The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles ... with memoir, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan |
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 | The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles |  |
3. PART THIRD.
A tale of a Cornish maid—Her prayer-book—Her mother—Widow and son —Tales of sea life—Phantom-ship of the Cape.
43
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
So William cried, with wild and frantic look.
So William cried, with wild and frantic look.
She whom he loved was in her shroud, nor pain
Nor grief can visit her sad heart again.
There is no sculptured tombstone at her head;
No rude memorial marks her lowly bed:
The village children, every holiday,
Round the green turf, in summer sunshine play;
And none, but those now bending to the tomb,
Remember Mary, lovely in her bloom!
Nor grief can visit her sad heart again.
44
No rude memorial marks her lowly bed:
The village children, every holiday,
Round the green turf, in summer sunshine play;
And none, but those now bending to the tomb,
Remember Mary, lovely in her bloom!
Yet oft the hoary swain, when autumn sighs
Through the long grass, sees a dim form arise,
That hies in glimmering moonlight to the brook,
Its wan lips moving, in its hand a book.
So, like a bruised flower, and in the pride
Of youth and beauty, injured Mary died.
William some years survived, but years no trace
Of his sick heart's deep anguish could erase.
Still the dread spectre seemed to rise, and, worse,
Still in his ears rang the appalling curse!
While loud he cries, despair upon his look,
Oh! shut the book, my Mary, shut the book!
Through the long grass, sees a dim form arise,
That hies in glimmering moonlight to the brook,
Its wan lips moving, in its hand a book.
So, like a bruised flower, and in the pride
Of youth and beauty, injured Mary died.
William some years survived, but years no trace
Of his sick heart's deep anguish could erase.
Still the dread spectre seemed to rise, and, worse,
Still in his ears rang the appalling curse!
While loud he cries, despair upon his look,
Oh! shut the book, my Mary, shut the book!
The sun is slowly westering now, and lo,
How beautiful steals out the humid bow,
A radiant arch! Listen, whilst I relate
William's dread judgment, and poor Mary's fate.
How beautiful steals out the humid bow,
A radiant arch! Listen, whilst I relate
William's dread judgment, and poor Mary's fate.
I think I see the pine, that, heavily
Swaying, yet seems as for the dead to sigh.
How many generations, since the day
Of its green pride, have passed, like leaves, away!
How many children of the hamlet played
Round its hoar trunk, who at its feet were laid,
Withered and gray old men! In life's first bloom
How many has it seen borne to the tomb!
But never one so sunk in hopeless woe
As she who lies in the cold grave below.
Her Sabbath-book, from which at church she prayed,
Was her poor father's, in that churchyard laid:
For Mary grew as beautiful in youth,
As taught at church the lore of heavenly truth.
What different passions in her bosom strove,
When first she heard the tale of village love!
The youth whose voice then won her partial ear,
A yeoman's son, had passed his twentieth year;
She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care
Of boding age, oft whispered, Oh, beware!
For William was a thoughtless youth, and wild,
And like a colt unbroken, from a child:
At length, if not to serious thoughts awake,
He came to church, at least for Mary's sake.
Swaying, yet seems as for the dead to sigh.
How many generations, since the day
Of its green pride, have passed, like leaves, away!
How many children of the hamlet played
Round its hoar trunk, who at its feet were laid,
Withered and gray old men! In life's first bloom
How many has it seen borne to the tomb!
But never one so sunk in hopeless woe
As she who lies in the cold grave below.
Her Sabbath-book, from which at church she prayed,
Was her poor father's, in that churchyard laid:
45
As taught at church the lore of heavenly truth.
What different passions in her bosom strove,
When first she heard the tale of village love!
The youth whose voice then won her partial ear,
A yeoman's son, had passed his twentieth year;
She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care
Of boding age, oft whispered, Oh, beware!
For William was a thoughtless youth, and wild,
And like a colt unbroken, from a child:
At length, if not to serious thoughts awake,
He came to church, at least for Mary's sake.
Young Mary, while her father was alive,
Saw all things round the humble dwelling thrive;
Her widowed mother now was growing old,
And bit by bit their worldly goods were sold:
Mary remained, her mother's hope and pride!
How oft when she was sleeping by her side,
That mother waked, and kissed her cheek, with tears
Praying for blessings on her future years,—
When she, her mother, earthly trials o'er,
Should rest in the cold grave, to grieve no more!
Saw all things round the humble dwelling thrive;
Her widowed mother now was growing old,
And bit by bit their worldly goods were sold:
Mary remained, her mother's hope and pride!
How oft when she was sleeping by her side,
That mother waked, and kissed her cheek, with tears
Praying for blessings on her future years,—
When she, her mother, earthly trials o'er,
Should rest in the cold grave, to grieve no more!
But Mary to love's dream her heart resigned,
And gave to fancy all her youthful mind.
Shall I describe her! Didst thou never mark
A soft blue light, beneath eye-lashes dark?
Such was her eye's soft light;—her chestnut hair,
Light as she tripped, waved lighter to the air;
And, with her prayer-book, when on Sunday dressed,
Her looks a sweet but lowly grace expressed,
As modest as the violet at her breast.
Sometimes all day by her lone mother's side
She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.
And gave to fancy all her youthful mind.
Shall I describe her! Didst thou never mark
A soft blue light, beneath eye-lashes dark?
Such was her eye's soft light;—her chestnut hair,
Light as she tripped, waved lighter to the air;
And, with her prayer-book, when on Sunday dressed,
Her looks a sweet but lowly grace expressed,
As modest as the violet at her breast.
Sometimes all day by her lone mother's side
She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.
46
Where winds the brook, by yonder bordering wood,
Her mother's solitary cottage stood:
A few white pales in front, fenced from the road
The garden-plot, and poor but neat abode.
Before the window, 'mid the flowers of spring
A bee-hive hummed, whose bees were murmuring;
Beneath an ivied bank, abrupt and high,
A small clear well reflected bank and sky,
In whose translucent mirror, smooth and still,
From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill.
Here the first bluebell, and, of livelier hue,
The daffodil and polyanthus grew.
'Twas Mary's care a jessamine to train,
With small white blossoms, round the window-pane:
A rustic wicket opened to the meads,
Where a scant pathway to the hamlet leads:
And near, a water-wheel toiled round and round,
Dashing the o'ershot stream, with long continuous sound.
Beyond, when the brief shower had sailed away,
The tapering spire shone out in sunlight gray;
And o'er that mountain's northern point, to sight
Stretching far on, the main-sea rolled in light.
Her mother's solitary cottage stood:
A few white pales in front, fenced from the road
The garden-plot, and poor but neat abode.
Before the window, 'mid the flowers of spring
A bee-hive hummed, whose bees were murmuring;
Beneath an ivied bank, abrupt and high,
A small clear well reflected bank and sky,
In whose translucent mirror, smooth and still,
From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill.
Here the first bluebell, and, of livelier hue,
The daffodil and polyanthus grew.
'Twas Mary's care a jessamine to train,
With small white blossoms, round the window-pane:
A rustic wicket opened to the meads,
Where a scant pathway to the hamlet leads:
And near, a water-wheel toiled round and round,
Dashing the o'ershot stream, with long continuous sound.
Beyond, when the brief shower had sailed away,
The tapering spire shone out in sunlight gray;
And o'er that mountain's northern point, to sight
Stretching far on, the main-sea rolled in light.
Enter: within, see everything how neat!
One book lies open on the window-seat,
The spectacles are on a leaf of Job:
There, mark, a map of the terrestrial globe;
And opposite, with its prolific stem,
The Christian's tree, and New Jerusalem;
Here, see a printed paper, to record
A veritable letter from our Lord:
Two books are on the window-ledge beneath,—
The Book of Prayer, and Drelincourt on Death:
Some cowslips, in a cup of china placed,
A painted shelf above the chimney graced:
Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes,
Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies,
Tib in the sunshine of the casement lies.
'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung,
And Mary's linnet at the window sung.
Whilst in the air the vernal music floats,
The cuckoo only joins his two sweet notes:
But those—oh! listen, for he sings more near—
So musical, so mellow, and so clear!
Not sweeter, where thy mighty waters sweep,
Missouri, through the night of forests deep,
Resounds, from glade to glade, from rock to hill,
While fervent harmonies the wild wood fill,
The solitary note of “whip-poor-will;”
Mary's old mother stops her wheel to say,
The cuckoo! hark! how sweet he sings to-day!
One book lies open on the window-seat,
The spectacles are on a leaf of Job:
There, mark, a map of the terrestrial globe;
And opposite, with its prolific stem,
The Christian's tree, and New Jerusalem;
Here, see a printed paper, to record
A veritable letter from our Lord:
Two books are on the window-ledge beneath,—
The Book of Prayer, and Drelincourt on Death:
47
A painted shelf above the chimney graced:
Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes,
Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies,
Tib in the sunshine of the casement lies.
'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung,
And Mary's linnet at the window sung.
Whilst in the air the vernal music floats,
The cuckoo only joins his two sweet notes:
But those—oh! listen, for he sings more near—
So musical, so mellow, and so clear!
Not sweeter, where thy mighty waters sweep,
Missouri, through the night of forests deep,
Resounds, from glade to glade, from rock to hill,
While fervent harmonies the wild wood fill,
The solitary note of “whip-poor-will;”
Mary's old mother stops her wheel to say,
The cuckoo! hark! how sweet he sings to-day!
It is not long, not long to Whitsuntide,
And Mary then shall be a happy bride.
On Sunday morn, when a slant light was flung
Upon the tower, and the first peal was rung,
William and Mary smiling would repair,
Arm linked in arm, to the same house of prayer.
The bells will sound more merrily, he cried,
And gently pressed her hand, at Whitsuntide:
She checked the rising thoughts, and hung her head;
And Mary, ere one year had passed—was dead!
And Mary then shall be a happy bride.
On Sunday morn, when a slant light was flung
Upon the tower, and the first peal was rung,
William and Mary smiling would repair,
Arm linked in arm, to the same house of prayer.
The bells will sound more merrily, he cried,
And gently pressed her hand, at Whitsuntide:
She checked the rising thoughts, and hung her head;
And Mary, ere one year had passed—was dead!
'Twas said, and many would the tale believe,
Her shrouded form was seen upon that eve,
When, gliding through the churchyard, they appear—
They who shall die within the coming year.
All pale, and strangely piteous, was her look,
Her right hand was stretched out, and held a book;
O'er it her wet hair dripped, while the moon cast
A cold wan light, as in her shroud she passed!
I cannot say if this were so, but late,
She went to Madern-stone, to learn her fate,
What there she heard ne'er came to human ears—
But from that hour she oft was seen in tears.
Her shrouded form was seen upon that eve,
48
They who shall die within the coming year.
All pale, and strangely piteous, was her look,
Her right hand was stretched out, and held a book;
O'er it her wet hair dripped, while the moon cast
A cold wan light, as in her shroud she passed!
I cannot say if this were so, but late,
She went to Madern-stone, to learn her fate,
What there she heard ne'er came to human ears—
But from that hour she oft was seen in tears.
Mild zephyr breathes, the butterfly more bright
Strays, wavering, o'er the pales, in rainbow light;
The lamb, the colt, the blackbird in the brake,
Seem all the vernal feeling to partake;
The lark sings high in air, itself unseen,
The hasty swallow skims the village-green;
And all things seem, to the full heart, to bring
The blissful breathings of the world's first spring.
Strays, wavering, o'er the pales, in rainbow light;
The lamb, the colt, the blackbird in the brake,
Seem all the vernal feeling to partake;
The lark sings high in air, itself unseen,
The hasty swallow skims the village-green;
And all things seem, to the full heart, to bring
The blissful breathings of the world's first spring.
How lovely is the sunshine of May-morn!
The garden bee has wound his earliest horn,
Busied from flower to flower, as he would say,
Up! Mary! up this merry morn of May!
Now lads and lasses of the hamlet bore
Branches of blossomed thorn or sycamore;
And at her mother's porch a garland hung,
While thus their rural roundelay they sung:—
The garden bee has wound his earliest horn,
Busied from flower to flower, as he would say,
Up! Mary! up this merry morn of May!
Now lads and lasses of the hamlet bore
Branches of blossomed thorn or sycamore;
And at her mother's porch a garland hung,
While thus their rural roundelay they sung:—
And we were up as soon as day,
To fetch the summer home,
The summer and the radiant May,
For summer now is come.
To fetch the summer home,
49
For summer now is come.
In Madern vale the bell-flowers bloom,
And wave to Zephyr's breath:
The cuckoo sings in Morval Coombe,
Where nods the purple heath.
And wave to Zephyr's breath:
The cuckoo sings in Morval Coombe,
Where nods the purple heath.
Come, dance around Glen-Aston tree—
We bring a garland gay,
And Mary of Guynear shall be
Our Lady of the May.
We bring a garland gay,
And Mary of Guynear shall be
Our Lady of the May.
But where is William? Did he not declare,
He would be first the blossomed bough to bear!
She will not join the train! and see! the flower
She gathered now is fading! Hour by hour
She watched the sunshine on the thatch; again
Her mother turns the hour-glass; now, the pane
The westering sun has left—the long May-day
So Mary wore in hopes and fears away.
Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate
She stands: Oh! William never came so late!
Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in;
Dream not of bliss on earth—it is a sin:
Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read;
In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need,
By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed,
There only can the weary heart find rest.
He would be first the blossomed bough to bear!
She will not join the train! and see! the flower
She gathered now is fading! Hour by hour
She watched the sunshine on the thatch; again
Her mother turns the hour-glass; now, the pane
The westering sun has left—the long May-day
So Mary wore in hopes and fears away.
Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate
She stands: Oh! William never came so late!
Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in;
Dream not of bliss on earth—it is a sin:
Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read;
In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need,
By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed,
There only can the weary heart find rest.
Her thin hands, marked by many a wandering vein,
Her mother turned the silent glass again;
The rushlight now is lit, the Bible read,
Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed,
She listens!—Hark! no voice, no step she hears,—
Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!
Her mother turned the silent glass again;
50
Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed,
She listens!—Hark! no voice, no step she hears,—
Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!
When the slow morning came, the tale was told,
(Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.
(Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.
But hope yet whispers, dry the accusing tear,—
When Sunday comes, he will again be here!
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.
The sun shone bright—the bells were chiming loud—
And lads and lasses, in their best attire,
Were tripping past—the youth, the child, the sire;
But William came not. With a boding heart
Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart:
And when her mother came, with kerchief clean,
The last who tottered homeward o'er the green,
Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth,
Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.
When Sunday comes, he will again be here!
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.
The sun shone bright—the bells were chiming loud—
And lads and lasses, in their best attire,
Were tripping past—the youth, the child, the sire;
But William came not. With a boding heart
Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart:
And when her mother came, with kerchief clean,
The last who tottered homeward o'er the green,
Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth,
Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.
Next day the tidings to the cottage came,
That William's heart confessed another flame:
That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen,
At the new tabernacle on the green;
That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove
Alike a traitor to his faith and love.
That William's heart confessed another flame:
That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen,
At the new tabernacle on the green;
That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove
Alike a traitor to his faith and love.
The bells are ringing, it is Whitsuntide,—
And there goes faithless William with his bride.
Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day,
The dread remembrance wore her heart away:
Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek,
And her too trusting heart was left to break.
And there goes faithless William with his bride.
Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day,
The dread remembrance wore her heart away:
Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek,
And her too trusting heart was left to break.
Six melancholy months have slowly passed,
And dark is heard November's hollow blast.
Sometimes, with tearful moodiness she smiled,
Then, still and placid looked, as when a child,
Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.
And dark is heard November's hollow blast.
51
Then, still and placid looked, as when a child,
Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.
Oft, as she strayed the brook's green marge along,
She there would sing one sad and broken song:—
She there would sing one sad and broken song:—
Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
I to you would fly for rest,
But a stone, a stone,
Lies like lead upon my breast,
And every hope is flown.
But a stone, a stone,
Lies like lead upon my breast,
And every hope is flown.
Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
Her mother said, Thou shalt not be confined,
Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind
The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows,
Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.
So Mary wandered to the northern shore;
There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar
Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew,
And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew,
And all the billowy space was tossing wide,
Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried,
I love thy voice, oh, ever-sounding sea,
Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!
Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind
The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows,
Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.
So Mary wandered to the northern shore;
There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar
Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew,
And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew,
And all the billowy space was tossing wide,
Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried,
52
Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!
Then on the surge she gazed, with vacant stare,
Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair,
Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear,
For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here,—
William, she shall know all!—and then again
Her ditty died into its first sad strain:—
Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair,
Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear,
For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here,—
William, she shall know all!—and then again
Her ditty died into its first sad strain:—
Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!
When home returned, the tears ran down apace;
She looked in silence in her mother's face;
Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried,
How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide,
Then, mother, I shall be a bride—a bride!
She looked in silence in her mother's face;
Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried,
How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide,
Then, mother, I shall be a bride—a bride!
Ah! some dire thought seems in her breast to rise,
Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes:
Her mother heeded not; nor when she took,
With more impatient haste, her Sunday book,
She heeded not—for age had dimmed her sight.
Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.
Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried,
Mary! my Mary!—but no voice replied.
Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes:
Her mother heeded not; nor when she took,
With more impatient haste, her Sunday book,
She heeded not—for age had dimmed her sight.
Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.
Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried,
Mary! my Mary!—but no voice replied.
Next morn, light-hearted William passed along,
And careless hummed a desultory song,
Bound to St Ives' revel. Not a ray
Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;
The sun is yet below the hills: but, look!
There is the tower—the mill—the stile—the brook,—
And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!
Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.
'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,
But Mary always rose before the sun.
Still at the door, a leafless relic now,
Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;
No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:
Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?
Ah! was it fancy?—as he passed along,
He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.
Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.
Upon the ground there lay an open book;
One page was folded down:—Spirit of grace!
See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!
It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read:
Let him be desolate, and beg his bread!
Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless,—
Be his days few,—his children fatherless,—
His wife a widow!—let there be no friend
In his last moments mercy to extend!
And careless hummed a desultory song,
Bound to St Ives' revel. Not a ray
Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;
53
There is the tower—the mill—the stile—the brook,—
And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!
Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.
'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,
But Mary always rose before the sun.
Still at the door, a leafless relic now,
Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;
No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:
Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?
Ah! was it fancy?—as he passed along,
He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.
Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.
Upon the ground there lay an open book;
One page was folded down:—Spirit of grace!
See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!
It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read:
Let him be desolate, and beg his bread!
Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless,—
Be his days few,—his children fatherless,—
His wife a widow!—let there be no friend
In his last moments mercy to extend!
It was a prayer-book he before had seen:
Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,
He read the page:—An outcast let him lie,
And unlamented and forsaken die!
When he has children, may they pine away
Before his sight,—his wife to grief a prey.
Ah! 'tis poor Mary's book!—the very same
He read with her at church; and, lo! her name:—
The book of Mary Banks;—when this you see,
And I am dead and gone, remember me!
He trembles: mark!—the dew is on his brow:
The curse is hers! he cried—I feel it now!
I see already, even at my right hand,
Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!
I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,
He sunk upon the earth in agony.
Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,
He read the page:—An outcast let him lie,
And unlamented and forsaken die!
When he has children, may they pine away
Before his sight,—his wife to grief a prey.
54
He read with her at church; and, lo! her name:—
The book of Mary Banks;—when this you see,
And I am dead and gone, remember me!
He trembles: mark!—the dew is on his brow:
The curse is hers! he cried—I feel it now!
I see already, even at my right hand,
Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!
I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,
He sunk upon the earth in agony.
Feebly he rose,—when, on the matted hair
Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,
The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance
Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!
The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,
Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!
Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,
Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes—
They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!
The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!
Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,
The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance
Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!
The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,
Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!
Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,
Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes—
They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!
The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!
Alas, poor maid! 'twas frenzy fired thy breast,
Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:
Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,
And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.
Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:
Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,
And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.
William, heart-stricken, to despair a prey,
Soon left the village, journeying far away.
For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,
His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.
Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?
Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.
He dropped a pebble—mark! no bubble bright
Comes from the bottom—turn away thy sight!
He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare
How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!
Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see
Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!
I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
Soon left the village, journeying far away.
For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,
His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.
Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?
Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.
55
Comes from the bottom—turn away thy sight!
He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare
How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!
Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see
Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!
I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid;—
Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:
Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,
There they both rest without a name or stone.
The village maids, who pass in summer by,
Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!
Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:
Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,
There they both rest without a name or stone.
The village maids, who pass in summer by,
Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!
But what of William? Hide me in the mine!
He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!
Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright,—
Hide me for ever in forgetful night!
In vain—that form, the cause of all his woes,
More sternly terrible in darkness rose!
Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,
The phantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine,—wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime!—Ocean, be thou my home!
He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!
Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright,—
Hide me for ever in forgetful night!
In vain—that form, the cause of all his woes,
More sternly terrible in darkness rose!
Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,
The phantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine,—wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime!—Ocean, be thou my home!
Some say he died: here he was seen no more;
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee,
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
56
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life,
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,—
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!—
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes—with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide—
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide,—
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies,—
And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life,
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,—
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!—
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes—with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide—
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide,—
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
57
And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.
Years passed away,—at night, or evening close,
Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.
Restored from toil and perils of the main,
Now William treads his native place again.
Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,
Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,
He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;
All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;
Some competence he gained, by years of toil:
So, in a cottage, on his native soil,
He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale
To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail
Oft o'er the bay, when suns of summer shone,
Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.
At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,
Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,
The book of God was on his pillow laid,
He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.
Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.
Restored from toil and perils of the main,
Now William treads his native place again.
Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,
Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,
He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;
All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;
Some competence he gained, by years of toil:
So, in a cottage, on his native soil,
He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale
To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail
Oft o'er the bay, when suns of summer shone,
Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.
At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,
Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,
The book of God was on his pillow laid,
He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.
He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay,
Which, from the Mississippi, far away,
O'er the Atlantic, to his native land
He brought;—and this poor bird fed from his hand.
In the great world there was not one beside
For whom he cared, since his own mother died.
Which, from the Mississippi, far away,
O'er the Atlantic, to his native land
He brought;—and this poor bird fed from his hand.
In the great world there was not one beside
For whom he cared, since his own mother died.
Yet manly strength was his, for twenty years
Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;
His age not forty-two, and in his face
Of care more than of age appeared the trace.
Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;
His age not forty-two, and in his face
Of care more than of age appeared the trace.
Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees,
The sights and sounds of life began to please.
The sights and sounds of life began to please.
58
Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known
Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.
She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,
First woke to human sympathies his mind.
He looked affectionately, when her child
Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.
This widow and her child, almost unknown,
Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.
Her husband was a fisher, one whose life
Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:
Night after night exposed upon the main;
Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;
His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
When others to a cheerful home retire,
And his wife sits before the evening fire,
He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,
Haply is thinking of that social light.
Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.
She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,
First woke to human sympathies his mind.
He looked affectionately, when her child
Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.
This widow and her child, almost unknown,
Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.
Her husband was a fisher, one whose life
Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:
Night after night exposed upon the main;
Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;
His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
When others to a cheerful home retire,
And his wife sits before the evening fire,
He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,
Haply is thinking of that social light.
Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain
Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;
The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,
Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.
Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;
The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,
Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.
Seven years had passed, and after evening prayer,
To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son would sometimes stay,
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear—
Of battles—of the roving buccaneer—
Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,
And fires, and dances of the savage men.
To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son would sometimes stay,
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear—
Of battles—of the roving buccaneer—
Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,
And fires, and dances of the savage men.
So William spoke of perils he had passed,—
Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;
Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on, but not a living soul
Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,
Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,
And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;
Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
59
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on, but not a living soul
Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,
Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,
And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
One night they longer stayed the tale to hear,
And Ruth that night “beguiled him of a tear,
Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered.” Then, she pitying spoke;
And from that night a softer feeling grew,
As calmer prospects rose within his view.
And why not, ere the long night of the dead,
The slow descent of life together tread?
And Ruth that night “beguiled him of a tear,
Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered.” Then, she pitying spoke;
And from that night a softer feeling grew,
As calmer prospects rose within his view.
And why not, ere the long night of the dead,
The slow descent of life together tread?
The day is fixed; William no more shall roam,
William and Ruth shall have one heart—one home:
The world shut out, both shall together pray:
Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:
She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,
And he shall be a father to her child.
William and Ruth shall have one heart—one home:
The world shut out, both shall together pray:
Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:
She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,
And he shall be a father to her child.
60
Fair rose the morn—the summer air how bland!
The blue wave scarcely seems to touch the land.
Again 'tis William's wedding-day! advance—
For lo! the church and blue slate of Penzance!
Their faith and troth is pledged, the rites are o'er,
The nuptial band winds slow along the shore,
The smiling boy beside. As thus they passed,
With sudden blackness rushed the impetuous blast;
Deep thunder rolled in long portentous sound,
At distance: nearer now, it shakes the ground.
Pale, William sinks, with speechless dread oppressed,
As the forked flash seems darted at his breast.
His beating heart is heard,—blanched is his cheek,—
A well-known voice seemed in the storm to speak;
Aghast he cried again, with frantic look,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
The blue wave scarcely seems to touch the land.
Again 'tis William's wedding-day! advance—
For lo! the church and blue slate of Penzance!
Their faith and troth is pledged, the rites are o'er,
The nuptial band winds slow along the shore,
The smiling boy beside. As thus they passed,
With sudden blackness rushed the impetuous blast;
Deep thunder rolled in long portentous sound,
At distance: nearer now, it shakes the ground.
Pale, William sinks, with speechless dread oppressed,
As the forked flash seems darted at his breast.
His beating heart is heard,—blanched is his cheek,—
A well-known voice seemed in the storm to speak;
Aghast he cried again, with frantic look,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
By late remorse he died; for, from that day,
The judgment on his head, he pined away,
And soon an outcast suicide he lay.
The judgment on his head, he pined away,
And soon an outcast suicide he lay.
By the church-porch rests Mary of Guynear;—
When the first cuckoo startles the cold year,
And blue mint on her grave more beauteous grows,
One small bird seems to sing for her repose.
Near the Land's-end, so black and weather-beat,
He lies, and the dark sea is at his feet.
When the first cuckoo startles the cold year,
And blue mint on her grave more beauteous grows,
One small bird seems to sing for her repose.
Near the Land's-end, so black and weather-beat,
He lies, and the dark sea is at his feet.
Thou, who hast heard the tale of the sad maid,
Know, conscious guilt is the accusing shade:
If thou hast loved some gentle maid and true,
Whose first affections never swerved from you;
Leave her not—oh! for pity and for truth,
Leave her not, tearful in her days of youth!
Too late, the pang of vain remorse shall start,
And Conscience thus avenge—a broken heart!
Know, conscious guilt is the accusing shade:
If thou hast loved some gentle maid and true,
Whose first affections never swerved from you;
61
Leave her not, tearful in her days of youth!
Too late, the pang of vain remorse shall start,
And Conscience thus avenge—a broken heart!
4. PART FOURTH.
Solitary sea—Ship—Sea scenes of Southampton contrasted—Solitary sand— Young Lady—Severn—Walton Castle—Picture of Bristol—Congresbury —Brockley-Coombe—Fayland—Cottage—Poor Dinah—Goblin-Coombe— Langford court—Mendip lodge—Wrington—Blagdon—Author of the tune of “Auld Robin Gray”—Auld Robin Gray—Auld Lang Syne.
The shower is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.
No object on the wider sea-line meets
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship—the very ship I saw
In infancy, and in that very place,
Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old
Since she was first descried; and there she sits,
A solitary thing of the wide main—
As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—
To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!
Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice
Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way
Slow up the channel, after many years,
Returning from some distant clime, or lands,
Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes
Count every nearer surge that heaves around!
How many anxious hearts this moment beat
With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,
Intensely fixed upon these very hills,
Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—
On—on—into the world of the vast sea,
There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,
Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,
Now fading into mist! So let her speed,
And we will pray she may return in joy,
When every storm is past! Such is this sea,
That shows one wandering ship! How different smile
The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,
Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—
Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—
Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,
And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade
Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore,
Beneath their arch, King Canute sat, and chid
The tide, that came regardless to his feet,
A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike
Yon solitary sea, the summer shines,
There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,
Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,
And sails, at distance, beautifully swell
To the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,
Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—
Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht
That turns the wooded point, and silently
Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—
And yet as if she said, as she went on,
Who does not gaze at me!
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship—the very ship I saw
In infancy, and in that very place,
Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old
Since she was first descried; and there she sits,
A solitary thing of the wide main—
As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—
To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!
62
Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way
Slow up the channel, after many years,
Returning from some distant clime, or lands,
Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes
Count every nearer surge that heaves around!
How many anxious hearts this moment beat
With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,
Intensely fixed upon these very hills,
Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—
On—on—into the world of the vast sea,
There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,
Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,
Now fading into mist! So let her speed,
And we will pray she may return in joy,
When every storm is past! Such is this sea,
That shows one wandering ship! How different smile
The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,
Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—
Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—
Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,
And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade
Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore,
Beneath their arch, King Canute sat, and chid
The tide, that came regardless to his feet,
A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike
Yon solitary sea, the summer shines,
There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,
Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,
And sails, at distance, beautifully swell
To the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,
Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—
Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht
63
Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—
And yet as if she said, as she went on,
Who does not gaze at me!
Yon winding sands
Were solitary once, as the wide sea.
Such I remember them! No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,
When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,
Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,
Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here
I could have no companion fit for him—
So whispered youthful vanity—for him
Whom Oxford had distinguished,—can my heart
Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,
I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone
On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,
I listened to the tide's advancing roar,
When, for the old and booted fisherman,
Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze
Of sunrise, I beheld—or was it not
A momentary vision?—a fair form—
A female, following, with light, airy step,
The wave as it retreated, and again
Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,
As if in play; and she stood beautiful,
Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,
Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.
I looked that she would vanish! She had left,
Like me, just left the abode of discipline,
And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,
When the pale light first glanced along the wave,
To play with the wild ocean, like a child;
And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,
Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—
Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,
I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,
Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,
And left the scene to solitude. Once more
We met, and then we parted, in this world
To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone
The vision of a moment, on the sands,
Was never seen again! Now it has passed
Where all things are forgotten; but it shone
To me a sparkle of the morning sun,
That trembled on the light wave yesterday,
And perished there for ever!
Were solitary once, as the wide sea.
Such I remember them! No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,
When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,
Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,
Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here
I could have no companion fit for him—
So whispered youthful vanity—for him
Whom Oxford had distinguished,—can my heart
Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,
I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone
On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,
I listened to the tide's advancing roar,
When, for the old and booted fisherman,
Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze
Of sunrise, I beheld—or was it not
A momentary vision?—a fair form—
A female, following, with light, airy step,
The wave as it retreated, and again
Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,
As if in play; and she stood beautiful,
Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,
Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.
I looked that she would vanish! She had left,
Like me, just left the abode of discipline,
And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,
64
To play with the wild ocean, like a child;
And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,
Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—
Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,
I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,
Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,
And left the scene to solitude. Once more
We met, and then we parted, in this world
To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone
The vision of a moment, on the sands,
Was never seen again! Now it has passed
Where all things are forgotten; but it shone
To me a sparkle of the morning sun,
That trembled on the light wave yesterday,
And perished there for ever!
Look around!
Above the winding reach of Severn stands,
With massy fragments of forsaken towers,
Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!
Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind
Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,
And deem it some old castle of romance;
And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,
Above the wave, fancy it was the form
Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,
Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieks
Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no sound
But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!
There is no bleeding apparition there—
No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!
Surrounded by the works of silent art,
And far, far more endearing, by a group
Of breathing children, their possessor lives;
And ill should I deserve the name of bard—
Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme
Without a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,
When one, whose smile I never saw but once,
Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—
Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—
A living and a lovely bride!
Above the winding reach of Severn stands,
With massy fragments of forsaken towers,
Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!
Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind
Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,
And deem it some old castle of romance;
And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,
Above the wave, fancy it was the form
Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,
Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieks
Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no sound
But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!
There is no bleeding apparition there—
No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!
Surrounded by the works of silent art,
And far, far more endearing, by a group
65
And ill should I deserve the name of bard—
Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme
Without a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,
When one, whose smile I never saw but once,
Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—
Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—
A living and a lovely bride!
How proud,
Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,
With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,
Trailing in columns to the midday sun,
Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,
And the great stir of commerce, and the noise
Of passing and repassing wains, and cars,
And sledges, grating in their underpath,
And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts
And pennants from all nations of the earth,
Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,
Hill above hill; and every road below
Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high
On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—
How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,
Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,
Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girt
With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,
Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—
Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,
That ancient city sits!
Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,
With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,
Trailing in columns to the midday sun,
Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,
And the great stir of commerce, and the noise
Of passing and repassing wains, and cars,
And sledges, grating in their underpath,
And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts
And pennants from all nations of the earth,
Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,
Hill above hill; and every road below
Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high
On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—
How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,
Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,
Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girt
With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,
Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—
Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,
That ancient city sits!
From out those trees,
Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!
How many woody glens and nooks of shade,
With transient sunshine, fill the interval,
As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,
Dark, or with fits of desultory light
Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,
Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe
Allures the lingering traveller to wind,
Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,
Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously
The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously
Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,
Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,
While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!
There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock
Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs
From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,
Seem as admonishing the nether woods
Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath
The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge
One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,
Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.
And who lives in that far-secluded cot?
Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,
Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge
She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,
Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound
Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!
Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy rings
Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,
Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,
By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled
The rocks, that stern in desolation frown,
Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,
Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite
More dismal makes its utter dreariness!
Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!
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With transient sunshine, fill the interval,
As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,
Dark, or with fits of desultory light
Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,
Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe
Allures the lingering traveller to wind,
Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,
Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously
The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously
Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,
Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,
While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!
There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock
Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs
From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,
Seem as admonishing the nether woods
Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath
The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge
One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,
Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.
And who lives in that far-secluded cot?
Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,
Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge
She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,
Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound
Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!
Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy rings
Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,
Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,
By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled
The rocks, that stern in desolation frown,
Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,
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More dismal makes its utter dreariness!
But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smiles
The seat of cultivated Addington:
And there, that beautiful but solemn church
Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend
Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt
Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—
With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,
Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.
