 | Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth] |  |
202
HAMPTON COURT.
Fair are thy gardens, Hampton—haunts of kings,—
Where nature lingers, and where art still clings;
Thine are the fountains and the silvery streams
Which fling their music o'er a land of dreams.
Each gnarled tree which rears its head appears
Fraught with the history of bygone years;
When the gay princely train have sought thy shade,
The plumēd warrior and the high-born maid.
The shrubs which bloom, the statues seem to be
As chroniclers, unfolding mystery;
And waking up the dead.—Lo! lo! they rise,
To people once again earth's paradise!—
Where nature lingers, and where art still clings;
Thine are the fountains and the silvery streams
Which fling their music o'er a land of dreams.
Each gnarled tree which rears its head appears
Fraught with the history of bygone years;
When the gay princely train have sought thy shade,
The plumēd warrior and the high-born maid.
The shrubs which bloom, the statues seem to be
As chroniclers, unfolding mystery;
And waking up the dead.—Lo! lo! they rise,
To people once again earth's paradise!—
See Wolsey's form advance with measured pace,
Veiling his pride beneath a show of grace;
And Henry too, his master, stands and frowns,—
Dark meanings lurk beneath those earthly crowns
Which princes wear—there passion's voice has power,
Urging the soul to madness—fatal dower!
Ah! I remember, how within these gates
A captive queen bemoaned her adverse fates,
And drooped, and pined, and died,—unmourned her doom
By him, whose harshness laid her in the tomb.
Oh! Henry—what a catalogue of crimes
History still furnishes to latest times,
And bears thy name to nations yet unborn,
A blessing and a curse—a praise and scorn!
Veiling his pride beneath a show of grace;
203
Dark meanings lurk beneath those earthly crowns
Which princes wear—there passion's voice has power,
Urging the soul to madness—fatal dower!
Ah! I remember, how within these gates
A captive queen bemoaned her adverse fates,
And drooped, and pined, and died,—unmourned her doom
By him, whose harshness laid her in the tomb.
Oh! Henry—what a catalogue of crimes
History still furnishes to latest times,
And bears thy name to nations yet unborn,
A blessing and a curse—a praise and scorn!
Power is a gift from Heaven to rulers sent,
The seal to mark a rightful government,
In justice and in mercy,—not t' oppress
The weak, the suffering in their great distress,
But rather to protect the laws which bind
The king enthronēd, as the lowly hind;
Example leads the crowd, and woe to thee
Oh! king, whose subjects groan to be set free—
Free from thy tyranny's despotic pow'r,—
When life was sacrificed to pleasure's hour,
And all that beauty, all that virtue gave,
Was cast by thee within the dreary grave.
The seal to mark a rightful government,
In justice and in mercy,—not t' oppress
The weak, the suffering in their great distress,
But rather to protect the laws which bind
The king enthronēd, as the lowly hind;
Example leads the crowd, and woe to thee
Oh! king, whose subjects groan to be set free—
Free from thy tyranny's despotic pow'r,—
When life was sacrificed to pleasure's hour,
And all that beauty, all that virtue gave,
Was cast by thee within the dreary grave.
204
Within thy regal chambers, let me gaze
O'er all the painter there has left for praise;
View the rich colours in the landscape glow,
And steep my senses in the streamlet's flow;
Entrancēd stand before each beauteous face,
And own that art has nature's polished grace.
Cold is the heart which does not own thy power,
Oh! beauty, sovereign in the court and bower!
Cold is the heart which would neglect thy shrine,
Nor lingering bow, and own thy sway divine!
E'en kings have worship'd thee, have lost their crown,
For thy sweet solace sacrificed renown;
Ventured their hopes below, their Heaven above
For the soft rapture of some houri's love.
Here beam those love-lit eyes, which, Charles, for thee
Shone all too brightly, and enslaved the free;
And lips which speak of passion; cheeks, whose dye
Is like the rose-leaf'neath an orient sky.
O'er all the painter there has left for praise;
View the rich colours in the landscape glow,
And steep my senses in the streamlet's flow;
Entrancēd stand before each beauteous face,
And own that art has nature's polished grace.
Cold is the heart which does not own thy power,
Oh! beauty, sovereign in the court and bower!
Cold is the heart which would neglect thy shrine,
Nor lingering bow, and own thy sway divine!
E'en kings have worship'd thee, have lost their crown,
For thy sweet solace sacrificed renown;
Ventured their hopes below, their Heaven above
For the soft rapture of some houri's love.
Here beam those love-lit eyes, which, Charles, for thee
Shone all too brightly, and enslaved the free;
And lips which speak of passion; cheeks, whose dye
Is like the rose-leaf'neath an orient sky.
These are thy boast, oh! Hampton,—and more rare
Than these are Raphael's works beyond compare;
His was the poetry—the fire—the mind
Which genius flings around her sons refined—
The rich conception—the divine controul—
The vast sublimity which stamps the whole.
Thou, great immortal Raphael! souls like thine
May leave a monument and raise a shrine
For future ages' worship; and the flame
Shall light full many a votary to fame,—
Give to the quivering lip—the palid brow
A calm assurance, and accept their vow.
Than these are Raphael's works beyond compare;
His was the poetry—the fire—the mind
Which genius flings around her sons refined—
The rich conception—the divine controul—
The vast sublimity which stamps the whole.
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May leave a monument and raise a shrine
For future ages' worship; and the flame
Shall light full many a votary to fame,—
Give to the quivering lip—the palid brow
A calm assurance, and accept their vow.
Yet art thou now deserted!—Kings no more
Doze on thy beds of down, nor tread thy floor;
No tables groan beneath their rich repast,
And all is silent as the dreamy past.
Where once the prince had led the festal train,
A menial waits and hopes for public gain
From souls perchance as mean; they look—they stare,
And with the crowd applaud where most is glare;
The echoing walls respond the senseless sound
Prolonging clamour with repeated bound,
Till the doors close and locks are duly turned,
And art and beauty are again inurned.
Doze on thy beds of down, nor tread thy floor;
No tables groan beneath their rich repast,
And all is silent as the dreamy past.
Where once the prince had led the festal train,
A menial waits and hopes for public gain
From souls perchance as mean; they look—they stare,
And with the crowd applaud where most is glare;
The echoing walls respond the senseless sound
Prolonging clamour with repeated bound,
Till the doors close and locks are duly turned,
And art and beauty are again inurned.
Hampton, farewell! I burst the bonds which bind
My haunted fancy, my enraptured mind,
And quit thy charm'd retreat—yet still a sigh
Back to thy shades will all unheeded fly;
Imagination lends her fervid glow,
And bids again thy bowers to bud and blow—
Wakes the low singing of the bright cascade,
And fans the flowers which all too quickly fade.
Intensity o'erwhelms my o'erwrought soul,
And memory's glass reflects the splendid whole!
My haunted fancy, my enraptured mind,
And quit thy charm'd retreat—yet still a sigh
Back to thy shades will all unheeded fly;
206
And bids again thy bowers to bud and blow—
Wakes the low singing of the bright cascade,
And fans the flowers which all too quickly fade.
Intensity o'erwhelms my o'erwrought soul,
And memory's glass reflects the splendid whole!
| Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth] | |