University of Virginia Library

Thou flowest, Stream! beside old Chepstow's walls,
Hence to the Severn, and the Severn falls
To the wide ocean. I have ceased to flow.
And yet thou listenest to the stagnant Woe
That overhangs thy banks, like some vain weed
Rooted in Chepstow's hoariness. Indeed,—
Save that the veriest weed its hope may fling
Upon the winds, there as on certain wing
Borne to the mainland,—I but weed-like seem.

And yet my memory loves to watch the dream
Of Harry Marten's triumphs,—those brave days
When Vane outshone me with his steady rays,
When gravest Milton scorn'd not Harry's wit,
And fierce-will'd Cromwell had some heed of it;
When we stood in the breach against the world,
And from his folly's wall the Stuart hurl'd
Into the tide of ruin. By this tower,
If all those glorious days were in my power,
I would not reconsider them again,
But shout my battle-song to the same high strain,
Take the same odds, the same gay daring strife,
And the same forfeit of a prison'd life
Past even the natural riddance of the grave.
Not for himself, O Freedom! would thy knave
Ask some poor wages. Let my life be shent,
And this worn tomb be all my monument.

Dear Freedom! have we vainly toil'd for thee?
Our Rachel lost—and our apprentice-fee
This Leah, the Evil-favour'd. Shall I laugh,
Write on her lips my jesting epitaph,
And hug Misfortune for another term?
Alas! if hope might set the slowest germ
In these old chinks. But England's soil is dead
As Chepstow' stones. The blue sky overhead
Is all the prisoner's hope in these wall'd years.

I need not wet this dungeon-mould with tears;
I will not tame my spirit to its cage;
As little would I stoop me to assuage
Captivity with foolish querulousness.
And yet my courage mourneth nonetheless
Our ruin'd cause, and that nor sword nor voice
Of mine may lead the time to worthier choice:
While I rust here like a forgotten blade,
And Scot and Vane in bloody tombs are laid.
And yet not so, friend Scot!—thy better doom
To wait by God until new chance may bloom
Out of the barren land men call thy grave:
That England which thy virtues could not save,
Nor pious Vane lift heavenward from the slough.

For me hard penance but atoneth now
My many a youthful folly: though the worst
Left me a patriot. Wassails quench'd no thirst
For the full cup of England's liberty.
I never squander'd my great love for thee;
And though men call me loose of life and speech,
There was no public act they could impeach,
And my loose tongue was first which dared to say
What hinderance 'twas stood in the nation's way.
Or loose or not, it wagg'd to no ill tune
Nor out of time. 'Troth, I'll forswear no boon
Of this frank life; and now in living grave
Am thankful that I had. And that I have:
While memory traces back the flow of mirth,
From here where it is driven under earth—
As if the Wye had dived 'neath Chepstow's base.
God give the stream some outlet of his grace!—
There is some reach of joy in looking back
On the lost river's current. I can track
Its merry laughing gush among the reeds,
And how its ripplings lipp'd the blossomy weeds
In shallow passages, its songful strife
Swift bounding o'er the rocks of active life,
And see again the glorious forms whose worth
Its sometime deeper water imaged forth.
No idle image was reflected there:
Not in the stream but on the rock I bear
The impress of the Gods who stood by me.
Nor was I all unmeriting to be
Their chosen companion. Arrows may hang loose:
The bowman yet be staunch and mind their use.

My England! never one of all thy brave
Whose love o'erpass'd my love. I could be grave
Whene'er thy need required a solemn brow.
What was my task? To give thee room to grow:
To give thee sober freedom, godly growth:
Freedom and sanctifying worship: both.
Milton and Vane and Scot and I at one
Were in this work. And I am here alone.
And Milton in his darkness—If he lives.

O English hearts! are ye but Danaid sieves
Wherethrough like water noblest blood is pour'd?
O English sense! what is this word Restored?
Restore Heroic Virtue, Holy Strength,
Now, Agonistes-like, through all the length
Of this great England prostrate! Gyved you lie,
Mock'd at by Dalila, your Royalty.
I set this dungeon-gloom against the May
Of all your Restoration. I will say
Against it. I, a pleasure-loving man,
Place every pleasure under Honour's ban,
And bid you give your country life, and death,
Rather than foul the land with slavish breath.
Am I a prisoner? Difference between
Chepstow and England is not much, I ween.
'Tis but a cell a few more paces wide.

Year after year, and under Chepstow' side
The muddied Wye still flows. My hair is grey;
My old bones cramp'd; my heart this many a day
O'ermoss'd with sorrow, like an ancient tomb.
Now the old man is harmless, he may roam
So far as falls the shadow of his jail.
Jail'd for his life. I have not learn'd to quail.

Thou askest me—‘Was it to do again?’
I tell thee—Yes! the tyrant should be slain.
Scot's word is mine: ‘Not only was my hand
But my heart in it.’ Here I take my stand;
Nor twenty years of solitude can move
My conscience from its keep. And so this love,
Your pity proffer'd me, must be withdrawn?
Well, Harry Marten never cared to fawn.
I am alone again, on my grave's edge.

And my long-suffering shall be as a wedge
To rive this tyranny. I climb thy height,
Old feudal fastness! with my feeble might,
And see from thee, for all my age is dim,
The beautiful rich woods beyond the rim
Of Wye and Severn, and the meadows fair
Stretching into the distance; and the air
Is charged with fragrance; and the uncaged birds
Say blithely in the sun their liberal words,
Which yet shall wake the tillers of the ground.
And lo! the harvestmen are gathering round
The banner of God. They put their sickles in;
The day of a new trial doth begin.
Thou saidst aright, my Vane! it had to be.
Nor jail nor scaffold stays futurity.

The twenty years have pass'd even as a mist;
And now the dying prisoner's brow is kiss'd
By his old comrades: Hampden, Pym, and Vane,
Fairfax, and Scot, and Ludlow, Cromwell fain
To hide old scars and holding Milton's hand,
Bradshaw and Ireton: at my side they stand,
And the old cheerful smile illumes my cell.
‘There is no death nor bondage: we, who dwell
In higher realms of faith, assure thee this.’—
Friends! ye say sooth; this cell no longer is
A prison; England only is my bound,
This coward England all unworthy found.
Still you can smile.—‘The resurrection-morn
Riseth o'er England's grave; and we forlorn
Shall be triumphant. Look thou forth and see
Our merry England, kingless, bold and free.
We have not lived, we have not died, for nought.
The victory we have lost shall yet be wrought:
We have not sown high deeds and hopes in vain.’

Bright lightning-flash of death! speed through my brain,
And sink into the grave my sacrifice:
A grave unhonour'd until England rise
To avenge the Regicide—

O Martyr Tomb!
Thou bear'st the seed of Triumph in thy womb.