Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Deep in the bosom of a silent wood,
Where an eternal twilight dimly reigns,
A sculptured fountain hath for ages stood
O'erhung with trees; and still such awe remains
Around the spot, that few dare venture there—
The babbling water spreads such superstitious fear.

II

It looks so old and grey, with moss besprent,
And carven imagery, grotesque or quaint;
Eagles and lions are with dragons blent,
And cross-winged cherub; while o'er all a Saint
Bends grimly down with frozen blown-back hair,
And on the dancing spray its dead eyes ever stare.

III

From out a dolphin's mouth the water leaps
And frets, and tumbles to its bed of gloom,
So dark the umbrage under which it sweeps,
Stretching in distance like a dreary tomb;
With murmurs fraught, and many a gibbering sound,
Gurgle, and moan and hiss, and plash and fitful bound.

IV

Oh! 'tis a spot where man might sit and weep
His childish griefs and petty cares away;
Wearied Ambition might lie there and sleep,
And hoary Crime in silence kneel to pray.
The fountain's voice, the day-beams faintly given,
Tell of that star-light land we pass in dreams to heaven.

V

There lovely forms in elder times were seen,
And snowy kirtles waved between the trees;
And light feet swept along the velvet green,

While the rude anthem rose upon the breeze,
When round the margin England's early daughters
Worshipped the rough-hewn Saint that yet bends o'er the waters.

VI

And some bent priest, whose locks were white as snow,
Would raise his trembling hands and voice to pray;
All would be hushed save that old fountain's flow,
That rolling bore the echoes far away;
Perchance a dove, amid the foliage dim,
Might raise a coo, then pause to list their parting hymn.

VII

That old grey abbey lies in ruins now,—
The wild-flowers wave where swung its pond'rous door:
Where once the altar rose, rank nettles grow,
The authem's solemn sound is heard no more;
'Tis as if Time had laid down to repose,
Drowsed by the fountain's voice which through the forest flows.

THE EVENING HYMN.

I

How many days with mute adieu,
Have gone down yon untrodden sky;
And still it looks as clear and blue,
As when it first was hung on high.
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud,
That drew the lightning in its rear,
The thunder, tramping deep and loud,
Have left no foot-mark there.

II

The village bells, with silver chime,
Come softened by the distant shore;
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A silence rests upon the hill,
A listening awe pervades the air;
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

III

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth, and air, and sky, and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God! of Thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook,—
All these their Maker own.

IV

Now shine the starry hosts of light,
Gazing on earth with golden eyes;
Bright guardians of the blue-browed night!
What are ye in your native skies?
I know not! neither can I know;
Nor on what leader ye attend,
Nor whence ye came, nor whither go,
Nor what your aim nor end.

V

I know they must be holy things,
That from a roof so sacred shine,
Where sounds the beat of angel-wings,
And footsteps echo all divine;
Their mysteries I never sought,
Nor hearkened to what Science tells;
For oh! in childhood I was taught,
That God amidst them dwells.

VI

The darkening woods, the fading trees,
The grasshopper's last feeble sound,
The flowers just wakened by the breeze,
All leave the stillness more profound;
The twilight takes a deeper shade,
The dusky pathways blacker grow,
And silence reigns in glen and glade,
While all is mute below.

VII

And other eves as sweet as this
Will close upon as calm a day,
Then, sinking down the deep abyss,
Will, like the last, be swept away,
Until eternity is gained,
The boundless sea without a shore,
That without Time for ever reigned,
And will when Time's no more.

VIII

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, “Behold a God!”

MELROSE ABBEY.

I

Pause here awhile! and on these ruins look,
Worn with the footsteps of forgotten years;
Peruse this page in Time's black-lettered book;
Gaze long, and read how he his trophies rears.
See how each shattered shrine and sculptured nook,
The deep grey impress of his footmark bears.
Who was it reared this ponderous pile of stone?
Ask Time! he only knows, who now reigns here alone.

II

View it when sunset through that arch doth stream,
Throwing a solemn splendour on the pile;
When the tall pillars flash back every beam,
And dusky crimson fills the vaulted aisle,
While the bowed roof of darker hue doth seem,
As if it frowned upon the mocking smile
That gilds the ruins with a golden grey,
And with its gloomy look would chase the light away.

III

Gaze on that oriel now, 'tis shorn of all
Its saintly forms, and gaudy colourings;
The deep blue tunic, and the purple pall,
The glowing gold that formed the vests of kings
No longer flash at sunset on the wall;
Gone are the chequered angels' rainbowed wings,
The hollow wind alone blows bleakly there,
And the cold moonlight comes through the broad blank to stare.

IV

Altar, and crucifix, are now o'erthrown,
The wild-brier waves where Mary Mother smiled;
And He whose sculptured agony had grown
Grim as the ruins round about Him piled,
Rude hands have ages long ago hurled down;
But Time has sanctified what man defiled:
Though gone the Virgin's shrine, and thorn-crown'd brow,
It ne'er more holy seemed, more meet for prayer than now.

V

See how the roof from clustering columns sprung,
Like some high forest-walk embowered and lone;
No branch is there in wild disorder flung,
But each arched bough has with its fellow grown,
Looking as if, while they in beauty hung,
Their growth was check'd, and changed at once to stone;
The bundled stems of each low arm bereft,
And their wide-spreading boughs for spanning arches left.

VI

And from the ruined roof with fixèd frown,
See the Enchanter's gaze who changed the scene,
With stony eyes doomed to look ever down,
(The corbels locked each springing arch between,)
Waiting for Summer's green or Autumn's brown,
The aching grey around once more to skreen:
So fancy deemed did think those forms of stone,
Which on the cold floor looked, and heard the wind's low moan.

VII

Drooping between the oriel and the sky,
Like a dark banner the green ivy waves;
Casting a shadow where the dead still lie,
Or moving to and fro athwart their graves
Like silent spectres, ever gliding by,
With noiseless motion when the tempest raves;
Chequering the tombs with many a varied light,
The pale now sombered o'er, then dusk, or silver-bright.

VIII

There was a time when, mid these ruins grey,
The pomp of Church and Chivalry were seen;
Amice and armour mingled there to pray;
And Beauty from those galleries did lean,
(Watching the entrance of the long array,
The abbot haught, and knight of austere mien,)
Her drooping eyelids glancing down abashed,
As some plumed warrior's gaze from the raised vizor flashed.

IX

But they are gone! the dead that sleep below,
Have left no record of their boasted deeds:
That time-worn stone once bore what thou wouldst know,
And could it speak would tell how moss and weeds
Did o'er its frail and chiselled glory grow;
But now within nought save the blind-worm feeds:
Where is the heart of Bruce? look round and see;
Perchance that nodding thistle yet may answer thee.

X

No more their war-cry shakes the battle-field,
Their trumpets wake the armèd throng no more;
The cold grey granite is their only shield;
The tide of war has died upon the shore:
They who dealt death, to death themselves did yield:
The worms feed on those iron men of yore.
Look round and weep! here's all that thou canst see,
Of pomp, and pride, and power, and gorgeous chivalry.

XI

And on these mighty landmarks of the past,
The heart still rests, and scarcely dares to beat;
A silence falls upon us deep and vast:
It seems a land where Life and Death now meet,
And calmly on each other gaze at last;
Looking like friends amid this still retreat;
Still as Eternity with ruins crowned,
Gazing on the mute world that's stretched in silence round.

THE HAUNTED LAKE.

I

There is a wood which few dare tread,
So still its depth, so deep its gloom:
The vaulted chambers of the dead
Scarce fill the soul with half the dread
You feel while near that living tomb.

II

Deep in its centre sleeps a lake,
Where tall tree-tops the mirror darkens;
No roaring wind those boughs can shake,
Ruffle the water's face, or break
The silence there which ever hearkens.

III

No flowers around that water grow,
The birds fly over it in fear,
The antique roots above it bow,
The newt and toad crawl down below,
The black snake also sleepeth there.

IV

Few are the spots so deathly still,
So mantled in eternal gloom:
No sound is heard of babbling rill,
A voiceless silence seems to fill
The air around that liquid tomb.

V

The ivy creepeth to and fro,
Along the arching boughs which meet;
The fir and bright-leaved mistletoe
Hang o'er the holly and black-sloe,
In darkness which can ne'er retreat.

VI

For there the sunbeams never shine,
That sullen lake beholds no sky,
No moonbeam drops its silvery line,
No star looks down with eye benign;
The very lightning hurries by.

VII

The huntsmen pass it at full speed,
The hounds howl loud, and seem to fear it;
The fox makes for the open mead,
Full in the teeth of man and steed,
He does not dare to shelter near it.

VIII

No woodman's axe is heard to sound
Within that forest, night or day;
No human footstep dents the ground,
No voice disturbs the deep profound;
No living soul dare through it stray.

IX

For shrieks are heard there in the night,
And wailings of a little child;
And ghastly streams of lurid light,
Have flashed upon the traveller's sight,
When riding by that forest wild.

X

For there hath human blood been shed
Beside the tangling bramble's brake,
And still they say the murdered dead
Rise nightly from their watery bed,
And wander round the Haunted Lake.

XI

'Tis said she is a lady fair,
In silken robes superbly dressed,
With large bright eyes that wildly glare,
While clotted locks of long black hair
Droop o'er the infant at her breast.

XII

She speaks not, but her white hand raises,
And to the lake with pointed finger
Beckons the step of him who gazes;
Then shrieking seeks the leafy mazes,
Leaving a pale blue light to linger.

XIII

But who she is no one can tell,
Nor who her murderer may be—
But one beside that wood did dwell,
On whom suspicion darkly fell:
A rich unhappy lord was he.

XVI

In an old hall he lived alone,
No servant with him dared to stay;
For shriek, and yell, and piercing groan,
And infant's cry, and woman's moan,
Rang through those chambers night and day

XV

He was indeed a wretched man,
And wrung his hands, and beat his breast:
His cheeks were sunken, thin, and wan,
Remorse had long deep furrows run
Across his brow—he could not rest.

XVI

He sometimes wandered round the wood,
Or, stood to listen by its side,
Or, bending o'er the meadow-flood,
Would try to wash away the blood,
With which his guilty hands seemed dyed.

XVII

He never spoke to living soul;
Oh, how an infant made him quake;
For then his eyes would wildly roll,
And he would shriek, and curse, and howl,
While thinking of the “Haunted Lake.”

XVIII

But that old lord has long been dead,
The old hall is deserted now;
They say he ne'er was burièd:
He died, but not within his bed,
And no one knoweth when or how.

THE DESOLATE HALL.

I

A lonely hall, upon a lonelier moor,
For many a league no other dwelling near;
Northward, an ancient wood, whose tall trees roar
When the wild winds their huge broad branches tear:
In this old hall, a servant deaf and grey
On me in silence waits, throughout the dreary day.

