Poems and miscellanies selected from the writings of Miss Eliza Townsend Printed but not published |
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STANZAS
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 | Poems and miscellanies selected from the writings of Miss Eliza Townsend |  |
121
STANZAS
ON A VIEW OF NEWSTEAD PARK, BELONGING TO A SEAT LATE THE PROPERTY OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD BYRON.
[1814.]
From scenes like these, that far and wide
Rise and expand in sylvan pride,
Where fickle man might find in range
From hill to vale, congenial change;
From scenes whose very hues impart
Good and gay cheerfulness of heart,
Could e'er their reckless owner roam,
With guilt and gloom to find a home?
To wander, like the exiled ghost,
From heavenly fields forever lost,
Doomed, with Elysium yet in view,
His wayward rovings to pursue,
Where tosses Doubt's tumultuous sea,
Thy shattered wreck, Depravity!
Degenerate Gordon! not like thee
Have proved thy nobler ancestry;
Nor rambling taste, nor thirst of gain,
From them had wrung their loved domain;
Naught lured them from their native hall
But fatal honor's sternest call;
Their only signal to depart
The beating of a loyal heart;
That, when Culloden's crimsoned bed
Heaved with the dying and the dead,
Followed its guiding beams afar,
Till set in blood the Stuart's star,
While heaven and earth combined to sign
The ruin of that royal line.
Rise and expand in sylvan pride,
Where fickle man might find in range
From hill to vale, congenial change;
From scenes whose very hues impart
Good and gay cheerfulness of heart,
Could e'er their reckless owner roam,
With guilt and gloom to find a home?
To wander, like the exiled ghost,
From heavenly fields forever lost,
Doomed, with Elysium yet in view,
His wayward rovings to pursue,
Where tosses Doubt's tumultuous sea,
Thy shattered wreck, Depravity!
122
Have proved thy nobler ancestry;
Nor rambling taste, nor thirst of gain,
From them had wrung their loved domain;
Naught lured them from their native hall
But fatal honor's sternest call;
Their only signal to depart
The beating of a loyal heart;
That, when Culloden's crimsoned bed
Heaved with the dying and the dead,
Followed its guiding beams afar,
Till set in blood the Stuart's star,
While heaven and earth combined to sign
The ruin of that royal line.
Son of the Muse, celestial guide,
Wont to inspire far purer pride!
Son of the Muse! had gold the power
To win from thee thy classic bower?
Of Byron should it e'er be told
His birthright bartered was—for gold?
Wont to inspire far purer pride!
Son of the Muse! had gold the power
To win from thee thy classic bower?
Of Byron should it e'er be told
His birthright bartered was—for gold?
Alas! for thou hast sold yet more
Than fragile dome or earth-born store;
And Virtue mourns, in early day,
A brighter birthright cast away;
What time delirious Passion's bowl
Dissolved thy priceless pearl—the soul!
O, crowned by heaven with youth and health,
And mental hoards and worldly wealth,
Vain the vast patrimony's aid!
Thy debt on high has ne'er been paid;
Thy means perverted from the aim
That had discharged the loftiest claim;
Guilt's lawless traffic lost for thee
The treasures of futurity!
Than fragile dome or earth-born store;
And Virtue mourns, in early day,
A brighter birthright cast away;
123
Dissolved thy priceless pearl—the soul!
O, crowned by heaven with youth and health,
And mental hoards and worldly wealth,
Vain the vast patrimony's aid!
Thy debt on high has ne'er been paid;
Thy means perverted from the aim
That had discharged the loftiest claim;
Guilt's lawless traffic lost for thee
The treasures of futurity!
Yet might it be—thyself—thy song
Are causelessly accused of wrong;
And tell-tale Fame, though still believed,
Has still as constantly deceived;
And thy free soul, unleagued with ill,
Retains its guardian angel still,
Who, when Temptation's fiends assailed,
Has wrestled for thee and prevailed;
If so, the burning blush suffuse,
The bitterest tear bedim the Muse;
To find it false were cause to rue,
Unequalled, save—to find it true!
Yet must the mind misgive thy lot
That lingers on this pictured spot,
Gazes its many beauties o'er,
And still returns to number more,
Musing what bliss 'twere here to find
A solace for the wearied mind.
When long sustained the various parts
Of public trust in arms or arts,
Blessing and blest—how fitly here
Might pause from toil a British Peer!
Be welcomed by the well-known shade
Where many a truant prank he played,
And taste the fruit and pluck the flower,
Creations of his earlier hour.
Are causelessly accused of wrong;
And tell-tale Fame, though still believed,
Has still as constantly deceived;
And thy free soul, unleagued with ill,
Retains its guardian angel still,
Who, when Temptation's fiends assailed,
Has wrestled for thee and prevailed;
If so, the burning blush suffuse,
The bitterest tear bedim the Muse;
To find it false were cause to rue,
Unequalled, save—to find it true!
124
That lingers on this pictured spot,
Gazes its many beauties o'er,
And still returns to number more,
Musing what bliss 'twere here to find
A solace for the wearied mind.
When long sustained the various parts
Of public trust in arms or arts,
Blessing and blest—how fitly here
Might pause from toil a British Peer!
Be welcomed by the well-known shade
Where many a truant prank he played,
And taste the fruit and pluck the flower,
Creations of his earlier hour.
