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 | The magic fountain |  |
45
TO MARY STORY,
Of Wooler, Northumberland,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
BY HER SON,
THE AUTHOR.
46
SONNET. TO MR. ---
When from the vulgar low, or vulgar great,
I suffer obloquy, neglect, or scorn,
With petty slights each day renewed or born,
Which, though they gall, we scarce can designate—
What is it keeps my heart, if not elate,
Yet from despondence free, and fevered pulse,
And harsher thoughts that might a breast convulse,
To feel the partialities of Fate?
I suffer obloquy, neglect, or scorn,
With petty slights each day renewed or born,
Which, though they gall, we scarce can designate—
What is it keeps my heart, if not elate,
Yet from despondence free, and fevered pulse,
And harsher thoughts that might a breast convulse,
To feel the partialities of Fate?
Hear it, my friend! and little shall I reck
If that its vanity excite a smile—
It is the hope, that, when the Sexton's pile
Of turf is on me, which the Spring shall deck,
My name and fame shall o'er the world be blown,
While their forgotten limbs shall “crumble bone by bone!”
If that its vanity excite a smile—
It is the hope, that, when the Sexton's pile
Of turf is on me, which the Spring shall deck,
My name and fame shall o'er the world be blown,
While their forgotten limbs shall “crumble bone by bone!”
47
EFFUSION ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.
'Tis said that stars have fallen, yet have left
No tell-tale blank i' th' blue sky—stars remote,
Whose light till then had never reached the eye,
Filling the gap to vision. But not so
Hast thou descended from the heaven of song—
Thou wast a star of wildest and most marked
Effulgence, and thy fall hath left a blank,
A lonely and a mournful blank, which none—
No—none shall ever fill again!
No tell-tale blank i' th' blue sky—stars remote,
Whose light till then had never reached the eye,
Filling the gap to vision. But not so
Hast thou descended from the heaven of song—
Thou wast a star of wildest and most marked
Effulgence, and thy fall hath left a blank,
A lonely and a mournful blank, which none—
No—none shall ever fill again!
O Byron!
How much of admiration and of hope,
Of worship deep from hearts thy strains have touched,
Of grief from those who watched thy wanderings
And wept them—hath been centred in that name!
How much of admiration and of hope,
Of worship deep from hearts thy strains have touched,
Of grief from those who watched thy wanderings
And wept them—hath been centred in that name!
66
E'en in thy youth's first efforts might be traced
The embryo giant—this the critic saw not,
And struck and stung thee—in his turn to writhe
Within thy mighty grasp.—With what a strength
Of ray, that lightened through the gloomy clouds
Which formed his palace, rose the unsetting sun
Of thine own Harold's glories! How our hearts
Thrilled at thy young Giaour's wild and broken tale!
How bled they o'er the melancholy fates
Of the two lovers of Abydos—one
Mixing his life-blood with the dashing wave,
One dying in her terror's agony!
There was no pause to wondering—as to flash
Succeeds a brighter flash, when summer storms
Robe the dim mountains with sublimity,
So song magnificent gave place to song
Still more magnificent—until the eye,
Dazzled with splendour, scarcely deigned to look
On mightiest of contemporary bards!
And critics, who erewhile had tried to crush thee,
Joined in a vile-breath'd humming of applause—
For they had marked thy soaring flight, and felt
They now could batten on thy fame.
The embryo giant—this the critic saw not,
And struck and stung thee—in his turn to writhe
Within thy mighty grasp.—With what a strength
Of ray, that lightened through the gloomy clouds
Which formed his palace, rose the unsetting sun
Of thine own Harold's glories! How our hearts
Thrilled at thy young Giaour's wild and broken tale!
How bled they o'er the melancholy fates
Of the two lovers of Abydos—one
Mixing his life-blood with the dashing wave,
One dying in her terror's agony!
There was no pause to wondering—as to flash
Succeeds a brighter flash, when summer storms
Robe the dim mountains with sublimity,
So song magnificent gave place to song
Still more magnificent—until the eye,
Dazzled with splendour, scarcely deigned to look
On mightiest of contemporary bards!
And critics, who erewhile had tried to crush thee,
Joined in a vile-breath'd humming of applause—
For they had marked thy soaring flight, and felt
They now could batten on thy fame.
67
Alas!
'Twas then that, loathing their rank praise, or wrung
In heart to find domestic bliss a dream,
Thy pen was dipped in bitterness; and scorn,
Licentiousness, and ribaldry combined
To dim—no! not thy genius—for e'en there
It shone pre-eminent, and half redeemed
The sullied page; but to disgrace thy name,
Thy morals, and thy heart! Thousands who made
Part of that world thy strains professed to hate,
Have felt an inward and a silent pang,
To think thou wast thine own worst enemy!
'Twas then that, loathing their rank praise, or wrung
In heart to find domestic bliss a dream,
Thy pen was dipped in bitterness; and scorn,
Licentiousness, and ribaldry combined
To dim—no! not thy genius—for e'en there
It shone pre-eminent, and half redeemed
The sullied page; but to disgrace thy name,
Thy morals, and thy heart! Thousands who made
Part of that world thy strains professed to hate,
Have felt an inward and a silent pang,
To think thou wast thine own worst enemy!
At length it came, the hour retributive,
When, goaded by th' accumulated wrongs
Of centuries, the long-sunk Greek resumed
His ancient spirit, and in battle-field
Met his Oppressor! Who among the first
Flew to his aid, and cheered his heart from fight
Of dubious or disastrous issue? Who
But Thou! the warm and ceaseless advocate
Of Greeks and their good cause? And what a field
There opened to thy genius! 'Twas our hope
That thou wouldst win their battles, free their clime
Of beauty from the ruthless Turk, and then
Bid thine unrivalled Lyre resound the strain
Of Greece's Independence—
When, goaded by th' accumulated wrongs
Of centuries, the long-sunk Greek resumed
His ancient spirit, and in battle-field
Met his Oppressor! Who among the first
Flew to his aid, and cheered his heart from fight
Of dubious or disastrous issue? Who
But Thou! the warm and ceaseless advocate
Of Greeks and their good cause? And what a field
68
That thou wouldst win their battles, free their clime
Of beauty from the ruthless Turk, and then
Bid thine unrivalled Lyre resound the strain
Of Greece's Independence—
All is o'er!
That Lyre is shivered, and the hand that waked
Its harmony, is nerveless!
That Lyre is shivered, and the hand that waked
Its harmony, is nerveless!
Loftier harps—
Aye, loftier far than mine—shall ring thy dirge;
And I may blush to see my poor attempt
Look poorer still in the comparison;
Yet hath it soothed me, and thy vital name
May save it when less honoured lays shall perish!
Aye, loftier far than mine—shall ring thy dirge;
And I may blush to see my poor attempt
Look poorer still in the comparison;
Yet hath it soothed me, and thy vital name
May save it when less honoured lays shall perish!
69
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF A TREE.
TO MATTHEW WILSON, ESQ.
For years I have looked with a shadow full broad
Over cottages dark with decay,
But, unworthy to stand by this new-raised abode,
I beg to be taken away.
Over cottages dark with decay,
But, unworthy to stand by this new-raised abode,
I beg to be taken away.
I feel not a pang—not a sigh at my heart,
Nor deem the self-sacrifice hard;
For what Tree of soul would repine to depart,
When his fall will throw light on a bard?
Nor deem the self-sacrifice hard;
For what Tree of soul would repine to depart,
When his fall will throw light on a bard?
A few of old Cr—t's, too, the garden that dim,
Should at once from their roots be up-tore all,
Nor shade with mean elm the dwelling of him
Who ought to be shaded with laurel!
Should at once from their roots be up-tore all,
Nor shade with mean elm the dwelling of him
Who ought to be shaded with laurel!
89
Such, sir, is my prayer, and if, favoured by you,
Your deeds tell the world you approve it,
I will pray that whenever aught darkens your view,
Some hand may be by to remove it.
Your deeds tell the world you approve it,
I will pray that whenever aught darkens your view,
Some hand may be by to remove it.
A ROAST GOOSE WITH ME.
WRITTEN ON THE THIRTY-THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH-DAY, OCTOBER 17, 1828.
The winds of my thirty-third autumn give note
Of the storms that must shortly sweep over the realm,
And, whirling in gusts round my garden and cot,
Descend the sear leaves of the self-offered Elm.
Then fasten the shutters, and, circling the board,
Prepare we to welcome my Birth-night with glee;
And, Ellen, set on what the house can afford—
My friends shall partake of a Roast Goose with me.
Of the storms that must shortly sweep over the realm,
And, whirling in gusts round my garden and cot,
Descend the sear leaves of the self-offered Elm.
90
Prepare we to welcome my Birth-night with glee;
And, Ellen, set on what the house can afford—
My friends shall partake of a Roast Goose with me.
Come M------s------n, the generous, the feeling, the kind,
Sure friend of the Stranger, whatever his claim;
If a genius, you serve him with heart and with mind;
If a quack—why your goodness does often the same.
A ming shall be your's, for the wings of your wit
And your humour soar high in the regions of glee;
And with pride I behold you thus deigning to sit
And share at my table a Roast Goose with me!
Sure friend of the Stranger, whatever his claim;
If a genius, you serve him with heart and with mind;
If a quack—why your goodness does often the same.
A ming shall be your's, for the wings of your wit
And your humour soar high in the regions of glee;
And with pride I behold you thus deigning to sit
And share at my table a Roast Goose with me!
Come W------d------n the upright, an epithet due
To your conduct, if ever to man's upon earth—
In crowds not loquacious, but placed with a few
Good fellows, the foremost for joke and for mirth.
A piece of the back pray accept. 'Tis the part
Which as proper to image your worth I decree;
You are true to the back bone; and here, from my heart,
Your welcome I speak to a Roast Goose with me!
To your conduct, if ever to man's upon earth—
In crowds not loquacious, but placed with a few
Good fellows, the foremost for joke and for mirth.
A piece of the back pray accept. 'Tis the part
Which as proper to image your worth I decree;
You are true to the back bone; and here, from my heart,
Your welcome I speak to a Roast Goose with me!
91
Come H—l, for true faith and true loyalty known,
And therefore none welcomer graces my board.
Some say you have whimsies; and one, I will own,
You have which the poet delights to record—
'Tis the whim of remaining unaltered my friend!
And dull were my heart were it calm when I see
The Founder of all my enjoyments attend,
To share in the treat of a Roast Goose with me.
And therefore none welcomer graces my board.
Some say you have whimsies; and one, I will own,
You have which the poet delights to record—
'Tis the whim of remaining unaltered my friend!
And dull were my heart were it calm when I see
The Founder of all my enjoyments attend,
To share in the treat of a Roast Goose with me.
Come T—t—m, my brother, as man and as bard,
What part shall I carve you? Pray choose it, for know
Your host's admiration, esteem, and regard,
No part of the dish is sufficient to show.
Take a leg for solidity; or, if you please,
A ming for high genius the world yet shall see—
And ne'er may a worse hour break in on your ease,
Than the hour that you spend at a Roast Goose with me!
What part shall I carve you? Pray choose it, for know
Your host's admiration, esteem, and regard,
No part of the dish is sufficient to show.
Take a leg for solidity; or, if you please,
A ming for high genius the world yet shall see—
And ne'er may a worse hour break in on your ease,
Than the hour that you spend at a Roast Goose with me!
Come A—d—r—n, last—though not last in true worth,
Nor in his estimation whose table you grace.
The fiat of Heaven decreed at your birth—
“Not an atom of goose in this man shall have place!”
That fiat I reverence, and therefore, instead,
A slice of this roast beef your portion shall be—
Your true English heart, and your clearness of head
Deserve better things than a Roast Goose with me.
Nor in his estimation whose table you grace.
92
“Not an atom of goose in this man shall have place!”
That fiat I reverence, and therefore, instead,
A slice of this roast beef your portion shall be—
Your true English heart, and your clearness of head
Deserve better things than a Roast Goose with me.
Now, Ellen, remove. Let the punch-bowl succeed.
Come, gentlemen, drink—in a bumper—the King!
Fill again for the Church; and may he whose vile creed
Slights the one or the other, conspicuously swing!
Yet once more for my landlord; and then, as you choose,
Let your toasts be the offspring of whim or of glee—
And ne'er shall Reflection her plaudit refuse
To the night that you supped on a Roast Goose with me.
Come, gentlemen, drink—in a bumper—the King!
Fill again for the Church; and may he whose vile creed
Slights the one or the other, conspicuously swing!
Yet once more for my landlord; and then, as you choose,
Let your toasts be the offspring of whim or of glee—
And ne'er shall Reflection her plaudit refuse
To the night that you supped on a Roast Goose with me.
93
A BIRTH-DAY EPISTLE.
Dear Gourley,
'Tis just thirty-three years this day,
Since I in my first state of nudity lay—
(I open, you see, with a modest simplicity,
Like Homer, so famous for verse and mendicity)
When my squall gave shrill notice to mam and to gossip,
That my lungs had found air, which was twitching my nose up.
Yet in that same squall, might a Prophet, if there,
Have found more than a simple reception of air—
An omen, in fact, undisputed and strong,
That now there was born a new screech-oml of song,
Predestined to utter as hideous a croon
As ever was hooted to night or the moon!
Since I in my first state of nudity lay—
(I open, you see, with a modest simplicity,
Like Homer, so famous for verse and mendicity)
When my squall gave shrill notice to mam and to gossip,
That my lungs had found air, which was twitching my nose up.
Yet in that same squall, might a Prophet, if there,
Have found more than a simple reception of air—
An omen, in fact, undisputed and strong,
That now there was born a new screech-oml of song,
Predestined to utter as hideous a croon
As ever was hooted to night or the moon!
94
Come, trace the long retrospect! Pleasure and grief
Shall find in this strain their epitome brief.
See pleasure and grief, then, alternately laid
Along my life's landscape, like sunshine and shade;
Or, lest this old simile hackneyed you deem,
Like ocean's broad surface in morning's first beam,
When the crests of his billows are bright with the glow,
And the furrows betwixt them are sable below.
Shall find in this strain their epitome brief.
See pleasure and grief, then, alternately laid
Along my life's landscape, like sunshine and shade;
Or, lest this old simile hackneyed you deem,
Like ocean's broad surface in morning's first beam,
When the crests of his billows are bright with the glow,
And the furrows betwixt them are sable below.
See, first, the world opens on childhood's young eye,
All novelty, beauty, in earth and in sky!
Then warm was the turf, and its flowerets how gay,
Where I rolled my light limbs in the long summer's day;
And winter, how strange! when my flowerets were lost,
And my principal dread was the dread of Jack Frost.
'Tis all like a dream—ah! what dream of the man,
Can equal the time ere his sorrows began?
'Tis a scene of calm light to our memories given,
'Tis tinged with the colours we image of heaven!
All novelty, beauty, in earth and in sky!
