The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly In Two Volumes |
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 | II. |
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| LINES ON THE DEATH OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
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LINES ON THE DEATH OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
“Consules, et Senatus, ac magna pars populi viam complevere,
disjecti, et ut cuique libitum, flentes.—Dies, quo reliquiæ
tumulo inferebantur, modo per silentium vastus, modo ploratibus
inquies: plena Urbis itinera, conlucentes per Campum
Martis faces: illic miles cum armis, sine insignibus magistratus,
populus per tribus, concidisse rempublicam, clamitabant, promptius,
apertiusque, quàm ut meminisse imperitantium crederes.”
Tacit. in Mort. Germanici.
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I.
We are immortals! Earth to us is vain;
The lesson of our vigour must be pain.
Is the world in thee still, thy heart a tide
Still rolling with the gusts of passion, pride?—
Go to the house of mourning! see the eye,
Rais'd in its meek submissiveness, to die;
The bloom, like roses once, now sunk and sere;
Check not the tear; there's virtue in that tear.
'T is not in mockery thus that Death betrays
His footsteps; 'tis to force,—to fix our gaze.
Go to the house of mourning! Is there one,
Dear to such thoughts as manly hearts may own,
Some soft, fair, high soul'd being, that thy heart
Has treasured like a virtue, pure, apart—
Stand by her death-bed! is one folly thine?
Can it resist that beauty's pale decline?
Is thy heart yet unchasten'd, yet a slave
To earth's dark passions?—stand beside her grave!
The lesson of our vigour must be pain.
Is the world in thee still, thy heart a tide
Still rolling with the gusts of passion, pride?—
Go to the house of mourning! see the eye,
Rais'd in its meek submissiveness, to die;
The bloom, like roses once, now sunk and sere;
Check not the tear; there's virtue in that tear.
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His footsteps; 'tis to force,—to fix our gaze.
Go to the house of mourning! Is there one,
Dear to such thoughts as manly hearts may own,
Some soft, fair, high soul'd being, that thy heart
Has treasured like a virtue, pure, apart—
Stand by her death-bed! is one folly thine?
Can it resist that beauty's pale decline?
Is thy heart yet unchasten'd, yet a slave
To earth's dark passions?—stand beside her grave!
But when the lesson must awake a land,
It bears the impress of th'eternal hand;
Lean Famine o'er her millions spreads his pall,
Pale Pestilence breathes upon them, and they fall;
Or is there one, their idol, bright, pure, dear,
So loved,—the single blow were deadly there;
It rushes like the midnight thunder-ball,
Her diadem is struck at once, for all.
Earth has no mightier wisdom than the cry
Sent from that grave,—that all is vanity.
It bears the impress of th'eternal hand;
Lean Famine o'er her millions spreads his pall,
Pale Pestilence breathes upon them, and they fall;
Or is there one, their idol, bright, pure, dear,
So loved,—the single blow were deadly there;
It rushes like the midnight thunder-ball,
Her diadem is struck at once, for all.
Earth has no mightier wisdom than the cry
Sent from that grave,—that all is vanity.
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II.
'T was night; but there were thoughts in England's breast
Too wild, too waking for its hour of rest;
The strong anxieties of hope and fear,
That must be joy or woe ere morn appear.
Man loves the throne!—'t is not the glare of power;
Flatterers may fawn before it, dastards cower,
The free-soul'd feel the homage that they feign:
That morn might England hail a Sovereign!
But, round the couch where England's daughter lies
Are hovering all the heart's high sympathies.
And thousands, tens of thousands that had ne'er
Look'd on the face, now pale in peril there,
Were sleepless through her long, drear hours of pain,
And sent up hopes and prayers,—in vain—in vain.
Too wild, too waking for its hour of rest;
The strong anxieties of hope and fear,
That must be joy or woe ere morn appear.
Man loves the throne!—'t is not the glare of power;
Flatterers may fawn before it, dastards cower,
The free-soul'd feel the homage that they feign:
That morn might England hail a Sovereign!
But, round the couch where England's daughter lies
Are hovering all the heart's high sympathies.
And thousands, tens of thousands that had ne'er
Look'd on the face, now pale in peril there,
Were sleepless through her long, drear hours of pain,
And sent up hopes and prayers,—in vain—in vain.
By Claremont's walls in deepening circles wait
The royal courier, equipage of state;
And broadly through the dusk the torches glow
On crowds, that hour by hour like billows flow,
Still, as from time to time the portals ope,
Rushing to catch the menial's tale of hope;
As spurs the muffled horseman through the gate,
Perusing in his face the nation's fate.
The hour's at hand!—a moment—and they fling
The shout to heaven, the shout for Ocean's king!
