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FAIR ROSAMOND. REIGN OF HENRY II. A.D. 1154—1189.
Love is strong as death: jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof
are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.—Bible.
Her crisped locks, like threads of gold,
Appear'd to each man's sight;
Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles,
Did cast a heavenlye light.
Appear'd to each man's sight;
Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles,
Did cast a heavenlye light.
The blood within her crystal cheekes
Did such a colour drive,
As though the lilye and the rose
For mastership did strive.
Did such a colour drive,
As though the lilye and the rose
For mastership did strive.
Yea, Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde—
Her name was called so,
To whom one queen, Dame Ellinor,
Was known a deadly foe.
Old Ballad of Fair Rosamonde.
Her name was called so,
To whom one queen, Dame Ellinor,
Was known a deadly foe.
Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa Mundi; non Rosa Munda;
Non redolet, sed olet, quœ redolere solet.
Fair Rosamond's Epitaph at Godstowe.
Non redolet, sed olet, quœ redolere solet.
Fair Rosamond's Epitaph at Godstowe.
Would that the soul might hold its topmost height,
For aye the same as in its loftiest mood!
As—sometimes, walking in the moonlit night;
And, sometimes, in the woodland solitude,
When heavenly music fills the speechless wood;
Sometimes, when ocean singeth at our feet;
Or, when the mountain voices are our food;
Or, when low night-winds murmur wild and sweet;
Or, when, 'mid vision'd hills, the spirit hath its seat!
For aye the same as in its loftiest mood!
As—sometimes, walking in the moonlit night;
And, sometimes, in the woodland solitude,
When heavenly music fills the speechless wood;
Sometimes, when ocean singeth at our feet;
Or, when the mountain voices are our food;
Or, when low night-winds murmur wild and sweet;
Or, when, 'mid vision'd hills, the spirit hath its seat!
168
Thus, as I wander'd through the woods along,
Half thought, half dream, thy stately presence came,
Fair Rosamond, and thou ling'redst with me long;
And had I given thee then my vision's name,
For ever hadst thou borne immortal fame.
I saw thee 'mid the leaves of thy fresh bower—
Thy forehead crested with the eve's mild flame—
Thy tresses clustering in a sunny shower;
And thou wert deck'd and gay as any eastern flower.
Half thought, half dream, thy stately presence came,
Fair Rosamond, and thou ling'redst with me long;
And had I given thee then my vision's name,
For ever hadst thou borne immortal fame.
I saw thee 'mid the leaves of thy fresh bower—
Thy forehead crested with the eve's mild flame—
Thy tresses clustering in a sunny shower;
And thou wert deck'd and gay as any eastern flower.
The sky was a deep hush'd and solemn blue;
The airs of evening wander'd on her head;
The chesnut blooms shower'd down their shadowy hue,
And the birds sung from out their leafy bed—
Celestial hymns that might awake the dead;
A brook sent forth its tremulous warble near;
And the young flowers their sweetest fragrance shed:
O never dwelt a thing so pure and fair,
Since our first mother made even Eden's light more clear!
The airs of evening wander'd on her head;
The chesnut blooms shower'd down their shadowy hue,
And the birds sung from out their leafy bed—
Celestial hymns that might awake the dead;
A brook sent forth its tremulous warble near;
And the young flowers their sweetest fragrance shed:
O never dwelt a thing so pure and fair,
Since our first mother made even Eden's light more clear!
Was it in middle air those voices sang?
Or round the rainbow's rim? or from the deep
Abysm of cloud? or was it the sweet clang
Of hymning spheres—the stars melodious sleep?
Or where a comet doth through ether sweep?
Never before such ecstacy was mine—
Such rapture; in my wonderment I weep!
Sure heaven hath open'd; for such strains divine,
And seraph harmonies, round God's own footstool shine.
Or round the rainbow's rim? or from the deep
Abysm of cloud? or was it the sweet clang
Of hymning spheres—the stars melodious sleep?
Or where a comet doth through ether sweep?
Never before such ecstacy was mine—
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Sure heaven hath open'd; for such strains divine,
And seraph harmonies, round God's own footstool shine.
A tear, some dream had loosen'd from her brain,
Lay, like a morning dew-drop, down her face;
It was not sorrow, and it was not pain,
But a dim restlessness had ta'en the place
Of former joy and love; and the clouds' trace
Half veil'd the glory of her constant light—
Yet, O how lovely; what celestial grace
Lay round that frame, all spiritual and bright;
Scarce could my eyes behold, so dazzling was the sight!
Lay, like a morning dew-drop, down her face;
It was not sorrow, and it was not pain,
But a dim restlessness had ta'en the place
Of former joy and love; and the clouds' trace
Half veil'd the glory of her constant light—
Yet, O how lovely; what celestial grace
Lay round that frame, all spiritual and bright;
Scarce could my eyes behold, so dazzling was the sight!
And Woodstock wav'd his groves around her head,
And shower'd sweet music from his leafy shroud,
And ivy, where the white-rose had its bed,
And sings the honey-bee; and where aloud
All voices speak as of their mistress proud.
Alas, alas, that such a pleasant scene
Should fear the wild wind and the winter cloud!
That what is now so fresh, and bright, and green,
Should lose its hues—all fade, where such delight hath been!
And shower'd sweet music from his leafy shroud,
And ivy, where the white-rose had its bed,
And sings the honey-bee; and where aloud
All voices speak as of their mistress proud.
Alas, alas, that such a pleasant scene
Should fear the wild wind and the winter cloud!
That what is now so fresh, and bright, and green,
Should lose its hues—all fade, where such delight hath been!
She should have liv'd in the grand olden time,
Ere heav'n had left the earth, and drawn away
The golden links that bound them—when, sublime,
Spirits and demi-gods held rule and sway,
In that heroic and celestial day,
When all were kings and queens—and, sweeter still,
When vision liv'd in groves; when fairies lay
On grass and flowers; and every stream and rill
Held guardian shapes, that turn'd all hymnings to their will.
Ere heav'n had left the earth, and drawn away
The golden links that bound them—when, sublime,
Spirits and demi-gods held rule and sway,
In that heroic and celestial day,
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When vision liv'd in groves; when fairies lay
On grass and flowers; and every stream and rill
Held guardian shapes, that turn'd all hymnings to their will.
Ah, Rosamond, little reck'd it that a king
Lay in thy snowy arms, and watch'd thine eyes!
Death came from far, and shook his awful wing,
Nor heeded the sweet murmur of thy sighs.
The moon and stars, from out their native skies,
Behold the wild rose blossom on thy grave;
The low winds send their solemn minstrelsies;
A requiem soundeth from the distant wave;
And fame hath shower'd thee gems from out her inmost cave.
Lay in thy snowy arms, and watch'd thine eyes!
Death came from far, and shook his awful wing,
Nor heeded the sweet murmur of thy sighs.
The moon and stars, from out their native skies,
Behold the wild rose blossom on thy grave;
The low winds send their solemn minstrelsies;
A requiem soundeth from the distant wave;
And fame hath shower'd thee gems from out her inmost cave.
What though by marriage bands unsanctified?
A sweeter heart ne'er beat in human breast;
And when a king upon that bosom sigh'd,
And to those glowing beauties closely prest,
'Twas truest love, and thou wert truly blest.
Love is a heaven, free as the boundless air;
In woman's heart it hath its sweetest rest—
In woman's heart—its dearest home is there—
And most it dwelt with her, our “Rosamond, the Fair.”
A sweeter heart ne'er beat in human breast;
And when a king upon that bosom sigh'd,
And to those glowing beauties closely prest,
'Twas truest love, and thou wert truly blest.
Love is a heaven, free as the boundless air;
In woman's heart it hath its sweetest rest—
In woman's heart—its dearest home is there—
And most it dwelt with her, our “Rosamond, the Fair.”
O, Love! that in the calmest woodland way,
And even in palace, and the castled hall,
And in poor huts, hast ne'er a holiday,
And “never does run smooth.” In vain I call
Dead phantoms from beneath oblivion's pall!
Did not sweet Laura wrestle with best love?
Lucretia, Cleopatra—wake—and all
Who wont in the heart's paradise to rove;
Their bleeding breasts are bare—their eyeballs will not move.
And even in palace, and the castled hall,
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And “never does run smooth.” In vain I call
Dead phantoms from beneath oblivion's pall!
Did not sweet Laura wrestle with best love?
Lucretia, Cleopatra—wake—and all
Who wont in the heart's paradise to rove;
Their bleeding breasts are bare—their eyeballs will not move.
[_]
ERRATA.
Page.171 Erase the last two stanzas, as well as the Note, which is misapplied. The cause of such an error as this, and some of the others, can only have arisen from the unexpected illness and death of a young gentleman, a friend of the author, and of uncommon talent, genius, and promise, who, in the necessary absence of the author, had undertaken the task of correcting the proofs. The lamentable death of a person of such astonishing genius, has been a great loss not only to the author, but the world. But of this, perhaps, anon.
Broken the golden cup—the silver bowl,
Of Hope—her blessed sunlight pass'd away!
The joys that bloom'd of their own sweet accord
In youth's glad spring, in dust and sackcloth lay:
What of the earth remains save in its clay?
Her buried lord—her dearest Arthur dead!
She feels the winter, while 'tis yet but May,
And darkness steals the sunlight from her head,
Who walk'd but late a bride, unto her marriage bed.
Of Hope—her blessed sunlight pass'd away!
The joys that bloom'd of their own sweet accord
In youth's glad spring, in dust and sackcloth lay:
What of the earth remains save in its clay?
Her buried lord—her dearest Arthur dead!
She feels the winter, while 'tis yet but May,
And darkness steals the sunlight from her head,
Who walk'd but late a bride, unto her marriage bed.
And so, at last, she pined away and died,
And, like a love-sick maiden, wither'd slow—
That shape on which a god might gaze in pride—
That face divine, and that celestial brow,
Bright eyes, and eyelids, white as mountain snow—
That swan-like neck, that gently heaving breast,
Are fruit, where hungry Death may banquet now!
Send—send thy warmest radiance from the west,
O, Sun, upon the grass and flowers where she doth rest!
And, like a love-sick maiden, wither'd slow—
That shape on which a god might gaze in pride—
That face divine, and that celestial brow,
Bright eyes, and eyelids, white as mountain snow—
That swan-like neck, that gently heaving breast,
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Send—send thy warmest radiance from the west,
O, Sun, upon the grass and flowers where she doth rest!
Love had a bower of old, and in the shade
Fed on the holiest dreams—but they are gone;
And all its flowers are wither'd in the glade;
And its sweet birds that sung in heavenliest tone—
And came in summer dreams—their task is done!
O, blessed Time, when shall we view again
Such perfect passion through our visions run?
When, when shall cease this weary round of pain?
And when shall love commence his jubilee again?
Fed on the holiest dreams—but they are gone;
And all its flowers are wither'd in the glade;
And its sweet birds that sung in heavenliest tone—
And came in summer dreams—their task is done!
O, blessed Time, when shall we view again
Such perfect passion through our visions run?
When, when shall cease this weary round of pain?
And when shall love commence his jubilee again?
No more Fair Rosamond tends her summer flowers,
Nor kisses them before they fail and die!
No more, within sweet Woodstock's pleasant bowers,
She hears each little songster's lullaby,
Nor the small brooks that ever murmur by.
No more the rising or the setting sun
She views—each wonder of the changing sky;
She sleepeth in sweet rest, and all alone—
Her golden cup run out—her earthly labour done.
Nor kisses them before they fail and die!
No more, within sweet Woodstock's pleasant bowers,
She hears each little songster's lullaby,
Nor the small brooks that ever murmur by.
No more the rising or the setting sun
She views—each wonder of the changing sky;
She sleepeth in sweet rest, and all alone—
Her golden cup run out—her earthly labour done.
Even as an angel they have laid her down—
Shriv'd of her woman's weakness, sanctified
From spot or stain, even in her dying swoon.
So fair, the clay will never touch her side;
The death-dews never spoil her tresses' pride;
Along her dainty limbs no grave-worms crawl!
Her name is with the fairest that have died;
No sweeter shape is in the immortal hall—
No lovelier flower e'er died when the sharp winds did call.
Shriv'd of her woman's weakness, sanctified
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So fair, the clay will never touch her side;
The death-dews never spoil her tresses' pride;
Along her dainty limbs no grave-worms crawl!
Her name is with the fairest that have died;
No sweeter shape is in the immortal hall—
No lovelier flower e'er died when the sharp winds did call.
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