Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin with an authentic memoir of his life |
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| EXTRACTS FROM THE RIVER SIDE. |
 | Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin |  |
61
EXTRACTS FROM THE RIVER SIDE.
From some cold rock in woody covert hid,
Clear springing forth with pure unsullied drops,
Or bubbling out, with soft and tuneless fall
From the drear bosom of some barren wild,
Remote, and hopeless of the mower's toil
Or waving Ceres; where the bending waste
From the bleak summits of two neighbouring hills
Forms a rude plain; the river comes, at first
Distinguish'd only by the tufted rush,
Or wat'ry cresses, that its course denote
Seen verdant mid the rigid desart brown,
And seldom seen but by the Fowler. He,
With vent'rous foot, the yielding surface treads
From tuft to tuft—he knows the place alone
And shuns the faithless green, that hides below
A treacherous abyss; while as he toils
With measured step and slow, his faithful dog
Careful amid the marshy covert tries,
And plunges often in,—up springs the snipe,
And whirrs on rapid pinion 'gainst the breeze,
Sole habitant of these neglected swamps,
Except the Heron, who perhaps at times
Attracted here for prey, far down the glen
Beside a clump of flags, silent and still,
Scarcely distinguished by his slender form,
Stands lonely; startled at the deadly sound
With outstretch'd neck, he rises o'er the fen
With heavy beating wing, unwieldy, slow,
A doubtful burthen on the mountain air,
And then, his lengthened neck into a curve
Contracting, wheels into the middle sky,
And far away he floats, screaming aloft,
Complaining of the bold intruder, man.
[OMITTED]
Clear springing forth with pure unsullied drops,
Or bubbling out, with soft and tuneless fall
From the drear bosom of some barren wild,
Remote, and hopeless of the mower's toil
Or waving Ceres; where the bending waste
From the bleak summits of two neighbouring hills
Forms a rude plain; the river comes, at first
Distinguish'd only by the tufted rush,
Or wat'ry cresses, that its course denote
Seen verdant mid the rigid desart brown,
And seldom seen but by the Fowler. He,
62
From tuft to tuft—he knows the place alone
And shuns the faithless green, that hides below
A treacherous abyss; while as he toils
With measured step and slow, his faithful dog
Careful amid the marshy covert tries,
And plunges often in,—up springs the snipe,
And whirrs on rapid pinion 'gainst the breeze,
Sole habitant of these neglected swamps,
Except the Heron, who perhaps at times
Attracted here for prey, far down the glen
Beside a clump of flags, silent and still,
Scarcely distinguished by his slender form,
Stands lonely; startled at the deadly sound
With outstretch'd neck, he rises o'er the fen
With heavy beating wing, unwieldy, slow,
A doubtful burthen on the mountain air,
And then, his lengthened neck into a curve
Contracting, wheels into the middle sky,
And far away he floats, screaming aloft,
Complaining of the bold intruder, man.
As yet a slender urn the River pours;
A little nameless rill, that trickles down
Obscure amid its rudely channel'd bed;
Divided oft in many a slender vein
By the heaped ruin of the mountain flood,
Through which it drips; till with collected stream
It spouts from ridge to ridge, then sinks again
And chafes and murmurs, 'till a smoother bed
Spreads it abroad a silver current clear,
Dimpling along round many a pointed stone
And shews a lengthen'd train of broken light;
Then sudden falls into a yawning rift,
And thence escaping, glances rapid down
Compact and smooth; and now on either side
Receives the offer'd tributes of the hills,
That trickling fall from many a pendent rock
Mid tangling brambles that begin to clothe
Its mossy sides, and oft discoloured seen
By min'ral dross from the adjacent ore,
That in the secret chambers of the hill
Lies far and deep.—Here where the frequent drop,
Has scooped a hollow in the neighbouring rock,
Of old repute the healing spring is found,
Abstergent, whose unfailing pow'r subdues
The slow consuming malady, and lifts
When other med'cines fail, the wasting wretch
From death.—------
[OMITTED]
63
Obscure amid its rudely channel'd bed;
Divided oft in many a slender vein
By the heaped ruin of the mountain flood,
Through which it drips; till with collected stream
It spouts from ridge to ridge, then sinks again
And chafes and murmurs, 'till a smoother bed
Spreads it abroad a silver current clear,
Dimpling along round many a pointed stone
And shews a lengthen'd train of broken light;
Then sudden falls into a yawning rift,
And thence escaping, glances rapid down
Compact and smooth; and now on either side
Receives the offer'd tributes of the hills,
That trickling fall from many a pendent rock
Mid tangling brambles that begin to clothe
Its mossy sides, and oft discoloured seen
By min'ral dross from the adjacent ore,
That in the secret chambers of the hill
Lies far and deep.—Here where the frequent drop,
Has scooped a hollow in the neighbouring rock,
Of old repute the healing spring is found,
Abstergent, whose unfailing pow'r subdues
64
When other med'cines fail, the wasting wretch
From death.—------
Now see beyond yon ivied arch where wide
Over its sandy floor the river spreads,
Into a shoal, and ripples in its course.
There the mute angler o'er the pebbly brim,
Close where the shallowing river forms a strand,
Stands patient, hopeful of the scaly prize,
Eying the gilded fraud with skilful glance
While from his hand bends the long pliant rod,
Artfully tremulous; rewarding well
His toil, if Phœbus hide his burning head
In friendly clouds; but if with ardent beam
He furious shine, and brighten every rill,
Vain task indeed, to whip the spangling stream
With fruitless line toss'd idly.
[OMITTED]
Over its sandy floor the river spreads,
Into a shoal, and ripples in its course.
There the mute angler o'er the pebbly brim,
Close where the shallowing river forms a strand,
Stands patient, hopeful of the scaly prize,
Eying the gilded fraud with skilful glance
While from his hand bends the long pliant rod,
Artfully tremulous; rewarding well
His toil, if Phœbus hide his burning head
In friendly clouds; but if with ardent beam
He furious shine, and brighten every rill,
Vain task indeed, to whip the spangling stream
With fruitless line toss'd idly.
------ Close on the velvet marge,
On a rich glebe, reflected from the deep,
Embraced with shadowy elms and sycamore
With ivy bound, a venerable pile
Lifts its sharp pointed ruins, once the seat
Of monkish ease, and dark religious pomp.
There many an antique monument is found,
Illegible and faithless to its charge,
That deep insculped once held in measured phrase
The mighty acts of those who lie below,
And many an uncouth shapeless figure grim,
Rude effigies of heroes dead of yore,
Or sage and letter'd saints whose pious hands
Those ponderous masses raised.—forgotten now
They and their monuments alike repose.—
—Ah'! what avails
The arch sublime, or graceful colonade,
The marble porch or, heav'n-aspiring dome,
That art its powers exhausted to adorn?.
[OMITTED]
On a rich glebe, reflected from the deep,
Embraced with shadowy elms and sycamore
With ivy bound, a venerable pile
65
Of monkish ease, and dark religious pomp.
There many an antique monument is found,
Illegible and faithless to its charge,
That deep insculped once held in measured phrase
The mighty acts of those who lie below,
And many an uncouth shapeless figure grim,
Rude effigies of heroes dead of yore,
Or sage and letter'd saints whose pious hands
Those ponderous masses raised.—forgotten now
They and their monuments alike repose.—
—Ah'! what avails
The arch sublime, or graceful colonade,
The marble porch or, heav'n-aspiring dome,
That art its powers exhausted to adorn?.
------ All the pride of rule
The pomp of triumph and the laurel wreath
Pluck'd in the sanguin'd field, ev'n in the roar
Of half a world's applause, at last must fail
Though every hero had a muse to sing,
And to his valour raise an epic strain.
Where are your trophies all, ye mighty men
Banners and 'scutcheons, cenotaphs, and arms
Wrested from foes in battle! do they lie
Oft in a corner of some ruin'd pile.
—Yes poor Ephemera
This is the end of all your hoped applause
To lie forgotten—yet be not appal'd
The world can give no more, its gifts are sands
That fly as veers the blast—
—Dare to be virtuous then
And look above this perishable mass,
—Despise what earth can give
And fix upon that crown a steady eye
That patient suffering and unshaken faith
Receive above the clouds, ------
[OMITTED]
The pomp of triumph and the laurel wreath
Pluck'd in the sanguin'd field, ev'n in the roar
Of half a world's applause, at last must fail
Though every hero had a muse to sing,
And to his valour raise an epic strain.
Where are your trophies all, ye mighty men
66
Wrested from foes in battle! do they lie
Oft in a corner of some ruin'd pile.
—Yes poor Ephemera
This is the end of all your hoped applause
To lie forgotten—yet be not appal'd
The world can give no more, its gifts are sands
That fly as veers the blast—
—Dare to be virtuous then
And look above this perishable mass,
—Despise what earth can give
And fix upon that crown a steady eye
That patient suffering and unshaken faith
Receive above the clouds, ------
Or should we eastward bend our varying course
To where the Nile his fruitful current rolls
Proud in the ponderous ruins that enrich
His venerable course, whose Naiads late
Hid their affrighted heads, with terror fill'd
At Brontii thund'ring in Britannia's cause.—
But stay my reed, this proud exulting strain,
Another mood befits our alter'd state,
Low on his funeral bed the victor lies,
Embalmed and bathed in a nation's tears
O! victory too dear, O! conquest won
With too much price, that cost a Nelson's life.
Sad Trafalgar beheld him from her cliffs,
Beheld him conquer, and beheld him fall,
While every white wave all bedrop'd with gore
That roll'd with boding murmurs to her strand
Brought some ill omen of the dreadful fight
That sunk the naval hopes of France and Spain.
What could they do? 'twas Nelson gave the word
And at the sound pale horror from the poop
Of every hostile ship that stood the brunt
Of British fire, and Britain's hearts of oak,
With trembling hand let fall the staff of war
To grace the laurell'd ship that bore him home.
And see the Victory, with sails that bear
The tatter'd records of that fatal day,
Nears with her charge Britannia's sadden'd shore,
And views her ports with mourning faces throng'd
While on his sun-burnt cheek the gallant tar
Wipes the involuntary, silent tear.
What sound is that, by every crooked coast
And hollow rock and every sandy bay
Repeated shrill, from off the heaving main?
It is the genius of the green sea flood,
That mourns with Albion for her darling son,
Making her moan to every hanging crag,
And bleak protruding cape that round her isles
Whitens contending with the ocean spray:
And every wave that curls his azure head,
From Calpe's rock or Gades' votive isle,
To Kilda's solitary shore, and thence
To Labrador, or from the stormy cape
Of Terra del Fuego to the coast
Of Coromandel and her towns conveys
These mingled tidings, wide from coast to coast,
Great Britain conquers, gallant Nelson dies.
To where the Nile his fruitful current rolls
Proud in the ponderous ruins that enrich
His venerable course, whose Naiads late
Hid their affrighted heads, with terror fill'd
At Brontii thund'ring in Britannia's cause.—
But stay my reed, this proud exulting strain,
Another mood befits our alter'd state,
67
Embalmed and bathed in a nation's tears
O! victory too dear, O! conquest won
With too much price, that cost a Nelson's life.
Sad Trafalgar beheld him from her cliffs,
Beheld him conquer, and beheld him fall,
While every white wave all bedrop'd with gore
That roll'd with boding murmurs to her strand
Brought some ill omen of the dreadful fight
That sunk the naval hopes of France and Spain.
What could they do? 'twas Nelson gave the word
And at the sound pale horror from the poop
Of every hostile ship that stood the brunt
Of British fire, and Britain's hearts of oak,
With trembling hand let fall the staff of war
To grace the laurell'd ship that bore him home.
And see the Victory, with sails that bear
The tatter'd records of that fatal day,
Nears with her charge Britannia's sadden'd shore,
And views her ports with mourning faces throng'd
While on his sun-burnt cheek the gallant tar
Wipes the involuntary, silent tear.
What sound is that, by every crooked coast
68
Repeated shrill, from off the heaving main?
It is the genius of the green sea flood,
That mourns with Albion for her darling son,
Making her moan to every hanging crag,
And bleak protruding cape that round her isles
Whitens contending with the ocean spray:
And every wave that curls his azure head,
From Calpe's rock or Gades' votive isle,
To Kilda's solitary shore, and thence
To Labrador, or from the stormy cape
Of Terra del Fuego to the coast
Of Coromandel and her towns conveys
These mingled tidings, wide from coast to coast,
Great Britain conquers, gallant Nelson dies.
69
Winds the broad river with unruffled course,
A mighty castle rears its ancient walls
Brown in the rust of time, sublime and sad
With over hanging battlements and towers
And works of old defence, a massy pile.
Within these naked halls what silence now,
Where once the roar of festive joy was heard
And antique revelry, with swell of harps
And minstrel songs of chiefs once great in fight,
Now seldom visited, but by the few
Who in such deep retirement love to sit,
(Far from the walk of mirth at times remote)
And muse upon the ever changing round
Of earthly things, and in these ruins see
The fall of empires and the fate of kings,
Here once, as legendary story tells,
Lived Desmond, rich in many a wide domain,
And bleating flock, and herd of fruitful kine,
Nightly secured, for in those ages rude
By force not law Men held uncertain wealth,
And neighbouring chiefs, for plunder or for pride
Their vassals mustering, on each other's pow'rs
70
Of former strength, that mid' our verdant fields
Stand venerable, by th'enquiring eyes
Of curious men oft seen, whom ancient lore
And relicks of the times long gone delight.
Desmond a daughter had, sweet as the morn,
Who many a petty potentate had sought
With honourable suit, but Brune obtained
The love of Aunagal, a youthful chief
Of princely lineage and vast domain.
A neighbouring prince, O'Connor, hot with rage
At offer'd love disdained, determines quick
By force to seize the maid, and levies round
A numerous host; and in those early times
Not rude in warlike arts, the spear and bow
They well could exercise in distant fight
Or in close conflict point the bloody skein;
Full use had they of ev'ry active limb,
Not cramp'd, nor stiffen'd by luxurious ease,
But firm to bear the hardships of the field,
And resolute in ev'ry danger they,
Whether to harass a retiring foe,
Or in retiring patient to endure;
71
Great deeds of manly strength, in manly strife.
Marshal'd with horse and foot O'Connor sends
A desperate threat to Desmond, who prepares
His extreme force the chieftain to resist,
Who now is on his frontier, and proceeds
To waste with fire and sword. Soon on the field
Desmond appears in arms, but cautious leaves
A chosen band to guard his castle, where
Entower'd close the lovely maiden wept
Her father and her love with ceaseless tears.
All day in conflict fierce and doubtful fight
They dyed the field with mutual slaughter red
'Till Desmond fell, feeble in hoary age,
And Brune retreats beneath the castle walls
Determined there to try (or perish brave)
The worst that fortune in her frowns may do,
And long the fight maintain'd with desperate rage
Till night soft closing, Connor seem'd to fly
With loss of men and horse cut numerous off,
But to the woods retired; and ere the dawn
Determines furious by one bold assault,
To win the castle, and in silence now
72
Whisper'd from rank to rank the orders fly,
They trail their spears, and ranged in mute array
Come in long file, close by the river's side.
Mean while within the castle walls close throng'd
Needful refreshment Desmond's troops receive,
And due repose after the toil of fight,
While Brune with words of comfort sooths his bride
Who wails her aged sire, when loud alarm
Of horn and shout is heard, the scouts return
Precipitate, and, through the hall, the news
Of Connor at the gate re-echoes round.
Behold them in their haste, how throng'd, how loud
The buz of hasty preparation; quick
With spear or bow snatch'd up they sally forth,
The gates can scarce discharge them in their speed,
Their armours clash and bow-strings intertwine,
Forth like a swarm they rush, whose hive some swain
Disturbs at evening tide, or that wise race
The frugal ants, their small republic crush'd
By labouring peasant's heel. The groans of death
Numerous around denote the conflict dire,
'Till Brune with Connor meets whose arm he sought
73
Ee'r saw, between the furious chiefs ensued:
They met with spears, but in the plated folds
Of Brunes tough shield the spear of Connor rang,
Who now defenceless, death expected quick
But Brune, disdaining victory so gained,
His, cast indignant down. and bade approach
His rival, who now, by the moon's broad orb
Which on the face of Brune shone full, descried
His foe's majestic front and manly form,
And thus address'd the chief—“Full well young Prince
“Dost thou deserve the beauty which thou seek'st
“Were it from any but O'Connor's arm
“Thou'dst win the prize—but honour, pride and shame
“Forbid me to resign my right—advance.”—
Approaching both, few steps, they drew their blades
Flashing like meteors from their harness,d thighs,
Each was a span in breadth, which now upraised
Gleam'd horrible athwart the moon-light beam
Like the long streaks which, in the northern sky
Darting their fires, are by the untaught hinds
74
Now on the chiefs all turn'd their eyes, and stay'd
The busy conflict, and in silence stood
Waiting the issue of so dread a fight,
'Till Connor fell, deep gored with gaping wounds
And e'er the morn look'd pallid from the east,
His mourning host retired.—
| Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin | |