England A Historical Poem. By John Walker Ord |
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DEATH OF RICHARD II. CONDEMNED TO STRICT
IMPRISONMENT, OCT. 1399. |
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DEATH OF RICHARD II. CONDEMNED TO STRICT IMPRISONMENT, OCT. 1399.
“For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd! For, within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court.”
—Shakspeare.
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd! For, within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court.”
—Shakspeare.
“Close by the regal chair,
Fell thirst and famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.”
—The Bard.
Fell thirst and famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.”
—The Bard.
“Regem Ricardum ad castrum de Pomfret deduxerunt, ubi breviter ut
vulgariter dicitur, quindecim dies et totidem noctes in fame, siti, ac frigore
vexaverunt; et tandem morte turpissima, adhuc regno nostro incognitâ, sed
gratia divina diutius non celanda interimerunt, et occiderunt.”—Scrope's
Testimony.
His life began in smiles, it closed in tears:
The shadow of his father's mighty fame
Was o'er his youthful head; death's ghastly fears,
Like phantoms, clung around his later name:
And he, who, in the sun's applauding flame,
At Smithfield, struck rebellion to the mire,
(Reeking in its own gore, to endless shame,)
Himself was smit by treason's baleful fire,
And, dungeon'd like a dog, sunk in convulsions dire.
The shadow of his father's mighty fame
Was o'er his youthful head; death's ghastly fears,
Like phantoms, clung around his later name:
And he, who, in the sun's applauding flame,
At Smithfield, struck rebellion to the mire,
(Reeking in its own gore, to endless shame,)
Himself was smit by treason's baleful fire,
And, dungeon'd like a dog, sunk in convulsions dire.
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Bid thy farewell to pomps and regal show,
The courtly chamber and the painted hall,
For there, poor king, thou never more shalt go!
Bid thy farewell to music's drowsy fall,
To flattery's honied words and cheating thrall!
No more on barbed steed accoutered,
Thou'lt move amid the land's approving call;
No more 'mid crowned monarch's rear thy head,
But, throneless and unsceptred, rest thee with the dead!
The courtly chamber and the painted hall,
For there, poor king, thou never more shalt go!
Bid thy farewell to music's drowsy fall,
To flattery's honied words and cheating thrall!
No more on barbed steed accoutered,
Thou'lt move amid the land's approving call;
No more 'mid crowned monarch's rear thy head,
But, throneless and unsceptred, rest thee with the dead!
No more around thy neck shall love entwine;—
Her winged messengers have flown away.
No more for thee shall pleasure's pathway shine—
The suns that lit thee have withdrawn their ray.
The nations, that once fear'd thy kingly sway,
Now laugh thee all to scorn, and mock thy fate,
And hold thy former vauntings all at bay.
Look where thou wilt, there's nought but scorn and hate:
Alas, that such things aye on fallen grandeur wait!
Her winged messengers have flown away.
No more for thee shall pleasure's pathway shine—
The suns that lit thee have withdrawn their ray.
The nations, that once fear'd thy kingly sway,
Now laugh thee all to scorn, and mock thy fate,
And hold thy former vauntings all at bay.
Look where thou wilt, there's nought but scorn and hate:
Alas, that such things aye on fallen grandeur wait!
Richard hath lived for nought!—The ancestral throne,
The regal crown's another monarch's now!
And he, a dungeon slave, chain'd and alone.
O! had he never reign'd, nor, on his brow
Worn power, but rather been a beggar low,
To see sweet nature in her meekest moods,
And view the little flowers wave to and fro,
And hear the music warbled from the woods—
Each wondrous sight and sound of nature's solitudes.
The regal crown's another monarch's now!
And he, a dungeon slave, chain'd and alone.
O! had he never reign'd, nor, on his brow
Worn power, but rather been a beggar low,
To see sweet nature in her meekest moods,
And view the little flowers wave to and fro,
And hear the music warbled from the woods—
Each wondrous sight and sound of nature's solitudes.
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How better had it been! His dying hour
Had known sweet dreams and visions now denied;
Dim memories of delight, feelings of power,
Breath'd from deep forests or the mountain side;
But, as it is, the fiends of fallen pride
Haunt him. He has no peace within his soul.
Where'er he looks, is an abysm wide
Of horrid shapes, that past his eyeballs roll—
Ghosts of departed years, he never may recal!
Had known sweet dreams and visions now denied;
Dim memories of delight, feelings of power,
Breath'd from deep forests or the mountain side;
But, as it is, the fiends of fallen pride
Haunt him. He has no peace within his soul.
Where'er he looks, is an abysm wide
Of horrid shapes, that past his eyeballs roll—
Ghosts of departed years, he never may recal!
He might have lived in blissful solitude,
In some poor hut, remote from human e'e;
Basking himself at ease i' the sunlit wood,
On banks of blue bell and anemone.
But, as it is, the beggar wanders free,
Whilst Richard, king of England, is a slave!
His dwelling-place a dungeon!—Nought to see,
But the damp walls that hang around his grave!
Hear—but the old trees that round his prison wave.
In some poor hut, remote from human e'e;
Basking himself at ease i' the sunlit wood,
On banks of blue bell and anemone.
But, as it is, the beggar wanders free,
Whilst Richard, king of England, is a slave!
His dwelling-place a dungeon!—Nought to see,
But the damp walls that hang around his grave!
Hear—but the old trees that round his prison wave.
The bat, that flaps against his window pane—
The spider, that for ever weaves its coil—
The toad, that joineth with him in his reign—
The very worm, that crawls with weary toil—
Are far more free than he. Them, no turmoil
Can e'er disturb; they have their proper home,
And raging war their purpose cannot foil.
The world is theirs, wherever they may roam—
A dwelling-place alive:—and, when they die, a tomb!
The spider, that for ever weaves its coil—
The toad, that joineth with him in his reign—
The very worm, that crawls with weary toil—
Are far more free than he. Them, no turmoil
Can e'er disturb; they have their proper home,
And raging war their purpose cannot foil.
The world is theirs, wherever they may roam—
A dwelling-place alive:—and, when they die, a tomb!
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They die, and seldom do we see them dead—
He died—thirst, hunger, madness, and despair
United, dragged to dust his royal head,
And clutch'd, like devils, at his drooping hair.
He died so slowly, that his eyes saw there
Death coming, day by day, distinct and plain;
Whilst hunger, like a fiery snake, did tear
And gnaw his burning entrails with slow pain—
O may no English king e'er feel the like again!
He died—thirst, hunger, madness, and despair
United, dragged to dust his royal head,
And clutch'd, like devils, at his drooping hair.
He died so slowly, that his eyes saw there
Death coming, day by day, distinct and plain;
Whilst hunger, like a fiery snake, did tear
And gnaw his burning entrails with slow pain—
O may no English king e'er feel the like again!
And when he died, as if to mock at death,
They brought his corpse into the city street,
To mock his subjects' palpitating breath.
The same, who once had come on rushing feet,
To see his pomp, now saw his winding sheet,
And grinn'd to see a monarch in his grave.
Oh! how can heaven, from her celestial seat,
Behold, and stretch not out her hands to save?
Or is its vengeance ta'en, when the loud tempests rave?
They brought his corpse into the city street,
To mock his subjects' palpitating breath.
The same, who once had come on rushing feet,
To see his pomp, now saw his winding sheet,
And grinn'd to see a monarch in his grave.
Oh! how can heaven, from her celestial seat,
Behold, and stretch not out her hands to save?
Or is its vengeance ta'en, when the loud tempests rave?
Ta'en, when the earthquake smites the ground with dread,
And pestilence cries havoc in our ear!
Ta'en, when the lightning strikes the atheist dead,
Or war's loud thunder shakes the earth with fear?
Sure retribution always lingers near;
There sounds a note of judgment everywhere,
That, to the proud Belshazzar's eyes shone clear;
That lit o'er Nineveh the sultry air,
And shrieked, as Sidon fell, the curses of despair!
And pestilence cries havoc in our ear!
Ta'en, when the lightning strikes the atheist dead,
Or war's loud thunder shakes the earth with fear?
Sure retribution always lingers near;
There sounds a note of judgment everywhere,
That, to the proud Belshazzar's eyes shone clear;
That lit o'er Nineveh the sultry air,
And shrieked, as Sidon fell, the curses of despair!
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Richard is dust. The dungeon walls are gone
That heard his groans, and echoed to his woe:
There scarcely now remains a single stone
Of that proud pile. The battlements are low;
And scarce the bat can find him where to go;
Nor the black ivy have a fitting home!
There is no food for desolation's maw;
And the winds cannot whistle as they roam
Through walls that once were meet to be a monarch's tomb!
That heard his groans, and echoed to his woe:
There scarcely now remains a single stone
Of that proud pile. The battlements are low;
And scarce the bat can find him where to go;
Nor the black ivy have a fitting home!
There is no food for desolation's maw;
And the winds cannot whistle as they roam
Through walls that once were meet to be a monarch's tomb!
Rich, lovely gardens bloom where once they stood;
And still the gazer sees a lovely sight:
He views, on every side, far-towering wood,
And halls where festal splendour gleameth bright;
Sweet lovely dells, bath'd in the summer light;
Far-spreading meadows, stretch'd before his eyes:
And, if he gazeth in the moonlit night,
He will behold a fairy fabric rise—
A fine old abbey greet the illuminated skies.
And still the gazer sees a lovely sight:
He views, on every side, far-towering wood,
And halls where festal splendour gleameth bright;
Sweet lovely dells, bath'd in the summer light;
Far-spreading meadows, stretch'd before his eyes:
And, if he gazeth in the moonlit night,
He will behold a fairy fabric rise—
A fine old abbey greet the illuminated skies.
He'll hear the hum of voices on the air—
Young, happy children shouting in their glee,
The bleating lamb, the milkmaid singing clear;
And half he'll say, “How could it ever be,
That blood, O Pomfret, e'er could fall on thee?”
And, looking through the visionary past,
Red murderers in the night-mists he will see,
Till, as the skies are gradually o'ercast,
He'll sink upon the turf, sad, breathless, and aghast!
Young, happy children shouting in their glee,
The bleating lamb, the milkmaid singing clear;
And half he'll say, “How could it ever be,
That blood, O Pomfret, e'er could fall on thee?”
And, looking through the visionary past,
Red murderers in the night-mists he will see,
Till, as the skies are gradually o'ercast,
He'll sink upon the turf, sad, breathless, and aghast!
| England | |