The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
10
Alma beata e bella
Che, da legami sciolta,
Nuda salisti ne' superni chiostri,
Ove, con la tua stella,
Ti godi insieme accolta.
Sanazzaro.
Che, da legami sciolta,
Nuda salisti ne' superni chiostri,
Ove, con la tua stella,
Ti godi insieme accolta.
Sanazzaro.
I
Joy to thy course, young traveller, as the speedOf thy exulting spirit leads thee now,
Wherever brighter land, or braver deed
May call thee forth, a worshipper, to bow.
Joy to thy course, young traveller, for thou
Hast been a fairy dreamer from thy birth,
In thy glad home hast bent, with constant brow,
O'er charmed lore, and tale of high-souled worth,
Till all that brightens heaven thou fondly deem'st on earth.
11
II
Fair scenes are shining round thee, fair, young eyesAre beaming on thee love's entrancing light;
Then, while youth's buoyant spirit still denies
To feel earth's chillness, to discern its blight;
While thy warm sighs no sharp regrets excite;
And, even thy tears, like the sweet dews of May,
Are scatterings from a fountain of delight,
Come lend thine ear a moment to my lay,
For 'tis of souls like thine,—the noblest of their day.
III
Among the verdant mountains of the Peak,There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope
Of pleasant uplands wards the north-winds bleak;
Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope;
Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
Of forest trees: flower, foliage, and clear rill
Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope;
It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
By sainted words of old:—so lovely, lone, and still.
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IV
And many are the pilgrim feet which treadIts rocky steeps; which thither yearly go;
Yet, less by love of Nature's wonders led,
Than by the memory of a mighty woe,
Which smote, like blasting thunder, long ago,
The peopled hills. There stands a sacred tomb,
Where tears have rained, nor yet shall cease to flow;
Recording days of death's sublimest gloom;
Mompesson's power and pain,—his beauteous Catherine's doom.
V
There dwelt they in the summer of their love.He, the young pastor of that mountain fold,
For whom, not Fancy could foretell above,
Bliss more than earth had at his feet unrolled.
Yet, ceased he not on that high track to hold,
Upon whose bright, eternal steep is shewn
Faith's starry coronal. The sad, the cold
Caught from his fervent spirit its warm tone,
And woke to loftier aims, and feelings long unknown.
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VI
And she,—his pride and passion—she, all sun,All love, and mirth and beauty;—a rich form
Of finished grace, where Nature had outdone
Her wonted skill. Oh! well might Fancy's swarm
Of more than earthly hopes and visions, warm
His ardent mind; for, joyous was her mood;
There seemed a spirit of gladness to inform
Her happy frame, by no light shock subdued,
Which filled her home with light, and all she touched imbued.
VII
Her laugh was like the sun's forth-bursting shineUpon the summits of her favourite hills;
Her playful tones thrilled with that spell divine
Which beauty, even into a sound, instils:
And yet, as when a passing shadow fills
Some fairy valley, darkening, yet the more
Augmenting its wild beauty—when life's ills,
Or solemn hopes upon her spirit bore,
With what pathetic thought her melting soul ran o'er.
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VIII
So lived, so loved they. Their life lay enshrinedWithin themselves and people. They reck'd not
How the world sped around them, nor divined;
Heaven, and their home endearments fill'd their lot.
Within the charmed boundary of their cot,
Was treasured high and multifarious lore
Of sage, divine, and minstrel ne'er forgot
In wintry hours; and, carolled on their floor,
Were childhood's happy lays. Could Heaven award them more?
IX
Abroad, they hailed around ten thousand friends—Mountains and valleys; flitting light and shade,
Caves, waters, winds; whatever lives, or lends
Its being, or its beauty to the aid
Of that soul-kindling charm which has arrayed
Those Alpine haunts. With these they loved to dwell,
In sunny hours; in Dovedale's elfin glade;
Chatsworth's green bowers; Monsal's Arcadian dell;
Or sterner tracks, where thought's more awful influence fell.
