The Legend of St. Loy :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Legend of St. Loy

With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud

Heraud, John A. (1799-1887)

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[dedication]

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SONNET

THE LEGEND of ST. Loy

Introduction.

CANTO THE FIRST. The Hermitage.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

CANTO THE SECOND. The Well of St. Loy.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

[section]

XX.

XXI.

XXI. The Song of Edwy.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXIII.

CANTO THE THIRD. The Wood.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

CANTO THE FOURTH. The Vola.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVI. The Hymn.

Conclusion.

THE Farewell to Cottenham.

POEMS.

THE Lament of the Bard.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

On attaining the Age of Twenty-one

THE Grave of the Bard

SONG, to---

STANZAS On the Death of His Most Gracious Majesty KING GEORGE THE THIRD.

SONNET TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

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189

POEMS.

“At length, with a firm tongue (but mingling still
“Much fancy with the fact, as madmen will)
“He told his tale — his dream.”
Barry Cornwall.

191

THE Lament of the Bard.

“And pens a stanza when he should engross.”
Pope.

I.

'Tis mockery all! — Who could endure the sneer
That scowls upon my blank captivity?
Albeit no chains, nor prison dank and drear,
Confine my limbs, and bar me from the air,
And stop the circuit of my roving eye —
Such corporal sufferance I might better bear,
Perchance, than this which doth restrain the soul,
Which would beyond the narrow limit fly,
That holds the mass of men in low control,
In commerce with this earth's most gross concerns,

192

The Sons of Dulness, reckless of the roll
Of rapture, that inspireth him who burns
With thrilling song: — Gain is their care alone;
And poring on the ground, — although above
The heavens in magnificence are spread,
And all around is Beauty, Grace, and Love —
They toil and toil, and ne'er exalt the head
To mark the vast profusion, Nature's own,
That fills the heart with transport, and the mind
With Fancy, — gives Imagination birth —
And makes the wondering gazer, undesigned,
A prompted Poet — wings him from the earth
To regions whence he looks, with high disdain,
Down on the glittering pomp as false and vain,
That worldlings prize — the yellow slaves of Gain!

II.

What mockery? Whereof do I complain?
Of this — that I, who would full-willing roam,
With eagle spirit, land and rolling main,
In quest of Nature and of Knowledge high,
And Wisdom and Observance, and each scene
Which Fancy loves, where Meditation dwells,

193

And to the Bard give wings wherewith to fly,
Rocks, mountains, forests, solitary cells,
Can scarcely steal one hour from Toil and Home,
To mark Creation's wonders, and to glean
Of that a little, which the Sons of Mind,
In rich abundance, have possessed, and poured
Into their Songs, that nought on earth confined;
Whereof, with much regard, I have explored
Many of soul-deep sweetness; — though to more
A stranger, which I trust have sweets in store
For me, — what time I from my labour strayed,
With some loved book to feed my hungry thought
Albeit oft chid by those who never read
For wandering from the service of my Trade,
Though but a moment — I could snatch no more —
For I've not known the silence of one hour,
To Meditation and the Muse devote!
(Yet I am mute; — none hath a murmur heard;—
Whate'er my thought, 'tis voiceless and interred —
None, save my harp — that answers me again,
And soothes me with a sympathetic strain.)
Nor can long-time my fond ideas dwell

194

On scenes they mourn to leave, and love so well;
For with the sons of bustle I am pressed,
Bereft of what my soul affects the best —
Perpetual Thought, that in a heavenly mood
Seeks silence, and the pensive solitude,
Whence it can rise as high as angels can,
And prove how near allied to them is man.

III.

This is not all, nor half the mockery
That scowls upon my blank captivity!
I know not why, save to afflict me more,
Fate brought me to the rural scene, where I
Tune, querulous, this Song of mournful lore,
And walk not forth abroad in open sky;
But, cooped beneath a roof of narrow space,
Toil o'er the work that to the town belongs —
Retirement, — not for study, that might raise
Thoughts, worthy of the purpose of my songs,—
But for the aid of business, that my speed
May have no interruption; hence my time
Is filled up closely with the dull routine,

195

That ever rolls the same, and scarce my reed
Hath space to breathe, or leisure for a rhime;
And scarce one wing my Spirit can put forth,
Galled by the chain that binds her down to earth!
I had hoped reverse of this, and hailed the voice,
Which told me, eve and morn, the rural scene
I should behold, and purely breathe the air,
Franchised from smoke of Cities, and the noise;
And that, perchance, whole days should see me here; —
And then I weened a part of them t' employ,
Pondering on Nature's charms and loveliness,
Harmonious beauty, and melodious grace,
With all the music of her voice of joy;
And breathing fragrant incense of her breath —
Farewell, fond hopes! for I have seen your death —
“But where are Nature's beauties? — they are gone —
“And Winter hath congealed each stream to stone; —
“And Winter blasts the leaves from every tree; —
“Each field is blanched — there is no harmony —
“Neither fair sky — but all is cold and storm
“Which shrink and harrow up the human form.”

This Poem was written in December 1817.

196

IV.

Though now 'tis Winter, yet it hath been spring,
When through the groves the birds were heard to sing,
When Sol was calm, and beautiful, and mild —
And in these shades upon his Poet smiled?
No, not on me — the City held me then, —
Yet since, whole days, hath Summer seen me here,
The Sun's proud, glorious season of the year,
When Splendour glowed above the head of men,
And Bounty blessed around their raptured ken —
But not to me — And Autumn brought her store,
And likewise saw me here — a milder glow
Was hers, and all her waving fields were gold —
I marked her not her rich abundance pour,
I marked her not her calmer day unfold,
I heard not her symphonious music flow —
Or seldom — when I did, I prized the chance,
And treasured every beauty that my gaze
Won from the scene, in soul-extatic trance —
Autumn's calm Sun, or Summer's fiercest blaze.
Hath awful Winter, then, no charms? He hath —
For those whose souls congenial storms delight,
Who love dark Terror's wild, sublimest path: —

197

And such my soul, that Nature loves when bright,
But loves her best when most she frowns in wrath!

V.

Said I ye, Seasons, have beheld me here
Whole days? — O rather I should say, and true,
Ye strangers are to me, and I to you,
For I, unhoused, meet you abroad but rare,
Blithe bounding o'er the field or up the hill,
Fanned by the breeze, and drinking purest air,
Soothed by the murmuring of a purling rill,
Charmed by the circling objects of delight,
Which Nature loves to press upon the sight,
And through the heart and joyous spirit thrill.—
No! — but the Sun upon my window glows;
I feel his warmth, — I feel the breeze that blows, —
Which, as in scorn, seem to invite me forth,
To gaze upon the enchantments of the earth!
Thus shine the sun-beams through the abhorred grate,
That mars them with its shade, of prison-gate,
Whose hinge shall never turn t' enlarge a limb
Of the sad victim, but where scoffing him,
Bare stands Captivity with laughter grim,

198

And points the spot, where Freedom's vallies lie,
Where he can enter not, to vex his eye, —
Yet mine is more — his thoughts can revel wide;
And though the dreams of trouble may annoy,
Yet he can gaily image those of joy —
But this stern Trade hath unto me denied!
Mine is the heavy durance of the soul,
Which would in everlasting rapture roll —
Chains that the body and the mind control!
For I am like a lark in cage confined,
Who feels his wings, and thinks to mount the wind;
I spread my plumes, and then attempt to soar, —
But Disappointment makes my sorrows more!

VI.

I've ever felt this passion in my breast,
Fluttering for thought; — nor can my memory find,
Since it could harbour such exalted guest,
When it hath been without this thoughtful mind:
While others, fellows of mine infant-age,
Looked to nought higher than their elfin play,
Nor were expected, — I explored the page, —
And then Religion burst with heavenly day!

199

And though she was too glorious and too bright
For the weak, eaglet gaze of my young sight; —
And though I could not pierce the mysteries,
Which are the darkness of excessive light,
And mantled her, scarce pierced e'en by the wise; —
Yet were her charms congenial to my mind: —
My thrilling heart their awful beauty won
To cogitation pleasing; then I framed
Glorious conceptions — and I hold them still —
How to exist on earth as if in heaven —
But thou, Trade! wouldst forbid me to fulfill
These purposes, her dictates, too refined
For thee — I am not meet to be thy son!
I could not stoop to thy low means of gain;
Means opposite to all commandments given
By God to man, yet practised oft unshamed —
And I should tremble at the oath of form,
Which many of thy sons, without alarm,
Without consideration, often swear,
Albeit they the Witness-God profane! —
I could not qualify it, as they do,
Guiltless pronounce myself, and free from care,
Think Heaven's own justice will be partial too! —

200

Yes! all can witness, in my nestling days,
Instead of toys, books were my chief delight,
Till I felt emulous of their high praise,
Who poured their spirit, in a flood of light,
O'er every lofty theme; then glowed my heart
Within me: Thought became my better part,
— As, sooth, it should be with immortal souls —
Though, struggling oft, still lay its fire concealed,
Ambition undefined — 'till Milton's song
To apprehension gradually unveiled,
Dissolves the darkness that prevailed there long —
Then from its gathered cloud the lightning rolls!
The lightning of my Spirit burst its cloud,
And straight the wild and magic numbers came;
My Harp no more was silent, breathed aloud
Its sounds of power, and its thoughts of flame!

VII.

Sweet Poesy! whose gentle heart is fraught
With sensibility and tender thought;
Within whose eye is seen soft Pity's tear,
Like water shining in a diamond rare,
Rendering it thence more lovely and more fair;

201

Whose liquid language is that of the sky,
Such as the stars' angelic symphony,
Which is too pure for the unpurged ear
Of gross unscienced mortals, who thence scorn
The things that are too high for their low-borne,
And thought-estranged souls — and name thee, wild
Enthusiast, and Fancy's maddest child —
Enthusiast! — 'tis the name that I love best —
The very name congenial to my breast! —
And when they term thee so, then most they raise,
In my esteem, her whom they would abase.—
Enthusiast of Nature! Soul enflamed
With fire from her great Altar built by God,
And good by the wise Architect proclaimed!
Thine is the bliss of Angels free from sin!
O kindle all my spirits with thy fire!—
But why? — Trade calls me down to his abode —
Still thou'rt the active principle within!
To him my passive frame alone I give,
For I have never yielded so my soul,
Though subject be my thoughts to his control; —
Albeit he smother them, yet still they live,
And from their darkening shrouds again respire!

202

Then there I triumph o'er his tyrant power —
Yet when will come the date of Freedom's hour?
And who will lead me up the hill of Fame,
And twine the laurels round my humble name?
How would I bless the hand! my song should crown,
And pay him back those laurels of renown!
Is none to answer? — like an eagle young,
Why leave I not mine eyry then, and dare,
Fearless, the wide and dangerous tract of air,
On the broad banner of my pinions hung?

VIII.

Who would not, for the joys to thee belong,
Endure the sorrows of a Child of Song?
For where's the mortal so completely blest,
That trouble never interrupts his rest?
Why launch I not out on this world's wide sea?
And if storm-taken—well—so let it be —
I reck not! — It were but to grasp at more
Than I could reach, as many have before —
And they have borne it — I could bear the same —
Be mine their sorrows then, if mine their fame!
And have I not, where I the griefs have read

203

Of many of the learned, and tuneful dead;
— How that the World had brought its tempest forth,
To beat their eagle spirits down to earth,
To its vile level — And, when I have heard
Their sorrows on their magic harps preferred —
Have I not, as each melancholy lay
Dissolved my soul in passion all away,
E'en envied them their woes, and with wild zeal,
To plain like them, e'en wished like them to feel?
Then swell, ye billows! burst above my head!
And I, like them, will wake my harp to life,
That shall reprove you for your uproar dread,
And calm my soul amid external strife!
For it shall have the power of Orpheus' strain,
And charm me from my fate with its sweet tone; —
While its kind voice I listen to alone,
Frustrate the storm shall drive along the plain,
And threatening thunders roar — winds rage in vain!
Then swell, ye billows! high as Jove's arched roof!
I reck ye not — for I am tempest-proof!

204

On attaining the Age of Twenty-one

5th July, 1820.

“Thou warble wild, of rough, rude melody!
“How oft I've wooed thee, often thrown thee by;
“In many a doubtful rapture touching thee,
“Waking thy (early) notes in many a sigh.”
Clare — “To my Oaten Reed.”

Hour of Maturity! — whom Bards have hailed,
Sanguine of manhood's hope, though boyhood's failed —
Quit of constraint, we now begin to be;
Escaped dependance, feel that we are free
The world's our own — to win or lose — name,
Brilliant or dark — and each alike is fame!
But let me live, and die, without renown,
If Virtue's sanction make it not her own

205

O, let the visions of my youth, wherein
I revelled, as an Eden free of sin,
Dreaming of immortality, be void,
If the fond boon may never be enjoyed
But by the taste of the forbidden fruit; —
And be the serpent Hope for ever mute:
'Tis but Ambition in an angel-guise,
The bane of earth, a rebel to the skies!
— And that were a great sacrifice — for they
Have been my hearted solace — night and day;
And when I revelled in them, I did seem
The only being in the fairy dream,
Which was the Universe — and there, methought,
My mind held mastery, and its riches wrought
E'en to her own imaginative will,
And modelled the creation it did fill,
Fixing on but one orb her eagle ken,
Glory! — the crown of angels and of men!
But still of thee, O Virtue! have I sung,
And to thy praise mine early harp was strung.

206

Fancy had scarcely language, language force,
When from thy high and sempiternal source,
I dared the stream of numbers to deduce,
And weakly wrestled with the mighty Muse,
Upon her mountains, and beside her streams,
Vocal alike with the sublimest themes,
That did with harmony the spirit thrall,
Giving her strength, and charming me of all,
Yet what it captivated still inspired —
Weakly, but resolutely, and untired,
'Till she took pity on my youth extreme,
And bade me rest upon her heart, and dream
That I of her was well-beloved, and there
In a delicious slumber, and so clear
That every sense seemed perfect, and mine ear
Conversant with the music of the spot,
And my soul held communion, felt and thought,
And saw all objects as they were — (and she
Bending her bright blue eyes down upon me,
And her lips bathing mine, my brow, mine eyes,
With kisses made, and modulate of sighs) —
Lapped, I was happy as Endymion, when
Absorbed in Dian's love in Latmos' mystic glen!

207

And then she sang to me, e'en as I slept,
Sweet soul-deep songs, whose melancholy crept
Over my kindled spirit till it wept
Tears, such as seraphs shed, when they behold
A sight of pity melts their burning mould
To liquid sorrow, till themselves do ponder
Upon their nature's change in awe and wonder,
Then feel themselves more heavenly? Judge how I
Felt — kindled to such height of extacy! —

Then from such visions waked and so inspired,
I seized the Harp that next me hung, and fired
The tragic chords with one wild whirlwind sound,
Though for awhile the immortal Sister frowned,
Who swayed that instrument, Melpomene;
Twas but to prove what daring was in me —
And then she smiled — and with a fiercer note,
Encouraged thus, and fiercer still, I smote
The tragic chords — and still she smiled, and I
Charmed from the grave of an old history
The tale of Periander , and the rage
Of many passions thundered o'er the stage;

208

And then, each awful pause between, I turned
To the old theme — Astrea's Altar burned
With holy incense — then I seized again
The tragic Harp, and waked a different strain.
Ossian flashed on me — Lora's field arose,
Upon the shadowy scene, and many woes,
Aldo and Lorma loved; and eke a Maid
Was fashioned forth by Fancy's second aid. —
Those numbers ceased; and in the interim
Of silence, full of Fancy, nothing dim,
I paid my vows to Virtue, and her shrine
Harmonized with the song she made divine.
And, for the time her service ended, then
I mused apart, or mingled among men,
Howe'er reluctantly, and with a sigh
That came from the deep heart's intensity,
Murmured a lover's farewell, just to say,
With what a pang I tore myself away.
And often as I wandered, would an air
Of exquisite unearthliness, — so clear,
So sweet, and fine withall, “that nothing dwelt

209

“'Twixt it and silence;” yet so deeply felt,
That the soul knew it a reality,—
Come, like a dear and lingering memory,
Of the delightful moments with the Muse
Spent in mysterious dalliance; — and diffuse
The breathings of her spirit upon mine,
Till the world disappeared, and I became divine!

This refers to an unpublished Poem of the Author, written at different intervals between the age of 14 and 20, and extending to about 10,000 lines.

A Tragedy begun about the same time with the above-mentioned Poem, and finished before the Author was 15.

Another Tragedy, called the Battle of Lora, and written in the years 1816 and 1817.

Dear Eve! I am thy votarist, and I love
Thy dim and sacred shadows, far above
The broad and garish day — for then it is
I feel abstracted to such extacies,
Glorious conceptions, as are not of earth,
And have spiritual, if not heavenly birth;
And then it was, when all insensibly
Glided the Hermit's Tale within me — I
Bade the world's toiling care's farewell, and sent
My Spirit on strange quest — nor where she went
Heeded, nor what she brought — and so I made
A sound and substance out of less than shade.

210

Astrea! then of thee my harp took up
A wilder, sadder strain — on Ida's top
The Muse embraced me, and my sorrow bore,
Mingled her tears with mine, and I loved her the more.
And so the day went down — and to my bed
Came sage and sad Melpomene, and shed
Her inspiration on my visions — gave
Force to my thoughts, and rolled them wave on wave;
Till in a phrenzy, with a lightning flash,
I struck the chords, and brake them with the crash:
Yet nought thereat displeased, she urged me still,
Till I the mighty labour did fulfil.
Short space the task required, for such the zeal
Inflamed me then, enthusiasts nothing feel
To what I felt, when with impatient touch
I hurried o'er the strings, and maddened them too much!

The Legend of St. Loy.

This alludes to another Drama, written in less than six weeks, and under emotions which are but feebly described in the text.

Brus! I have sang of thee but not in field,
When the fierce battle raged around thy shield,

211

But when thou wert as I am — secret — lone —
Breathing from the soul's centre, with a tone
Of proud despair, Hope's aspirations, telling
Inanimate Nature that intense, in-dwelling
Thought which we scorn to share with man, and deem
She hath an ear for — Life is but a dream: —
Thine was a glorious one, and 'twas fulfilled; —
Oh, what a ground whereon for Hope to build!

Thus have I worn my youth — all circumstance,
All duty — destiny — and ignorance,
Opposed to the beloved pursuit; and yet,
Thus my mind's secret energies have met
What the world thought omnipotent, nor knew
Whate'er impedeth Fancy doth renew,
And strengthèn the motives unto more — but here,
I challenge Malice' self to make appear,
I have neglected aught of man's concerns,
Where man had claim upon me — still there burns
A flame within me, which if not the same
That kindles Poets unto faith and fame
Is a strange something, and without a name —

212

Hope leads me on! and in the scene of life,
Henceforth I have my part — or peace or strife —
My character's commenced — e'en as the seed,
So must the fruit be — I have much to heed!
My way is among shoals, and perilous storm,
Where blest is he who 'scapes with little harm,
Where the whole man's absorbed, resisting still
The present, or preventing future ill;
Militant, provident, the heir of pain,
For ever striving never to obtain,
Without due leisure to be happy long,
With little left for love, and none for song.

But yet, forsake me not, ye Muses! ye
Have many pleasures yet in store for me:
Great Love — great Nature — Beauty — Order — all
The charities, whose voice so soft and small
Is heard not by the million — these are yours; —
And such their worth for ever it endures,
Making Man — Man, and to the Poet giving
A name, for ever bright, for ever living!

In the Poem, entitled, “Tottenham.”

213

THE Grave of the Bard

Written August 1818.

“Depart on thy wings, O Wind! thou canst not disturb the rest of the Bard. The night is long, but his eyes are heavy. Depart, thou rustling blast.” Ossian — on himself. “Berrathon.”

Upon the holy domes of God
The moonlight sweet and lovely fell,
And on the flowery turf it glowed
Of a meek Poet's narrow cell.

There, 'gainst the arching cypress trees,
Reclined a kindred soul — alone,
Who loved to hear the wild night-breeze
Whistle through leaves an airy moan.

214

And oft his Harp, that hung on high,
Answered the kisses of the gale,
With such a sad and long-drawn sigh,
As almost told the tender tale.

The musing Friend renewed his grief,
And all the Dead rushed on his mind;
Then from his Harp he sought relief,
And poured these numbers undesigned:

Dear Son of Fancy! fare thee well!
Be thine abode in Heaven blest,
Peace be within thy narrow cell,
And undisturbed thy shrouded rest!

Thou lovedst to see Aurora's blush;
The mist upcurling from the stream;
The dews impearl tree, floweret, bush —
Then muse in rapt ideal dream!

To contemplate these gems of night;
To gaze the meteor's vagrant glare;
And in the nightingale delight,
With thrilling breast and blissful tear!

215

The Fair — the Wonderful — the Wild —
The Dread — the Grand — thy soul confessed;
Thou wert a true Poetic Child,
And with an eagle spirit blessed!

But yet that spirit was too strong
For the weak frame which held her flight,
And strained its powers too oft and long,
Stretched forward to aërial height.

Thus poised between the two extremes
Of Matter and of Spirit wrought,
Too weak to drink the solar beams,
For earth, too much of subtle Thought;

Ethereal Essence! Spark of Heaven!
The Lightning shot into the soul!
Whose shocks electric, hourly given,
Prey on the life, and wear the whole.

Yet the Sun's glory he inhaled,
And stretched his soul beyond his strength,
Till the worn threads of being failed,
Rare, and refined, and burst at length.

216

Around thy grave shall fairies meet,
And youths and maids who loved thy song,
And Fancy scatter every sweet,
And Pity plain her dirge along!

Dear Son of Fancy! fare thee well!
Be thine abode in Heaven blest,
Peace be within thy narrow cell,
And undisturbed thy shrouded rest!

Versification of the Prose Part of Satan's Speech, from the “Christiad” of Henry Kirke White.

XXXI.

Ye Powers of Hell! no coward's is my soul —
Of old I proved it — Who the forces led
That shook Jehovah's throne above the pole?
Who with Ithuriel coped? — the thunders dread
Of the Omnipotent? — Who, when ye fled,
Followed by wrath and flame, — who waked ye first
From that infernal lake, your burning bed,
To fell revenge? Who dared alone the worst,
And through the void obscure from out the prison burst?

217

XXXII.

Who brought ye o'er the unfathomable abyss,
To this delightful world, and bade you reign?
Mine was the peril — yours possession, bliss —
I won — and ye enjoyed the new domain,
The thrones that totter now — then, who shall stain
My valour, chiefs, with doubt, that I would lose
Tamely the power I had such toil to gain?
Yon treacherous fiend ? — what he! shall he traduce
The strength of Satan's Sword, who breathes but by abuse —

XXXIII.

Lives but on death — on the defenceless preys —
Who sucks the blood of infants — doth delight
But in ignoble cruelty, and sways
Unequal strife? — Away! thou bane of fight!
Who shunn'st the day, and lurkest for the night,
To hover, like a cormorant, o'er the plains,
And feed upon the flesh of wounded knight,
And drench the last drop from his bleeding veins,
And greatly triumph o'er a hero's dying pains!

218

XXXIV.

True bravery is from rashness as remote
As trembling hesitation, O my peers!—
Then be our counsel cool, and calm our thought,
Not warped by fury, nor subdued by fears,
That Resolution, steadfast as the spheres,
Fixed — fierce as Hell, our purposes may rear!
The time which lost us Heaven by proof declares,
That Power is His who doth the thunder bear, —
But Subtlety is ours — we are his equals there!

17th April, 1819.

Moloch.

SONG, to---

There is a flower in Ocean's caves,
'Tis sweeter than any of ours,
It blossoms unseen beneath the waves,
In the Mermaid's inscrutable bowers —

The sun of our heaven never shone on its hues;
But it in its coral bed is tended
By spirits that no one hears or views,
Though of light and music blended —

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There is a love which is like that flower;
It dwells in the silent bosom;
It never was blessed by thy smile any hour,
Yet never hath ceased to blossom.

Of Beauty 'twas born — by Mind is it nourished,
That made to itself that vision divine; —
With the invisible thoughts of the heart it hath flourished,
Its sisters and shadows — its cradle and shrine.

The flower of Ocean is blessed where it bloometh,
Nor pines for the day-star it never may see;
But the love of my bosom its altar consumeth,
For the form of the vision it worships in thee!

STANZAS On the Death of His Most Gracious Majesty KING GEORGE THE THIRD.

Sacred the grief that balms the death of Kings,
And shrines their memory in the heart's true blood:
With such the rising Muse her tribute brings,
To mourn the nobly great, the greatly good.

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The rising Muse, who ever wreathes her harp
With the dark cypress and the sprig of yew,
Whose soul is sadness, fortune ne'er may warp,
The mood of mind to melancholy true.

The passing-bell
Hath tolled its knell
For a Star of Brunswick set!
But few hours gone
O'er the Royal Son
Was the eye of Sorrow wet!
The tear was not dried,
When, pealing wide,
Came the omen again on the gale —
Whose tale doth it tell,
That pausing knell?
For the Monarch of England wail!
The King of the fair and the free —
The Lord of the bright and the brave —
And such shall dew the cheek for thee,
And worship at glory's grave!
But didst thou in glory set?

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Alas! for thee — thou wert shrouded in gloom,
And gone from the eye, ere thy hour were come,
To sink on the Western hill's bright coronet,
In the hues of the heavens — that beautiful pyre,
Whereon, like the phœnix, the sun dies in fire!
Thy day was a summer one,
Lasting and bright,
But its setting no splendour won
From its length or its light —
The cloud and the blast
Came sudden and darkling,—
Through the shadow they cast
Not a gleam was there sparkling —
But the eve of the summer was wintry and wild,
And the land was a desert where Hope never smiled—
Thou wert shorn of the rays they may envy who can,
But, bereft of the Monarch, we felt for the Man!

Weep not, for he was tearless in his woe,
And life was lost in him who bore it so,
Unconscious of its being or its blindness —
The scions of his house were rent away,
And that he felt not, oh! 'twas Heaven's kindness —
Else had his spirit been subdued to clay,

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— For they were portions of it, and his heart, —
And maddened with the fierce sense of the anguish
That of his phrenzy even had been part —
And he again had seen them fade and languish,
And from the tomb raved for them, till they came —
Then he had blessed them — and all hope and fear
Felt, e'en as he before had felt the same,
Watched by the bed of death, and again maddened there!
Weep not — From Nature's night that he is free;
Free from the fetters of the soul diseased,
The mind, the image of the Deity,
From its long heavy slumber well released —
Great and most glorious in the land of light, —
The land of spirits — throned among the kings,
Whose virtues, equal to their task of might,
Were only equalled by their sufferings!

February 1, 1820.

The Duke of Kent.

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SONNET TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

POET LAUREATE.

Thou! of the wild and wonderous Song! of her
Gallia's prophetic Maid — of Thalaba —
Of Madoc — and the Goth! — Great Reveller
Both in our hearth's sweet charities, and, ah!
Man's vainest mysteries, sublime and far,
The superstitions stricken sinners fear.
Prolific Mind — spontaneous Muse — bright Star,
In the pure Heaven of Verse benign and clear!
Friend of the Dead! who pierced each scattered scroll,
Preserving to all time the Poet's name,
Of that young, resolute, weak, yet ardent soul,
Which burnt out its own fire, and went in flame
To be renewed above the dulcet pole —
Friend of the Dead! — and this shall be thy fame.