 | England |  |
145
THE DEATH OF RUFUS. A.D. 1100.
Of that red King, who, while of old,
Through Baldrewood, the chace he led,
By his lov'd huntsman's arrow bled.
—Sir Walter Scott.
Through Baldrewood, the chace he led,
By his lov'd huntsman's arrow bled.
—Sir Walter Scott.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded—dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
Campbell.
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
Campbell.
Ne'er shone such lovely light on English ground!
Clear as pure diamond the heavens do shine;
The wild-bird's note trills forth continual sound,
That still with brook and breeze doth intertwine:
All things in heaven and earth are like divine:
Celestial calm, even like a robe, is spread;
Sound, scent, and sight, harmoniously combine:
There is a silence, quiet as the dead,
That the light aspen leaves e'en shake not overhead!
Clear as pure diamond the heavens do shine;
The wild-bird's note trills forth continual sound,
That still with brook and breeze doth intertwine:
All things in heaven and earth are like divine:
Celestial calm, even like a robe, is spread;
Sound, scent, and sight, harmoniously combine:
There is a silence, quiet as the dead,
That the light aspen leaves e'en shake not overhead!
The deer is stealing slowly through the wood,
Tossing his antlers high, in stately pride;
Or, from his mossy couch, where none intrude,
Cropping the fragrant clover at his side:
The sunbeams creep along his silky hide,
As if they sought him as a silvan god.
Alas, that man earth's empire should divide;
That happy beasts must own his sov'ran nod;
That from sweet Eden's vales his foot hath ever trod!
Tossing his antlers high, in stately pride;
Or, from his mossy couch, where none intrude,
Cropping the fragrant clover at his side:
The sunbeams creep along his silky hide,
As if they sought him as a silvan god.
Alas, that man earth's empire should divide;
That happy beasts must own his sov'ran nod;
That from sweet Eden's vales his foot hath ever trod!
146
But who are they that slowly ride along—
That haughty shape—that gay and gallant knight?
Tyrrell—the King—the burthens of my song!
The glooms on Rufus' brow lie thick as night;
His cheeks are flush'd—his eyes have lost their light;
All red and wild, as if they never slept!
A tyrant cannot rest without affright;
And they do haunt him, who have groan'd and wept—
And they do chain his soul, whom he in chains hath kept.
That haughty shape—that gay and gallant knight?
Tyrrell—the King—the burthens of my song!
The glooms on Rufus' brow lie thick as night;
His cheeks are flush'd—his eyes have lost their light;
All red and wild, as if they never slept!
A tyrant cannot rest without affright;
And they do haunt him, who have groan'd and wept—
And they do chain his soul, whom he in chains hath kept.
Little doth Rufus deem this lovely morn
Shall be his last—this sun for him the last—
That, in this forest, from the murder'd, torn,
Death sounds already his destroying blast:
Th' unwounded deer shall gore him, glancing past—
The rider at his side shall work his doom;
His own lov'd steed shall tramp the corpse aghast—
Alone, unwept, unhonored, in the gloom,
Without one loving heart to weep beside his tomb.
Shall be his last—this sun for him the last—
That, in this forest, from the murder'd, torn,
Death sounds already his destroying blast:
Th' unwounded deer shall gore him, glancing past—
The rider at his side shall work his doom;
His own lov'd steed shall tramp the corpse aghast—
Alone, unwept, unhonored, in the gloom,
Without one loving heart to weep beside his tomb.
The riders now approach the forest's side:
Oh, glorious sight, the slanting sunbeams throw
On the top branches their full luminous tide!
A mighty army seems that mountain's brow,
Such light and glimmer round about it flow;
Kindling the forest trees with sov'ran light:
There breathes a spell to make the heart beat low;
For every forest voice is burst from night,
And gladness breaks its bars, and walks in regal might.
Oh, glorious sight, the slanting sunbeams throw
On the top branches their full luminous tide!
A mighty army seems that mountain's brow,
Such light and glimmer round about it flow;
Kindling the forest trees with sov'ran light:
There breathes a spell to make the heart beat low;
For every forest voice is burst from night,
And gladness breaks its bars, and walks in regal might.
147
The hues of morning love to linger here—
The blaze of noon finds here refreshing green—
The golden towers of evening cluster near,
And shower their glories o'er the kindled scene.
For these sweet shades, full many a bird, I wean,
Leaves other lands, their plumage rich and rare.
O, joy and rapture! lonely to have been,
A wanderer through these solitudes so fair;
Or walk'd with some dear maiden, of the nut-brown hair!
The blaze of noon finds here refreshing green—
The golden towers of evening cluster near,
And shower their glories o'er the kindled scene.
For these sweet shades, full many a bird, I wean,
Leaves other lands, their plumage rich and rare.
O, joy and rapture! lonely to have been,
A wanderer through these solitudes so fair;
Or walk'd with some dear maiden, of the nut-brown hair!
Like to a sleeping beauty is the wood;
Her voice of dreams, the brook that murmurs by,
Her heart, the pulses of deep solitude,
The glancing beams that flash her rapt'rous eye—
Soft as her visions is the deep blue sky,
The hush, the sunny mist, the calm divine:
And, oh! with the sear autumn leaves that fly
Do not her waking sorrows intertwine?
