The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION.
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION.
A REMINISCENCE OF CHATSWORTH.
ÆDES HAS PATERNAS DILECTISSIMAS
ANNO LIBERTATIS ANGLICÆ MDCLXXXVIII INSTITVTAS
GVL. S. DEVONIÆ DVX ANNO MDCCCXI HÆRES ACCEPIT
ANNO MŒRORIS SVI MDCCCXL PERFECIT.
Inscription at Chatsworth.
Sorrow and Death—unwelcome everywhere—
Enter all houses. 'Tis an ancient theme.
Enter all houses. 'Tis an ancient theme.
One glorious day in summer we drove down
To Haddon—thence to Chatsworth. We were like
The seven sleepers at the modern gates
Of Ephesus when we stood waiting there
Under the arch before the gilded gate,
For we had rambled through the galleries
And empty chambers of the olden time,
Until our minds had also grown antique.
To Haddon—thence to Chatsworth. We were like
The seven sleepers at the modern gates
Of Ephesus when we stood waiting there
Under the arch before the gilded gate,
For we had rambled through the galleries
And empty chambers of the olden time,
Until our minds had also grown antique.
The gate was opened, and we found ourselves
Before a modern palace. Level lawns
By acres—fountains glistening in the sun
Like minarets of silver—beds of flowers
Burning with dazzling scarlet and bright gold,
Or azure as the blue, clear, summer sky;
And here and there so white and beautiful,
Naked and cool beneath the noon-day sun,
A lovely statue. Sauntering round the walks,
We came at length into a spacious square
Bordered with flaming flowers, intensely bright,
Like lines of fire, and covering all the square,
Rose a great hall of crystal; entering which,
We found ourselves transported far away
To tropic climes. The air was warm and still,
Perfumed with blossoming trees. In groves of palm
We wandered; and above us spreading leaves
Hung gracefully—kind Nature's parasols,
Like those of dark green silk which menials bear
To shade the sacred heads of eastern kings:
And bending ferns, not like the bracken plants
That nestle in inhospitable crags
About our lakes and streams, but noble trees,
Plumed with large fronds that droop with languid heat.
And there were citron trees, and cinnamon,
Olives, and many natives of the East,
Whose names in sacred scriptures and old tales
Of Cairo are familiar to our ears.
And over all this grove an arch of glass
Rose to a lofty height, and interposed
Between those trees and our inclement sky
A bright, transparent shelter. Hence our Prince,
When he collected from remotest climes
The treasures of their richest merchandise,
Built a great fabric in the public park
After this model; in whose crystal halls
We wandered in the happy times of Peace.
Before a modern palace. Level lawns
By acres—fountains glistening in the sun
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Burning with dazzling scarlet and bright gold,
Or azure as the blue, clear, summer sky;
And here and there so white and beautiful,
Naked and cool beneath the noon-day sun,
A lovely statue. Sauntering round the walks,
We came at length into a spacious square
Bordered with flaming flowers, intensely bright,
Like lines of fire, and covering all the square,
Rose a great hall of crystal; entering which,
We found ourselves transported far away
To tropic climes. The air was warm and still,
Perfumed with blossoming trees. In groves of palm
We wandered; and above us spreading leaves
Hung gracefully—kind Nature's parasols,
Like those of dark green silk which menials bear
To shade the sacred heads of eastern kings:
And bending ferns, not like the bracken plants
That nestle in inhospitable crags
About our lakes and streams, but noble trees,
Plumed with large fronds that droop with languid heat.
And there were citron trees, and cinnamon,
Olives, and many natives of the East,
Whose names in sacred scriptures and old tales
Of Cairo are familiar to our ears.
And over all this grove an arch of glass
Rose to a lofty height, and interposed
Between those trees and our inclement sky
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When he collected from remotest climes
The treasures of their richest merchandise,
Built a great fabric in the public park
After this model; in whose crystal halls
We wandered in the happy times of Peace.
We left the palms; and having crossed the lawn,
Entered the palace by an orange grove,
Whose golden fruit by contrast with the green
Shone out so richly that we quite forgot
Its cheap complexion. Thence into a hall
Of sculpture, by a door whose pillars were
Great shafts of yellow jasper. From above,
On forms of beauty, fell the dazzling noon,
Such forms of strength and beauty! Oh to be
A giant like the one who holds the quoit,
Alive and strong! to have such godlike limbs,
And see Thorwaldsen's Venus start to life,
And leave her marble pedestal, and fly
With naked feet across the level lawn
Before you—then indeed these gardens were
A second Eden! This colossal bust
Recalls us to our world of strife and blood;
Thought sits enthroned on its tremendous brow,
Not meditation nor the poet's dream.
That brow was a white tent; within were held
Councils of war—there swift decisions came
That tossed about the crowns of Christendom,
Which were his playthings. Here's another bust—
It is our foe, the Autocrat, whose power
We need not now disparage as we did,
For he is dead, and deaf to all reproach.
Well! it was nobler to contend with him,
For France and England, than to practise war
On poor barbarians like those Algerines
Whom she invaded, or the wretched hordes
We slaughtered on the plains of Hindostan.
Strange than our stricken foe, this Nicholas,
For whom no name is foul or base enough
In our ignoble and unworthy rage—
This Northern Bear—this chief of savages—
Stayed here—beneath this roof—some years ago,
A pleased and cheerful guest. His noble host,
They said, had turned his portrait to the wall.
They said it falsely, and they libelled him!
The generous Duke can treat his royal foe
More nobly. He had eaten of his salt.
Entered the palace by an orange grove,
Whose golden fruit by contrast with the green
Shone out so richly that we quite forgot
Its cheap complexion. Thence into a hall
Of sculpture, by a door whose pillars were
Great shafts of yellow jasper. From above,
On forms of beauty, fell the dazzling noon,
Such forms of strength and beauty! Oh to be
A giant like the one who holds the quoit,
Alive and strong! to have such godlike limbs,
And see Thorwaldsen's Venus start to life,
And leave her marble pedestal, and fly
With naked feet across the level lawn
Before you—then indeed these gardens were
A second Eden! This colossal bust
Recalls us to our world of strife and blood;
Thought sits enthroned on its tremendous brow,
Not meditation nor the poet's dream.
That brow was a white tent; within were held
Councils of war—there swift decisions came
230
Which were his playthings. Here's another bust—
It is our foe, the Autocrat, whose power
We need not now disparage as we did,
For he is dead, and deaf to all reproach.
Well! it was nobler to contend with him,
For France and England, than to practise war
On poor barbarians like those Algerines
Whom she invaded, or the wretched hordes
We slaughtered on the plains of Hindostan.
Strange than our stricken foe, this Nicholas,
For whom no name is foul or base enough
In our ignoble and unworthy rage—
This Northern Bear—this chief of savages—
Stayed here—beneath this roof—some years ago,
A pleased and cheerful guest. His noble host,
They said, had turned his portrait to the wall.
They said it falsely, and they libelled him!
The generous Duke can treat his royal foe
More nobly. He had eaten of his salt.
This is the temple of departed gods
Whose influence haunts us yet. A thousand years
Build up a mythic creed; but nought on earth
Is so tenacious of its parting life;
It clings and clings about the souls of men,
No force can shake it off. It holds its place
In fancy after faith and reverence die,
And lives in verse and sculpture. Come away
To the fair temple of a younger faith,
Still having vital function in the world.
Whose influence haunts us yet. A thousand years
Build up a mythic creed; but nought on earth
Is so tenacious of its parting life;
It clings and clings about the souls of men,
No force can shake it off. It holds its place
In fancy after faith and reverence die,
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To the fair temple of a younger faith,
Still having vital function in the world.
'Tis wainscoted with cedar, richly carved,
Or purest alabaster. Faith and Hope
Stand by the altar—these are common virtues;
Rarer and brighter far is Charity.
It is a lovely chapel! Here one might
Yield to those sweet illusions that unnerve
Heroic strength of thought, and steal away
All that is left to us of manliness
For our eternal strivings after truth;
But I, whose dreams are of the Infinite,
Love better far the vastness out of doors.
Christ rarely taught in synagogues. He sought
Lake, desert, mountain, there to meditate.
I hold the arts most precious; yet I doubt
If they assist devotion like God's works.
It was no erring instinct that compelled
Old anchorites to leave such lovely shrines
As this, and dwell alone amongst the hills
With Nature and the scriptured works of God.
Or purest alabaster. Faith and Hope
Stand by the altar—these are common virtues;
Rarer and brighter far is Charity.
It is a lovely chapel! Here one might
Yield to those sweet illusions that unnerve
Heroic strength of thought, and steal away
All that is left to us of manliness
For our eternal strivings after truth;
But I, whose dreams are of the Infinite,
Love better far the vastness out of doors.
Christ rarely taught in synagogues. He sought
Lake, desert, mountain, there to meditate.
I hold the arts most precious; yet I doubt
If they assist devotion like God's works.
It was no erring instinct that compelled
Old anchorites to leave such lovely shrines
As this, and dwell alone amongst the hills
With Nature and the scriptured works of God.
We passed along through galleries of art
To the state rooms—a lofty, noble suite
Of chambers, built a hundred years ago,
Now scarcely used. We passed from room to room:
In one were royal thrones, on which were crowned
Sovereigns of England—rooms most richly hung
With leather stamped and gilt, or lined with oak
That blossomed into garlands at the doors.
To the state rooms—a lofty, noble suite
Of chambers, built a hundred years ago,
Now scarcely used. We passed from room to room:
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Sovereigns of England—rooms most richly hung
With leather stamped and gilt, or lined with oak
That blossomed into garlands at the doors.
Then standing at a window, as I looked
On the tall fountains and the distant pools,
Rich woods and swelling uplands in the park,
And a bright river with a herd of deer
Upon its bank reposing in the sun,
I yielded to illusions, thinking thus:
On the tall fountains and the distant pools,
Rich woods and swelling uplands in the park,
And a bright river with a herd of deer
Upon its bank reposing in the sun,
I yielded to illusions, thinking thus:
Sorrow and pain (I thought) can never come
To such a perfect paradise as this.
To such a perfect paradise as this.
We passed along, descending to a hall
Of precious marbles, and therein I read
A brief inscription that dispelled my dream.
Of precious marbles, and therein I read
A brief inscription that dispelled my dream.
It told me in its simple Latin phrase
That those fair buildings, which I thought secure
Against the siege of sorrow, had at last
Been finished—but the builder tells you there
That they were finished in a year of grief.
That those fair buildings, which I thought secure
Against the siege of sorrow, had at last
Been finished—but the builder tells you there
That they were finished in a year of grief.
So we begin our earthly palaces,
Our mighty works of industry and thought,
Buoyant with hope, and finish them in sorrow.
Our mighty works of industry and thought,
Buoyant with hope, and finish them in sorrow.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |