Ellen Fitzarthur A Metrical Tale, in Five Cantos [by C. A. Bowles] |
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| I. |
| II. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY HEARING THE BELLS CHIME
AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. |
 | Ellen Fitzarthur |  |
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THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY HEARING THE BELLS CHIME AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.
Strange contrast! 'twas but yesterday we heard
The knell of death from that old steeple tower
Whence now the bells ring out right merrily—
But yesterday that sullen death-bell tolled
For our departed King — those chimes to day,
Proclaim that a new sovereign fills the throne.
The knell of death from that old steeple tower
Whence now the bells ring out right merrily—
But yesterday that sullen death-bell tolled
For our departed King — those chimes to day,
Proclaim that a new sovereign fills the throne.
Peace to the royal dead — prosperity,
Long life and honor to the Prince whose reign
Dates from this æra — every loyal heart,
(And there are thousands still in England left)
Will echo back the wish; — but some will shrink,
(Yea many hearts there are, will shrink like mine)
From the loud music of those merry bells.
Long life and honor to the Prince whose reign
Dates from this æra — every loyal heart,
(And there are thousands still in England left)
Will echo back the wish; — but some will shrink,
(Yea many hearts there are, will shrink like mine)
From the loud music of those merry bells.
How doth the tone and temper of our souls
Give tone to all external circumstance!
I listened late to that deep sounding knell,
With feelings all attuned to solemn thought—
Solemn, not painful thought — it told indeed
The heavy tidings of a good King's death,
But it spoke also of a saint's release
From mortal thraldom — it proclaimed aloud
The vanity of all created things,
The nothingness of earthly power and pomp.
But then, methought, I heard a voice that cried,
“The kingdoms of the earth shall pass away
With all their glory; but the Lord of Hosts
Hath for the righteous, thrones and crowns prepared,
And kingdoms, subject to no chance, or change.”
Thus heard I in the spirit, and my soul,
A few brief moments on the wings of faith,
Soared up beyond the dense, gross atmosphere
Of dull mortality, and I beheld,
Heaven opened, and a gratulating host
Of angels, hailing their new visitant
With harpings of celestial harmony,
And smiles ineffable of joy and love.
But foremost of that blessed choir, stooped down
A form of light, whose heav'nly lineaments
(Irradiate now with immortality)
Were those of England's darling, and she held
An infant seraph forth, as if to greet
Th' ascending spirit of the royal saint,
Whom, in her mortal nature, she had loved
With filial rev'rence — other forms, made pure
From the corruptions of the flesh, pressed on,
To hail the long expected: — but mine eyes,
Dimmed with exceeding brightness, lost the power
Of stedfast vision, and the glory swam
In dazzling indistinctness from my sight.
My soul returned to earth — the fun'ral bell
From that old tower, still smote upon mine ear;
But there was nought depressing in the sound,
For it had borne my thoughts from earth to heaven—
And never visit to that place of rest,
However transient; never glimpse thereof,
Howe'er imperfect, but it calms, and cheers,
And purifies the heart, and leaves therein,
An emanation of that perfect peace,
Their blissful portion, who inhabit there.
Give tone to all external circumstance!
I listened late to that deep sounding knell,
With feelings all attuned to solemn thought—
125
The heavy tidings of a good King's death,
But it spoke also of a saint's release
From mortal thraldom — it proclaimed aloud
The vanity of all created things,
The nothingness of earthly power and pomp.
But then, methought, I heard a voice that cried,
“The kingdoms of the earth shall pass away
With all their glory; but the Lord of Hosts
Hath for the righteous, thrones and crowns prepared,
And kingdoms, subject to no chance, or change.”
Thus heard I in the spirit, and my soul,
A few brief moments on the wings of faith,
Soared up beyond the dense, gross atmosphere
Of dull mortality, and I beheld,
Heaven opened, and a gratulating host
Of angels, hailing their new visitant
With harpings of celestial harmony,
And smiles ineffable of joy and love.
But foremost of that blessed choir, stooped down
A form of light, whose heav'nly lineaments
(Irradiate now with immortality)
Were those of England's darling, and she held
An infant seraph forth, as if to greet
126
Whom, in her mortal nature, she had loved
With filial rev'rence — other forms, made pure
From the corruptions of the flesh, pressed on,
To hail the long expected: — but mine eyes,
Dimmed with exceeding brightness, lost the power
Of stedfast vision, and the glory swam
In dazzling indistinctness from my sight.
My soul returned to earth — the fun'ral bell
From that old tower, still smote upon mine ear;
But there was nought depressing in the sound,
For it had borne my thoughts from earth to heaven—
And never visit to that place of rest,
However transient; never glimpse thereof,
Howe'er imperfect, but it calms, and cheers,
And purifies the heart, and leaves therein,
An emanation of that perfect peace,
Their blissful portion, who inhabit there.
In such a mood of high abstraction late
I listened to the iron tongue, that told
Death's recent victory, and the solemn sound
Conveyed no dark dejection to my soul:
But now, the music of those merry bells,
Jars all its feelings, and my heart recoils,
With painful sadness, from that joyous peal.
I listened to the iron tongue, that told
Death's recent victory, and the solemn sound
Conveyed no dark dejection to my soul:
But now, the music of those merry bells,
127
With painful sadness, from that joyous peal.
Custom (imperious tyrant!) hath decreed
That thus throughout the land should be proclaimed
The King's accession — most expedient 'tis
That, like th' Arabian bird, he should spring forth
From the warm ashes of his royal sire;—
The state demands it, and the gen'ral health
Of the whole body politic, whose pulse
Beats with irregular and palsied stroke,
While the great head lies prostrate — cry aloud
And spare not therefore — let the trumpet sound,
And tell it thro' the land from shore to shore,
That the fourth George doth reign: —bow down the knee
Ye people! and your true allegiance pledge
To God's Vicegerent. Bow the willing knee,
And honor him in his own sacred right,
Your King! — and love him for his father's sake.
But hath the voice of loyalty, no tone
Of solemn rev'rence, touchingly subdued
By sacred feeling to proclaim her king,
That thus she stuns us with th' unhallowed din
Of jingling bells, and the more senseless shouts
Of that unthinking rabble? Wretched fools!
And was his yoke so grievous to be borne?
And was the sceptre of your aged king,
An iron sceptre, that ye thus rejoice
To see it pass away from his cold hand
Into another grasp? — Alas, poor fools!
Ye are of those that shout as chance impels,
For Brutus or for Cæsar — who would prize
The vulgar suffrage of your idle throats?
Pass on disturbers—ring yourselves to rest,
Ye deaf'ning chimes, and leave us once again,
To the enjoyment of our solemn thoughts,
And quiet recollections — — We at least,
We who have hearts to finer feelings tuned,
And thinking minds, will keep inviolate,
The sabbath of the dead: — a little while,
And o'er that venerable form, the tomb
Will shut her marble jaws, and he, so loved,
So honored once, will have no place on earth,
But in the record of his people's hearts,
And one cold niche in that dark sepulchre.
But he is yet amongst us — all of him
Still subject to decay, yet occupies
A place amongst the living — one indeed
Of narrow limits, to the length and breadth,
And depth of that cold coffin circumscribed.
The door of death, th' oblivious lid hath closed
Already on that gracious countenance,
So long in depths of visual darkness veiled;
But radient erst, with such benignant light,
As they who once had seen, and haply felt
Its kindly influence, never could forget.
That thus throughout the land should be proclaimed
The King's accession — most expedient 'tis
That, like th' Arabian bird, he should spring forth
From the warm ashes of his royal sire;—
The state demands it, and the gen'ral health
Of the whole body politic, whose pulse
Beats with irregular and palsied stroke,
While the great head lies prostrate — cry aloud
And spare not therefore — let the trumpet sound,
And tell it thro' the land from shore to shore,
That the fourth George doth reign: —bow down the knee
Ye people! and your true allegiance pledge
To God's Vicegerent. Bow the willing knee,
And honor him in his own sacred right,
Your King! — and love him for his father's sake.
But hath the voice of loyalty, no tone
Of solemn rev'rence, touchingly subdued
By sacred feeling to proclaim her king,
That thus she stuns us with th' unhallowed din
Of jingling bells, and the more senseless shouts
128
And was his yoke so grievous to be borne?
And was the sceptre of your aged king,
An iron sceptre, that ye thus rejoice
To see it pass away from his cold hand
Into another grasp? — Alas, poor fools!
Ye are of those that shout as chance impels,
For Brutus or for Cæsar — who would prize
The vulgar suffrage of your idle throats?
Pass on disturbers—ring yourselves to rest,
Ye deaf'ning chimes, and leave us once again,
To the enjoyment of our solemn thoughts,
And quiet recollections — — We at least,
We who have hearts to finer feelings tuned,
And thinking minds, will keep inviolate,
The sabbath of the dead: — a little while,
And o'er that venerable form, the tomb
Will shut her marble jaws, and he, so loved,
So honored once, will have no place on earth,
But in the record of his people's hearts,
And one cold niche in that dark sepulchre.
But he is yet amongst us — all of him
Still subject to decay, yet occupies
A place amongst the living — one indeed
129
And depth of that cold coffin circumscribed.
The door of death, th' oblivious lid hath closed
Already on that gracious countenance,
So long in depths of visual darkness veiled;
But radient erst, with such benignant light,
As they who once had seen, and haply felt
Its kindly influence, never could forget.
I've heard old people tell with glist'ning eyes,
What goodly sight it was, in days of yore,
To meet him with his infant family
In Richmond Gardens — linked within his own,
The arm of that dear consort he had vowed
To love and cherish (well that vow was kept);
And trooping close behind them, two and two,
Twelve glorious creatures: — they indeed to him
Were as a crown of glory, living gems,
More lustrous than the richest jewelry,
That e'er encircled king's anointed head.
It must, in truth, have been a goodly sight,
To view the royal Parent, thus i' th' midst
Of that fair family. But not alone,
When so environ'd, did paternal love
Shine out co-mingled with the majesty
Of his most princely aspect — not alone,
The gaze of filial reverence and love,
From his own beauteous offspring rested on him:—
It was th' expression of a nation's love,
A nation's duty. When could that good king
Step forth on British ground, 'mongst British hearts,
And not be hailed as father? I was taught,
In my first infant prayer, to supplicate
Heaven's blessing on him — for my parents loved
And reverenced his virtues — born almost
Within the long epocha of his reign,
They did enjoy until their dying hour
Its many blessings — mild, impartial laws,
'Stablished by his example, who did yield
As strict observance to those sage restraints
As was exacted from his meanest subject.
Freedom (our British heir-loom) they enjoyed
Inviolate, beneath his patriot sway
Who was the guardian of our chartered rights;
And our best right, our highest privilege,
Sealed with the blood of martyrs, they enjoyed
In all its purity — profession free
Of that most holy faith, of which, in truth,
He was the great defender — in his life,
Public and private, glorifying still
The God he worshipped and the faith he owned.
What goodly sight it was, in days of yore,
To meet him with his infant family
In Richmond Gardens — linked within his own,
The arm of that dear consort he had vowed
To love and cherish (well that vow was kept);
And trooping close behind them, two and two,
Twelve glorious creatures: — they indeed to him
Were as a crown of glory, living gems,
More lustrous than the richest jewelry,
That e'er encircled king's anointed head.
It must, in truth, have been a goodly sight,
To view the royal Parent, thus i' th' midst
Of that fair family. But not alone,
When so environ'd, did paternal love
130
Of his most princely aspect — not alone,
The gaze of filial reverence and love,
From his own beauteous offspring rested on him:—
It was th' expression of a nation's love,
A nation's duty. When could that good king
Step forth on British ground, 'mongst British hearts,
And not be hailed as father? I was taught,
In my first infant prayer, to supplicate
Heaven's blessing on him — for my parents loved
And reverenced his virtues — born almost
Within the long epocha of his reign,
They did enjoy until their dying hour
Its many blessings — mild, impartial laws,
'Stablished by his example, who did yield
As strict observance to those sage restraints
As was exacted from his meanest subject.
Freedom (our British heir-loom) they enjoyed
Inviolate, beneath his patriot sway
Who was the guardian of our chartered rights;
And our best right, our highest privilege,
Sealed with the blood of martyrs, they enjoyed
In all its purity — profession free
Of that most holy faith, of which, in truth,
131
Public and private, glorifying still
The God he worshipped and the faith he owned.
We read in Holy Writ, how once the Lord,
By faithful Abraham's intercession won,
Would have spared Sodom for ten righteous' sake.
More than ten righteous, more than ten times ten,
May yet be found in England: who can tell
How far the fervent prayers of our good King
May have averted from the land he loved
Impending vengeance? Fair she is; in truth,
Comely to look on — that long favoured land.
But there are plague-spots on her bosom snow:
She hath partaken of th' accursed thing,
And of the cup of vanity and pride
That maketh drunk the nations, — she doth reel,
Intoxicate with riot and excess, —
Giddy with self-conceit and foolishness, —
And infidelity doth watch her time,
To push her from the rock of safety down,
(Even now she undermines its sacred base,)
Into the gulf of darkness and despair.
By faithful Abraham's intercession won,
Would have spared Sodom for ten righteous' sake.
More than ten righteous, more than ten times ten,
May yet be found in England: who can tell
How far the fervent prayers of our good King
May have averted from the land he loved
Impending vengeance? Fair she is; in truth,
Comely to look on — that long favoured land.
But there are plague-spots on her bosom snow:
She hath partaken of th' accursed thing,
And of the cup of vanity and pride
That maketh drunk the nations, — she doth reel,
Intoxicate with riot and excess, —
Giddy with self-conceit and foolishness, —
And infidelity doth watch her time,
To push her from the rock of safety down,
(Even now she undermines its sacred base,)
Into the gulf of darkness and despair.
