Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE ANGELS IN THE GARRET. |
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
236
THE ANGELS IN THE GARRET.
In the garret shone the lustre
Of the daylight red and brazen,
Merry motes like fairies gather
In a multitude amazing;
Slanting sunbeams, angel ladders,
Join the cloud unto the garret;
For no window stops the sunlight,
Even though you shut and bar it;
Golden winged, the holy sunbeams
Hasten to the poet's chamber,
Where the rats the whole night clamber,
Long ere light burns on the pane;
Finding what the lord of it,
With his genius and his wit,
Sought for all the day in vain.
Of the daylight red and brazen,
Merry motes like fairies gather
In a multitude amazing;
Slanting sunbeams, angel ladders,
Join the cloud unto the garret;
For no window stops the sunlight,
Even though you shut and bar it;
Golden winged, the holy sunbeams
Hasten to the poet's chamber,
Where the rats the whole night clamber,
Long ere light burns on the pane;
Finding what the lord of it,
With his genius and his wit,
Sought for all the day in vain.
Cruel sunbeams, evil angels,
Flashing light upon his brain;
From his dreams of love and heaven,
Just as the loud bells struck seven,
Blazed your glory on the pane,
Calling him to earth again.
He was walking on a terrace
Rich with orange-trees in flower,
Tall beside him rose a palace,
When he heard the fatal hour.
He was pacing down a forest,
Ringing with the bugle peal;
He was slaying a magician
With a skin of stony steel.
He was traversing a desert,
Barren waste of orange sand;
Or was leaping in a shallop,
Steering by an unseen hand.
He was clouded on the Brocken,
Dancing with blue withered witches;
And but now old Abon Hassan
Left him his unnumbered riches.
Right before him rose Damascus,
Every minaret a star,
Then he rubbed his eyes, and found
He was passing Temple Bar;
He was diving down—a kiss
From a mermaid fair to win;
He stood by the boiling Maelstrom,
Leaping fierce and swift within;
In a crater he was seeking
Molten gold 'mid Hecla's ice;
Then he was a turbaned Persian,
Driving camel-loads of spice.
Flashing light upon his brain;
237
Just as the loud bells struck seven,
Blazed your glory on the pane,
Calling him to earth again.
He was walking on a terrace
Rich with orange-trees in flower,
Tall beside him rose a palace,
When he heard the fatal hour.
He was pacing down a forest,
Ringing with the bugle peal;
He was slaying a magician
With a skin of stony steel.
He was traversing a desert,
Barren waste of orange sand;
Or was leaping in a shallop,
Steering by an unseen hand.
He was clouded on the Brocken,
Dancing with blue withered witches;
And but now old Abon Hassan
Left him his unnumbered riches.
Right before him rose Damascus,
Every minaret a star,
Then he rubbed his eyes, and found
He was passing Temple Bar;
He was diving down—a kiss
From a mermaid fair to win;
238
Leaping fierce and swift within;
In a crater he was seeking
Molten gold 'mid Hecla's ice;
Then he was a turbaned Persian,
Driving camel-loads of spice.
He was Amadis the Lion,
Breaking lances, splitting shields;
He was waving shattered banners
On victorious battle-fields.
He was one of the three hundred
Dying underneath the rock;
While the Persians still were reeling
With the fury of that shock.
He was driving brazen galleys
O'er the wave of Salamis;
He was bending over maiden
Spell-bound in the “House of Bliss.”
Breaking lances, splitting shields;
He was waving shattered banners
On victorious battle-fields.
He was one of the three hundred
Dying underneath the rock;
While the Persians still were reeling
With the fury of that shock.
He was driving brazen galleys
O'er the wave of Salamis;
He was bending over maiden
Spell-bound in the “House of Bliss.”
He rode with the clans of Timour,
Wrapped in furs and fragrant silk;
He bestrode a sable charger,
Trapped in housings white as milk.
He beheld the Temple burning,
And the red cloud raining fire;
He knelt down and prayed to Titus
For the priest, his aged sire.
He was slinging heads of Pagans
To his bloody saddle-bow;
He was striking at the lilies
On the plain of Cressy now.
Wrapped in furs and fragrant silk;
He bestrode a sable charger,
Trapped in housings white as milk.
He beheld the Temple burning,
And the red cloud raining fire;
239
For the priest, his aged sire.
He was slinging heads of Pagans
To his bloody saddle-bow;
He was striking at the lilies
On the plain of Cressy now.
From the realms of Charlemagne,
From the tangled vines of Spain,
From the land of Oberon,
In the dreamy days by-gone;
From a crowd of dead men's faces,
In the old-remembered places.
From a softly murmured name,
From a black sky edged with flame;
O'er a damp stone where there grew
Nettles; even weeds were few.
From such bliss, and from such pain,
Came he back to earth again.
From the tangled vines of Spain,
From the land of Oberon,
In the dreamy days by-gone;
From a crowd of dead men's faces,
In the old-remembered places.
From a softly murmured name,
From a black sky edged with flame;
O'er a damp stone where there grew
Nettles; even weeds were few.
From such bliss, and from such pain,
Came he back to earth again.
From a Sultan's cedar palace,
Where the black mutes bear the chalice,
In their ghastly eyes a hope,
Feet as swift as antelope.
From the chamber of the bell,
Where the sexton loves to dwell;
Where the chancel all below
With sky colours is a-glow.
From the chapel underneath,
Fretted by the salt wind's teeth,
To his home, with throb of pain,
Came the poet back again.
Where the black mutes bear the chalice,
In their ghastly eyes a hope,
Feet as swift as antelope.
From the chamber of the bell,
Where the sexton loves to dwell;
240
With sky colours is a-glow.
From the chapel underneath,
Fretted by the salt wind's teeth,
To his home, with throb of pain,
Came the poet back again.
He was couching with the Caffre,
Deep amid the giant reeds,
Watching for the wounded lion
By the red pool where he feeds.
By the blood-drops on the branches
He was following a bear,
Cold above him hung the snow peaks,
Far below the earth spread fair.
From all these, with start of pain,
Came the poet back again.
Deep amid the giant reeds,
Watching for the wounded lion
By the red pool where he feeds.
By the blood-drops on the branches
He was following a bear,
Cold above him hung the snow peaks,
Far below the earth spread fair.
From all these, with start of pain,
Came the poet back again.
From the dungeon of the abbey
Rising, lost in the midnight,
Watching from the far-off altar,
Slowly creep a speck of light.
From the stony figure waking
From his long sleep on the tomb,
When the moon was swiftly breaking
From her prison house of gloom.
When the ghostly choir was singing
Dirges to the long since dead,
With a black hood solemn muffled,
Or a white shroud on each head.—
From such scenes of fear and pain
Came the poet back again.
Rising, lost in the midnight,
Watching from the far-off altar,
Slowly creep a speck of light.
From the stony figure waking
From his long sleep on the tomb,
When the moon was swiftly breaking
From her prison house of gloom.
241
Dirges to the long since dead,
With a black hood solemn muffled,
Or a white shroud on each head.—
From such scenes of fear and pain
Came the poet back again.
From the sound of smitten steel,
Through a roll of muffled wheel;
From a father's dying curse,
From deep blasphemies, or worse;
From the one word ne'er forgot,
From the echo of the clot,
Falling on the coffin-plate;
From the death sob heard but late—
From such agonies of pain
Came the poet back again.
Through a roll of muffled wheel;
From a father's dying curse,
From deep blasphemies, or worse;
From the one word ne'er forgot,
From the echo of the clot,
Falling on the coffin-plate;
From the death sob heard but late—
From such agonies of pain
Came the poet back again.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |