 | Monody on the death of Adelaide |  |
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MONODY ON THE DEATH OF HER MAJESTY ADELAIDE THE QUEEN DOWAGER.
BY THE HON. JULIAN FANE, FELLOW-COMMONER OF TRINITY COLLEGE. 1850.
“Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon;
And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strow the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
While thou, bright saint, high sitt'st in glory.”
Milton.—Epitaph on the Ms. of Winchester.
Wept for thee in Helicon;
And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strow the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
While thou, bright saint, high sitt'st in glory.”
Milton.—Epitaph on the Ms. of Winchester.
Thee, sad Instructress of the dirge, I woo
Once more from Heaven with downward wing to sweep,
That, taught by thee, I wake no listless strain,
As in crude efforts vain
Slow o'er the strings my lingering fingers creep;
For Albion's Angel-Queen hath fall'n asleep:
And while her grave is wet with mournful dews,
She shall not lack some sad melodious tear
To grace the couch whereon she slumbers deep;
She shall not rest unwept upon her bier.
So from thy home descend, divinest Muse—
From fount Castalian and the Delphic steep
Of old invoked, Melpomene—and teach
The dirge in melting melodies to weep.
Once more from Heaven with downward wing to sweep,
That, taught by thee, I wake no listless strain,
As in crude efforts vain
Slow o'er the strings my lingering fingers creep;
For Albion's Angel-Queen hath fall'n asleep:
And while her grave is wet with mournful dews,
She shall not lack some sad melodious tear
To grace the couch whereon she slumbers deep;
She shall not rest unwept upon her bier.
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From fount Castalian and the Delphic steep
Of old invoked, Melpomene—and teach
The dirge in melting melodies to weep.
Begin then, tuneful daughter of the skies,
With liquid voice endow'd and with the lyre,
Begin, and soft the mournful strain inspire.
Hence with the blaring clarion of renown
And with the laurel'd crown
Which to thy sterner Sister's hand belong;
Twine thou the chaplet of a wreathèd song
Where all sad sounds harmoniously blend,
And to the echoes tell, low-toned, a name
Too pure to pass the braggart lips of Fame.
With liquid voice endow'd and with the lyre,
Begin, and soft the mournful strain inspire.
Hence with the blaring clarion of renown
And with the laurel'd crown
Which to thy sterner Sister's hand belong;
Twine thou the chaplet of a wreathèd song
Where all sad sounds harmoniously blend,
And to the echoes tell, low-toned, a name
Too pure to pass the braggart lips of Fame.
She sleeps in peace upon her lowly bed,
Where Thames with music laves the castled hill:
She sleeps—and nightly on her sacred head
The dews of heaven their sweetest tears distil;
And morn by morn the rosy-bosom'd hours,
To flood the world with light,
Lead up their king upon his chariot bright,
And wake the warbling birds and odorous flowers:
But her no more they wake!—though gladder none
Was wont to view the cheek of Morning rosed,
And gaze the glories of the rising sun.
In vain, alas! the tears of Evening fall;
In vain the early breezes, as they sweep
Through the dark woodland, sigh; and from the spray
Trilling their matins sweet the wild birds call;
For she no more upon the dawning day,
Listening their joyous lay,
Shall bend her wistful eyes for ever closed;
Closed in the night of death's long slumber deep,
But angels wake to guard her dreamless sleep.
Where Thames with music laves the castled hill:
She sleeps—and nightly on her sacred head
The dews of heaven their sweetest tears distil;
And morn by morn the rosy-bosom'd hours,
To flood the world with light,
Lead up their king upon his chariot bright,
And wake the warbling birds and odorous flowers:
But her no more they wake!—though gladder none
Was wont to view the cheek of Morning rosed,
And gaze the glories of the rising sun.
In vain, alas! the tears of Evening fall;
In vain the early breezes, as they sweep
Through the dark woodland, sigh; and from the spray
Trilling their matins sweet the wild birds call;
For she no more upon the dawning day,
Listening their joyous lay,
Shall bend her wistful eyes for ever closed;
Closed in the night of death's long slumber deep,
But angels wake to guard her dreamless sleep.
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Who shall relate, O thou so well beloved!
So well beloved, to all the Muses dear,
Who shall relate how many a dirge for thee
Sorrow, enamour'd of thy memory,
Hath freshly pour'd upon thy honour'd bier!
Bitter lament and voice of mourning drear
Rose from the land forlorn in evil hour,
When from the height of many a leaf-clad tower
In fitful pauses broke the note of woe;
And trembling echoes round
To every ear rehearsed the sullen sound
And knell of thee laid low;
For thou wast loved of every noble mind,
And in each heart thy hallowed name was shrined.
So well beloved, to all the Muses dear,
Who shall relate how many a dirge for thee
Sorrow, enamour'd of thy memory,
Hath freshly pour'd upon thy honour'd bier!
Bitter lament and voice of mourning drear
Rose from the land forlorn in evil hour,
When from the height of many a leaf-clad tower
In fitful pauses broke the note of woe;
And trembling echoes round
To every ear rehearsed the sullen sound
And knell of thee laid low;
For thou wast loved of every noble mind,
And in each heart thy hallowed name was shrined.
Thou, by the Fates to place sublime extoll'd,
Ever didst love, with bashful spirit wise,
To veil thy majesty from others' eyes,
And glide upon thy radiant path unseen!
So walks the Moon her heavenly course serene,
Clothed in the mild effulgence of her grace;
And, prone her glory from the world to shroud,
Curtains her lucent face
In the bleach'd folds of many a vagrant cloud.
Oh! rich-endow'd and by the Muse inspired,
Thou wast not wont among the giddy crowd
With garish pomp to move and glistering pride;
But best, in meek simplicity attired,
With sacred Peace didst love to dwell retired,
And with the throng of Heaven's own nymphs abide—
Pure Faith, with Hope, bright offspring, at her side,
Devotion rapt, and meditative Love,
And Charity, whose sweet gaze melts with ruth,
Bold-brow'd keen-glancing Truth,
And every wanderer from the courts above.
These at the fount of Wisdom undefiled
Drew heavenly precepts mild,
And fed thy soul with pure ethereal food;
Taught thee thy holy task,—to guide the good,
And lead thy people in the paths of peace.
Thee, Shepherdess, the few and faithful sheep
Followed—but they thy sweet voice hear no more,
Nor list thy footfall on the path before,
Climbing the height of Virtue's rugged steep;
For thee they mourn, and all thy people weep;
Nor while the quires their silver dirge prolong
Is mute the simpler song;
In rural hymns with plaintive voice demure,
Sad as low airs that sigh against the leaf,
The children sorrow, and the uncouth poor
In harsher strains record their artless grief.
Not thine the pride that scowls upon the low!
How oft, descending from thy lofty sphere,
Thou cam'st to smoothe the brow and staunch the tear
Of Misery—Angel! these alone may know.
Chill Penury and Want, of all their woe
Oblivious, smiled beneath thy influence bland,
And Childhood knew thy ministering hand.
Ah me! when lapsing to his ocean-rest
The gorgeous Day-star sinks his weary head,
And many a flower that his rich effluence fed
Hangs wan, and droops upon the mother-breast;
Not the chill'd plain shews sadder in her tears,
Than at thy loss the darken'd land appears!
Ever didst love, with bashful spirit wise,
To veil thy majesty from others' eyes,
And glide upon thy radiant path unseen!
So walks the Moon her heavenly course serene,
Clothed in the mild effulgence of her grace;
And, prone her glory from the world to shroud,
Curtains her lucent face
In the bleach'd folds of many a vagrant cloud.
Oh! rich-endow'd and by the Muse inspired,
Thou wast not wont among the giddy crowd
With garish pomp to move and glistering pride;
But best, in meek simplicity attired,
With sacred Peace didst love to dwell retired,
And with the throng of Heaven's own nymphs abide—
Pure Faith, with Hope, bright offspring, at her side,
Devotion rapt, and meditative Love,
And Charity, whose sweet gaze melts with ruth,
Bold-brow'd keen-glancing Truth,
And every wanderer from the courts above.
These at the fount of Wisdom undefiled
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And fed thy soul with pure ethereal food;
Taught thee thy holy task,—to guide the good,
And lead thy people in the paths of peace.
Thee, Shepherdess, the few and faithful sheep
Followed—but they thy sweet voice hear no more,
Nor list thy footfall on the path before,
Climbing the height of Virtue's rugged steep;
For thee they mourn, and all thy people weep;
Nor while the quires their silver dirge prolong
Is mute the simpler song;
In rural hymns with plaintive voice demure,
Sad as low airs that sigh against the leaf,
The children sorrow, and the uncouth poor
In harsher strains record their artless grief.
Not thine the pride that scowls upon the low!
How oft, descending from thy lofty sphere,
Thou cam'st to smoothe the brow and staunch the tear
Of Misery—Angel! these alone may know.
Chill Penury and Want, of all their woe
Oblivious, smiled beneath thy influence bland,
And Childhood knew thy ministering hand.
Ah me! when lapsing to his ocean-rest
The gorgeous Day-star sinks his weary head,
And many a flower that his rich effluence fed
Hangs wan, and droops upon the mother-breast;
Not the chill'd plain shews sadder in her tears,
Than at thy loss the darken'd land appears!
Where were ye, guardian Spirits of the Isle,
Who, whether on the beachèd shore ye dwell,
Or roam the plain, or haunt the secret dell,
Tend ever on your Albion's matchless smile;
Where were ye, Nymphs, upon that fatal morn
When wan-eyed Grief was born
Sole to possess the joy-forsaken land,
And with her dismal band
Darken the sunshine of her happy face?
Alas! what boots it to enquire your place!
For what could ye have done, fond, faithful throng,
Had ye been near, to guard your cherish'd Queen?
If Love, protector vigilant and strong,
(Who ever hover'd round her path, unseen,)
Might from its course the deadly javelin turn,
She had not now slept silent in her shroud!
But from on high proceeds the dread command,
And dire Necessity with equal hand,
Slow as she moves, dispassionate and stern,
Alike unto the gentle and the proud,
Scatters the lot from her capacious urn.
Who, whether on the beachèd shore ye dwell,
Or roam the plain, or haunt the secret dell,
Tend ever on your Albion's matchless smile;
Where were ye, Nymphs, upon that fatal morn
When wan-eyed Grief was born
Sole to possess the joy-forsaken land,
297
Darken the sunshine of her happy face?
Alas! what boots it to enquire your place!
For what could ye have done, fond, faithful throng,
Had ye been near, to guard your cherish'd Queen?
If Love, protector vigilant and strong,
(Who ever hover'd round her path, unseen,)
Might from its course the deadly javelin turn,
She had not now slept silent in her shroud!
But from on high proceeds the dread command,
And dire Necessity with equal hand,
Slow as she moves, dispassionate and stern,
Alike unto the gentle and the proud,
Scatters the lot from her capacious urn.
Ah! what avails it with the great to share
Power and pomp and all the glittering gains
Which to insatiate, fretful Pride belong!
To him, whose brow the galling crown sustains,
Not the blithe carol of the careless throng
That tune their mellow'd song,
Nor sound mellifluous of the warbled string,
Dulcet repose can bring,
Nor to his pillow woo inconstant Sleep;
Innocent Sleep, that loves the shadowy spot
By the lull'd streamlet of the valley, flies
The sounding palace for the peaceful cot.
So false the charm of his illusive lot
Who dwells with Grandeur!—for the serpent Care
Lurks in her courts, and in her garments' fold
Nestles, and ever from his secret lair
Torments the great and proud. “But not the wise”
(Soft at my ear a heavenly voice replies)
“Who, by the Fates among the proud enroll'd,
“Covet not wealth nor yet desire to gain
“Of glory and of power the guerdon vain;
“Wealth need they not,—superfluous to them
“Who in their minds those riches true contain
“Which silver may not purchase, nor the gold
“Of Ophir, nor the Ethiopian gem;
“And to whom Wisdom hath unveil'd her eyes,
“Fame, that in earth's rank praises grossly lies,
“Not glorious seems, nor worthy to be gained;
“But from celestial founts doth glory spring,
“And by the pure alone may be attain'd,
“To whom the all-righteous King,
“From his dread throne in mercy bending down,
“Awards the meed of an immortal crown!”
Power and pomp and all the glittering gains
Which to insatiate, fretful Pride belong!
To him, whose brow the galling crown sustains,
Not the blithe carol of the careless throng
That tune their mellow'd song,
Nor sound mellifluous of the warbled string,
Dulcet repose can bring,
Nor to his pillow woo inconstant Sleep;
Innocent Sleep, that loves the shadowy spot
By the lull'd streamlet of the valley, flies
The sounding palace for the peaceful cot.
So false the charm of his illusive lot
Who dwells with Grandeur!—for the serpent Care
Lurks in her courts, and in her garments' fold
Nestles, and ever from his secret lair
Torments the great and proud. “But not the wise”
(Soft at my ear a heavenly voice replies)
“Who, by the Fates among the proud enroll'd,
298
“Of glory and of power the guerdon vain;
“Wealth need they not,—superfluous to them
“Who in their minds those riches true contain
“Which silver may not purchase, nor the gold
“Of Ophir, nor the Ethiopian gem;
“And to whom Wisdom hath unveil'd her eyes,
“Fame, that in earth's rank praises grossly lies,
“Not glorious seems, nor worthy to be gained;
“But from celestial founts doth glory spring,
“And by the pure alone may be attain'd,
“To whom the all-righteous King,
“From his dread throne in mercy bending down,
“Awards the meed of an immortal crown!”
Return—who first in lowlier strain serene
Inspir'dst my prompted song—return and tell
What plaints lorn Echo, from her aery shell,
Hath sad rehearsed for Albion's gentle Queen!
First, as she rose from Werra's silvery wave,
The Nymph began—“Oh, nursed upon my shores!
“The stream that wont thy infant steps to lave
“In tenderest notes thy heavy lot deplores;
“But not, alas! upon thy distant grave
“The soothing accents fall;” so sad she mourn'd
At even, while the vales her plaint of woe
In sighing replication soft return'd.
Next Father Thames, as with due dirges low
The decent pomp along his banks was led,
Rose from the stream, and clasped his urn and said—
“Thee first my waters welcomed; thee, the bride
“Of royal Clarence, foster'd on the main,
“Whom now, sweet Queen, thou comest with fit train
“Once more to find—sleep softly by his side,
“Sleep: at thy ear my limpid waters flow,
“And the voiced waves make music as they glide.”
Last reverend Camus, as he footed slow,
Heard the far echoes mourn, and from the tide
Which fair reflects his Granta's thoughtful brow,
Uprose and spake—“Sad Nymph! forbear not thou,
“While all the woods with doleful plaints resound,
“To wake thy humble lyre, and softly sing:
“Cherish no more thy silent grief profound!
“But from the chords the melting music fling,
“And lift thy voice and teach the grove to sigh,
“While to the strain my reedy banks reply.”
Inspir'dst my prompted song—return and tell
What plaints lorn Echo, from her aery shell,
Hath sad rehearsed for Albion's gentle Queen!
First, as she rose from Werra's silvery wave,
The Nymph began—“Oh, nursed upon my shores!
“The stream that wont thy infant steps to lave
“In tenderest notes thy heavy lot deplores;
“But not, alas! upon thy distant grave
“The soothing accents fall;” so sad she mourn'd
At even, while the vales her plaint of woe
In sighing replication soft return'd.
Next Father Thames, as with due dirges low
The decent pomp along his banks was led,
Rose from the stream, and clasped his urn and said—
“Thee first my waters welcomed; thee, the bride
“Of royal Clarence, foster'd on the main,
“Whom now, sweet Queen, thou comest with fit train
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“Sleep: at thy ear my limpid waters flow,
“And the voiced waves make music as they glide.”
Last reverend Camus, as he footed slow,
Heard the far echoes mourn, and from the tide
Which fair reflects his Granta's thoughtful brow,
Uprose and spake—“Sad Nymph! forbear not thou,
“While all the woods with doleful plaints resound,
“To wake thy humble lyre, and softly sing:
“Cherish no more thy silent grief profound!
“But from the chords the melting music fling,
“And lift thy voice and teach the grove to sigh,
“While to the strain my reedy banks reply.”
Cease, Albion, saddest mourner, cease to weep,
And to the vales no more, in dirges drear,
Lament thy Queen laid low—she doth but sleep,
Stretch'd though she be upon her sable bier.
So on her couch the slumbering maiden lay,
Nor spoke, nor stirr'd, nor drew the lightest breath,
Till the mild voice of Him who conquer'd Death
Oped the shut portals of her sullen ear,
And on her full orbs gush'd the shining day:
So to the glories of ineffable light
She, who now sleeps in shades of thickest night,
Anon shall lift her Heaven-directed eyes;
Waked by the voice of Him who from afar
Summons His angels home, she shall arise,
And mount aloft, and through the riven skies
Soar to the City of the Morning-Star.
And to the vales no more, in dirges drear,
Lament thy Queen laid low—she doth but sleep,
Stretch'd though she be upon her sable bier.
So on her couch the slumbering maiden lay,
Nor spoke, nor stirr'd, nor drew the lightest breath,
Till the mild voice of Him who conquer'd Death
Oped the shut portals of her sullen ear,
And on her full orbs gush'd the shining day:
So to the glories of ineffable light
She, who now sleeps in shades of thickest night,
Anon shall lift her Heaven-directed eyes;
Waked by the voice of Him who from afar
Summons His angels home, she shall arise,
And mount aloft, and through the riven skies
Soar to the City of the Morning-Star.
Now Albion weeps no more; and through the gloom
Breaks the glad smile that wont her eyes to grace;
And oft, as Memory haunts her Sovereign's tomb,
She to the throne uplifts her happy face:
There still she views the heavenly Virtues bloom,
And sweet Religion blossom in her place;
There—crowned with richest blessings from above,
Listening the music of a nation's love—
Dwells, in all gentleness and truth serene,
The Sister-spirit of the Isle's lost Queen!
Breaks the glad smile that wont her eyes to grace;
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She to the throne uplifts her happy face:
There still she views the heavenly Virtues bloom,
And sweet Religion blossom in her place;
There—crowned with richest blessings from above,
Listening the music of a nation's love—
Dwells, in all gentleness and truth serene,
The Sister-spirit of the Isle's lost Queen!
“I request to have as private and quiet a funeral as possible; and that my coffin be carried by sailors to the chapel.” —Extracts from Her Majesty's last Will.
| Monody on the death of Adelaide | |