The Hope of the World and other poems by Charles Mackay |
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| BALLADS. |
 | The Hope of the World and other poems |  |
171
BALLADS.
THE WISHING-GATE.
[_]
[In the Vale of Grasmere, in Westmoreland, there is a gate, known by the name of “The Wishing-Gate,” to which popular superstition attaches the belief that all reasonable wishes there formed will be fulfilled.]
'Tis dreamy midnight's solemn hour,
The busy village sleeps,
And the pale moon with silver sheen
Her nightly vigil keeps;
The pole-star twinkles in the blue,
The hour is growing late,
Then haste thee, maiden, and away,
And seek the Wishing-Gate:
And if thy heart be free from guile,
Thy thoughts serene and holy,
Go breathe thy prayer, go wish thy wish,
And banish melancholy.
The busy village sleeps,
And the pale moon with silver sheen
Her nightly vigil keeps;
The pole-star twinkles in the blue,
The hour is growing late,
Then haste thee, maiden, and away,
And seek the Wishing-Gate:
172
Thy thoughts serene and holy,
Go breathe thy prayer, go wish thy wish,
And banish melancholy.
The maiden leaves her busy wheel,
And dons her hose and shoon,
And hastens to that ancient gate,
While shines the quiet moon—
“There is a bark upon the wave,
A bark I fain would see,
And one who treads her gallant deck,
Who vow'd to cherish me!
Who vow'd, in spite of fortune's frown,
His love should never vary—
Would he were here in safety now,
Conversing with his Mary!”
Pale clouds obscured the thoughtful moon,
The hour was growing late,
The maiden, pensive and alone,
Leant o'er the Wishing-Gate.—
Was it a robber in the dark,
That stole along so weary?—
“'Tis he! 'tis he! my Henry dear,
Restored to love and Mary!”
And dons her hose and shoon,
And hastens to that ancient gate,
While shines the quiet moon—
“There is a bark upon the wave,
A bark I fain would see,
And one who treads her gallant deck,
Who vow'd to cherish me!
Who vow'd, in spite of fortune's frown,
His love should never vary—
Would he were here in safety now,
Conversing with his Mary!”
173
The hour was growing late,
The maiden, pensive and alone,
Leant o'er the Wishing-Gate.—
Was it a robber in the dark,
That stole along so weary?—
“'Tis he! 'tis he! my Henry dear,
Restored to love and Mary!”
174
THE MAIDEN OF RHINE.
At sunset a maid was roaming
Alone by the banks of Rhine,
Whose stream to the dark sea foaming,
Was bright in the red sunshine:
And she wept in bitter sorrow,
As faded the sun's last ray,
And sadly she thought of the morrow,
And her lover, far away!
Alone by the banks of Rhine,
Whose stream to the dark sea foaming,
Was bright in the red sunshine:
And she wept in bitter sorrow,
As faded the sun's last ray,
And sadly she thought of the morrow,
And her lover, far away!
They've barter'd the maid and sold her
For empty and pitiless pride,
And morning's beam must behold her
A cold and unwilling bride.
With the white rose wreath they've bound her,
She shines in her fairest trim,
And cold-hearted friends surround her,
To banish her thoughts of him.
For empty and pitiless pride,
And morning's beam must behold her
A cold and unwilling bride.
With the white rose wreath they've bound her,
She shines in her fairest trim,
And cold-hearted friends surround her,
To banish her thoughts of him.
175
Oh! leave her alone to her sorrow!
The true heart can never forget!
Oh! leave her alone till the morrow!
She mourns for her loved one yet.
From her chamber, the maiden, weeping,
Looks out on the lordly Rhine,
“There's a boat o'er the light wave sweeping—
My Rudolph!—O were it thine!”
The true heart can never forget!
Oh! leave her alone till the morrow!
She mourns for her loved one yet.
From her chamber, the maiden, weeping,
Looks out on the lordly Rhine,
“There's a boat o'er the light wave sweeping—
My Rudolph!—O were it thine!”
Away, o'er the foaming water,
'Tis he!—and thy sire in vain
Shall seek for his blooming daughter,
When the morning comes again!