The seat of cultivated Addington:
And there, that beautiful but solemn church
Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend
Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt
Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—
With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,
Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.
Is that a magic garden on the edge
Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;
While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke
(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),
Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens
With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,
That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,
And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,
England, thou only art the poor man's home!
Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;
While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke
(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),
Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens
With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,
That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,
And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,
England, thou only art the poor man's home!
And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,
Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.
The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,
Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps
The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock
Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.
And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think
Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—
Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too!
He, in retirement's literary bower,
Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,
Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayer
For her, associate of his early fame,
Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,
Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,
In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,
Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,
Smiling at time!
But, hark! there comes a song,
Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.
The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,
Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps
The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock
Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.
And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think
Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—
Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too!
He, in retirement's literary bower,
Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,
Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayer
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Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,
Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,
In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,
Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,
Smiling at time!
Of Scotland's lakes and hills—Auld Robin Gray!
Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed words
More sadly soothing; but the melody,
Like some sweet melody of olden times,
A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.
Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once—
Sung by a maiden of the south, whose look
(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,
Are sweeter than her song—no minstrel gray,
Like Donald and “the Lady of the Lake,”
But would lay down his harp, and when the song
Was ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,
To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:—
Oh! when I hear thee sing of “Jamie far away,”
Of “father and of mother,” and of “Auld Robin Gray,”
I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,
And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.
Of “father and of mother,” and of “Auld Robin Gray,”
I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,
And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.
“I look in thy face,” for my heart it is not cold,
Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old
Those tones I shall remember as long as I live.
And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.
Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old
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And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.
The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,
For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;
The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,
Recalls the music of “Lang Syne,” to which my heart has beat.
For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;
The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,
Recalls the music of “Lang Syne,” to which my heart has beat.
5. PART FIFTH.
Lang syne—Return to the Deluge—Vision of the Flood—Archangel—Trump— Voice—Phantom-horse—Dove of the Ark—Dove ascending—Conclusion.
The music of “Lang Syne!” Oh! long ago
It died away—died, and was heard no more!
And where those hills that skirt the level vale,
On to the left, the prospect intercept,
I would not, could not look, were they removed;
I would not, could not look, lest I should see
The sunshine on that spot of all the world,
Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazed
Long since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,
Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,
Farewell—farewell, for ever!
It died away—died, and was heard no more!
And where those hills that skirt the level vale,
On to the left, the prospect intercept,
I would not, could not look, were they removed;
I would not, could not look, lest I should see
The sunshine on that spot of all the world,
Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazed
Long since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,
Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,
Farewell—farewell, for ever!
How sincere,
How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?
Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,
And I look back, and almost seem to hear
The music of the days when we were young,
Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,
Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—
How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,
Was my fond heart's first love!
How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?
Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,
And I look back, and almost seem to hear
The music of the days when we were young,
Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,
Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—
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Was my fond heart's first love!
The summer eve
Shone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,
Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,
Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,
Borne from those scenes for ever, while with song
The sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.
Shone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,
Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,
Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,
Borne from those scenes for ever, while with song
The sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.
So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,
Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,
And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,
Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.
At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwined
Lay withering, for the dream had been too sweet
For human life; yet never, though his love,
All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;
Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,
To drown even the remembrance that he lived—
Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,
Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,
Died on his desultory lyre.
Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,
And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,
Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.
At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwined
Lay withering, for the dream had been too sweet
For human life; yet never, though his love,
All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;
Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,
To drown even the remembrance that he lived—
Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,
Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,
Died on his desultory lyre.
No more!
Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,
That long has passed away! Uplift the eyes
To Him who sits above the water flood,—
To Him who was, and is, and is to come!
Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,
And marking here the record of earth's doom,
Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—
The sound of the great flood, the peopled earth
Covering and surging in its solitude!
Let us forget the passing hour, the stir
Of this tumultuous scene of human things,
And bid imagination lift the veil
Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!
Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,
That long has passed away! Uplift the eyes
To Him who sits above the water flood,—
To Him who was, and is, and is to come!
Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,
And marking here the record of earth's doom,
Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—
The sound of the great flood, the peopled earth
Covering and surging in its solitude!
Let us forget the passing hour, the stir
Of this tumultuous scene of human things,
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Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!
The vision of the deluge! Hark—a trump!
It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern
He stands, whilst the awakening thunder rolls
Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands
Upon Imaus' height!
It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern
He stands, whilst the awakening thunder rolls
Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands
Upon Imaus' height!
No voice is heard
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!
He sounds again his trumpet; and the clouds
Come deepening o'er the world!
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!
He sounds again his trumpet; and the clouds
Come deepening o'er the world!
Why art thou pale?
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of the Almighty passed
O'er the abodes of man, and hushed at once
The song, the shout, the cries of violence,
The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse
Of blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,
And mocks the deeper thunder!
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of the Almighty passed
O'er the abodes of man, and hushed at once
The song, the shout, the cries of violence,
The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse
Of blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,
And mocks the deeper thunder!
Hark! a voice—
Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earth
Answers, from north to south, from east to west—
Perish! The fountains of the mighty deep
Are broken up; the rushing rains descend,
Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,
Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,
Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,
Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—
Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—
Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!
Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell
Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,
And then a loud voice answers—Victory!
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earth
Answers, from north to south, from east to west—
Perish! The fountains of the mighty deep
Are broken up; the rushing rains descend,
Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,
Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,
Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,
Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—
Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—
Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!
Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell
Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,
And then a loud voice answers—Victory!
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Victory to the rider and his horse!
Ride on:—the ark, majestic and alone
On the wide waste of the careering deep,
Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!
The ark, from its terrific voyage, rests
On Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—
Send out the dove, and as her wings far off
Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,
Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—
On the wide waste of the careering deep,
Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!
The ark, from its terrific voyage, rests
On Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—
Send out the dove, and as her wings far off
Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,
Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—
Go, beautiful and gentle dove;
But whither wilt thou go?
For though the clouds ride high above,
How sad and waste is all below!
But whither wilt thou go?
For though the clouds ride high above,
How sad and waste is all below!
The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast
Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a night
When she was listening to the hollow wind,
She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;
Or when it murmured in her hand, forgot
The long, loud tumult of the storm without.
She kisses it, and at her father's word,
Bids it go forth.
Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a night
When she was listening to the hollow wind,
She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;
Or when it murmured in her hand, forgot
The long, loud tumult of the storm without.
She kisses it, and at her father's word,
Bids it go forth.
The dove flies on! In lonely flight
She flies from dawn till dark;
And now, amid the gloom of night,
Comes weary to the ark.
Oh! let me in, she seems to say,
For long and lone hath been my way!
Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,
And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!
So the bird flew to her who cherished it.
She sent it forth again out of the ark;—
Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!
An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,
And kissed its wings again, and smilingly
Dropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,
Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:
Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,
Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:—
She flies from dawn till dark;
And now, amid the gloom of night,
Comes weary to the ark.
Oh! let me in, she seems to say,
For long and lone hath been my way!
Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,
And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!
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She sent it forth again out of the ark;—
Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!
An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,
And kissed its wings again, and smilingly
Dropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,
Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:
Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,
Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:—
Go, beautiful and gentle dove,
And greet the morning ray;
For, lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm have passed away.
No longer, drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
And greet the morning ray;
For, lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm have passed away.
No longer, drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,
Thy welcome sad will be,
When thou shalt hear no voice of love,
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell;
Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
Thy welcome sad will be,
When thou shalt hear no voice of love,
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell;
Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
And never more she saw it; for the earth
Was dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,
Again the great Archangel stands; the light
Of the moist rainbow glitters on his hair—
He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose arch
Spans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,
The ascending dove is for a moment seen,
The last rain falls—falls, gently and unheard.
Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up!—
Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,
Behold a cross!—and round about the cross,
Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,
Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,
Lift their acclaiming voice—Glory to thee,
Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,
Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnify
Thy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,
For the great dragon is cast down, and hell
Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!
Was dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,
Again the great Archangel stands; the light
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He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose arch
Spans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,
The ascending dove is for a moment seen,
The last rain falls—falls, gently and unheard.
Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up!—
Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,
Behold a cross!—and round about the cross,
Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,
Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,
Lift their acclaiming voice—Glory to thee,
Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,
Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnify
Thy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,
For the great dragon is cast down, and hell
Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!
Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,
And all the visionary pomp is past!
I only see a few sheep on the edge
Of this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,
Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.
And all the visionary pomp is past!
I only see a few sheep on the edge
Of this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,
Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.
Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,
And Banwell Church; and farewell to the shores
Where, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,
Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave
I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breeze
That wanders from that sea, whose sound I heard
So many years ago.
And Banwell Church; and farewell to the shores
Where, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,
Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave
I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breeze
That wanders from that sea, whose sound I heard
So many years ago.
Yet, whilst the light
Steals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,
I turn a parting look, and lift to Heaven
A parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus,—
With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,
Her mitred brow tempered with lenity
And apostolic mildness—in her mien
No dark defeature, beautiful as mild,
And gentle as the smile of charity,—
Thus on the Rock of Ages may uplift
Her brow majestic, pointing to the spires
That grace her village glens, or solemn fanes
In cities, calm above the stir and smoke,
And listening to deep harmonies that swell
From all her temples!
Steals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,
I turn a parting look, and lift to Heaven
A parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus,—
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Her mitred brow tempered with lenity
And apostolic mildness—in her mien
No dark defeature, beautiful as mild,
And gentle as the smile of charity,—
Thus on the Rock of Ages may uplift
Her brow majestic, pointing to the spires
That grace her village glens, or solemn fanes
In cities, calm above the stir and smoke,
And listening to deep harmonies that swell
From all her temples!
So may she adorn—
Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure—
This happy land, till time shall be no more!
Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure—
This happy land, till time shall be no more!
And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,
Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touched
By time, to show a grace, but no decay,
Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,
The traveller beholds, crowning the vale
Of Avalon, with all its towers in light;
So, England, may thy gray cathedrals lift
Their front in heaven's pure light, and ever boast
Such prelate-lords—bland, but yet dignified—
Pious, paternal, and beloved, as he
Who prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!
Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touched
By time, to show a grace, but no decay,
Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,
The traveller beholds, crowning the vale
Of Avalon, with all its towers in light;
So, England, may thy gray cathedrals lift
Their front in heaven's pure light, and ever boast
Such prelate-lords—bland, but yet dignified—
Pious, paternal, and beloved, as he
Who prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!
And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rock
That Church is founded, though the storm without
May howl around its battlements, preserve
Its spirit, and still pour into the hearts
Of all, who there confess thy holy name,
Peace, that, through evil or through good report,
They may hold on their blameless way!
That Church is founded, though the storm without
May howl around its battlements, preserve
Its spirit, and still pour into the hearts
Of all, who there confess thy holy name,
Peace, that, through evil or through good report,
They may hold on their blameless way!
For me,
Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,
Hung on my early hopes. that cloud is passed,—
Is passed, but not forgotten,—and the light
Is calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,
Soon to be ended. I may wake no more
The melody of song on earth; but Thee,
Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,
Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no song
Of mine, from youth to age, has left a stain
I would blot out; and grateful for the good
Thy providence, through many years, has lent,
Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high will
Dismiss me,—blessed if, when that hour shall come,
My life may plead, far better than my song.
Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,
76
Is passed, but not forgotten,—and the light
Is calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,
Soon to be ended. I may wake no more
The melody of song on earth; but Thee,
Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,
Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no song
Of mine, from youth to age, has left a stain
I would blot out; and grateful for the good
Thy providence, through many years, has lent,
Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high will
Dismiss me,—blessed if, when that hour shall come,
My life may plead, far better than my song.
| The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles | |