Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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St. Martha's,
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
136
St. Martha's,
Near Guildford, Surrey, 1838.
Holy precinct, mount of God,
Where saints have bled, and pilgrims trod,
Martyrs' hill—thy nobler name,
Martyrs' hill—thy fairer fame
Than as call'd of her, whose heart
Chose but late the better part,—
Unto thee my praise I bring,
Thee my soul delights to sing.
Where saints have bled, and pilgrims trod,
Martyrs' hill—thy nobler name,
Martyrs' hill—thy fairer fame
Than as call'd of her, whose heart
Chose but late the better part,—
Unto thee my praise I bring,
Thee my soul delights to sing.
Lo, the glorious landscape round!
Tread we not enchanted ground?
From this bold and breezy height
The charm'd eye sends its eagle flight
O'er the panoramic scene,
Undulating, rich, and green;
And with various pleasure roves
From hill and dale, to fields and groves,
Till the prospect mingling grey
With the horizon fades away,
Shutting in the distant view
By fainter lines of glimmering blue.
Tread we not enchanted ground?
From this bold and breezy height
The charm'd eye sends its eagle flight
O'er the panoramic scene,
Undulating, rich, and green;
And with various pleasure roves
From hill and dale, to fields and groves,
Till the prospect mingling grey
With the horizon fades away,
Shutting in the distant view
By fainter lines of glimmering blue.
Start we from the warm South-East;
Spread the fine pictorial feast:
There the landmark tower of Leith
Sentinels its purple heath;
Nearer, Holmbury's moated hill,
Highden-ball, and Ewhurst mill,
Dewy Hascomb's fir-fringed knoll,
Hind-head, and the Devil's-Bowl,
With peeps of far South-downs between
Seaward closing up the scene.
Spread the fine pictorial feast:
There the landmark tower of Leith
Sentinels its purple heath;
Nearer, Holmbury's moated hill,
Highden-ball, and Ewhurst mill,
137
Hind-head, and the Devil's-Bowl,
With peeps of far South-downs between
Seaward closing up the scene.
Like a thunder-cloud, beneath
Stretches drear the broad Blackheath:
Scatter'd coins have seal'd the sod
A classic site that Rome has trod,
Field of many a desperate strife
For conquest, liberty, or life,
When the legion's sullen tramp
Echoed oft from Farley-camp,
And some Cæsar's ruthless sword
Reap'd the rude barbarian horde,
Britons, patriots, free brave men,
But unskill'd to conquer—then.
Stretches drear the broad Blackheath:
Scatter'd coins have seal'd the sod
A classic site that Rome has trod,
Field of many a desperate strife
For conquest, liberty, or life,
When the legion's sullen tramp
Echoed oft from Farley-camp,
And some Cæsar's ruthless sword
Reap'd the rude barbarian horde,
Britons, patriots, free brave men,
But unskill'd to conquer—then.
Turn we to this woodland shade,
Beyond the Hanger's hazel glade:
Ah! tis sad, though little strange,
That times, and things, and men should change;
Sad, though little strange to see
Albury, such sad change in thee.
Thou wert in my infant dreams,
My childish pranks, my schoolday schemes;
My heart's young home, my pride and praise;
Playground of my boyish days;
Link'd with learning, goodness, truth,
To the story of my youth;
Mixt with hope's romantic plan,
And loved,—now years have made me man.
But, the brightness of thy praise
Perish'd with those early days,—
Thy sweet prime, too fair to last,
Spring-like came, and smiled, and past;
And I note, adown the Vale,
Thy good-angel wandering pale,
With folded wing and tearful eye
Mourning for the days gone by;
Now, like some white wounded deer
Hiding in the greenwood here;
Now, beside that old church, faint
Leaning, like a dying saint.
Beyond the Hanger's hazel glade:
Ah! tis sad, though little strange,
That times, and things, and men should change;
Sad, though little strange to see
Albury, such sad change in thee.
Thou wert in my infant dreams,
My childish pranks, my schoolday schemes;
My heart's young home, my pride and praise;
Playground of my boyish days;
Link'd with learning, goodness, truth,
To the story of my youth;
Mixt with hope's romantic plan,
And loved,—now years have made me man.
138
Perish'd with those early days,—
Thy sweet prime, too fair to last,
Spring-like came, and smiled, and past;
And I note, adown the Vale,
Thy good-angel wandering pale,
With folded wing and tearful eye
Mourning for the days gone by;
Now, like some white wounded deer
Hiding in the greenwood here;
Now, beside that old church, faint
Leaning, like a dying saint.
Away: regard we yet again
Nature's beauty,—and her bane:
Alas! that man should e'er intrude
Where all but he are glad and good,—
Alas, for yonder fairy glen,
Nature's Eden, vext with men!
Mammon, from those long white mills
With foggy steam the prospect fills;
Chimneys red with sulphurous smoke
Blight these hanging groves of oak;
And sylvan Quiet's gentle scenes
List—to the clatter of machines.
Yet more, in yonder rural dell,
Where sylphs and fauns might love to dwell,
Among those alders, by the stream
Stealing on with silver gleam,
Blacken'd huts, set wide apart,
Grind their dark grain for murder's mart,
Or, bursting with explosive might,
Rage, and roar, and blast, and blight.
Nature's beauty,—and her bane:
Alas! that man should e'er intrude
Where all but he are glad and good,—
Alas, for yonder fairy glen,
Nature's Eden, vext with men!
Mammon, from those long white mills
With foggy steam the prospect fills;
Chimneys red with sulphurous smoke
Blight these hanging groves of oak;
And sylvan Quiet's gentle scenes
List—to the clatter of machines.
Yet more, in yonder rural dell,
Where sylphs and fauns might love to dwell,
Among those alders, by the stream
Stealing on with silver gleam,
Blacken'd huts, set wide apart,
Grind their dark grain for murder's mart,
139
Rage, and roar, and blast, and blight.
Enough, enough of toilsome Art;
Fresh sweet Nature woos thy heart:
Gaze then on this western plain,
A woody, various, rich champaign;
Each in its hollow nestling down,
The farm, the village, or the town;
Field on field, and grove on grove,
Wavelike, far as eye can rove,
Till intersecting lines of hill
The blue horizon faintly fill.
Fresh sweet Nature woos thy heart:
Gaze then on this western plain,
A woody, various, rich champaign;
Each in its hollow nestling down,
The farm, the village, or the town;
Field on field, and grove on grove,
Wavelike, far as eye can rove,
Till intersecting lines of hill
The blue horizon faintly fill.
And, while thy spirit praises Earth,
Its precious gifts, its wealth and worth,
Forget not thou this glorious Sky,
Oh! lift thine eyes, thy heart on high;
Forget not Him, whose mercy gave
All the good we hope, or have;
Him, whose Presence, far and near,
Man's best wisdom learns to fear
Where above the green glad world
Heaven's banners float unfurl'd,
Gorgeous in each mighty fold
Bathed in black, or fringed with gold;
Or, as clouds of fleecy white
Sail in seas of azure light;
Or, as streamers hurrying by
Tell of tempests in the Sky;
Or, like snow-clad mountains, stand
Giant wardens of the Land.
Its precious gifts, its wealth and worth,
Forget not thou this glorious Sky,
Oh! lift thine eyes, thy heart on high;
Forget not Him, whose mercy gave
All the good we hope, or have;
Him, whose Presence, far and near,
Man's best wisdom learns to fear
Where above the green glad world
Heaven's banners float unfurl'd,
Gorgeous in each mighty fold
Bathed in black, or fringed with gold;
Or, as clouds of fleecy white
Sail in seas of azure light;
Or, as streamers hurrying by
Tell of tempests in the Sky;
Or, like snow-clad mountains, stand
Giant wardens of the Land.
140
Earthward once again; the North!
Draw its good, its evil forth:
Mile beyond mile of waving field,
Rare to see, and rich to yield;
The frequent village round its spire;
The snug domain of rural squire;
Yon dusky tract of Waste and Moss;
That iron road-way drawn across;
Windsor, throned o'er half the land;
And gambling Epsom's far-famed stand;
While the dim distance in a shroud
Is wrapp'd by London's smoky cloud.
Draw its good, its evil forth:
Mile beyond mile of waving field,
Rare to see, and rich to yield;
The frequent village round its spire;
The snug domain of rural squire;
Yon dusky tract of Waste and Moss;
That iron road-way drawn across;
Windsor, throned o'er half the land;
And gambling Epsom's far-famed stand;
While the dim distance in a shroud
Is wrapp'd by London's smoky cloud.
Near us, Guildford's ancient town
Between the hills is hiding down;
Decent Guildford, clean and steep,
Ranged about its castle-keep,
Relic of departed power,
Grey and crumbling square old tower.
Like some warder at his post
Honest Booker's lofty boast,
Fine and feudal, shames outright
Puny's telegraphic height,
While it overtops with pride
All the vassal scene beside,
And, above that verdant swell,
Sainted Catherine's Gothic cell.
Between the hills is hiding down;
Decent Guildford, clean and steep,
Ranged about its castle-keep,
Relic of departed power,
Grey and crumbling square old tower.
Like some warder at his post
Honest Booker's lofty boast,
Fine and feudal, shames outright
Puny's telegraphic height,
While it overtops with pride
All the vassal scene beside,
And, above that verdant swell,
Sainted Catherine's Gothic cell.
Westward thence, a narrow track,
Stretches far the bare Hog's-back:
Ridging up, with hilly sides,
Lo, the bristling Boar divides
Right and left a kindred scene,
Purple moors and meadows green,
Or those seeming-vineyards wide,
Farnham's wealth, and Surrey's pride.
Stretches far the bare Hog's-back:
Ridging up, with hilly sides,
Lo, the bristling Boar divides
141
Purple moors and meadows green,
Or those seeming-vineyards wide,
Farnham's wealth, and Surrey's pride.
Forth from Merroe's happy plain
And noble Clandon's rich domain,
Newland's heights, and Coombe beyond,
And nutty Sherbourne's crystal pond,
Eastward to the landscape's end
The sloping chalky Downs extend,
Primal still, by man untamed,
Fresh, unbounded, unreclaim'd:
Now a lawn of herbage sweet
Smooth as velvet to the feet,
Now a jungle, matted dense,
A wilderness of briar-fence;
Here, an earthwork, fosse and mound;
There, a race-course curving round;
Hollow'd pits, where in old times
Bad marauders hid their crimes:
Sad sepulchral groves of yew
Solemn ranged in order due,
Seeming of primeval birth,
Solid as the ribs of earth,
Where white Druids, years of yore,
Roam'd those mystic circles o'er,
Or calm kneeling on the sod
Wisely worshipp'd Nature's God.
And noble Clandon's rich domain,
Newland's heights, and Coombe beyond,
And nutty Sherbourne's crystal pond,
Eastward to the landscape's end
The sloping chalky Downs extend,
Primal still, by man untamed,
Fresh, unbounded, unreclaim'd:
Now a lawn of herbage sweet
Smooth as velvet to the feet,
Now a jungle, matted dense,
A wilderness of briar-fence;
Here, an earthwork, fosse and mound;
There, a race-course curving round;
Hollow'd pits, where in old times
Bad marauders hid their crimes:
Sad sepulchral groves of yew
Solemn ranged in order due,
Seeming of primeval birth,
Solid as the ribs of earth,
Where white Druids, years of yore,
Roam'd those mystic circles o'er,
Or calm kneeling on the sod
Wisely worshipp'd Nature's God.
Yes, modern; would thy pride condemn
Or shall thy wisdom pity them?
They built no prisons for—the poor,
Freely fed from door to door;
Their foolish mercy did not strive
To give the least that keeps alive,
Their charity sought not to know
How little poor men need below.
But thou,—what means yon human pound,
Brick'd and barr'd, and well wall'd round?
But that to thy shame and scorn
Penal poverty may mourn
How ill-christen'd liberals prove
Words by deeds, and faith by love:
For here, unpitied, spurn'd, alone,
The British slave must grind and groan,
Torn from children, friends and wife,
And buried in the midst of life.
Or shall thy wisdom pity them?
142
Freely fed from door to door;
Their foolish mercy did not strive
To give the least that keeps alive,
Their charity sought not to know
How little poor men need below.
But thou,—what means yon human pound,
Brick'd and barr'd, and well wall'd round?
But that to thy shame and scorn
Penal poverty may mourn
How ill-christen'd liberals prove
Words by deeds, and faith by love:
For here, unpitied, spurn'd, alone,
The British slave must grind and groan,
Torn from children, friends and wife,
And buried in the midst of life.
O Man, thy love is chill and small;
O Nature, thou art kind to all:
This full wide theatre of views
Bathed in Autumn's rainbow hues
Recreates my freshen'd sight
Soft with shade, and rich with light,
And, saved from thoughts of pride and pelf,
Restores me to my cheerful self.
O Nature, thou art kind to all:
This full wide theatre of views
Bathed in Autumn's rainbow hues
Recreates my freshen'd sight
Soft with shade, and rich with light,
And, saved from thoughts of pride and pelf,
Restores me to my cheerful self.
Let then a lateborn son of Time
Shadow forth the Past sublime,
And while, the greensward laid along,
He weaves his meditative song,
Tell what various tribes have trod
With various hopes this ancient sod.
The painted Briton, long of yore,
Hunting down the wolf or boar;
The Roman watcher, posted here
Leaning on his iron spear;
The fair-hair'd Angle, piling high
Beacon-fires against the sky;
With vulture-eyes the hungry Dane
Gloating o'er the fertile plain;
Patriot Saxons, who withstood
The Norman, conquering for good;
Monks, to bless with book and bell;
Crusaders, bidding all farewell;
Footsore Pilgrims, hither come
Midway from St. Becket's tomb;
Round-heads, chaunting rebel prayers;
Gay devoted Cavaliers;
Rustics, on the Sabbath-day
Duly toiling up to pray;
Mourners, weeping round the bier
Brought for humble burial here;
And thousands, more, in dresses quaint,
Than tongue can tell, or pencil paint,
Have laugh'd, or wept, or fought their fill,
Or lived, or died, on Martyrs' Hill.
Shadow forth the Past sublime,
And while, the greensward laid along,
He weaves his meditative song,
Tell what various tribes have trod
With various hopes this ancient sod.
143
Hunting down the wolf or boar;
The Roman watcher, posted here
Leaning on his iron spear;
The fair-hair'd Angle, piling high
Beacon-fires against the sky;
With vulture-eyes the hungry Dane
Gloating o'er the fertile plain;
Patriot Saxons, who withstood
The Norman, conquering for good;
Monks, to bless with book and bell;
Crusaders, bidding all farewell;
Footsore Pilgrims, hither come
Midway from St. Becket's tomb;
Round-heads, chaunting rebel prayers;
Gay devoted Cavaliers;
Rustics, on the Sabbath-day
Duly toiling up to pray;
Mourners, weeping round the bier
Brought for humble burial here;
And thousands, more, in dresses quaint,
Than tongue can tell, or pencil paint,
Have laugh'd, or wept, or fought their fill,
Or lived, or died, on Martyrs' Hill.
Martyrs' Hill!—before my mind
Rise the triumphs of Mankind;
Martyrs' Hill!—and to my thought
Back the crimes of men are brought:
Yea;—for on this sacred sod
Doubtless perish'd saints of God,
And Elijah's chariot came
Mingling with the martyrs' flame,
To bear them from that awestruck crowd
In robes of light, on thrones of cloud.
Rise the triumphs of Mankind;
Martyrs' Hill!—and to my thought
Back the crimes of men are brought:
Yea;—for on this sacred sod
Doubtless perish'd saints of God,
144
Mingling with the martyrs' flame,
To bear them from that awestruck crowd
In robes of light, on thrones of cloud.
Then, the seed of holy blood
Gave its hundredfold of good;
Barbarians heard, and thought, and felt,
Glow'd, admired, and mourn'd, and knelt;
Their very murderers came in fear
To bless the sainted victims here;
Penitent, with zealous haste
Aloft the rustic temple placed,
Keyless arches, rough and round,
Spanning high the blood-stain'd ground,
Of iron-sandstone rudely built,
Memorial of their grief—and guilt.
Gave its hundredfold of good;
Barbarians heard, and thought, and felt,
Glow'd, admired, and mourn'd, and knelt;
Their very murderers came in fear
To bless the sainted victims here;
Penitent, with zealous haste
Aloft the rustic temple placed,
Keyless arches, rough and round,
Spanning high the blood-stain'd ground,
Of iron-sandstone rudely built,
Memorial of their grief—and guilt.
Thereafter, Newark's princely priest
Added all this Gothic East,—
The modest choir and transepts twain,
Fitting well the Christian fane,
Windows, deck'd in colours rich,
The pointed arch and florid niche,—
Contrast to yon Saxon nave
That simply mark'd the martyr's grave.
Added all this Gothic East,—
The modest choir and transepts twain,
Fitting well the Christian fane,
Windows, deck'd in colours rich,
The pointed arch and florid niche,—
Contrast to yon Saxon nave
That simply mark'd the martyr's grave.
Swept along fate's rolling tide
Generations lived, and died,
Thronging in succession there
With the sacrifice of prayer:
And a Martha's dubious name
Half eclipsed that better fame,
Symbol of degenerate years
When earth usurps our hopes and fears.
Ages came, and ages past;
Till the flood of Time at last
Wafted on the modern race
Loving gain, and hating grace:
So we draw to thy decay
Silent ruin of to-day,
An evil day of evil deeds,
Selfish sects and wrangling creeds,
When faith is dead, and zeal grown cold,
And churches can be bought and sold,
Or left a prey to rot and rain,
For lack of grace, and lust of gain.
Generations lived, and died,
Thronging in succession there
With the sacrifice of prayer:
145
Half eclipsed that better fame,
Symbol of degenerate years
When earth usurps our hopes and fears.
Ages came, and ages past;
Till the flood of Time at last
Wafted on the modern race
Loving gain, and hating grace:
So we draw to thy decay
Silent ruin of to-day,
An evil day of evil deeds,
Selfish sects and wrangling creeds,
When faith is dead, and zeal grown cold,
And churches can be bought and sold,
Or left a prey to rot and rain,
For lack of grace, and lust of gain.
Ruin, I have loved thee long,
And owed for years this humble song;
While I pay the grateful debt,
Hear me one petition yet.
When in God's good time and way
I wake upon my dying day,
Should I still beneath thee dwell,
As my spirit sighs farewell,
Let the shadows from thy wall
Be my hallow'd funeral pall;
Let no city's close church-yard
Steal from thee thy native bard;
But where now I careless lie
Make me welcome when I die:
On this thyme-enamell'd height
Let me bid the world good-night;
Sacred to my memory be
All the scene that circles thee;
And plant o'er me, in goodwill,
A plain stone cross on Martyrs' Hill.
And owed for years this humble song;
While I pay the grateful debt,
Hear me one petition yet.
When in God's good time and way
I wake upon my dying day,
Should I still beneath thee dwell,
As my spirit sighs farewell,
Let the shadows from thy wall
Be my hallow'd funeral pall;
Let no city's close church-yard
Steal from thee thy native bard;
But where now I careless lie
Make me welcome when I die:
146
Let me bid the world good-night;
Sacred to my memory be
All the scene that circles thee;
And plant o'er me, in goodwill,
A plain stone cross on Martyrs' Hill.
| Ballads for the Times | |