Away with thy loved one, maiden!
Away, thou lover so true!—
They're gone where, sire, grief-laden,
Nor bridegroom can pursue!
'Tis he!—and thy sire in vain
Shall seek for his blooming daughter,
When the morning comes again!
Away with thy loved one, maiden!
Away, thou lover so true!—
They're gone where, sire, grief-laden,
Nor bridegroom can pursue!
176
THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN ABROAD.
I care not for the lovely scenes upon the banks of Rhine;
I care not for its castled steeps, and slopes where grows the vine;
No pleasure upon Switzer lakes or Alpine hills I see,
For my thoughts are far away, in my own countrie.
I care not for its castled steeps, and slopes where grows the vine;
No pleasure upon Switzer lakes or Alpine hills I see,
For my thoughts are far away, in my own countrie.
I long to see the villages, each with its little spire,
And the hospitable farm-steads of York's beloved shire;
To see the corn-fields waving, and the cattle feeding free,
In the pleasant pasture lands of my own countrie.
And the hospitable farm-steads of York's beloved shire;
To see the corn-fields waving, and the cattle feeding free,
In the pleasant pasture lands of my own countrie.
I long to hear on Sunday morn the merry village bell,
Calling the pious folk to church from every hill and dell;
I long to ask the curate home to dinner and to tea,
And chat on politics and crops in my own countrie.
Calling the pious folk to church from every hill and dell;
I long to ask the curate home to dinner and to tea,
And chat on politics and crops in my own countrie.
177
I hate their cookery here in France, their fricassées and stews,
Their bouillon and their cotelettes, their rôtis and ragouts;
I loathe their harsh outlandish names, and pine again to see
The fine fat beef and pudding of my own countrie.
Their bouillon and their cotelettes, their rôtis and ragouts;
I loathe their harsh outlandish names, and pine again to see
The fine fat beef and pudding of my own countrie.
The wine they boast of, charms me not; I strive, but all in vain,
To relish their choice Burgundy, their claret and champagne;
I'd barter, and right willingly, a dozen of all three
For a pot of foaming ale in my own countrie!
To relish their choice Burgundy, their claret and champagne;
I'd barter, and right willingly, a dozen of all three
For a pot of foaming ale in my own countrie!
And yet these lands are good enough, the people kind and true;
Their vineyards pleasant, and their skies bright, vapourless, and blue;
But I'm strange in them, and sick of them, and pine to cross the sea,
To breathe the welcome fogs of my own countrie.
Their vineyards pleasant, and their skies bright, vapourless, and blue;
178
To breathe the welcome fogs of my own countrie.
O England! I've abused thy clime, and oft, without a cause,
Cried out against my countrymen, their manners, and their laws;
Forgetting, thankless that I was, that first among the free,
Stands, and shall stand for evermore, mine own countrie.
Cried out against my countrymen, their manners, and their laws;
Forgetting, thankless that I was, that first among the free,
Stands, and shall stand for evermore, mine own countrie.
And once more treading its green sod, and breathing its dear air,
I'll never stir from it again in search of realms more fair;
I'll never vaunt of pleasant France or sunny Italy,
But live in peace, and die in my own countrie.
I'll never stir from it again in search of realms more fair;
I'll never vaunt of pleasant France or sunny Italy,
But live in peace, and die in my own countrie.
179
LORENZO.
“Lorenzo pines in dungeon gloom,
In chains my gallant lover lies,
A tyrant has pronounced his doom,
To-morrow he is free—or dies!
O Love! if thou hast power below,
Or favour where the angels dwell,
Protect thy maiden votary now—
Jesu Maria! shield me well!”
In chains my gallant lover lies,
A tyrant has pronounced his doom,
To-morrow he is free—or dies!
O Love! if thou hast power below,
Or favour where the angels dwell,
Protect thy maiden votary now—
Jesu Maria! shield me well!”
The maiden doffs her robe of white,
And clothes her in the priestly stole,
Binds back her locks of auburn bright,
And mutters prayers which save the soul.
