 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
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POEMS.
THE ABBOT OF MUCHELNAYE. (1832-39.)
CANTO THE FIRST.
I
With pale ray—for she hath no fellow yet—The eve-star shineth out above the west;
The sheep-bell tinkles, and the fold is set;
The swinkt kine, one by one, are laid to rest;
The rooks have ceased from chattering in their nest;
And shepherds whistle homeward through the gray
And misty flats, where from the elm-wood's breast
Forth rise, empurpled with the parting day,
The dim embattled tops of solemn Muchelnaye.
II
Before the rosy streak had vanishèdFrom the last cloud that looked upon the sun,
In yonder abbey-pile the mass was said,
The psalm was chanted, and the vespers done:
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In chamber climbed by solitary stair;
And he who laboured in far fields alone
Late passing, hears upon the twilight air
Tu, Jesu, salva me—their deep and secret prayer.
III
The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone,But now he laid his sacred vestment by,
And leaned his crosier on the fretted stone;
He prayeth not, but out into the sky
He looketh forth with wild and dreamful eye,
Under the quatre-foils of many hues
Carved in the clustered mullions broad and high;
Full sorrowfully seems his heart to muse,
And fetches other sighs than holy abbots use.
IV
Belike he hath called up his youthful days,Before he gave his soul to wait on Heaven,
When his steps wandered into downward ways;
And he has thought of sins to be forgiven,
Like thunder-strokes athwart his conscience riven;
But all the fond admissions of his youth
Long since by prayer and penance have been shriven;
And he hath offered up, in shame and sooth,
His sad and peccant soul at the bright shrine of Truth.
V
But he hath much to do with earthly sighs;There is a vision of pure loveliness,
Linked to a thousand painful memories
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He kneeleth to his prayer, but not the less
That rising sorrow will not be represt:
He prayeth, but his lot he may not bless;
He drops his arms, erewhile that crossed his breast,
And counsels how his sad heart he may lighten best.
VI
Yet time has been when he was bold and gay,A boy of open brow and lordly mien;
Him on his proud steed, at the rise of day,
First in the field his father's hills have seen,
To rouse the forest deer; and time has been
When he hath whispered words in lady's bower,
And wandered not alone in sward-paths green,
What time he wooed and won, in luckless hour,
The high-born Lady Agnes of St Dunstan's tower.
VII
One life-consuming thought his peace destroys;Before his memory pass in wild array,
As they have passed full often, all the joys
That rose and set upon his bridal day;
Oh, might he see that priest, who could betray
The secret trusted to his troth to keep,
And could that morn the solemn service say
With inward plot of treachery dark and deep;—
But let him rest—for vengeance will not alway sleep.
VIII
That form of saintly beauty, robed in white,With yielded hand; his heart in bliss intense
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Those downward eyes of maiden innocence;
That first sweet look of wedded confidence;—
And then the armèd grasp, the short reply,—
The dizzy swoon that feetered all his sense;—
The waking underneath the portal high,
In the faint glimmering light, with pale monks standing by.
IX
He hath had power; but, all athirst for love,He passed it by, and tasted not: the earth
Each summer-tide, in meadow and in grove,
Teemed with the riches of her yearly birth;—
High music and the sounds of holy mirth,
Evening and morning, fell upon his ear;—
But all this, heard or seen, was nothing worth,
So there were wanting one sweet voice to cheer;
Were this his Eden ground, he finds no helpmate here.
X
His not “the sickening pang of hope deferred,”Nor calm dismission of a treasure lost,
But anguish deep, unwritten and unheard,
Of the full heart amidst fulfilment crost;
When most assured, then downward smitten most.
Yet did the lamp of love burn upward bright;
Yet did the flame, though by fierce tempest tost,
With ever-constant and consoling light
In solitude pierce through his spirit's darkest night.
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XI
His waking thoughts with sorrow trafficked most:But when the gentle reign of sleep began,
Then through a varied and uncounted host
Of pleasant memories his free fancy ran;
Sometimes the heavenly harps their strain began,
Responsive quiring to each angel-hand;
And brightest throned amidst the high divan,
Sweetest in voice of all the sainted band,
Was she—his wedded spouse—the glory of that land.
XII
Sometimes through twilight fields or summer groveThey went in converse; and the wondrous power
Of world-creation viewed by light of love;
Sometimes he saw her with a blessèd dower
Of fairest children, and each little flower
Grow into beauty, and its station keep
Around their common life;—thus the night-hour
Would pass dream-hallowed, and then faithless sleep
Steal from his widowed couch, and he would wake and weep.
CANTO THE SECOND.
I
It is the solemn midnight; and the moonHard by the zenith holds her solemn state,
And yon flushed star will westward dip full soon
Behind the elms that gird the abbey-gate;—
There stair and hall are drear and desolate;
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Save the appointed ones on Heaven that wait,
Wafting upon the hushed unlistening air
Tu, Jesu, salva nos—their deep and night-long prayer.
II
In low flat lines the slumbering dew-mist broodsAlong the reaches of the Parret-stream;
And on the far-off vales and clustered woods
Dwells, like the hazy daylight of a dream;
Piled over which, the dusky mountains seem
As a new continent, whose headlands steep
Within his day's fair voyage now doth deem
Some mariner, whose laden vessels creep
Across the dim white level of the severing deep.
III
In the mid prospect, from its shadowy screenRises the abbey-pile; each pinnacle
Distinct with purest light; save where, dark green,
The ivy-clusters round some buttress dwell,
The sharp and slender tracery varying well;
Perfect the group, and to poetic gaze
Like a fair palace, by the potent spell
Of old magician summoned from the haze,
Some errant faery knight to wilder with amaze.
IV
But list! the pendant on the wicket-latchHath rung its iron summons; and the sight
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A muffled figure, as of some lone wight
Belated in the flats this summer night,
And seeking refuge in the abbey near:
Again those strokes the slumbering band affright,
And cause the wakeful choir, in doubt and fear,
To pause amid their chant, and breathless bend to hear.
V
Slow moves the porter, heavy with the loadOf age and sleep; some newly happened ill,—
Some way-side murder,—doth his heart forebode;
And at the wicket come, he pauseth still,
And on his brow the icy drops distil;
Till a faint voice admission doth implore;
“Open, blest fathers, the night-damps are chill;
So may your abbot's holy aid restore
One whose life falters now at death's uncertain door.”
VI
The smaller wicket first he inward turnsFor caution and assurance; then as slow
By the dim taper-light that flickering burns,
Scans well the stranger, whether friend or foe;
Then stooping draws the massy bolt below,
Well satisfied that such a form as stands
Before him now no treachery can know,
Can bear no weapon in those trembling hands,
Nor be the wily scout of nightly prowling bands.
VII
A holy woman is it, who desires92
Of God in heaven, who each one's life requires
At each one's brother's hand, call thou him here,
Or point me where he rests, that I may clear
My soul of that wherewith I am in trust;
For she who sent me to her end is near:
And who shall make amendment, or be just,
When the pale eye hath mingled with its kindred dust?”
VIII
“Sister,—for by thy russet garb I guessThou art of yonder saintly company
Whose frequent hymns our holy Mother bless,
Borne hither from St Mary's Priory,
Hard is it for one chilled with age like me
To do thine urgent bidding; close behind
The landing of yon steep stair dwelleth he
Of whom thou speakest; sleep doth seldom bind
His eyelids; wakeful unto prayer thou shalt him find.”
IX
Up the strait stair the long-robed figure glides,The while the aged man his taper's light
Trims, and with friendly voice the stranger guides,
Till the dark buttress hides her from his sight;
And then he peers abroad into the night,
Crossing himself for fear of aught unblest;
For sprites and fairies, when the moon is bright,
Weave their thin dances on the meadow's breast,
And sharp rays pierce the tombs, and rouse the dead from rest.
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X
He looks not long,—for down the stairs of stoneFootsteps are sounding, and from forth the pile
Passes the stranger, but not now alone.
“Here, brother Francis, let thy keys a while
Rest in my keeping; I will thee assoil
From aught that in mine absence may befall;
So wilt thou spare thyself thy watch and toil
For my return; my blessing guards ye all;
For I must forth, when sorrow for my help doth call.”
XI
The abbot speaks; and they two glide alongIn the dim moonlight, till the meadow haze
Enwraps them from the sight: the trees among,
And down the windings of the gleamy ways
They pass; and cross the Parret-stream, ablaze
With flickering ripples; then they track the moor,
Even till they reach St Mary's Priory;
Ere which, the dark-robed stranger goes before,
And without speech admits them through a lowly door.
XII
It is a humble chamber; and a groupOf holy sisters, in their work of love,
Over some prostrate form are seen to stoop,
And in the feeble glimmering slowly move;
And now the abbot sees, bending above,
One stretched in anguish on the pavement there;
In wild unrest her white arms toss and rove;
On the dark floor is spread her tangled hair,
And with convulsive gasps she draws the sounding air.
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XIII
But see, she beckons, and he draweth near;Again she beckons; and that sisterhood
Slowly retreat from what they may not hear;
The last is gone;—and now, with life endued,
The abbot's form that lady rose and viewed;
“Sir monk, I am not as I seem this hour!”
He trembles—nay, let no chill doubt intrude—
It is, it is—thine own, thy bride, thy flower,
The high-born Lady Agnes of St Dunstan's tower!
CANTO THE LAST.
I
“Here is no place for greeting: fly afarBefore the absent sisterhood return.
In my well-sembled agony, yon star
I watched, whose westering rays now faintly burn:
It symbols forth my fate; and wouldst thou learn
What bodes this meeting, ere it dips below
The mountain-range which thou canst just discern,
Safe refuge must be won; for as we go,
Shining, it bodeth joy: but sunken, tears and woe.”
II
She speaks, and forth into the gleamy nightThey pass together; dim and ill-defined
Their thoughts;—now wandering with the mazy light
Of the wan moon, now with the moaning wind.
Thus do great issues of a sudden joined
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Waiting the judgment of the ordering mind,
Who clears the vision with her influence pure,
And lights up memory's lamps along the steep obscure.
III
But whither shall they fly?—the night's high noonHath past, and she is faint and weary grown:
“Lady, the abbey-gate is reached full soon:
There can I hide thee; in those towers of stone
Are secret chambers kenned by me alone,
Where I can tend thee, while the coming day
Shall bring thee rest; then when its light hath flown,
Mine be it, in maturer thought, to say
How we may shape our course to regions far away.”
IV
With hurried steps to gain those towers they press;But ere they reached them, had that lady's sight
Not earthward drooped for very weariness,
She might have seen that clear symbolic light
First fainter wane, then vanish from the night.
The other marked its dying radiance well;
But he was one whom omens could not fright:
But, 'spite his better judgment, sooth to tell,
Faintness struck through his heart, and broke joy's rapturous spell.
V
The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone,And by him sits the lady of his love;
The crosier leans upon the fretted stone,
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He prayeth not—for he can never move
His fond eyes from that lovely lady's brow;
Whose downcast looks seem gently to reprove
The scheme that riseth in their wishes now,
To doff the saintly veil, and break the chartered vow.
VI
They gaze upon each other earnestly,Scarce daring to discover but in look
What each might read of in the other's eye.
Belike ye wonder, what such question shook
The firm resolve that erst their spirits took;—
In sooth, God's vows were on them both; but yet
The first law in the heaven-descended book,
Firmer that veil or chartered vow, is set;
Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet.
VII
Oh, who can sound the depth of human joy,The fathomless tranquillity of bliss!
Clear shine the eyes, when in their calm employ
They scan some form which they have wept to miss;
Quick through the being thrills the mystic kiss
Of wife, or clinging child; light pass the days
Though sad, with such to cheer; and sweet it is
To sit, and even unto tears to gaze
On flowers which Love hath given to bloom beside our ways.
VIII
Long hours have flown, to wedded rapture given;97
Which murmurs, with its quick shrill pulses riven,
The matin bell sounds forth, calling to prayer,
The abbey-brotherhood and hamlets near:
Then spoke the abbot: “Part we for an hour;
Then follow me into a refuge near,
A hiding-place within this solid tower,
Known but to those who here have held this highest power.”
IX
He leadeth her a dark and narrow way,Along the windings of that hidden stair;
They might see nothing of the rising day,
Until that he had brought his lady dear
Unto a chamber, rudely fashioned, near
The top roof of the abbey-pile, and lit
By one small window, where the hour of prayer
Secure from rude intrusion she might sit,
And watch the morning clouds along the landscape flit.
X
“Say ye she left Saint Mary's PrioryThis night?—perchance she roameth in the glade,
Or seeketh some lone cottage wearily:
Strict search for her in this our abbey made
Hath found no trace; each hiding-place displayed
Shows no such tenant: and our holy chief
Tells how he left her on your pavement laid,
What time she sunk exhausted by her grief,
After confession gave her prisoned woes relief.”
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XI
Past is all peril now—the search is done,Past the spare meal, and spent the hour of prayer;
The holy men are singly pent each one
In chamber climbed by solitary stair:
And quickly as the anxious lover dare
He seeks with throbbing heart that nest secure:
“Rejoice, my wedded love, my life, my fair!
Our way is straight, our course is safe as pure,
Our life of love and joy from disappointment sure.”
XII
He found her,—as ye find some cherished budOf early primrose, when the storm is past,
Crushed by the vexing of the tempest flood;—
Prostrate and pale she lay, for Death had cast
His Gorgon spell upon her: thick and fast
The abbot's bursting heart did upward beat.
A while benumbed he stood: Reason at last
Fled with the wild crash from her central seat,
And all his soul within him burned with maddening heat!
XIII
Three hundred years, above the tall elm-woodOne ivied pinnacle hath signified
The place where once the abbey-pile hath stood.
A hundred years before, the abbot died,—
A man of many woes: one summer-tide
They found his coffin in the churchyard-wall;
And when they forced the stony lid aside,
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Even as the spirit left it—pale and tear-worn all.
XIV
And often, down that dark and narrow way,Along the windings of that hidden stair,
Sweeps a dim figure, as the rustics say,
And tracks the path even to the house of prayer:
What in the dusky night it doeth there,
None may divine, nor its return have met;
Only, upon the hushed and listening air
Strange words, as men pass by, are sounding yet:
Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet!
Muchelney—“the great island”—is a village in the moors of Somersetshire, two miles south-west of Langport. There are the remains of a Benedictine abbey, founded by King Athelstan. The buildings are of the later Gothic, or perpendicular style.
The river Parret, which, rising in the Dorsetshire hills, flows across the moors of Somersetshire, and empties itself into the Bristol Channel, below Bridgewater.
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THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY, (1832.)
INTRODUCTION.
Glastonbury, anciently called Avalon, is a place much celebrated both in tradition and history. It was here, according to old legends, when the neighbouring moors were covered by the sea, that St Joseph of Arimathea landed, and built the first church in England. It was here that the glorious King Arthur was buried, with the inscription:—
Hic jacet Arturus, rex quondam, rexque futurus.
It was here that the scarcely less glorious King Alfred took sanctuary,
and hence that he went into voluntary obscurity when the Danes invaded
England. Here also was built that magnificent abbey, whose riches and
hospitality were known to all Christendom. Its last abbot was murdered
on the Tor Hill by order of Henry the Eighth, and the building was sacrificed
to the misguided fury of the Reformation. The very ruins are now
fast perishing.
The Quantock Hills, alluded to in the following poem, are in the autumn profusely covered with the mingled blossoms of heath and furze.
The hills have on their royal robesOf purple and of gold,
And over their tops the autumn clouds
In heaps are onward rolled;
Below them spreads the fairest plain
That British eye may see,—
From Quantock to the Mendip range,
A broad expanse and free.
The magnificent views from the Quantock Hills above Nether Stowey, where this poem was written, embrace the whole of the moor district of Somersetshire, with the bare hills and wooded capes which bound this singular tract of country, and the Tor of Glastonbury and Mendip Hills in the distance.
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Rolled off the morning mist,
Leaving the eyesight unrestrained
To wander where it list,
So roll thou ancient chronicler,
The ages' mist away;
Give me an hour of vision clear,
A dream of the former day.
At once the flood of the Severn sea
Flowed over half the plain,
And a hundred capes, with huts and trees,
Above the flood remain:
'Tis water here and water there,
And the lordly Parret's way
Hath never a trace on its pathless face—
As in the former day.
Of shining sails that thronged that stream
There resteth never a one;
But a little ship to that inland sea
Comes bounding in alone;
With stretch of sail and tug of oar
It comes full merrily,
And the sailors chant, as they pass the shore,
Tibi gloria Domine.
“Nights and days on the watery ways
Our vessel hath slidden on,
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Our stores have long been done;
Sweet Jesus hath sped us over the wave,
By coasts and along the sea,
And we sing, as we pass each rising land,
Tibi gloria Domine.
“Sweet Jesus hath work for us to do
In a land of promise fair;
Our vessel is steered by an angel-hand
Until it bring us there:
To our Captain given, a sign from heaven
Our token true shall be;
And we sing, as we wait for the Promise-sign,
Tibi gloria Domine.
“When a dark-green hill shall spire aloft
Into the pure blue sky,
Most like to Tabor's holy mount
Of vision blest and high;
Straight to that hill our bounding prow
Unguided shall pass and free;
Sweet Jesus hath spoken, and we believe:
Tibi gloria Domine.”
Thus far they sung, and at once a shout
Pealed upward loud and clear;
For lo, the vessel onward ran
With never a hand to steer;
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Towered up into the sky,
Most like to Tabor's holy mount
Of vision blest and high.
Now raise the song, ye faithful crew,
Let all the uplands hear;
It fitteth Salvation's messengers
To be of joyous cheer;
For Avalon isle ye make the while,
By angel-pilot's hand;
Right onward for that pointed hill,
Straight to the sloping land.
Each arm is resting, and every eye
With thankful tear is bright;
Thus spake one high upon the prow,
Feeding his forward sight:
“The word of God is just and true,
And the mountains green that stand
To the left and right in the morning light
Lead on to our Promise-land.
“Sweet Jesus hath broken the sepulchre,
And pours His golden grace,
Clothing the earth with the joy of birth,
In every fairest place:
His servant asked a token sure,
And a token sure is given;
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Is Lord of earth and heaven.”
By this the vessel had floated nigh
To the turf upon the strand,
And first that holy man of joy
Stepped on the Promise-land;
Until the rest, in order blest,
Were ranged, and kneeling there,
Gave blessing to the God of heaven
In a lowly-chanted prayer.
Then over the brow of the seaward hill
In their order blest they pass,
At every change in the psalmody
Kissing the holy grass;
Till they come where they may see full near
That pointed mountain rise,
Darkening with its ancient cone
The light of the eastern skies.
“This staff hath borne me long and well,”
Then spake that Saint divine,
“Over mountain and over plain,
In quest of the Promise-sign;
For aye let it stand in this western land,
And God do more to me
If there ring not out from this realm about,
Tibi gloria Domine.”
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And voices of melody,
And a ring of harps, like twinkles bright,
Come over the inland sea;
Long and loud is the chant of praise—
The hallowed ages glide;
And once again the mist from the plain
Rolls up the Mendip side.
With mourning stole and solemn step,
Up that same seaward hill,
There moved of ladies and of knights
A company sad and still;
There went before an open bier,
And, sleeping in a charm,
With face to heaven and folded palms,
There lay an armèd form.
It is the winter deep, and all
The glittering fields that morn
In Avalon's isle were oversnowed—
The day the Lord was born;
And as they cross the northward brow,
See white, but not with snow,
The mystic thorn beside their path
Its holy blossoms show.
They carry him where from chapel low
Rings clear the angel-bell:
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So chant the requiem well:
His wound was deep, and his holy sleep
Shall last him many a day,
Till the cry of crime in the latter time
Shall melt the charm away.
A cloud is on them—the vision fades—
And cries of woe and fear,
And sounds unblest of neighbouring war,
Are thronging on mine ear:
Long and loud was the battle-cry,
And the groans of them that died;
And once again the mist from the plain
Rolls up the Mendip side.
From the postern-door of an abbaye pile
Passes with heavy cheer
A soldier-king in humble mien,
For the shouting foes are near;
The holy men by their altars bide,
In alb and stole they stand;
The incense-fumes the temple fill
From blessèd children's hand.
Slow past the king that seaward brow,
Whence turning he might see,
Streaming upon Saint Michael's Tor,
The pagan blazonry;
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And rolling next on high
Dark vapour, laced with threads of flame,
Angered the twilight sky.
The cloud comes on—the vision is changed—
And songs of victory,
And hymns of praise to the Lord of Peace,
Come over the inland sea;
The waters clear, the fields appear,
The plain is green and wide;
And once again the mist from the plain
Rolls up the Mendip side.
The plats were green with lavish growth,
And, like a silver cord,
Down to the northern bay the Brue
Its glittering water poured:
Far and near the pilgrims throng,
With staff and humble mien,
Where Glastonbury's crown of towers
Against the sky is seen.
By the holy thorn and the holy well,
And St Joseph's silver shrine,
They offer thanks to highest Heaven
For the light and grace divine;
In the open cheer of the abbaye near,
They dwell their purposed day,
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Each on his homeward way.
The cloud drops down, the vision is changed,
And an altered sound of pride,
And a glitter of pomp is cast athwart
The meadows green and wide.
The servants of a lowly Lord
On earth's high places ride;
And once again the mist from the plain
Rolls up the Mendip side.
The strong man armed hath dwelt in peace
Till a stronger hath sacked his home;
And the Church that married the pride of the earth
By the earth is overcome:
There hath sounded forth upon the land
That wicked king's behest,
And Lust and Power from Lust and Power
A blighted triumph wrest.
The winds are high in Saint Michael's Tor,
And a sorry sight is there,—
A dark-browed band, with spear in hand,
Mount up the turret-stair;
With heavy cheer and lifted palms
There kneels a holy priest;
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To hold their rapine-feast.
The cloud comes on them—the vision is changed—
And a crash of lofty walls,
And the short dead sound of music quenched,
On the sickened hearing falls;
Quick and sharp is the ruin-cry—
Unblest the ages glide;
And once again the mist from the plain
Rolls up the Mendip side.
Low sloping over sea and field
The setting ray had past,
On roofs and curls of quiet smoke
The glory-flush was cast.
Clustered upon the western side
Of Avalon's green hill,
Her ancient homes and fretted towers
Were lying, bright and still;
And lower, in the valley-field,
Hid from the parting-day,
A brotherhood of columns old,
A ruin rough and gray;
And over all, Saint Michael's Tor
Spired up into the sky:
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Of vision blest and high.
The vision changeth not—no cloud
Comes down the Mendip side;
The moors spread out beneath my feet
Their free expanse and wide;
On glittering cots and ancient towers,
That rise among the dells,
On mountain and on bending stream
The light of evening dwells.
I may not write—I cannot say
What change shall next betide;
Whether that group of columns gray
Untroubled shall abide;
Or whether that pile in Avalon's isle
Some pious hand shall raise,
And the vaulted arches ring once more
With pealing chants of praise.
Speed on, speed on: let England's sons
For England's glories rise;
And England's towers that lowly lie
Lift upward to the skies:
Till there go up from England's heart,
In peace and purity,
From temple-aisle and cottage-hearth,
Tibi gloria Domine.
111
THE PASSION OF ST AGNES, (1833.)