The royal courier, equipage of state;
And broadly through the dusk the torches glow
On crowds, that hour by hour like billows flow,
Still, as from time to time the portals ope,
Rushing to catch the menial's tale of hope;
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Perusing in his face the nation's fate.
The hour's at hand!—a moment—and they fling
The shout to heaven, the shout for Ocean's king!
No shout was given. In Claremont's chambers now
Tears fall from eyes not used to their light flow;
A group are bending round a canopy,
With man's reluctant tear and struggling sigh;
Prelate and chief are there, a stately ring,
Pondering on fate: there lies their infant King!—
And now,—that pillow's all his sovereign throne;
'T is Death's cold lip has kiss'd him,—he is gone.
Tears fall from eyes not used to their light flow;
A group are bending round a canopy,
With man's reluctant tear and struggling sigh;
Prelate and chief are there, a stately ring,
Pondering on fate: there lies their infant King!—
And now,—that pillow's all his sovereign throne;
'T is Death's cold lip has kiss'd him,—he is gone.
III.
Spirits who sit in glory! if ye brook
To look below, 't is on such hours ye look.
The round of fate was sweeping; woe or joy
To millions hung on that Imperial boy;
Earth's furthest bound, earth's final age might feel
This moment's impulse of the mighty wheel.
If angels sorrow, deathless eyes were wan
That midnight for the blighted hopes of man.
To look below, 't is on such hours ye look.
The round of fate was sweeping; woe or joy
To millions hung on that Imperial boy;
Earth's furthest bound, earth's final age might feel
This moment's impulse of the mighty wheel.
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That midnight for the blighted hopes of man.
There lies posterity! that babe belong'd
To times still coming, when our forms had throng'd
The populous grave. Of all the myriad eyes
Once fix'd to see his star of empire rise,
Not one might see his height, all must be laid
Beamless, ere nature plunged his orb in shade;
A hundred years of change, and still his hand
Might hold the changeless sceptre, crush, command;
What miracles beyond life's broadest span,
Might by that mind be wrought for earth and man!
All sunk at once in that dead babe—subdued,
Collapsed, the whole proud, vast vicissitude!
To times still coming, when our forms had throng'd
The populous grave. Of all the myriad eyes
Once fix'd to see his star of empire rise,
Not one might see his height, all must be laid
Beamless, ere nature plunged his orb in shade;
A hundred years of change, and still his hand
Might hold the changeless sceptre, crush, command;
What miracles beyond life's broadest span,
Might by that mind be wrought for earth and man!
All sunk at once in that dead babe—subdued,
Collapsed, the whole proud, vast vicissitude!
Time will not sleep; the storm has left a tide;
The pestilence has but slept, it has not died!
The fire ferments below, it yet shall blaze—
Earth shall have one wild pang ere it decays.
One evil throne has sunk, a mightier ban
Shall rise with darker vengeance against man!
And must the nations perish, till, once more,
The encountering signs, the red-cross standards soar?
All lost or saved, as one brave heart shall spring
To the world's breach, our children's children's king!
But thou! thy laurel's planted in the grave,
Thou 'lt sleep while earth is rocking like a wave.
Yet many a brow that wore the golden round
Might wish its sleep as early and as sound:
Earth brought to thee, pale child, nor grief, nor stain;
Death was release, the breaking of a chain;
Summon'd to life without life's suffering,
A moment loosed for Heaven the spirit's wing.
The pestilence has but slept, it has not died!
The fire ferments below, it yet shall blaze—
Earth shall have one wild pang ere it decays.
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Shall rise with darker vengeance against man!
And must the nations perish, till, once more,
The encountering signs, the red-cross standards soar?
All lost or saved, as one brave heart shall spring
To the world's breach, our children's children's king!
But thou! thy laurel's planted in the grave,
Thou 'lt sleep while earth is rocking like a wave.
Yet many a brow that wore the golden round
Might wish its sleep as early and as sound:
Earth brought to thee, pale child, nor grief, nor stain;
Death was release, the breaking of a chain;
Summon'd to life without life's suffering,
A moment loosed for Heaven the spirit's wing.
IV.
The sigh, but not the sorrow pass'd; for there
Were tremblings for another sufferer.
Yet in the palace all seem'd quickly calm,
No hurrying taper on the darkness swam,
No echo on the gusty air was borne,
Now chiller with the coming of the morn.
Dimness and silence all, but where the gloom
Hung fainter round the ray from one high room,
That seem'd a room of slumber; deep the fold
Through which the struggling light in crimson roll'd.
Were tremblings for another sufferer.
Yet in the palace all seem'd quickly calm,
No hurrying taper on the darkness swam,
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Now chiller with the coming of the morn.
Dimness and silence all, but where the gloom
Hung fainter round the ray from one high room,
That seem'd a room of slumber; deep the fold
Through which the struggling light in crimson roll'd.
If slumber, 't was soon past! a woman's cry
Was heard within! 't was pain, 't was agony!
Then all was tumult;—on the casements sweep
Swift lights, shapes hast'ning, as but sprung from sleep;
Down come the rushing menials, opes the porch,
Sad and short tidings theirs,—the courier's torch
Sweeps, like a meteor o'er a midnight flood,
The rollings of the deep, sad multitude.
But in that fateful room the agony
Soon passed; and but a sudden, passing sigh,
Some pang that heaved, and scarcely heaved the breast;
All now was calm, subdued, for final rest!
There the young mother in her beauty lay,
Patient, till life's slow pulse should ebb away;
Smiles on her pale lip still, her eye unmoved,
To its last dimness fix'd on him she loved.
Was heard within! 't was pain, 't was agony!
Then all was tumult;—on the casements sweep
Swift lights, shapes hast'ning, as but sprung from sleep;
Down come the rushing menials, opes the porch,
Sad and short tidings theirs,—the courier's torch
Sweeps, like a meteor o'er a midnight flood,
The rollings of the deep, sad multitude.
But in that fateful room the agony
Soon passed; and but a sudden, passing sigh,
Some pang that heaved, and scarcely heaved the breast;
All now was calm, subdued, for final rest!
There the young mother in her beauty lay,
Patient, till life's slow pulse should ebb away;
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To its last dimness fix'd on him she loved.
V.
Oh how unlike the hour of festival!That chamber, how unlike the gorgeous hall,
Which saw that hand of faith and fondness given;
'T was on a summer day's delicious even.
Propitious splendour in the purpling skies,
The air all streaming with rich harmonies,
Sent in with fragrance of the closing flower,
Old England's royal pomp in court and bower!
The hall was thick with regal luxury;—
Studding like stars the dome, that look'd a sky,
Cressets of alabaster and of gold,
Waked all that pencil, or that steel could mould.
Central, beside the altar, on her throne,
Sat, diadem'd, the mother-queen, alone.
And round her, hush'd in awful distance, stood
Young beauty, haughty forms of field and flood,
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Mix'd with soft shapes, like roses in their prime.
VI.
There is a love! 't is not the wandering fire
That must be fed on folly, or expire;
Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor-ray
That fades, as rises Reason's nobler day;
But passion made essential, holy, bright;
Like the raised dead, our dust transform'd to light;
But, the rich foretaste of a loftier clime,
Friendship of souls, in heaven scarce more sublime!
Earth has its pangs for all; its happiest breast
Not his who meets them least, but bears them best.
Life must be toil! yet oh, that toil how drear,
But for this soother of its brief career,
The charm that virtue, beauty, fondness, bind,
Till the mind mingles with its kindred mind!
'Tis not the cold romancer's ecstasy,
The flame new lit at every passing eye,
But the high impulse that the stately soul
Feels slow engross it, but engross it whole;
Yet seeks it not, nay, turns with stern disdain
On its own weakness that can wear a chain;
Still wrestling with the angel, till its pride
Feels all the strength departed from its side.
Then, join'd, and join'd for ever,—loving, loved,
Life's darkest hours are met, and met unmoved;
Hand link'd in hand, the wedded pair pass on
Through the world's changes, still unchanging, one;
On earth one heart, one hope, one joy, one gloom,
One closing hour, one, undivided tomb!
That must be fed on folly, or expire;
Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor-ray
That fades, as rises Reason's nobler day;
But passion made essential, holy, bright;
Like the raised dead, our dust transform'd to light;
But, the rich foretaste of a loftier clime,
Friendship of souls, in heaven scarce more sublime!
Earth has its pangs for all; its happiest breast
Not his who meets them least, but bears them best.
Life must be toil! yet oh, that toil how drear,
But for this soother of its brief career,
The charm that virtue, beauty, fondness, bind,
Till the mind mingles with its kindred mind!
'Tis not the cold romancer's ecstasy,
The flame new lit at every passing eye,
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Feels slow engross it, but engross it whole;
Yet seeks it not, nay, turns with stern disdain
On its own weakness that can wear a chain;
Still wrestling with the angel, till its pride
Feels all the strength departed from its side.
Then, join'd, and join'd for ever,—loving, loved,
Life's darkest hours are met, and met unmoved;
Hand link'd in hand, the wedded pair pass on
Through the world's changes, still unchanging, one;
On earth one heart, one hope, one joy, one gloom,
One closing hour, one, undivided tomb!
Mysterious union! was thy beauty made
To sink with life's weak shades, itself a shade?
Was it for this thy glorious train was given?
High virtues, then first stooping from their heaven,
Round thee, and thee alone, on earth to move;
Holy fidelity, pure peace, true love;
Veil'd here,—yet emanations of a throne
Loftier than man's dull'd eye dares gaze upon.
Thou Paraclete! through earth's long pilgrimage
Shelter of infancy, support of age!
Man stain'd or sunk, as thy white wing was dim;
Till at His coming whom the Seraphim
Hymn'd to the shepherds from the midnight skies,
Thou heard'st the call that bade the world arise;
And He, life's glory, death's captivity,
Shew'd his first might to honour, hallow thee :
And thou wert hallowed, and from life's dull gloom
Shone out the heart, the holiness of home.
From that high hour, no more a toy or slave,—
Woman, life's flow'ret, shared the peace she gave;
Nature was purity, and faith was love,
The Spirit had descended as a dove!
And shall thy gentle mission finish here?
Thou angel,—more than angel minister!
To whom youth's passion, manhood's burning zeal,
All that the heart, the wild, fond heart, can feel,
Turn, as the billow to the midnight moon,
In proud submission to thy heavenly throne;
Guide, soother, saviour, to life's final shore,
Shall then, oh then, thy task of love be o'er!
To sink with life's weak shades, itself a shade?
Was it for this thy glorious train was given?
High virtues, then first stooping from their heaven,
Round thee, and thee alone, on earth to move;
Holy fidelity, pure peace, true love;
Veil'd here,—yet emanations of a throne
Loftier than man's dull'd eye dares gaze upon.
327
Shelter of infancy, support of age!
Man stain'd or sunk, as thy white wing was dim;
Till at His coming whom the Seraphim
Hymn'd to the shepherds from the midnight skies,
Thou heard'st the call that bade the world arise;
And He, life's glory, death's captivity,
Shew'd his first might to honour, hallow thee :
And thou wert hallowed, and from life's dull gloom
Shone out the heart, the holiness of home.
From that high hour, no more a toy or slave,—
Woman, life's flow'ret, shared the peace she gave;
Nature was purity, and faith was love,
The Spirit had descended as a dove!
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Thou angel,—more than angel minister!
To whom youth's passion, manhood's burning zeal,
All that the heart, the wild, fond heart, can feel,
Turn, as the billow to the midnight moon,
In proud submission to thy heavenly throne;
Guide, soother, saviour, to life's final shore,
Shall then, oh then, thy task of love be o'er!
“There was a marriage in Cana of Galilee.” (John II.) The Christian commandment against polygamy was a principle of total change in the condition of the sex. Paganism made them prisoners. Mahommedism makes them slaves. It might have been in some degree with reference to this great reform that Cana was honoured with the first miracle.
VII.
Morn came in clouds; the tempest's heavy swell
Stoop'd ominous; it bore no birthday peal!
Egypt! when Heaven's high wrath thy heart assail'd,
And o'er its wrath that heart of stone prevail'd,
Where smote the final plague, the conquering woe?
'T was in the sword that laid thy first-born low!
Guilt was on England, and the blow was given
On England's heart,—in mercy be it, Heaven!
Stoop'd ominous; it bore no birthday peal!
Egypt! when Heaven's high wrath thy heart assail'd,
And o'er its wrath that heart of stone prevail'd,
Where smote the final plague, the conquering woe?
'T was in the sword that laid thy first-born low!
Guilt was on England, and the blow was given
On England's heart,—in mercy be it, Heaven!
That morn the mighty city silence kept;
Grief was upon her, and her spirit wept.
'T was no dissembled woe; the sudden stroke,
Strong as an earthquake, on her hope had broke;
That morn she sat beneath the hand of fate,
In sackcloth on the dust, pale, desolate.
Yet, she had wept before; the glorious grave
More glorious by the tribute that she gave;
But o'er this bier a deeper anguish thrill'd,
A fonder tear was shed;—she wept her child.
There lay the nation's nurseling! lingering years
Had roll'd away of parent hopes and fears;
She saw her reach life's golden height; and now
She saw Joy's richest chaplet o'er her brow;
Another day, an hour,—posterity
Had smiled, and bless'd her!—It was not to be!
Grief was upon her, and her spirit wept.
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Strong as an earthquake, on her hope had broke;
That morn she sat beneath the hand of fate,
In sackcloth on the dust, pale, desolate.
Yet, she had wept before; the glorious grave
More glorious by the tribute that she gave;
But o'er this bier a deeper anguish thrill'd,
A fonder tear was shed;—she wept her child.
There lay the nation's nurseling! lingering years
Had roll'd away of parent hopes and fears;
She saw her reach life's golden height; and now
She saw Joy's richest chaplet o'er her brow;
Another day, an hour,—posterity
Had smiled, and bless'd her!—It was not to be!
She fell! and there was in that sudden fall
Some sorrow that came heavy, home to all,—
The high prophetic fears, that in the range
Of dark'ning years prefigured empire's change;
The parent hearts that shared a parent's woe;
And ev'n the ruder eyes which saw that blow
But prostrate a young, lovely one, so nigh
The prize of life, a mother's ecstasy;
England! how many bosoms on that morn
Wept inly! Nay, what sterner pangs were borne!
With what a sudden, shuddering sympathy
The father on his daughter turn'd his eye!
He saw the glance of joy, the ripen'd bloom,
And saw them—but the signals for the tomb.
On his young wife the husband's shaded look
Betray'd how deep within the omen strook;
The pallid mother, as her hour drew near,
Shrank from the pang with more than nature's fear;
The self-same flash had wrapt the cot and throne,
'Twas prince and people's heart—bound—pierced in one.
Some sorrow that came heavy, home to all,—
The high prophetic fears, that in the range
Of dark'ning years prefigured empire's change;
The parent hearts that shared a parent's woe;
And ev'n the ruder eyes which saw that blow
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The prize of life, a mother's ecstasy;
England! how many bosoms on that morn
Wept inly! Nay, what sterner pangs were borne!
With what a sudden, shuddering sympathy
The father on his daughter turn'd his eye!
He saw the glance of joy, the ripen'd bloom,
And saw them—but the signals for the tomb.
On his young wife the husband's shaded look
Betray'd how deep within the omen strook;
The pallid mother, as her hour drew near,
Shrank from the pang with more than nature's fear;
The self-same flash had wrapt the cot and throne,
'Twas prince and people's heart—bound—pierced in one.
VIII.
Midnight was on the earth; the zenith moon
Shone out in cloudless pomp, broad, lovely, lone
The sounds of man were silent; on the hill,
Along the vale, all but the breeze was still,
And it was but the breath that served to shake
Sighs and sweet murmurings from the hawthorn brake;
The vault above was sapphire, heavenly blue,
The brightness that the eye seems looking through
When the eye is half mind; and wild, and far,
As if it found a guide in each lone star,
It wanders through the heaven, rapt, dreaming on
To the bright gates where all it loved are gone.
Shone out in cloudless pomp, broad, lovely, lone
The sounds of man were silent; on the hill,
Along the vale, all but the breeze was still,
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Sighs and sweet murmurings from the hawthorn brake;
The vault above was sapphire, heavenly blue,
The brightness that the eye seems looking through
When the eye is half mind; and wild, and far,
As if it found a guide in each lone star,
It wanders through the heaven, rapt, dreaming on
To the bright gates where all it loved are gone.
But hark! a bell's slow toll! and far below
Winds through the moonlight vale a train of woe.
The pomp is royal; on the nearer glance
Move sable riders, glitter helm and lance;
Thunders the heavy gun; beneath the trees
Wave banners; tall, dark plumage meets the breeze;
And now glares out—a hearse!—her shadowy throne
Whose palace is the grave,—the last, chill one!
The train moved up the hill; though on it stood
That anxious night the countless multitude,
There was no voice among them; tears must tell—
What words have never told,—the heart's farewell
Winds through the moonlight vale a train of woe.
The pomp is royal; on the nearer glance
Move sable riders, glitter helm and lance;
Thunders the heavy gun; beneath the trees
Wave banners; tall, dark plumage meets the breeze;
And now glares out—a hearse!—her shadowy throne
Whose palace is the grave,—the last, chill one!
The train moved up the hill; though on it stood
That anxious night the countless multitude,
There was no voice among them; tears must tell—
What words have never told,—the heart's farewell
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IX.
Death, thou art terrible! 't is not the sting
Of the mere sense that makes thy suffering;
'T is not the pang, the thirst, the midnight groan;
Though all their host do homage to thy throne;
Thy terrors live in thy dark mystery,
All crowded in the one drear thought—we die!
We see the dying struggle,—all thus far
Is plain; up springs at once the mighty bar,
Gloomy as night; no twilight upper ray
Helps out the image of its further day.
And is this all;—the worm, the hideous sleep
That makes the very flesh by instinct creep.
Who that beside the opening tomb has stray'd,
And borne to see the gambols of the spade,
While the slave scoffing in the trench below
Flings up some fearful thing at every throw;
Felt not within, however fortified
By holy truth, however fool'd by pride,
A shock, a shrinking of the natural heart,
Lest there at last might lie his better part;
Ev'n with those whiten'd bones, that half changed clay,
That grinning skull, that coffin's loose decay?
Felt not the question with his spirit strive,
“Were not these—men? and can these dry bones live?”
Must all his dreams of high futurity
Be finish'd here, and that vile thing—be he;
Can soul be but a phantasy, a breath;
Can dust, air, stillness, nothingness, be death?
Of the mere sense that makes thy suffering;
'T is not the pang, the thirst, the midnight groan;
Though all their host do homage to thy throne;
Thy terrors live in thy dark mystery,
All crowded in the one drear thought—we die!
We see the dying struggle,—all thus far
Is plain; up springs at once the mighty bar,
Gloomy as night; no twilight upper ray
Helps out the image of its further day.
And is this all;—the worm, the hideous sleep
That makes the very flesh by instinct creep.
Who that beside the opening tomb has stray'd,
And borne to see the gambols of the spade,
While the slave scoffing in the trench below
Flings up some fearful thing at every throw;
Felt not within, however fortified
By holy truth, however fool'd by pride,
A shock, a shrinking of the natural heart,
Lest there at last might lie his better part;
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That grinning skull, that coffin's loose decay?
Felt not the question with his spirit strive,
“Were not these—men? and can these dry bones live?”
Must all his dreams of high futurity
Be finish'd here, and that vile thing—be he;
Can soul be but a phantasy, a breath;
Can dust, air, stillness, nothingness, be death?
Yet there are sensual fools, (high Heaven!) that brave,
Nay boast to scorn (they 'll know it yet,) the grave.
What is their courage? blindness! Could their eye
But glance upon its drear immensity,
The terrors that like clouds upon it ride,
The billows that have no returning tide;
Then should we see, like babes, those taunters shrink,
Who now dance madly on the crumbling brink;
See those rebound in horror, who now vie
In cold, gross, guilty carelessness—to die!
It has a Ruler! woe to him who treads
But where his hand across its darkness leads.
But one—but one of all men, on the grave
Can fix his vision, and be wisely brave;
He—who has felt the spirit's inward chain,
And struggled, ev'n when struggle seem'd in vain;
Who, fainting, prayed;—fall'n, wept;—from his low knee
Sent looks to heaven not meant for man to see;
Till came their answer! till sublimed, subdued,
His spirit burn'd,—one holy habitude!
Nay boast to scorn (they 'll know it yet,) the grave.
What is their courage? blindness! Could their eye
But glance upon its drear immensity,
The terrors that like clouds upon it ride,
The billows that have no returning tide;
Then should we see, like babes, those taunters shrink,
Who now dance madly on the crumbling brink;
See those rebound in horror, who now vie
In cold, gross, guilty carelessness—to die!
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But where his hand across its darkness leads.
But one—but one of all men, on the grave
Can fix his vision, and be wisely brave;
He—who has felt the spirit's inward chain,
And struggled, ev'n when struggle seem'd in vain;
Who, fainting, prayed;—fall'n, wept;—from his low knee
Sent looks to heaven not meant for man to see;
Till came their answer! till sublimed, subdued,
His spirit burn'd,—one holy habitude!
X.
We know the moment comes, that comes the last—
When all is merged in one wild word,—the past!
And all thenceforth is new; a mighty scene
Of strange, bright, wonderful, that hath not been.
We've climb'd life's weary hill; the early plain,
Track'd as it was by many a step of pain,
Seen from that lofty brow, is seen—a span!
Beside, behind us, rush the host of man;
Before us, all is precipice; the eye
Strains but through depth on depth,—infinity!
On rush the host, like waves, like armies mown
In the red field,—in rank on rank hurl'd down;
Each, as it meets the edge, in sudden fear
Sway'd backward, but a mightier hand is there;
In vain the wild recoil, sad gesture, groan;
Myriads are on their heels, and they must on.
When all is merged in one wild word,—the past!
And all thenceforth is new; a mighty scene
Of strange, bright, wonderful, that hath not been.
We've climb'd life's weary hill; the early plain,
Track'd as it was by many a step of pain,
Seen from that lofty brow, is seen—a span!
Beside, behind us, rush the host of man;
Before us, all is precipice; the eye
Strains but through depth on depth,—infinity!
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In the red field,—in rank on rank hurl'd down;
Each, as it meets the edge, in sudden fear
Sway'd backward, but a mightier hand is there;
In vain the wild recoil, sad gesture, groan;
Myriads are on their heels, and they must on.
Princess of England! on thy head was laid
The moral, that all under Heaven is shade:
Who murmurs at his lot, yet sees thee there?
Who hears thy tale, yet feels no righteous fear?
We 're made in fearfulness; some fine, frail thing,
Some nameless, viewless fibre, checks life's spring,
And now—an empire's tears could not recall
The stately beauty sleeping in that pall;
Not worlds give back the smile, that as she lay
Consoled an empire's heart—but yesterday.
The moral, that all under Heaven is shade:
Who murmurs at his lot, yet sees thee there?
Who hears thy tale, yet feels no righteous fear?
We 're made in fearfulness; some fine, frail thing,
Some nameless, viewless fibre, checks life's spring,
And now—an empire's tears could not recall
The stately beauty sleeping in that pall;
Not worlds give back the smile, that as she lay
Consoled an empire's heart—but yesterday.
Deep mystery! we wake with Heaven's sole breath;
Ten thousand, thousand ways lead down to death!
Why form'd with such rich waste, so high, so frail,
So near to angel, dust upon the gale?
Thou dreamer! Earth was never meant to hold
The wing, that every breath can thus unfold.
Is the sphere gloomy round us?—day and night
Stand wide its countless portals to the light;
Earth has no barrier to the immortal plume;
“Hereafter,” is the motto of the tomb!
Ten thousand, thousand ways lead down to death!
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So near to angel, dust upon the gale?
Thou dreamer! Earth was never meant to hold
The wing, that every breath can thus unfold.
Is the sphere gloomy round us?—day and night
Stand wide its countless portals to the light;
Earth has no barrier to the immortal plume;
“Hereafter,” is the motto of the tomb!
XI.
Then—comes the burst, the vision, broad awake
To see, what, thought on, makes the reason shake.
Mountains! where are ye! nay, thou grave! to hide
Our glance from all the dazzling, grand, untried!
A pang,—a moment—and we 've burst the pall
Where all o'erwhelms; impress'd immortal, all!
How shall we melt in homage, as move by
The regal people of eternity!
Deep shuddering, as we think, how oft, how near,
Viewless,—they cross'd us in their high career:—
Kings of the elements! that now, embrow'd
With majesty, expand from fire and cloud;
In our mad hours what witnesses look'd on,
What godlike might! yet were we not undone;
Shall we, like infants upon Ocean's shore,
Startled from sleep amid the tempest's roar,
Wild-waking, withering, behold unveil'd
The secrets that the deep of deeps has held?
Redemption, seraph mysteries, things that Earth
Was born, heaven shaken, but to bring to birth;
The wheels, within whose thundering sweep mankind
Moved, yet were crush'd not; moved, in mercy, blind;
Fate's vast machinery, orbits, blaze on blaze,
Yet midnight to His lone pavilion's rays!
To see, what, thought on, makes the reason shake.
Mountains! where are ye! nay, thou grave! to hide
Our glance from all the dazzling, grand, untried!
A pang,—a moment—and we 've burst the pall
Where all o'erwhelms; impress'd immortal, all!
How shall we melt in homage, as move by
The regal people of eternity!
Deep shuddering, as we think, how oft, how near,
Viewless,—they cross'd us in their high career:—
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With majesty, expand from fire and cloud;
In our mad hours what witnesses look'd on,
What godlike might! yet were we not undone;
Shall we, like infants upon Ocean's shore,
Startled from sleep amid the tempest's roar,
Wild-waking, withering, behold unveil'd
The secrets that the deep of deeps has held?
Redemption, seraph mysteries, things that Earth
Was born, heaven shaken, but to bring to birth;
The wheels, within whose thundering sweep mankind
Moved, yet were crush'd not; moved, in mercy, blind;
Fate's vast machinery, orbits, blaze on blaze,
Yet midnight to His lone pavilion's rays!
Or shall we meet the parted heart,—for Love,
Heaven's last best gift cannot decay above;
The hallow'd heart, whose life, whose very grave
Gave us the lofty thoughts Earth never gave;
And made our spirit doubly purified,
To hope the hope, to die the death she died?
Oh! shall we, in the shadow of her wing,
Be veil'd and sooth'd, till Heaven's high feelings spring
In the faint soul;—till changed, from height to height
It soars, all boundless vision, beauty, light,
All that foretold th'immortal in our sphere,
Faith, friendship, love, but buds, to flourish there,
A crown'd and sceptred glory, brightening on
Still nearer to the throne,—a father's throne!
Heaven's last best gift cannot decay above;
The hallow'd heart, whose life, whose very grave
Gave us the lofty thoughts Earth never gave;
And made our spirit doubly purified,
To hope the hope, to die the death she died?
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Be veil'd and sooth'd, till Heaven's high feelings spring
In the faint soul;—till changed, from height to height
It soars, all boundless vision, beauty, light,
All that foretold th'immortal in our sphere,
Faith, friendship, love, but buds, to flourish there,
A crown'd and sceptred glory, brightening on
Still nearer to the throne,—a father's throne!
XII.
The bier has left the hall,—has pass'd the court,—
Has enter'd, slow and dim, the Chapel's porte;
Silence is now for sound; for lustre, gloom;
Dim, in long, moveless lines, gleam lance and plume;
The flag is furl'd, the sabre in its sheath,
All is the hush'd magnificence of death.
Yet pale and partial flashes from the moon,
Toiling through mist-wreaths now, are downwards thrown,
Edging with silver, like a tempest-cloud,
The Chapel's gloomy arch, the thick-group'd crowd,
That stand with upturn'd eyes, and shapes like stone,
Watching the casements where the bier has gone.
Within are solemn sights, and on the air
Come from the dim cathedral, hymn and prayer,
The rites of love and sorrow, where the heart
Hopes against hope,—streams blood,—yet dares to part;
And, as the earth strikes on the coffin, thinks,
Though at the sound the inmost spirit shrinks,
How surely and how soon that clay shall be
Glorious,—that pale, cold prisoner be free.
Has enter'd, slow and dim, the Chapel's porte;
Silence is now for sound; for lustre, gloom;
Dim, in long, moveless lines, gleam lance and plume;
The flag is furl'd, the sabre in its sheath,
All is the hush'd magnificence of death.
Yet pale and partial flashes from the moon,
Toiling through mist-wreaths now, are downwards thrown,
Edging with silver, like a tempest-cloud,
The Chapel's gloomy arch, the thick-group'd crowd,
339
Watching the casements where the bier has gone.
Within are solemn sights, and on the air
Come from the dim cathedral, hymn and prayer,
The rites of love and sorrow, where the heart
Hopes against hope,—streams blood,—yet dares to part;
And, as the earth strikes on the coffin, thinks,
Though at the sound the inmost spirit shrinks,
How surely and how soon that clay shall be
Glorious,—that pale, cold prisoner be free.
Glorious and free thou art! we idly weep:
Earth has not kept thee, was not made to keep.
The pure have but brief trial,—Joy is theirs
At once!—they have the privilege of years!
They ask not our slow discipline to rise,
Angels ev'n here—Death gives at once the prize.
Earth has not kept thee, was not made to keep.
The pure have but brief trial,—Joy is theirs
At once!—they have the privilege of years!
They ask not our slow discipline to rise,
Angels ev'n here—Death gives at once the prize.
The choral hymn was past, and past the prayer,
That from a thousand voices fill'd the air,
Like one ascending of their hearts to heaven;—
Then—to the Giver was the treasure given!
The bier began to sink before their eye,
Slow as a spectre, dimly, silently:
The crown,—the empty crown—still gleam'd; once more
All gazed, all wept—it sank—the rite was o'er.
That from a thousand voices fill'd the air,
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Then—to the Giver was the treasure given!
The bier began to sink before their eye,
Slow as a spectre, dimly, silently:
The crown,—the empty crown—still gleam'd; once more
All gazed, all wept—it sank—the rite was o'er.
XIII.
Yet if a prayer could hasten destiny,
Were it not well in her bright hour to die—
The world at peace, or held in righteous fear!—
Man's pride, and strength,—her England's matchless spear?
Were it not well in her bright hour to die—
The world at peace, or held in righteous fear!—
Man's pride, and strength,—her England's matchless spear?
She should have died hereafter! no, not now,
Not thus have made our cup with tears o'erflow.
The holy cause had triumph'd,—England's car
Came, rich with trophies of her mightiest war;
Monarchs were in her train; above her van
Blazed the deliver'd cross, the ark of man;
And she stood forth, first, fairest stood, to hail
That day;—at once the victor's cheek was pale,
The triumph was eclipsed; was she the price?
The daughter vow'd? the bright, sad sacrifice? —
Ev'n in the hour when England's parent eye
Turn'd from its glory on her,—must she die!
Not thus have made our cup with tears o'erflow.
The holy cause had triumph'd,—England's car
Came, rich with trophies of her mightiest war;
Monarchs were in her train; above her van
Blazed the deliver'd cross, the ark of man;
And she stood forth, first, fairest stood, to hail
That day;—at once the victor's cheek was pale,
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The daughter vow'd? the bright, sad sacrifice? —
Ev'n in the hour when England's parent eye
Turn'd from its glory on her,—must she die!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |