England :: :: University of Virginia Library

The white rose and the red in unity!
O! who hath link'd to war the white and red?
They are ordain'd round ladies' brows to lie,
Or wreath the crumbling fragments of the dead;
Or, in the living bosom, find a bed,
Fed on the incense of its milk-white snow!
Love's sweet companions with them are wed;
And poetry entwines them round her brow,
And quaffeth of their nectar as she stoopeth low.

They are the heart's best motto; dearest token
Of such as in requited love repose;
Or, in deep sorrowings, languish and are broken!
The holiest stars of heaven shine o'er thee, rose;
Thou, in thy bosom, dost the dews inclose;
The sunbeams and the breezes nestle there.
The honey-bee thy richest secrets knows,
And, like a lover, seeks thy bosom fair;
The butterfly rejoices 'mid thy perfum'd hair.

No marvel, for most beautiful, sweet rose,
Art thou; and fancy's chords with thee entwine;
Like half-imagin'd dreams thy leaves repose—
Like lovers drunk with loveliness and wine.
Beneath their delicate folds the Muses nine
Might wreathe their ditties. Fairies, by moonlight,
Might hold their court beneath their sheltering shine:
And thy deep bosom glows with golden light,
And life, and love, and beauty fill thy bowers bright.

In that rude war thy leaves were often red
With blood, that, in the morning, glitter'd white;
And the rich scarlet pal'd above the dead,
Robb'd by the sunbeams of their gorgeous light;
What time our rivers, from each murderous fight,
Were swollen with kindred's blood, and forests green
Were wither'd, and our fields were eat with blight;
When carnage o'er our towering cliffs was seen,
Who clapp'd his hands and shouted o'er each bloody scene.

There was no peace in England. Old men died
At their own hearths, by their own children slain:
Gladness had gone from every mountain side,
And joy and sweet content did nought but plain,
And love lay gor'd 'mid battle's ghastly train:
The smoke from cottage fires no more ascended,
And calm domestic bliss was turn'd to pain;
Instead of day, war's fiery lightnings blended
With the red, glaring skies, and hideous portents tended.

'Stead of the ploughman's songs, the warrior's cries
Sounded among our fields and yell'd despair;
'Stead of the lowing herds the war-steed neighs,
And pants to rush among the ranks of war,
Among the pointed spears: nought stirs the air
But yells of pain or triumph. On each head
Flutters the warrior's plume, and, everywhere,
Helmet, and sword, and broken spear lie spread,
And every field is fatten'd with the rotting dead.

Revenge, in ghastly pomp, and red with gore,
Sat gibbering on our hills, and shriek'd aloud—
A phantom-king! and hurl'd his chariots o'er
The corpses of the dead. Death brought his shroud,
And stalk'd with haughty steps, and aspect proud,
And fiery eyes, through pools of reeking blood;
And ghastly shapes, like fiends and demons, bow'd
In the night's glooms, and filled the solitude!
And, with pestiferous hisses, the black corpses woo'd.

O, Tewksbury! there's wailing on thy fields,
And bitter lamentation. At the morn
There was the clang of unpolluted shields,
And unstain'd banners in the air were borne;
White plumes gleam'd far that ere the night were shorn.
There was a long and glittering array
Of warriors, 'mid the fields of yellow corn,
All mail'd and belted for the battle day;
And prancing war-steeds neighing for the joyous play.

Old chieftains stood and gaz'd all anxiously,
And youthful warriors panted for the fight:
As for a festive triumph glar'd each eye,
And every face was eager, glad, and bright:
Sisters, perchance, or lovers had, with light,
Swift fingers, these bold conquerors array'd:
Love's hand had pluck'd the roses, red and white,
That to each soldier's beating heart was laid,
And wreath'd the lily love-knot o'er each shining blade.

O, Tewksbury! thou hadst wild sport that day,
When these huge armies met. When, sweeping on,
Like tempests from their caves, the vast array
Of rank and file leapt to the clarion's tone,
And the deep drum; (o'er which was heard the groan
Of agony.) Then far gleam'd sword and spear,
And heavy mailed chieftains were dragg'd down,
And the proud steeds all riderless did rear,
And mighty warriors groan'd for rage, who mock'd at fear.

Men seem'd like fiends, and oil'd their swords with blood—
The blood, perchance, that left a brother's side;
The evening sun, amid the gory flood,
Beheld in death full many a widow's pride.
Many a virgin's first born fell i' the tide
Of eddying slaughter. Snorting and aghast,
With upturn'd nostrils, that dilated wide,
The wounded war-horse snuff'd the passing blast,
And, almost like a hero, gave up life at last.

The gnarring wolf then left his secret lair,
And with the hawk and raven took his meal;
And fiercely gorg'd the remnants of despair.
Then did Decay from out his caverns steal,
And, drunk with blood, among the corpses reel:
Whilst, quietly, the calm and azure sky,
Even, like a gentle mother, seem'd to feel;
The moon look'd down with calm and placid eye,
And angels wept for grief among their homes on high.

St. Alban's, Wakefield, Tonton, Tewksbury,
And blood-stain'd Pomfret felt war's dreadful feet;
There kings, and lords, and princes valiantly
Did bleed and die. There Warwick held his seat
As king-maker, and bore the battle's heat;
There Percy fought and Clifford slew his foes;
And England's bravest found their winding sheet:
Their wives and maidens mourn'd their heavy woes,
And feeling hearts were heav'd with dire convulsive throes.

Alas! that all this valour strove in vain;
That not against their country's foes they fought!
No matter—they sleep quietly where pain
Can come not, laid in many a grassy spot.
Their glittering helmets, curiously enwrought,
The bees made hives of. Each bright sword and spear
Is eat and rusted all away to nought;
The eye and countenace, that filled with fear,
Are rayless, sunk and moulder'd in their sepulchre.

Margaret of Anjou, it had better been
For thee, to tend thy sheep, a shepherdess,
Living remote from strife, and all unseen,
Save by the lambs that would thy presence bless,
Than, as a queen, the field of battle press
With thy heroic feet! Better for thee
The milk-maid's morning song of happiness,
Than thy proud throne, and halls of tapestry,
And thousand belted knights before thee on their knee.

Thousands of lovely maidens live unknown,
In places far remote from human eye;
The breeze, stream, wood-walk, waterfall alone,
Their presence welcome as they wander by;
Thousands there are that list their lover's sigh,
In blissful ecstacy, beneath the moon;
Or list his voice or lute from lakelet nigh,
Sweet serenading for that dearest boon—
Their love!—and thousands seek the shaded groves at noon.

Thousands of wives and mothers watch with joy
Their golden-headed children skip and play—
(Children, in whose high glee is no alloy)
A husband tends their wants, and sheds the ray
Of peace around their footsteps; night and day
They greet his coming, and, in beauty's pride,
Sink on his breast where soon their looks must lie;
And, in the silent night time, side by side,
In chaste, connubial bliss and rapture they abide.

But Margaret of Anjou hath no home—
A wanderer and an outcast she must be;
And, through her own dominions, lonely roam,
Who was a queen, and ruled in sovranty!
The poor and wretched Henry, what is he?
Feeble and imbecile, a rayless clod!
Bondage to him's as good as liberty;
The dungeon floor as pleasant an abode,
As when, in courtly halls, a youthful king he trode.

She, who in regal pomp, in robes of white
All delicately array'd, not long before
Walk'd beautiful, amid the festal light,
Unto the bridal altar, cover'd o'er
With wreaths and garlands—now is queen no more!
What, though unto a regal monarch wed,
Upon whose crest the English lions roar;
The partner of his bosom and his bed—
With outcast beggars now that bride must bow her head!

100

With that young, delicate prince, they, hand in hand,
Must wander rugged, desert hills, and go
Amid the wildest places of the land.
The humblest cottages their footsteps know,
And where the swiftest mountain-rivers flow.
They must partake of meanest, simplest food,
Dwelling in hunger, misery, and woe;
And hear of scoffs, and taunts, and insults rude,
From savage village-boors, in barbarous solitude.

War is the deadliest enginery of hell—
The foulest fiend at hell's wide-open'd gate.
Terror and Famine 'mid its thunders dwell;
And Murder sitteth 'mid its halls in state;
Lust, Fire, and Slaughter round its footsteps wait;
And, 'mid its red repasts, do vultures prey
Peace, Hope and Safety fled! Left to our fate,
Our lives, and homes, and harvests sink away,
And the blue heavens refuse to lend a sheltering ray.

May never more most foul rebellion rise
To clothe our hills with fire and desolation;
Sending the smoke of murder to the skies;
Rending away the links of every station;
And rearing bloody standards o'er the nation.
O, let not virtue's shrieks ascend on high
And have its long locks torn! Be commendation,
And lofty praise, and hymns eternally,
To those high spirits who preserv'd our liberty.

101

Ye warrior-dead of ages, who, at home,
Or, 'mid far desert-sands, or on the sea,
Or, where the ancient cities have a tomb,
Upheld this land from fangs of tyranny,
And made us, that we now are, high and free;
Continual acclamations sound for you!
Your names are in the page of history,
And wreaths and garlands deck each sacred brow,
And, in the immortal halls, your spirits wander now.

Praise, Wellington, especial praise to thee!
Thy name is mingled with the mighty dead—
The giant-shapes who held the earth in fee.
Thy fame is to the golden Orient spread;
And, where the naked Indian rests his head
In desert-woods; and o'er the Lapland snow;
And, o'er the mountains, that with heaven are wed,
Where congeal'd caves stop ocean's rapid flow;
And, o'er those torrid climes, where verdure cannot grow.

Cæsar and Alexander rudely fought
With savage tribes; thy battles were for fame
And liberty. Thy enemies were brought
From lands most civilized, and, in the game
Of war, stood forth Napoleon's lofty name.
Madden'd and phrenzied with a phantom cause,
Passions, as well as swords, 'twas thine to tame;
Elate and fierce enthusiasts were thy foes,
And thou didst wrench Old England from their poisonous claws.

102

It was a nobler war, and it was just,
Myriads of coming years may pass away,
Ere other Buonapartes shall leave the dust—
Ere such another cause we need to stay.
Myriads of suns may shed their passing ray,
Ere such a fell usurper walk the earth.
But having been, 'twas ours to hold at bay
The tiger's fangs, and stop rebellion's birth;
And ne'er did England feel of warriors a dearth.

Spain, India, Talavera, Waterloo,
Vittoria felt thy proudly valorous hand;
And say, O, say, hath not Britannia, too,
Rejoic'd beneath thy strong and just command?
For thou didst save from ruin this, our land.
The Spanish maids threw roses on thy brow,
That mingled with thy laurels; the bold band
Of English heroes did, for thee, let flow
Their heart's blood: at thy feet did swarthy Indians bow!

And, oh! at thy victorious return,
Honours were thine, more glorious and high,
Than when, at Cæsar's chariot, kings did mourn,
Bound miserably, to feed the rabble's eye.
Yea, when those rapturous plaudits shook the sky,
And, from their balconies, each English maid
Shower'd laurels on the lord of victory,
And wav'd their scarfs, all gorgeously display'd—
No hero of the earth was e'er so nobly paid!

103

And, now, I hear of thee where Isis flows;
The wise, and great, and good salute thee there;
The inheritors of mighty deeds and laws
Do homage to the chief, whose greatest care,
In war or peace, was to preserve them, fair,
Bright, and untouch'd, from foul rebellion's hand;
So that rebellion's slaves might never dare
Pull down the altars, nor defile the land,
Nor, from the great and wise, tear off their just command.

In war and peace thou still hast born us up,
Stuck by the pillars, and upheld the throne,
And dash'd away black treason's deadly cup!
Long mayst thou live! Long mayst thou guard the crown,
The state, the altar—lest they drag them down.
Nations will hail thee greater, greater far,
And, at thy feet, a deeper homage own,
For being wise in peace than strong in war—
Than hadst thou shone, 'mid carnage, victory's brightest star.

And, when thou sinkest into silent death,
(O be it long!) nations will mourn and weep,
And sadly heave the palpitating breath.
But most will England, with emotion deep,
Lament and sob above thy charnell'd sleep.
And they shall lay thee in the marble, free,
Where the old banner'd chiefs their slumbers keep
'Neath shatter'd crests. Thy epitaph shall be,
“Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he!”

104

My curses be on them who would drag down
Our castles! noblest memories linger there;
They won our charter, purified the crown.
My curses be on them who, with wild glare,
Of fiendish hate, and traitorous malice, e'er
Would burn our altars, and, with brutish hate,
Trample upon our mitres; who would dare
Raze our cathedrals, where they stand in state,
And make our pleasant churches lone and desolate.

My curses be on them—the accursed brood,
Who would, like poisonous serpents, love to crawl
O'er virgin-truth, and slay the pure and good:
The horrors of their countenance appal!
Who would possess each palace, hut, and hall,
And cottage-bower, and lovely solitude!
My curses be upon them, one and all!
This is not liberty—'tis hell subdued
To earthly rage—'tis man even like the fiend imbued!

“I had a dream; it was not all a dream.”
I sat upon the mountains, at the hour
Of eventide, when, in the heavens supreme,
The sun, even like a giant in his tower,
Was proudly walking 'mid his shady bower
Of golden clouds, that carpetted his feet.
Each pleasant, little songster now did pour
His curious melodies, which, in the heat
Of day, were heard not; and the sea roll'd like a fiery sheet.

105

The winds were silent on each leafy bough,
That rustled not, save in deep happiness;
Rich, sunny mists clad every mountain's brow,
That stood, like mighty giants, drunk with bliss!
I heard with joy each deep and amorous kiss
Given by the stream to its low, drooping flowers;
I heard the ploughman singing high, I wis,
To please his love, amid the shady bowers;
I heard the sky-lark's song, far, in his airy towers.

And, looking, forth, I saw fair Guisborough,
Like a proud maiden, sitting all alone;
Whose halls, encompass'd round from every foe,
Heeds not her lover's solitary moan.
I saw her ancient abbey, where the tone
Still sounded of past greatness: on its head
The lingering sunbeams still serenely shone;
I saw the pleasant church, and, where the dead,
In peaceful slumbers rest, upon their charnel bed.

I saw the shady groves that lie around,
Sacred to meditation's sweet repose,
And fancy's dim and visionary bound.
I saw her gardens, where the stately rose,
And pink, and tulip, their rich blooms disclose:
Her fields were richly green, and gaily shone
With buttercups and daisies, all in rows;
Her pleasant cottage, standing all alone,
Embosom'd 'mid tall trees, seem'd like a wood-nymph's throne.

106

And homes of peace and hospitality
Were there, that pleasantly and calmly stood,
Their white smoke curling to the azure sky.
I thought how many high, and brave, and good,
Might humbly dwell in this sweet solitude,
Who, were they known, might make examples bright,
To shine, like stars, o'er cities' clamours rude;
And, over distant ages, spread their light,
But now must die unknown, and sink to endless night!

I thought how many a bright and lovely head,
This night, must droop its ringlets in sweet sleep;
Whilst, stealthily, the moonbeams shall be wed
With them, and view them from his azure deep,
And on their half-seen, virgin beauty peep.
And then I thought, alas, and ever woe,
If war or rude dispersion e'er should sweep
In tempests here, what horrid fears would flow,
How all this peace would fade before the threatening foe.

I look'd again. There was the clanging spear,
The shining bayonet, and the cannon's roar;
Banners were flaring high, and, to the ear,
Swell'd the loud war-cry all along the shore.
The sea was white with ships, whose pennants wore
The badge of civil strife, and shouts arose,
“The king, the king,” whilst some their hoarse throats tore,
With “burn the altar!”—“well we know our foes,
“The king and church are ties to bind us to our woes!”

107

“The king's a bauble and the church a lie—
“A sanctimonious lie, by priestcraft worn,
“To chain with bible-oaths our liberty;
“God is a phantom God!” With mighty scorn
The hideous roars were drown'd, and far-were borne
Loud acclamations to the reigning king.
Said they, “we will not see Old England shorn
“Of her proud strength; blood shall not stain her wing;
“Enough of rabble-might, and monarch-murdering!”

Methought that they were few, who, in this wise,
Themselves expressed—that black-brow'd traitors stood
Innumerable, thick studded, like the skies
When throng'd with stars, close as a pine-tree wood.
Yet did the loyal chiefs this multitude
Long hold at bay, till, overwhelm'd at last,
Like wounded lions, they became subdued,
And, fighting still, reel'd like the storm-struck mast,
Or fell, as doth the oak-tree, in the winter blast.

Then did these traitors roar, as, when the sea
Conquers some man-of war, and, vauntingly,
Mimics the tempest's thunder. In fierce glee
They trampled the dead corpses, and did cry,
In loud blaspheming oaths, unto the sky,
And ask'd, “where is the God ye worshipped,
Who cannot save his champions ere they die?”
And then they mangled the poor, innocent dead,
And danc'd among their blood, like demons phrenzied!

108

That abbey, which a thousand years hath stood,
Braving the tempests of full many an age,
They burnt to dust with its embowering wood.
That peaceful church, the ruffians, in their rage,
Raz'd, stone by stone, and impious war did wage
With tomb, and altar, and the cherub child.
Nought could their brutal blasphemies assuage;
But, roaring out their curses fierce and wild,
With horrid atheist rites our altars they defil'd!

The sepulchres wherein our dead are laid—
Our fathers' farthers' dead they shatter'd down,
And scatter'd their dry bones, and, undismay'd,
Wreath'd of them mockeries of a monarch's crown.
Fires roar'd in every quarter of the town;
And, O, I gaz'd on old men's floating hair,
Clutch'd with the blood-red hand; and heard the tone
Of agony, from maidens in despair,
By those fierce murderers ravish'd, and despoiled there.

I could not help but say, “where, where, O! God,
“Where do thy earthquakes and thy thunders sleep?
“Where the destroying sword—the avenging rod—
“The surcharg'd waters of the boiling deep?
“Where are the scorching fires thou once didst heap
“On Sodom and Gomorrah? At thy throne
“The angels and the ancient martyrs weep,
“To see such cruel wrong and madness done;—
Scatter devouring pestilence, hurl thy lightnings down!”

109

I woke,—my eyes were wet with burning tears.
And can it e'er be so, my aching soul,
That we shall ever see those dreadful years?
Sweet Guisborough, shall war's rude tempests roll
Thus o'er thee? Shalt thou feel the slave's control?
Old England, shall thy fields and altars e'er
Be tramp'd by traitors, or thy monarch fall?
Britannia, shall Rebellion ever dare
Drive o'er thy charter'd plains his red and blood-stain'd car?

O, should that time approach! then, Englishmen,
Ye will leap up, and bind your armour on;
Then swords will gleam in every vale and glen.
Kings, lords, and priests shall not be slain alone,
No, we will make this rabblement atone.
Then, Wellington, shall come thy ancient might,
Which is not dead, but sleepeth; and the throne
Of wrong and misrule shall be fill'd with right,
And, through the chastening fires, we'll win our ancient might.

Then, Wellington, thy golden helm shall shine
Amid the ranks of war, and thy strong spear
Be brandish'd o'er our foes. The ancient line
Of heroes is not dead; they linger here
Amongst us—spirits of a higher sphere!
We are not desolate; they will arise,
And brush away the things of wrong and fear;
And bear our ancient glories to the skies,
And make us once again to be serene and wise.