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X
So lived, so loved they. But, as in the calmOf a hot noon, a sudden gust will wake;
Anon clouds throng; then fiercer squalls alarm;
Then thunder, flashing gleams, and the wild break
Of wind and deluge:—till the living quake,
Towers rock, woods crash amid the tempest,—so
In their reposing calm of gladness, spake
A word of fear; first whispering—dubious—low,
Then lost;—then firm and clear, a menacing of woe:
XI
'Till out it burst, a dreadful cry of death;“The Plague! the Plague!” The withering language flew,
And faintness followed on its rapid breath;
And all hearts sunk, as pierced with lightning through.
“The Plague! the Plague!” No groundless panic grew;
But there, sublime in awful darkness, trod
The Pest; and lamentation, as he slew,
Proclaimed his ravage in each sad abode,
Mid frenzied shrieks for aid—and vain appeals to God.
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XII
Then rose the lover—then the mother roseIn Catherine's heart—her children she embraced;
Her knee on earth, her forehead with the throes
Of terror pale, wildly herself she cast
Before her lord.—“Fly, ere the hope be past!
Fly! let us fly! 'Tis madness here to be.
The vast metropolis became a waste
Before this deadly pestilence:—and shall we
These blessed ones expose? Heaven! Nature bid us flee!”
XIII
Her cheek was blanched,—paleness, as mountain snow,Was on her features; but her eloquent eye
Beamed with all woman's tenderness—the glow
Of loftiest mind; but, ere he spoke reply,
Faded the glow,—the passion had passed by.
She rose—and gazing on her children, where
In innocent fear and wonder they drew nigh,
Tears gushed amain, and her maternal air
Told that her soul's chief pain and sorrow centred there
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XIV
“I know,” she said, “I know, my loved one, thouWilt not depart. Thy high resolve I read;
Nor longer seek thy generous heart to bow.
God be our shield! Oh God! behold our need!
But these?”—Then sprang, as from enchantment freed,
Mompesson to his noble Catherine's breast;
“Aye, they shall go—haste thou their flight to lead.
Nay, dost thou pause? Yield'st thou not this request?
Then God indeed shield thee! His will decide the rest.”
XV
They went—those lovely ones, to their retreat.They went—those glorious ones, to their employ;
To check the ominous speed of flying feet;
To quell despair; to soothe the fierce annoy,
Which, as a stormy ocean without buoy
Tossing a ship distressed, twixt reef and rock,
Hurried the crowd, from years of quiet joy
Thus roused to fear by this terrific shock;
And wild, distracted, mazed, the pastor met his flock.
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XVI
But ardent, strong, armed with that heavenly faith,His glowing theme through length of happier days
He buried in his heart all sense of scath,
And framed his words their smitten thoughts to raise:
“Alas! beloved friends! Alas! where strays
Your wonted mind? What mean these signs of flight?
Is God unpitying, though he wrath displays?
Is the sun quenched when clouds obscure his light?
Oh! calm your trembling souls, be strong in christian might.
XVII
“And whither would you fly? Can the wide worldAfford a hope of safety here unfound?
Here mountain gales their pinions have unfurled;
Wide space extends; sweet waters pour around.
We breathe not here, as in the tainted bound
Of a huge city. Health will soon return;
But, like some wretch whom sudden flames confound,
You rush abroad uncertain aid to earn,
And what you might subdue, the winds give power to burn.
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XVIII
“Here we may strive and conquer, and may saveOur country from this desolating curse;
Some few, perchance, may fill an earlier grave;
But, if ye fly, it follows, and ye nurse
Death in your flight; wide, wider ye disperse
Destruction through the land. Oh then! bow down
And vow to Him, to virtue ne'er averse,
To stand unshrinking 'neath Death's fiercest frown.
Then Heaven shall give us rest, and earth a fair renown.”
