University of Virginia Library

O nature, type of Loveliness unseen!
Of Heav'n the mirror, and its mystic screen!
Ever to Euthanase his Lord and thine
Had giv'n to taste in thee a joy divine;
But never did the loveliest of thy sights
Entrance him with the rapture of delights
He felt as Severn's ancient windings down
In pomp majestical they glide along;
By perfum'd meads, by waving woodlands green,
Low shelvy banks of willow'd marge between;
Now in the broad'ning channel's mid career
Over a smooth expanse of waters clear;
Anon upon the river's shoaling edge,
Amidst a spiry growth of reeds and sedge;
By islets now with cowslip-plats impaved,
And now by knolls where silver aspens waved;
While ever, on each side, the landscape bright
Transfigured shone in more than earthly light,
Through intervolving wreaths of golden haze,
That in a halo of encircling rays
Attended them, disporting overhead,
As faster than the stream they onward sped,
Borne by a force innate; for oar was none,
Nor undulating sail, to urge them on,
Save only at the quiet helm there stood
He who had been the spokesman in the Wood,
And with a dainty finger's lightest play
Guided the bark upon her arrowy way.

Now ancient Shrewsbury appears in sight,
Rising on her peninsulated height;
Fair-abbey'd formerly, ere Faith's decline,
Guardian of Wenifrida's golden shrine.
Invisible to all, unguess'd, unheard
(As in each listless countenance appear'd),
Beneath the stately bridges smooth they glide,
And circle round the city's terrac'd side,
In noble sweep; by many a villa fair,
By castellated height and mossy stair;
By lime-tree avenues, and gardens gay,
And painted pleasure-boats that idle lay,
And open casements trellis'd o'er with flowers,
And bastions worn and coronals of towers;
High above all a pillar'd heavenly glow
Distinguishing meanwhile the site below,
Where Holy Church, unwearied to the last,
Uprears amid the ruins of the past,
With patient hope, and love that conquers death,
The Sanctuary new of ancient Faith!
Well pleased our Euthanase the token views;
But quickly melts the scene in distant hues,
As, coursing on by wold and slanting wood,
They thread the long meanders of the flood.

Anon in front the Wrekin towering high
Stamps its projecting outline on the sky;
And, on a smooth incline of margin green,
Fair Bildas Abbey to the right is seen,
By woodlands back'd, by hanging woodlands crown'd,
A precious relic set with emeralds round!

There by the thymy bank their course they stay'd,
Beneath an old wych-elm's o'erspreading shade,
Then disembarking up the sward ascend,
And round the massive pillars slowly wend
In solemn state, with censers waving high,
And Mary's immemorial litany,
And chanted requiem that plaintive rose
For all the Brotherhood who there repose:
Which o'er, again their bark the current cleaves,
While thus his laden heart the Monk relieves;
“Adieu, sweet Abbey of the tuneful dead!
Fair vision of a time for ever fled!
Long as the Severn rolls her silver tide,
May she behold thee seated at her side.
Oh, happier far in naked ruin laid!
Thy name forgotten, and thy stones decay'd!
Than in primeval splendour standing left
But of interior majesty bereft,
To shine in gilded chains the spoiler's prey,
And home of every doctrine of the day;
Adorn'd without, a sepulchre within,
The patient tool of heresy and sin!”

Meanwhile the banks, as on they gaily glide,
With gradual slope ascend on either side,
Till breaking into rocks of dusky red,
They form a thickly-foliaged cleft o'erhead,
Where ash and birch display their leaflets new
In contrast with the holly's darker hue,
And lines of copse unbrokenly descend
Down to the brink, and with the current blend.
Long flats succeed of water-meadows green,
With rills that dance along in sparkling sheen;
Young larch plantations, timber cut and piled,
Cornfields in early blade, and moorlands wild.
Then in a lake-like and majestic reach,
High-terraced and o'erhung with hoary beech,
The river broadly marching bears them on
Beneath the heights of Bridgenorth's airy town;
And on again, in many a graceful twine,
By Bewdley's olden Sanctuary-shrine;
By lordly seats embosom'd deep in trees,
Abodes of ancient state or modern ease;
By spacious parks, where groups of deer are seen
Browsing at leisure in the glades serene;
By downs of gorse that all the air perfume,
By hamlets rude, and orchards pink with bloom,
To Worcester's hoary fane: anon in sight
Malvern's gray abbey rises on the right;
And now a tidal stream, through pastures brave,
Sabrina bears them on a tawnier wave,
Buried at times betwixt embankments steep,
Down to her outlet on th' Atlantic deep.