From courts and camps, in groves like those,
Thy hero, Blenheim, found repose;
To breathe the calm that such inspire,
Would awful Chatham's self retire;
And sacred ever be the shade
Where, matchless Burke! thy form was laid,
When, pond'ring all thy country's woes,
The genius of prescience rose,
And spread such visions to thy sight
As checked the spirit's hastening flight,
And stopped of age the coming night,
Bidding, as erst in Ajalon,
The mental sun not yet go down!
Thy hero, Blenheim, found repose;
To breathe the calm that such inspire,
Would awful Chatham's self retire;
And sacred ever be the shade
Where, matchless Burke! thy form was laid,
When, pond'ring all thy country's woes,
The genius of prescience rose,
And spread such visions to thy sight
As checked the spirit's hastening flight,
And stopped of age the coming night,
125
The mental sun not yet go down!
Beside that bright and tranquil stream
How pleasant to recline and dream!
Listening the while its gentle sound
Not even fairy ear might wound,
Nor passing zephyr dare molest
The sacred quiet of its breast.
In gay translucency complete,
Yet mild as bright—O, emblem meet!
The very heaven assigned the just,
The haunt of beatific trust,
Where no defilement enters e'er,
Seems scarce more fair, more calm, more dear.
Byron! from this—and couldst thou pass?
Perchance, because its faithful glass
To thy inquiring glance has shown
Features the contrast to its own.
Far other images might find
Access to that distempered mind—
The dark wave warring 'gainst the shore,
The wild cascade's eternal roar;
What scorns, or what maintains control,
Suits the stern habits of thy soul.
Where opes yon vista, to disclose
Deep blushing how th' horizon glows,
'Twere sweet to watch the sun descend,
Like patriarch or like patriot's end—
The radiance of whose parting light
Gleams far athwart the grave's long night,
And glances to that distant shore
Where suns arise to set no more.
How pleasant to recline and dream!
Listening the while its gentle sound
Not even fairy ear might wound,
Nor passing zephyr dare molest
The sacred quiet of its breast.
In gay translucency complete,
Yet mild as bright—O, emblem meet!
The very heaven assigned the just,
The haunt of beatific trust,
Where no defilement enters e'er,
Seems scarce more fair, more calm, more dear.
Byron! from this—and couldst thou pass?
Perchance, because its faithful glass
To thy inquiring glance has shown
Features the contrast to its own.
Far other images might find
Access to that distempered mind—
The dark wave warring 'gainst the shore,
The wild cascade's eternal roar;
What scorns, or what maintains control,
Suits the stern habits of thy soul.
126
Deep blushing how th' horizon glows,
'Twere sweet to watch the sun descend,
Like patriarch or like patriot's end—
The radiance of whose parting light
Gleams far athwart the grave's long night,
And glances to that distant shore
Where suns arise to set no more.
Or where the hill's serener brow
O'erlooks the bustling world below,
Wait till that glorious orb arise,
And ride along the nether skies,
A warrior, awful to assail,
With fiery lance and golden mail,
Who, while his own impassive form
Derides of heaven and earth the storm,
Has ireful shafts, so swift, so sure,
That mortal strength can ne'er endure;
When that, in vengeance like a God,
O'er scorching realms he proudly trod,
But oftener when he glads the view
Like as a God in bounty, too,
Painting the flow'ret and the stone
With tints without his touch unknown,
Aiding the labors of the swain,
Granting to life its feast of grain;
The holiest heart was e'er bestowed
Might hail him on his heavenly road,
And pardon that the pagan knee
Had bent in fond idolatry.
O'erlooks the bustling world below,
Wait till that glorious orb arise,
And ride along the nether skies,
A warrior, awful to assail,
With fiery lance and golden mail,
Who, while his own impassive form
Derides of heaven and earth the storm,
Has ireful shafts, so swift, so sure,
That mortal strength can ne'er endure;
When that, in vengeance like a God,
O'er scorching realms he proudly trod,
But oftener when he glads the view
Like as a God in bounty, too,
Painting the flow'ret and the stone
With tints without his touch unknown,
127
Granting to life its feast of grain;
The holiest heart was e'er bestowed
Might hail him on his heavenly road,
And pardon that the pagan knee
Had bent in fond idolatry.
Sweet scene, farewell! Although these eyes
Behold thee but through mimic dyes;
Though ne'er my step may wander o'er
To ancient Albion's distant shore,
Yet for this semblance shall my heart
Long bless the imitative art.
Behold thee but through mimic dyes;
Though ne'er my step may wander o'er
To ancient Albion's distant shore,
Yet for this semblance shall my heart
Long bless the imitative art.
But thou! whose meed it was to know
The substance of this shadowy show,
At will to visit such a shrine,
With the high consciousness—'TWAS THINE,
Couldst thou—whate'er the syren call—
From such an fly—self-driven?
Its social bower, its festive hall,
Its lawns, its waters, woods, its all—
“O! how couldst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?”
The substance of this shadowy show,
At will to visit such a shrine,
With the high consciousness—'TWAS THINE,
Couldst thou—whate'er the syren call—
From such an fly—self-driven?
Its social bower, its festive hall,
Its lawns, its waters, woods, its all—
“O! how couldst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?”
| Poems and miscellanies selected from the writings of Miss Eliza Townsend | |