The prison portals open wide,—
The holy father seeks the cell—
Lorenzo sees his destined bride—
Jesu Maria! shield her well!
And clothes her in the priestly stole,
Binds back her locks of auburn bright,
And mutters prayers which save the soul.
The prison portals open wide,—
The holy father seeks the cell—
Lorenzo sees his destined bride—
Jesu Maria! shield her well!
180
Quickly these last sad moments fly,
The maiden's heart has much to say;
Lover! for thee she comes to die—
On with her cassock, and away!
Fly! for they come—thine hour draws near—
Already tolls thy warning knell!—
Too late, too late!—Oh words of fear!
Jesu Maria! shield them well!
The maiden's heart has much to say;
Lover! for thee she comes to die—
On with her cassock, and away!
Fly! for they come—thine hour draws near—
Already tolls thy warning knell!—
Too late, too late!—Oh words of fear!
Jesu Maria! shield them well!
“Lorenzo, they have seal'd our doom,
Together then we'll yield our breath,
We'll be companions in the tomb,
And love shall cheer the hour of death.”
Now hoarsely beats the muffled drum,
And slowly tolls the funeral bell;
Make way! the hapless victims come—
Jesu Maria! shield them well!
Together then we'll yield our breath,
We'll be companions in the tomb,
And love shall cheer the hour of death.”
Now hoarsely beats the muffled drum,
And slowly tolls the funeral bell;
Make way! the hapless victims come—
Jesu Maria! shield them well!
181
THE TWO VULTURES.
Two hungry vultures sat on a tree,
Large and fierce as fierce may be;
The one was solemn, plump, and sleek,
Black was his heart, though his look was meek;
The other a haughtier aspect bore,
And his greedy beak was red with gore.
Large and fierce as fierce may be;
The one was solemn, plump, and sleek,
Black was his heart, though his look was meek;
The other a haughtier aspect bore,
And his greedy beak was red with gore.
And the haughty bird to the sleek one said,
“Brother, where is thy banquet spread?
Say, my brother, I prithee, say,
Where shall we go and dine to-day;
Is there no sustenance for thee?
Is there a lack of flesh for me?”
“Brother, where is thy banquet spread?
Say, my brother, I prithee, say,
Where shall we go and dine to-day;
Is there no sustenance for thee?
Is there a lack of flesh for me?”
182
“Dost doubt?” said the vulture plump and sleek;
“Fear not, there's plenty for claw and beak;
For let us travel west or east,
We're sure ere long to find a feast;
Human folly caters for thee,
And Bigotry provides for me.
“Fear not, there's plenty for claw and beak;
For let us travel west or east,
We're sure ere long to find a feast;
Human folly caters for thee,
And Bigotry provides for me.
“Thousands and thousands of human bones
Have I picked dry and bare as stones;
And of warm and reeking human blood
Thou, my brother, hast drunk a flood;
And let us seek where'er we will
We'll find a great abundance still.
Have I picked dry and bare as stones;
And of warm and reeking human blood
Thou, my brother, hast drunk a flood;
And let us seek where'er we will
We'll find a great abundance still.
“Why should we fear that we may starve,
When men themselves our banquets carve?
Good providers, I ween, are they,
And well they feed us night and day;
Fighting and slaying up and down,
Whether they live in field or town.”
When men themselves our banquets carve?
Good providers, I ween, are they,
And well they feed us night and day;
Fighting and slaying up and down,
Whether they live in field or town.”
183
Away these bloated vultures flew:—
I wonder if what they said be true?
And whether the name of the vulture sleek
May have been Intolerance, looking so meek?
And whether the other, haughtier far,
But not so cruel at heart, was War?
I wonder if what they said be true?
And whether the name of the vulture sleek
May have been Intolerance, looking so meek?
And whether the other, haughtier far,
But not so cruel at heart, was War?
184
THE PILGRIM'S DOG.
There came a pilgrim to the gate,
An aged man was he,
And he sat him down upon a stone,
And sigh'd most bitterly:
The night was cold,—the fierce winds howl'd
With loud and blustering din,
So, to restore his drooping strength,
We ask'd the good man in.
An aged man was he,
And he sat him down upon a stone,
And sigh'd most bitterly:
The night was cold,—the fierce winds howl'd
With loud and blustering din,
So, to restore his drooping strength,
We ask'd the good man in.
“Now sit thee down, thou poor old man,
Here's ale an thou art dry,
And tell us now what troubles thee,
And wherefore thou dost sigh?”—
The aged man he sat him down,
He drank no wine nor ale,
But shook the damp dew from his cloak,
And thus began his tale:
Here's ale an thou art dry,
And tell us now what troubles thee,
And wherefore thou dost sigh?”—
The aged man he sat him down,
He drank no wine nor ale,
But shook the damp dew from his cloak,
And thus began his tale:
185
“Oh! hoary is my head, and grey,
For many years I've seen,
And over many a distant land
My weary feet have been:
And I have braved the summer heat,
And borne the winter cold,
Without a murmur or complaint,
Though poor, and very old.
For many years I've seen,
And over many a distant land
My weary feet have been:
And I have braved the summer heat,
And borne the winter cold,
Without a murmur or complaint,
Though poor, and very old.
“But then I had a faithful friend,
Companion of my way,
Who jogg'd contented by my side
For many a weary day;
Who shared my crust, when crust I had,
At noon beneath a hill,
And who, when I had none to give,
Was grateful for the will:
Companion of my way,
Who jogg'd contented by my side
For many a weary day;
Who shared my crust, when crust I had,
At noon beneath a hill,
And who, when I had none to give,
Was grateful for the will:
“Who, when benighted on our road,
And far from barn or bield,
Lay down contented at my feet,
In many a stubble field;
Who, when the world look'd harshly down,
Was never false or cold,
But look'd up kindly in my face,
To cheer the pilgrim old.
And far from barn or bield,
186
In many a stubble field;
Who, when the world look'd harshly down,
Was never false or cold,
But look'd up kindly in my face,
To cheer the pilgrim old.
“Long time had we companions been,
In every changeful weather,
'Mid frost and snow, and driving sleet,
We trudged along together;
And now he lies upon the road—
Ah! cold and dead lies he,
And I am in the world alone,
With none to care for me!”
In every changeful weather,
'Mid frost and snow, and driving sleet,
We trudged along together;
And now he lies upon the road—
Ah! cold and dead lies he,
And I am in the world alone,
With none to care for me!”
The tear that coursed the old man's cheek,
He quickly wiped away—
“My blessing with you!” murmur'd he,
But stay me not, I pray;
I seek the spot where low he lies;
The sod all wet with dew,
With a sad heart to make a grave,
And bury that friend so true!”
He quickly wiped away—
“My blessing with you!” murmur'd he,
But stay me not, I pray;
187
The sod all wet with dew,
With a sad heart to make a grave,
And bury that friend so true!”
“Nay, hold, good man! art thou a monk
Of orders grey or white,
To utter for thy parted friend
The solemn Christian rite?”
The old man sigh'd, and shook his head—
No Christian might he be,
Though many Christians that I wot of,
Are not so good as he!
Of orders grey or white,
To utter for thy parted friend
The solemn Christian rite?”
The old man sigh'd, and shook his head—
No Christian might he be,
Though many Christians that I wot of,
Are not so good as he!
“Nothing was he—but a poor man's dog,
A good one and a bold;
The truest friend that ever I had,
And now he's dead and cold!”
That aged man went out alone,
Alone and sad went he,
And bent his course adown the hill
Where stands the wither'd tree.
A good one and a bold;
The truest friend that ever I had,
And now he's dead and cold!”
That aged man went out alone,
Alone and sad went he,
188
Where stands the wither'd tree.
The morning sun rose up again,
The lark began to sing,
And village girls went forth to draw
Fresh water from the spring;
And when they came beneath the tree,
The tree all dead and sear,
That pilgrim old had written there
The words that ye shall hear:—
The lark began to sing,
And village girls went forth to draw
Fresh water from the spring;
And when they came beneath the tree,
The tree all dead and sear,
That pilgrim old had written there
The words that ye shall hear:—
“Here lieth one who had no soul—
For so the sages say;
Though from the right and kindly path
He never went astray.
His head was not devoid of sense,
His heart was ever true;—
Passer! 'twas Instinct guided him,
And Reason shines for you!
Pause at this grave—think of thine own;
Then act, that men may see
As true an epitaph as this
Inscribed at last for thee!”
For so the sages say;
Though from the right and kindly path
He never went astray.
His head was not devoid of sense,
His heart was ever true;—
Passer! 'twas Instinct guided him,
And Reason shines for you!
189
Then act, that men may see
As true an epitaph as this
Inscribed at last for thee!”
190
COUNT CASK-O'-WHISKEY AND HIS THREE HOUSES.
A TEMPERANCE BALLAD,
INTENDED AS A COMPANION TO SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.
There is a demon in the land,
A demon fierce, though frisky,
Who steals the souls of mortal men,
His name is Cask-o'-Whiskey.
A demon fierce, though frisky,
Who steals the souls of mortal men,
His name is Cask-o'-Whiskey.
Lo! mounted on a fiery steed
He rides through town and village,
And calls the workman from his shop,
The farmer from his tillage.
He rides through town and village,
And calls the workman from his shop,
The farmer from his tillage.
191
Clutch'd in his lanky, red right hand,
He holds a mighty bicker,
Whose polish'd sides run daily o'er
With floods of burning liquor.
He holds a mighty bicker,
Whose polish'd sides run daily o'er
With floods of burning liquor.
Around him press the clamorous crowds
To taste this liquor greedy;
But chiefly come the poor and sad,
The suffering and the needy.
To taste this liquor greedy;
But chiefly come the poor and sad,
The suffering and the needy.
All those oppress'd by grief or debts,
The dissolute, the lazy,
Draggle-tail'd sluts and shirtless men,
And young girls lewd and crazy.
The dissolute, the lazy,
Draggle-tail'd sluts and shirtless men,
And young girls lewd and crazy.
“Give, give!” they cry, “give, give us drink!
Give us your burning liquor!
We'll empty fast as you can fill
Your fine capacious bicker.
Give us your burning liquor!
We'll empty fast as you can fill
Your fine capacious bicker.
192
“Give, give us drink, to drown our care,
And make us light and frisky,
Give, give! and we will bless thy name,
Thou good Count Cask-o'-Whiskey.”
And make us light and frisky,
Give, give! and we will bless thy name,
Thou good Count Cask-o'-Whiskey.”
And when the demon hears them cry,
Right merrily he laugheth,
And holds his bicker out to all,
And each poor idiot quaffeth.
Right merrily he laugheth,
And holds his bicker out to all,
And each poor idiot quaffeth.
The first drop warms their shivering skins,
And drives away their sadness;
The second lights their sunken eyes,
And fills their souls with gladness.
And drives away their sadness;
The second lights their sunken eyes,
And fills their souls with gladness.
The third drop makes them shout and roar,
And play each furious antic;
The fourth drop boils their very blood,
And the fifth drop drives them frantic!
And play each furious antic;
The fourth drop boils their very blood,
And the fifth drop drives them frantic!
193
And still they drink the burning draught,
Till old Count Cask-o'-Whiskey
Holds his bluff sides with laughter fierce,
To see them all so frisky.
Till old Count Cask-o'-Whiskey
Holds his bluff sides with laughter fierce,
To see them all so frisky.
“More, more!” they cry, “come, give us more,
More of that right good liquor;
Fill up, old boy, that we may drain
Down to the dregs your bicker!”
More of that right good liquor;
Fill up, old boy, that we may drain
Down to the dregs your bicker!”
The demon spurs his fiery steed,
And laughs a laugh so hollow,
Then waves his bicker in the air,
And beckons them to follow.
And laughs a laugh so hollow,
Then waves his bicker in the air,
And beckons them to follow.
On, on he rides, and onwards rush
The eager crowd, exclaiming,
“O Cask-o'-Whiskey, give us more,
More of thy liquor flaming!”
The eager crowd, exclaiming,
“O Cask-o'-Whiskey, give us more,
More of thy liquor flaming!”
194
At last he stops his foaming steed
Beside a rushing river,
Whose waters to the palate sweet
Are poison to the liver.
Beside a rushing river,
Whose waters to the palate sweet
Are poison to the liver.
“There!” says the demon, “drink your fill!
Drink of these waters mellow;
They'll make your bright eyes blear and dull,
And turn your white skins yellow.
Drink of these waters mellow;
They'll make your bright eyes blear and dull,
And turn your white skins yellow.
“They'll cause the little sense you have
By inches to forsake you;
They'll cause your limbs to faint and fail,
And palsies dire to shake you.
By inches to forsake you;
They'll cause your limbs to faint and fail,
And palsies dire to shake you.
“They'll fill your homes with care and grief,
And clothe your backs with tatters;
They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts;
But never mind—what matters?
And clothe your backs with tatters;
They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts;
But never mind—what matters?
195
“Though virtue sink and reason fail,
And social ties dissever,
I'll be your friend in hour of need,
And find you homes for ever.
And social ties dissever,
I'll be your friend in hour of need,
And find you homes for ever.
“For I have built three mansions high,
Three strong and goodly houses,
To lodge at last each jolly soul
Who all his life carouses.
Three strong and goodly houses,
To lodge at last each jolly soul
Who all his life carouses.
“The first it is a goodly house,
Black are its walls and high,
And full of dungeons deep and fast,
Where death-doom'd felons lie.
Black are its walls and high,
And full of dungeons deep and fast,
Where death-doom'd felons lie.
“The second is a lazar-house,
Rank, fetid, and unholy,
Where, fetter'd by diseases foul,
And hopeless melancholy,
Rank, fetid, and unholy,
Where, fetter'd by diseases foul,
And hopeless melancholy,
196
“The victims of potations deep
Pine on their couch of sadness,
Some calling death to end their pain,
And some imploring madness.
Pine on their couch of sadness,
Some calling death to end their pain,
And some imploring madness.
“The third house is a spacious house,
To all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish bounty fed,
Vile, in the sunshine crawling,
To all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish bounty fed,
Vile, in the sunshine crawling,
“The worn-out drunkard ends his days,
And eats the dole of others,
A plague and burthen to himself,
An eye-sore to his brothers.
And eats the dole of others,
A plague and burthen to himself,
An eye-sore to his brothers.
“So drink the waters of this stream,
Drain deep the cup of ruin,
Drink, and like heroes madly rush
Each man to his undoing.
Drain deep the cup of ruin,
Drink, and like heroes madly rush
Each man to his undoing.
197
“One of my mansions high and strong,
One of my goodly houses,
Is sure to lodge each jolly soul
Who to the dregs carouses!”
One of my goodly houses,
Is sure to lodge each jolly soul
Who to the dregs carouses!”
Into the stream his courser leaps,
And all the crowd leaps after,
While over hill and valley wide
Resound loud peals of laughter.
And all the crowd leaps after,
While over hill and valley wide
Resound loud peals of laughter.
For well he knows, this demon old,
How vain is all his preaching;—
The ragged crew that round him flock
Are too far gone for teaching.
How vain is all his preaching;—
The ragged crew that round him flock
Are too far gone for teaching.
Even as they wallow in the stream,
They cry aloud, quite frisky,
“Here's to thy health, thou best of friends,
Kind, generous Cask-o'-Whiskey!
They cry aloud, quite frisky,
“Here's to thy health, thou best of friends,
Kind, generous Cask-o'-Whiskey!
198
“We care not for thy houses three,
We live but for the present,
And merry will we make it yet,
And quaff these waters pleasant.”
We live but for the present,
And merry will we make it yet,
And quaff these waters pleasant.”
Loud laughs the fiend to hear them speak,
And lifts his brimming bicker:
“Drink, fools!” quoth he, “you'll pay your scot,
I'll have your souls for liquor!”
And lifts his brimming bicker:
“Drink, fools!” quoth he, “you'll pay your scot,
I'll have your souls for liquor!”
203
THE END.
| The Hope of the World and other poems | |