O Memory, dear Paintress of the past!
How long, how vividly, thy pictures last!
Or, if they fade, how quickly they revive
With all the warmth of life again alive!
True as the ray-impencill'd solar print!
Brighter than Claude's or Titian's glowing tint!
So found our Euthanase, as on they speed
By Tewkesbury, across the purple mead,
Through whose deep bosom, singing as she goes,
Poetic Avon down from Evesham flows.
For where the sister rivers blend their tide,
Like two fair doves descending side by side,
Pursuing with his glance a sunny gleam
Up the slant opening of the younger stream,
A distant landscape on his vision fell,
Which, piercing recollection's inmost cell,
All in a trice dissolved his heart in tears,
Smit with a cruel grief of former years.
Whereat the youthful helmsman at his side
The change detecting which he strove to hide,
His hand with tender feeling took and press'd,
As conscious of the trouble at his breast,
Essaying to unlock its hidden source
With honeyed words of soft persuading force.

“Oh, say, dear friend, what secret cloud is this,
Thus raining tear-drops in a time of bliss?
A portion of thy grief on me bestow;
Imparted anguish loses half its woe.
Oft unexpected comes long-sought relief,
And I may comfort have to soothe thy grief.”

Then he: “Alas! what power in nature dwells
To stir the depth of sorrow's hidden cells!
For as but now by Avon's stream we pass'd,
I chancing up its course a glance to cast,
In the far blue the Bredon hills espied,
Dear Mounts of God! upon whose further side,
Basking serene in happy vernal skies,
My native vale, the Vale of Evesham, lies;
(Evesham, of early Faith the sacred fold,
For Mary's Apparition famed of old;)
A moment's glimpse,—and yet it served to bring
The Tragedy of my first boyhood's spring,
Across the disc of thought with such a pain,
As it were all enacting o'er again.

“Beneath an early-widow'd mother's eye
'Twas there my life's young morning glided by,
Myself her only child, but not alone;
Another charge she had beside her own:
A boy and girl, twin orphans passing fair,
Left by a dying school-mate to her care.
Our age the same, with them my childhood grew,
Apart from theirs no joy or sorrow knew,
With them together learnt, together play'd,—
A sunny track of time without a shade.
But what entwined us more than all the rest
Each in the other's young and ardent breast,
Was that dear flower of love our Mother nursed
So patiently within us from the first,
For Him who on the Cross of Calvary died,
And Her who stood in anguish at His side—
Jesus and Mary. Ah, how would the tears
Their cups o'erbrim, while in our eager ears
Oft and again she plaintively would tell
The tender story of that sad farewell,
Woven in such variety of ways
As never have I heard in after days!
Ah, what delight, from that devotion born,
Was ours, on each recurring festal morn,
Our Chapel Altar duly to prepare
With all that we could find of rich and rare,
And deck our Lady's image like a bower
With many a fragrant and exotic flower,
Then at the Mass in blended parts to sing
Sweeter than all the songsters of the Spring!
One thought meanwhile upon our hearts impress'd,
And in the fairest hues of fancy dress'd,
Grew with our growth, and gain'd, I know not how,
A secret force at which I marvel now,
England's Conversion!—Oh! with what desire
Did this high cause our little bosoms fire!
For this, how fervently to Heaven we pray'd!
For this, how many plans of life we laid!
For this, how oft beneath the summer boughs,
Lady of Evesham, pour'd to Thee our vows!

“But time sped on; and we might number now
As many happy Springs perchance as thou,
When, as it fell, my Theodore and I,
On this same Feast, some sixty years gone by,
Having, at our exulting mother's side,
Our First Communion made at morningtide,
Went out at noon, in very height of bliss,
Each cheek imprinted with a tender kiss,
Into the blooming meadow-lands to play
With other boys, companions for the day,
Where so it was, a lad, in idle sport,
A sudden rivalry betwixt us wrought,
Saying that Theodore (a tale untrue)
Boasted himself best swimmer of the two
Behind my back.—Alas! from little things
How large a growth of evil often springs!
For, seated as we were on Avon's marge,
I, miserable, heedless of the charge
So oft enjoin'd us by maternal fear,
Never to bathe without attendance near,
Stung with ambition, pointed in my pride
To a white lily twinkling in the tide,
And challenged Theodore the stream to breast
And for the flowery prize with me contest.
Which he accepting, overcome at last
By boyish taunts against his courage cast,
We strip, and straight upon the sign agreed
Skim through the glassy flood with all our speed,
Amidst huzzas;—he leading first, till I
With a strong eager effort pass him by,
And in my clasp triumphantly enfold
The snow-white chalice with its beads of gold.
Which to the turfy bank I scarce had brought,
When, lo! a cry that Theodore was caught
And struggling with the weeds.—Ah, what a dart
Of anguish on the instant smote my heart!
I speeded back.—Nowhere could he be seen;
Anon he rose close by, with smile serene,
Unutterable, greeting my fond gaze;
Then down again beneath the watery maze
Was lost!—I dived into the fatal spot,
Again, and yet again,—but found him not,
Till the fourth time. Then all too weak to rise
Down at his side I lay, and death mine eyes
Had with his icy touch for ever seal'd,
But that some mowers from a neighbouring field
Came up, and drew us from the limpid deep,
As on its pebbly bed we lay asleep,
Both corpses in appearance, face to face,
Lock'd in a last and brotherly embrace.