132
Lord! ere the measure of her crimes is full
Arrest her progress; open thou her eyes,
That she may see (and shudder at the sight)
Her own deformity; and cleanse her heart,
That she may put away iniquity;
And turn her from her evil ways, and live.
Now is the solemn time, the day of grace,
(Perhaps the last shall be appointed her,)
To make her peace with Heav'n: — her guardian saint
Is gone to render up his great account:
His spirit is gone up; but the cold clay
That was its mortal habitation late,
Is yet unmingled with its kindred dust.
Now, ere the pomp of death hath passed away,
(It speaks an awful language,) veil your heads
Ye people! and proclaim a solemn fast,
And keep it holy: — look into your hearts,
And search them out; for your offences past
Make lamentation, and abase yourselves
In deep humility before the Lord;
So haply ye may turn away his wrath;
And so it best befits ye to observe
This solemn season, sacred to the dead!
Arrest her progress; open thou her eyes,
That she may see (and shudder at the sight)
Her own deformity; and cleanse her heart,
That she may put away iniquity;
And turn her from her evil ways, and live.
Now is the solemn time, the day of grace,
(Perhaps the last shall be appointed her,)
To make her peace with Heav'n: — her guardian saint
Is gone to render up his great account:
His spirit is gone up; but the cold clay
That was its mortal habitation late,
Is yet unmingled with its kindred dust.
Now, ere the pomp of death hath passed away,
(It speaks an awful language,) veil your heads
Ye people! and proclaim a solemn fast,
And keep it holy: — look into your hearts,
And search them out; for your offences past
Make lamentation, and abase yourselves
In deep humility before the Lord;
So haply ye may turn away his wrath;
And so it best befits ye to observe
This solemn season, sacred to the dead!
133
But hark!
methought there came upon mine ear
A noise of merriment, as tho' a troop
Of thoughtless revellers, with echoing feet
Kept time in sprightly measure to the sound
Of pipe and timbrel. Are mine eyes deceived
By charmed spells? or do they see in truth
A company of dancers, quaintly robed
In mourning garments, sweeping madly by,
Like moon-struck mourners in a funeral train?
Are we in England? Are old games revived,
Old Grecian games, in honor of the dead?
Fie! 'tis idolatrous to introduce
Those funeral dances in our Christian land.
How! are they not in honor of the dead?
Are they in mockery, then? Do English hearts
Beat in their breasts, who, with indecent mirth,
Profane the solemn interval of time,
Between the death and burial of their King?
Could ye not tarry yet a little while,
Impatient revellers! till his grey head
Was laid at rest within the sepulchre?
For shame! put off that mockery of woe,
Those outward signs of a respectful grief
That is not in your hearts—
A noise of merriment, as tho' a troop
Of thoughtless revellers, with echoing feet
Kept time in sprightly measure to the sound
Of pipe and timbrel. Are mine eyes deceived
By charmed spells? or do they see in truth
A company of dancers, quaintly robed
In mourning garments, sweeping madly by,
Like moon-struck mourners in a funeral train?
Are we in England? Are old games revived,
Old Grecian games, in honor of the dead?
Fie! 'tis idolatrous to introduce
Those funeral dances in our Christian land.
How! are they not in honor of the dead?
Are they in mockery, then? Do English hearts
Beat in their breasts, who, with indecent mirth,
Profane the solemn interval of time,
Between the death and burial of their King?
Could ye not tarry yet a little while,
Impatient revellers! till his grey head
Was laid at rest within the sepulchre?
134
Those outward signs of a respectful grief
That is not in your hearts—
Unthinking fools!
Ye who do clamour in the public streets,
Shout on! with less disgust I hear ye now,
Turning from these more thinking, more refined,
And, therefore, who most outrage in their mirth,
All feeling, all decorum, all respect.—
Ye who do clamour in the public streets,
Shout on! with less disgust I hear ye now,
Turning from these more thinking, more refined,
And, therefore, who most outrage in their mirth,
All feeling, all decorum, all respect.—
These are true tokens of a heartless age,
Proofs that our lot “is fallen on evil days,”
'Mongst evil generations, who think scorn
Of all authorities, and powers that are,
Though delegated by the power supreme.
Proofs that our lot “is fallen on evil days,”
'Mongst evil generations, who think scorn
Of all authorities, and powers that are,
Though delegated by the power supreme.
Land of my fathers! in their days, your sons
Had ne'er polluted with festivity
The sacred pause, between their Sovereign's death
And the commitment of his honoured dust
To its last resting-place amongst the dead.
Had ne'er polluted with festivity
The sacred pause, between their Sovereign's death
And the commitment of his honoured dust
To its last resting-place amongst the dead.
| Ellen Fitzarthur | |