Then warm was the turf, and its flowerets how gay,
Where I rolled my light limbs in the long summer's day;
And winter, how strange! when my flowerets were lost,
And my principal dread was the dread of Jack Frost.
'Tis all like a dream—ah! what dream of the man,
Can equal the time ere his sorrows began?
'Tis a scene of calm light to our memories given,
'Tis tinged with the colours we image of heaven!
Next see me, “unwilling to school,” slowly creep,
Beneath the stern pedant to smart and to weep—
But on this head 'twould puzzle my brain to say more
Than Shakespeare has said so much better before;
I therefore pass on to the livelier scenes,
When life became life—in the midst of my teens.
Beneath the stern pedant to smart and to weep—
95
Than Shakespeare has said so much better before;
I therefore pass on to the livelier scenes,
When life became life—in the midst of my teens.
Then Passion, the despot, assumed his wild reign,
The seat of his empire my bosom or brain.
Then frolic to frolic, and revel to revel
Succeeded—the courtship, the siege, and the—devil;
(His Highness's name for the thing signified,
I think is a synonym not misapplied).
Then goading Ambition impelled me, sans aim,
On the wild-goose pursuit of distinction and fame.
Fame hovered before me in day-dreamy air,
Now offering the wreath won and worn by Voltaire—
Now showing the night-shade whose darkness of stain
Was relieved by no light on the temples of Paine—
Now naming their names who have battled till death
In the front ranks of law and of orthodox faith—
Then waving the garland whose flowers shall environ
For ages the brows of our Scott and our Byron.
I tried for them all!—To my friends, though no crime,
The last seemed a profitless wasting of time;
The next made their hopes in me lofty indeed,
I was called to the work (in the words of their creed);
But the other, alas! put them all the reverse,
(In the words of their creed) I was reckoned a curse,
And when deeper than wont did my arguments tickle,
I was flying post-haste to my master—old Nichol!
And this brings me down, you will own with some state,
To one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-plus-eight.
The seat of his empire my bosom or brain.
Then frolic to frolic, and revel to revel
Succeeded—the courtship, the siege, and the—devil;
(His Highness's name for the thing signified,
I think is a synonym not misapplied).
Then goading Ambition impelled me, sans aim,
On the wild-goose pursuit of distinction and fame.
Fame hovered before me in day-dreamy air,
Now offering the wreath won and worn by Voltaire—
Now showing the night-shade whose darkness of stain
Was relieved by no light on the temples of Paine—
Now naming their names who have battled till death
In the front ranks of law and of orthodox faith—
Then waving the garland whose flowers shall environ
For ages the brows of our Scott and our Byron.
I tried for them all!—To my friends, though no crime,
The last seemed a profitless wasting of time;
96
I was called to the work (in the words of their creed);
But the other, alas! put them all the reverse,
(In the words of their creed) I was reckoned a curse,
And when deeper than wont did my arguments tickle,
I was flying post-haste to my master—old Nichol!
And this brings me down, you will own with some state,
To one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-plus-eight.
Now see me here, after each freak and miscarriage,
Sufficiently settled and sobered by marriage—
Indulging in nothing a saint might not choose,
And doing devoirs to no maid but the Muse—
Detesting each principle leading to anarchy,
As much as its opposite—Absolute Monarchy;
A stickler for England, her freedom, and glory,
And your's, ever duly and truly,
Sufficiently settled and sobered by marriage—
Indulging in nothing a saint might not choose,
And doing devoirs to no maid but the Muse—
Detesting each principle leading to anarchy,
As much as its opposite—Absolute Monarchy;
A stickler for England, her freedom, and glory,
And your's, ever duly and truly,
R. STORY.
Gargrave, Oct. 17th, 1828.
97
TWELFTH OF AUGUST IN CRAVEN.
No more of fair maids with their dark locks or yellow,
Their eyes of all colours from sable to blue,
Their lips of all tints from the pale to the mellow,
Their cheeks of all rose-hues that Fancy e'er drew;
No more of the syllables—fair—ripe—and raven—
I've rhymed them, and chimed them, again and again;
There are sounds all abroad on the breezes of Craven,
To waken a brief, but a rapturous strain.
Their eyes of all colours from sable to blue,
Their lips of all tints from the pale to the mellow,
Their cheeks of all rose-hues that Fancy e'er drew;
No more of the syllables—fair—ripe—and raven—
I've rhymed them, and chimed them, again and again;
There are sounds all abroad on the breezes of Craven,
To waken a brief, but a rapturous strain.
Hark! hark! the thick echoes from Pendle come loudly;
Quick answer is given by Barden's dark fells;
High Pennigent hears to his green top, and proudly
And gaily replies to the chorus of dells—
For the dells are made vocal from Arncliff to Addingham,
Malham, by tarn and by cove, is awake;
Awake are her moor-game, with other sounds madding 'em,
Other than ripple of stream or of lake!
Quick answer is given by Barden's dark fells;
High Pennigent hears to his green top, and proudly
And gaily replies to the chorus of dells—
For the dells are made vocal from Arncliff to Addingham,
Malham, by tarn and by cove, is awake;
Awake are her moor-game, with other sounds madding 'em,
Other than ripple of stream or of lake!
98
It is shot upon shot, it is death upon death too,
And (I get into poetry!) flash upon flash;—
Now were I a Bard, I should here lend my breath to
Pathetic lament, and all that sort of trash.
But I hate all their cant and their whine hypocritic,
And will bet every guinea these stanzas are worth,
That send them a brace, they shall turn analytic,
And cut up with the gusto of famous Kit North!
And (I get into poetry!) flash upon flash;—
Now were I a Bard, I should here lend my breath to
Pathetic lament, and all that sort of trash.
But I hate all their cant and their whine hypocritic,
And will bet every guinea these stanzas are worth,
That send them a brace, they shall turn analytic,
And cut up with the gusto of famous Kit North!
Yet, to do myself justice, and let people know it,
When throng the gay sportsmen on mountain and moor,
Or the chace meets my eye—I've enough of the poet
To turn to the sports and the huntings of yore.
O those were the days! when in yonder green valley
From Beauty's fair hand was the falcon let fly,
And along that hill side the bold hunters would sally,
Their bugles in sound, and their stag-hounds in cry!
When throng the gay sportsmen on mountain and moor,
Or the chace meets my eye—I've enough of the poet
To turn to the sports and the huntings of yore.
O those were the days! when in yonder green valley
From Beauty's fair hand was the falcon let fly,
And along that hill side the bold hunters would sally,
Their bugles in sound, and their stag-hounds in cry!
99
Then Skipton her Clifford, and Warkworth her Percy,
And Gisburn her Lister sent forth to the game,
With hundreds beside, whose brave names in my verse I
Could never arrange—were my meed to be fame.
Suffice it—wherever the brown heath is waving,
Their heirs in descent pour the death-shot to-day;
And long may the Halls and the Moorlands of Craven
Boast their virtues when grave, and their pleasures when gay!
And Gisburn her Lister sent forth to the game,
With hundreds beside, whose brave names in my verse I
Could never arrange—were my meed to be fame.
Suffice it—wherever the brown heath is waving,
Their heirs in descent pour the death-shot to-day;
And long may the Halls and the Moorlands of Craven
Boast their virtues when grave, and their pleasures when gay!
100
VERSES ADDRESSED TO MATTHEW WILSON, ESQ. ON THE FIRST ARRIVAL OF HIS FAMILY AT ESHTON HALL, AFTER ITS BEING RE-BUILT.
To thee whose smile—when first from Tweed I came—
With some importance marked my stranger name,
And which, as then, by nothing changed or chilled,
The name it gilded yet persists to gild—
To thee my heart, by duty moved, hath long
Desired to pour its gratitude in song.
But hear the truth. Of those who wake the lyre,
So few are faithful to the sacred fire,
So many, anxious for the Great's regard,
In mean servility renounce the bard—
Sing but as Interest prompts, and temples bind
With garlands fair that justice scarce had twined;
That I—so dreading to be classed with these—
Still checked the embryo-effort meant to please,
And silence kept, determined to be seen
As thankless—heartless—anything—but mean!
With some importance marked my stranger name,
And which, as then, by nothing changed or chilled,
The name it gilded yet persists to gild—
To thee my heart, by duty moved, hath long
Desired to pour its gratitude in song.
But hear the truth. Of those who wake the lyre,
So few are faithful to the sacred fire,
So many, anxious for the Great's regard,
In mean servility renounce the bard—
Sing but as Interest prompts, and temples bind
With garlands fair that justice scarce had twined;
That I—so dreading to be classed with these—
Still checked the embryo-effort meant to please,
101
As thankless—heartless—anything—but mean!
But when, as now, in morning's smile I see
Thy fair Hall's turrets crown the verdant lea—
See, where the beams with richest lustre fall,
Young Beauty's steps by portico and wall—
See her, whose name, where'er that name is known,
Makes every blessing, every prayer her own—
See her, the lady of the splendid pile,
Peace at her heart, and pleasure in her smile—
See him—the youthful Stranger—who bestows
A careless glance on all that Eshton shows,
Nor dreams a time (yet distant may it be!)
Shall make him lord of all possessed by thee—
All this beheld, I feel a throb too strong
For caution, and my heart flows out in song!
Thy fair Hall's turrets crown the verdant lea—
See, where the beams with richest lustre fall,
Young Beauty's steps by portico and wall—
See her, whose name, where'er that name is known,
Makes every blessing, every prayer her own—
See her, the lady of the splendid pile,
Peace at her heart, and pleasure in her smile—
See him—the youthful Stranger—who bestows
A careless glance on all that Eshton shows,
Nor dreams a time (yet distant may it be!)
Shall make him lord of all possessed by thee—
All this beheld, I feel a throb too strong
For caution, and my heart flows out in song!
Yet shall no fulsome flattery's vain parade
Thy humble Poet's heart-felt song degrade—
One blameless wish alone shall be expressed,
Respect conceal, and Silence muse the rest.
Thy humble Poet's heart-felt song degrade—
One blameless wish alone shall be expressed,
Respect conceal, and Silence muse the rest.
102
O! while fair Summer brings the heather-bell
To deck the rocks of Flasby's neighbouring fell—
While Eshton woods rejoice beneath her beam,
And violets blow by Eshton's fairy stream—
So long may thine the beauteous Mansion claim,
So long be Eshton linked to Wilson's name!
To deck the rocks of Flasby's neighbouring fell—
While Eshton woods rejoice beneath her beam,
And violets blow by Eshton's fairy stream—
So long may thine the beauteous Mansion claim,
So long be Eshton linked to Wilson's name!
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ANNA'S GRAVE.
O leave me here alone with woe,
And go, my friends, as joys invite,
Where Beauty smiles and goblets flow;
Fit scenes for you whose hearts are light.
And go, my friends, as joys invite,
Where Beauty smiles and goblets flow;
Fit scenes for you whose hearts are light.
Another voice than that of glee
There breathes—through distance long and drear—
From Anna's lowly grave to me,
And it hath all my soul and ear!
There breathes—through distance long and drear—
From Anna's lowly grave to me,
And it hath all my soul and ear!
Afar in Salop's vale she sleeps—
There winds of winter keenly blow;
The cold drift circles there, and heaps
A breast once purer than the snow!
There winds of winter keenly blow;
The cold drift circles there, and heaps
A breast once purer than the snow!
All life and sprightliness, she threw
A tint of Eden o'er these bowers;
And almost Eden's bliss I knew
When her bright presence winged the hours.
A tint of Eden o'er these bowers;
And almost Eden's bliss I knew
When her bright presence winged the hours.
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Our moonlight walks by lawn and vale—
The soothing words she, parting, spoke—
Away! I must not tell a tale
My heart can feel, but words would mock.
The soothing words she, parting, spoke—
Away! I must not tell a tale
My heart can feel, but words would mock.
Enough, if virtue's, truth's decline,
If matchless beauty's early fall
Deserve a tear, she merits mine,
For she I loved possessed them all!
If matchless beauty's early fall
Deserve a tear, she merits mine,
For she I loved possessed them all!
Yon snow-bent rose-tree seems to mourn;
Though summer will its gems restore;
I weep a brighter blossom torn,
Which summer winds shall fan no more.
Though summer will its gems restore;
I weep a brighter blossom torn,
Which summer winds shall fan no more.
Then go, my friends, where hearts rejoice,
And leave me to my musings here—
From Anna's grave there breathes a voice,
And it hath all my soul and ear!
And leave me to my musings here—
From Anna's grave there breathes a voice,
And it hath all my soul and ear!
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TO SPRING.
O what a bloom, a freshness—as of flowers
And verdure bathed in dew—comes o'er the heart,
Sweet Spring, when thou art named;
Or when thy softened breeze,
And verdure bathed in dew—comes o'er the heart,
Sweet Spring, when thou art named;
Or when thy softened breeze,
Pure from reviving nature, fans the cheek!
The languid spirit feels, through all its depths,
The genial warmth, and pours
Profuse its flowers of thought!
The languid spirit feels, through all its depths,
The genial warmth, and pours
Profuse its flowers of thought!
Who can thy charms enumerate? The dell,
Where the rathe primrose peeps; the living wood,
Where the green bud just bursts,
And the deep blackbird sings;
Where the rathe primrose peeps; the living wood,
Where the green bud just bursts,
And the deep blackbird sings;
The plain, where smiles the daisy, where its gold
The gorgeous king-cup shows, and where the stream
Rolls in blue windings on;
The freshened mountain, gay
The gorgeous king-cup shows, and where the stream
Rolls in blue windings on;
The freshened mountain, gay
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With springing heath and blooming gorse, o'er which
The plover screams; and over all, the sky
Blue, lofty fine, where laughs
The joyous sun, and where
The plover screams; and over all, the sky
Blue, lofty fine, where laughs
The joyous sun, and where
Sails the light snowy cloud, or—if the shower
Thin-glancing falls—perchance the rainbow bends
Its scarcely visible arch,
Whence rings the sky-lark's song!
Thin-glancing falls—perchance the rainbow bends
Its scarcely visible arch,
Whence rings the sky-lark's song!
The eye looks round delighted, the heart beats
With rapture!—And do I experience now
That rapture, that delight?
Then, shall my song confine
With rapture!—And do I experience now
That rapture, that delight?
Then, shall my song confine
Its praise to Earth's enchantments, nor ascend
In grateful adoration, God! to thee—
The source of all that's fair,
The bounteous source of Spring!
In grateful adoration, God! to thee—
The source of all that's fair,
The bounteous source of Spring!
107
A SKETCH.
Born of poor parents, and a favourite child,
The youth of Alfred was untamed and wild.
Quick to receive, tenacious to retain,
And fond of learning—he was all in vain;
Indulgence narrowing e'en the span of time
Spared to improvement in his boyhood's prime.
Hence on his soul the lamp of classic lore
Its hallowed brilliance never deigned to pour—
A light deceptive when to dullness given,
But dealt to Genius, 'tis a light from heaven!
Yet skill was his to read and understand
The nervous language of his native land.
O'er England's tuneful page, when yet a boy,
He hung with unexpressed and speechless joy;
And while enraptured with his country's lyre,
The Muse laid on his heart her touch of fire!
Nor slept his heart beneath it, but replied
With the strong throb of welcome and of pride,
And vowed eternal constancy to one
By whom a new existence was begun.
Thenceforth to him the sky—or brightly starred,
Or when its morning blue no vapour marred—
The mountain wild, the forest and the glen
Had language never heard by common men!
Yet his was not the perseverance strong,
Which hour by hour is exercised in song,
Which rather forces than submits to ask
The aid of Inspiration to his task:
He seized his lyre, if Inspiration came,
And brushed it, glowing with a minstrel's flame;
But were her smile in gay caprice denied,
Like idle toy he threw his lyre aside.
Prompt at each call of passion or of whim,
Verse, but by moments, had a charm for him.
The youth of Alfred was untamed and wild.
Quick to receive, tenacious to retain,
And fond of learning—he was all in vain;
Indulgence narrowing e'en the span of time
Spared to improvement in his boyhood's prime.
Hence on his soul the lamp of classic lore
Its hallowed brilliance never deigned to pour—
A light deceptive when to dullness given,
But dealt to Genius, 'tis a light from heaven!
Yet skill was his to read and understand
The nervous language of his native land.
O'er England's tuneful page, when yet a boy,
He hung with unexpressed and speechless joy;
And while enraptured with his country's lyre,
The Muse laid on his heart her touch of fire!
Nor slept his heart beneath it, but replied
With the strong throb of welcome and of pride,
And vowed eternal constancy to one
By whom a new existence was begun.
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Or when its morning blue no vapour marred—
The mountain wild, the forest and the glen
Had language never heard by common men!
Yet his was not the perseverance strong,
Which hour by hour is exercised in song,
Which rather forces than submits to ask
The aid of Inspiration to his task:
He seized his lyre, if Inspiration came,
And brushed it, glowing with a minstrel's flame;
But were her smile in gay caprice denied,
Like idle toy he threw his lyre aside.
Prompt at each call of passion or of whim,
Verse, but by moments, had a charm for him.
Aye, prompt at passion's every call was he!
From maid to maid he roved, as flits the bee
Amid young flowers—ah! not, like that, to sip
Of each pure blossom with untainted lip,
And leave it pure as ever. Alfred's kiss
Was blight to maiden bloom and maiden bliss.
A practised Angler in Love's summer deeps,
That eager throbbing of the heart when leaps
To the fine fraud the prey—which is a sign
Of skilless hand, and mars its own design—
With him was over. Cool and calm, he knew
His art successful, and his victim drew
From playfulness and freedom to his will,
With nerve unfluttered, and remorseless skill.
Deem him not blest!—If something like a sigh,
When fair in death the speckled captives lie,
May swell the captor's bosom, Woman's shame
A pang more deep and lasting well may claim.
Deem him not blest! Believe the poet, none
Find that in many all may find in one.
A truth which Alfred owned, when Lucy's eye,
Tenderly blue as April's morning sky—
Her lip like June's first rose-bud—and her form
Slight as the lily's bending in the storm—
First charmed him into virtue. Here he fixed,
And, dreaming now of happiness unmixed
With one whose virgin fame no stigma knew,
He swore, upon the altar, to be true.
From maid to maid he roved, as flits the bee
Amid young flowers—ah! not, like that, to sip
Of each pure blossom with untainted lip,
And leave it pure as ever. Alfred's kiss
Was blight to maiden bloom and maiden bliss.
110
That eager throbbing of the heart when leaps
To the fine fraud the prey—which is a sign
Of skilless hand, and mars its own design—
With him was over. Cool and calm, he knew
His art successful, and his victim drew
From playfulness and freedom to his will,
With nerve unfluttered, and remorseless skill.
Deem him not blest!—If something like a sigh,
When fair in death the speckled captives lie,
May swell the captor's bosom, Woman's shame
A pang more deep and lasting well may claim.
Deem him not blest! Believe the poet, none
Find that in many all may find in one.
A truth which Alfred owned, when Lucy's eye,
Tenderly blue as April's morning sky—
Her lip like June's first rose-bud—and her form
Slight as the lily's bending in the storm—
First charmed him into virtue. Here he fixed,
And, dreaming now of happiness unmixed
With one whose virgin fame no stigma knew,
He swore, upon the altar, to be true.
111
PETER KING.
A LEGEND OF CRAVEN.
“Wake, Minstrel of Rylestone, arise and be gone!
Leave thy bonny young bride to her slumbers alone;
At Kirkstall, this even, a festival gay
Demands all thy music—then up and away!”
Leave thy bonny young bride to her slumbers alone;
At Kirkstall, this even, a festival gay
Demands all thy music—then up and away!”
The Minstrel arose, though the summons but seemed
To his half-sleeping ear as a thing he had dreamed,
When he saw at the casement distinctly a youth,
And found in a moment the message was sooth.
To his half-sleeping ear as a thing he had dreamed,
When he saw at the casement distinctly a youth,
And found in a moment the message was sooth.
He donned his green garb, and his wild harp he slung,
Then o'er moorland and vale like a roebuck he sprung;
Though ere he reached Kirkstall, the summer-eve's gleam
Lay rich upon abbey, and village and stream.
Then o'er moorland and vale like a roebuck he sprung;
Though ere he reached Kirkstall, the summer-eve's gleam
Lay rich upon abbey, and village and stream.
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Full gay was the place that received him—o'er all
A light-flood was cast from the lamps round the hall,
Where the maidens of Aire sat—like naiads—in ranks,
More sweet than the blossoms that spring on her banks!
A light-flood was cast from the lamps round the hall,
Where the maidens of Aire sat—like naiads—in ranks,
More sweet than the blossoms that spring on her banks!
And there, too, were youths bent on frolic and glee,
And monks from the abbey the joyance to see,
(For the monks of that time saw in mirth nothing wrong)
And the night sped away with the dance and the song.
And monks from the abbey the joyance to see,
(For the monks of that time saw in mirth nothing wrong)
And the night sped away with the dance and the song.
But there was one Maiden, unrivalled in shape,
In beauty the rose-bud, in ripeness the grape!
Though sleepy and calm, yet her half-shut blue eye
Threw an arrow more sure than the openest by.
In beauty the rose-bud, in ripeness the grape!
Though sleepy and calm, yet her half-shut blue eye
Threw an arrow more sure than the openest by.
The Minstrel beheld her, and felt, as he viewed,
Emotions he looked on as vanished, renewed—
Ah, Minstrel, beware! in that wish there is crime,
Remember thy vows, and suppress it in time.
Emotions he looked on as vanished, renewed—
Ah, Minstrel, beware! in that wish there is crime,
Remember thy vows, and suppress it in time.
Of his Lucy, her love and her beauty he thought,
And her image before him, by effort, he brought;
The bodiless shape, like a morning dream, fled—
And there stood the beautiful Stranger instead!
And her image before him, by effort, he brought;
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And there stood the beautiful Stranger instead!
Why lengthen the tale of his villany? Now,
In the arms of a leman forgetting his vow,
He thinks not, nor wishes, from Kirkstall to roam,
Nor to sooth the sad heart that is breaking at home.
In the arms of a leman forgetting his vow,
He thinks not, nor wishes, from Kirkstall to roam,
Nor to sooth the sad heart that is breaking at home.
The news reached that home; and poor Lucy must weep,
But her soul it was high, and her love it was deep—
She saw that Dishonour was tracking his path,
And she thought on his state more in sorrow than wrath.
But her soul it was high, and her love it was deep—
She saw that Dishonour was tracking his path,
And she thought on his state more in sorrow than wrath.
But how shall she act in this delicate case?
Oh! how shall she rescue her love from disgrace?
Nor kindred nor friends any aid could afford,
And she flew to the wizard, hight Roger De Worde.
Oh! how shall she rescue her love from disgrace?
Nor kindred nor friends any aid could afford,
And she flew to the wizard, hight Roger De Worde.
The wizard she found in the Knave Knoll Cave—
His stature was tall, and his visage was grave;
But the power lay neither in look nor in form
That could sink the grim winds, or arouse the wildstorm!
His stature was tall, and his visage was grave;
But the power lay neither in look nor in form
That could sink the grim winds, or arouse the wildstorm!
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By the spells which he framed in the Knave Knoll Cave,
He could force the strong sprites of the land and the wave
To veil at his bidding the labouring Moon,
Or wreck on Madeira the Spanish galleon!
He could force the strong sprites of the land and the wave
To veil at his bidding the labouring Moon,
Or wreck on Madeira the Spanish galleon!
His answer to Lucy was spoke in a tone
That startled the bats from his dwelling-place lone—
“I grant thee thy boon, if, sans taper or torch,
Thou meet me at midnight in Rylestone church porch?”
That startled the bats from his dwelling-place lone—
“I grant thee thy boon, if, sans taper or torch,
Thou meet me at midnight in Rylestone church porch?”
Love is stronger than Death, and it mocketh at Fear—
Yet Lucy's heart sunk as the moment drew near;
And she trembled with terror to hear her quick tread
Returned from the tomb-stones and graves of the dead!
Yet Lucy's heart sunk as the moment drew near;
And she trembled with terror to hear her quick tread
Returned from the tomb-stones and graves of the dead!
Half fainting, she reached the dark porch; and in sooth
Began to have doubts of the dread wizard's truth,
When his voice bade her welcome, in accents as hoarse
And broken as those of a vivified corse!
Began to have doubts of the dread wizard's truth,
When his voice bade her welcome, in accents as hoarse
And broken as those of a vivified corse!
“Have courage!” he muttered, “and soon shall thine arms
Recover thy mate from a paramour's charms;
Nor ever again, if there's truth in his star,
Shall he leave his fair cottage as fast—or as far.”
Recover thy mate from a paramour's charms;
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Shall he leave his fair cottage as fast—or as far.”
“Have courage!” the wizard repeated; then called
On his aids, in a tone that her spirit appalled.
At once growled the thunder, the lightning flashed past—
And she saw the grim wizard, distinct, and aghast.
On his aids, in a tone that her spirit appalled.
At once growled the thunder, the lightning flashed past—
And she saw the grim wizard, distinct, and aghast.
“Have courage!” the wizard repeated. Again
He called, and the lightning came mingled with rain;
While shapes, as of fiends, she beheld in the light,
And her heart almost died as they vanished in night.
He called, and the lightning came mingled with rain;
While shapes, as of fiends, she beheld in the light,
And her heart almost died as they vanished in night.
“Have courage!” repeated the mighty De Worde,
“He comes!”—The wind rose, and a tempest it roared;
Against the church steeple a body is blown,
And it falls on the porch-flag with crash and with groan!
“He comes!”—The wind rose, and a tempest it roared;
Against the church steeple a body is blown,
And it falls on the porch-flag with crash and with groan!
“Foul wizard!” cried Lucy—distracted that hour—
“Accurst be thy kindness! Accurst be thy power!
Love, faded a space, may revive and re-bloom;
But where is our hope when the heart's in the tomb?”
“Accurst be thy kindness! Accurst be thy power!
Love, faded a space, may revive and re-bloom;
But where is our hope when the heart's in the tomb?”
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Loud laughed the dread wizard—“Fear nothing for him,
My imps have disabled him but of a limb,
Which henceforth may prove an effectual bar
To his leaving his cottage as fast—or as far!”
My imps have disabled him but of a limb,
Which henceforth may prove an effectual bar
To his leaving his cottage as fast—or as far!”
The Harp in the green dales of Craven no more
Is touched by the hand of the bard—as of yore;
But her hamlets and towns to the music still ring,
Awaked by the race of the famed Peter King.
Is touched by the hand of the bard—as of yore;
But her hamlets and towns to the music still ring,
Awaked by the race of the famed Peter King.
I have seen them—the violin-bag under arm—
Like their ancestor halting to cottage or farm,
A warning to bards, while the lineage survives,
As a spell-ride they dread to be true to their mives!
Like their ancestor halting to cottage or farm,
A warning to bards, while the lineage survives,
As a spell-ride they dread to be true to their mives!
120
THE PARTING.
When lovers part, some little pledge
Of love to each assigned,
Is meant to blunt Misfortune's edge,
And sooth the absent mind.
Of love to each assigned,
Is meant to blunt Misfortune's edge,
And sooth the absent mind.
What bliss to hold a lock of hair
Shorn from her lovely brow!
What bliss the Miniature to bear
That smiles away his woe!
Shorn from her lovely brow!
What bliss the Miniature to bear
That smiles away his woe!
Not one memorial sooths the heart,
That, Mary, bleeds for thee;
We parted as two strangers part—
The grief was all with me!
That, Mary, bleeds for thee;
We parted as two strangers part—
The grief was all with me!
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But, by thy glance so purely bright!
Thy young, light form so dear!
One comfort gilds my spirit's night—
Thine image pictured here.
Thy young, light form so dear!
One comfort gilds my spirit's night—
Thine image pictured here.
No mortal limner held the brush—
Love threw his colours high,
And Fancy lent her heightening flush
Of hues that never die!
Love threw his colours high,
And Fancy lent her heightening flush
Of hues that never die!
Should meaner charms attract my glance,
And half attempt thy throne,
Thy look will rouse my soul at once,
And keep me all thy own.
And half attempt thy throne,
Thy look will rouse my soul at once,
And keep me all thy own.
Of weal or woe, of toil or rest,
Whate'er my life may know,
To thee, fair Empress of my breast,
My constant vows shall flow!
Whate'er my life may know,
To thee, fair Empress of my breast,
My constant vows shall flow!
122
A DREAM.
I slept upon my bridal bed,
My true love slept beside me;
When a bodeful dream, by slumber led,
With fearful thoughts supplied me.
My true love slept beside me;
When a bodeful dream, by slumber led,
With fearful thoughts supplied me.
I dreamed I sat with my own true love
By the green thorn tree in the forest,
Our frequent seat when through the grove
The moon-lit boughs looked hoarest.
By the green thorn tree in the forest,
Our frequent seat when through the grove
The moon-lit boughs looked hoarest.
I dreamed we sat beneath the thorn—
But the blue dawn long had glimmered,
And bright the beams of the rosy morn
On cloud and mountain shimmered.
But the blue dawn long had glimmered,
And bright the beams of the rosy morn
On cloud and mountain shimmered.
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A stern dark man from the thicket rushed,
Whose form I saw but dimly;
He felled the tree—then backward brushed
Through the greenwood, smiling grimly.
Whose form I saw but dimly;
He felled the tree—then backward brushed
Through the greenwood, smiling grimly.
Alas for my favourite tree! It lay
Along the earth's cold bosom,
No more to wave in the sunny ray
Its pride of leaf and blossom.
Along the earth's cold bosom,
No more to wave in the sunny ray
Its pride of leaf and blossom.
The dark man fled, but scornful cried,
Ere last in view he had shown him,
“E'en thus shall your true love fall by your side,
With all his youth upon him!”
Ere last in view he had shown him,
“E'en thus shall your true love fall by your side,
With all his youth upon him!”
I shrieked, and woke by my true love's side,
And my hurried clasp did fold him,
And sore I wept, and sore I sighed,
As the fearful dream I told him.
And my hurried clasp did fold him,
And sore I wept, and sore I sighed,
As the fearful dream I told him.
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I need not say that he dried my tears,
And laughed away my terror;
But O that my strange and bodeful fears
Had had their source in error!
And laughed away my terror;
But O that my strange and bodeful fears
Had had their source in error!
A few brief moons of love and glee
The kindest heart had shown him,
When he fell by Death like the green thorn tree,
With all his youth upon him!
The kindest heart had shown him,
When he fell by Death like the green thorn tree,
With all his youth upon him!
'Twas but a dream, that tree's o'erthrow,
It lives to bloom and quiver—
But no visioned stroke laid my love low
For ever and for ever!
It lives to bloom and quiver—
But no visioned stroke laid my love low
For ever and for ever!
125
SIR HENRY.
O sweet are Cheviot's heather-bells
When sunny showers have passed away;
And sweet the blooms in Roddam dells,
When gemmed by dew in morning's ray.
When sunny showers have passed away;
And sweet the blooms in Roddam dells,
When gemmed by dew in morning's ray.
But not a flower that ever sprung
By lonely glen or mountain wild,
Could draw one glance, when, sweet and young,
The loveliest maid of Cheviot smiled!
By lonely glen or mountain wild,
Could draw one glance, when, sweet and young,
The loveliest maid of Cheviot smiled!
Fair Emma dreamed a dreary dream—
From Henry's breast, her own true knight,
She thought she saw the life-blood stream,
While laughed her kindred at the sight!
From Henry's breast, her own true knight,
She thought she saw the life-blood stream,
While laughed her kindred at the sight!
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She screaming woke; and glad was she
To find the dreadful vision gone:
She rose, for pure and bonnilee
The moon-beam through her casement shone.
To find the dreadful vision gone:
She rose, for pure and bonnilee
The moon-beam through her casement shone.
She looked into the night—each star
Was twinkling in its station blue;
And woods at hand and hills afar
Rose dim, or melted from the view.
Was twinkling in its station blue;
And woods at hand and hills afar
Rose dim, or melted from the view.
'Twas silence all, and softly fair;
The moorland breeze did freshly blow;
It gently waved her long dark hair,
It fanned her face and neck of snow.
The moorland breeze did freshly blow;
It gently waved her long dark hair,
It fanned her face and neck of snow.
Why does her dark eye brighter glance?
Why deeper blooms her polished cheek?
She sees her Henry's form advance!
She bends to hear her lover speak!
Why deeper blooms her polished cheek?
She sees her Henry's form advance!
She bends to hear her lover speak!
“If still my Emma keeps her vow,
If still her heart is true to me,
Descend, my loveliest! meet me now!
My grey steed waits to fly with thee.”
If still her heart is true to me,
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My grey steed waits to fly with thee.”
“O fix the ladder here,” she said,
“And hie thee to the trysting tree;
And doubt not that thy faithful maid
Will find her moonlight way to thee.”
“And hie thee to the trysting tree;
And doubt not that thy faithful maid
Will find her moonlight way to thee.”
He fixed the ladder to the wall;
He hied him to the trysting tree;
And there he waits impatient all,
And deems each rustling leaf is she.
He hied him to the trysting tree;
And there he waits impatient all,
And deems each rustling leaf is she.
And, trust me, had you seen him there,
His sword beside him careless hung—
You would have sworn her choice was rare,
For he was comely, tall, and young.
His sword beside him careless hung—
You would have sworn her choice was rare,
For he was comely, tall, and young.
But soft! there is a footstep near—
Already fancy clasps the maid:
Ha! sounds of armour strike his ear,
And warriors hurry through the shade!
Already fancy clasps the maid:
Ha! sounds of armour strike his ear,
And warriors hurry through the shade!
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In haste his trusty blade he drew—
He sternly placed him by the tree;
For well her brothers three he knew,
And knew they wished his blood to see.
He sternly placed him by the tree;
For well her brothers three he knew,
And knew they wished his blood to see.
“Come on!” he cried, “The deadly fire
Which flashes o'er your souls—which sprang
From old disgrace, when feudal ire
Engaged our race in battle-clang—
Which flashes o'er your souls—which sprang
From old disgrace, when feudal ire
Engaged our race in battle-clang—
In Henry's blood ye hope to quench;
Nor lightly shall the game be won!
Come on, and try who first shall blench—
For Emma fights Lord Malcolm's son!”
Nor lightly shall the game be won!
Come on, and try who first shall blench—
For Emma fights Lord Malcolm's son!”
Like lightning flashed from midnight cloud,
Sir Henry waved his weapon bright;
When forward sprung the eldest, proud,
And met the youth in deadly fight.
Sir Henry waved his weapon bright;
When forward sprung the eldest, proud,
And met the youth in deadly fight.
Young William loved his sister well,
Had often sought to calm the feud,
And high was now his bosom's swell
To hear her name from knight so good.
Had often sought to calm the feud,
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To hear her name from knight so good.
Between the struggling foes his way
The noble-hearted stripling pressed;
But Henry's sword, with mighty sway
Descending, pierced his generous breast.
The noble-hearted stripling pressed;
But Henry's sword, with mighty sway
Descending, pierced his generous breast.
Henry! hadst thou the impulse seen
That urged him 'twixt thee and thy foe,
A thousand deaths thy choice had been
Rather than lay that stripling low!
That urged him 'twixt thee and thy foe,
A thousand deaths thy choice had been
Rather than lay that stripling low!
Deep blushes with his blood the heath—
Another thrust, and Henry's blade
Hath found a second bloody sheath;
The eldest in his gore is laid.
Another thrust, and Henry's blade
Hath found a second bloody sheath;
The eldest in his gore is laid.
Again Sir Henry stands prepared
In hope to see the third come on—
Why comes he not? Has fortune spared?
Does sight deceive—or is he gone?
In hope to see the third come on—
Why comes he not? Has fortune spared?
Does sight deceive—or is he gone?
130
The dastard wretch, while yet they strove,
Had softly stol'n behind the tree,
From whence his blade he fiercely drove—
And Emma's love bleeds piteously!
Had softly stol'n behind the tree,
From whence his blade he fiercely drove—
And Emma's love bleeds piteously!
Yet dream not unavenged he sank—
One blow the coward's soul did free!
Combat hath ceased upon the bank;
But Emma's love bleeds piteously!
One blow the coward's soul did free!
Combat hath ceased upon the bank;
But Emma's love bleeds piteously!
And thou, for whom the strife was tried,
O lovely Emma, where art thou?
In all her beauty comes the bride,
But ah! the bridegroom heeds not—now!
O lovely Emma, where art thou?
In all her beauty comes the bride,
But ah! the bridegroom heeds not—now!
Pale grew her cheek, and from her eye
There shot a wild and tearless glance;
Then, uttering one long maniac cry,
She sunk to earth in sudden trance.
There shot a wild and tearless glance;
Then, uttering one long maniac cry,
She sunk to earth in sudden trance.
She lived—and long in yonder dell,
Long by this mountain wildly roved;
She died at last where Henry fell,
And now she sleeps by him she loved.
Long by this mountain wildly roved;
131
And now she sleeps by him she loved.
So have I seen on Cheviot high
—Pale lingerer of the purple train—
A heath-bell sink at length and die,
Chilled by November's sleety rain!
—Pale lingerer of the purple train—
A heath-bell sink at length and die,
Chilled by November's sleety rain!
132
A FAREWELL.
O still on memory dawns the torturing Morn,
That from my Mother's roof beheld me torn!
—I left the humble cot, but durst not tell
My desperate, dark intent, nor say—Farewell.
An aged parent—relic frail of one
Who, sainted, grieves not o'er his wife and son—
With pure maternal fondness all her own,
Walked by my side, and spoke—in wonted tone;
Yet with unwonted eagerness I drank
The sounds—and deep into my heart they sank.
Thus on we passed, until across the road
A mountain streamlet sparkled as it flowed—
Here stood my Mother. Still around her mind
The tales believed in childhood strongly twined.
That from my Mother's roof beheld me torn!
—I left the humble cot, but durst not tell
My desperate, dark intent, nor say—Farewell.
An aged parent—relic frail of one
Who, sainted, grieves not o'er his wife and son—
With pure maternal fondness all her own,
Walked by my side, and spoke—in wonted tone;
Yet with unwonted eagerness I drank
The sounds—and deep into my heart they sank.
Thus on we passed, until across the road
A mountain streamlet sparkled as it flowed—
Here stood my Mother. Still around her mind
The tales believed in childhood strongly twined.
133
“Why have I come? Who part at stream or river,
My son, are parted long—perhaps for ever!”
Another time these words had yielded mirth,
But then they gave to keenest anguish birth;
For dark forebodings thrilled my bosom through,
That now the awful omen might be true.
“How foolish, mother!” and I turned aside
My pang-distorted countenance to hide.
Then, with my bundle under arm, I took
Of her that gave me life, a farewell look!
She marked not—for no tear-drop sought to start,
Though viper-woes were busy at my heart.
She marked it not—and I thenceforth became
A wandering wretch, bereft of ease and fame!
My son, are parted long—perhaps for ever!”
Another time these words had yielded mirth,
But then they gave to keenest anguish birth;
For dark forebodings thrilled my bosom through,
That now the awful omen might be true.
“How foolish, mother!” and I turned aside
My pang-distorted countenance to hide.
Then, with my bundle under arm, I took
Of her that gave me life, a farewell look!
She marked not—for no tear-drop sought to start,
Though viper-woes were busy at my heart.
She marked it not—and I thenceforth became
A wandering wretch, bereft of ease and fame!
1820.
134
TO A SURGEON,
WHO HAD PERFORMED A SUCCESSFUL OPERATION ON MY RIGHT EYE.
I know not whether, on my word,
To thank you for my eye restored!
My left, I find, till now had got
A credit which it merits not;
For sparkle as it may, by th' Mass!
It might as well have been of glass;
And had your blunder spoiled my right,
I must, ere now, have lost my sight.
Then think how grand to have it read,
After one's numbered with the dead,
In some Review whose potent name
Is passport sure to deathless fame,
Lockhart's or Jeffrey's—“We may note,
En passant, what has struck our thought
As a coincidence, that three
The greatest bards the world shall see,
Homer and Milton, and though last,
By neither, we believe, surpassed,
Story, an honour to his kind,
And to his country—all were blind!”
To thank you for my eye restored!
My left, I find, till now had got
A credit which it merits not;
For sparkle as it may, by th' Mass!
It might as well have been of glass;
And had your blunder spoiled my right,
I must, ere now, have lost my sight.
Then think how grand to have it read,
After one's numbered with the dead,
In some Review whose potent name
Is passport sure to deathless fame,
135
En passant, what has struck our thought
As a coincidence, that three
The greatest bards the world shall see,
Homer and Milton, and though last,
By neither, we believe, surpassed,
Story, an honour to his kind,
And to his country—all were blind!”
Now think, this bright association
Of names, which had from generation
To generation praise ensured me,
Your skill prevented when it cured me.
That skill, I own, demands applause,
But then, my Glory 's—where it was;
And this, as it respects my bardship,
Converts your favour to a hardship!
Of names, which had from generation
To generation praise ensured me,
Your skill prevented when it cured me.
That skill, I own, demands applause,
But then, my Glory 's—where it was;
And this, as it respects my bardship,
Converts your favour to a hardship!
136
SONNET,
TO A LAMB.
Poor trembler! thou hast come, when the cold arch
Of Heaven is wild with rushing clouds, and when
Flowers that prepare to deck thy native glen,
Shrink in their foldings from the winds of March.
How bearest thou the thin blast? Hath thy breast
A hope that whispers of a brighter time,
When every storm shall vanish, and the clime
In the deep hush of Summer shall have rest?
Of Heaven is wild with rushing clouds, and when
Flowers that prepare to deck thy native glen,
Shrink in their foldings from the winds of March.
How bearest thou the thin blast? Hath thy breast
A hope that whispers of a brighter time,
When every storm shall vanish, and the clime
In the deep hush of Summer shall have rest?
Dream'st thou of flowery fields and sunny banks,
And spots of smoothest verdure, where, with thee,
A hundred rivals, racing forth in glee,
Shall shake the green-sward with their happy pranks?
Aye, hope and dream! for these may all be thine;
But me—my Spring is past, my Summer hath no shine!
And spots of smoothest verdure, where, with thee,
A hundred rivals, racing forth in glee,
Shall shake the green-sward with their happy pranks?
Aye, hope and dream! for these may all be thine;
But me—my Spring is past, my Summer hath no shine!
137
SONGS.
159
SWEET AS A ROSE.
Sweet as a rose in Morning's tear!
I feel my heart is thine, Mary;
But though I could be now sincere,
Thou never canst be mine, Mary.
I feel my heart is thine, Mary;
But though I could be now sincere,
Thou never canst be mine, Mary.
My soul, though formed for raptures high,
Hath sunk in Passion's storm, Mary;
And 'twere a crime in such as I
To clasp an Angel's form, Mary.
Hath sunk in Passion's storm, Mary;
And 'twere a crime in such as I
To clasp an Angel's form, Mary.
And all my views are wrapped in gloom,
No sunbeam shines on me, Mary,
Thy smile could give them light and bloom,
But that were woe to thee, Mary.
No sunbeam shines on me, Mary,
Thy smile could give them light and bloom,
But that were woe to thee, Mary.
160
No! let me suffer—'tis my fate—
Unwept by mortal eye, Mary;
But O! be thine the happiest state
Beneath the calmest sky, Mary!
Unwept by mortal eye, Mary;
But O! be thine the happiest state
Beneath the calmest sky, Mary!
Then, on the clouds that dim my day,
One thought, to cheer my breast, Mary,
Shall softly shed its rainbow-ray—
The thought that thou art blest, Mary!
One thought, to cheer my breast, Mary,
Shall softly shed its rainbow-ray—
The thought that thou art blest, Mary!
169
TALK ON—EACH FAULT.
Talk on—each fault in Mary blame,
That Hate can think, or Envy frame;
Speak of her beauty and her fame,
Whate'er you say, I'll love her!
I look but on her cheek and eye—
They give your base remarks the lie;
How pure the glance! how fine the dye!
By all that's fair, I love her!
That Hate can think, or Envy frame;
Speak of her beauty and her fame,
Whate'er you say, I'll love her!
I look but on her cheek and eye—
They give your base remarks the lie;
How pure the glance! how fine the dye!
By all that's fair, I love her!
Arouse my pride: she spurns my prayer,
For one, perchance, less worth her care;
Her presence melts that pride to air—
I see her, and I love her!
For one, perchance, less worth her care;
Her presence melts that pride to air—
I see her, and I love her!
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