The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

“In this unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland, a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight of conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity.

‘Turpe mori, post te, solo non posse dolore.’”

“From the entrance into that unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded; and a kind of sadness and dejection stole upon him, which he had never been used to. . . . . . After the King's return to Oxford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions which had before touched him grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he who had been so exactly easy and affable to all men, that his face and countenance was always present, and vacant to his company, and held any cloudiness or less pleasantness of the visage a kind of rudeness or incivility, became on a sudden less communicable, and thence very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he minded before with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not only incurious, but too negligent; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary and casual addresses to his place (being then Secretary of State to King Charles), so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men (strangers to his nature and disposition) who believed him proud and imperious, from which no mortal man was ever more free.”

“When there was any overture or hope of peace he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press any thing which he thought might promote it; and, sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word ‘Peace! peace!’ and would profess that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart.”

Clarendon's History, vol. ii. part i.

War, civil war, was raging like a flood,
England lay weltering in her children's blood;
Brother with brother waged unnatural strife,
Sever'd were all the charities of life:
Two passions,—virtues they assumed to be,—
Virtues they were,—romantic loyalty,
And stern, unyielding patriotism, possess'd
Divided empire in the nation's breast;
As though two hearts might in one body reign,
And urge conflicting streams from vein to vein.
On either side the noblest spirits fought,
And highest deeds on either side were wrought:
Hampden in battle yesterday hath bled,
Falkland to-morrow joins the immortal dead;
The one for freedom perish'd—not in vain;
The other falls—a courtier without stain.

'Twas on the eve of Newbury's doubtful fight;
O'er marshall'd foes came down the peace of night,
—Peace which, to eyes in living slumber seal'd,
The mysteries of the night to come reveal'd,
When that throng'd plain, now warm with heaving breath,
Should lie in cold, fix'd apathy of death.
Falkland from court and camp had glid away,
With Chaucer's shade, through Speenham woods to stray,
And pour in solitude, without control,
Through the dun gloom, the anguish of his soul.
—Falkland, the plume of England's chivalry,
The just, the brave, the generous, and the free!
—Nay, task not poetry to tell his praise,
Twine but a wreath of transitory bays,
To crown him, as he lives, from age to age,
In Clarendon's imperishable page;
Look there upon the very man, and see
What Falkland was,—what thou thyself shouldst be;
Patriot and loyalist, who veil'd to none,
He loved his country and his king in one,

203

And could no more, in his affections, part
That wedded pair, than pluck out half his heart:
Hence every wound that each the other gave,
Brought their best servant nearer to the grave.
Thither he hasten'd, withering in his prime,—
The worm of sorrow wrought the work of time;
And England's woes had sunk him with their weight,
Had not the swifter sword foreclosed his date.

In sighs for her his spirit was exhaled,
He wept for her till power of weeping fail'd;
Pale, wasted, nerveless, absent,—he appear'd
To haunt the scenes which once his presence cheer'd;
As though some vampire from its cerements crept,
And drain'd health's fountain nightly while he slept;
But he slept not;—sleep from his eyelids fled,
All restless as the ocean's foam his bed;
The very agony of war,—the guilt
Of blood by kindred blood in hatred spilt,—
Crush'd heart and hope; till foundering, tempest-toss'd,
From gulfs to deeper gulfs, himself he lost.
Yet when he heard the drum to battle beat,
First at the onset, latest in retreat,
Eager to brave rebellion to the face,
Or hunt out peril in its hiding-place,
Falkland was slow to arm the' ignoble crowd,
He sought to raise the fall'n, strike down the proud,
Nor stood there one for parliament or throne
More choice of meaner lives, more reckless of his own.

Oft from his lips a shrill sad moan would start,
And cold misgivings creep around his heart,
When he beheld the plague of war increase,
And but one word found utterance—“Peace! peace! peace!”

That eve he wander'd in his wayward mood,
Through thoughts more wildering than the maze of wood,
Where, when the moon-beam flitted o'er his face,
He seem'd the' unquiet spectre of the place:
Rank thorns and briars, the rose and woodbine's bloom,
Perplex'd his path through checker'd light and gloom;
Himself insensible of gloom or light,
Darkness within made all around him night;
Till the green beauty of a little glade,
That open'd up to heaven, his footsteps stay'd:
Eye, breath, and pulse, the sweet enchantment felt,
His heart with tenderness began to melt;
Trembling, he lean'd against a Druid oak,
Whose boughs bare token of the thunder-stroke,
With root unshaken, and with bole unbroke:
Then thus, while hope almost forgot despair,
Breathed his soul's burden on the tranquil air:—

“O Britain! Britain! to thyself be true;
Land which the Roman never could subdue:
Oft though he pass'd thy sons beneath the yoke,
As oft thy sons the spears they bow'd to broke;
Others with home-wrought chains he proudly bound,
His own too weak to fetter thee he found;
Though garrison'd by legions, legions fail'd
To quell thy spirit,—thy spirit again prevail'd.
By him abandon'd, island-martyr! doom'd
To prove the fires of ages unconsumed,
Though Saxon, Dane, Norwegian, Gallic hordes,
In dire succession, gave thee laws and lords,
Conquer'd themselves by peace,—in every field,
The victor to the vanquish'd lost his shield.
To win my country, to usurp her throne,
Canute and William must forsake their own;
Invading rivers thus roll back the sea,
Then lose themselves in its immensity.

“But 'twas thine own distractions lent them aid,
Enslaved by strangers, because self-betray'd;
Still self-distracted;—yet should foreign foe
Land now, another spirit thy sons would show;
King, nobles, parliament, and people,—all,
Like the Red Sea's returning waves, would fall,
And with one burst o'erwhelm the mightiest host.
—Would such a foe this hour were on thy coast!

“How oft, O Albion! since those twilight times,
Have wars intestine laid thee waste with crimes!
Tweed's borderers were hereditary foes,
Nor can one crown even now their feuds compose;
Thy peasantry were serfs to vassal lords,
Yoked with their oxen, tether'd to their swords:
Round their cross banners kings thy bowmen ranged,
Till York and Lancaster their roses changed.
Those days, thank Heaven! those evil days are past,
Yet wilt thou fall by suicide at last?
O England! England! from such frenzy cease,
And on thyself have mercy,—Peace! peace! peace!”

204

“Who talks of Peace?—sweet Peace is in her grave:
Save a lone widow,—from her offspring save!”
Exclaim'd a voice, scarce earthly, in his ear,
Withering his nerves with unaccustom'd fear;
His hand was on his sword, but, ere he drew
The starting blade, a suppliant cross'd his view;
Forth from the forest rush'd a female form,
Like the moon's image hurrying through the storm;
Down in a moment, at his feet, aghast,
Lock'd to his smiting knees, herself she cast.
Rent were her garments, and her hair unbound,
All fleck'd with blood from many an unstaunch'd wound,
Inflicted by the very hands that press'd,
In rose-lipp'd infancy, her yearning breast;
And ever and anon she look'd behind,
As though pursuing voices swell'd the wind;
Then shriek'd insanely,—“Peace is in her grave!
Save a lost mother,—from her children save!”
Wan with heart-sickness, ready to expire,
Her cheeks were ashes, but her eye was fire,
—Fire fix'd, as through the horror of the mine,
Sparks from the diamond's still water shine;
So where the cloud of death o'ershadowing hung,
Light in her eye from depth of darkness sprung,
Dazzling his sight, and kindling such a flame
Within his breast as nature could not name;
He knew her not;—that face he never saw;
He loved her not,—yet love, chastised by awe
And reverence, with mysterious terror mix'd,
His looks on hers in fascination fix'd.

“Who?—whence?—what wouldst thou?” Falkland cried at length:
His voice inspired her; up she rose in strength,
Gather'd her robe and spread her locks, to hide
The unsightly wounds; then fervently replied:—
“Behold a matron, widow'd and forlorn,
Yet many a noble son to me was born,
Flowers of my youth, and morning-stars of joy!
They quarrell'd, fought, and slew my youngest boy;
Youngest and best beloved!—I rush'd between,
My darling from the fratricides to screen;
He perish'd; from my arms he dropp'd in death;
I felt him kiss my feet with his last breath;
The swords that smote him, flashing round my head,
Pierced me;—the murderers saw my blood, and fled,—
Their parent's blood; and she, unconscious why
She sought thee out, came here—came here to die.
'Tis a strange tale;—'tis true,—and yet 'tis not;
Follow me, Falkland, thou shalt see the spot,—
See my slain boy,—my life's own life, the pride
And hope of his poor mother,—but he died;
He died,—and she did not;—how can it be?
But I'm immortal!—Falkland, come and see.”

She spake: while Falkland, more and more amazed,
On her ineffable demeanour gazed;
So vitally her form and features changed,
He thought his own clear senses were deranged;
Outraged and desolate she seem'd no more;
He follow'd; stately, she advanced before:
The thickets, at her touch, gave way, and made
A wake of moonlight through their deepest shade.
Anon he found himself on Newbury's plain,
Walking among the dying and the slain;
At every step in blood his foot was dyed,
He heard expiring groans on every side.
The battle-thunder had roll'd by; the smoke
Was vanish'd; calm and bright the morning broke,
While such estrangement o'er his mind was cast,
As though another day and night had past.
There, 'midst the nameless crowd, oft met his view
An eye, a countenance, which Falkland knew,
But knew not him;—that eye to ice congeal'd,
That countenance by death's blank signet seal'd:
Rebel and royalist alike laid low,
Where friend embraced not friend, but foe grasp'd foe;
Falkland had tears for each, and patriot-sighs,
For both were Britons in that Briton's eyes.

Silent before him trod the lofty dame,
Breathlessly looking round her, till they came
Where shatter'd fences mark'd a narrow road:
Tracing that line, with prostrate corpses strow'd,
She turn'd their faces upward, one by one,
Till, suddenly, the newly-risen sun
Shot through the level air a ruddy glow,
That fell upon a visage white as snow;
Then with a groan of agony, so wild,
As if the soul within her spake,—“My child!
My child!” she said, and pointing, shrinking back,
Made way for Falkland.—Prone along the track
(A sight at once that warm'd and thrill'd with awe)
The perfect image of himself he saw,
Shape, feature, limb, the arms, the dress he wore,
And one wide honourable wound before.

205

Then flash'd the fire of pride from Falkland's eye,
“'Tis glorious for our country thus to die;
'Tis sweet to leave an everlasting name,
A heritage of clear and virtuous fame.”
While thoughts like these his maddening brain possess'd,
And lightning pulses thunder'd through his breast;
While Falkland living stood o'er Falkland dead,
Fresh at his feet the corse's death-wound bled,
The eye met his with inexpressive glance,
Like the sleep-walker's in benumbing trance,
And o'er the countenance of rigid clay
The flush of life came quick, then pass'd away;
A momentary pang convulsed the chest,
As though the heart, awaking from unrest,
Broke with the effort;—all again was still;
Chill through his tingling veins the blood ran, chill.
“Can this,” he sigh'd, “be virtuous fame and clear?
Ah! what a field of fratricide is here!
Perish who may,—'tis England, England falls;
Triumph who will,—his vanquish'd country calls,
As I have done,—as I will never cease,
While I have breath and being,—Peace! peace! peace!”

Here stoop'd the matron o'er the dead man's face,
Kiss'd the cold lips, then caught in her embrace
The living Falkland;—as he turn'd to speak,
He felt his mother's tears upon his cheek:
He knew her, own'd her, and at once forgot
All but her earliest love, and his first lot.
Her looks, her tones, her sweet caresses, then
Brought infancy and fairy-land again,
—Youth in the morn and maidenhood of life,
Ere fortune curst his father's house with strife,
And in an age when nature's laws were changed,
Mother and son, as heaven from earth, estranged.

“O Falkland! Falkland!” when her voice found speech,
The lady cried; then took a hand of each,
And joining clasp'd them in her own,—“My son!
Behold thyself, for thou and he are one.”
The dead man's hand grasp'd Falkland's with such force,
He fell transform'd into that very corse,
As though the wound which slew his counterpart
That moment sent the death-shot through his heart.

When from that ecstasy he oped his eyes,
He thought his soul translated to the skies;
The battle-field had disappear'd; the scene
Had changed to beauty, silent and serene;
City nor country look'd as heretofore;
A hundred years and half a hundred more
Had travell'd o'er him while entranced he lay;
England appear'd as England at this day,
In arts, arms, commerce, enterprise, and power,
Beyond the dreams of his devoutest hour,
When, with prophetic call, the patriot brought
Ages to come before creative thought.

With doubt, fear, joy, he look'd above, beneath,
Felt his own pulse, inhaled, and tried to breathe:
Next raised an arm, advanced a foot, then broke
Silence, yet only in a whisper spoke:—
“My mother! are we risen from the tomb?
Is this the morning of the day of doom?”
No answer came; his mother was not there,
But, tall and beautiful beyond compare,
One, who might well have been an angel's bride,
Were angels mortal, glitter'd at his side.
It seem'd some mighty wizard had unseal'd
The book of fate, and in that hour reveal'd
The object of a passion all his own,
—A lady unexistent, or unknown,
Whose saintly image, in his heart enshrined,
Was but an emanation of his mind,
The ideal form of glory, goodness, truth,
Embodied now in all the flush of youth,
Yet not too exquisite to look upon:
He kneel'd to kiss her hand,—the spell was gone.
Even while his brain the dear illusion cross'd,
Her form of soft humanity was lost.
—Then, nymph nor goddess, of poetic birth,
E'er graced Jove's heaven, or stept on classic earth,
Like her in majesty;—the stars came down
To wreathe her forehead with a fadeless crown;
The sky enrobed her with ethereal blue,
And girt with orient clouds of many a hue;
The sun, enamour'd of that loveliest sight,
So veil'd his face with her benigner light,

206

That woods and mountains, valleys, rocks, and streams,
Were only visible in her pure beams.

While Falkland, pale and trembling with surprise,
Admired the change, her stature seem'd to rise,
Till from the ground, on which no shadow spread,
To the arch'd firmament she rear'd her head;
And in the' horizon's infinite expanse,
He saw the British Islands at a glance,
With intervening and encircling seas,
O'er which, from every port, with every breeze,
Exulting ships were sailing to all realms,
Whence vessels came, with strangers at their helms,
On Albion's shores all climes rejoiced to meet,
And pour their native treasures at her feet.

Then Falkland, in that glorious dame, descried
Not a dead parent, nor a phantom bride,
But her who ruled his soul, in either part,
At once the spouse and mother of his heart,
—His Country, thus personified, in grace
And grandeur unconceived, before his face.
Then spake a voice, as from the primal sphere,
Heard by his spirit rather than his ear:—

“Henceforth let civil war for ever cease;
Henceforth, my sons and daughters, dwell in peace;
Amidst the ocean-waves that never rest,
My lovely Isle, be thou the halcyon's nest;
Amidst the nations, evermore in arms,
Be thou a haven, safe from all alarms;
Alone immovable 'midst ruins stand,
The' unfailing hope of every failing land:
To thee for refuge kings enthroned repair;
Slaves flock to breathe the freedom of thine air.
Hither, from chains and yokes, let exiles bend
Their footsteps; here the friendless find a friend;
The country of mankind shall Britain be,
The home of peace, the whole world's sanctuary.”

The pageant fled; 'twas but a dream: he woke,
And found himself beneath the Druid-oak
Where first the phantom on his vigil broke.

Around him gleam'd the morn's reviving light;
But distant trumpets summon'd to the fight,
And Falkland slept among the slain at night.

1831.