II

Before my threshold waves the long white grass,
That like a living desolation stands,
Nodding its withered head whene'er I pass,
The last sad heir of these cold barren lands;
Last in the ruined chapel to repose,
Then its old mouldering door upon our race will close.

III

Along the roof the dark moss thickly spreads,
A dampness o'er the oaken rafters throwing;
A chilling moisture settles on the beds,
And green decay along the walls is growing;
The very curtains, with their damask dyes,
Drop piecemeal on the floor, where the grey lichens rise.

IV

And when the wind sweeps o'er those low damp floors,
It makes a weary noise, a wailing moan;
All night I hear the clap of broken doors,
That on their rusty hinges grate and groan;
And then old voices, calling from behind,
The worn and wormy wainscot flapping in the wind.

V

The silver moth in the carved wardrobe feeds,
The unturned keys are rusted in the locks;
Beneath my hearth the brown mouse safely breeds,

By the old fountain fearless sleeps the fox;
The white owl in the chamber dreams all day,
For there is no one now to frighten her away.

VI

Sometimes I seem to hear, above my head,
A tramping noise, as if of human feet;
In clanking mail they move with measured tread,
Then to the sound of solemn music beat,
Till with a crash the deep-dyed casements close,
Shaking the crazy walls, and breaking my repose.

VII

The toothless mastiff bitch howls all night long,
And in her kennel sleepeth all the day;
The deaf old man said, “Something must be wrong,
She was not wont to yell and howl this way.
I marked her first do so, at dark Yule-tide:
It was the very night my lady Ellen died.”

VIII

The high-piled books with cobwebs are o'ergrown,
Their costly bindings rusty, dim, and dead;
Last night the huge old Bible thundered down,
And opened at the place which Ellen read
The night she died. I knew the page again,
'Twas marked with many a tear,—her last sad earthly stain.

IX

And now I shun the room in which she died,
The books, the flowers, the harp she caused to sound;
The flowers are dead, the books are thrown aside,
The harp is mute, and dust has gathered round
The piled-up songs she sung; the very chair
Unmovèd stands, in which she sung her last sad air.

X

The fish-ponds now are mantled o'er with green;
The rooks have left their old ancestrel trees,
Their ruined nests amid the boughs are seen.

No oxen low along the ridgy leas,
No steed neighs out, no flocks bleat from the fold,
For upland, hill, and vale, are empty, brown and cold.

XI

I cannot sleep!—when slumber o'er me creeps,
The old house-clock rings out its dreary sound,
The unwearied warder, who his march still keeps;
And then the rusty vane turns round, and round:
These are sad tones,—'tis Desolation calls,
While Ruin loudly roars around my father's halls.

XII

Then hollow gusts through the rent casements stream,
Moving the ancient portraits on the wall;
And when upon them slopes the moon's pale beam,
Their floating costumes seem to rise and fall,
And as I come or go—move where I will,
Their cold white deadly eyes turning pursue me still.

XIII

'Tis past! and never more shall these walls ring
With dance and song, and music's dulcet strains;
Beauty will here no more her daughters bring,
Nor stately pleasure shake her golden chains.
Such things have been, but they have had “their day:”
Our name—our race—our home—with me shall fade away.

ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER.

I

And thou art dead, that wert so dear to me!
The treasured idol of my fondest love,
Thou who didst seem a seraph on my knee,
That sleeping dreamed of starry lands above,
Unconscious of the earth that cradled thee,
But only resting like a wearied dove,
Which for a moment lighting on the green,
Just coos, and looks around, then never more is seen.

II

And thou art dead!—and one small lock of hair
Is all I now can to my bosom press,
And many a hour I've sat in mute despair,
Gazing in tears upon that lovely tress:
I tried to blend Death with a thing so fair,
But, 'twas in vain,—the grave's deep dreariness
Would mingle with it not; nor can I now
Think on that lock, and Death, it conjures up thy brow.

III

But oh! the night thou diedst I can recall:
Thy mother on my shoulder leant to weep;
Her bending shadow fell upon the wall;
And when Death came, so noiseless did he creep
That we heard not his muffled footstep fall:
E'en I, who held thee, deemed thou didst but sleep.
Thy slow pulse ceased, but no one could tell when;
If ever silence listened, breathless, it was then.

IV

There thou didst lie, a sinless child at rest,
Hushed as the march of starry studded night,
Cold as the dew closed in the rose's breast,
Silent as darkness stealing o'er the light,
Mute as a wearied bird upon its nest,
Calm as a rainbow fading from the sight,
Still as a halcyon, that upon the deep
Folds slowly its white wings, and fearless falls asleep.

V

And I have heard thy voice in the low wind,
And caught thine accents in the murmuring stream;
And in the rustling grass where I reclined,
And midst old woods, whose tall trees seem to dream:
I've seen thy face in clouds, and thy locks twined
In the loose silver of their skirts did seem;
Bee, bird, a blossom, streams, a leaf, a sound,—
There have been moods of mind when thou in these wert found.

VI

And I have thought of lands beyond the grave,
Celestial fields where spotless angels roam;
Of Siloa's stream, where flowers eternal wave,
Of music rolling from the etherial dome,
And Heaven's own floor which stars resplendent pave;
Then have I turned me to my earthly home,
Now desolate!—Oh, may I be forgiven,
If too much love for thee hath made me envy Heaven.

VII

When the hushed footfall of the voiceless night
Pressed the dim clouds, and stole down from the sky,
In the dim splendour of the stars' pale light,
Hath thy fair form in silence glided by;
And oft it has seemed present to my sight,
When dark-winged sleep hung brooding o'er my eye:
In visions, my lost child, I've seemed to press thee,
And hugged the empty dark, dreaming I did caress thee.

VIII

The spring brings to my mind thy growing charms,
The Summer, all thy beauty in its bloom,
Autumn, supporting my then aged arms;
The dreary Winter, only brings the tomb;
The sobbing wind my too fond heart alarms;
I think of thee, sleeping amid the gloom;
Then I forget, again, that thou art dead,
And so put out my hand, to feel thy little head.

TO MARY.

I

Oh Mary! I was thinking, now,
How time hath past away, since we
First owned our love beneath the bough
Of that wide-spreading old oak-tree.
Come, fill my glass; why should we grieve?
Let care, my dear, float on the wind;
The memory of that happy eve
Alone hath often soothed my mind.

II

Remember you the rushing Weir,
That threw its foam-bells at our feet?
Making a holy murmur there—
A mournful sound—yet oh! how sweet!
Your hand, dear Mary, was in mine—
We saw the water-lilies move;
And when our fingers dared to twine,
We felt the thrill of youthful love.

III

Have you forgot the village-chime
That sounded through the listening wood,
Ringing o'er beds of fragrant thyme,
Which rose, like incense, where we stood;
And saw the bending wild-flowers close
Their sleepy eyes upon the dew,
Sinking, unhushed, in soft repose,
Beneath a sky of cloudless blue?

IV

Remember you, how twilight grey
Stole o'er us ere we were aware?
You hearkening to that blackbird's lay,
While I stood watching your long hair
With which the wanton night-breeze played,
Baring your neck of veinèd snow,
And waving wide both curl and braid,
Like silken banners to and fro.

V

Have you forgot how deep you sighed?—
Mary! that night I marked you well—
My own within my breast had died,
Like sighs heaved in some soundless cell;
I wished them not to reach your ear,
But, when your own white bosom raised,
Mine swelled above the rushing Weir,
And then—upon your face I gazed.

VI

Your deep blue eyes, my girl, met mine,
A moment they but deigned to rest,
Then turned to where the stars did shine,
Then sank abashed upon your breast.
Our hands closed of their own accord,
The waters sang along the shore,
We stood, but neither spake a word;
We ne'er were mute so long before.

VII

I threw my arm around your waist,—
Mary! 'twas starlight when you blushed—
But still that arm was not displaced,
For then the very air seemed hushed.
Our fluttering hearts alone were heard,
Moving like gently-lifted leaves
Before the plumage of a bird,
Just as its throbbing bosom heaves.

VIII

Although I long confessed thy charms,
I had not pressed those lips of thine;
But when I clasped thee in my arms,
And knew that thou wert only mine,
And felt thee on my bosom lean,
And saw thy cheeks with tears were wet,
And we alone in that still scene,
No wonder, love, our lips then met.

IX

And then, my dear, we smiled for joy,
The waters singing all the while;
I was but then a wayward boy,
But never, Mary, did thy smile
Make brighter sunshine round my heart,
Than when we stood amid those flowers,
And felt as though we could not part,
Too happy, love, to think of hours.

X

Your mother at the garden-gate
Stood, wondering why we staid so long;
She murmured not, although 'twas late,
But left us there, and stept among
The windings of the lilac-shade—
We to her distant footsteps hearkened,
As to the door she slowly strayed;
And then her chamber-window darkened.

XI

We heard the clock at midnight sound—
We stood amid the moonlight pale,
For then our tongues a theme had found;
We gazed upon the outstretched vale;
Our fancies built a cottage there,
The spot I yet remember well,
'Twas in a glen beside the Weir,
And we had called it “Primrose Dell.”

XII

But Mary! it hath not proved so!
Fate marked me for the child of song,
And she hath tossed us to and fro,
Like flowers, which wild streams rush among.
I little deemed that night, my love,
Standing beneath the old oak-tree,
While the bright stars streamed out above,
That I should sing to aught but thee.

XIII

How different now! the world's my bride;
A fickle spouse is she, I deem;
But I must all her censure bide—
How different now! to when that stream
Murmured between my untaught lays;
We seated on a cowslip bed;
When thou didst give me love and praise,
For all I sung, and all I said.

XIV

Well! well! though we were doomed to part,
And though thou art another's now,
I know the heart is still the heart;—
Come, chase that sadness from thy brow
And fill my glass; why should we grieve?
Let care, my dear, float on the wind.
To meet thee, on this lovely eve,
Is still some solace to my mind.

THE OLD BRIDGE.

I

Oft, when a boy, I wandered forth alone,
By a broad river far from any town,
And on a bank with willows overgrown,
In that still solitude would lie me down;
The tide left a long landmark brown and clear,
And, save a lonely heron, no living thing was near.

II

'Twas a wild spot; for there, old legends say,
In ancient days a rude stone bridge had stood,
And that two thousand years had passed away

Since first its arches spanned the rapid flood;
And there, they say, the Roman troops passed o'er,
And drove the ancient Britons from the opposing shore.

III

And huge gigantic blocks, all quaintly wrought,
When the tide ebbs, are seen to lie around;
And battle-weapons rude, with which they fought,
In the deep river-bed are often found;
Bucklers, and bows, and clubs, and dead men's bones,
Lie heaped as in a grave beneath those mighty stones.

IV

And I have lain upon that ancient bank,
While deeds of other days rose on my eye;
The curlew screamed above the willows dank,
Roused by the Roman cohorts that swept by,
And gilded galleys through the white waves tore,
Their purple sails outspread, the Imperial Cæsar bore.

V

Then that old bridge heaved up before my sight,
The architecture rude which it displayed;
Such weapons as were used in savage fight,
And just such wolves as in old forests strayed;
While, o'er each arch, fixed with a stony frown,
Three bearded Druids' heads ever looked grimly down.

VI

And o'er it, hurrying legions burst away,
Their warlike music rising on the breeze,
Till all was lost, saving the gusty sway
Of some broad banner swelling 'mid the trees,
Or sun-bright Roman eagle, half-concealed,
Passing a British town, then, by the wood concealed.

VII

Where the wild forest stretched along the hill,
Above the bank scooped into sandy caves,
Stood the old Druids, and with voices shrill,

Sent their loud curses o'er the sounding waves,
And as their long white beards streamed in the blast,
On the dark oaken groves their eyes were ever cast.

VIII

In the green vale, naked and undismayed,
Ready for fight, the stalwart Britons stood,
With bow, and club, and flinty spear arrayed,
Their scythe-wheeled chariots stretched along a wood:
Before them a rude Druid's altar rose,
Its grey and stony front facing the armèd foes.

IX

And on that fight looked anxious eyes of love,
Peeping in fear the forest-trees between;
Wild, though they were, as untamed woodland dove,
Still there was grace and beauty in their mien;
And as the battle closed, they shrieked and sighed,
Or sent their heathen prayers across that river wide.

X

It might be all a dream; but oh! to me
Such fancies brought a melancholy joy;
And still that river flows on murmuringly,
Clear as it did when I sat there a boy;
And those grey stones and willows are the same
As when I dreamèd there, nor knew such dreams were Fame.

SONG OF THE OUTLAWS.

I

Come fill the brown bowl, boys, let care bide the morrow,
For Life's but a shaft that flies feathered with sorrow,
And Love is a hart, that hides far from the glade,
So timid at first, that he shuns his own shade:—
Our bodies are bows, and we laugh, drink, and sing,
Just to ease the bent wood, boys, and slacken the string;
Then fill the brown bowl, boys, and let it go round,
Lest the bow string should snap with too sudden a bound.

II

Oh! the world is a greenwood in which we all dwell;
Some know all its wild paths, some tread but the dell;
And they who have found its broad beaten highway,
Oft sigh for the shade in the heat of the day;
Ambition grows weary and pines for the glade,
Where he often in childhood 'mid happiness played—
And fame throws behind him a lingering look,
As the hunted stag glances when passing the brook.

III

'Tis better to fall at the head of the herd,
Than to fly back and perish, unmourned, uninterred;
'Tis better to die grasping arrow and bow,
Amid those that we love, than be slave to a foe:
To be bound with the brave amid Victory's sheaves,
Than to wither the last ear the reaper's hand leaves:
For Life is the target at which Death's shafts fly,
If they miss us we live—if they hit us we die.

IV

If we die in the greenwood, the sound of the horn
Still rings out as sweetly, both even and morn;
And the stag bounds as freely above us, as when
Our loud whoop and hallo awakened the glen;
And the old hoary oaks just wave o'er us the same
As they did, when beneath them we started the game;
And the stream rolls as blythe, with its tink, tinkling song;
And the Abbey-bell rings out its merry ding-dong.

V

Let others go slumber beneath the cold stone,
Deep, silent, and dark; narrow, dreary, and lone;
Give me the green forest turf for my last bed:
Where the hart and the hind will pass over my head;
Where the blue-bell and violet above me shall wave,
And the merry birds gaily sing over my grave;
Where a thousand old oaks will a watch round me keep,
And their broad branches roar, while they sing me to sleep.

VI

Oh! the Priest, when he shrives us, will smile at our deeds;
And the Leech heave a sigh as the ebbing heart bleeds:—
For the soul, that but kindled when tyrants did wrong,
Shall have little to fear as it journeys along.
On our grave will the peasant drop many a tear,
And maidens at twilight be found kneeling there;
And pilgrim and minstrel beside it be seen,
Breathing forth a low prayer for the Outlaw in green.

SUMMER MORNING.

I

Morning again breaks through the mines of Heaven,
And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky,
Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven
The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh,
And catch her scattered gems of orient dye,
The pearlèd ruby which her pathway strews;
Argent and amber, now thrown useless by.
The uncoloured clouds wear what she doth refuse,
For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.

II

No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower;
The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung
As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
The hookèd bramble just as it was strung,
When on each leaf the Night her crystals flung,
Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;
Before the golden-beakèd blackbird sung,
Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude,
Had bared their armèd heads in lowly gratitude.

III

From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring
The wild-bird choirs—burst of the woodland band,
Green-hooded Nuns, who 'mid the blossoms sing;
Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand,
Pillar'd with oaks, and roof'd with Heaven's own hand.
Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun:—
“Morning again is come to light the land;
The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun,
Hath yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run.”

IV

Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks,
Have from their green high city-gates rushed out,
To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks;
On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout.
As yet no busy insects buzz about,
No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled:
The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout;
Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold,
And soon the buttercups will give back “gold for gold.”

V

“Hark! hark! the lark” sings 'mid the silvery blue,
Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.
She seems the first that does for pardon sue,
As though the guilty stain which lurks below
Had touched the flowers that drooped above her brow;
When she all night slept by the daisies' side;
And now she soars where purity doth flow,
Where new-born light is with no sin allied,
And pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide.

VI

In belted gold the bees with “merry march”
Through flowery towns go sounding on their way:
They pass the red-streak'd woodbine's sun-stain'd arch,
And onward glide through streets of sheeted May,
Nor till they reach the summer-roses stay,
Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams,
Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay,
That rolls its fragrance o'er the fringèd streams,—
Mirrors in which the Sun now decks his quivering beams.

VII

Uprise the lambs, fresh from their flowery slumber,
(The daisies they pressed down rise from the sod;)—
He guardeth them who every star doth number,
Who called His Son a lamb,—“the Lamb of God;”
And for his sake withdrew the uplifted rod,
Bidding each cloud turn to a silvery fleece,
The imaged flock for which our Shepherd trod
The paths of sorrow, that we might find peace:—
Those emblems of His love will wave till time shall cease.

VIII

On the far sky leans the old ruined mill,
Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow,
Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill,
And the old thorns which on its summit grow.
Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below,
With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view;
And now a struggling thorn its head doth show,
Another half shakes off the smoky blue,
Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew:

IX

And there the hidden river lingering dreams,
You scarce can see the banks which round it lie;
That withered trunk, a tree, or shepherd seems,
Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye.
Even the very sheep, which graze hard by,
So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,
They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky,
Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze:—
The vision fades as they move further on to graze.

X

A chequered light streams in between the leaves,
Which on the greensward twinkle in the sun;
The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves,
And like a silver stream his song doth run,
Down the low vale, edgèd with fir-trees dun.
A little bird now hops beside the brook,
“Peaking” about like an affrighted nun;
And ever as she drinks doth upward look,
Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook.

XI

What varied colours o'er the landscape play!
The very clouds seem at their ease to lean,
And the whole earth to keep glad holiday.
The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen,
Hath changed its dusky for a golden green
In honour of this lovely Summer Morn:
The rutted roads did never seem so clean,
There is no dust upon the wayside thorn,
For every bud looks out as if but newly born.

XII

A cottage girl trips by with side-long look,
Steadying the little basket on her head;
And where a plank bridges the narrow brook
She stops to see her fair form shadowèd.
The stream reflects her cloak of russet red;
Below she sees the trees and deep blue sky,
The flowers which downward look in that clear bed,
The very birds which o'er its brightness fly:
She parts her loose-brown hair, then wondering passes by.

XIII

Now other forms move o'er the footpaths brown
In twos and threes; for it is Market day;
Beyond those hills stretches a little town,
And thitherward the rustics bend their way,
Crossing the scene in blue, and red, and grey;
Now by green hedge-rows, now by oak-trees old,
As they by stile or thatchèd cottage stray.
Peep through the rounded hand, and you'll behold
Such gems as Morland drew, in frames of sunny gold.

XIV

A laden ass, a maid with wicker maun',
A shepherd lad driving his lambs to sell,
Gaudy-dressed girls move in the rosy dawn,
Women whose cloaks become the landscape well,
Farmers whose thoughts on crops and prizes dwell;
An old man with his cow and calf draws near.
Anon you hear the Village Carrier's bell;
Then does his grey old tilted cart appear,
Moving so slow, you think he never will get there.

XV

They come from still green nooks, woods old and hoary,
The silent work of many a summer night,
Ere those tall trees attained their giant glory,
Or their dark tops did tower that cloudy height:
They come from spots which the grey hawthorns light,
Where stream-kissed willows make a silvery shiver.
For years their steps have worn those footpaths bright
Which wind along the fields and by the river,
That makes a murmuring sound, a “ribble-bibble” ever.

XVI

A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace,—
Their early music wakes the village street:
Through yon white blinds peeps many a lovely face,
Smiling—perchance unconsciously how sweet!
One does the carpet press with blue-veined feet,
Not thinking how her fair neck she exposes,
But with white foot timing the drum's deep beat;
And, when again she on her pillow dozes,
Dreams how she'll dance that tune 'mong Summer's sweetest roses.

XVII

So let her dream, even as beauty should!
Let the white plumes athwart her slumbers sway!
Why should I steep their swaling snow in blood,
Or bid her think of battle's grim array?
Truth will too soon her blinding star display,
And like a fearful comet meet her eyes.
And yet how peaceful they pass on their way!
How grand the sight as up the hill they rise!—
I will not think of cities reddening in the skies.

XVIII

How sweet those rural sounds float by the hill!
The grasshopper's shrill chirp rings o'er the ground,
The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still,
The clapping gate closes with hollow bound,
There's music in the church-clock's measured sound.
The ring-dove's song, how breeze-like comes and goes,
Now here, now there, it seems to wander round:
The red cow's voice along the upland flows;
His bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows.

XIX

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” ah! well I know thy note,
Those summer-sounds the backward years do bring,
Like Memory's locked-up barque once more afloat:
They carry me away to life's glad spring,
To home, with all its old boughs rustleìng.
'Tis a sweet sound! but now I feel not glad;
I miss the voices which were wont to sing,
When on the hills I roamed a happy lad.
“Cuckoo!” it is the grave—not thee—that makes me sad.

XX

Tell me, ye sages, whence these feelings rise,—
Sorrowful mornings on the darkened soul;
Glimpses of broken, bright, and stormy skies,
O'er which this earth—the heart—has no control?
Why does the sea of thought thus backward roll?
Memory's the breeze that through the cordage raves,
And ever drives us on some homeward shoal,
As if she loved the melancholy waves
That, murmuring shoreward, break, over a reef of graves.

XXI

Hark, how the merry bells ring o'er the vale,
Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows.
The red cock sends his voice upon the gale,
From the thatched grange his answering rival crows:
The milkmaid o'er the dew-bathed meadow goes,
Her tucked-up kirtle ever holding tight;
And now her song rings thro' the green hedge-rows,
Her milk-kit hoops glitter like silver bright:—
I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight.

XXII

Where soars that spire, our rude forefathers prayed;
Thither they came, from many a thick-leaved dell,
Year after year, and o'er those footpaths strayed,
When summoned by the sounding Sabbath bell,—
For in those walls they deemed that God did dwell:
And still they sleep within that bell's deep sound.
Yon Spire doth here of no distinction tell;
O'er rich and poor, marble, and earthly mound,
The Monument of all,—it marks one common ground.

XXIII

See yonder smoke, before it curls to heaven
Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall,
Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven;
So on the earth again doth prostrate fall,
And 'mid the bending green each sin recall.
Now from their beds the cottage-children rise,
Roused by some early playmate's noisy bawl;
And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes,
Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies.

XXIV

The leaves “drop, drop,” and dot the crispèd stream
So quick, each circle wears the first away;
Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream,
And to the ripple nods its head alway;
The water-flags with one another play,
Bowing to every breeze that blows between,
While purple dragon-flies their wings display:
The restless swallow's arrowy flight is seen,
Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green.

XXV

The boy who last night passed that darksome lane,
Trembling at every sound, and pale with fear;
Who shook when the long leaves talked to the rain,
And tried to sing, his sinking heart to cheer;
Hears now no brook wail ghost-like on his ear,
No fearful groan in the black-beetle's wing:
But where the deep-dyed butterflies appear,
And on the flowers like folded pea-blooms swing,
With napless hat in hand he after them doth spring.

XXVI

In the far sky the distant landscape melts,
Like pilèd clouds tinged with a darker hue;
Even the wood which yon high upland belts
Looks like a range of clouds, of deeper blue.
One withered tree bursts only on the view,—
A bald bare oak, which on the summit grows,
(And looks as if from out the sky it grew:)
That tree has borne a thousand wintry snows,
And seen unnumbered mornings gild its gnarlèd boughs.

XXVII

Yon weather-beaten grey old finger-post
Stands like Time's land-mark pointing to decay;
The very roads it once marked out are lost:
The common was encroached on every day
By grasping men who bore an unjust sway,
And rent the gift from Charity's dead hands.
That post doth still one broken arm display,
Which now points out where the new workhouse stands,
As if it said “Poor man! those walls are all thy lands.”

XXVIII

Where o'er yon woodland-stream dark branches bow,
Patches of blue are let in from the sky,
Throwing a chequered underlight below,
Where the deep waters steeped in gloom roll by;
Looking like Hope, who ever watcheth nigh,
And throws her cheering ray o'er life's long night,
When wearied man would fain lie down and die.
Past the broad meadow now it rolleth bright,
Which like a mantle green seems edged with silver light.

XXIX

All things, save Man, this Summer morn rejoice:
Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view;
Unto the earth below the flowers give voice;
Even the wayside-weed of homeliest hue
Looks up erect amid the golden blue,
And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind:—
“O'erlook me not! I for a purpose grew,
Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find:
On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind!”

XXX

England, my country!—land that gave me birth!
Where those I love, living or dead, still dwell,
Most sacred spot—to me—of all the earth;
England! “with all thy faults I love thee well.”
With what delight I hear thy Sabbath bell
Fling to the sky its ancient English sound,
As if to the wide world it dared to tell
We own a God, who guards this envied ground,
Bulwarked with martyrs' bones—where Fear was never found.

XXXI

Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray,
With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view,
And worship Him who guardeth us alway!—
Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue,
Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew;
Who made thee, mighty England! what thou art,
And asked but gratitude for all His due.
The giver, God! claims but the beggar's part,
And only doth require “a humble, contrite heart.”

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

I

Tread lightly here! this spot is holy ground,
And every footfall wakes the voice of ages:
These are the mighty dead that hem thee round,
Names that still shed a halo o'er our pages:
Listen! 'tis fame's loud voice that still proclaims,
“Here sleep the great!”—Oh no!—Time hath scarce left their names.

II

Thou mayest bend o'er each marble semblance now;
This was a monarch—see how mute he lies!
There was a day when on that crumbling brow,

The golden crown flashed awe on vulgar eyes;
That broken hand did then a sceptre sway,
And at his frown men shook—the worms now round him play!

III

Turn to the time, when he thus low was laid,
Within his “narrow cell,” in proud array;
Dirges were sung, and solemn masses said,
And gloomy plumes drooped o'er him as he lay,
Princes and peers were congregated there,
To make Death grand—for what?—'tis only dust lies here!

IV

Quenched are the torches that did o'er him wave,
His grandeur's faded in that vaulted gloom,
Hushed are the voices that sang o'er his grave,
Gone all the monks who prayed around his tomb:
All! all are gone!—there is no living thing
To tell that 'neath this stone, there sleeps a mighty king.

V

Here rests another, clothed in icy mail,
Who in the front of battle loved to be:
There his proud banner shook out to the gale
Its swelling pomp of empty heraldry;
Where are his bowmen now, his shield, and spear,
His steed, and battle-axe, and all he once held dear?

VI

His banner crumbled in the castle hall,
His lofty turrets sunk by slow decay,
His bowmen in the battle-field did fall,
His steed and armour, Time hath swept away,
His plumes are scattered and his helmet cleft,
And this old mouldering tomb, is all that Time hath left.

VII

And this is fame!—for this he fought and bled;
See his reward!—No matter, let him rest;
Vacant and dark is now his ancient bed,

The dust of ages dims his marble breast,
And in that tomb, dust only doth remain;
The wreath which all at last,—beggar and king, obtain.

VIII

See! at his head, a rude-carved lion stands,
In that dark niche where sunbeams never beat;
And while he folds his supplicating hands,
A watchful dragon couches at his feet:
How strangely blended!—he all humble lies,
While they defiance cast, from their huge stony eyes.

IX

And kings and queens here slumber, side by side,
Their quarrels ever hushed in Death's embrace:
How mute they lie!—how humbled all their pride!
Yet still a holy awe pervades each face:
Well! well!—the crowns they bear from cares are free,
As those which children wear, who play at royalty.

X

An awful silence here doth ever linger,
Her dwelling is this many pillared dome;
On her wan lip she plants her stony finger,
And with hushed breath still points to this her home,
Hearkening for ever with half-bended head,
To catch the whispers of the mute and mighty dead.

XI

And here Time stretches out his cloudy wings,
But never beats them, for they have turned grey,
Through hovering o'er the marble forms of kings,
For Time looks older here—and ne'er decay;
'Till with long watching, he will be no more
Than the mere years of sand, that gird the eternal shore.

XII

Gaze on those gothic arches, worn and old!
Call up the past!—behold it doth appear:
What is it but “barbaric pearl and gold?”

No living thing now left a shred to wear;
E'en fancy fails in calling up one face,
So thick Death's shadows lie around this burying-place.

XIII

What gaudy figures rest against the sky!
What golden glories float around each brow!
It seems as if the windows' deepened dye
Had outlived all the splendour stretched below,
As if each shrine, and form, and sculptured mass,
Drew all their light, and shape, and fame, from brittle glass.

XIV

Behold those cloudy saints and angel bands,
How rich their robes upon the casement beam!
They carry us away to distant lands,
To far-off spots that haunt us like a dream,—
To childish heavens, such as in youth we drew,
Peopled with saints, and harps, and roofed with gold and blue.

XV

How dull and leaden beats the busy brain,
While brooding o'er and calling up the past!
The very thoughts seemed girded with a chain,
The mind bowed down beneath a scene so vast,
As if we sat beside a shoreless sea,
Whose waves rolled on, and on, to dark eternity.

A good poem on Westminster Abbey has yet to be written. The Author of this fragment felt the subject too weighty for him, and therefore abandoned it, leaving the Poets' Corner, &c. to other Poets.

THE DYING WIDOW.

I

Those cold white curtain-folds displace—
That form I would no longer see:
They have assumed my husband's face,
And all night long it looked at me.
I wished it not to go away,
Yet trembled while it did remain;
I closed my eyes, and tried to pray—
Alas! I tried in vain.

II

I know my head is very weak;
I've seen what fancy can create;
I long have felt too low to speak:
Oh! I have thought too much of late!
I have a few requests to make—
Just wipe these blinding tears away—
I know your love, and for my sake
You will them all obey.

III

My child has scarce a month been dead,
My husband has been dead but five;
What dreary hours since that have fled!
I wonder I am yet alive.
My child, through him Death aimed the blow,
And from that hour I did decline;
His coffin, when my head lies low,
I would have placed on mine.

IV

Those letters which my husband sent
Before he perished in the deep,—
What hours in reading them I've spent!
Whole nights, in which I could not sleep.
Oh! they are worn with many a tear,
Scarce fit for other eyes to see,
But oft, when sad, they did me cheer:
Pray, bury them with me.

V

This little cap my Henry wore
The very day before he died;
And I shall never kiss it more—
When dead, you'll place it by my side.
I know these thoughts are weak, but, oh!
What will a vacant heart not crave?
And, as none else can love them so,
I'll bear them to my grave.

VI

The miniature that I still wear,
When dead, I would not have removed:
'Tis on my heart—oh! leave it there,
To find its way to where I loved!
My husband threw it round my neck,
Long, long before he called me bride;
And I was told, amidst the wreck,
He kissed mine ere he died.

VII

There's little that I care for now,
Except this simple wedding-ring:
I faithfully have kept my vow,
And feel not an accusing sting.
I never yet have laid it by
A moment, since my bridal day;
Where he first placed it let it lie—
Oh take it not away!

VIII

Now wrap me in my wedding-gown,—
You scarce can think how cold I feel,—
And smooth my ruffled pillow down.
Oh! how my clouded senses reel!
Great God! support me to the last!—
Oh, let more air into the room—
The struggle now is nearly past—
Husband and child, I come!

SHAKSPEARE.

I

Within an old wood's solitary gloom,
A maiden sat beneath a broad-boughed tree,
In leafy Summer's green and flowery bloom;
A brook brawled forth its forest-minstrelsy,
By many a jagged bank, and mossy way,
While open on her lap, sweet Shakspeare's volume lay.

II

And as the stream stole murmuring along,
Her kindled fancy with its music rose;
And her ears caught Ophelia's dying song,

Rising and falling to each liquid pause;
A weeping willow o'er the water bended,
And lower seemed to sink until her sweet lay ended.

III

And huge fantastic trunks, gnarled, old, and gray,
Assumed the heath-hag forms in that dim scene,
And bending boughs shut out the dazzling day;
The wood, cave-dark, showed lips of livid green
Sprung from the leaves, and muttering mystic tones,
While in the pebbly brook were heard their eldrich groans.

IV

The fairy visions softly fluttered by,
Like merry birds darting through bosky dells;
She heard them on the earth, and in the sky,
While some, like bees, sang in the wild-flower bells,
Or on the spider's silvery thread did glide,
Or in the fox-glove flowers their tiny forms did hide.

V

Then giant shadows moved in dim array,
Who in their graves had slept a thousand years,—
Spirits that filled the world with pale dismay,
And deluged cities deep in blood and tears,—
Egypt and Troy, the awakened dead of ages,
That will outlive all time in his immortal pages.

VI

Battles and banners moved before her eyes,
And many a sceptred king, and stately queen;
Sorrow and care, and tears and common sighs,
Beneath the imperial purple then was seen;
The self-same heart-aches in each breast she found,
Whether the brow with gold, or “hodden grey” was bound.

VII

Then mask and revel glided through the wood,
And proud processions swept along the glades,
Till the tall flowers, which bent across the flood,

Seemed changed to waving plumes and brandished blades,
While shout, and drum, and trumpets' fearful clang,
The sylvan silence rent, and through its alleys rang.

VIII

Shakspeare unlocked man's heart, laid bare a world,
Distilled its blight and beauty, and then flew
To his own mighty mind, and from it hurled
A new creation, forms that never grew
Beneath an earthly eye, he made and moved,
Who, as he willed it, lived and laughed, or wept, or loved.

“Exhausted worlds and then imagined new.”

ELLEN GRAY.

I

'Twas May-day morn, nor had a lovelier day
From out the eastern chambers e'er been given:
The lark had left the heath, and flown away,
Singing into the clear blue vault of heaven;
The bee went round to tell the flowers 'twas May,
The breeze and sunshine o'er the brook had driven,
Earth laughed with joy, the solemn wood looked gay,
As if its echoes yet might answer, “Ellen Gray.”

II

Slow moving from a woodbined-cottage door,
A mournful group in tear-bathed silence came;
Six white-robed village-maids a coffin bore,
Their pallid cheeks did their deep grief proclaim;
Each on her bosom a pale lily wore,
An emblem of that virgin spotless fame;
A white pet-lamb followed a little way,
And by its bleatings seemed to call for Ellen Gray.

III

But there was one who loved—Oh! where was he?
That night she died, from home he frantic fled,
And in the wood, beneath the well-known tree,
On the old moss he laid his aching head,
And thus he answered to the bird, or bee:
“Ye need not come here now, for she is dead!
Her hands were cold! she never spoke all day:”
Then would he pluck a flower, and call it Ellen Gray.

IV

They passed the May-pole—but not thoughtless by,—
The last year's garlands hung all withered there;
They had no colours then, to catch the eye,
Yet many an eye gazed on them through a tear;
Blossom, and bud, and bell, and leaf were dry,
Time's crumbling hand had left them brown and sere:
Twelve months ago they decked the Queen of May,
And who? oh! who was she? They answered “Ellen Gray!”

V

Twelve months ago—and they were blooming there
Lovely as she—then oaken bowers were seen,
And laugh, and shout, and song, rose loud and clear,
And light feet danced adown the daisied green,
And soft cloud-sounding music soothed the ear;
And smiles were showered upon their beauteous queen,
And young and old did willing homage pay
Before the flowery throne, graced by fair Ellen Gray.

VI

They reached the church! the aisle looked dim and cold,
The columns' dreary shadows longer grew;
The old gray roof had never seemed so old;
The full-cheeked angels stood as if they blew
Their stony trumpets, and the dull bell tolled
In sadder tones; the deep-stained window threw
A dying splendour round; the echoes lay
Silent and mute as death, listening for Ellen Gray.

VII

The earth fell hollow on her coffin lid:
Who hath not felt that fall? The funeral bell
Brought not such wailing woe as that sound did,—
It was indeed the eternal long farewell,—
The grave's last darkness. Age and name were hid,
And on the mould the tears in silence fell;
Just then a blackbird's song rose loud and gay,
And to our ears brought back the voice of Ellen Gray.

VIII

A hoary elm arose above her grave,
Whose boughs oft bore the silvery-footed showers;
On these the gaudy garlands drooping wave,
Though destined to be worn in happier hours;
But Death the loveliest trophies still doth crave:
They decked her lowly tomb with choicest flowers,
And in that still churchyard till night did stay,
And watered with their tears the grave of Ellen Gray.

THE PASSING BELL.

I

'Tis shut of eve; around me wave the flowers;
The merry birds troll forth their vesper hymn,
Leaf-cradled safely in their dark green bowers;
The distant trees appear like shadows dim,
Marshalled along the twilight's starry brow,
To hear yon bell's sad sound, and, at each pause, to bow.

II

I hear the distant din of laughing boys,
As home they journey bearing boughs of May;
Then comes the far-off city's ocean-noise,
Swelling and falling like the waves at play;
And on mine ear bursts loud above that hum,
Yon dull, dead, dreary bell's slow-swinging tomb-toned boom.

III

But who is dead?—nought here that tale can tell:
The quiet kine around me silent lie,
The night-breeze creeps along each wild-flower's bell,
No more the bleating lambs bound lightly by;
The hawthorn-homes of lute-tongued birds are still,
While yon heart-chilling bell peals loudly o'er the hill.

IV

Is some old man torn tottering to the grave,
Who seldom left his hearth, but sat in gloom,
Watching the swinging pend'lum's measured wave,
Counting those strokes that nearer brought the tomb,
Who had seen threescore Springs, for aye now past,
Yet never once had thought, the next might be his last?

V

Or some poor pauper kept on niggard pay,
Scarce clothed or fed while he on earth did stir;
Who'll to the grave with speed be borne away,

Scarce clothed in death, so thin his house of fir;
Down the cold earth they'll drop his wide-chinked bier,
No pause, no sigh, no friend to shed a farewell tear!

VI

Or some fair maid who oft had thought of Spring,
And gazed with hope upon the wintry sky;
Oft heard in fancy the first blackbird sing,
And saw imagined flowers around her lie;
Thought of green walks, and morning's rosy breath,
Nor deemed thus soon she'd fall a prey to hungry Death?

VII

Perchance some youth had won her heart to love,
And she had smiled when sunny days drew near,
And sighed for green-arched woods, where cooed the dove,
Answered by falling waters cool and clear;
Had seen the virgin primrose angel-eyed,
And when the pale flower droop'd, her beauty with it died.

VIII

Might not that bell have flung its death-cold peal
Upon her ear before the spirit fled?
Causing a tremor o'er her limbs to steal:
How would she gaze on those around her bed!
Grave-shouting bell! thy sound would on her rest
Like pitchy darkness dropped on noon-day's sun-lit breast.

IX

Oh! it is hard to die when the young trees
Burst forth in beauty with their emerald buds,—
When the first blossoms tremble to the breeze,
And bird to bird calls through the flowery woods,
When silvery clouds sail o'er the sleeping wave,—
Oh! it is hard to lie deep in the silent grave.

X

Deep in the grave, far, far, beneath the flowers,
From shady lanes, and walks with those we love—
Those whose light feet still dance in leaf-roofed bowers;

Haunts of the nightingale, and low-voiced dove,
The glens, and glades, and dells where violets bloom:
All these to be exchanged for the cold, voiceless tomb.

XI

To be pent up within a narrow cell,
With damps, and coffin-worms, and silent Death,
Where not one ray of light can ever dwell,
And if we wake, no air to give us breath;
Year after year to lie 'neath that gray tower,
From whence the watchman, Time, looks out, and calls the hour.

XII

To-day a thousand forms walked forth in white,
A thousand feet did thread the mazy dance,
A thousand eyes beamed blue, and soft, and bright,
And in the ring did lip to lip advance.
Even now I hear the dancers' gaily bound,
While I am here alone, listening to yon sad sound.

XIII

Alone! alone!—why should I wish them sad?
Time hurries on his brow deep wrapt in gloom.
Brief is the sunny beam that makes us glad:
'Tis but the ray that glances on the tomb,
Mocking its depths with transitory light,
Then vanishing away in deep, eternal night.

XIV

Hush! voice of death! thou makest my blood run cold;
The very wind seems frightened as it blows,
And the dark earth a grave, but made to hold
All it contains; the darkness darker grows
And warns me home, awhile to rest my head,
Then join the unbroken sleep, amid the silent dead.

Kiss-in-the-ring, an old country game. This poem was written on Blue-Bell Hill, near Nottingham, one Whitsuntide, many, many years ago! I might have added something about the happiness of a future state, but the poem is already too long.

MARGARET.

I.

Hard by a crumbling castle wall
An old deserted garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark, low-browed rocks, and shady scenes
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.

100

And all around
The dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many a feeble echo calling,
To waving trees, and low-voiced streams,
Where day but rarely spread his beams;—
It seemed a living land of dreams.

II.

There ruined summer-arbours stood,
Covered with moss and untrained vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy, and starry jessamine.
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the sedgy sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;

101

And Venus fair
With parted hair,
Was bending there.
Some seemed to mock the sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart;
Others, half-buried 'mid the flowers,
Dryads and Satyrs, Nymphs and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.

III.

Beside a richly-sculptured urn,
The lady Margaret was kneeling,
The tears were down her fair cheeks stealing,
And many an outward sign, revealing
How deeply her young heart did mourn.
She held a portrait to her breast,
And sighing, said, “Oh, be at rest!
Hush, heart! no more will he return

102

With smiling brow,
And whispered vow!—
All's over now.”
Her glance upon the picture fell,
It was the knight she loved too well.
A silken scarf his helmet bore.
“By that love-token thou oft swore,”
Said Margaret, “I'll think no more.

IV.

“And yet when I that token see,
And think what nights these wakeful eyes
Bent o'er its fond embroidery,—
Painful emotions will arise,
Such as I felt not till we parted,
Such as but spring from doubts and fears,
And grow on until broken-hearted,
Nursed amid sighs and bathed in tears.

103

V.

“Perhaps for me he cares not now,
Nor heeds my tears, nor minds my sighing;
Perchance he has forgot his vow,—
Or he—oh, God!—he may be dying!
And no one near—oh misery!
Breathing my name with his last breath,—
And yet his image smiles on me—
Away!—I will not think of death.

VI.

“No! he still wears my true-love token,
Still presses it with many a sigh;
I will not think his vow is broken,
I will not say so, though I die.
It brings before him many a scene,
That we have passed amid these bowers,
Our moonlight walks through alleys green,
When love was sweeter than the flowers.

104

VII.

“I marked the corners with my hair,
I wove his name along with mine,
And fondly hoped, as they clung there,
So would our hearts together twine;
Oh, Hope! delusive Hope, 'tis Time
Alone that proves thee a deceiver;
Thou bringest buds of promised prime,
But the keen frost attends thee ever.

VIII.

“Oh! I am sadly altered now,
My summer's changed to winter's gloom;
I've torn the garland from my brow,
And hung it on my mother's tomb.
I seem upon a pathless sea,
A lonely ark that still remains,
Doomed to glide on in misery,
And float alone with all its pains.

105

IX.

“And Love still lives, though Hope is fled,
And Memory that brings no delight,
Telling of Spring whose flowers are shed,
A sunny day long changed to night,
A music, all in mournful tone,
Sounding awake, and heard asleep,
A solemn dirge that rings alone
To tell me I am born to weep.

X.

“Oh! I have loved, and still I love,
And yet my life is like a dream;
I look around, below, above,
And thoughts like hovering shadows seem,
Clouds drifting o'er the face of heaven,
That float along in loose array,
The dark and bright together driven,
And mingling but to pass away.

106

XI.

“Though he is false I will not chide,
I feel my heart is all to blame,
And though I may not be his bride,
But see another bear that name,
Yet will I pray that every blessing—
Alas! I cannot pray, for weeping;
A coldness round my heart is pressing,
A tremor through my veins is creeping.

XII.

“Oh! I am weary of my life;
My eyes with weeping have grown weary;
Nature too long hath been at strife,
My very thoughts to me are dreary;
Oh! I am weary of the day,
And wish again that it was night,
And when night comes wish it away,
And then grow weary of the light.”

107

XIII.

She on that marble urn did rest,
'Twas sacred to her mother's name,
She clasped its coldness to her breast
And called on death, but no death came.
The grave is far too cold for love;
Why should it sleep within a tomb,
When for its mate the wandering dove,
But coos amid the forest gloom?

XIV.

Hark! heard ye not that rustling sound?
It was no gust that shook the leaves,
But coursers' hoofs that rent the ground,—
How quick her panting bosom heaves.
Tramp! tramp! behold the scarf, 'tis he;
Now he alights! his voice she hears,
“My Margaret, didst wait for me?”
He stooped, and kissed away her tears.

108

TO THE SKY-LARK.

I

Whither away! companion of the sun,
So high, this laughing morn? Are those soft clouds
Of floating silver, which appear to shun
Day's golden eye, thy home?—or why, 'mid shrouds
Of loosened light, dost thou pour forth thy song?—
Descend, sun-loving bird, nor try thy strength thus long.

II

Æthereal songster! soaring merrily,
Thy wings keep time to thy rich music's flow;
Rolling along the sky celestially,

109

And echoing o'er the hill's wood-waving brow,
Along the flood, which back reflects the sky,
And thee thou warbling speck, deep-mirrored from on high.

III

And thou hast vanished, singing, from my sight!
So must this earth be lost to eyes of thine;
Around thee is illimitable light:
Thou lookest down, and all appears to shine
Bright as above! Thine is a glorious way,
Pavilioned all around with golden-spreading day.

IV

The broad unbounded sky is all thine own;
Thy silvery-sheeted heaven is thy domain;
No land-mark there, no hand to bring thee down,
Glad monarch of the blue star-studded plain!
To thee is airy space far-stretching given,
The vast unmeasured floor of cherubim-trod heaven.

110

V

And thou hast gone, perchance to catch the sound
Of angels' voices, heard far up the sky,
And wilt return, harmonious, to the ground;
Then with new music taught by those on high,
Ascend again, and carol o'er the bowers
Of woodbines waving sweet, and wild bee-bended flowers.

VI

Lovest thou to sing alone above the dews,
Leaving the nightingale to cheer the night
When rides the moon, chasing the shadowy hues
From dark-robed trees, and scattering far her light
O'er town and tower? But thou art with the sun,
Looking on wood and vale, where low-voiced rivers run.

VII

I hear thy strain;—now thou art nearing earth,
Like quivering aspens moves each fluttering wing;
Rising in glee, thou comest down in mirth;—

111

Hast heard the seraphs to their Maker sing
The morning hymn, and comest to teach thy mate
The anthem thou hast brought from heaven's gold-lighted gate?

VIII

Lute of the sky! farewell, till I again
Climb these cloud-gazing hills. Thou must not come
To where I dwell, nor pour thy heaven-caught strain
Above the curling of my smoking home.
Others may hear thee, see thee, yet not steal
That joy from thy glad song which it is mine to feel!

112

HYMN TO VENUS.

I

Fair goddess! with blue laughing eyes,
In thy gold dove-drawn car descend,
Lovely as when unclouded skies
Above thy beauteous brow did bend,—
When Zephyr, rising to attend,
Flew round thy auburn-waving head,
While fragrant flowerets rose to blend
Their richest hues of white and red
O'er cheeks where young love-dimples spread.

113

II

Goddess, descend! fair as when thou
Fell on thy loved Adonis' breast
With all that mellowed rosy glow,
Which on thy cheek was wont to rest,
When Love flew by, and thou wert blest;
The while thy snowy bosom rose
Like some white bird within its nest,
Lifting its crest of blossomed sloes,
And fluttering into soft repose.

III

Descend upon thy cloud of flowers,
And all around their sweets diffuse,
Fragrant as amaranthine bowers,
Where sandalled feet reflect their hues;
And Mars, amid the heavenly dews,
Flushed with ambrosia, giveth chase—
When thou, retiring, dost refuse,
Gliding with half-averted face,
And followed by each blushing Grace.

114

III

Descend, as on Olympus' brow,
When all the gods to love were driven,—
When by thy cheek's rose-mantled glow,
Each great immortal heart was riven,
As if in thee they'd found a heaven
In which alone they could be blest:
While thy love-smile to all was given
Ere one thy honeyed lips had prest,
Or sunk upon thy pearl-flushed breast.

IV

Descend, as when on Ida's hill,
Thou there didst win the golden prize,
And blushing Paris caused to thrill
'Neath thy sublime blue-glancing eyes,
Soft rolling as the starry skies—
When through the cloudy silver sweeping,
Like a young May-morn thou dost rise;
And from the blue-veiled darkness peeping,
Gazest upon the ocean sleeping.

115

V

Goddess divine! it is to thee
All thanks for love and bliss we owe;
Beauty thou dost to those decree
Who at thy flowery altar bow,
And to thee offer up their vow.
From thy star-throne thou then wilt bend,
And wreathe new beauties round the brow
Of such as love thee. Now attend!
And on thy shrine, once more, descend!

116

THE OLD BARON.

I

High on a leaf-carved ancient oaken chair,
The Norman Baron sat within his hall,
Wearied with a long chase by wold and mere;
His hunting spear was reared against the wall;
Upon the hearth-stone a large wood-fire blazed,
Crackled, or smoked, or hissed, as the green boughs were raised.

II

Above an arched and iron-studded door,
The grim escutcheon's rude devices stood;
On each side reared a black and gristly boar,
With hearts and daggers graved on grounds of blood,
And deep-dyed gules o'er which plumed helmets frown;
Beneath this motto ran,—“Beware! I trample down.”

117

III

And high around were suits of armour placed,
And shields triangular, with the wild-boar's head;
Arrows, and bows, and swords the rafters graced,
And red-deer's antlers their wide branches spread;
A rough wolf's hide was nailed upon the wall,
Its white teeth clenched as when it in the dell did fall.

IV

An angel-lamp from the carved ceiling hung;
Its outstretched wings the blazing oil contained,
While its long figure in the wide hall swung,
Blackening the roof to which its arms were chained;
The iron hair fell backward like a veil,—
And through the gusty door it sent a weary wail.

V

The heavy arras fluttered in the wind,
That through the grated windows sweeping came,
And in its foldings glittered hart and hind,

118

While hawk, and horse, and hound, and kirtled dame,
Moved on the curtained waves, then sank in shade,
Just as the fitful wind along the arras played.

VI

On the oak table, filled with blood-red wine,
A silver cup of quaint engraving stood,
On which a thin-limbed stag of old design,
Chased by six long-eared dogs, made for a wood;
Sounding a horn a huntsman stood in view,
Whose swollen cheeks upraised the silver as he blew.

VII

At the old Baron's feet a wolf-dog lay,
Watching his features with unflinching eye;
An aged minstrel, whose long locks were gray,
On an old harp his withered hands did try;
A crimson banner's rustling folds hung low,
And threw a rosy light upon his wrinkled brow.

119

TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

(DEAF AND DUMB.)

I

Oh! where is now the famed Praxitelès,
Who from the marble called forth forms divine?
But never saw he in the Ægean Seas
A figure mirrored half so fair as thine—
Never imagined, floating on the breeze,
(Or bending o'er the temple's pillared shrine,
Pausing to hear the dulcet Grecian lute,)
A shape so beautiful, so seraph-like, and mute.

120

II

Such forms as thine, bending the cloudy gold
Round the sun-dimming throne of the Most High,
In their white hands the eternal flower-wreaths hold,
And strew the star-paved pathways of the sky
With amaranths, whose bright bells never fold.
If thou wert one of those, oh! tell us why
To visit earth thou hadst permission given?
Alas! thou must not breathe the silver tones of heaven.

III

Or art thou some fair spirit of the flowers,
Sent out to watch the silent summer dress,
To feed their buds with dew, their bells with showers,
Till each becomes a “Flower of Loveliness?”
Or, when the moonbeams light the jasmine bowers,
Dost press their starry blooms with sweet caress?
Perchance amid their fragrance we might find
Thy voice, as to and fro they wave before the wind.

121

IV

Thou shouldst have dwelt in Eden's tranquil vale,
'Mid doves, and swans, that float like soundless snow,
Or slept in beds, edged by the lily pale,
Where star-rimmed daisies and blue violets blow,
And red-streaked woodbines round the roses trail;
Thy playmates infant angels, such as throw
The gold-leaved champaks on the balmy wind,
Or with celestial flowers each other's ringlets bind.

V

Such forms as thine we oft see in the night,
Sailing in dreams across the star-steep blue,
Through their arched scarfs the moonbeams streaming bright,
While their long hair assumes a pale gold hue:
Such feet in silent forest-glades alight,
And from the wild-flowers shake the trembling dew;
Wood-nymph, and Faun, and Dryad—shapes that gleam
Before the half-shut eye, when only poets dream.

122

VI

And thou canst view the sky, and sweet green trees,
And no sad sigh can ever reach thine ear;
Thou 'rt innocent as doves, or wandering bees;
Thy silent tongue can never slander bear;
The flowers, the gentle lambs, morn's earliest breeze,
Are not from sin and calumny more clear:
Like all fair things,—bee, blossom, bud, or bird,
Thou canst no evil know,—canst speak no sinful word.

VII

And thou, fair mother of that fairer child!
The taller flower, above the lesser bending,
With gentle eyes, like a May-morning mild,
In all its glow of blue and bright descending—
Oh! guard her well: let no wind whistling wild,
No pain, and care, for her young heart contending
Leave it a waste—but like a jealous dove,
Bend o'er her day and night thy starry eyes of love.

123

VIII

I saw her beauteous head on thee recline,
And fondly didst thou press her to thy heart;
And one sat by—fair woman's loveliest shrine—
Oh! could I but have played the painter's part,
I would, ere this, have formed a group divine;
But then those eyes—no! they eclipse all art!
Farewell, fair child!—a mother's arms will press thee,
And, though thou knowest it not, a poet's lips will bless thee.

“Look at her, Mr. M., how like an angel she appears! She can hear no evil, neither can she speak any.”—So spake the kind-hearted Countess of Blessington, at whose wish this poem was written.

124

THE VALE OF PEACE.

I

There was a valley 'mid the isles of Greece,
Paved with fair flowers, and roofed with tall green trees,
'Twas called, in ancient times, “The Vale of Peace,”
And stood in hearing of the sounding seas:
A vista opened where 'twas ocean-bound,
While the high western steep with shadowy pines was crowned.

II

A winding stream flowed through this verdant valley,
And pleasant music its sweet waters made,
As with some drooping flower it here did dally;

125

Or lower down, amid the pebbles played;
Then brawled along through circling mossy ways,
Here lit by straggling beams,—there dark with hanging sprays.

III

Sweet were the sounds which through this green vale flowed;
The gentle lambs bleated all summer long;
The spotted heifer through the umbrage lowed,
The nightingale struck up her starry song;
A mournful coo the blue wood-pigeon made—
Now high, now low, now lost—just as the waters played.

IV

And sunny slopes of green and flowery ground
Lay stretching all along that fair stream's edge,
Seeming to listen to its slumberous sound:
For nought there moved, save when the reedy sedge
Bowed to its shadow in the brook beneath,
Or some light ripple stirred the water-lily's wreath.

126

V

A velvet sward, its length rich-rimmed with flowers,
Skirted the stream along a pleasant walk;
Where the thick boughs crossed lattice-wise formed bowers,
And the long leaves did oft together talk,
Now to themselves, then to the brook below,
Just as the fitful winds or fancy list to blow.

VI

Sometimes a cloud, that seemed to have lost its way,
Went sailing o'er the ridge of sombre pines;
Steeping their topmost boughs in silvery gray,
And darting downward on the purple vines,
Till their broad leaves threw back an emerald gleam;
Then hid again in gloom were valley, tree, and stream.

VII

Right pleasant was that place in the olden time,
When peaceful shepherds piped along the plains,—

127

When the young world was in its golden prime,
And the green groves rung back their simple strains,
The solemn forest then their only town;
Their streets the flowery glades, their temples mountains brown.

VIII

Even there perchance, as on that slope reclined,—
Their peaceful sheep grazing the while beside,—
They may have heard old Homer, bald and blind,
Tell how brave Hector parted from his bride;
And how fair Helen loved the beardless boy,
Whose passion lit the flames that ravaged ancient Troy.

IX

Some shepherd then, catching the soul of song,
Would shape the marble to that lofty lay,
Chisel the steed amid the embattled throng,
And the uplifted arm in act to slay:

128

Making the warrior on his war-horse reel,
Jerked by the prostrate foe, who grasped the glancing steel.

X

Fragments remain there still, that look like life,—
Have looked two thousand years as they do now;
And not an arm is wearied in the strife,
Nor has a wrinkle gathered on the brow:
And what are they? Frail mortal, wouldst thou see?
Roll back the cloud of years to unveil the mystery.

XI

Though they are gone, the scene hath known no change
In that sweet vale through which the waters glide,
For still along its paths fair maidens range,
And shepherds watch, and climb the mountain's side,
Bear just such vessels to the murmuring rill,—
Beside the fountain talk, or loiter on the hill.

129

XII

Even now in fallen Greece we still may trace
Such forms as there in ancient times were seen;
Its streams still mirror many a lovely face,
And warlike forms yet tread its valleys green;
What it once was, great Homer lives to tell,—
I in his shoreless sea but dip my scallop-shell.

130

THE NIGHTINGALE.

I

Sweet Nightingale! thine is a lovely song,
And well accordeth with these moonlight hours;
The green old trees thou warblest now among
Seem listening silent as the folded flowers;
A mute-lipped audience all, who bow profound,
Beneath the whispering wind, that bears so rich a sound.

II

What countless years, gray on the scroll of time,
Hath thy rich music charmed the ancient earth;
When Eden's rosy vales were free from crime,

131

And long before the dark-browed Cain had birth,
Thy song was heard,—bringing to Eve repose,
When her long unbound locks drooped o'er the thornless rose.

III

And angel forms, that trod the enamelled green,
Have often hovered near the tiger's lair,
Hearkening to thee; for then they might be seen,
By some lone dell, or glade that opened fair:
Or bird-like pausing o'er the palm-trees high,
Ere their expanded wings swept through the silent sky.

IV

Now all is still: the river's distant roll,
Low murmuring onward, makes a wailing moan;
The silvery-footed dew that downward stole,
Now decks the bramble like an eastern throne:
The moonbeams sleep among the dreamy trees,
Like halcyons pillowed on the wild and waveless seas.

132

V

That thou wert once a woman I believe,
Or such rare music never had been thine;
Poor bird! thou doubtless hadst much cause to grieve,
And vowed a vow at melody's sweet shrine,
Before the echoing altar, that all night
Harmonious thou wouldst watch, and warble back the light.

VI

The moon, the stars, darkness, the oldest gloom,
Are all familiar with thy witching lay;
The brook, the trees, the bud, the opening bloom,
The quiet wood, the first faint streak of day,
These all have heard thee; e'en the thunder grim,
When breaking from the cloud, stopped not thy silvery hymn.

VII

And I have heard thee when my heart was sad,
And strangely thy soft notes did suit my woe;

133

Rising or falling, sorrowful or glad,
Just as the feeling seemed to come or go;
In darkness, in old forests, wild and lone,
I oft have listened to thee till the break of dawn.

134

THE FISHERMAN.

I

John Wimble was a fisherman,
Whose locks of iron-gray hung down,
Curling upon his shoulders broad;
He had seen threescore winters' frown
Above his head on land or sea,
And was at last moored tranquilly.

II

His face was brown, by winds made hard,
His voice was deep, and clear, and loud,

135

And had been heard o'er many a storm,
His brow had also once been proud;
But age had left its track behind,
Like sea-shores worn by wave and wind.

III

A smuggler in his youth was he,
Few knew the name he bore when young;
But of that crew he was the last,
The rest were shot, or drowned, or hung,
And many a dreadful tale he knew,
Of that swift ship, and fearless crew.

IV

He long had left that dangerous life,
And up the river lived alone;
A little island on the Trent,
A little hut he called his own,
With no companion, save when I,
A boy, could bear him company.

136

V

He loved to row his boat by night,
When all around the air was still,
To bait his hooks, and cast his lines,
Where shadows deepened 'neath the hill.
'Twas then some old sea-stave he'd sing,
That made the silent darkness ring.

VI

Or seated where the willows waved,
Gazing upon the blue-arched sky,
He'd fold his arms in thoughtful mood,
While tears gushed from each deep-sunk eye;
I wondered then, but since that time,
Have found how thoughts and feelings chime.

VII

Some deemed he was a surly man;
But they knew not his griefs and fears,

137

How he had been beloved by one,
Whose image lay “too deep for tears,”
To which his heart unchanged had stood
Through breeze and battle, fire and flood.

VIII

He had no kindred whom he knew,
No social converse to enjoy;
He left his village-home when young,
But came not back again a boy.
Year after year had come and gone,
His parents died, nor heard of John.

IX

Year after year—long were they dead,
When home he journeyed o'er the waves,
Garden and cot were desolate—
One night he spent beside their graves;
Then on that island lone and drear,
He built a hut, and sheltered there.

138

X

How first I won the old man's love,
It boots not now for me to tell;
I went his journeys to the town,
I strove my best and pleased him well,
And for him many a time forsook
My home, my playmates, school and book.

XI

And many a tale was my reward,
How ship chased ship upon the sea,
'Mid rolling waves and shouting winds,
And thunders pealing dreadfully,
While lightnings flashed athwart the deep,
O'er rocks up which the waves did leap.

XII

Of gory decks, and yard-arms joined,
When ships were boarded hand to hand;

139

How they the burning vessel fought,
With dirk and pistol, blade and brand,
Till loud the dread explosion rung,
While mast and spar around were flung.

XIII

How some jumped shrieking in the waves,
And some were heaved up to the sky,
The dead and dying side by side,
While yell, and shout, and piercing cry,
Joined with the cannons' hollow roar,
Startled the sea-birds from the shore.

XIV

Then on that little island green,
Which to the breeze was ever free,
At evening-time before his door,
He'd walk as when on deck at sea,
With one hand on his bosom placed;
While memory many a past scene traced.

140

XV

His little bark was moored hard by,
The village-bells in distance ringing,
The waves made music round his home,
And murmured while the birds were singing;
While here and there a distant sail
Gleamed o'er green Ashcroft's winding vale.

XVI

But years have rolled by since he died;
That island is his resting-place;
His lonely grave you yet may see,
But of his hut there is no trace.
And there the bittern plumes her wing,
While winds and waves around him sing.

141

THE OLD ENGLISH WOOD.

I

With cloudy wings outstretched in awful gloom
Came shady Silence, leading sullen Night,
Mantled in darkness dreary as the tomb,
Whose sable shield resists the piercing sight,
And mocks the efforts of excluding light,
Waiting in vain to gild the pitchy vault;
So, brooding o'er the forest's leafy height
In murky clouds, marching with dark assault,
Came ebon Night, no morn to bid her black steeds halt.

142

II

Hark! from yon wood is heard the wolf's long howl,
Loud echoes deepen—o'er the savage plain
The listening fox halts on his midnight prowl,
Then, gliding cautiously, proceeds again,
Oft turning round although he turns in vain;
Increasing darkness hides each moving foe;
Green leaves resound with drops of dancing rain,
At intervals hoarse winds in wild gusts blow,
While tall trees bend and sigh like men in deepest woe.

III

The startling raven quits her lofty nest,
And circles round the huge broad branching oak,
Where her young nestlings closely gathered rest,
Stretching their beaks, roused by her harsh deep croak;
While savage wolves have ravenously broke
The caverned wood; across the heath they stray,
Impelled by hunger; rage appears to choke
Their clamorous yell-anon they bound away
With sure and measured tread, howling in quest of prey.

143

IV

The wolf's stern howl, joined with the raven's cry,
Rouses the wild deer from his shady lair;
From snow-white thorns bright pendent rain-drops fly,
Round the deep glen in vain his brown eyes glare,
Impenetrable gloom resists his stare:
Anon he flies, he clears the frowning wood,
Sweeps by the “seat” of the poor trembling hare,
Brushes the blossom, shakes the tender bud,
Gains the extended plain, and swims the gurgling flood.

V

Majestic grandeur stamped that solemn scene;
For weary miles an outstretched forest lay,
But seldom trod by things of mortal mien;
Here Nature sat enthroned in wild array,
Profusely decked with firs and witching bay;
Here broad oaks threw afar their shady arms,
O'er creeping brambles, which unguided stray
Around the trunk, where loving ivy swarms,
And playful squirrels climb, rock'd safe from all alarms.

144

VI

Here quivering aspens kissed the whispering gale,
And hawthorns blossomed, hid in sunless shade;
The mourning ring-dove cooed her doleful tale,
The holly green its shining leaves displayed;
The branching birch o'erhung the flowery glade;
The towery elm sheltered the noisy rook;
The hazel in rich foliage stood arrayed;
The willow trembled o'er the wimpling brook,
Whose bright, smooth-mirrored face tall whistling reeds o'erlook.

VII

The sullen crab-tree flourished 'neath the beech;
Above, the toppling wild pine reared its head,
As though the towering clouds it fain would reach,
So proudly high those lofty arms were spread,
Whose rustling leaves the winds profusely shed.
Luxuriant box stood robed in gloomy hue,
And cypress nodded o'er the glen's dark bed,
Where stately ash o'ertopped the bow-famed hue,
Bursting in silent grandeur on the astonished view.

145

VIII

The woods, and glades, and dells were sprinkled round
With healing herbs, and variegated flowers;
The savage forest then no lordling owned,
No studious art bedecked her native bowers;
Her rugged breast inhaled the silent showers,
And blushing roses shed their beauteous bloom;
Where o'er the woodbine, high the white thorn towers;
They live and die amid the forest gloom,
Like maiden-beauty snatched untimely to the tomb.

IX

Ill-scented hen-bane o'er the grounsel hung,
And humble chickweed 'neath wild rockets spread;
'Mid noisome foxglove and the serpent's-tongue,
The purple truelove reared its shining head;
There hoary wood-sage pleasing odours shed
O'er richly-tinted golden maiden-hair;
And spreading dove's-foot garbed in glaring red,
And cuckoo-flowers, that like some modest fair,
Bear a slight crimson blush beneath the unwelcome stare.

146

X

No habitation graced that rugged scene,
No pathway bore the track of man or steed;
Dark trees the dell from streaming sunbeams screen,
Where hungry wolves on slaughtered wild-deer feed,
And otters dive beneath the trembling reed;
No cultivation here smoothed Nature's face,
No nodding corn nor hedge-engirded mead,
Across this savage scene the eye could trace;
The ancient Britons here again might head the chase.

This poem is one of the Author's earliest productions,—his only reason for again reprinting it is to shew how badly he once wrote.

147

SONGS.

SONG I.

[On a sweet flowery island the god of sleep lies]

I

On a sweet flowery island the god of sleep lies,
Till the blue-mantled twilight drops down from the skies;
Then, laden with visions, he steals from above,
Hastens silently on to the chambers of love,
And singing to fancy a dreamy-toned tune,
On the eyelids of beauty drops roses of June.

148

II

From the lips breathing honey when tender words steal,
How he smiles at the thoughts those soft accents reveal;
As they tremble to kisses where lip never clung,
Nor breathed but sweet words loth to leave such a tongue:
Why young cheeks blushed by daylight he hears those lips tell:
And why heaved those sighs from the heart he knows well.

III

O'er the dew-mantled hills when first rises the sun,
Until love-breathing twilight his watchings are done,
To his sweet flowery isle he then hurries away,
Where silver-arched streams to their own murmurs play;
And stretched out on roses, and mantled with light,
Dreams over those dreams which he stole in the night.

149

SONG II.

[I met her in the flowery month]

I

I met her in the flowery month
Of blossom-laden Spring,
When trees put forth their tender leaves,
And larks soared high to sing;
We wandered where the primrose grew,
Deep in the forest-glade,
There vowing nought save death should part,
Me and my Village Maid.

150

II

When Summer came, with sunny days,
And soft blue-hanging skies,
Throwing a gladness all around,
Just like her gentle eyes;
Again we sought the twilight woods,
Where hazels formed a shade,
And sweeter than the speckled thrush,
Sang my fair Village Maid.

III

When Autumn came in solemn gold,
And yellow leaves were strown,
I saw that Death had marked my love,
Too soon! to be his own:
I tended her by night and day,
But when the gleaners strayed
Across the stubbly harvest-fields,
Death stole my Village Maid.

151

IV

Then Winter came with hollow voice;—
I heard the howling wind
Ring through the savage naked woods,
Now gloomy like my mind:
Yet still I lived,—although I prayed
Beside her to be laid;
But Death would lend no ear to me,
He had my Village Maid.

152

SONG III.

[When a shade is on the wood]

I

When a shade is on the wood,
Where the nightingale is singing,
And echoes roll along the flood,
From the vesper-bell slow-swinging,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

II

When the wind goes whispering by,
Stealing fragrance from the rose;
When the moon climbs up the sky,
And the blackbird seeks repose,—
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

153

III

When the bells of flowers are folding,
Bowed by dews which on them rest;
While the stars are up, and holding
Converse on the night's blue breast,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

IV

When the leaves sleep on the hill,
Where the new hay smelleth sweet,
And all around us is so still,
We can hear our fond hearts beat,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

154

SONG IV.

[Yes! I will weep upon thy grave]

I

Yes! I will weep upon thy grave,
When darkness veils the hill:
I loved thee when thou wert alive,—
I love thy memory still.
Few knew thy worth,—few grieved for thee;
Thou wert my own alone.
Oh! Mary dear! why did we meet?—
She makes no answer—none!

155

II

Yes, I will weep upon thy grave!—
Too well I know the spot;
I'll plant upon thy silent bed
The blue Forget-me-not;
Think o'er the songs thou used to sing
In days for ever gone;—
Oh Mary! no one sings like thee,—
No voice like thine, love—none!

III

Yes, I will weep upon thy grave!—
Who could stand by and smile?
To think that thou art lying there,
Beneath that earthly pile—
To think that e'er so sweet a face
Should lie 'neath that cold stone,
When there is not its like on earth,
No one so lovely—none!

156

I bent to kiss her placid brow:
All eyes on me did gaze,
Save those which had for ever closed
Their bright and piercing rays:
I saw them strew around her bier
Wild flowers, and knew the spot
Where once they bloomed—I saw no more—
But, ah! they knew me not.

167

SONG X.

[Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn]

I

Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn,
In solemn silence wave;
Beneath thy shade we meet no more;
My Mary's in her grave!
Come, Death, and bear me to her tomb,
Beside yon wood-crowned hill;
Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn,
I see thee, and turn chill.

168

II

Shine on, ye glittering blue-set stars,
Ye bring to mind her eyes,
And oft have shone on her fair face,
When no moon climbed the skies:
And thee, thou lonely nightingale,
Oh, how thou makest me thrill,
Thou warbledst so when Mary lived,—
I hear thee, and turn chill.

III

Weep on, ye sweet bell-folded flowers,
I love those tears ye shed;
It is not dew that gems your eyes,
O no! ye know she's dead.
Although ye sigh not deep, like me,
Ye silently instil
A lesson of sad, speechless grief—
I read it, and turn chill.

169

IV

And thee, thou well remember'd stile!
'Twas here we used to part—
Our good-night kiss was always here;
But thou wilt break my heart.
I shiver 'neath the breath of night
That mourns so cold and shrill;
In Mary's grave alone there's rest—
I know it, and turn chill.

170

SONNET.

(TO A LADY WITH A BASKET.)

These osiers by a murmuring river grew,
That leaped and laughed in sunshine all the day:
The homeless winds with their green leaves did play,
And on their silky palms the gem-like dew
Hung like the silvery stars in night's deep blue;
And birds sailed o'er them when the day grew gray,
And light waves kissed their stems, then rolled away,
Singing a pleasant tune as on they flew.
Despise them not, for 'twas a poet's hand
Gave them that simple form which they now wear:
Better could he weave thoughts in accents bland,
And by such power the heart in triumph bear;
But he is a mere shell on ocean's sand,
Which Triton-lip hath not yet sounded clear.

171

SONNET.

(ON READING BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.)

A dreamy land, John Bunyan, that of thine,
Now summer-bright, then dark, and wondrous wild,
Its gloom and grandeur charmed me when a child;
And even now these sober eyes of mine,
Oft see the armour of the archers shine,
Where Beelzebub his castle-walls up-piled:
Over thy pages I have wept and smiled,
Unconscious then the story was divine.
Marvellous old man! while leaning on thy gun,
Keeping a watch in England's civil wars,
Thou oft wouldst gaze upon the sinking sun,
Or map thy pilgrim's course amid the stars:
Cromwell may have heard thee murmuring like a river,
“Making thy book,”—a book to live for ever.

172

FRAGMENTS.

MILTON.

What varied music breathes throughout thy pages!
'Tis now a brook meandering along;
Then dreamy voices calling to past ages;
Anon an ocean surging deep and strong,
Then like the muttered words of thoughtful sages,
Or lisping maiden-voices, such as throng
The old green forests, warbling low and sweet,
And then a mazy dance, with merry twinkling feet.

173

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.

Let her be laid within a silent dell,
Where hanging trees throw round a twilight gleam,
Just within hearing of some village-bell,
And by the margin of a low-voiced stream;
For these were sights and sounds she once loved well.
Then o'er her grave the star-paved sky will beam;
While all around the fragrant wild-flowers blow,
And sweet birds sing her requiem to the water's flow.

174

THE DEAD BEE.

Oh, cruel Mary! thou hast killed a bee,
That but mistook thy red lips for a rose,
Lured by that sweetness which has oft lured me
Upon their velvet softness to repose:
It sought some lovely flower; so fixed on thee,
And at thy honied fountain did but sip;
It left no sting behind, but cheerfully
Resigned its flowery life on thy sweet lip.
Nay, do not weep—it died a happy bee.

175

TO GEORGE M---.

Yes, I do love thee well, my child!
Albeit mine's a wandering mind;
But never, darling, hast thou smiled
Or breathed a wish that did not find
A ready echo in my heart.
What hours I 've held thee on my knee,
Thy little rosy lips apart;
Or, when asleep, I 've gazed on thee,
And with old tunes sung thee to rest,
Hugging thee closely to my bosom;
For thee my very heart hath blest,
My joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom!

176

A DREAM.

Oh! I had fearful dreams all yesternight,—
Dim beckoning shapes were hovering round my pillow,
Then wrecks, and drowning men rose on my sight,
And one I loved swept by upon a billow;
I saw her long hair in the foamy light,—
Shrieking she vanished, holding out her hand;—
The noise of breakers woke me, roaring on the sand.

177

THE VIOLET.

A simple violet by a ruined wall.—
How small a key unlocks the human heart!
That flower did many a bygone scene recall,
Bidding the clouds from buried years depart:
Again my fancy flew to forests green,
And one was with me robed in virgin-white;
We traversed many a well-remembered scene,
And lingered in the old wood's dreamy light,—
And then I sighed, and knew such things had been,
Like a bright day, closed by a cheerless night.

178

LIFE.

Oh! Life and Friends like seasons pass away.
We stepped light-hearted forth to meet the Spring,
But scarcely had begun our childish play,
Ere full-leaved Summer leaped into the ring,
And looked around, but deigned no longer stay,
For solemn Autumn came with faded wing,
And scarce had time to gaze upon our game,
When he too fled—then wrinkled Winter came.