XIX
They heard, and they obeyed,—for, simple-hearted,He was to them their wisdom and their tower;
To theirs, his brilliant spirit had imparted
All that they knew of virtue's loftier power;
Their friend, their guide, their idolized endower
With daily blessings, health of mind and frame;
They heard, and they obeyed;—but not the more
Obeyed the plague; no skill its wrath could tame;
It grew, it raged, it spread; like a devouring flame.
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XX
Oh! piteous was it then that place to tread;Where children played and mothers had looked on,
They lay, like flowers plucked to adorn the dead;
The bright-eyed maid no adoration won;
Youth in its greenness, trembling age was gone;
O'er each bright cottage hearth death's darkness stole;
Tears fell, pangs racked, where happiness had shone.
But turn we now from scenes of boundless dole,
And cull one simple tale from the funereal roll.
XXI
“There are my native mountains!” cried aloudA gallant youth, as his exulting view
Caught, like a dim and distant range of cloud,
The Peak's blue ridges. There he stood, and drew
With a deep pause, his breath; the bright tears grew
In his fixed eyes; then, with a sudden bound,
Onward he towards that hilly region flew;
And now, he lightly trod the ascending ground;
And now, those fairy dales, and green hills hemmed him round.
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XXII
Oh! if thy birth-place is not of the hills;If thou, in thy sweet childhood, hast not known
What a wild joy the youthful bosom fills
Amidst the tempest's and the torrent's tone,
Warring in some stern solitude alone,
Or, leaping down the steep's rejoicing side,
When morning's splendour, and glad voices thrown
From cliff to cliff, send joy and beauty wide,
Thou know'st not with what heart along those dales he hied.
XXIII
His home was in those mountains, and a homeFilled with the history of his early years;
The sun of affluence lit its ample dome;
And there a father's pride, a mother's tears,
A sister's generous love; all that endears
And chains the heart to one enchanted spot,
Were hoarded there, and there a thousand fears
Had woke for him in one, whose humble lot
Was blessed to be borne, whilst by him unforgot.
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XXIV
Yes; he had loved! 'Twas with a boyish love,But not a boy's caprice, a mountain flower,
Lowly, but lovely. The sweet passion throve
Triumphantly thro' many a summer hour;
But fell, as love is wont, beneath the power
Of a proud father's glance, who hoped, with skill,
To pluck that blossom from its sheltering bower;
Strong was his love, but pride was stronger still,
And doomed his only boy the victim of his will.
XXV
And therefore in the greenness of his age,Sent with a famous captain of the time
(For to a day long past refers my page,)
To quench in wonders love's delightful crime,
Tossed on the sea, from distant clime to clime,
He on a marvellous pilgrimage was cast!
The new-found world, with all its scenes sublime
Before his ardent spirit strangely passed,
And each succeeding realm seemed fairer than the last.
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XXVI
But how had sped his father's chief intent?Oh! lovers need not ask, for love will know.
As o'er the sea, mid summer isles he went;
Gazing on Chimborazo's heights of snow;
Breasting with gallant ship the mighty flow
Of Amazonian river, or La Plate,
Midst dusky tribes, he only seemed to know
One wish uncrowned,—to Ellen to relate
All these delicious scenes, and story of his fate.
XXVII
And here he was again—before his eyes,Rose, like a bosky island, from the dell
A wood-crowned, rocky rampart; there Eyam lies;
And there his Ellen, and his parents dwell.
Oh! what quick feelings in his bosom swell;
An eager tremor hurries every limb;
Sweet Fancy holds him by her brightest spell;
Fear's hovering cloud, nor Sorrow's visage dim,
Haunted the happy dream, which came alone to him.
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XXVIII
There is a dell, the merry school-boy's slingWhirled in the village, might discharge a stone
Into its centre; yet, the shouts which ring
Forth from the hamlet travel, over blown,
Nor to its sheltered quietude are known.
So hushed, so shrouded its deep bosom lies,
It brooks no sound, but the congenial tone
Of stirring leaves, loud rill, the melodies
Of Summer's breezy breath, or Autumn's stormier skies.
XXIX
A nook more fair never disclosed its sweetnessTo the glad gaze of heavenly shapes, which ran
Through the world's solitudes, with winged fleetness,
Ere evil deeds had left on earth their ban;—
To forest Dian,—jolly-hearted Pan;
Or wilder spirits, of that later race,
Who came in song from the bright East, till man,
Inquisitive and bold, in every place
Had dared their rites to view, their wood-walks to deface.
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XXX
Northward, from shadowy rocks, a wild stream pours;Then wider spreads the hollow—lofty trees
Cast summer shades; it is a place of flowers,
Of sun and fragrance, birds and chiming bees.
Then higher shoot the hills. Acclivities
Splintered and stern, each like a castle grey,
Where ivy climbs, and roses woo the breeze,
Narrow the pass; there, trees in close array
Shut, from this woodland cove, all distant, rude survey.
XXXI
But its chief ornament, a miracleOf Nature's mirth, a wondrous temple stands,
Right in the centre of this charmed dell,
Which every height and bosky slope commands.
Arch meeting arch, unwrought of human hands,
Form dome and portals. On its roof the air
Waves leafy boughs; the Alpine flower expands;
It seems a spell-constructed bower, the care
Of Maugraby the stern, or of Banou the fair.
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XXXII
This was the haunt of Raynal's boyish feet.It was a spot all coloured with the flame
Of earliest love's communion, doubly sweet
From memory and long absence. Here he came,
Led by their power, his homeward path to frame;
When hark!—a sound!—it issued from the dell;
A solemn voice, as though one did declaim
On some high theme; it ceased—and then the swell
Of a slow, psalm-like chaunt on his amazement fell.
XXXIII
A moment, listening in profound surprise,He stood,—then, bursting through that woody screen,
What vision of strange aspect met his eyes!
In that fantastic temple's porch was seen
The youthful pastor; lofty was his mien,
But stamped with thoughts of such appalling scope,
As rarely gather on a brow serene;
And who were they, on the opposing slope,
To whom his solemn tones told but one awful hope?
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XXXIV
A pallid, ghost-like, melancholy crew,Seated on scattered crags, and far-off knolls,
As fearing each the other. They were few.
As men whom one brief hour will from the rolls
Of life cut off, and toiling for their souls'
Welcome into eternity—they seemed
Lost in the heart's last conflict, which controls
All outward life—they sate as men who dreamed;
No motion in their frames—no eye perception beamed.
XXXV
But suddenly, a wild and piercing cryArose amongst them; and an ancient man,
Furious in mood—red frenzy in his eye,
Sprang forth, and shouting, towards the hollow ran.
His white locks floated round his features wan;
He rushed impatient to the valley rill;
To drink, to revel in the wave began,
As one on fire with thirst; then, with a shrill
Laugh, as of joy, he sank—he lay—and all was still.
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XXXVI
Then from their places solemnly two moreWent forth, as if to lend the sufferer aid;
But in their hands, in readiness, they bore
The charnel tools, the mattock and the spade.
They broke the turf—they dug—they calmly laid
The old man in his grave; and o'er him threw
The earth, by prayer, nor requiem delayed;
Then turned, and with no lingering adieu,
Swifter than they approached, from the strange scene withdrew.
XXXVII
But where was Raynal? Smitten, as by thunder,A dread, unearthly vision seemed to dance
Before his view—a statue of pale wonder
He stood—till starting forth, as from a trance,
He deemed again delusion in his glance—
Once more he listened for that thrilling scream—
The breeze alone sighed through the still expanse;
The spectral group, like figures of a dream,
Had fled—yet there the grave lay by the moaning stream.
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XXXVIII
'Twas Sabbath eve, but yet no sabbath soundCame from the village;—no rejoicing bells
Were heard; no groups of strolling youths were found,
Nor lovers loitering on the distant fells.
No laugh, no shout of infancy, which tells
Where radiant health and happiness repair;
But silence, such as with the lifeless dwells,
Fell on his shuddering heart, and fix'd him there,
Frozen with dreams of death, and bodings of despair.
XXXIX
His home!—his blessed home!—the quenchless lightOf his long wanderings;—why should I unveil
Its hollow silence, and disastrous night?—
His love!—Alas! it is a joyless tale!
And little boots it now, or may avail,
To mourn a broken heart—for centuries still.
Where the bee wanders with her merry hail,
High, midst the heath-bells of a southern hill,
Their green and dewy graves the unconscious sufferers fill.
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XL
The Plague had triumphed—Death, Dismay and GloomHad made high carnival; the people fell;
Yet quailed not the survivors, till the tomb
Refused them even its refuge;—till the bell
Ceased, in despair, its long, continuous knell;
And with it, ceased the last of living sound.
Stripped of love's life, the few were left to dwell
In moody apathy; and Horror round
Waved her tremendous wings o'er the untrodden ground.
XLI
Yet, on thro' all, unfearing, and unharmed,Mompesson and his Catherine had sped;
As God's peculiar grace their frames had charmed
From the Plague's might. The dying and the dead,
The fear-sick heart, the wretch from whom had fled
In his delirious fury all beside,
They sought, they soothed, and holy comfort shed;
Or the last boon to mortal need supplied,
Scattering through that thick gloom, a heavenly light as wide,
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XLII
O patriots pure! O virtue-crowned pair!Grey eld than yours can boast no nobler name.
Time has shewn glorious spirits which could dare
Death for their country, in the hour of fame.
Thus Codrus died: Thermopylæ became
Freedom's eternal watchword: Curtius sprung
Into the burning gulph: to death and shame
Attilius moved; and those proud deeds have rung
Through every age and land on wonder's blazoning tongue.
XLIII
And it was well—though nations watch'd their doom.But not for you Fame spread her splendid lure;
Hid 'mongst your mountains in the secret bloom
Of life and love, amidst a race obscure,
Yet dared ye death; nay, nerved even to endure
Its ghastliest terrors, the plebeian throng;
Vowing your lives your country to secure;
Unseen, unsoothed, in holiest patience strong;
Nobler, for ye hoped less, than those high names of song.
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XLIV
But now hope gleamed abroad. The Plague seemed staid;And the loud winds of Autumn glad uproar
Made in the welkin.—Health their call obeyed,
And Confidence her throne resumed once more.
Nay, joy itself was in the Pastor's bower;
For him the Plague had sought, its final prey;
And Catherine pale, and shuddering at its power,
Had watched, had wept, had seen it pass away,—
And joy shone through their home like a bright summer's day.
XLV
The sudden fear woke memory in her cell;And tracing back the brightness of their being;
Their love, their bliss, the fatal shafts which fell
Around them—smote them—yet, even now were fleeing;
Death unto numbers, but to them decreeing
Safety;—rich omens for succeeding years,
In that sweet gaiety of spirit seeing,
Theirs was that triumph which distress endears;
And gladness which breaks forth in mingling smiles and tears.
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XLVI
So passed that evening:—but, still midnight fallsAnd why gleams thence that lamp's unwonted glare?
Oh! there is speechless woe within those walls:
Death's stern farewell is given in thunder there.
Mompesson wrapt in dreams and fancies fair,
Which took their fashion from that evening's tone,
At once sprang up in terror and despair,
Roused by that voice which never yet had known
To wake aught in his heart, but pure delight alone.
XLVII
“My William!” faint and plaintive was the cry,And chill the hand which fell upon his breast—
“My dearest William, wake thee! Oh! that I
With such sad tidings should dispel thy rest.
But death is here!” With agony possessed,
He snatched a light—he saw—he reeled—he fell.
