at once upon my sight,
Palace, and tower, and domes each like a star,
A glorious city's walls shone out afar;
Beneath a keen and gorgeous sky, unroll'd
Like a vast canopy, o'er thrones of gold,
And flower-wreath'd marble fountains, casting streams
Like liquid beryl, changing into beams
Of rainbow light, scatter'd in air to snow,
And pearly drops that tinkling fell below.
Figures divine were passing; from those bowers
Stole solemn music, as from eastern flowers
Breathed forth an air; and then, a mighty sound,
Thrilling and deep, as from the vast world round
One instant song had burst: it fell upon
My heart with awe—I trembled—it was gone!
Gone—melted into nothing—and I lay,
Feeble and fainting, and still through the day
My heart has sank so coldly! Yet, oh! yet,
Could I these thoughts of horror but forget,
That will not cease, and these two dear ones know,
More comforted, how gladly could I go,

And quietly to sleep!—” She paused, and all
Were silent, as though rest did gently fall
Upon her, as they stood around her bed;
And she slept deep—for she, indeed—was dead!

How felt our bard? How felt he!—Why, as one
Who, when his heart was merry, has seen gone
Down in a moment, through the flashing wave,
Fortune, and love, and left him nought to save.
For he, oh! misery,—he now saw her
Again, that like a beaming messenger
From heaven to earth, had pass'd him in the spring,
And darken'd with her glory each bright thing
Beloved before; while she herself fled past,
And never could be found, till here at last
Smitten at heart, and dying. Now he knew
All her sweet worth, and all her suffering too.
And as he fondly view'd her, as he dwelt
Wildly on every dying tone, he felt
He could have traversed earth, he could have braved
Thraldom and scorn—nay death, could he have saved
Such heavenliness: but vain—her life was o'er;
He saw it—and he thought—he felt no more.
Nought, but a dizzy coldness on his brain,
Till sorrow's sobbing voice broke through again
That dulling trance; and then he turn'd away
To fill with airy visions life's brief day;

A dreamer, in a world that was to him
Joyless, and beautiless, and cold, and dim.

Thus have I sung, thou young and gentle one,
Thy life and fate, as I have often vow'd;
Now thou, too, from this weary world art gone,
Thy love, thy woes wrapp'd in an early shroud:
Thus have I sung thy forest haunts aloud;
Not with a minstrel's cunning, but a heart
That loved thee long, and still with sorrow bow'd,
Sighs to have kept thee here, or to depart,
And be for evermore where thou in glory art.

Thou passed'st like a meteor on a waste,
That sweetly shines, but only seen by chance;
Thou wert not to the drudging worldling's taste;
The proud one eyed thee with a scornful glance;
And even the delving peasant deem'd perchance
Himself a happier thing: but thou wert one
Such as I'd love to travel the expanse
Of this earth with, then with thee straight begone,
Right glad, to other worlds, thou young and gentle one!

POEMS.

THE SONG OF THE BETHLEHEMITE.

“And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him” 1st Samuel, Chap. xvi. ver. 23.

Deserted is the festal hall;
Nor page awaits the master's call;
Nor guest is there, nor warrior proud,
Nor servile flattery's fawning crowd:
The dancing girls' elastic bound;
The tabor's and the timbrel's sound;
The chiming harp's melodious tone,
From Salem's silent courts are gone.
Nor woman, with her soothing wiles,
With wreathed lips' voluptuous smiles,
With bright black eye, or braided tress,
Is seen in that desertedness.

And chill the golden sunbeams fall
Upon the carved cedar wall;
And lie, where none are pacing o'er,
Unbroken on the gilded floor.
Without, beside the palace gate,
Unnoticed now the camels wait.
What, though they bring of spice and gold
The costly freight of worth untold;
And what, though gems and pearls they bear,
And slaves of skill and beauty rare;
What boots spice, pearls, or bright ingot,
Or slaves?—the monarch heeds them not.
Silent and sad, in inmost hall,
Wrathful and stern, sits royal Saul,
Repining in his soul, with look
Austere that might not question brook;
With restless eye and changeful cheek,
And lip that moves, yet shuns to speak:
What, though his hand the sceptre bore
That never king had sway'd before;
What, though he sate the anointed one
On chosen Israel's conquering throne;
And love, and wine, and wealth, and power,
Are his to speed the lagging hour;
And might, and victory, and fame,
Have long been coupled with his name?

The sceptre from his hand is cast;
The throne possess'd, its pride is past;
The charm hath ceased in woman's eye;
The goblet stands untasted by;
And fame and victory are forgot;
And gold and power can please him not.
Anger'd in mood, in thought severe,
What may the mournful monarch cheer?
And who, in such a choice, may guide,
When every pleasure hath been tried?
And yet, of old could music sway—
A charm that lured his wrath away;
And there is one whose strains can bring
Joy from their mystic warbling.
A young and graceful Bethlehemite,
Skilful to touch the harp aright,
And he, with hand of tuneful power,
Perchance may soothe the moody hour.
He came—a ruddy youth and fair,
With eyes of light, and clustering hair;
And step so free as well might cope
With that of bounding antelope.
A golden harp before him stands;
With eye upturn'd, and ready hands,
Awhile he paused upon the strings,
Then quick the skilful finger flings;

And sweet the notes in prelude ran,
Till thus his answering voice began:

Oh! bring from the depths of the dark blue sea
The silvery pearl, with its varying light;
And from Ophir the gold that so brilliantly
Can laugh in the beams of the noonday bright;
And match with them,
In their dazzling blaze,
The priceless gem,
With its thousand rays;
And though brilliant they be, yet my spirit shall call
A gem, that in lustre outdazzles them all!

And sweeter than gales from Araby blowing;
And sweeter than perfume from Carmel that flies;
Or the lily's pure blossom, with myrrh overflowing;
Or the incense that breathes from the loved sacrifice:
Than the cedar-wood burning
In palace of kings,
Or that sweet bird returning
With rose-scented wings,
Is a perfume I know, and its fragrancy
In the richest of balms will the balmiest be.

Thou hast sate in the cool of the evening hour,
When the delicate leaf in the breeze did not stir;

And hast listen'd unseen, while in secret bower
Some loved voice sung thy deeds to the dear dulcimer;
And the swell of the timbrel,
To light dancing feet,
Where the melting harp call'd thee,
In pleasure to meet:
Thou hast heard these in gladness, and yet there may be
A music untold which is dearer to thee.

Yes, the innocent spirit, uncheck'd by a crime,
That warbles its praise to the God of all heaven;
This, this is the music to whose liquid chime
Is the best flow of melody given;
And the sigh that is breathed for the sad and forsaken,
And the breath of the contrite that rises in prayer;
Oh! the best of perfumes from the calamus shaken
May not with this fragrance compare:
And the eye that is turn'd to the blue vault above,
While the heavenly tear of devotion is sparkling;
Oh! this is the gem, in whose lustre of love
The brightest of jewels is darkling!

And thus, when thy spirit is anguish'd and lone,
This music can breathe with its tenderest tone;

And this perfume can bring to thy bosom delight;
And, in darkness and ruin, this gem can be bright.

The strain hath ceased; the monarch's brow
Is smooth'd, it hath no tumult now.
The demon of despair gave way
Before that youthful minstrel's lay;
And, once again, the royal Saul
Smiles gaily in the festal hall.

THE CONQUEROR.

There was a temple, a glorious one,
Of the noble in death the dwelling;
Its gilded dome was bright in the sun,
And its organ's tones were swelling.

A varied light through its windows stray'd,
All painted in antique story;
And over its marble pavement play'd,
Like a gem diffusing glory.

I saw the lamb on its altar stone,
The banner of love displaying;
And heard, in a deep unearthly tone,
Who their hallow'd rites were paying.

There was a city, the home of the free,
Where wisdom and wit were abiding;
The boast of the land, the queen of the sea,
Where her fleets were gallantly riding.

The great and the good, the fair and the brave,
All, all in that city abounded;
She never had stoop'd to bow as the slave,
Nor by tyrants had been confounded.

Oh, she was a city to liberty dear!
And never had dream'd of danger;
Her wealth was the boast of the far and near,
And none to her name was a stranger.

There was a home like one above,
A home of many the dearest;
Where the mother clasp'd, in tenderest love,
All that to her heart was nearest.

The sire, and the son, and the daughter fair,
And the youth to whom she was plighted,
In a bower of bliss and of beauty, where
A seraph had been delighted.

They were bound in the dearest of earthly ties;
They loved, and in love requited
Had learn'd the bliss of their lot to prize,
Ere the bud of hope was blighted.

There rose on the earth a mighty one,
On a blood-dyed charger mounted;
His arms were bright in the morning sun,
And fame his deeds recounted.

With a great and valorous host he came,
In whirlwind fury speeding;
With him rode might, but want and flame,
And ruin and death succeeding.

And he hath polluted that altar's fane,
Like the demon of wrath descending;
And they who worshipp'd shall never again
In its marble courts be bending.

For low they are sleeping the sleep of the slain;
They are laid in death's long slumbers;
And that altar's stone hath a crimson stain,
From the best heart's blood of numbers.

And none now regard those windows high,
Nor gaze on that antique story;
And its beautiful, chequering lustres lie
On a pavement soil'd and gory.

That mighty one hath forged a chain
For that city so wise and glorious;
Her children of freedom no more remain;
Her wealth hath lured the victorious.

And her boasted name is a boast no more;
And past is her pride of bravery;
And they who never were bound before
Are wearing the bonds of slavery.

Her walls, and her domes, and her princely towers,
And her fleet's imperial token,
Are seen no more; and, in distant bowers,
The hearts of the great are broken.

He has parted hence, and rapine and fire
Have levell'd that love-hallow'd dwelling;
And she, who erst had her heart's desire,
With anguish the gale is swelling.

And she, whose tresses of raven hair
That nuptial morn were braided,
Is pale with the frenzy of wild despair,
Like a drooping lily faded.

And those they loved, in the field of fight,
Are cold in the pale moon's beaming,
Where the raven rests from its weary flight,
In dolorous dirges screaming.

CHARTLEY CASTLE.

There was an hour of passion—it is past;
It shone too brightly with the beams of heaven
More than a momentary term to last;
Lighting up life's dull path, like moments given
To those who on its darkest wilds are cast,
And, with a wayward fate, have toil'd and striven;
Like dazzling flashes through the tempest sent,
That spring forth, glitter, and for aye are spent.

Yet, like those gleamings, in an instant shot
Through Nature's dark pavilion, and resumed,
They leave a vivid sense, that dieth not,
Of majesty and beauty, which entomb'd
In the heart's loneliness, endears its lot,
Though still to darkness and bereavement doom'd;
Soothing their pangs, by their remember'd light,
In future hours of peril, wrath, and blight.

I saw two youthful lovers; they were wont
To feed affection's current in their heart
In nature's oratory; to the fount
Of her perfections wand'ring far apart,
Unseen, and reckless of the world; to mount
The crag-strewn upland, whence bright waters start,
And rush resounding through the willowy dell,
Where blooms retired the Canterbury-bell.

Their young, quick, conscious spirits drank in bliss
Each sight, sound, odour of the joyous spring;
The snow-piled cloud hung in the blue abyss;
The cuckoo's merriment, the mingling
Of thousand fragrant scents in gales that kiss
Young leaves and dewy, nodding flowers, and fling
Their rich aroma forth upon the air,
To greet amid the wild the lingering passenger.

One morning they had follow'd, side by side,
The leading of her glory, and had stood
Musing on many an eminence, then hied
Down through the bowery windings of the wood,
And o'er the mossy heath where vipers glide
And dwell at peace in its waste solitude;
Where haunts the wild duck, and glad pheasants crow
Amongst the young, green birches that there grow.

And now, the sun declining, they sate down
Upon the scene they sought, a green hill side:
From young, begirding trees upon its crown
Two ruin'd towers look'd forth, still in the pride
Of their past loftiness, seeming to look down,
Like fallen kings striving their griefs to hide,
Yet with a mournful and disconsolate air,
O'er all that scene that shone so fresh and fair.

The green sward flourish'd in the southern fosse,
And there those young, embowering trees had grown;
And, midst their trunks, half pillow'd in its moss,
Lay, here and there, a mass of fallen stone:
Above, the ivy and the woodbine cross
Their ruin-loving arms, and darkly down
Their mingling tresses sweep; and there the smile
Of the wild-rose shone o'er the wasting pile.

Upon its western side a terraced mound
Arose, whereon some tenement had stood—
Perchance a summer bower, whence far around
The landscape in its glory might be view'd,
For oh! 'twas beautiful; such as is found
To soothe a troubled spirit: a thick wood
Now circled its remains, of frowning yew,
Beneath whose gloom no living verdure grew.

In sooth, sad desolation's darkest air
Hung o'er this still and melancholy place;
And pensive grew the features of that pair,
As slowly round its crumbling walls they pace.
Yet many a living thing resorted there:
The wren dwelt in the wall, and at its base
The rabbit delved, the lizard, and the toad,
And on a sunny knoll the green snake glow'd.

I saw them step into the wide area,
Where once, amidst the proudly 'scutcheon'd hall,
Gay lords and high-born dames held jocund cheer;
But deep, rank grass, nettles, and hemlock tall,
Sprang thick, and trees had flourish'd many a year;
And, by the fury of a wintry squall,
A mighty one, though kill'd not, lay o'erthrown,
Carved thick with names ambitious, but unknown.

The gale pass'd like the sighings of lost love,
And all was silent but the cushat's plaint,
Most sorrowful amongst the boughs above;
And in the ivied tower the cooings faint
Of its sole empress, a lone mateless dove,
Meet emblem of its former habitant.
Deep musing seem'd those wanderers midst that scene,
While thus their thoughts pass'd o'er each speaking mien.

Spirit! of Scotland pride and shame!
Mary! thou love of pitying breasts!
Well could I deem more than thy name
The sadness of this scene attests;
For though thy soul from suffering rests
In a far more forgiving sphere,
Thy spirit's fate this spot invests,
Its tone and sorrows linger here.
How many youthful hearts can tell
That here on them its influence fell!
Here, yet, how many an eye shall be
Wet with the tears of sympathy!

For though war's deadly blast, that smote
Thy grandson on fair England's throne,
Scathed every tower, fill'd every moat,
Where long thy prison griefs were known;
Though birds have built, and trees have grown
For ages in those feudal halls;
Though Tutbury's far-seen piles of stone,
Though Wingfield bower, and Hardwick's walls,
And even fatal Fotheringay,
Are mould'ring in their last decay,
And many a race, since here thou wept,
Has woke, has sorrow'd, and has slept;

Yet do I see thee in thy cage,
Thou widow'd, lone, and captive dove!
Thou Helen of a barbarous age!
Victim of jealousy and love!
Thy blue eyes o'er a prospect rove,
Ah! how unlike this cultured scene!
Oaks stretch their mossy arms above,
Beneath them springs the bracken green;
The deer rests on the grey hill side,
Or bounds o'er moss and moorland wide:
No sounds are heard of life that tell,
Save warder's voice and turret bell.

Soft shines the evening sun, as now,
Ah! what avails! it soothes thee not.
Blanch'd are the locks about thy brow;
Blanch'd is thy cheek; but unforgot
Their spell, their majesty, the lot
That fortune, beauty, genius gave;
That made thee—ah! that made thee what?
A tale—a wonder—and a slave!
Thy heart still turns upon that theme;
Labours thy fancy in that dream,
No arts, no chivalry can break,
From which thou never canst awake!

Thou see'st thy morning's radiant scene,
Passion—hope—glory—friends a host;
Of Scotland and of France the queen,
A youthful monarch's bliss and boast.
That king is dead!—one crown is lost!
And flying from a mother's hate,
The ocean midst fierce foemen cross'd.
Again thou know'st a milder fate,
For thou art on thy father's throne;
His realm, his people are thine own;
And, happier still, canst sweetly rest
Upon a chosen consort's breast.

But ah! what melts—what moves thee now?
Thou weep'st as for an only child.
What kindling passions fire thy brow?
Pale hate, revenge, and horror wild!
Wrong'd was thy love; a demon smiled
Within thine arms—but he is gone!
Yet hence life's fiercest ills are piled
Upon thy head. Lost is thy throne—
Armies—dread rout—rebellious powers;
Mid Leven's lake those prison towers!
Dark, darker still, the vision grows,
Thy son a foe, amidst thy foes!

Far flies thy lord, pursued by fear,
An outcast in thy northern isles!
While thou, all lost and lonely here,
The victim of a woman's wiles,
Deep ponderest, how a woman's smiles
Can clothe such deep and deadly hate.
But ah! the heart where envy coils
What years of scorn and wrongs can sate!
Mary! thy crimes the woman tell;
Thy cousin's crimes were crimes of hell!
And milder are thine errors seen
Midst the fell wrath of England's queen.

Mary! what sage will e'er forgive
The darker deeds that thou hast done?
But ah! whoe'er again shall live
Whom such wild fate shall rest upon?
Spirit, far loftier than thy throne,
A heart all fervour, soul all light;
Beauty's bewildering glance and tone,
All met to blazon and to blight!
Ah! who such perilous gifts could own,
And live unscathed upon a throne!
Therefore we mourn thy brighter years,
But love thee midst thy wrongs and tears.

“TELLE EST LA VIE.”

See'st thou yon bark?—it left our bay
This morn on its adventurous way,
All glad and gaily bright;
And many a gale its impulse gave,
And many a gently heaving wave
Nigh bore it out of sight.
But soon that glorious course was lost,
And treach'rous was the deep;
Ne'er thought they there was peril most
When tempests seem'd asleep.
Telle est la Vie!

That flower, that fairest flower, that grew,
Aye cherish'd by the evening dew,
And cheer'd by opening day;
That flower which I had spared to cull
Because it was so beautiful,
And shone so fresh and gay;

Had all unseen a deathly shoot,
The germ of future sorrow;
And there was canker at its root
That nipp'd it ere the morrow.
Telle est la Vie!

I've watch'd from yonder mountain's height
The waxing and the waning light,
The world far, far below;
I've heard the thunder long and loud;
I've seen the sunshine and the cloud,
The tempest and the bow:
Now, 'twas all sunshine glad and bright,
And now the storm was raging;
Methought I read in that frail light
And storm a warfare waging,
Telle est la Vie!

THE WILD ROSE.

Welcome! oh! welcome once again,
Thou dearest of all the laughing flowers
That open their odorous bosoms when
The summer birds are in their bowers.
There is none that I love, sweet gem, like thee,
So mildly through the green leaves stealing;
For I seem, as thy delicate flush I see,
In the dewy haunts of my youth to be;
And a gladsome youthful feeling
Springs to my heart, that not all the glare
Of the blossoming East could awaken there.

Glorious and glad it were, no doubt,
Over the billowy sea to sail,
And to find every spot of the wide world out
So bright and fair in the minstrel's tale.

To roam by old Tiber's classic tide
At eve, when round the gushing waters
Shades of renown will seem to glide,
And amidst the myrtles' flowery pride
Walk Italy's soft daughters:
Or to see Spain's haughtier damsels rove
Through the delicious orange grove.

Glorious it were, where the bright heaven glows,
To wander idly far away,
And to scent that musk'd voluptuous rose
Of beauty, blest Circassia;
To spy some languid Indian maid
Wooing, at noon, the precious breeze,
Beneath the proud magnolia's shade;
Or a Chilian girl at random laid
On a couch of amaryllides;
To behold the cocoa-palm, so fair
To the eye of the southern islander.

Glorious, camellian blooms to find
In the jealous realms of far Japan,
Or the epidendrum's garlands twined
Round the tall trees of Hindostan:
All this were glad, and awhile to be
Like a spirit wand'ring gaily;

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But ah! what souls, to whom these are free,
Would give them all to share with me
The joys that I gather daily,
When, out in the morning's dewy spring,
I mark the wild rose blossoming?

When the foot-path's winding track is lost
Beneath the deep o'erhanging grass,
And the golden pollen forth is tost
Thickly upon me as I pass;
When England is Paradise all over;
When flowers are breathing, birds are singing;
When the honeysuckle I first discover
Balming the air, and in the clover
The early scythe is ringing;
When gales in the billowy grass delight,
And a silvery beauty tracks their flight.

And, more than all, the sweet wild rose,
Starring each bush in lanes and glades,
Smiles in each lovelier tint that glows
On the cheeks of England's peerless maids;
Some with a deeper, fuller hue,
Like lass o'er the foamy milk-pail chanting;
Lighter are some, and gemm'd with dew,

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Like ladies whose lovers all are true,
And nought on earth have wanting,
But their eyes on beauteous scenes are bent
That own them their chief ornament.

And some—alas! that a British maid
In beauty should ever resemble them!
Like damsel heart-broken and betray'd,
Droop softly on their slender stem:
Hid in the wild wood's deepest shade,
Flowers of such snowy loveliness,
That, almost without light fancy's aid,
Seem they for touching emblems made
Of beauty smitten by distress.
But enough—the wild rose is the queen of June,
When flowers are abroad, and birds in tune.

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AUTUMNAL MUSINGS.

Again thy winds are roaring in the wood,
Dark featured Autumn, and their waking might,
Tossing the deep green foliage like a flood,
Rends the first pale leaves in their stormy flight:
The eyes meet sadness wheresoe'er they light;
Deep is the dark blue tincture, from the sky,
Cast o'er the valleys; the far mountain's height
Shrouds in the tempest's frowning majesty
Its rills, that roar and foam, while all is silence nigh.

Call now the memory of the merry morn,
When sparrows bickering in the eaves above,
Rooks in the elm tops, lambs upon the lawn,
One full, glad clamour of a world of love
Roused thee, the sky all gleaming, forth to rove:

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Go now, retrace those summer walks again;
For if thy soul true tenderness would prove,
And feel a joy more inward, 'twill be when
Thou view'st these scenes all sad, but lovelier far than then.

This is the moment when proud Nature stands
As if to weep the sentence, heard but now,
Which dooms her glories; but not long her hands
Droop in despair; a smile relumes her brow,
And lo! she scatters o'er the forest bough,
And over earth and air, a charm so deep,
That though no frolic smiles these scenes allow,
Far nobler thoughts the heart's pure feelings keep;
And beauty's deepest sense is caught through eyes that weep.

So does the good man, when his feet have pass'd
A course of calm contentment, hear within,
Stunn'd and alarm'd, the voice of death at last;
Frail nature trembling not—from sense of sin,
And that but for a moment—then begin
Faith's last proud promises with glory rife—
Then lights eternal radiance—nought to win;
All is accomplish'd; conqueror in the strife,
Bliss buoys the victor-spirit to immortal life.

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Thy glories, Autumn, bright'ning as they die,
Lead the awed bosom into thoughts like these;
Dead is that spirit, senseless is that eye,
That thus they prompt not, thus they cannot please,
Inspiring, midst their gloom, yet softer reveries.
Ah! who has witness'd, as he wander'd by,
The cottage fire among the withering trees,
And felt no triumph, or indulged no sigh
For love's warm tranquil home of taste and harmony?

Oh! that the spirit of domestic love,
That hallow'd, tender, yet familiar thing,
That, like an angel dropping from above,
Broods o'er its objects with the softest wing
That ever traversed earth;—oh! that the sting
Should ever reach her fair uncover'd breast
From those she would protect; for nought can wring
Her from the chosen station of her rest
That all besides can do, dark, trait'rous, and unblest.

But whether cloud or sunshine there has been
Upon your dwelling, still she smiled as gay
As, on a gloomy autumn, you have seen
The sun shine out through clouds of dark array,
And lighting up a sweet spot far away—

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A little, lovely heaven, amidst a scene
All sad and cold—a little, happy day,
Midst storms and darkness, shining and serene,
As if some spirits of heaven there did awhile convene.

Oh! let the world pass even as it will!
Be full of courtesy, and full of guile;
Be kind, be cruel, seeming good, yet ill;
Let men be trait'rous, vengeful, and let vile
Hate and detraction, stabbing as they smile,
Assail you sorely; midst surrounding strife,
Let but this hovering angel guard the while
The forms of parent, brother, sister, wife,
And thou hast all the balm, the weal, and wealth of life.

For she will build a barrier that no foe
Can make a breach in, and her gentle eye
Will light a sheen, that even pain and woe
Can only brighten; she will softly dry
Each tear with a warm kiss, and every sigh
Repay with dear affection; she will trace
A magic circle 'neath the wildest sky,
Round which may ruin frown, and envy pace,
Yet still that spot shall be Hope's dearest dwelling-place.

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And thou, O God! whose ever open hands
Have shed upon us the rich light of love,
The light of that religion which commands
To love each other, as ourselves we love;
Oh! which of all thy blessings from above
Hast thou sent down, like that celestial chain,
Which brightens with afflictions, and is clove
Asunder by no shock of mortal pain,
No, not a world's whole might can sever it in twain!

How witness ye, my brothers—how watch ye
Beauty's last revel in your distant land?
Oh! could I wing my spirit, and might be
Camp'd with you on some mighty mountain's stand,
Pointing the glories out, with eager hand,
Of lake stupendous, cataract sublime,
Primeval forests, rivers on whose strand
The Indian roams no more—but Europe's crime
Plants, with self-exiled sons, proud realms of future time.

Sigh ye now fondly for your distant home,
As eastern skies with morning's glories glow?
Or press ye onward, wond'ring as ye roam,
Those awful solitudes that hear the flow
Of vast Ohio, where the buffalo,

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The nimble deer, and sluggish bear abide;
Where tree-frogs croak, and mock-birds, as ye go,
Chant merrily, and flow'ry kalmias hide
The desert's deadly brood, that 'neath their foliage glide?

God speed your wanderings! In those realms where men
Who fly from tyranny's detested lair
Will see no horrors in the monster's den,
If man be not the monster lurking there,
God speed your wand'rings! for the souls ye bear
Into that wild of freedom will be free!
Souls of God's noblest fashion—souls that share
The proud-eyed visions of your ancestry,
Who saw no blessing where they saw not liberty.

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THE MINSTREL.

Oh! see'st thou not yon wayward wight?
He wanders forth at waning light,
And leaves the world of gladness,
To mark the calm of eventide,
To hear the waters' peaceful glide,
When all is hush'd and calm, beside
The gale's low sigh of sadness.

No living thing is wand'ring there,
Yet, on the still and moonlit air
Are thousand voices stealing,
That o'er him pass like soothing balm,
Or music with its dearest charm,
Softening the tumult into calm,
His wounded spirit healing.

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Far o'er some mountain's heathy scene,
Where woman's foot hath never been,
Is beauty gathering round him;
And fairer forms than shine by day
Glide through his deep and lonely way,
And gentle bands of seraphs play
In gladsome maze around him.

Thence to some sea-beat cavern'd hold,
Of which a tale's mysterious told,
He strays at midnight lonely;
And converse holds with spectred shade,
And sees the mystic gambols play'd,
And marks the death-inflicting blade
By bandit wielded only.

And when the gleesome morn is red,
And May-day's witching dame is led,
How many a spell has bound him!
Be it in wit, or merry lay,
Or jocund rite, or gambol gay,
He is the sun that shines that day,
And fairy mirth is round him.

But most he loves, in solemn hour,
When o'er the haunted giant tower

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The thunder-storm is raving,
To watch the arrowy light'ning glare
O'er mould'ring stone, and arches bare,
And troublous sea, and forest lair,
Even scarce its fury braving.

To hear the mountain echoes ring
With cry of each alarmed thing,
And thunder's hollow moaning;
To watch the black'ning clouds that rest
On rifted rock, like sable crest,
Or eagle cowering o'er her nest,
When night's pale queen is throning.

This is the wayward child of song,
And thus he wiles his life along,
Regardless of the morrow:
Nature's most wild enthusiast he,
In friendship warm, in spirit free;
More blest than Mammon's sons can be,
Though oft the mate of sorrow.

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THE ELFIN WOMAN.

All sad and slow, a little bark
Hath left our northern hold;
The winds are high, the night is dark,
The ocean path untold.
And they who in that boat are set
Are sad and woe-begone;
A gallant knight of stalwart might,
A lady and her son.
And that lady's cheek is pale
As is the lily's breast;
And she, with many a mournful tale,
Has hush'd her babe to rest.
And he who sits beside her there,
With eye of love, and brow of care,
And mantle wrapp'd round aching breast,
Is one who may not taste of rest.

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Forlorn of hope, his friends are flown,
Little of joy his soul hath known;
He loves not man, and how should he?
For all have long deserted him:
Nor page nor friend he now may see
Would pledge him on the goblet's brim.
And ladies' love how can he heed?
They too have fled in time of need;
And those bright, laughing eyes that shone
On him, in prideful hour, are gone.
And those dear lips, with wreathed smiles,
And bosoms skill'd in flattery's wiles,
They smile not now, nor seek the power
To soothe him in his woful hour.
But there is one, in weal and woe,
Who hath not changed, nor change can know;
And he is pledged to none beside
Fair Ellen the true, his matchless bride.
And she, when from his lonely hall
The guests and friends were fled,
Cheer'd him, with hope she might not feel,
Nor ever a tear she shed.
And she hath left her maiden bower,
And left her father's side;
And gain'd the scorn and curse of all,
To be a foeman's bride.

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And now her little babe is born,
The heir of mickle woe;
And rage is in its father's breast,
As angry chief may know;
For he hath neither kith nor kin
To help him in his strait,
And foemen of the deadliest mould
Are gathering at his gate.
And ever by his side he sees,
To mar his best design,
An elfin woman, stern and old,
The hater of his line.
Awhile, an angel form she wears,
And woos and soothes his pride;
And with a holy oath she swears
To grant and do the whole he dares,
So she may be his bride.
But when she sees his rage arise,
Or hears his Ellen's name,
Before his wilder'd view he spies
A form of disproportion'd size,
All girt in sulphurous flame.
And then a cursed sword she draws
From out her fiery vest,
And dire and deep revenge she vows,
And points it to his breast.

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“And see,” she cries, “this trusty blade,
And note its ghastly stain;
This is the blood of thine own race,
Who by this hand were slain.
And hear me now, thou lofty lord,
And listen to my command:
Take thou my dire and proved sword
With firm determined hand,
And hie thee to fair Ellen's side,
And plunge it in her breast,
And rid thee of thy bonny bride,
And so thou shalt have rest.
And give me here thy little son
Whom thou dost so adore,
And I will quit thy castle hall,
And never see thee more.
But if thou scornest my behest,
Ye three shall never taste of rest.”
He took that blade, but not to shed
The blood of his fair bride;
He heard the threat, and, wild with dread,
He turn'd his head aside.
And when he turn'd him round again,
That elfin woman laugh'd amain;
And, with a wild and hideous sneer,
Scream'd loudly in his tortured ear:

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“Now fond, true knight, thy courage deal,
And know that blade is trusty steel;
And if thou provest its temper well,
Loved, scornful knight, a long farewell.”
“Woe worth the hour!” the husband cried,
“I cannot wrong thee, bonny bride!
And woe's me,” said the father wild,
“I cannot, will not, lose my child!”
And then he flung the sword away,
And took the twain he loved so well;
And at the closing hour of day,
When slowly toll'd the vesper bell,
They left that tower's beleaguer'd wall;
And from the rocky shore are gone
A young and handsome chieftain tall,
A lady and her son.
They see not now the turret high,
They see not now the rocky shore;
There is a tempest in the sky,
Voices of storm are shrieking by,
And winds with wild uproar.
That little bark, how is it tost!
Good Heaven defend, or they are lost!
He hath his arm round her so dear,
To shield his love from ill;

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And he doth strive her soul to cheer,
With hope he cannot feel.
“Fear not, fear not, my fair Ellén,
And hush thy bitter woe;
Thou, who hast faced our dire foemén,
A braver heart shouldst know.
And fear not for thy little babe,
Good Heaven will shield from harm;
His father's arm is stout and strong,
His mother's breast is warm.
Then fear not so, my fair Ellén,
The storm will soon be past;
And we will gain a sheltering bower,
And live in peace at last.”
With that they hear a screaming laugh,
And lo! before them stands
That elfin woman, raising high
Her gaunt and bony hands.
“And strivest thou now, young gallant knight,”
She cried, “'gainst wind and tide?
But who shall shield, in hour like this,
Thy fair and bonny bride?”
“Avaunt!” he cried, “thou spectre foe!
Thy taunts I little heed.”
And drawing forth a trusty blade,
Well tried in time of need,

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He makes a firm and furious thrust,
With strength of angry blow;
But how may force of arm prevail
Against an airy foe?
Nor human skill hath any power
To make her vengeance quail;
Prayers have been said, and masses sung,
And all without avail.
There stands his furious, fleshless foe,
With that same bloody brand;
“And well I wot, young knight,” quoth she,
“Thou hast listen'd to my command!
And hear me now, thou young Ellén,
And let thy lord have rest;
Give me thy little baby boy
That slumbers on thy breast.”
“Oh! hear thee, Virgin-mother, hear!”
The lady cried in prayer;
And speechless stood her gallant lord,
And gazed in mad despair.
Now darker, drearier grew the night,
And rougher grew the main;
The sea-birds scream'd in wild affright,
Red flash'd the mazy lightning bright,
And furious pour'd the rain.

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And ever, when the lightning's glare
Gleam'd past, they saw that woman there;
And ever, when the storm was laid,
They heard that woman's threats dismay'd.
But she has snatch'd that noble heir,
And the mother has heard its woful cry;
She has seen it dragg'd by its golden hair,
And seen it doom'd to die.
Wild was the shriek the lady gave,
When she saw it plunged in the boiling wave;
Wild was the woe her scream bewray'd,
When she heard its feeble cry for aid.
Ere long, and that elfin woman is gone,
And the little bark moves slowly on;
And the winds are hush'd, and the waters bear
Slowly along the sorrowing pair;
And the skies are clear, and the stars are bright,
And the little bark keeps its course aright;
But the lady is pale in dread and in death,
And has spoken her last with her parting breath;
And the gentle gale, as it wafted by,
Hath borne the lady's parting sigh;
And the morning sun, in light enroll'd,
Hath shone on the lady marble cold.
The knight return'd to his lonely hall,
And found the brave were gathering there,

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With guest at his bidding, and page at his call,
And the ready smiles of ladies fair:
But his castle was ever a solitude,
And he never again was blithe of mood.

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CHARITY.

When thou dost on thy fellow-men look with a wond'ring eye,
And marvell'st they should fall so low, when they do aim so high;
That boasting heaven's own light their guide, they should so widely stray;
With truth's dear name upon their lips, their lips should yet betray;
And coldness, changefulness, and guile, should ever seem to dwell,
Mix'd with small difference of love, in palace, cot, or cell;
Think not too sternly of thy race, look thou on every tree,
Hoar, fresh, or young, where'er they stand, on forest, down, or lea;

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Thou shalt not find amongst them all, though thou search well and long,
One single stem exactly straight, however fair and strong.
Perchance there may a few be found, yet those how wond'rous few!
Which, seen upon one only side, shall seem most nicely true:
Yet, look them round, and they shall bend full many different ways,
As wind and sun have fallen on them, in their more tender days.
All with their warps and blemishes thou shalt most surely find,
Curl'd in their tops, with shrivell'd leaves, or rugged in their rind;
Yet all sprung from one mother earth, all clamb'ring towards the skies,
And drawing with a social power each other as they rise;
Bearing around the mighty earth, in every clime and soil,
Beauty, and solitude, and shade, and dropping fruits and oil.
And thus, as in the vastest wood is found no perfect bole,

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But each, though faulty in some part, is beauteous in the whole;
And thus, as even the gnarled thorn breaks out with fragrant bloom,
And yews, that poison life's gay walks, wave graceful o'er a tomb;
And thus, as barren branches wave aloft in beauty's pride,
And melting fruits, and honied flowers, on tendrils frail are tied;
And thus, as even mould'ring trunks to winter fuel yield,
Or, where no fruit nor blossom glows, is medicine conceal'd;
Rarely all these do meet in one, or one is wanting all,
Or scene be found where best or worst together only fall,
But with a sweet variety clothe plain, and rock, and glen:
Oh! let thy heart still whisper thee, 'tis even thus with men.

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A JUNE DAY.

Oh! hast thou ever wish'd to know
When most this varying world below
Is like the changeless heaven above,
In beauty, pleasure, peace, and love?
Haste thee, in summer's youthful noon,
The green, the joyous month of June,
Far from the sultry streeted town,
And lay thee in the evening down
In some sweet hamlet's white-wall'd cot,
Round which the pear and apricot
Twine their green arms, and sparrows watch
From their snug peep-holes in the thatch;
And the light latticed porch embower
The creeper and the passion-flower.
The morning bursts—all heaven has shed
Its light and music round thy bed:

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The birds are busy in the eaves;
The sun-light dances on the leaves
That tremble round the window's rim;
And to and fro the shadows skim
Of busy wings without, that ply
In quest of larva, worm, or fly.
Throw now the sunny casement wide,
In flows the warm and odorous tide
From dew-besprinkled shrub and flower,
That blossom round that sylvan bower.
But oh! thou world of light and glee!
What soul can ever picture thee?
As strays the fond enthusiast eye
Round the green earth and flaming sky,
From every meadow, bush, and tree,
Rings morning's loudest melody.
Hark to the cuckoo's wand'ring notes!
Hark to the lark, whose music floats
Through the wide air in strains that tell,
This is a world where gods might dwell!
The dew yet lingers on the grass,
As down the long green lane you pass,
Where, o'er the hawthorn's snowy wreaths,
The woodbine's honied perfume breathes;

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And the wild rose's arching spray
Flaunts to the breeze above your way.
What palace proud—what city hall,
Can match these verdant boughs that fall,
Vaulting o'er banks of flowers, that glow
In hues of crimson, gold, and snow?
Where, midst the wild-brier's emerald leaves,
Her gauze-like nest the white-throat weaves.
What sense of joy hath ever stole
From song, or harp, into thy soul,
Like this, from young birds all unseen,
Chirping amongst the foliage green?
Or, new to life, on wings untried,
Fluttering from bushes by your side;
Or gazing at you unconcern'd,
Their foes, their perils yet unlearn'd;
With yellow bills, and plumage fair,
And down that trembles to the air.
The gale has woke, and, like a soul,
Sent life and beauty through the whole.
One living, restless radiance gleams,
From quivering trees, and flowers, and streams.
Mark! how its bright and silvery sheen
Gilds the tall grass, and corn-fields green:
Wave after wave, the gleaming tide
Of light sweeps o'er their surface wide;

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And the quick, dancing splendour plays,
As o'er the sea the summer's blaze.

But not o'er field and flood alone
The gale its magic life has thrown;
Sweet, in its passing breath it brings
A tribute from all fragrant things:
From yon bright meadow's golden breast,
Where the slow cows luxurious rest;
Gambols the foal its mother round,
Or sleeps upon the sunny ground;
And the strong lamb's impetuous bound—

A squadron blithe and blest.
From the rich clover's purple glow,
Dotted with campions pure as snow;
From all the mingled flowers that spring
Where soon the whetted scythe shall ring;
And perch'd on bent, or umbel tall,
You hear the winchat's plaintive call.
From the bright, yellow charlock seen,
Flaming o'er many a corn-field green,
Where the wide line of weeders bend;
Or stop to see the lark ascend;
Or follow, with a startled stare,
The partridge or the rushing hare.

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But hush'd is gale, and hush'd is tune,
As pours the sun the power of noon:
And through the bright and basking scene
No sound is heard, no motion seen,
But the bold sparrow's chirping loud,
And merry minstrel of the cloud;
And the keen buzzing of the fly,
And o'er the heath the pewit's cry.
Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?

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The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss,
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
Whilst all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
There, still the green flag quivering plays,
The broad-sword of those fairy days;
There, still the water scorpions peep,
Then downward dart into the deep;
There, still the brook the alders greet,
Loosestrife, and foam-like meadow-sweet;
The water-flies there fleetly race
O'er the stream's smooth unruffled face;
There come, as then, the plunging cows,
Rustling amongst the hazel boughs;
And there, as then, they strive to save
Some struggling insect from the wave,

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That long has strove and stretch'd in vain
Some floating leaf's safe ark to gain,
That, ever near, excites its toils,
But touch'd—and lo!—it still recoils,
As tempting hope our efforts foils.
But noon's subduing heat and glare
Have melted to a milder air;
And oh! there comes, so calm and boon,
The eve—the Paradise of June.
Past is the glare—but there is still
A light and glow on dale and hill,
Vivid, yet mild and full of grace,
Shining out like an angel's face.
Freed from the sultry thrall of day,
The glad eye revels far away;
All round is bright—and you may see
Green hill and river, tower and tree,
One wide, fair scene of beauteous rest,
Brilliant and sweet, and calm and blest.
All there is peace, and you may hear
Each soften'd sound distinct and clear:
The wood-gate's clap, the peasant's lay,
The low of herds, the mastiff's bay,
And the rich blackbird's strains, that swell
Each sunset from the neighbouring dell.

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Who has not wander'd to inhale
Fragrance, and dew, and living gale,
As the far wood's luxuriant waves
Of green the sun's last radiance laves;
And villagers sit at their doors
Beneath the towering sycamores;
And hum the chaffer's ruddy wings?
And sweet are lovers' loiterings
On by the park pales' silvery moss,
Where listening hares the footpath cross;
And partridges, met in the glen,
Are racing swiftly back again;
And from the far heath, drear and still,
Pipes the lone curlew, wild and shrill;
And darker glooms the forest glade;
And heaven's pale gleams yet fainter fade;
Till silence only hears awake
The hoarse, quaint whisperings of the crake.

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TO ------.

'Tis many a day since last we met,
And more may be ere we shall meet;
And sad the change since then—but yet
The memory of the past is sweet.
Still, still my heart shall never bow
To sue for past delights again,
Nor let thee know, in secret, how
Thine alter'd heart has given me pain.

Thou hast not seen a bitter tear,
Thou hast not heard a secret sigh;
And scarcely wouldst thou deem that e'er
My heart was wrung, if thou wert by.
I've proved thee false—I know thee changed—
I saw thee fly when friends were few;
And thou, whom least I deem'd estranged,
Heard'st whispers, and believed them true.

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I did not soon believe thy breast
Could thus forsake an injured one;
And, ere I did, thou hadst express'd
Scorn cold, as few before had done.
Oh then!—the feeling of that hour!
The cherish'd tie so rudely broke;
The one I trusted thus to lower
And crush me with a parting stroke!

Pride, burning pride, and hate awhile
Possess'd my soul, and then I thought
On thee, but with a scornful smile,
Nor knew the ruin thou hadst wrought.
Thy fond, kind smile, thy laughing eye,
Thy converse rich in favourite lore;
The deference paid when I was by,
The plaudits of me o'er and o'er:

And canst thou then remember these?
And canst thou say they were my due?
And didst thou once so strive to please,
That what I did thou didst it too?
Yes, I was then a friend so dear,
Because I had no cause to claim,
In hour deserted, dark and drear,
What more in friendship was than name.

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But when I sadly stood alone,
Aim'd at, and shunn'd like stricken deer;
How was the alien thought unknown,
That even thou wouldst shun me here!
Yes, changeling! thou art false I know,
And I can never prize thee more;
Yet will my memory lingering go
Mid ruin'd hopes, and pleasures o'er.

Thou dost not know I love to trace
Remembrances of friendship flown;—
Thou shalt not know that thou hast place
In bosom injured as mine own.
I cannot love thee as thou art,
Yet must I muse on things gone by,
Then from the faded vision start,
And loathe thee for thy perfidy!

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A LEGEND OF DALE ABBEY.

The devil, one night, as he chanced to sail
In a stormy wind, by the Abbey of Dale,
Suddenly stopp'd, and look'd wild with surprise,
That a structure so fair in that valley should rise:
When last he was there it was lonely and still;
And the hermitage scoop'd in the side of the hill,
With its wretched old inmate his beads a-telling,
Were all could be found of life, dweller, and dwelling.
The hermit was seen in the rock no more;
The nettle and dock had sprung up at the door;
And each window the fern and the hart's-tongue hung o'er.
Within, 'twas dampness and nakedness all:
The Virgin, as fair and holy a block
As ever yet stood in a niche of a rock,
Had fall'n to the earth, and was broke in the fall.

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The holy cell's ceiling, in idle hour,
When haymakers sought it to 'scape from the shower,
Was scored by their forks in a thousand scars,
Wheels and ovals, circles and stars.
But, by the brook, in the valley below,
Saint Mary of Dale!—what a lordly show!
The abbey's proud arches and windows bright
Glitter'd and gleam'd in the full moonlight.
He perch'd on a finial to ponder the scene,
When he heard, loudly chanted, a chorus within:
The strain was so merry he could not help peeping
To see how their vigils the fathers were keeping.
Wot ye they sung in the cold chapel's gloom?
Nay, they sate in the glow of the abbot's own room.
Saw he beads, and crosses, and visages pale?
I trow ye not, but full flagons of ale;
And the abbot himself, in his lordly chair,
Bore a hearty good part in this godly air.

CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.

Old Father John was a holy man,
And he chanted a mass full well;
But his cheek was pale, his heart did fail,
The cause pray who can tell?

136

Oh! well might the heart of the father fail,
For it never was warm'd with a flagon of ale!

Saint Benedict in his conscience was prick'd,
And full soundly he lash'd his skin;
But father Peter, he never would batter
A temple that God dwelt in:
Father Peter was right, quoth friar Paul,
For thus keeping up God's temple wall.

Holy Saint Bevil, to quell the devil,
Did evermore fast and pray;
But Peter arose, with pond'rous blows,
And furiously drove him away.
Then here's to the arms that made Peter prevail,
A venison pasty and flagon of ale!

The devil he heard, the devil he flew
Away in a whirlwind, that tore as it blew,
Rocks and houses, vast forests of oaks,
And buried some hundreds of cattle and folks.
Then chatter'd each pane in those windows high,
As the fiend arose in the act to fly;
Then a terrible gust did those towers assail,
As the fiend set off from the Abbey of Dale.

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He summon'd his imps in the height of his spleen,
And question'd, how many at Dale had been;
And what were the doings might there be seen?
One had seen plenty of beef and beer;
One had been with the friars a-chasing the deer;
One had carried out venison to twenty good wives,
And had wonder'd to see the monks handle their knives,
O'er the smoking hot pasties and sparkling ale,
By the snug evening fires in the village of Dale.
Many had been at a maid's confessing,
And some, when St. Robert conferr'd his blessing
On pious old souls, that to heaven would sail
By giving their lands to the Abbey of Dale.
Some, of the shrine of our lady told,
Of the relics, and jewels, and coffers of gold;
But all of them dwelt on the bountiful cheer,
How jocundly flew the whole round of the year,
But chief when the monks were a-chasing the deer.

The devil no longer such tidings could brook;
He started and stamp'd till his hot dwelling shook:
“O ho!” quoth he, to the demon powers,
“These knavish monks are no monks of ours;
They travel to heaven with feast and song,
And absolve each other while going along.

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But troth! if I yet have a subject on earth,
I'll spoil their hunting!—I'll mar their mirth!”
He flew to the keepers—the keepers they pace
Away to Sir Gilbert, the lord of the chase;
Sir Gilbert de Grendon he sped to the king,
And with grievous complaints made his proud palace ring:
How the friars of Dale forsook missal and mass,
To chant o'er a bottle, or shrive a lass;
No matins bell call'd them up in the morn,
But the yell of the hounds, and the sound of the horn;
No penance the monk in his cell could stay,
But a broken leg, or a rainy day;
The pilgrim that came to the abbey door,
With the feet of the fallow deer found it nail'd o'er;
The pilgrim that into the kitchen was led,
On Sir Gilbert's venison there was fed,
And saw skins and antlers hang over his head.
The king was wroth, and with angry tone
He order'd St. Robert before his throne:
St. Robert appear'd in three weeks and a day,
For hot was the weather, and long was the way.
He spoke so wisely, he pleaded so well,
That the king, in sooth, had trouble to tell

139

Which of the two that before him came
To the forest and deer had the fairest claim:
But the devil, who sate behind the throne,
At that did inwardly writhe and groan;
And whisper'd into the royal ear,
“St. Robert is famous for taming of deer.”
Then sprang the king gaily up from his throne,
And spoke that fancy, and deem'd it his own:
“For taming of deer St. Robert is famed;
Go catch the wild stags, and get them tamed;
With wood, water, and game, as much forest ground
As with such brave steeds thou canst plough round
While two summer suns through the heavens do sail,
Shall for ever belong to the Abbey of Dale:
But if set those two suns ere thou circle the same,
They shall cancel for ever and ever thy claim.”
Sir Gilbert frown'd—St. Robert look'd gay;
But the envious devil went laughing away.

Now the deer were tamed, the day was named,
And over the country the tidings proclaim'd:
With masses by dozens, with beads like hail,
The abbot and friar St. Mary assail,
To speed the plough for her Abbey of Dale.
Never, I ween, had there lodged such a crowd
In the abbey, of barons and knights so proud;

140

Of ladies so bright, and esquires so gay,
As came from afar to be present that day.
Oh! long ere the grey of the morning was springing,
The fathers, by torch-light, their matins were singing;
And when the light stole through the sweet summer air,
Jesu Maria! what a scene was there!
What a countless crowd on that hill was set!
What a moving mass in that plain was met!
What a hum of sounds! what neighing and prancing!
Mantles fluttering, and light plumes dancing!
The baron his hall, and the hind his bower,
Had left in the dead of the midnight hour;
In cot and in castle, each damsel fair
Forsook her soft couch for the raw night air:
The noise of the forge and the axe was still;
The miller had 'scaped from the clack of his mill;
The shepherd relinquish'd his charge to his son,
And the urchin away by another path run:
Not a soul that could move might at home be found,
All had hasten'd to Dale within twenty miles round.
And had you but seen how the holy array
From the abbey march'd forth at the dawn of the day;
First a reverend friar, without shoon or hood,
Bearing before him the blessed rood,

141

Open'd the way through the worshipping throng,
And then, how the stags trotted gaily along;
And St. Robert (God rest him!) with solemn air,
Mark'd lightly the ground with the shining share;
While, on either hand, a bare-headed row
Of monks led the deer as they will'd them to go,
You would surely have join'd in the wildering shout,
That at once from the marvelling concourse broke out.
Away—away, over dale and hill,
St. Robert's long furrow goes lengthening still:
And a dark-brow'd knight, on a coal-black steed,
Still rode by his side, and urged him to speed.
But when the sun sank, and the deer they unyoke,
That sable knight spoke, and he laugh'd as he spoke;
“Sir Abbot, you've drawn such a wide-stretching furrow,
My troth! but ye'll rue it ere sunset to-morrow.”

The morrow arose—by the rood! what a morning!
Not balmy and bright, like the yesterday's dawning;
But gloomy and late, and the winds, fierce and loud,
Rush'd furiously on through the struggling crowd.
What holding of caps and of bonnets was there!
How wild flew fair tresses and veils on the air!
But when the good abbot came forth with the team,
Those stags, late so mild, did so turbulent seem,

142

That no sooner the crowd in their fierceness had seen them,
Than at once they cried loudly, “the foul fiend is in them!”
But away they are gone, like a shaft from a bow;
The crowd in amazement stood gazing below;
And faint grew the hearts of the brotherhood pale,
As they put up their prayers for the abbot of Dale;
And fain would the abbot have cross'd his brow,
But the forest was lost if he held not the plough.
No pause—the mad stags still sped on with the wind;
Hot, panting, and weary, he labour'd behind.
O'er the distant hill top they rush'd forward from sight;
Alone with their course went the dark-brow'd knight.
But lo! when the crowd reach'd the crown of the hill,
Knight, abbot, and stags, in the valley stood still.
Alas! for St. Robert—how woful his plight!
Yet heartily laugh'd that dark-brow'd knight,
Though deep and foul was the bog, and vast,
Where the abbot and deer had rush'd in, and were fast.
How mutter'd the monks, how they turn'd up their eyes;
How many sweet vows were address'd to the skies;

143

What a clamour—what striving—what schemes there were plann'd,
Ere the abbot and deer were replaced on dry land,
I stay not to tell ye:—the sun was at height,
And the stags must plough far ere it sank at night.
Now swiftly, steadily, onward they flew,
The hopes of the monks with the circle grew;
When lo! two huge hounds, fierce, gaunt, and fell,
From a thicket sprang forth with a dreadful yell,
Started the stags, and away they broke,
For the plough stuck fast in the root of an oak.
St. Robert was dash'd to the earth, and then
Arose there wild and mingled sounds;
The shrieks of women, the rage of men,
And the howl of expiring hounds.
To stay the scared stags, every horseman and friar
Rush'd, struggling and bleeding, through brushwood and brier.
Not yet St. Robert's strange ploughing was ended,
The stags were reclaim'd, for St. Mary befriended.
Now swiftly, steadily, onward they flew;
The hopes of the monks with the circle grew—
Till down a steep hill the fleet deer sprung away;
In the valley before them a rivulet lay,
High were its banks, and swift on their way,

144

Deeply between them the waters play;
But in the strong stags, without turn or stay,
The plough and the holy man drew.
Then ran every friar and yeoman amain,
Or St. Robert of Dale had been speedily slain;
For, turning upon him, his furious team
Butted him down in the flashing stream.
The dark-brow'd knight was the first in speed
To arrive at the fatal brook;
And as over it bounded his coal-black steed,
He cast down a mirthful look,
Where the holy father, with hoof and horn,
In the blood-dyed waters was trampled and torn,
Yet lent he no hand to aid him;
But the brethren of Dale, with piteous wail,
Did the raging stags with their staves assail;
And out of the torrent the holy man hale,
And on a green slope they laid him.
But alas! for the ploughing! what tongue can tell
What shrieking was there!—what tears there fell!
How groan'd the monks, and how wildly they cried,
As they thought on the deer in the forest so wide,
That all as their own they already had eyed;
For now might the yesterday's furrow be spied,
And the circle had quickly been made:
But woe to their wishes! all now seem'd past:

145

Loud laugh'd the black knight—“Monks, ye've hunted your last!”
And faint was the sun's yellow radiance cast
Along the grassy glade.
And there the good abbot lay stretch'd on the ground,
And the sorrowing sobbers that stood around,
Deem'd that the monks, in this world for ever,
From abbot and forest at once must sever.
The blood ran down from his shaven crown;
The blood ran from his breast;
And beldames, by death-beds experienced grown,
Cried, “He hastens to his rest!”
But while they stood muttering, “God rest his soul!”
Came a stout friar, and, doffing his cowl,
Down he knelt by the father's knee,
And chanted a prayer religiously:
“Sancta Maria! blessed one!
Save from ruin and scathe thy son!”
Down he knelt by the father's side,
And drew forth a bottle uncouth and wide;
Whatever was in it hath never been known,
But St. Robert he quaff'd, and he ceased to groan:
The monk with the liquor bathed bruise and wound,
And St. Robert he started up fresh from the ground.
Backward scatter'd the wonder-struck crowd;
But shouted St. Robert, eager and loud,

146

“Fly, my good fathers! fly to the deer!
By the holy maid! there is nothing to fear!
Saint Mary forsakes not her abbey of Dale,
And the sun shall not sink ere he sees us prevail.”
Merrily join'd the monks in the vow;
Swiftly, steadily moves the plough.
On, on, St. Robert! for foul the disgrace,
And sore is the loss of the bountiful chase.
Lower—swiftly sinks the sun,
But the furrow grows fast, and is nearly done.
Lower—lower—lower still,
The sun is blinking on Stanley hill.
Eagerly, anxiously turns each eye,
Now to the furrow, and now to the sky.
The furrow speeds; the stags they pant;
The sun's last rays grow faint and slant;
But there!—'tis done!—that stunning shout
Tells that the forest is circled about!

The devil no sooner heard that cry,
The acclaim of St. Robert's victory,
Than, shooting through the evening sky,
He staid not to witness the proud array
That to the abbey, alert and gay,
Follow'd St. Robert on his way,
With praises and plaudits high:

147

And long was the time, ere again he would sail
Within many a league of the abbey of Dale.
And again did the holy brethren dwell,
Merry of mood, in the secret cell;
Now pattering a prayer, now feasting well,
With their sparkling beer, and their venison hot:
And many a legend of Dale hath said,
How pleasure and plenty right laughingly sped
Over abbey, and hamlet, and cot.
And how jocundly flew the whole round of the year;
But chief, when the monks were a-chasing the deer.

148

SONNET.

[Oh love of country!—flame of liberty!]

Oh love of country!—flame of liberty!
Thou glow'dst with fervour in the Grecian breast;
Led Codrus to the hostile camp, to wrest
Chains from his land, and die to make her free.
Oh! glorious pass of old Thermopylæ,
Grave of Leonidas! an altar thou
Sacred to freedom, and to thee shall bow
The curse of earth, iron-sceptred tyranny.
Deep in the dungeon-gloom of Carthage bound,
Heard Regulus a call,—the voice he knew;
It pleaded for his country:—“Ne'er shall sound,”
Said he, “thy captives' wail:” and then he threw
A glance of triumph o'er the land he saved,
And gloried in the chains that else had her enslaved.

149

SONNET.

[When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize]

When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize,
And hope, the herald of unseen delight,
Pass, like the vivid meteor of the night,
Just seen, to tempt our steps where danger lies;
When hearts link'd in the dearest sympathies,
By unthought perfidy, are doom'd to sever;
Think'st thou the shock can break the thousand ties
That seem to bind as they would bind for ever?
Ah no!—what tender images will start,
To tell there was a time it was not so;
Young love is faithful, though a faithless heart
May rive its hopes, and, with a traitorous blow,
Destroy the link that life was wont to boast:
Yet here will memory dwell, and love to linger most.

150

SONNET.

1.

[I climb'd the glorious mountains of the north]

I climb'd the glorious mountains of the north,
And gazed in transport from Ben Lomond's brow;
And many a desert cry and wild view now
Are into my glad spirit thence sent forth:
But none more livingly, than when in mirth
We scaled Helvellyn's steep and rocky side,
That gleaming sabbath morn: the storm had died,
And left all radiance round us; but its wrath
Had fallen upon one little mountain lamb,
That by the loud and craggy torrent lay,
Shivering and nestling to its perish'd dam:
The wild flock thence had wander'd all away,
All but one other lamb, that seem'd to keep
Near it for love—not sorrow—it could sleep.

151

SONNET.

2.

[As we approach'd, that little wretched thing]

As we approach'd, that little wretched thing,
Storm-drench'd, rose up with meek imploring eye,
And gave a feeble, but a piteous cry,
As if it deem'd that we did comfort bring.
But, as we onward pass'd, still following
With pleading gaze, at length it wearily press'd
Once more, in mute despair, its mother's breast.
What is there in a sound, a glance, to bring
All the soul gushing out beneath its power?
For pleasure I was wandering in that land,
A stranger, and there never from that hour
Perchance to be, yet pity seized my hand,
My heart—nay all, and goaded me until
I sought and sent the shepherd to that hill.

152

THE LARK.

A WOODLAND REVERIE.

Oh! art thou one whose young spirit has known
All the sinless ardour of youth,
And deem'd, in the generous glow of thine own,
Each bosom a temple of truth?
And life, in its summer of freshness awhile,
Has welcomed thy glance with its loveliest smile;
And thou hast known no ruth,
But thy tears were transient, and sweet as the showers
That gush, in the spring, o'er an Eden of flowers!

153

Hast thou in that happiest season awoke,
As many before thee have done,
From thy dream of delight, by a traitorous stroke
From some fondly trusted one?
And hast thou beheld each affectionate heart,
That no fortune could change, and no perfidy part,
To its bed of mortality gone;
Till all thy visions of beauty have led
To the scorn of the false, and the love of the dead?

And hast thou turn'd in thy sorrow away,
All unnoticed and unknown,
From the throng of the joyous, the careless, and gay,
And wander'd forth alone,
To seek, in the stillness of mountain and glen,
A solace thou never couldst meet with from men;
And there hast found the tone
Of thy ruffled spirit grow soothed and calm,
Where all around thee breathed music and balm?

Then thou hast lain in the greenwood glade
On a summer's delicious day,
When sweet was the sound that the breezes made
With the elegant larch at play;
And rich was the scent of thy grassy bed,
And green were the blades nodding over thy head,
With blue-bells and campions gay;

154

And the leaves of the maple, the oak, and the lime,
Were tender and fresh, in that beautiful time.

Oh! it was sweet, through that green retreat,
As the sun-light came quivering down,
To think of the glaring and sultry street
Of a crowded and distant town;
While the nibbling hare pass'd unconsciously by,
Half hid in the grass, so luxuriant and high,
And around thee was heard alone
The sudden shout of the clamorous jay,
And the oxeye and whitethroat's mellifluous lay.

And there, as thou watch'd the clouds changefully stream
Through heaven's pure azure above,
How witchingly came the Elysian dream
Of those hallow'd islands of love,
Which somewhere amidst that sweet ocean of blue,
In a summer of glory eternally new,
The homes of the happy shall prove;
Till the wood-pigeon dash'd through the foliage green,
And broke the deep trance where thy spirit had been.

Yet still has thy fancy half whisper'd thee there,
As thou glanced on the prospect before thee;

155

And the richness of earth, and the balm of the air,
Cast the spell of their loveliness o'er thee.
But chiefly has tended that carol of mirth,
From the regions of heaven sent down upon earth,
Those visions of bliss to restore thee;
And oft that aerial minstrel has brought
To thy languishing bosom inspiriting thought.

For long hast thou mark'd that that minstrel's lot
Like the lowly Christian's hath been;
A fortune more splendid awaiteth him not,
Nor a garb of a lovelier sheen:
No tree's lofty foliage embowereth his nest,
But lowly it lies on the earth's trodden breast;
And he flits through the wintry scene
With a silent, but strong and unmurmuring wing,
Till he marks the first glimpse of the green-vested spring;

Then away—away—through the splendours of day,
To heaven he carries his praise:
Ah! who does not love that delectable lay,
As o'er mountain and forest it plays?
Though lowlier he build than each musical bird,
Yet longer and louder his carols are heard,
And heaven his glad anthem repays:

156

As, day after day, to its portals he towers,
More sweet grows his nest midst deep verdure and flowers.

Then, that minstrel's trust and devotion be thine
To him who allotteth thy day;
And know, that the sun of his blessing shall shine,
However his beams may delay:
And thy spirit's flight shall be far above
The clouds of the world, in the light of his love;
And though friends, like flowers, decay,
Like them, shall the Lord of creation renew
The blossoms of life with his sunshine and dew.

157

THE RETURN.

Oh! those were happy days of meeting, when,
After all his wand'rings, to his home again
He safely was return'd;—that home how blest,
How dear, how long desired, how sweet its rest!
That, in his sojourn o'er the western tide,
Had charms for him beyond all homes beside.
Oh! in his pleasures, how he long'd to share
His untold transports with its inmates there!
And in his painful wand'rings and his woe,
Ah fool! he thought, its pleasures to forego!
Then seem'd it to his bosom like the star
Foretelling gladness, though beheld afar;
And then, what rapture to his soul was brought,
What future bliss was imaged to his thought;
How beautiful the vision!—Oh! but when
He came indeed unto his home again,

158

He thought he must have wrong'd it, for it bore
A thousand charms he scarce had felt before.
And there was she so long beloved; and they,
His lovely, smiling children; what was play
To that long-promised kiss that each had shared?
And he, fond, happy father! who compared
Each dear improving feature, bless'd and praised,
And felt his heart grow warmer as he gazed;
Drew to his breast his first-born, and his son,
And kiss'd that loveliest, playful, favourite one:
Then must the cherub babe his notice claim,
Charming his ear with his loved, half-lisp'd name.

Oh! she, who now was gladness, saw this day
In anxious watching slowly wear away.
That morn, before her custom'd hour she rose,
In fond expectance longing for its close;
For well she knew, before that day was done,
She should embrace her long-lost, wand'ring one.
And she was busy, anxious there to place
All bright and beautiful, that night to grace:
His costly vase, so long her secret care,
Was placed where it was wont when he was there.
Those marble busts, and that bright velvet braid
He loved for her own painting, were display'd;

159

And all the marks of expectation wore,
For when came such a welcome guest before?
And she was dress'd, with more than common care,
In the white robe he loved her best to wear,
And that rich wreath of roses in her hair.

'Twas almost noon: and now she wish'd it done,
That she might hail the promised hour begun.
The promised hour is come—she takes her stand
Where she may best the road he comes command;
Yet comes he not:—how anxiously they wait,
She at the window, he before the gate,
To announce his father's coming!—O'er the hill
She watch'd the evening gathering—it was chill,
And gloomily the night-wind blew: she turn'd
To that awaiting hearth, and gaily burn'd
The fire, that seem'd reviving;—in her eye
Trembled the starting tear;—could it be dry,
When all her buoyant confidence seem'd fled,
And even hope hung on so fine a thread
As that a breath might break it; and it seem'd
As if his coming was a heaven she'd dream'd?
And then her heart beat loud, and she had grief,
That even sad certainty had been relief.
Her love felt then so centred and so strong,
How could she bear his absence—and so long?

160

She starts—she hears a step—it seem'd at home;
And yet no voice announced the wanderer come.
Nor is he come: there was no step—all then
Seem'd wrapp'd in its expectancy again.
Her anxious forehead on her hand was laid
In seeming patience, for her heart obey'd
The sickening weight of hope too long delay'd.
Sudden, glad bursts of many voices rise!
She hears a hurrying in the hall—she flies.
Oh, he is come indeed!—most loved of men!
She hears, nor is deceived, his well known voice again!
Oh! what a meeting theirs! his eyes how bright,
Her heart how full, and trembling with delight!
Fain would she speak—but how can words express
Her soul's full, hurrying rush of tenderness?
It seem'd a burst her heart could scarce contain,
And almost was that load of pleasure pain.

The whelming ecstasy of meeting o'er,
The promise pledged, that he would roam no more,
She knew no ling'ring wish ungratified,
He there the vacuum of her home supplied:
The same in kindness still, no love forgot,
In all his long, long wand'rings alter'd not.
And he who in that happy group again
Shone like the sun of gladness, knew he, when

161

In his far foreign sojourn, ought of bliss
Whose magic of delight could equal this?
No, there was then a something in his breast
That panted for the heaven he now possess'd!

162

ON READING THE FOLLOWING EXTRACT.

[_]

Twenty-eighth of sixth month, died Sarah Candler, daughter of William and Elizabeth Candler, Ipswich. By her decease a promising plant was cut down in its bloom, but not before promise had been given of yielding fruit lovely to the sight, and pleasant to the taste. On receiving the first information that her complaint was a pulmonary consumption, she expressed her resignation to the will of Providence respecting her, by calmly adopting the words of H. K. White:

“God of the just, thou giv'st the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”

Annual Monitor.

Oh earth! thou hast glories in thee
More bright than the sun of thy sky!
Thou hast jewels of lustre more free
Than those in thy caverns that lie.
Diviner, and purer, and lovelier than they;
Immortal their nature, celestial their light.
But why is their radiance so fleet on its way?
A sun that goes down in a morningless night—

163

A moment it lightens
Life's wilderness o'er,
But the eye that it brightens
Can meet it no more.

On thy bosom those glories come down
From the blaze of the Deity's throne;
Those gems that illumine thy crown
Can be set in Jehovah's alone.
But splendid and precious, thy temples adorning,
Awhile they are thine—on thy brows they remain;
But the eyes that explore them, the hearts that are mourning
The gloom of their absence, oft mourn them in vain.
Some lone spot retaineth
The light of their ray;
But their loveliness waneth
Unwitness'd away.

They are spirits ethereal that glow
Where the darkness of wretchedness rolls;
They sojourn impatient below;
Their home is the light land of souls.
Yet blest is the spot of their earthly abiding,
Heaven seems with its presence that spot to invest;

164

There the calm of its peace, and its rapture residing,
In mystic communion of happiness rest.
The bliss of its feeling
In tenderness reigning;
Its melody stealing
O'er passion's complaining.

Thou soul, who hast slid from thy cell,
Like the moon from the caverns of night;
Thou soul, who hast bade earth farewell,
When thy home was the home of delight;
I knew thee, when soft o'er the dawn of life's day,
The deep hues, the keen ardour of sentiment stole;
I knew thee—for sweet was the charm of thy lay,
As it pour'd the first plaint of thy juvenile soul.
From the tomb of youth's slumbers
Its melody broke;
And the mourning of numbers
In its eloquence spoke .

Midst childhood's gay pastimes descending,
On the greensward of infancy's spring,

165

Confusion and terror attending
The sound and the shade of his wing,
The angel of death in his horrors alighted;
The chill of his presence fell cold on each breast;
The glow of health's rose on youth's soft cheek was blighted,
And the hectic of fever its flushes imprest.
Love's flower-braided bands,
Affection's first bloom,
Were reft by his hands,
And strew'd on the tomb.

In the silence and pause that ensued
When the plague of his presence was fled,
Whilst the heart of affection pursued
The remembrance of those that were dead;
In that stillness so awful—the stillness of grief,
That mused o'er the graves where its young wishes slept,
Those mild rainbow splendours, so lovely and brief,
That the spirit first worshipp'd, the eye had first wept.
Thy notes, sweet and thrilling,
Breath'd the music of woe;
Passion's wild waters stilling
And smoothing their flow.

166

In the light-mingled shadows of years,
That since have swept awfully o'er
The dwelling of sadness—the chamber of tears—
The grave, where her hope's love shall ever deplore,
In fancy's deep visions, at midnight revealing
Blest forms, and endearments left only in thought;
The charm of that strain on my lonely heart stealing,
Full oft thy mild image before me has brought.
But thy song and resemblance
Returned alone;
Thy being's remembrance:
Thy fate was unknown.

At length, o'er the severing earth,
A voice full of mystery came;
It told of youth's graces, of genius and worth,
And it died on the sound of thy name.
Like music at midnight in some wilderness breaking,
With startling delight, came the sound of that breath;
Like the clang of a knell, when love's lorn heart is aching,
It closed on my soul with the coldness of death.
It told, that whatever
In fancy had hover'd
Was true—but should never
On earth be discover'd.

167

Yet, why should we weep?—for thy woes
With thy flight are immortally o'er;
Though thy spirit be dwelling with those
Who revisit earth's vallies no more.
Like the light dews of morning thy beauty was fated,
Conceal'd in night's shadows, then lost in the sun;
But it rests now where glory and light uncreated,
O'er myriads for ever and ever shall run.
There, with happy souls blending,
Thy joys be divine!
And our spirits ascending,
Shall mingle with thine.

1817.

Alluding to her verses on the death of several children, occasioned by the scarlet fever, at Ackworth school, in 1803, when she herself was a scholar there.

168

STANZAS.

[Away with the pleasure that is not partaken!]

Away with the pleasure that is not partaken!
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en:
I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken
On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again.
When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes
On our cozy hearth-stone, with its innocent glee,
Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes,
To see my delight is partaken by thee!

And when, as how often, I eagerly listen
To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day,
How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten,
And feel that affection has sweeten'd the lay.
Yes, love—and when wand'ring at even or morning,
Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white,
I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning,
Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight.

169

And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth,
And we fain would express what there might not be said,
How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth,
And how sweet is the thought that is secretly read.
Then away with the pleasure that is not partaken;
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en;
I love, in my mirth, to see gladness awaken
On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again.

170

FAREWELL TO THE HARP,

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.

I.

The harp, whose angel tones beguiled
My soul to transport, when a child;
The harp, that with unchanging truth
Has been the solace of my youth,
And lent its seraph-voice to bless
Those days of dreamy loneliness,
When in the silence of the wood,
When 'neath the mountain's hermit tree,
On the cragged heath's wide solitude,
That harp was all the world to me.
And though my new-born spirit then,
Strange to the crowded seats of men,
Knew not what forms of heaven's pure mould,
Mingling with those impure and cold,

171

Were cast on earth's wide, novel seat,
Where Paradise and misery meet,
It told of bosoms still unknown,
That throbb'd with feelings like my own;
And gave me, with prelusive power,
The dreams of life's advancing hour,
Ere yet 'twere mine, in truth, to know
The world of bliss—the world of woe,
That every gentler heart must trace,
Which loves, and seeks its kindred race.
The joy, the smiles, the tumult sweet,
When souls of love and lightning meet;
The pang, the cloud, the dying pain,
When they are forced apart again;
Life's summer glow, its sun's gay shining,
When bonds of faith and hope are twining;
The charms of hours, pursued by years
Of daily thought, and daily tears;
Watching for comet-beams that run
But once for ever near the sun,
Then glide into a track of shade
No mortal vision can pervade.
The harp, that even now can please,
When I have felt somewhat of these;
The harp, the dearest joy of mine,
I now, perhaps for aye, resign.

172

II.

Oh! thou my early friend, alone
Shalt listen to its farewell tone;
For thou canst tell what tremors start,
How bounds, how reels, how sinks the heart,
When friends, long join'd, are doom'd to part;
Their meeting all unknown.
Friends, whose warm passions, thoughts, and cares,
Were known, and felt, and loved so well,
They seem'd within our souls to dwell;
Our souls the life of theirs.
Then canst thou well my heart explore,
As here I hush the long loved lyre;
As here the songs of youth are o'er,
And all their light and mirth expire.
We part:—or if we cannot bring
Ourselves to perfect severing,
Yet must the clinging spirit rest,
Entomb'd and silent, in my breast.
For scenes far different wait me now
Than streamy dell, or mountain's brow:
And oh! I would not carry there
The minstrel's thought, the minstrel's air.

III.

Friend of my youth! thy voice has been
The balm of many an anguish keen;

173

And if, for once, my conscious soul
Could all melodious powers control,
My lyre's last tones, that flow to soothe
The sorrows of thy filial love,
In music of past times should steal
O'er thy sad heart, its woes to heal.
Oh! could I burst the withering spell,
That, fraught with visions horrible,
Has o'er thy heart a ruin hurl'd,
Dread as the death-hour of a world.
Oh! could I wake thee to a morning,
Whose beams, all shades of sadness scorning,
Would ope thy placid eye to know
Peace such as thine a year ago.
The fragile visions of the night
Are born in peace, and end in light;
Their beauty breaks in brighter day;
Or morning wafts their woes away.
But ah! these dreams of day impart
Such lingering sadness to the heart,
Cast in a moment on the eye,
Alas! they haste not swiftly by,
But dimly drags each faltering day,
And still the hateful objects stay.
They will not pass—but on we tread
Midst tombs of friends, and pleasures dead.

174

The sun but lightens to make known
How desolate our path is grown;
Or, if night slumbers on the air,
The ghosts of former times are there.

IV.

Yet, in the twilight valley cast
'Twixt heaven to come, and heaven that's past,
There is a voice so small and low,
The maniac ear of boisterous woe
Arrests it not—yet there 'tis known
When pain is left by passion gone.
'Tis hope;—though rather dark despair
Than any hope seem dwelling there;
'Tis hope—disguised like light that springs
From watchful knowledge of past things;
Proving from changes that have been,
From pleasure, good, and triumph seen,
That still some happier time shall be;
That still our eyes shall gladness see.
Oh! let not then thy tortur'd sense
Dwell in delirium on the past,
Firmly on heaven thy wishes cast,
And draw down power and solace thence.
And while thy thoughtful head is laid
Upon the bosom of that maid,

175

Who, in affliction's ordeal flame,
Has found love's pure celestial glow;
Whilst round thee thou canst spirits name,
Whose worth the ear can never know—
Think! for it cannot be forgot
There was a day thou knew'st them not—
Think! how life's blessings sometimes crowd,
Like angels from a hovering cloud.

V.

Tell me, was it within the scope
Of the far-prescient eye of hope,
To promise, in an hour unknown,
A ray of heaven, like that which shone
Full on thy breast, with sudden flame,
When Rufford's beam of beauty came?
No! 'twas the bliss (the fount of bliss,
Tinging all other joys with this)
Of hearts, that through long years have grown
Warm for each other, though unknown;
Without one dream, yet many a sigh
For that which drew in secret nigh;
Till, in an instant glance, has shone
The flash that melts two hearts to one:
To sever, when shall cease to be
God's mystic throne, eternity!

176

Oh, 'twas an hour of that blest cast,
When, though ne'er seen till felt when past,
For ever stands the radiant pole
Of each beloved magnetic soul!
That hour has left for thee a light
That fears no power of storm or night.
Distance may grieve, or years entwine
The bonds of absence, but to thine
Shall ever turn that light of love
On earth; or if in worlds above,
Down shall its gladdening beams be sent,
To guide thee by the way it went.

VI.

Thus hast thou found, in parted years,
Good undivined, unhoped for light;
Joy bathing in the dew of tears,
Wept by despair that self-same night.
Thus hast thou met the sudden glow
Of souls so pure, so formed for bliss,
That reason never yet could know
Why they were in a world like this.
Why they, without one lingering stain,
Should dwell with darkness and with crime;
Why they, all heaven, should share the pain,
Without the mildew teints of time,

177

Except it be to level low
All pride and charms of mortal years,
Leading athwart this vale of woe
The radiant forms of happier spheres:
Except it be to glean afar
All hearts devote to social bliss,
Luring their footsteps by a star
Whose every beam wakes ecstacies.
That when those hearts are won, and find
Nothing on earth but that worth viewing,
That star may flee, and leave behind
No hope, no pleasure but pursuing.

VII.

This then shall close my votive strain;
Whate'er has been, may be again.
Springs not the lightning from a cloud
Midst weeping showers, and murmurs loud?
Comes not the sun's all-quickening mien
Midst mists and wreaths of darkness seen?
Smiles not the moon's loved, pensive light
Upon the very couch of night?
And hast thou seen joy spring from sorrow?
And shalt thou doubt the coming morrow?

178

Well do I know the gloom profound,
The blasted scene that hems thee round.
But is there not a power alive
That bids gloom flee, and hope revive?
And yet, whate'er besides departs,
Thou hast a treasure of true hearts,
Enough from grief thy soul to win,
And soothe the love of life within.
But ere we part, raise now thine eye,
And cast a look on nature's face;
Tell me, in all its wide expanse,
Canst thou a tint but beauty's trace?
A scene where light and rapture dance;
A scene where ear, and heart, and glance,
Meet life, and melody, and peace;
A feast of millions from the hand
Of him whose mercies never cease.
Oh! canst thou think that his command
Shall thus the streams of gladness roll
O'er all creation's millions wide,
Alike their God and thine, nor guide
One rill of comfort to thy soul?
Then fare thee well! that guide divine
Shall lead alike thy steps and mine;

179

And know, that from my conscious heart
The treasured past shall ne'er depart:
In grief or pleasure, pain or prayer,
Thy imaged presence shall be there;
And 't will a pensive pleasure be,
My lyre's last notes were spent on thee!

1818.