“The rest I pass—my own recovery slow;
My mother's piteous uncomplaining woe;
The tears of Rosalie conceal'd in vain,
From tenderest fear of adding to my pain;
Bright Theodore in silent darkness laid
With solemn dirge beneath the cypress shade,
Bearing in folded beauty on his breast
My lily at so dear a cost possess'd.
But what consumed me more than all beside
Was the keen consciousness that he had died
In disobedience, and that through me—
Daily this thought renew'd its poignancy;
Nor could our Priest with all his gentle art
Extract its barb of anguish from my heart.
For Theodore, for Theodore e'en still
Th' unbidden pang will oft my bosom thrill;
For him, so many years among the dead,
This very morn my tearful Mass was said.”

He ceased; and thus, with looks of pleasant cheer,
The youthful helmsman softly in his ear:
“O Euthanase, thy brother weep no more;
Long since he gain'd in peace the heavenly shore,
There in perpetual joyance to abide
With his beloved ones seated at his side;
All save thyself here dragging on thy years,
A lonely pilgrim in a vale of tears,
Lost to him long, yet e'en on Sion's hill
Amidst eternal sweets remember'd still.
Nay, what if love of thee have drawn him nigh,
And Theodore himself be standing by!”

Thus as he spoke, across the other's soul
A mystic feeling gradually stole,
Such as the dying have when on their eyes
Closes this world with all its vanities;
Nor yet, except a trembling fringe of dawn,
The curtains of the next are open drawn.
With earnest look the speaker he surveys,
Doubts his own judgment, doubts his very gaze;
For underneath the helmsman's form conceal'd,
The comrade of his youth now stood reveal'd!
Taller and older somewhat than of yore
He seem'd; and nestling in his bosom bore
A snow-white Lily whence all Eden breathed,
The smile of other days his lips enwreathed;
Clear shone his eye, and on his damask cheek
Sate rosy health. Thrice Euthanase to speak
Essay'd, and thrice his tongue refused a word,
Until, by tender glances re-assured,
It came at last. “And is it thou indeed,
My Theodore! from death's Elysian mead
Hither return'd, whom these dim eyes behold;
Beloved companion of the days of old?
Oh, joy of joys! Wrapt in the tomb's embrace,
Little I thought again to see thy face,
Save where on memory's tablet it appears
Gleaming for ever through a mist of tears!
Oh, say, dear brother-chorister of mine!
By that true bond of melody divine
Which link'd us as two birds on one same spray,
Singing together to the leaves of May,—
Sweet yoke-fellow in heavenly harmonies!—
Oh, say, since thou hast pass'd into the skies,
Hast thou forgiven me that guilty day
When all too far I tempted thee to stray,
Borne upon Avon's gently flowing wave
To thy sad lily-mantled early grave?
Oh, how with thee, cut off in boyhood's bloom,
Went down my heart of hearts into the tomb!
What cruel self-reproach my bosom tore!
How long the penance! the remorse how sore!”

“Ah, deem not, Brother best,” the youth replied,
“Deem not thy Theodore too early died.
Early and late are all alike to those
Who go with their dear Saviour to repose.
To me, from infancy, the Lord of grace
Imparted a desire to seek His face;
And oft in boyhood's hour, when none were by,
I made my prayer that I might early die,
To the sweet Mother of the King of kings,
Smit with the beauty of eternal things.
That prayer was heard. By vanity betray'd,
I broke the law maternal love had made.
Guilty the deed; yet not in guilt I died;
One contrite act of love for all supplied;
And, ere I knew, I found myself received,
Oh, mercy greater than I had believed!
In that blue vestibule which nearest lies
To the clear golden gates of Paradise.
Not Heaven: for still some penalty was due
To God the infinitely just and true;
Not Heaven: for thither, at a later day,
'Twas thy first Mass that open'd me the way;
Not Heaven: but a most heavenly calm retreat,
Patient abode of expectation sweet;
Where no regret consumes, no fear o'erwhelms,
Mildest of all the Purgatorial realms.
There, Euthanase, oh, how for thee I sigh'd,
Imperill'd still upon the treacherous tide!
Oh, how for thee I pray'd through many a year
While dark and dubious did thy fate appear,
Securer now.—But, as I think, 'tis time
Thou wert prepared for that emprise sublime
Which thou hast enter'd on. Now, therefore, take
This Lily for thy Theodore's dear sake,
And oft as thy too feeble human gaze
Shall quail before the pure empyreal blaze
About to dawn on thee in all its power,
The scent ambrosial of this fair flower
Thy spirit shall exalt, high things to see
Exceeding far all natural imagery.”

Therewith the pearly chalice trick'd with gold,
Sad object of their rivalry of old,
But now bedropp'd with Paradisal dew,
And sacred earnest of a friendship new,
Committing to his hands, he closely press'd
The old Franciscan to his youthful breast,
From whence a warmth so rich, so glowing came,
Diffused transportingly through all his frame,
That in his heart, by freezing years subdued,
Youth, boyhood, infancy, seem'd all renew'd;
And, spite of age's locks of wint'ry gray,
He feels once more a very child of May!

Meanwhile they fast had cleaved the yellow deep;
And opening now into a broader sweep,
No more between impending banks controll'd,
Severn a noble estuary roll'd,
When, slowly issuing from the osier'd shore
Where stood St. Arvan's hermitage of yore,
A fleet majestical appear'd in view
Of stately swans in plumes of snowy hue,
Which, parting presently on either side,
Drew up around them in a circle wide;
Ring within ring, in orderly array,
As though to be their escort on the way.
Amidst whose movements, lo! with sudden burst,
Again the Chant had risen as at first,
The chant of May, glad Nature's jubilee,
With peal on peal of “Benedicite,”
Inviting all around, below, above,
Lovely creations of the God of love:
Islets, and waving woods, and pastures green,
Moving along in panoramic scene;
The fallow uplands shelving from the hills;
The meadows fattening on the tinkling rills;
The grazing herds that dot the distant shore;
The porpoise slowly heaving o'er and o'er;
The birds that glance athwart, or idly rest,
Rocking to sleep upon the billow's breast;
The fleecy clouds, the sunlight, and the breeze,
Earth, sky, and sea, with all their harmonies;
Superlatively Him to bless and praise
Who moves the mystic wheels of Nature's maze,
Thro' height, thro' depth, wherever worlds extend,
Sweetly disposing all things to their end,
In Unity and Trinity confess'd
Immutable, eternal, ever-blest!
Then in a swell melodious borne aloft,
“Ave Purissima,” in cadence soft,
Amidst the forest of sweet tones upsprang
Like some aerial palm; the while they sang
Of Her, creation's paragon and pride,
Surpassing all created things beside:
Mary, the joy of the most joyant Trine!
Mary, of grace the coronal divine!
Mary, of nature the quintessence bright!
The earth's high miracle, the Heav'n's delight!
Whom earth and Heav'n Immaculate proclaim,
Mother of Him from whom all nature came,
Mother of men and Virgin bliss of May,
To whom all natural things their homage pay!

Then in mellifluous harmony combined,
Like threads of gold and silver intertwined,
Subtly the chants inwove themselves in one,
Each lost in each, yet losing not its own;
So deftly interlacing, it were vain
To trace the curious joinings of the strain.
And ever as they sang, the minstrels threw
Fair flowers around, in wreaths of every hue,
Upon the tawny flood, which, as they fell,
Itself refining by a secret spell,
Clear and pellucid grew as living light,
Or element of liquid crystal bright!
And ever still, as on the galley swept,
The swans their snowy ring unbroken kept,
Till rounding sharp a headland, lo! its sea
The Bristol Channel opens broad and free,
Gleaming with sails. Anon upon the right,
Guarding the Wye's low outlet, comes in sight
St. Tecla's hallow'd Isle, where wont of yore
Pilgrims to meet for Palestina's shore.

Thither they shot abrupt: and, as they near'd,
It seem'd a thousand angel faces peer'd
Forth from a glory that around it hung;
It seem'd a thousand Alleluias rung;
Then glancing by, up Vaga's stream they sped,
To where monastic Chepstow lifts her head,
Slid arrowlike beneath th' embattled keep
Where Monmouthshire's old feudal glories sleep;
And on—through winding depths of sylvan shade,
By many a rocky height and sloping glade,
By pinnacles that from the water rise
Fantastical as Nature can devise,
By semicircling bends of margin green,
By smooth enamell'd meads that lie between,
By crags which immemorial woods sustain,
By hanging woods o'ertopp'd with crags again,
To Tintern's ancient Sanctuary glide
On the clear bosom of th' ascending tide.