Near the town of Romulus,
Faithful Maid and Martyr blest,
Agnes hath her sepulchre;
From her holy place of rest
She can see the city-towers;
She can hear the city stir.
Faithful Maid and Martyr blest,
Agnes hath her sepulchre;
From her holy place of rest
She can see the city-towers;
She can hear the city stir.
Double crown of martyrdom
She hath granted her;
Chaste unspotted virginal,
Glory of a willing death.
Christ-devoted, she had scorned
Idol-sacrifice to pay;—
They had searched her long and sore,
Balancing her soul between
Offers thick of ease and bliss,
Iron-hearted threats of pain;
Mild and proud she looked on them:
“Ye may take and try me here;
So believe me, as ye see
Joy look from me in the fires,
Praises when ye list for cries.”
She hath granted her;
Chaste unspotted virginal,
Glory of a willing death.
Christ-devoted, she had scorned
Idol-sacrifice to pay;—
They had searched her long and sore,
Balancing her soul between
Offers thick of ease and bliss,
Iron-hearted threats of pain;
Mild and proud she looked on them:
“Ye may take and try me here;
So believe me, as ye see
Joy look from me in the fires,
Praises when ye list for cries.”
Then the stark tormentor said,
“It is easy to hush down
Struggling pain when life is cheap;
But she hath a precious gem;
Do she not our sacrifice,
Into public place impure
Be she led, and peril make
Of the pearl she loveth best;
Life she selleth but to buy
Visions of untasted bliss;
May be she will sell her dreams
To redeem her chastity.”
“It is easy to hush down
Struggling pain when life is cheap;
But she hath a precious gem;
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Into public place impure
Be she led, and peril make
Of the pearl she loveth best;
Life she selleth but to buy
Visions of untasted bliss;
May be she will sell her dreams
To redeem her chastity.”
Then the holy Agnes said,
“Deem ye never that my Christ
Will forget His chosen so,
As to let the golden crown
Of my virgin brow be dimmed;
Ye may crust your steel with blood,
But my Christ and I have sworn
These His members bright and pure
Earthly lust shall never soil.”
“Deem ye never that my Christ
Will forget His chosen so,
As to let the golden crown
Of my virgin brow be dimmed;
Ye may crust your steel with blood,
But my Christ and I have sworn
These His members bright and pure
Earthly lust shall never soil.”
Thus she boasted, and was led
Blessèd, in unblessed wise,
Where the public pavements meet;
There she stood, and every face
Of the reverential crowd
Turned away in fear and shame,
That they might not lightly look
On the holy treasure there:
One alone with slippery eye
Rashly dared her form to scan;
Swiftly leapt the wingèd fire
Down upon his truant sight;
Dazzled with the glory-flame
Prone he fell, and quivering lay;
Him his comrades lifted slow,
Bore away with words of dole.
Blessèd, in unblessed wise,
Where the public pavements meet;
There she stood, and every face
Of the reverential crowd
Turned away in fear and shame,
That they might not lightly look
On the holy treasure there:
One alone with slippery eye
Rashly dared her form to scan;
Swiftly leapt the wingèd fire
Down upon his truant sight;
Dazzled with the glory-flame
113
Him his comrades lifted slow,
Bore away with words of dole.
She in holy triumph went
Hymning Christ with liquid song;—
One step hath she neared the door
Of the palace of the skies,
Yet another she must climb;—
Angry shouts the vanquished foe
Fierce defiance—Bare thy sword,
Do our hest, and strike her low!
Hymning Christ with liquid song;—
One step hath she neared the door
Of the palace of the skies,
Yet another she must climb;—
Angry shouts the vanquished foe
Fierce defiance—Bare thy sword,
Do our hest, and strike her low!
When the blessed Agnes saw
Near her gleam the naked blade,
“This,” she cried, with lightsome cheer,
“Is the lover shall be mine;
Rather this, though icy chill
Be its edge and pitiless,
Than some youth of odours breathing,
Falsest vows in roses wreathing.
I will go to meet its suit;
So with Christ above the arch
Of yon heaven, a Virgin Spouse,
Shall my marriage-feast begin.
Husband, roll thou back the doors
Of thy golden banquet house;
Call me, I will follow thee,
Virgin Victim, Virgin Spouse!”
Near her gleam the naked blade,
“This,” she cried, with lightsome cheer,
“Is the lover shall be mine;
Rather this, though icy chill
Be its edge and pitiless,
Than some youth of odours breathing,
Falsest vows in roses wreathing.
I will go to meet its suit;
So with Christ above the arch
Of yon heaven, a Virgin Spouse,
Shall my marriage-feast begin.
Husband, roll thou back the doors
Of thy golden banquet house;
Call me, I will follow thee,
Virgin Victim, Virgin Spouse!”
So she spoke, and bent her head
Blessed, in adoring wise;
Once above her gleamed the steel,
Then the sacred river flowed
That makes glad the city of God,
Then her spirit bounded forth
Free into the liquid air;
Angels lined her upward way
With a path of snowy light.
Marvelling she beholds the earth
Underspread her mounting feet,
Sees the shades beneath her roll
Round about the monstrous world;
Laughs to scorn the life of men
Tossed on waves of vanity;
Laughs the pomp of kings to scorn,
Robes, and gilded palaces,
Thirst of gold, and lust of power,
All our envy, all our hope.
Blessed, in adoring wise;
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Then the sacred river flowed
That makes glad the city of God,
Then her spirit bounded forth
Free into the liquid air;
Angels lined her upward way
With a path of snowy light.
Marvelling she beholds the earth
Underspread her mounting feet,
Sees the shades beneath her roll
Round about the monstrous world;
Laughs to scorn the life of men
Tossed on waves of vanity;
Laughs the pomp of kings to scorn,
Robes, and gilded palaces,
Thirst of gold, and lust of power,
All our envy, all our hope.
Agnes in her triumph high,
Faithful Maid and Martyr blest,
Treading in her victory
On the ancient dragon's crest,
Crowned by God with double crown
On thy clear and shining brow,
Happy Virgin, looks she down
On the souls that wrestle now.
Faithful Maid and Martyr blest,
Treading in her victory
On the ancient dragon's crest,
Crowned by God with double crown
On thy clear and shining brow,
Happy Virgin, looks she down
On the souls that wrestle now.
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HYMN TO THE SUN, (1832.)
Methinks my spirit is too free
To come before thy presence high,
Obtruding on the earth and sky
Aught but their solemn joy at greeting thee;
Methinks I should confess
Some awe at standing in the way
Of this thy pomp at birth of day,
Troubling thy sole unrivalled kingliness.
To come before thy presence high,
Obtruding on the earth and sky
Aught but their solemn joy at greeting thee;
Methinks I should confess
Some awe at standing in the way
Of this thy pomp at birth of day,
Troubling thy sole unrivalled kingliness.
Glorious conqueror! unfolding
Over the purple distance
Thy might beyond resistance
Upon the charmèd earth, that waits beholding
The fulness of thy glory, ere she dare
To tell thee she rejoices
With all her myriad voices,
Too modest-meek thy first-born joys to share.
Over the purple distance
Thy might beyond resistance
Upon the charmèd earth, that waits beholding
The fulness of thy glory, ere she dare
To tell thee she rejoices
With all her myriad voices,
Too modest-meek thy first-born joys to share.
As the mingled blazing
Of a pomp of armed bands,
Over a strait into other lands,
Gladdens the sea-boy from the cliff-side gazing;
Watching the dazzling triumph pass,
Rolling onward deep and bright
With shifting waves of light,
From floating of crimson banners, and horns of wreathed brass;
Of a pomp of armed bands,
Over a strait into other lands,
Gladdens the sea-boy from the cliff-side gazing;
Watching the dazzling triumph pass,
Rolling onward deep and bright
With shifting waves of light,
From floating of crimson banners, and horns of wreathed brass;
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As the beacon to that scout of old,
Searching the benighted sky,
With watch-wearied eye,
Brought sudden gratulation manifold;
Bridging all the furrowed waves between
Ida and Athos, and the Lemnian steep,
And Ægiplanctus, and the deep
Roll of the bay of Argos, with a track of sheen;
Searching the benighted sky,
With watch-wearied eye,
Brought sudden gratulation manifold;
Bridging all the furrowed waves between
Ida and Athos, and the Lemnian steep,
And Ægiplanctus, and the deep
Roll of the bay of Argos, with a track of sheen;
So joyous on this eastward-fronting lawn
After the keen-starred night
The lifting of thy light
Fulfilleth all the promise of the dawn;
Like the bursting of a golden flood
Now flowing onward fast
Over the dewy slopes, now cast
Among flushed stems on yonder bank of wood.
After the keen-starred night
The lifting of thy light
Fulfilleth all the promise of the dawn;
Like the bursting of a golden flood
Now flowing onward fast
Over the dewy slopes, now cast
Among flushed stems on yonder bank of wood.
With such a pomp methinks thou didst arise
When hand in hand, divinely fair,
The fresh-awakened pair
Stood gazing from thick-flowered Paradise;
Uncertain whether thou wert still the same
They saw sink down at night,
Or some great new-created light,
Or the glory of some seraph as he downward came.
When hand in hand, divinely fair,
The fresh-awakened pair
Stood gazing from thick-flowered Paradise;
Uncertain whether thou wert still the same
They saw sink down at night,
Or some great new-created light,
Or the glory of some seraph as he downward came.
Thus didst thou rise that first unclouded morn
Over the waters blank and still,
When on the Assyrian hill
Rested the ark, and the new world was born;
And when upon the strange unpeopled land,
With hands outspread and lifted eyes,
Stood round the primal sacrifice,
Under a bright-green mount, the patriarchal band.
Over the waters blank and still,
When on the Assyrian hill
Rested the ark, and the new world was born;
117
With hands outspread and lifted eyes,
Stood round the primal sacrifice,
Under a bright-green mount, the patriarchal band.
With seven-fold glory thou shalt usher in
The new and mighty birth
Of the latter earth;
With seven days' light that morning shall begin,
Waking new songs and many an Eden-flower;
While over the hills and plains shall rise
Bright groups and saintly companies,
And never a cloud shall blot thee—never a tempest lour.
The new and mighty birth
Of the latter earth;
With seven days' light that morning shall begin,
Waking new songs and many an Eden-flower;
While over the hills and plains shall rise
Bright groups and saintly companies,
And never a cloud shall blot thee—never a tempest lour.
Æschyl. Agamemnon. The scout was set on the palace of Agamemnon at Mycenæ, to receive by beacons the intelligence of the capture of Troy.
HYMN TO THE SEA, (1832.)
Who shall declare the secret of thy birth,
Thou old companion of the circling earth?
And having reached with keen poetic sight
Ere beast or happy bird,
Through the vast silence stirred,
Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night?
Thou old companion of the circling earth?
And having reached with keen poetic sight
Ere beast or happy bird,
Through the vast silence stirred,
Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night?
Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves
Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves
Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb;
Whose ancient awful form,
With inly-tossing storm,
Unquiet heavings kept,—a birth-place and a tomb.
Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves
Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb;
Whose ancient awful form,
With inly-tossing storm,
Unquiet heavings kept,—a birth-place and a tomb.
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Till the life-giving Spirit moved above
The face of the waters, with creative love
Warming the hidden seeds of infant light:
What time the mighty word
Through thine abyss was heard,
And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright.
The face of the waters, with creative love
Warming the hidden seeds of infant light:
What time the mighty word
Through thine abyss was heard,
And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright.
Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say,
In the old prime were fashioned in one day;
And therefore thou delightest evermore
With her to lie and play
The summer hours away,
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore.
In the old prime were fashioned in one day;
And therefore thou delightest evermore
With her to lie and play
The summer hours away,
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore.
She is a married matron long ago,
With nations at her side; her milk doth flow
Each year: but thee no husband dares to tame;
Thy wild will is thine own,
Thy sole and virgin throne;
Thy mood is ever changing,—thy resolve the same.
With nations at her side; her milk doth flow
Each year: but thee no husband dares to tame;
Thy wild will is thine own,
Thy sole and virgin throne;
Thy mood is ever changing,—thy resolve the same.
Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee;
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea
Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise;
While the round vault above
In vast and silent love
Is gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea
Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise;
While the round vault above
In vast and silent love
Is gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes
All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan,
Counting the weary minutes all alone;
Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie,
Deep-blue, ere yet the sun
His day-work hath begun,
Under the opening windows of the golden sky.
Counting the weary minutes all alone;
119
Deep-blue, ere yet the sun
His day-work hath begun,
Under the opening windows of the golden sky.
The Spirit of the mountain looks on thee
Over an hundred hills; quaint shadows flee
Across thy marbled mirror; brooding lie
Storm-mists of infant cloud,
With a sight-baffling shroud
Mantling the gray-blue islands in the western sky.
Over an hundred hills; quaint shadows flee
Across thy marbled mirror; brooding lie
Storm-mists of infant cloud,
With a sight-baffling shroud
Mantling the gray-blue islands in the western sky.
Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky,
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast;
Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill,
Pierces with deadly chill
The wet crew, feebly clinging to their shattered mast.
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky,
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast;
Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill,
Pierces with deadly chill
The wet crew, feebly clinging to their shattered mast.
Foam-white along the border of the shore
Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar;
While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide
Cloaked figures, dim and gray
Through the thick mist of spray,
Watchers for some struck vessel in the boiling tide.
Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar;
While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide
Cloaked figures, dim and gray
Through the thick mist of spray,
Watchers for some struck vessel in the boiling tide.
Daughter and darling of remotest eld,—
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld;
His arm is feeble, and his eye is dim:
He tells old tales again,
He wearies of long pain:
Thou art as at the first: thou journeyedst not with him.
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld;
His arm is feeble, and his eye is dim:
He tells old tales again,
He wearies of long pain:
Thou art as at the first: thou journeyedst not with him.
120
A DREAM, (1840.)
The night that is now past hath been to meA time of wakeful, sleepful fancies: oft
Have I been whirled aloft and rapt away
By some fierce gale: oft in some garden-plot
Laid, in the scent of woodbine and of lilac,
While the laburnum hung its yellow locks
Above me, prisoning in, with flowery chains,
A slumbrous nook, aglow with golden light
Before that night a weary time had past,
A night of anxious thoughts and frequent prayers:
And they have left their traces on my spirit,
Now that pure calm hath come, and thankful joy.
But most of all, one dream I will relate,
Of import not obscure:—'tis a strange tale—
An errant, broken tale; and as the tale,
The measure wanders. Listen: it ran thus.
THE DREAM.
I.
Light was upon the sea,
The calm unbroken mirror
Of the level sea:
And ye might look around
For many a league each way,
And ye should see no moving thing,
Nor object that had shape:
But light upon the sea,—
The calm unbroken mirror
Of the level sea.
The calm unbroken mirror
Of the level sea:
And ye might look around
For many a league each way,
And ye should see no moving thing,
Nor object that had shape:
But light upon the sea,—
The calm unbroken mirror
Of the level sea.
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A dimple in the centre of the view:
And then a spreading circle,
One and then another,
Onward, outward spreading:
Even to the verge of heaven
Do those circles calmly roll;
And the sleeping light
Is all disquieted,
And leaps among the shining furrows
Of the waveful sea.
And then a spreading circle,
One and then another,
Onward, outward spreading:
Even to the verge of heaven
Do those circles calmly roll;
And the sleeping light
Is all disquieted,
And leaps among the shining furrows
Of the waveful sea.
From the centre rising
Is a pillar mist-enwrapt,
A shining chrysalis
Of some being beautiful;
For, lo, the mist is clearing,
And a perfect form
Is hovering o'er the gently swelling waves;
A perfect form, but small
As is some fairy sprite
Of mediæval tales.
Is a pillar mist-enwrapt,
A shining chrysalis
Of some being beautiful;
For, lo, the mist is clearing,
And a perfect form
Is hovering o'er the gently swelling waves;
A perfect form, but small
As is some fairy sprite
Of mediæval tales.
II.
The mighty sea again.
And now the eastern sun
Shone freshly on the water,
That leapt and sparkled bright,
As joyous for the sheen;
Each wavelet had its crest
Of dancing shivering foam;
And far as ye might see
Into the glowing south
They chased each other merrily.
Not as before, unbounded
Was the gladsome sea:
A shore with beetling cliffs
Hung o'er the breaking spray,
And pure white sands beneath
Bordered a breezy bay;
And sporting on those sands
That same fair form I saw.
And now the eastern sun
Shone freshly on the water,
That leapt and sparkled bright,
As joyous for the sheen;
Each wavelet had its crest
Of dancing shivering foam;
And far as ye might see
Into the glowing south
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Not as before, unbounded
Was the gladsome sea:
A shore with beetling cliffs
Hung o'er the breaking spray,
And pure white sands beneath
Bordered a breezy bay;
And sporting on those sands
That same fair form I saw.
Now would he lie and gaze
Up to the deep-blue heaven;
Now count the sparkling stones
Within his infant reach;
Now listen the curved shells
Answering the ocean's roar;
Now would he tempt those waters
Unclothed and beautiful
As is some ancient marble
Of love's wingèd god,
And float in ecstasy
Over the floating waves,
And let them bear him onward
To the smooth sand's verge.
Up to the deep-blue heaven;
Now count the sparkling stones
Within his infant reach;
Now listen the curved shells
Answering the ocean's roar;
Now would he tempt those waters
Unclothed and beautiful
As is some ancient marble
Of love's wingèd god,
And float in ecstasy
Over the floating waves,
And let them bear him onward
To the smooth sand's verge.
III.
I saw the sea again:
But it was now once more
The great unbounded ocean,
But not mirror-calm,
Nor in wavelets broken:
It was in tumult dire
Of angry tossing billows,
Like unquiet monsters
Rolling in their agony
Over their watery couch.
But it was now once more
The great unbounded ocean,
But not mirror-calm,
Nor in wavelets broken:
It was in tumult dire
123
Like unquiet monsters
Rolling in their agony
Over their watery couch.
And ere I long had looked,
Again appeared that form,
Now stronger knit, and grown
Even to years mature.
His strength had trial sore;
For in that plunge of waters
A little boat he guided,
Rowing with all his power,
And guiding while he rowed.
Loud creaked his burdened barque
Not long: a crested billow
Fell headlong, and the vessel
Was seen no more; but him
I saw with vigorous stroke
Mounting the valley-sides
Between the towering waves.
Again appeared that form,
Now stronger knit, and grown
Even to years mature.
His strength had trial sore;
For in that plunge of waters
A little boat he guided,
Rowing with all his power,
And guiding while he rowed.
Loud creaked his burdened barque
Not long: a crested billow
Fell headlong, and the vessel
Was seen no more; but him
I saw with vigorous stroke
Mounting the valley-sides
Between the towering waves.
IV.
Still the cliff-bounded sea.
And it was summer noon,
And all the land was still;
But on the water's face
The merry breeze was playing,
Whitening a chance wave here and there;
And the dipping sea-birds
Sported, and screamed around;
And numberless white sails
Spotted the pleasant water.
It was a sight of joy,
That made the bosom full.
And it was summer noon,
And all the land was still;
But on the water's face
The merry breeze was playing,
Whitening a chance wave here and there;
And the dipping sea-birds
Sported, and screamed around;
And numberless white sails
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It was a sight of joy,
That made the bosom full.
Anon a gay and gallant boat
Flew by with canvas stretched
And straining to the wind,
Crushing each wave and making music harsh
As on its way it sped.
In it was that same form,
The spectre of my dream,
Now in mid years, and pale
Methought, and over-watched;
But he was not alone:
A light and lovely shape
Beside him sitting there
Steered that his boat along.
Flew by with canvas stretched
And straining to the wind,
Crushing each wave and making music harsh
As on its way it sped.
In it was that same form,
The spectre of my dream,
Now in mid years, and pale
Methought, and over-watched;
But he was not alone:
A light and lovely shape
Beside him sitting there
Steered that his boat along.
Right joyously she went,
And merry was the sound
Of voice, and voice replying,
Just wafted to my ears
As the trim vessel passed.
And merry was the sound
Of voice, and voice replying,
Just wafted to my ears
As the trim vessel passed.
V.
'Tis evening on the sea.
The fiery orb of heaven
Hath hid his last bright twinkle
Under yon western line;
And no star yet looks forth
From the blank unvaried sky.
Again 'tis breathless calm
Upon the ocean's face;
And the gray mournful light
Lies still upon the water,
Save where the cliff high-turreted
Is imaged deep beneath.
The fiery orb of heaven
Hath hid his last bright twinkle
Under yon western line;
And no star yet looks forth
From the blank unvaried sky.
125
Upon the ocean's face;
And the gray mournful light
Lies still upon the water,
Save where the cliff high-turreted
Is imaged deep beneath.
Among the rocks surf-whitened,
Sitting, or wandering slow,
Was that same form again,
Alone, and sorrow-marked;
His eye was lustreless,
And ever and anon
He raised his hands aloft,
And spoke to one above him;
But, as it seemed, none heard,
For still he wandered sad,
And I could see the tears
Spring from his brimming eyes,
And fall upon those rocks.
Sitting, or wandering slow,
Was that same form again,
Alone, and sorrow-marked;
His eye was lustreless,
And ever and anon
He raised his hands aloft,
And spoke to one above him;
But, as it seemed, none heard,
For still he wandered sad,
And I could see the tears
Spring from his brimming eyes,
And fall upon those rocks.
And once again he looked
Into the fading sky,
Where one scarce-visible star
Had lit its twinkling lamp;
Which when he saw, he smiled,
And a more copious flood
Of tears rained down his cheek;
Till on those barren stones,
For very weariness of grief,
He laid him down to die.
Into the fading sky,
Where one scarce-visible star
Had lit its twinkling lamp;
Which when he saw, he smiled,
And a more copious flood
Of tears rained down his cheek;
Till on those barren stones,
For very weariness of grief,
He laid him down to die.
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VI.
It was the noon of night.
Upon the ocean's breast
The vast concave of heaven
Was downward imaged, bright
With throbbing stars: no rest
The roving eye might find;
Horizon there was none,
But vast infinitude
Spread over and below.
Upon the ocean's breast
The vast concave of heaven
Was downward imaged, bright
With throbbing stars: no rest
The roving eye might find;
Horizon there was none,
But vast infinitude
Spread over and below.
Down from the upper air
Self-poised a pillar glided,
Such as I saw erewhile,
But dark and mournful all:
Then first was manifest
The polished ocean-surface;
For into its calm breast
Passed this array of woe;
And I could see, as slow
It sunk, that same appearance,
But in a dismal garb
Of death-array. The sea
Closed over without noise.
Self-poised a pillar glided,
Such as I saw erewhile,
But dark and mournful all:
Then first was manifest
The polished ocean-surface;
For into its calm breast
Passed this array of woe;
And I could see, as slow
It sunk, that same appearance,
But in a dismal garb
Of death-array. The sea
Closed over without noise.
My dream was done. But as I woke, clear sounds
As of celestial music were around me;
And spite of that last scene of death and woe,
My spirit was all-joyous; and the day
Throughout, some voice was sounding in my ear,
“He is not here, but risen!”
As of celestial music were around me;
And spite of that last scene of death and woe,
My spirit was all-joyous; and the day
Throughout, some voice was sounding in my ear,
“He is not here, but risen!”
My dream was, Life!
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |