The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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MINSTER CHURCH
AND THE CONFIRMATION DAY |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
MINSTER CHURCH AND THE CONFIRMATION DAY
August xvii., mdcccxxxvi.
Hang not the harp upon the willow-bough,
But teach thy native echoes one more song
Though fame withhold her sigil from thy brow,
And years half yield thee to the unnoted throng.
Doth not the linnet her meek lay prolong
In the lone depths of some deserted wood?
Springs not the violet coarse weeds among,
Where no fond voice shall praise her solitude?
Happy that bird and flower, though there befew intrude?
But teach thy native echoes one more song
Though fame withhold her sigil from thy brow,
And years half yield thee to the unnoted throng.
Doth not the linnet her meek lay prolong
In the lone depths of some deserted wood?
Springs not the violet coarse weeds among,
Where no fond voice shall praise her solitude?
Happy that bird and flower, though there befew intrude?
The Minster of the Trees! a lonely dell
Deep with old oaks, and 'mid their quiet shade,
Grey with the moss of years, yon antique cell!
Sad are those walls: The cloister lowly laid
Where pacing monks at solemn evening made
Their chanted orisons; and as the breeze
Came up the vale, by rock and tree delay'd,
They heard the awful voice of many seas
Blend with thy pausing hymn—thou Minster of the Trees!
Deep with old oaks, and 'mid their quiet shade,
Grey with the moss of years, yon antique cell!
Sad are those walls: The cloister lowly laid
Where pacing monks at solemn evening made
Their chanted orisons; and as the breeze
Came up the vale, by rock and tree delay'd,
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Blend with thy pausing hymn—thou Minster of the Trees!
The thoughts of days long past lie buried here;
Scenes of the former men my soul surround:
Lo! a dark priest, who bends with solemn ear—
A warrior prostrate on the awful ground,
Hark! by stern promise is Lord Bottreaux bound
To spread for Palestine his contrite sail;
In distant dreams to hear the vesper sound
Of that sweet bell; but never more to hail
Amidst those native trees, the Minster of the Vale!
Scenes of the former men my soul surround:
Lo! a dark priest, who bends with solemn ear—
A warrior prostrate on the awful ground,
Hark! by stern promise is Lord Bottreaux bound
To spread for Palestine his contrite sail;
In distant dreams to hear the vesper sound
Of that sweet bell; but never more to hail
Amidst those native trees, the Minster of the Vale!
Gaze yet again! A maid with hooded brow
Glides like a shadow through the cloister'd wood;
'Tis not to breathe Saint Ursula's stony vow
She haunts at eve that dreamy solitude;—
Yon gnarlêd oak was young, when there they stood,
The lady and the priest—they met to sigh:
For who be they with sudden grasp intrude?
They sever them in haste—yet not to die.
Hark! from yon stifled wall a low and frequent cry!
Glides like a shadow through the cloister'd wood;
'Tis not to breathe Saint Ursula's stony vow
She haunts at eve that dreamy solitude;—
Yon gnarlêd oak was young, when there they stood,
The lady and the priest—they met to sigh:
For who be they with sudden grasp intrude?
They sever them in haste—yet not to die.
Hark! from yon stifled wall a low and frequent cry!
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Long generations! lo, a ghastly man
Is leaning there, bent with the weight of days!
His cell was shattered by the reckless ban
Of a hard monarch—hush'd the voice of praise.
He had gone forth—strange faces met his gaze:
Ailric was dead, and cold was Edith's eye;
He had return'd—no sheltering roof to raise,
But 'mid the ruins of his love to die—
To pass from that worn frame into his native sky.
Is leaning there, bent with the weight of days!
His cell was shattered by the reckless ban
Of a hard monarch—hush'd the voice of praise.
He had gone forth—strange faces met his gaze:
Ailric was dead, and cold was Edith's eye;
He had return'd—no sheltering roof to raise,
But 'mid the ruins of his love to die—
To pass from that worn frame into his native sky.
Wake! Dreamer of the Past;—no fairer grace
Dwelt in the vale or glided o'er the plain.
Heaven's changeless smile is here—earth's constant face;
The mingling sighs of woodland and the main.
Here, at lone eve, still seek this simple fane
Hearts that would cherish, 'midst their native trees,
A deathless faith—a hope that is not vain;
The tones that gather'd on the ancient breeze;
The Minster's pausing psalm; the chorus of the seas.
Dwelt in the vale or glided o'er the plain.
Heaven's changeless smile is here—earth's constant face;
The mingling sighs of woodland and the main.
Here, at lone eve, still seek this simple fane
Hearts that would cherish, 'midst their native trees,
A deathless faith—a hope that is not vain;
The tones that gather'd on the ancient breeze;
The Minster's pausing psalm; the chorus of the seas.
And lo! 'tis Holy Day!—through vale and wood
Beat joyful hearts; and white-rob'd forms are seen
Peopling with life the leafy solitude;
For He, of aspect mild yet stately mien,
The master-soul of a far loftier scene,
Hath come, beside that low-roof'd wall to stand,
Where the meek minster loves her bowers of green,
To breathe the Blessing on that rural band;
Proudly they hear those tones and see that lifted hand!
Beat joyful hearts; and white-rob'd forms are seen
Peopling with life the leafy solitude;
For He, of aspect mild yet stately mien,
The master-soul of a far loftier scene,
Hath come, beside that low-roof'd wall to stand,
Where the meek minster loves her bowers of green,
To breathe the Blessing on that rural band;
Proudly they hear those tones and see that lifted hand!
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And we, who gaze and ponder, have we not
Thoughts new and strange, for fancy's future hour?
Shall no glad visions haunt this storied spot,
Glide from those boughs, and rest by yonder tower?
Yes; there shall be a spell of mightiest power
Breath'd o'er that ground—him will these groves recall
Who saw, unbent, the deadly battle lower,
Fair Sion's turrets shake, her bulwarks fall;
And foremost mann'd the breach and latest left the wall.
Thoughts new and strange, for fancy's future hour?
Shall no glad visions haunt this storied spot,
Glide from those boughs, and rest by yonder tower?
Yes; there shall be a spell of mightiest power
Breath'd o'er that ground—him will these groves recall
Who saw, unbent, the deadly battle lower,
Fair Sion's turrets shake, her bulwarks fall;
And foremost mann'd the breach and latest left the wall.
Fane of the woods, farewell! an holier thought
Henceforth be thine; with added beauty blest!
The presence of this day hath surely wrought
A charm immortal for thy home of rest.
Long may the swallow find her wonted nest
On thy grey walls; long may the breezes bear
The sounds of worship from thy happy breast;
The mind that shook whole senates hath been there;
Strong be the soul of faith, and firm the voice of prayer.
Henceforth be thine; with added beauty blest!
The presence of this day hath surely wrought
A charm immortal for thy home of rest.
Long may the swallow find her wonted nest
On thy grey walls; long may the breezes bear
The sounds of worship from thy happy breast;
The mind that shook whole senates hath been there;
Strong be the soul of faith, and firm the voice of prayer.
August, 1836.
An alien priory to the abbey of St. Sergius, at Angiers, once occupied this glen. When it was dissolved the chapel was suffered to remain. It still preserves a record of the monasteries in its name—“the minster church.”
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