There, in its deadliest form prevailed the pest.
Too well he knew the fatal signs—too well;
A moment—and to life—to happiness farewell!
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XLVIII
Frantic with grief he clasped her—and to heavenA passionate prayer he threw;—he madly thought
The grasp of death asunder to have riven,
In that incredulous wonder which is wrought
When that which lives and loves, at once, is brought
To be as nothing;—and the rebel mind
Fights fiercely with its destiny; untaught
By all that time should teach: for feeling, blind,
Heeds not—though thought assents—alarms by Heaven designed.
XLIX
But Catherine's breast no fear, nor passion knew.She thought not of herself. Her parting soul
Was bathed in tenderness. Her words, like dew
In twilight gloom, o'er his wild frenzy stole.
“Oh! calm thee, dearest one—Oh! yet control
Thy grief, while thus communion is allowed;—
Time speeds—Death calls—a moment, and the whole
Of Catherine, rescued from the oblivious shroud,
For thee, will live alone in hope death may not cloud.
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L
“In that clear hope whose radiant wings now raiseMy spirit;—in the faith which thou hast fed;
And in the precious memory of those days
Which here, where now we sever, we have led.
Yes! ours on earth has been a pathway spread
Surely with every joy which heaven can yield,
Save in its perpetuity;—now fled,
In memory be their redolence revealed.
It shall!—I know thy heart!—and it shall yet be healed.
LI
‘Hence springs my solace,—though I see thy grief,I know that God on earth has need of thee;
And will sustain thee in time's sojourn brief.
And those dear, dear remembrancers of me,—
Oh! could I clasp them!—but, it cannot be—
Heaven on their lovely heads its goodness shower!—
It will!—it will!—and thou, in them, shalt see
The soothing balm, the Eternal One will pour
Into thy bruised heart—till meet our souls once more.”
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LII
She ceased—and that tremendous silence flungOn love's last accents, with astounding close,
Startled the mourner, who still fondly clung
To the dear lips whence now no murmur flows.
Bowed to the dust by passion's wildest throes,
Through the long night he wrestled with despair;
But the day dawned upon him—he arose;
The christian grew victorious in his prayer,
Which, though it stanched not grief, had given him power to bear.
LIII
One word:—and thro' the unconscious household flewThe fleet alarm:—one lightning-winged cry
Shot through the hamlet; and a wailing grew,
Wilder than when the plague-fiend first drew nigh.
One troublous hour,—and from all quarters fly
The wretched remnant, who had ceased to weep;
But sorrow, which had drained their bosoms dry,
Found yet fresh fountains in the spirit deep,
Wringing out burning tears that loved one's couch to steep.
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LIV
'Tis o'er—the shock most terrible of all—The trembling, sinking sufferer has stood,
And heard the clods, which smite the heartstrings, fall;
And felt the sick'ning soul—the freezing blood;
Then, from the sobbing crowd—the bursting flood
Of sorrow, stealing, like a ghost away,
Through the dim, wintry hours the mourner's mood
He nursed in silence, till spring's jocund day,
Chased, from the hallowed spot, his mirthless soul for aye.
LV
Bright shines the sun upon the white walls wreathedWith flowers and leafy branches, in that lone
And sheltered quiet, where the mourner breathed
His future anguish; pleasant there the tone
Of bees; the shadows, o'er still waters thrown,
From the broad plane-tree; in the grey church nigh,
And near that altar where his faith was known,
Humble as his own spirit we descry
The record which denotes where sacred ashes lie.
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LVI
And be it so for ever;—it is glory.Tombs, mausoleums, scrolls, whose weak intent
Time laughs to scorn, as he blots out their story,
Are not the mighty spirit's monument.
He builds with the world's wonder—his cement
Is the world's love;—he lamps his beamy shrine,
With fires of the soul's essence, which, unspent,
Burn on for ever;—such bright tomb is thine,
Great patriot, and so rests thy peerless Catherine.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |