The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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| I. | PART I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
I. PART I.
I.
A wide, wide moor, and all alone!
And the winter blasts are cold and chill;
And the snowy cliff, and desert stone,
Of the holy moonlight take their fill.
No scent is here of the flowering plain,
No city sound, nor voice of trees;
No murmur of the woodland strain,
Nor flow of stream and breeze.
And the winter blasts are cold and chill;
And the snowy cliff, and desert stone,
Of the holy moonlight take their fill.
No scent is here of the flowering plain,
No city sound, nor voice of trees;
No murmur of the woodland strain,
Nor flow of stream and breeze.
These heaths are sacred to the storm—
The storm-king, on his desert throne;
And sacred to the rapturous form
Of Bard that walks alone.
The moon hath here no spots of green,
The stars no mirror for their eyes;
Grim desolation rules the scene
With tempests from the skies.
Yet pleasant still the moorland tongue,
The language Solitude doth love;
For here hath Inspiration sung
The joys that at her heart-strings move!
Silence doth kindle heavenly lore—
Each songster hath an angel wing;
And music murmurs evermore,
And makes the hill-tops ring.
The storm-king, on his desert throne;
And sacred to the rapturous form
Of Bard that walks alone.
The moon hath here no spots of green,
The stars no mirror for their eyes;
Grim desolation rules the scene
With tempests from the skies.
Yet pleasant still the moorland tongue,
The language Solitude doth love;
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The joys that at her heart-strings move!
Silence doth kindle heavenly lore—
Each songster hath an angel wing;
And music murmurs evermore,
And makes the hill-tops ring.
II.
Ah! who is here amid the snow,
The dews all frozen in his hair,
Cold drops of ice upon his brow—
That forehead bright and fair!
His lips are trembling in the chill,
His robes float streaming on the gale;
And the wild voices of the hill
Sound o'er him, like a demon's wail.
On the cold ground the form doth rest,
Beneath the blasts of night;
The snow-flakes slumber on his breast,
In their careerings light.
The dews all frozen in his hair,
Cold drops of ice upon his brow—
That forehead bright and fair!
His lips are trembling in the chill,
His robes float streaming on the gale;
And the wild voices of the hill
Sound o'er him, like a demon's wail.
On the cold ground the form doth rest,
Beneath the blasts of night;
The snow-flakes slumber on his breast,
In their careerings light.
“Poor youth, some frantic grief is thine—
Some canker at thy brain;
Grief's chains of molten fire entwine
Thy heart, thou second Cain!”
Some canker at thy brain;
Grief's chains of molten fire entwine
Thy heart, thou second Cain!”
“Thou lonely shape, why linger here,
Whilst frowns the winter cloud?
Even now I list the storm-winds near,
And the torrents thundering loud!
Where are the loved, that long ago
Did clasp thee to their breast?
Alas, if they beheld thy woe,
In the grave they could not rest!
Behold that brow so flush'd and wild,
Where quiet peace no more shall lie:
Thy father weeps to see his child,
Amid the songs on high.
That quivering lip, why its unrest?
Those wither'd hands, why are they prest
Above that sad and weary breast,
As in dying agony?
Like one who in a wilderness,
Where flower nor streamlet dwells,
Long time he hopes some sight may bless,
Of fragrant bloom, or spring that wells
Sweet crystal drink from out the sand:
But neither these, nor fruitful tree,
Rejoice in all that barren land!
Then, whither shall the wanderer flee?
How doth he on the hot ground lie,
In piteous prayer, lamenting loud?
Like a worn child, he sinks to die,
And the white desert is his shroud.”
Whilst frowns the winter cloud?
Even now I list the storm-winds near,
And the torrents thundering loud!
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Did clasp thee to their breast?
Alas, if they beheld thy woe,
In the grave they could not rest!
Behold that brow so flush'd and wild,
Where quiet peace no more shall lie:
Thy father weeps to see his child,
Amid the songs on high.
That quivering lip, why its unrest?
Those wither'd hands, why are they prest
Above that sad and weary breast,
As in dying agony?
Like one who in a wilderness,
Where flower nor streamlet dwells,
Long time he hopes some sight may bless,
Of fragrant bloom, or spring that wells
Sweet crystal drink from out the sand:
But neither these, nor fruitful tree,
Rejoice in all that barren land!
Then, whither shall the wanderer flee?
How doth he on the hot ground lie,
In piteous prayer, lamenting loud?
Like a worn child, he sinks to die,
And the white desert is his shroud.”
III.
“Arise, arise! if there be none
To comfort and assuage thy woe,
I, even like thee, depress'd and lone,
With thee o'er these wild wastes will go,
And soothe thee when the tempests blow.
What though the storms of life are strong,
And Desolation rides the air;—
What though impell'd by fear and wrong,
And hunted by Despair?
There yet are hopes, thy soul shall know
Life's pleasant flowerets are not dead;
Thou'lt hear the joyous waters flow,
And mountain breezes fan thy head.
The pious lore of ancient men
Shall greet thee in thy lonely bower,
And magic of the wood and glen
Entrance the passing hour.
Along each happy solitude,
Still beauty walks in joy and pride;
And love shall smooth thy pathways rude,
And lure thee to her side.
What if the lady of thy love
Hath scorn'd thee, and denied her smiles;
Or if she tread the skies above,
Amid the heavenly isles?
Lament not,—give thou scorn for scorn,—
Or tears and blessings, if no more:
Though storm to-night, to-morrow morn
The sun will gladden every shore.”
To comfort and assuage thy woe,
I, even like thee, depress'd and lone,
With thee o'er these wild wastes will go,
And soothe thee when the tempests blow.
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And Desolation rides the air;—
What though impell'd by fear and wrong,
And hunted by Despair?
There yet are hopes, thy soul shall know
Life's pleasant flowerets are not dead;
Thou'lt hear the joyous waters flow,
And mountain breezes fan thy head.
The pious lore of ancient men
Shall greet thee in thy lonely bower,
And magic of the wood and glen
Entrance the passing hour.
Along each happy solitude,
Still beauty walks in joy and pride;
And love shall smooth thy pathways rude,
And lure thee to her side.
What if the lady of thy love
Hath scorn'd thee, and denied her smiles;
Or if she tread the skies above,
Amid the heavenly isles?
Lament not,—give thou scorn for scorn,—
Or tears and blessings, if no more:
Though storm to-night, to-morrow morn
The sun will gladden every shore.”
From underneath his even brow
The shadow o'er his eyes was gone;
In the clear air uprose he now,
All pale as sculptur'd stone.
Beauteous and brave, he once had been
Among the mountains like a god;
No spot of all this varied scene
His footsteps had not trod.
His soul had drank each new delight,
Each impulse swell'd his heaving breast;
And Nature, in her power and might,
His being and his life imprest.
The morning hue, the evening dream,
The ocean's calm, or stormy deep,
These lit with joy, each favour'd theme,
And linger'd in his sleep.
No earthly maid might shield her love,
From him, amid the festal throng:
So bright, as if from heaven above,
A seraph moved along:
Some shadow of the imaged thought,
Which fancy to a maid hath brought,—
A maiden wanderer of the wood,
In love's ecstatic solitude.
The shadow o'er his eyes was gone;
In the clear air uprose he now,
All pale as sculptur'd stone.
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Among the mountains like a god;
No spot of all this varied scene
His footsteps had not trod.
His soul had drank each new delight,
Each impulse swell'd his heaving breast;
And Nature, in her power and might,
His being and his life imprest.
The morning hue, the evening dream,
The ocean's calm, or stormy deep,
These lit with joy, each favour'd theme,
And linger'd in his sleep.
No earthly maid might shield her love,
From him, amid the festal throng:
So bright, as if from heaven above,
A seraph moved along:
Some shadow of the imaged thought,
Which fancy to a maid hath brought,—
A maiden wanderer of the wood,
In love's ecstatic solitude.
IV.
The man of pride—the stately man—What is he, when grief's death-winds blow?
He, who through thousand tempests ran,
Now sadly droops in tearful woe.
Amid the chambers of the brain,
The waves of death in terror flow;
Like eagles stricken to the plain,
Lies Fancy and her champions low.
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And bloodshot with the tears of blood;
Whilst shapes of hell and tempest rise,
And haunt its spectral solitude.
Thus, like a lute's harmonious dreaming,
When heaven and all its winds are still,
On some lake-side, melodious streaming,
Angelic notes o'er grove and hill.
Some chord is broke,—no more the wind
Bears dulcet music on the ear;
So, with the fibres of the mind
Unstrung, they murmur of the bier.
V.
“Now, tell me youth, how, without dread,
Thou darest by night these hills of storm?
Why on the cliff-stone rest thy head,
On the cold snows thy pallid form?
Say what the unmitigable woe
That gnaws within that aching brain?
Who is the tyrant—who the foe—
The author of thy pain?
Thou darest by night these hills of storm?
Why on the cliff-stone rest thy head,
On the cold snows thy pallid form?
Say what the unmitigable woe
That gnaws within that aching brain?
Who is the tyrant—who the foe—
The author of thy pain?
“If of the tyrant thou hast fear,
Proclaim him, let the warning sound;
Ten thousand patriot hands will rear
Their standard from this rocky ground:
Ten thousand warriors will arise,
Like thee opprest, like thee subdued;
And Freedom's glorious sacrifice
Be charter'd with their blood!
“Or say—hath Love's entrancing chain
Thee vanquish'd, that hath vanquish'd all?
Even then thy hope shall spring again,
The prouder for its fall.”
Proclaim him, let the warning sound;
Ten thousand patriot hands will rear
Their standard from this rocky ground:
Ten thousand warriors will arise,
Like thee opprest, like thee subdued;
And Freedom's glorious sacrifice
Be charter'd with their blood!
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Thee vanquish'd, that hath vanquish'd all?
Even then thy hope shall spring again,
The prouder for its fall.”
VI.
“I'll tell thee all: Long, long ago,
Ere dreams were thought, my father died;
And in one year—Oh, memory wild!—
His wife lay buried by his side!
Long years have fled; but yet I see
The pale, cold face, that smiled in death,—
The eyes so bright, now dark to me,—
The warbling cadence of her breath—
Those tones so clear and free.
I treasure well the voice of prayer!
The green grave-side all wet with rain;
The heavenly voice that fill'd the air,
And slowly spake amid my pain
Of anguish and despair.
Ere dreams were thought, my father died;
And in one year—Oh, memory wild!—
His wife lay buried by his side!
Long years have fled; but yet I see
The pale, cold face, that smiled in death,—
The eyes so bright, now dark to me,—
The warbling cadence of her breath—
Those tones so clear and free.
I treasure well the voice of prayer!
The green grave-side all wet with rain;
The heavenly voice that fill'd the air,
And slowly spake amid my pain
Of anguish and despair.
“And one sad night—when sorrow's sleep
Wrought fever in this weary head,
And, all in vain, I strove to weep
In memory of the dead—
A spirit came from heaven above:
Her head all clothed in glory bright,—
Her eye serene with heavenly light,—
The lambent light of love.
Her face so rapturously shone,
That, when at first the floating shade
Came radiant o'er my drooping head,
I was with fear undone.”
Wrought fever in this weary head,
And, all in vain, I strove to weep
In memory of the dead—
A spirit came from heaven above:
Her head all clothed in glory bright,—
Her eye serene with heavenly light,—
The lambent light of love.
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That, when at first the floating shade
Came radiant o'er my drooping head,
I was with fear undone.”
VII.
Now morning rose upon the sky,
The waters and the winds were still;
Peace ruled each quiet cottage nigh,
Each valley, grove, and hill.
The mists along the lake lay sleeping,
The dews still prest each blade of grass,
The idle brooks their notes of weeping
Chant dolefully as on they pass.
In the clear waters calmly lie
All shadows of rock, flower, and tree;
The clouds unto their pastures fly,
And the coral depths are free.
What though sweet love of human life
Rejoices not that crystal deep,—
No brooding care, no clanging strife,
Disturbs the heavenly sleep?
Those cottages, the sportive glee
Of children, by the green hill side,
In the clear waves are mirror'd free,
As down the depths they glide.
The waters and the winds were still;
Peace ruled each quiet cottage nigh,
Each valley, grove, and hill.
The mists along the lake lay sleeping,
The dews still prest each blade of grass,
The idle brooks their notes of weeping
Chant dolefully as on they pass.
In the clear waters calmly lie
All shadows of rock, flower, and tree;
The clouds unto their pastures fly,
And the coral depths are free.
What though sweet love of human life
Rejoices not that crystal deep,—
No brooding care, no clanging strife,
Disturbs the heavenly sleep?
Those cottages, the sportive glee
Of children, by the green hill side,
In the clear waves are mirror'd free,
As down the depths they glide.
Rejoice, ye glorious scenes, rejoice!
That not in vain your murmurs sound;
That not in vain ye bear a voice
Of power that girds us round.
Ye have no eye, nor tongue of fear—
Not vainly glows your summer dress;
The stars behold ye in their sphere,
And the moon loves your forms to bless
Far in their pearly wilderness.
That not in vain your murmurs sound;
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Of power that girds us round.
Ye have no eye, nor tongue of fear—
Not vainly glows your summer dress;
The stars behold ye in their sphere,
And the moon loves your forms to bless
Far in their pearly wilderness.
Lo! the soft echoes waken round
Of bleating lamb, and shepherd boy:
From all the earth leaps forth the sound
Of merriment and joy!
Exultant from the dust starts up
A spirit of the heavenly air—
The lark, to swell her daily cup
Of offering to the morn's young star.
A thousand myriad hymns I hear,
Of voice and echo, at heaven's gate;
Glory seraphic sounds within mine ear—
Oh, never can it sate!
Glad choristers, that fragrantly do go
Out from the yellow broom, singing so sweet;
How do I bless you for the strains that flow
Of love and joy from your aërial seat!
Again! oh, yet again! that dulcet shower,
Which through the azure deeps ye thus profusely pour!
Of bleating lamb, and shepherd boy:
From all the earth leaps forth the sound
Of merriment and joy!
Exultant from the dust starts up
A spirit of the heavenly air—
The lark, to swell her daily cup
Of offering to the morn's young star.
A thousand myriad hymns I hear,
Of voice and echo, at heaven's gate;
Glory seraphic sounds within mine ear—
Oh, never can it sate!
Glad choristers, that fragrantly do go
Out from the yellow broom, singing so sweet;
How do I bless you for the strains that flow
Of love and joy from your aërial seat!
Again! oh, yet again! that dulcet shower,
Which through the azure deeps ye thus profusely pour!
VIII.
Now through the prismy dews we moved along,
Past the dark broom, and by the forest steep,
Till far away, broad sycamores among,
A snow-white cottage lit the foliage deep.
In spiral wreaths the smoke ascended high,
And winded softly through morn's ruby light;
How sweet a place,—how calm,—to live and die
Enwrapt in visions of poetic might!
Past the dark broom, and by the forest steep,
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A snow-white cottage lit the foliage deep.
In spiral wreaths the smoke ascended high,
And winded softly through morn's ruby light;
How sweet a place,—how calm,—to live and die
Enwrapt in visions of poetic might!
Sudden the youth!—
“O bright, bright skies! O sunshine ever fair!
How often have ye darken'd since I knew
What glorious visitations died in air,
Since here the flower most loved, most cherish'd, grew?
The honey-bees' sweet work-song fill'd my soul
Soft from those sycamores in ancient day;
And o'er my waken'd spirit oft would roll,
Even as an angel's song, the blackbird's lay.
And she would sing, whose voice was sweeter far
Than all the birds that warble on the bough,
Than all the marvels of each sphered star,—
Where, where breathe on those heavenly murmurs now?
I wont to feel a joyous bounding here—
Here, at the heart,—but that hath fled away;
And now the fiend Remorse, the spectre Fear,
Watch ceaselessly the portals night and day.
A wither'd tree, the youngest in the grove,
Leafless and lost, the rest in foliage strong;
Where never come the balmy winds of love,
Sunlight, nor fruitage, nor the forest song.
“Wilt thou hear more? Long, long ago,
A beauteous phantom did appear:
When first she came I scarcely know,
So swiftly flew each happy year.
“O bright, bright skies! O sunshine ever fair!
How often have ye darken'd since I knew
What glorious visitations died in air,
Since here the flower most loved, most cherish'd, grew?
The honey-bees' sweet work-song fill'd my soul
Soft from those sycamores in ancient day;
And o'er my waken'd spirit oft would roll,
Even as an angel's song, the blackbird's lay.
And she would sing, whose voice was sweeter far
Than all the birds that warble on the bough,
Than all the marvels of each sphered star,—
Where, where breathe on those heavenly murmurs now?
I wont to feel a joyous bounding here—
Here, at the heart,—but that hath fled away;
And now the fiend Remorse, the spectre Fear,
Watch ceaselessly the portals night and day.
A wither'd tree, the youngest in the grove,
Leafless and lost, the rest in foliage strong;
Where never come the balmy winds of love,
Sunlight, nor fruitage, nor the forest song.
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A beauteous phantom did appear:
When first she came I scarcely know,
So swiftly flew each happy year.
I ne'er again may hope to feel
Those joys, those raptures of the soul;
Nor e'er in human words reveal
The bondage of her sweet control.
To hear her voice, to watch her eyes,
To listen when her footsteps came,—
O nought beneath yon blessed skies
Could match the maid I may not name!
Not angels, when with quivering lip
They list the music of the spheres,
Such charms could boast, such pleasures sip,
As broke entranced upon mine ears:
So sweet the virgin dreams of love—
So fair the azure robes of truth,—
Like firstling blossoms from above,
And pure as heaven, the hopes of youth!
Those joys, those raptures of the soul;
Nor e'er in human words reveal
The bondage of her sweet control.
To hear her voice, to watch her eyes,
To listen when her footsteps came,—
O nought beneath yon blessed skies
Could match the maid I may not name!
Not angels, when with quivering lip
They list the music of the spheres,
Such charms could boast, such pleasures sip,
As broke entranced upon mine ears:
So sweet the virgin dreams of love—
So fair the azure robes of truth,—
Like firstling blossoms from above,
And pure as heaven, the hopes of youth!
“She knew all birds by each peculiar note—
Each fragrant wild-flower, each particular hue;
And the dear music warbling in her throat,
Fix'd in my beating heart the knowledge true.
Each grot remote, each woodland bower we knew,
Each waterfall rejoicing in the breeze,—
Each change of Summer, each delightful hue
Of Autumn's twilight, and the forest trees.
Her brow was as a tablet, rich and fair,
Whereon were thoughts divine, like garlands wove;
Her eyes, like summer springs, were bright and clear,
And her sweet lips were musical with love!
Her hair, like clouds of night, descended low—
Her neck like snow beneath a raven's wing;
Whilst grace and elegance, combined to throw
Angelic beauty on this blessed thing!
Her dimpled cheek the rapture of a dream;
Her foot's fine curve might match Diana's bow;
Her voice, as when, at night, the silver stream
Of Derwent's waves arrest the moonbeam's glow!
Gazing on her, I saw no more
The splendours of the earth and sky;
The waves fell voiceless on the shore—
The winds swept lyreless by.
Around her beauteous breast, the snow-god placed
The holiest veil that decks his inner shrine;
O'er all her limbs, devotional love had traced
Spiritual brightness, tenderness divine—
As vestal, loved by godhead, did she shine!
Each fragrant wild-flower, each particular hue;
And the dear music warbling in her throat,
Fix'd in my beating heart the knowledge true.
Each grot remote, each woodland bower we knew,
Each waterfall rejoicing in the breeze,—
Each change of Summer, each delightful hue
Of Autumn's twilight, and the forest trees.
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Whereon were thoughts divine, like garlands wove;
Her eyes, like summer springs, were bright and clear,
And her sweet lips were musical with love!
Her hair, like clouds of night, descended low—
Her neck like snow beneath a raven's wing;
Whilst grace and elegance, combined to throw
Angelic beauty on this blessed thing!
Her dimpled cheek the rapture of a dream;
Her foot's fine curve might match Diana's bow;
Her voice, as when, at night, the silver stream
Of Derwent's waves arrest the moonbeam's glow!
Gazing on her, I saw no more
The splendours of the earth and sky;
The waves fell voiceless on the shore—
The winds swept lyreless by.
Around her beauteous breast, the snow-god placed
The holiest veil that decks his inner shrine;
O'er all her limbs, devotional love had traced
Spiritual brightness, tenderness divine—
As vestal, loved by godhead, did she shine!
IX.
Woe to the generations! ever woe!
That love should fade like wavelet of the sea;
Nor summer clouds, enrich'd by evening's glow,
Nor rainbow-splendour are so frail as thee!
Yet beautiful as diamond in the mine,
Or glow-worm dreaming in some mossy dell;
One ray of sunlight, where lone captives pine—
One star rejoicing o'er some mountain well!
But, lo! the winter clouds o'erspread the sky,
And winter tempests whistle through the air;
Love's fruits and flowers are left to fade and die,
Her bridegroom Sorrow, and her fruit Despair.
That love should fade like wavelet of the sea;
Nor summer clouds, enrich'd by evening's glow,
Nor rainbow-splendour are so frail as thee!
Yet beautiful as diamond in the mine,
Or glow-worm dreaming in some mossy dell;
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One star rejoicing o'er some mountain well!
But, lo! the winter clouds o'erspread the sky,
And winter tempests whistle through the air;
Love's fruits and flowers are left to fade and die,
Her bridegroom Sorrow, and her fruit Despair.
“Through leagues of weary wandering must we go,
Who seek the bowers of Love's immortal sway;
Amid the gloom entangling creepers grow,
Whilst every poisonous herb pollutes the way
But, lo! the gorgeous temples where they stand,
What glorious visions burst upon the eye;
In prime of youth glows all the blushing land,
With tints as radiant as an eastern sky.
Here lurk no craven fears, no base desires—
Nor dread, nor doubt, nor sorrow borne in vain;
But love encircles with celestial fires,
And lights the sacred shrines of heart and brain.
Who seek the bowers of Love's immortal sway;
Amid the gloom entangling creepers grow,
Whilst every poisonous herb pollutes the way
But, lo! the gorgeous temples where they stand,
What glorious visions burst upon the eye;
In prime of youth glows all the blushing land,
With tints as radiant as an eastern sky.
Here lurk no craven fears, no base desires—
Nor dread, nor doubt, nor sorrow borne in vain;
But love encircles with celestial fires,
And lights the sacred shrines of heart and brain.
“Yea, joys are thine, unequall'd else beside,
Of nations in their first, their fairest prime;
When lovers revell'd in the early pride
Of the world's youth, ere yet unstain'd with crime.
Oh, Love, that with the primrose of the vale,
Or violet of the morn, was pure and bright;
Whilst clouds of fragrance swept along the gale,
From woodbine bowers of gladness and delight!
How joyous then!—ere vessel trod the wave,
Or cities tower'd—abodes of lust and wrong;
When sea-nymphs revell'd in each coral cave,
And Dryads charm'd the forests with their song.
Of nations in their first, their fairest prime;
When lovers revell'd in the early pride
Of the world's youth, ere yet unstain'd with crime.
Oh, Love, that with the primrose of the vale,
Or violet of the morn, was pure and bright;
Whilst clouds of fragrance swept along the gale,
From woodbine bowers of gladness and delight!
How joyous then!—ere vessel trod the wave,
Or cities tower'd—abodes of lust and wrong;
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And Dryads charm'd the forests with their song.
“Then, touch'd with heavenly fire, each fairest maid,
In sweet submission, tuned the amorous lay;
Nor fear'd to meet her lover in the shade,
Beneath the tender moon's alluring ray.
Then shone the stars on true-love's purest kiss—
The birth of passion, ere the sting of pain;
Whilst earthly trust aspired to heavenly bliss:
When shall we know these blessed hours again!
In sweet submission, tuned the amorous lay;
Nor fear'd to meet her lover in the shade,
Beneath the tender moon's alluring ray.
Then shone the stars on true-love's purest kiss—
The birth of passion, ere the sting of pain;
Whilst earthly trust aspired to heavenly bliss:
When shall we know these blessed hours again!
“Love is Religion's handmaid: on her brow
Shine lights of heaven; and, cinctur'd on her head,
Glow amaranthine wreaths; whilst round her flow
Strains, tender and sublime, that might arouse the dead!”
Shine lights of heaven; and, cinctur'd on her head,
Glow amaranthine wreaths; whilst round her flow
Strains, tender and sublime, that might arouse the dead!”
| The bard, and minor poems | |