England A Historical Poem. By John Walker Ord |
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“NON ANGLI, SED ANGELI FORENT, SI
ESSENT CHRISTIANI.” A.D. 575. |
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“NON ANGLI, SED ANGELI FORENT, SI ESSENT CHRISTIANI.” A.D. 575.
“Yea, childhood is angelic! Not the flowers
That blossom at its feet, more pure and fair!
Its dwelling place is in enchanted bowers
Of love and peace, that, as a brook, run clear—
A mountain brook, that wanders everywhere.
Fair are the fields it touches—fair its sky;
Its sports are kept beyond the court of fear:
‘Heaven dwells about us in our infancy;’
Yea, in our lowliest state, our souls do soar most high.”
England.
That blossom at its feet, more pure and fair!
Its dwelling place is in enchanted bowers
Of love and peace, that, as a brook, run clear—
A mountain brook, that wanders everywhere.
Fair are the fields it touches—fair its sky;
Its sports are kept beyond the court of fear:
‘Heaven dwells about us in our infancy;’
Yea, in our lowliest state, our souls do soar most high.”
England.
Dragg'd far from all their early haunts away:
The stream on which their small ships wont to flow;
The well-known fields,—the comrades' gleesome play,
And the dear love that cloth'd each infant brow;
The mother's bosom—all—far distant now!
Dragg'd forth to the loud streets of haughty Rome;
The noise, the riot, the confusing glow:
O, how their gentle hearts must pant for home,
And the sweet paths, wild-flower'd, where they were wont to roam.
The stream on which their small ships wont to flow;
The well-known fields,—the comrades' gleesome play,
And the dear love that cloth'd each infant brow;
The mother's bosom—all—far distant now!
Dragg'd forth to the loud streets of haughty Rome;
The noise, the riot, the confusing glow:
O, how their gentle hearts must pant for home,
And the sweet paths, wild-flower'd, where they were wont to roam.
For the small cottage, by the green hill-side,
Snow-white, among the trees—half hid, half seen,
Lo! proud St. Peter's, lifts his brow in pride,
And shakes his bells, amid the heavens serene:
Lo! glittering pavements for their pastures green:
Lo! shapes all deck'd in pearl and blazing gem,
For savage painted men, and forest scene,
And youthful princes, with their diadem,
All clad in silken sheen—O, how more rich than them.
Snow-white, among the trees—half hid, half seen,
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And shakes his bells, amid the heavens serene:
Lo! glittering pavements for their pastures green:
Lo! shapes all deck'd in pearl and blazing gem,
For savage painted men, and forest scene,
And youthful princes, with their diadem,
All clad in silken sheen—O, how more rich than them.
And regal pastimes murmur'd at their feet—
And men, in long white robes, past solemn by;
War's trumpet echoed through each marble street,
And Triumph, with his banners, flutter'd nigh;
And Beauty wav'd her scarfs unto the sky:
The wealth of all the earth was gather'd here:
Ne'er shone such grandeur on the dazzled eye,
Of every region, pomp, and splendid cheer,
From the fair fields of Gaul, to Syria's deserts drear.
And men, in long white robes, past solemn by;
War's trumpet echoed through each marble street,
And Triumph, with his banners, flutter'd nigh;
And Beauty wav'd her scarfs unto the sky:
The wealth of all the earth was gather'd here:
Ne'er shone such grandeur on the dazzled eye,
Of every region, pomp, and splendid cheer,
From the fair fields of Gaul, to Syria's deserts drear.
Three hundred children—beautiful!—and, lo!
Along each silken head (were circling fair,
Their golden locks, in burnish'd clusters flow),
The sun-light throws rich hues among their hair:
And they are robed in pure and fresh attire;
And on their cheeks, old mountain-breezes call
The cheerful blood, to revel swift and clear:
Their clear eyes glisten, whilst the eyelids fall,
Half shading the wild light, that circles over all.
Along each silken head (were circling fair,
Their golden locks, in burnish'd clusters flow),
The sun-light throws rich hues among their hair:
And they are robed in pure and fresh attire;
And on their cheeks, old mountain-breezes call
The cheerful blood, to revel swift and clear:
Their clear eyes glisten, whilst the eyelids fall,
Half shading the wild light, that circles over all.
Beautiful!—Well, indeed, the voice did say,
That afterward sent Jesus to our shore,
That ye were angels—not of mortal clay—
Commission'd down from heaven with heavenly lore;
So lovely were the hues that clad ye o'er—
So seraph-like—with nought unfit, unmeet—
So radiant, as if earth was yours no more;
As if the skies had newly touch'd your feet—
As if your blessed shapes just left some heavenly seat.
That afterward sent Jesus to our shore,
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Commission'd down from heaven with heavenly lore;
So lovely were the hues that clad ye o'er—
So seraph-like—with nought unfit, unmeet—
So radiant, as if earth was yours no more;
As if the skies had newly touch'd your feet—
As if your blessed shapes just left some heavenly seat.
And childhood is angelic. 'Tis one hand
Upon the lamb,—one on the lion's mane.
Half seal'd the vision of the distant land:
The near all bath'd in freshest summer rain;
The far-off storm hath neither fear nor pain:
Holy delight, content, and peace, do own
Its laughing courts, and sing the jocund strain.
Childhood hath all things new—for it alone—
Nor knows the coming years of agonies unknown.
Upon the lamb,—one on the lion's mane.
Half seal'd the vision of the distant land:
The near all bath'd in freshest summer rain;
The far-off storm hath neither fear nor pain:
Holy delight, content, and peace, do own
Its laughing courts, and sing the jocund strain.
Childhood hath all things new—for it alone—
Nor knows the coming years of agonies unknown.
Knows not the cruel racks that tear the soul;
The hideous passions, and the pangs of hate:
The fiery thoughts, that rage beyond controul;
The mandates stern, and rude commands of fate.
It knows not of the stormy hosts that wait
Within the chamber'd brain, and cry aloud
Of griefs that wander even in halls of state.
Revenge, ambition, lust, with all their crowd
Of madden'd deeds of death, within its icy shroud.
The hideous passions, and the pangs of hate:
The fiery thoughts, that rage beyond controul;
The mandates stern, and rude commands of fate.
It knows not of the stormy hosts that wait
Within the chamber'd brain, and cry aloud
Of griefs that wander even in halls of state.
Revenge, ambition, lust, with all their crowd
Of madden'd deeds of death, within its icy shroud.
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Yea, childhood is angelic! Not the flowers
That blossom at its feet, more pure and fair!
Its dwelling place is in enchanted bowers
Of love and peace, that, like a brook, run clear—
A mountain brook that wanders everywhere.
Fair are the fields it touches,—fair its sky;
Its joys are held beyond the courts of fear—
“Heaven dwells about us in our infancy;”
Yea, in our lowliest state, our souls do soar most high.
That blossom at its feet, more pure and fair!
Its dwelling place is in enchanted bowers
Of love and peace, that, like a brook, run clear—
A mountain brook that wanders everywhere.
Fair are the fields it touches,—fair its sky;
Its joys are held beyond the courts of fear—
“Heaven dwells about us in our infancy;”
Yea, in our lowliest state, our souls do soar most high.
No marvel, then, its laugh is clear and sweet—
That all pure thoughts do glisten in its eye—
That blooms celestial gather round its feet,
And pleasant dreams do greet it from on high—
That earth and heaven do bring it melody—
That night should be no more than murmurous sleep;
The morning, blessed hope, and sunny sky—
Nothing to know of those that sigh and weep,
And pine, and die, where life's tempestuous billows sweep.
That all pure thoughts do glisten in its eye—
That blooms celestial gather round its feet,
And pleasant dreams do greet it from on high—
That earth and heaven do bring it melody—
That night should be no more than murmurous sleep;
The morning, blessed hope, and sunny sky—
Nothing to know of those that sigh and weep,
And pine, and die, where life's tempestuous billows sweep.
Fair as young sea-birds, wandering o'er the wave,
Or gazing from their cliffs upon the sea;—
Sweet as the flowers that deck a martyr's grave;
Fresh as pure waters, that on mountains be;
Happy as larks, at morning in their glee;
Gentle as is the fawn in shady wood;
And tender as the blossom on the tree,
Are little children: meek, and kind, and good;
True, holy, innocent;—a sky without a cloud.
Or gazing from their cliffs upon the sea;—
Sweet as the flowers that deck a martyr's grave;
Fresh as pure waters, that on mountains be;
Happy as larks, at morning in their glee;
Gentle as is the fawn in shady wood;
And tender as the blossom on the tree,
Are little children: meek, and kind, and good;
True, holy, innocent;—a sky without a cloud.
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And thus the beauteous Saxon children won,
The holy language that begins my lay;
“These blessed things are angels every one,
Did they but know the light of Christian day.”
Their lovely faces gave us priests to pray—
Their cherub looks a Saviour's blessing sent;
And now the sabbath bells make holiday;
And the true living God holds sacrament,
And sends his mission forth unto their pure intent.
The holy language that begins my lay;
“These blessed things are angels every one,
Did they but know the light of Christian day.”
Their lovely faces gave us priests to pray—
Their cherub looks a Saviour's blessing sent;
And now the sabbath bells make holiday;
And the true living God holds sacrament,
And sends his mission forth unto their pure intent.
| England | |