These rainbow hues though fair, oh, Death, are they not thine?
Her voice of dreams, the brook that murmurs by,
Her heart, the pulses of deep solitude,
The glancing beams that flash her rapt'rous eye—
Soft as her visions is the deep blue sky,
The hush, the sunny mist, the calm divine:
And, oh! with the sear autumn leaves that fly
Do not her waking sorrows intertwine?
These rainbow hues though fair, oh, Death, are they not thine?
The King and Tyrrell, wander slowly on
(The surest archer he, of la Belle France;
Gay, gallant, courteous, and surpass'd by none);
But, hark! the woods are waken'd from their trance!
That shriek might rouse the dead!—a single glance,
And Tyrrell hurries to the sounding shore
Across the seas, nor ever looks askance.
The King is slain—his heart-strings leap no more—
His own dark life-blood mix'd with his slain subjects' gore!
(The surest archer he, of la Belle France;
Gay, gallant, courteous, and surpass'd by none);
But, hark! the woods are waken'd from their trance!
That shriek might rouse the dead!—a single glance,
And Tyrrell hurries to the sounding shore
Across the seas, nor ever looks askance.
The King is slain—his heart-strings leap no more—
His own dark life-blood mix'd with his slain subjects' gore!
148
And there were none to smooth his started hair,
And close his eyelids, for the slumb'rous dead:
Fiends gathered near to view his eyeballs glare—
Red demons clutched him by the burning head,
And hideous ghosts within his death-swoon sped.
And now, among the legion'd hosts of hell,
In lowest deep, that king is gone to bed,
Despis'd, abhorr'd—all cursed him when he fell,
And devils, from their caves, came up, and toll'd his knell.
And close his eyelids, for the slumb'rous dead:
Fiends gathered near to view his eyeballs glare—
Red demons clutched him by the burning head,
And hideous ghosts within his death-swoon sped.
And now, among the legion'd hosts of hell,
In lowest deep, that king is gone to bed,
Despis'd, abhorr'd—all cursed him when he fell,
And devils, from their caves, came up, and toll'd his knell.
Such ever be the cruel tyrant's doom!
Let all he eats be turn'd to bitter gall;
May serpents chace his footsteps in the gloom—
May never sleep upon his eyelids fall;
May dire remorse, by day for ever call,
And hunt his path, wherever he may go:
Upon his grave, foul herbs shall weave a pall,
And the loud winds shall curse him when they blow,
And man and nature join to execrate their foe.
Let all he eats be turn'd to bitter gall;
May serpents chace his footsteps in the gloom—
May never sleep upon his eyelids fall;
May dire remorse, by day for ever call,
And hunt his path, wherever he may go:
Upon his grave, foul herbs shall weave a pall,
And the loud winds shall curse him when they blow,
And man and nature join to execrate their foe.
A good king loves his subjects' kingdom's weal;
Wealth, greatness, strength, spring up from such a sway;
Our fields, woods, rivers, seas, and hills reveal
His numerous blessings, and his care repay;
There is no desolation or decay:
War, commerce, arts, and noble deeds are born;
Whilst happy hearts hold constant holiday,
And all the land leaps forth, a Phœnix bright and gay.
Wealth, greatness, strength, spring up from such a sway;
Our fields, woods, rivers, seas, and hills reveal
His numerous blessings, and his care repay;
There is no desolation or decay:
War, commerce, arts, and noble deeds are born;
Whilst happy hearts hold constant holiday,
And all the land leaps forth, a Phœnix bright and gay.
149
Environ'd all around, by breasts of steel—
His people's love—he goeth in and out
Without a fear; no dread his sleep doth feel;
Sweet dreams do flit his wearied brain about:
The fiends that haunt kings' crowns are put to rout,
And for the thorns, fresh roses blossom bright:
He constant hears a people's joyful shout;
And, when he sinks away to endless night,
They kneel upon his grave, and carve his deeds in light.
His people's love—he goeth in and out
Without a fear; no dread his sleep doth feel;
Sweet dreams do flit his wearied brain about:
The fiends that haunt kings' crowns are put to rout,
And for the thorns, fresh roses blossom bright:
He constant hears a people's joyful shout;
And, when he sinks away to endless night,
They kneel upon his grave, and carve his deeds in light.
But the bad king—the tyrant—all men hate;
Accurst his days—his nights as black as hell!
Groans, tears, sighs, blood, beneath his robe of state
Are heard and seen: within his bosom dwell
Remorse, despair, and fears of death, that swell
To ghostly shapes, whatever fancy sees:
The murder'd and the oppress'd toll his knell,
And crowd his grave, and curse him on their knees,
And sing triumphant hymns, and work strange mysteries.
Accurst his days—his nights as black as hell!
Groans, tears, sighs, blood, beneath his robe of state
Are heard and seen: within his bosom dwell
Remorse, despair, and fears of death, that swell
To ghostly shapes, whatever fancy sees:
The murder'd and the oppress'd toll his knell,
And crowd his grave, and curse him on their knees,
And sing triumphant hymns, and work strange mysteries.
| England | |