England :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not Ophir with its caves of massive gold,
Nor yet Golconda with its sapphire's blaze,
Do such inestimable treasures hold;
Present so much for marvel and amaze,
As history's pages lend unto the wondering gaze.

Perchance, I mount the skies on languid wing,
And faint when as the eagle I should soar;
Nor with fit voice at heaven's clear portal sing,
High hymns, exultant, as the bards of yore—
Alas! these songs are past, and past for evermore.

Perchance, to history I give foul wrong,
And from its pictur'd halls too greatly bear;
And with its wild-flowers wreathe too much my song,
Instead of pondering with a soul more clear;
And on the tombs of kings and empires bend my sphere.

Perchance, my song is feeble as a reed,
That, like the oak tree might have branch'd in air;
For, I have rather sought to sow the seed
Of England's best affections, and to bear
Their fruit o'er other times, than take more weighty care.

Love more than war, and goodness more than wrong;
Peace without clamour; truth and liberty;
Pure deeds and just; do grace my humble song:
And I have sought to lift my country high,
And gild her towers with light, and bear her to the sky.

For, I do love her with a patriot's love!
Her ancient glory fills my soul with pride:
The solemn shapes, that o'er her records move
With look immortal, through my spirit glide:
And I would hunt the slave and traitor from her side.

Yea, from her pastures scare the hound away,
And from her bowers drive off the bat obscene;
Clear out her crystal waters, shed the ray
Of the true liberty o'er each bright scene,
And prove her ancient name—“England, the Ocean Queen.”

O history, what precious food is thine!
How rich thou art with treasures manifold;
On what flower'd meadows do thy footsteps shine,
What gorgeous heavens are thine, of blue and gold,
What feelings, memories, thoughts—what ecstacies untold.

Old times and legends thou dost consecrate;
Hates, loves, great deeds, battles, and victory:
With thee old patriots, bards, and heroes mate,
And all who for their country bow'd to die,
Or stood in cruel fire, to serve the God on high.—

The horoic Curtius on his milk-white steed;
Great Cæsar, empires at his chariot wheel;
Old Homer, the first bard of heavenly breed;
Pure Sidney, murder'd for his country's weal;
And Cranmer, martyr'd saint, in fires he did not feel.

Such are the rays that glorify thy page;
Such are the stars that glimmer on thy sky;
Such are the wars that mighty spirits wage,
Such are the trees that shake their plumes on high;—
And such the mighty names of truthful history!

Far, on the battlements of glorious Greece,
Thy garments in exceeding beauty shine:
Far where the yellow Tiber's minstrelsies
Roll slow; and where Rome's marbles stand divine,
With the immortal dead thy pages intertwine.

And through the vaulted pyramids and towers
Of Egypts sand, thy solemn footsteps go;
Old Babylon doth greet thee from her bowers;

Proud Venice at thy footstool nods her brow;
And Macedon through thee, was ne'er so great as now.

Thy chords recite of that old gorgeous prime,
When man was wise, and good, and pure, and strong;
When the vast world was noble and sublime,
With lofty deeds, and virtues fit for song:
Alas! old sounds, hues, thoughts—have faded—oh! too long.

What is the poet's heritage? What right
Is his, to enter on the unknown bourne?
And, aided by Imagination's light,
Knock at the golden portals of the morn;
And seek the rainbow's hues that he may them adorn?

O blame me not, that with a lofty theme
I seek to dally—and on lofty wing!
That, wakening from a long unbidden dream,
I raise my lyre and England's glories sing,
Stirring the loudest notes that slumber on her string.

Perchance, where Fancy slumbers on the skies,
Beyond the fleeced clouds, where the stars rest,
I might have sung to holier melodies,
And clasped a brighter chain upon my breast,
And borne a richer gem upon my laurell'd crest.

For all my life hath been a summer heaven
Around the ocean-calm of Poetry,
And with the golden hues and tones of even:—

As some glad bark that wanton'd in its glee,
My soul hath skimm'd the waves, or walk'd the air groves free.

True to the earthlier nature sorrow came,
And with the sear leaf ting'd my laurel crown;
Yet still I follow'd to the towers of Fame,
Nor suffer'd any chain to bind me down;
And I have liv'd till now, in spite of every frown.

And I will live, and still will sound the lyre,
Though in another land my footsteps fall;
And let them do their worst, I will aspire
To plant my standard in the Immortal hall,
And hold the golden crown, and wear the purple pall.

From earliest youth, my feet have wander'd free;
Where Nature held her choicest paths was mine;
My boyhood trod the hills in liberty;
My youth hath ever knelt at Nature's shrine;
My manhood is with dreams and visions all divine.

From earliest youth my feet have held no bound;
Where summer shower'd each sweetest scent and hue,
Where autumn's richest treasures did abound,
Where winter's frostwork's were most rare to view,
My footsteps ever roam'd, whilst still each scene was new.

And morning's golden towers rejoice mine eyes,
Her minstrelsies, her sounds, her heavenly light;

Noon hath his glories on the burnish'd skies;
And, oh! the exceeding glory of the night
When the pale moon is out, and all the stars are bright!

Still—oh, be still, my soul!—be still—the storm
Of many feelings struggling in my breast!
When Poetry first shew'd her radiant form
Beneath the moon,—when earth was all at rest,
And the low moaning waves were singing their unrest.

Did I not swear, beneath the listening sky,
Beneath the stars, and the applauding moon,
That I would do thee homage, Poetry—
And ever make thine household gods my own,
And walk me in thy train, and kneel before thy throne?

And I have kept, and still will keep the same:
Bear witness, witness bear, thou broken heart,
Ye alien footsteps, and thou blackened name!
Bear witness, burning eyes, and forehead's smart,
That we are wed for aye, and never more will part!

True that the muse hath lately lost a gem—
Her robes are loose, her bleeding bosom bare:
A pearl hath fallen from her diadem,
Her tresses stream along the frozen air,
Each tower and temple gone, that for no storm had care.

She that was once a Queen, and wore a crown,
And tramp'd the marble floor and halls of state—
To whom the loftiest sons of men came down
And did her homage, and beside her sate—
Now wanders o'er the moors forlorn and desolate.

Her purple garments soil'd in filthy mire,
Her sweet blue eyes with constant weeping red,
Disrob'd her forehead of the fadeless fire—
Her footsteps slow, as if she mourn'd the dead,
And none to bear her up unto her marriage bed!

Of old the minstrel sate at princes' board,
And kings themselves disdain'd not such to be:
The lonely forests heard each lofty word,
The heart of war beat louder in its glee,
The calm blue eye of peace look'd on applaudingly.

He sang of beauty's smile in lofty strains;
Of broken hearts that died o'er beauty's frown;
Or where enchanters bound its feet in chains,
Till some bold knight had burnt his castle down,
And won, perchance a heart, an Empire, and a crown.

The pomp-borne tournament, the white-glov'd hand,
The eloquent lip, and the applauding eye,
When kings, and lords, and princes of the land,
Disdained not for love's sweet thrall to die,—
The minstrel's hand told first unto the listening sky.

He sung the legends truth to history,
Ere any king had yet a chronicler:
His voice amid the battle sounded high
Ere any trumpet bore the notes of war;
He carried ladies' love, ere love's sweet messenger.

He told, without a pen, each heavenly hue;
He caught the first dyes of each forest flower;
To him the rainbow's colours all were new;
He fed the first within the muse's bower,
He gaz'd the first from out her battlemented tower!

Living when the young world was fresh and bright,
And rob'd in beauty, passion, power divine:
Ere stain had touch'd the muse's garments white,
Whilst yet her untrod ways did gaily shine,
And o'er her youthful brow pure flowers did intertwine.

And on the summer seas the mermaid rode,
And sung strange hymns and sweet unto the air—
When fairies in the pleasant meadows trode,
And by the moonlight trimm'd their silken hair,
And sylphs and spirits pure did wander everywhere.

And hence he was immortal, as we know
From the old ballads spoke by every tongue:
Fame placed the laurel on his lofty brow,

The whole green land did listen when he sung,
And now his footsteps flow Fame's golden halls among.

'Tis o'er!—upon the mountain heights, in vain
The poet looks: the glad and voiceful Sea
Singeth, alas, for nought, his lofty strain!
In vain the Evening spreads its panoply;
In vain the Seasons fall upon each flower and tree!

The poet's passions roll in light away,
His thoughts and feelings touch the azure sky;
Far o'er the world he holds his steadfast way;
Immortal like a god he walks on high,
Yet still with earthly dust, he must lament and die.

Men pluck the rose that grew on Chaucer's grave;
They tear the violet from Milton's brow;
And Shakspeare's corpse must welter on the wave.
Shame, shame, O England—thou thy greatest foe,
When they, thy proudest sons, must bear such fear and woe!

I gaze around, and needs must weep and sigh—
When Chatterton, the prince of youthful song,
And gentle Otway, sunk them down to die—
And others, whose wild lays shall roll along
Until the trump shall sound the quickening graves among.

Hush, hush, my heart, and hold thy record fast!—
Full many a storm thou'st borne, and more wilt bear:

But shall I hold my curses, when the blast
Rolleth so loud on many a poet near,
And fills his daily cup with agony and fear?

Shall I not curse that foul and hellish breed
Who took from lofty Coleridge his poor fee?
And from the Ettrick singer held his meed?
Shall I not curse them, curse them on my knee,
Who dar'd to do the Muse such rank indignity?

Yet, do your worst, ye hell-hounds—cry aloud!
The swan of Albion hath a dying lay—
And the Muse still shall sing, tho' in her shroud!
And hold the hungry harpies still at bay,
And have her marriage feast, and keep her holiday.

And I will sing aloud, betide what may,
And deck my Muse in her most brave attire:
How can I longer cease the lofty lay,
And hold the mighty impulse of the lyre,
When England's hills are red with revolution's fire?

I hear the loud tramp of the chargers' feet;
I hear war's clarion sounding in the air;
I see red blood, pollute the city street;
And the fierce Anarch yelling everywhere:
So I have girt my loins to hunt him to his lair!

Stain'd are the foam bells on the woodland stream;
Stain'd is the white stand on the ocean side;
A nightmare rides upon the troubled dream,
And from its mouth red fires and tempests glide:
And England's towns and towers are sinking in the tide.

Shade—shade your eyes—behold not what shall come!
I hear an earthquake by the sounding sea—
I see strange armies o'er the heavens roam—
Wild voices sound along the hills in glee—
And horrid portents fright!—what may such warnings be?

Too well, O England, do I love thy good—
To see thee in the mire through rebels' guile!
Thy meteor flag shall not be dy'd with blood;
War's fiery tempests shall not wake this isle;
Though we, thy patriot sons, should mount the funeral pile.

Methought, that if I sung thy praise aright,
The hand of treason might be turn'd aside;
That could I give thy brow its ancient might,
'Twould win again the rebel to thy side,
To wear thy former crown, and hold thy former pride.

They would pollute the altar's inner shrine,
And drag the coronet from crowned king;
And where the Constitution sits divine,
Tear out the snowy feathers of its wing;
And hew the forests down, where the sweet wild-birds sing.

And with black faces and red furious eyes,
Among the lords of England they would go,
And tear the purple and the ermine dyes;
Whilst the rank sweat on their foul limbs shall flow,
And hell's black passions crowd each serpent-knotted brow.

Change—change—to pluck away the old man's hair,
To shift the stars that gild the firmament,
And give them stronger light and wider air!
To move the mountains where their roots are pent—
And make old Ocean cease to play his instrument!

England, I saw thee, in thy former time,
Firm, strong, brave, proud, unconquerable and free—
Bold, and heroic—all thy deeds sublime—
King of the earth, and bridle of the sea,
With mighty empires hung about thy garter'd knee.

I saw thee in thy glorious attire,
Fresh as a bride upon her marriage day—
I saw thee robed in all thy ancient fire,
As when thou kept the whole great world at bay—
And France and Scotland crept beneath thy sov'ran sway.

I could not rest, my country, till I sung
Thy praise, and made thy banner float on high!
Far, far, those lonely solitudes among,
Where but the hawk and raven mount the sky—
Thy constant presence came, and dwelt before mine eye.

Thy voice was with the murmur of the stream,
And the low-breathing wind's melodious hymn:
Thy people tenanted each lofty dream
That circled o'er me in the forests dim,
So in the Muse's garb I busk'd me, gay and trim.

Now this my summer mood is past and o'er,
And these my summer thoughts are poor and worn—
And I have done my best, and can no more,
To sing thy glories, and thy deeds adorn—
To clothe thy stately limbs with garments of the morn!

Yea, I have sung full many a pleasant day,
Through cloud and sunshine, of thy lofty state;
Of the glad times, when minstrels tun'd the lay
To simple maidens in the summer heat;
When silly shepherds pip'd their forest songs most sweet.

And of the time of love and chivalry,
Ere any gem had fallen from their brow;
When they did walk in palaces most high,
Bearing no dastard fears and doubts as now,
But held their plumes in air most seraph like, I trow!

Of kings and queens, and all that them befel;
Of woes, that crowd even halls all tapestried;

Of cruel loves that in high temples dwell;
Of cares that sit with Monarchs side by side;
And of the great events that roll in Time's wild tide!

How from a small and tiny mountain rill
That murmurs to the summer winds and flowers,
A vast and giant river took its fill,
And spake in thunder to the forest bowers,
Till the great sea was fill'd, and spake from all her towers.

How all the earth did worship at her feet;
How her proud vessels crowded every sea;
How every sea was conquer'd by her fleet:
And how she still had tower'd, supreme and free,
But for the traitor's hate, that will not let her be.

How Papal power once dwelt in halls of might
Where yet the mouldering abbeys touch the sky;
Till the true Faith came down in robes of light,
And fell the temples of Idolatry,
And fell the sculptur'd shapes that mock'd the God on high!

How the baronial castles, crumbling low,
(Where sleep sweet wild-flowers, fed by human gore,)
Once held high merriment and princely shew,
Dance, song, festivity, and minstrel's lore—
With power to beat the foe, and hunt him from our shore.

How patriots have fought on ev'ry hill;
How ev'ry crag hath heard the shout of Fame;
How ne'er invader stood, and never will,
Where Albion's rocks stand forth in snow-white flame!
How never spot nor stain shall tarnish Albion's name.

Roll all thy vineyards to the setting sun,
Proud France, and wave thy harvests in the air!
Spain, play thy serenadings to the moon;
And thou, Italia, shew thy painter's care,
Pillars, and marble domes, and temples standing fair.

Your mountains, that do breast the azure sky;
Your rivers, that like oceans roll along;
Your forests, that like sleeping giants lie;
Your cataracts, with thunder in their song;
Your valleys glad and bright, by poets yet unsung.

What are they all when England nods her head?
Her's is the might of lord and conqueror;
Have ye a people that like her's are wed
To lofty deeds, that ring from shore to shore:
The good, the pure, the just, whose praise can ne'er run o'er.

Boast ye such castles, abbeys, temples fair,
Rich green and golden fields, rich granaries?
Her genius, that doth touch the morning star,
Her mighty ships and constant enterprise,
Her cities huge and vast, whose spires salute the skies!

And most of all, here Freedom hath her home,
Her choicest dwelling place, her proudest right:—
He is a slave, who doth a slave become
Where all is pure and free as heaven's own light—
Britons shall ne'er be slaves, unless for slaves they fight.

And in this liberty she hath a dower
Prouder than any gem in Europe's crown:
Which, like the Sea, doth hold a constant power,
And like the hills, its roots are fasten'd down,
And like the eternal heavens, its stedfastness we own!

But, oh, my native place, shall it be said,
For loftier themes I have neglected thee?
Thou who hast raised my spirit from the dead,
And made me that my soul is bold and free,
Attuned to notes divine, and heavenly harmony.

And deck'd me with the Muse's diadem,
So that my temples had no other pride;
Making each little flower, a heaven-dropt gem;
Each shady knoll, a place where fairies glide,
And green-haired mermaids float along each golden tide!

Touching each cloudless rim with burning fire,
And tenanting the battlemented sky,
So that the deep heavens show'd another tire,
And the bright moon had dreams that would not die,
And the melodious stars sang hymns eternally.

Sweet Guisborough, 'twas thou that fill'd my Muse
With freshest impulses, and thoughts divine;
And this into my being did infuse
High dreams, that with my life's-blood intertwine,
And link me with the shapes who evermore will shine.

Each various wind of heaven delights in thee,
Old Aycliffe, where thy raven tresses flow;
The forests at thy feet send hymnings free,
The morn with gold and purple decks thy brow,
And the clear mountain streams about thy footsteps flow.

The silken mosses deck thy rolling hair;
Around thy belt, the oak and pine-groves swell;
The wild-fox in thy hollows hath his bed;
The hawk and raven on thy turrets dwell:—
Dear, dear to all the vale art thou, old hoary hill.

And, glaring with thy beacon of red wars,
Thou, Roseberry, shalt hear the reverent pen;
Thousands of years thy head hath touch'd the stars,
And heard the waters rolling through each glen:
And thousands more thy front majestic shall be seen.

The carved foot-marks, wrought on stedfast stone,
By love or friendship, done to mock at time;
The crystal fountain, swelling all alone,
And the sweet village sung in deathless rhyme,
By a poor country maid, in London streets, sublime.

Each temple, battlement, tower, steeple, spire,
Field, wood, lawn, hedgerow, garden, stream, and grove,
Seen from thy heights, shall glow in thoughts of fire,
Robed in the purest sanctity of love,
To feed and clothe my soul wherever I shall rove!

Thou, Huncliffe, brooding o'er the roaring sea,
That lashes aye thy bosom with his mane;
A lofty hymn be dedicate to thee
For centuries the guardian of the main,
And all that night and day do crowd his kingly train.

The treasurer of gold, and pearl, and gem,
That wash about thy feet, or crowd thy caves;
With snow-white sea-birds for thy diadem,
And cormorants that flit along thy waves,
And ghosts that shriek all night from out thy cavern'd caves.

These, Guisborough, with the ever-waving sea,
Thy endless moors, rude cliffs, and pastures green,
Thy blooming woods, and wild-walks, fair and free,
Thy abbey, church and hall—each goodly scene—
O'er every English town, do make thee rule as Queen.

My native place, thou mad'st me what I am;
To pluck the fruits that grow on Fancy's tree;
To go me forth and win myself a name,
Clad in the robes of heavenly Poetry,
With an unfailing heart that may not daunted be.

And others, too, a pure and mighty breed;—
One who hath died too soon: a lofty soul
Without the gold fruit, from the golden seed:
And now the charnel airs around him roll,
On whose immortal dreams the bells of heaven did toll.

He was too seraph-like for this poor clay,
He walk'd too high for this gross earthly sight:
His passions rose from some diviner ray
Than warm these earthlier natures with their light,
And now he hath his home beyond the stars of night.

Mason, I drop a tear upon thy grave;
And, had I power, would wreathe thy sacred head,
And tear thy relics from oblivion's wave:
Sleep on, thou hast a calm and quiet bed,
For sorrow, fear, and hate, can house not with the dead.

And others, who among these solitudes,
Do proudly walk, enquiring not their way;
Seeking the wild-flowers in untrodden woods,
Or raising loud the magic of their lay,
Where the red heath-bells sing unto the early May.

Where, at sweet even-tide, the setting sun
Showers heaven's bold sunlight o'er the ocean-tide;
Where midnight's glories round our abbey run,
Gilding each antique carving far and wide;
Where by our mountain streams bright nymphs and fairies glide.

Thou, Danby, some few wond'rous lays hast writ;
Nor for the sacred few hast writ in vain;
Each shines a star upon heaven's coronet;
Each is a flower new wash'd in summer rain:—
Oh, how I long to hear thy stately harp again!

And thou, too, Milton, of that lofty tree
That shook its blossoms even in Paradise;
Bold are thy pinions, unconstrain'd and free;
Bold are thy lofty hymns and minstrelsies,
A poet meet and fit to walk in Fancy's skies.

And thou too—but I will not use thy name,
Till thou hast thrown away this idle dream,
And girt thee for the battle field of Fame,
And wash'd thee pure in Inspiration's stream,
And made thee meet and fit for Inspiration's theme.

Be strong of heart; much, much hast thou to bear;
Dare not the winter seas with spirit faint,
The winter hills, if tempests thou dost fear;
For, though the Muse is holy as a saint,
Rude winds and angry clouds disturb her firmament.

I thank my God, I have surmounted all
Even to this time, and with a martyr's soul:
Do thou the same, whatever may befal,
And know, that whatsoever storms may roll,
The doors of Fame at last their splendours shall unroll!

And now, wars, minstrels, love and chivalry,
Bards, England, all, that linger'd in my dream,
Have wandered back into their native sky
Like any other lovely summer gleam,
And I am left behind without a thought or theme.

The fire that lit my soul hath died away;
The mountain breezes that inspired my brain,
The sun-beams and blue heavens that on me lay
Are past, and never more will be again,
For half my life seems dead with this poor passing strain.

I never more can be as I have been,
Pure, glad, and joyous—never, never more,
My heart shall leap at every pleasant scene,
And beat with rapture as in days of yore,
O'er fields, and hills, and skies—the glories all are o'er.

Farewell—deep from my heart of hearts, farewell!
The inspir'd airs that touch'd my lyre are flown,
My joy is past, my raptures vainly swell,
All of this vision's pageantry is gone,
The guest I lov'd is dead, and I am left alone!

JOHN WALKER ORD.

Guisborough, Cleveland, Yorkshire, November 1st, 1833.

ENGLAND.

ADDRESS TO SPENCER.

“The Poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as Imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the Poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
—Shakspeare.

“Forasmuch as I have mentioned Maister Spencer, soothly,
I must acknowledge him, a bard of sweetest memorial.”—
Gay's Proeme to Pastorals.

Great Spirit, let me worship on my knees,
With reverent adoration, thy great name;
Through the dim hues of Time my vision sees
Thy lofty state, and owns thy passion's flame—
Thine was a heart inspired, and bent on fame,
With godlike impulses, and feelings high;
Exultant and elate, no might could tame
The purpose of thy soul,—and Poetry
Did give thee rapturous dreams, and thoughts that touch'd the sky.

Surely, thy boyhood was a glorious thing;
Thy youth, in holy places glided o'er,
Borne on Imagination's golden wing,
Pastures and forests, and the sounding shore,
Mountains and deserts, never trod before,
Lone river sides, and mossy caves, were thine;—
And thus, thy spirit, fed with Nature's lore,
Became entranc'd, impassion'd, and divine,
And monuments did rear, that shall for ever shine.

Oh, for one hour at evening, to have gone
Among thy native woods, list'ning to thee,
To mark thy raptures ere they glow'd in song,
To watch thy spirit in its royal glee,
To hear thy bursts of heart-felt ecstacy!
Oh, to have heard thy voice, and seen thine eyes
Lit up seraphic; view'd thy forehead high
And clear and bright; watch'd every feeling rise;
Oh! could such other joy be met beneath the skies.

Pure and contemplative, high-soul'd, serene,
There was no height to which he could not go;
And whether in the fields and woodlands green,
Or, far, amid the cloud-groves, wandering slow,
Glad or majestic did his footsteps flow,
Nought did his fancy fear!—an eagle strong,
Or gentle dove, upon the forest bough.
Through heaven his pinions roll'd uncurb'd along,
Or wak'd the murmur'd plaint of soul-subduing song.

To meditate, with sad and thoughtful eye,
O'er human joys and woes—to be alone
In much society—to ponder high
When others grovell'd low: he bore a tone
Seraphic 'mid rude converse that was none.
Most peaceful was his spirit, calm, and pure:
Yea, like a ship, his spirit journey'd on,
A ship that sports in waters, mild and sure,
Fluttering its snow-white sails to the young breeze's lure.

Or, far aloft, even as the tempest, he
Could make his voice be heard, majestical,
Strong, mighty, calm, commanding as the Sea
When, stirr'd in wrath, its billows swell and roll,
And the beat cliffs beneath its thunders fall;
But most with gentlest shapes he did abide;
A pen of sunbeams ever at his call,
And playful spirits, wanton'd at his side,
That work'd him pleasant thoughts, and dreams of love and pride.

His was, indeed, a harp most musical,
And many-voic'd, as is the changeful main,
Or the strange wind;—now, in the Muse's hall
He carv'd fair sculptures, plac'd in solemn train,
And now fantastic elves that trill'd amain;
Now shone bright fairies, robed in purest green,
And now of mermaids did he weave his strain:
Earth, air, and water, fed his “Fairie Queen,”—
No nook of soul was left untravell'd by his pen.

Blest Fairy Queen, my heart's supreme delight,
My choicest company, my feast, my prayer,
How, when my boyhood was most fresh and bright,
Under the summer trees, thy visage fair
Rejoiced me, and thy hymnings fill'd the air:—
Or, walking lonely by the ocean side,
Thy silver songs breath'd sweetly in mine ear;—
I felt all raptures o'er my spirit glide—
More dear wast thou to me than all the world beside.

And, now, when from her rainbow wing, the Muse
Hath dropt a feather on my waken'd soul,
And scatter'd o'er me some few summer hues,
Still, glad as ever, do thy fancies roll—
Still am I lifted beyond earth's control—
Still do I love the heavenly Una's face,
As, with her milk white lamb, she joys to stroll
Through savage woods, and where rude Satyrs race
Among enchanters grim—most strong in Truth's pure ways.

Still do I love these spells and glamoury,
Wizards and giants, magic charms and wrong,
And the fair shapes, vice wears to cheat the eye—
Of righteous knights, that gaily prick along
In heavenly mail, to keep frail virtue strong;
Of furious battles, all for honour fought;
Of pleasant bowers, those solemn glooms among;
Of gorgeous palaces by magic wrought;
And of most wond'rous forms that dwell in every spot.

Nor yet of these alone, thy shaping soul,
Rear'd on Imagination's sov'ran wing,
High, 'mid the fields of vision, lov'd to stroll,
Clothing with beauty every hidden thing:
To nooks sequester'd thou did'st love to bring
Fair messengers, pure spirits, all divine,
Thou taught'st the rivers sweeter still to sing—
Thou mad'st the flowers and grass more freshly shine,—
Sea, mountains, forests, caves, with thy proud lays combine!

'Tis such as thee that bear us from the clay,
Among empyreal airs, ambrosial flowers;
'Tis such as thee that throw a milder ray
O'er human bitterness, when sorrow lours.
Sweet as the songs of streams and woodland bowers;
Sweet as a lovers's lute at evening;
Sweet as the lark, 'mid morning's golden towers;
Sweet as the moonlight on a sea-bird's wing,
The strains rejoice the heart, that from the Muses spring.

'Tis such as thee, that, holding loftier sphere,
Mellow'st the stars that throng the milky way;
Fashion'st the moon more lustrous, deep, and clear,
And o'er the rainbow softer hues dost lay.
Fierce as the tiger's, was thy rapturous play,
Yet glad as dolphins on a summer sea;
Thy very labour was a holiday;
Thy very dullness, joy and jubilee—
For a new heaven and earth belong to Poetry.

Immortally thy lofty verse shall live;
Each age shall hang new off'rings o'er thy shrine;
In vain with thee the rolling years may strive,
Whose memory Time but maketh more divine:
For ever will thy name in glory shine;
For ever with pure hearts and lofty thought,
So long as passion weaves th' inspired line;
So long as Nature's influences are brought;
So long as the strong rocks and mountains crumble not.

Yea, when thy spirit did exhale away
To the Great God—yet—didst thou not all die:
Far sweeter flowerets blossom'd on thy clay
Than over common dust their fragrance sigh.
On thee the charnel dews might never lie:
And for thy lofty race, thy songs have won
Their noblest coronet!—'twill soar on high—
The Spencer's name, for him, the poet gone;
And England aye be proud that she had such a son.

Thy name shall in all hearts be deified:
Link'd with those galaxies of mortal night—
The white-hair'd Chaucer, first, who won for bride
The Muse of Albion; Milton, that great light,
Who made the flowers of Eden shine more bright—
The blind, inspired, and most sublime of men:
Shakspeare, who as a god, came forth in might,

With dews and sunbeams dripping from his pen—
Far mightier names than e'er shall live with us agen.

For we are weak and faint, and cannot swell
Those trumpet tones that shook the skies of yore:
A link is broke, a hue is lost, the knell
Is rung, the glory gone for evermore!—
When shall the Muse's cup again run o'er
With the rich streams of which th' Immortals fed?
When—when, again, be heard that solemn lore—
Th' inspired visions of the glorious dead?—
When shall the Muse again uprear her radiant head?

The crystal stream of Castaly is dry;
The flowers that round Parnassus bloom'd are gone;
We have another earth, another sky!
Among strange bowers we wander blindly on.
Come down, ye sacred Nine, and make us strong;
And give us wings, and lift us from the mire!
Oh, we have grovell'd in the dust too long!
Teach us on loftier pinions to aspire,
And on your altars heap the incense, fruit, and fire!

How shall we live without old memories?
Thy name, great Spencer, is a tower of light;
A mountain, bath'd with hues from evening skies;
'Tis deeds like thine that make our path-ways bright—
That spread the stars along Oblivion's night—

That bear us up, when other hopes are gone:
Thy name is of our heritage and right,
Of sacred laws, and solemn victories won,
Of England's proudest sons, thyself her proudest one.

To highest glory is the poet wed;
Great as the warrior in his shining mail;
High as the highest doth he rear his head,
Undaunted, dreading nought that may assail;
His soul, a ship of light, that loves to sail
In summer seas, yet fears nor cloud, nor storm—
Strong as a rock, 'gainst which the billows rail,
He bears for glory every hurt and harm—
And such did Spencer brave, 'ere honour cloth'd his form.

Oh, that some portion of the ancient fire
That burned in love, in war, in chivalry—
That touch'd the chords of the enraptur'd lyre,
That spake among the skies of Liberty,
When patriots and martyrs sunk to die—
Would spread again its bright wings on the earth,
And make us kindred with the starred sky—
But colder hearts are round us, and the birth
Of proud hard men hath come, of whom remains no dearth.

They see not in the flowers each rainbow hue;
The heavens shower forth no glories on their head;
They know no freshness in the morning dew,
And the great ocean, rolling on his bed,

Awakes not them, that might awake the dead—
We, Bards, may sing, the sharp thorn at our heart,
And weep till eyes and brain are molten lead,
And feel the pangs of Death's sharp poison'd dart,
Whilst they, the cold and proud, hunt each his paltry art.

The poet's strength is gone, that was a sea
Of mighty sound—or—as a gentle lay—
A summer evening's murmur'd melody—
And, though he singeth sweet, as birds in May,
And with the passion of the ancient day,
He sings in vain—and, as a desert stream,
Heard only by the light winds in their play;
Or, like a spirit hymning to a dream,
The music falls in vain, or floats, a passing gleam.

We wring our hearts of the red blood; we pine
In Autumn woods, the leaves our laurel crown;
The burning brow, that beats with thoughts divine—
The fever'd eyes, the worn head leaning down—
The dream and hope in vain, these, are our own—
And hate, and scorn, and contumely and pain,
And poverty, and the cold world's angry frown—
These are the storms, that eat into our brain,
And toss about our bark on life's tempestuous main.

Yet we rejoice, even in our agony,
And, with the thorn of martyrdom, still live:
Our spirits are elate, and touch the sky,

And heavenly shapes wing o'er our heads, and give
The bliss of love and thought, the sweet reprieve
From gross desire and wordly emptiness—
We drink the honey of a heavenly hive:
Our walk is not of earth; and thus I bless
The sacred primal source of all our happiness.

Yea, when the evening seems a sleeping child,
Dwelling in gorgeous towers of golden light;
And when the woods are full of music wild;
And when lone streams flash by in glory bright;
And when the stars bedeck the brow of night,
And at heaven's gate sing their immortal song;
And when the sea doth bellow in his might;
And when the clouds and tempests roll along;
These are the Poet's wealth, his heritage alone.

Fame rings her dirges to his inmost soul,
And gleams before his eyes a burning star!
Shout, white-haired Chaucer, from thy charnel hole;
Shout, Shakspeare, through the barred mails of war;
Shout, all whose souls are near—their clay afar!
Is this an empty idol?—no—'tis borne
To every age, on time's triumphal car:
Eternal wreaths her lofty brows adorn,
And evening never clouds the splendours of her morn.

She shook her wings, and prophecy arose,
And peopled the wild deserts with the array

Of pyramids and pillar'd towers: then rose
The huge old temples, knowing no decay,
And sculptur'd marble, and the poet's lay—
It gave us patriot heroes, and the power
Of thought immortal: she hath won her way
Even through the skies, and made the sea her dower,
And now her sovereign rule o'er all the earth doth tower.

She shook her wings, and mighty cities then
Resounded loud with commerce, arts, and all
That swell the labours of the many men—
She made the sullen towers of Ignorance fall
Uprear'd high acts, and deeds majestical
Cut through huge mountains, made new rivers flow,
Peopled fresh worlds and empires at a call—
Triumphant, mighty in old times as now—
All own her sovereign sway, and at her footstool bow!

She shook her wings—and Spencer's name rose bright;
An eagle of the sun his soul did rise:
Our mountains had no voice, the stars of night
Murmur'd no spheric music to the skies—
Still were the hymns of all our choristries!
In vain the forests shone, in vain the vale
Lay rich in fruits and blooms, in vain the sighs
Of stedfast love breath'd on the evening gale.
In vain the seasons chang'd; 'twas all of no avail.

But Spencer rose, and in the courts of kings
Sung loud of Nature, and earth's hidden sleep;
His Muse soar'd upward to the heavens on wings,
And murmur'd o'er the clouds its passion deep:
Long had she lain in dust, and might not keep
The eagle flight of Homer, and past time:
But now no longer need we mourn and weep;
England still bows to Spencer's strains sublime
And his loud organ-tones still sound in every clime.

Yea, he walk'd forth, and the green earth was clad
With fresher hues, with fresher hues the sky;
The forest depths to hear his voice were glad;
The streams sung sweeter as he warbled by;
And soft winds bore his lofty notes on high.
And he hath his reward! The immortal name,
The impress, and the light that cannot die—
The unfading crown, the Elysian bowers of fame—
The temple that is safe from earth, air, water, flame.

THE LEGENDARY GODS.

Mona,—thy druid rites awake the dead,—
Rites, thy brown oaks would never dare
Ever whisper to the idle air:—
Rites, that have chain'd old ocean in his bed.
Roger's Ode to Superstition.

Theirs was religion of the open sky,
And leafy trees, and sounds that never fade;
They had beheld no martyr'd Saviour die,
His holy look fill'd not the forest shade!
Wandering Bard and other Poems.

Fair was the plumage of that ancient creed,
But soil'd, and drooping, and dishevilled;
Even in its desolateness a gorgeous weed;
Proud even its solemn memory, now, when dead.
To loftiest footsteps were its visions wed;
In noblest temples hath it held its way;
It wore a glorious crown upon its head,
And sate in state, and held its slaves at bay,
And o'er the world in chains held undisputed sway!

It had its own high temples—temples fair,
As ever glitter'd to the summer sky.
There stood the idol of the Sun, his hair,

All gold, his burning wheel revolving nigh
The sun—that showers fresh seasons from on high,
Calls the green pastures forth, each scent and hue—
Light, heat,—calm thoughts—the philosophic eye,—
Clothing the earth in vestments ever new—
All things, most bright and fair, that meet our human view.

The Moon, too, sate on golden pedestal,
With flowing robes that rustled to her feet,
And silver glories that o'ershadow'd all,
Brought down to earth from her celestial seat;
The moon—that binds the waves in concourse meet,
And clothes with richest gold the yellow corn;
Wooing the harvests to her winding sheet—
That o'er the sleeping world hangs forth her horn;
A watcher firm and true until the blaze of morn.

There stood Tuisco of the shaggy beard;
The royal sceptre in his kingly hand:
Pride, lust, revenge, of him were much afear'd,
Who sway'd of virtues every shining band,
And rear'd Truth's standard over all the land.
The patriot, hero, lover of his kind,
The teacher, guide, the gentle in command,
Who sway the empire of the heart and mind,
The pure, the great, the good, o'er these his will inclin'd.

There stood the mighty Odin, king and god,
Robed in immortal armour, with a crown

Of shining gold: a nobler shape ne'er trod
Red battle field, or tramp'd the oppressor down:
Odin, whose might and prowess all men own;
The god of burning sword, and flaming spear;
Who slew a thousand warriors—he but one—
In vain War's thunders roar'd when he was near,
Whose arm spread instant death—whose eye spread instant fear.

The god of battle, and Valhalla's hall,
Where the dead heroes from their labour rest.
There do the mighty shapes assemble all,
Quaff the red wine, and former deeds attest,
No more by danger and hard toil opprest!
Celestial virgins tend, their charms array'd
In everlasting youth—and they are blest;
Delicious music warbles overhead,
And heavenly odours float along each flowered glade.

There sat proud Thor upon his golden throne,
In golden armour clad; upon his brow
A crown of pearls, and gems, and diamonds shone,
Sprinkled with stars that made a gorgeous show.
'Tis his to dart heaven's fires, its thunders throw;
To scatter light and heat, and seasons new;
To send fair skies, fresh rains, and breezes low;
The garden's bloom, the harvest's golden hue;
To guide the moon and stars among their pastures true.

Nor Friga, reverend mother of the skies,
Be thou past o'er. Well that majestic hand,
That queenly bosom, and imperial eye,
Prove thy eternal might, thy strong command.
'Twas hers to guide young Pleasure's flowery band,
To plant the rose-leaves on the couch of love,
And touch cold hearts with her enchanted wand;
To shower luxurious raptures from above,
The joys of summer bowers, that youth and beauty prove.

There, on a dolphin's back, of burnish'd gold,
Sat the god Seater; girdle, wheel and pail,
Significantly speak. The girdle told
Of the old British freedom (that high tale
That rose from burning Troy, with Priam's wail).
The wheel shew'd strength, and might, and unity
Of hearts how strong, when knit—when rent, how frail:
The bucket rain'd fresh showers from on high,
And pour'd the mountain brooks, when fields were parch'd and dry.

There, too, stood Ermenseul!—be his the meed,
The rapturous laud of honest poetry.
To him the poor man cried aloud in need:
He bore the weary head; he wip'd the eye;
He calm'd the fears and woes of poverty;
He watch'd the tedded hay; he lit the fire;
He tun'd the cricket's song, when storms were nigh:
Thus was he worshipp'd by each reverend sire;
And youths and maidens gay, in rapturous hymns did quire.

And so, within their emerald halls they stand—
The ancient gods—and hold immortal sway;
O'er the old earth and heavens stretch'd their command:
They mission'd forth their priests to sing and pray.
No marvel! we had not yet seen the day;
Darkness was still on high; the stream of blood
From Abel's heart had not yet pass'd away;
Evil was yet the conqueror o'er Good,
Nor ceas'd, till God himself on blessed Calvary stood.

'Tis over now, and happy children sing
The choral song; in blessed company,
The old idolatries have taken wing,
And for old blood-stain'd altars, towering high,
Our proud cathedrals touch the morning sky;
For living innocents, by red hands slain,
The cheerful off'rings of pure hearts we lie:
Mercy and justice and the martyr's pain,
The pious hymn and prayer, are now our better gain.

Ours is the church of Christ, by God's own blood—
The blood of the Messiah—sanctified;
And thence again, by martyr's, just and good—
Twice cleans'd, who on the Alpine mountains wide,
Perish'd, the torrents swollen with life's tide;
Or, in strange caverns and wild places seen,
And hunted, till like tired lambs they died—
God's own Eternal Church, where he hath been
For ages worshipp'd sole, and shall for ever reign.

THE LEGENDARY KINGS.

I had a dream of bells one night;
It seem'd my body woke,
And, then, as if dim forms of might,
In earthly voices spoke;
Dim forms of might, like ancient Kings. [OMITTED]
I heard them faintly through my dream,—
A quavering in my ear,—
With troubled awe, as when do seem
Strange carven shapes of fear;
Strange shapes of carven on a tomb,
With hands held up to pray,
Or Angels, that hang down in gloom,
With shading wings alway.
—Danby's Poems.

Kings of the desert, men whose stately tread,
Stirs from the dust the sound of Liberty.
—Wilson.

As one, who, waking from a deathful trance,
And, at lone midnight, in the abbey aisle,
(The round moon looking through the gloom askance)
Beholds the mighty spirits of the pile
March o'er the sounding marble, rank and file—
Each starting mail'd forth from the sculptur'd stone;
Thus, then, (my mind still brooding on our isle,
And pondering o'er the heroic ages gone)
These glorious shapes stalk'd forth, and in my vision shone.

O, but ye were indeed a glorious band!
Your crowned heads, long robes, barbaric grace,
And glittering swords, each in your steady hand;
The glory of past deeds on every face,
Borne forth from conquering war, and conquering chase;
And Freedom join'd their footsteps, and around
Each forehead shed such light as never was;
Calm, strong, majestic, in proud concourse bound,
Never can sight so grand shine more on earthly ground.

Oh, gorgeous, beyond all that mortal gaze
Hath ever seen! giants in strength of bone;
Gods in the solemn grandeur of each face—
Gods in the greatness that around them shone;
Each aspect bore the glories that are gone—
The splendour of old pictur'd halls—the might
By conquest, from old seas and mountains won—
The solemn reverence—the homag'd right
From slaves who still were men, nor knelt without delight.

Bred of the royal lineage that is gone—
The race of Cæsar, Pompey, Antony—
The great—the brave, of times that now are none;
As proud as theirs your steps, as proud your eye:
Yours was as good a right—ye look'd as high,
Although the blood of millions at your feet
Hiss'd not; nor empires fell when ye were nigh—
Nor precious wealth and conquests, shower'd sweet,
Nor castles, mountains, cliffs, sunk 'neath your footsteps' beat.

Mighty as they, ye rul'd your own domain,
Nor sought the triumphs of the chariot wheel—
Ye had the chase, and love, and battle plain—
Heroic contest, honour, and the weal
Of England at your hearts; and ye did feel
As truly royal as the old Kings dead:
And though at tomb, nor mausoleum, kneel—
Nor pyramid—your worshippers: your bed
Is sweet as theirs; as calm ye rest the fever'd head.

The lion's heart beat in each ample breast—
The eagle's eye glar'd in each lofty head—
The wild deer's swiftness slept beneath your rest,
And, 'neath your calm, a storm to wake the dead;
And, when ye lay upon your midnight bed,
The spirits of slain heroes slumber'd near;
Unto the war-gods' halls your spirits sped—
Where your proud fathers quaff the nectar clear,
And sing the battle hymns they love so well to hear!

Oh, noble hearts, how shall I sound your praise?
How lift your natures who did stand so high?
Imagination can do nought to raise
Kings, e'en like gods, of old idolatry!
Such souls are less of earth than of the sky:
But when I say that ye were bold and brave;
In your religion resolute to die;
Good sires and lords—staunch patriots—quick to save;
Such other kings in vain I summon from the grave.

There was no foul-mouth'd mob to hem ye in,
Nor traitor's council, nor the scoundrel's lie;
Red treason's guile, nor discord's deadly sin—
And thus they bore a look of majesty,
And uncontrolled strength that might not die!
Well did the brave old spirits know their right—
Their right divine o'er hogs within the sty;
And each bold lord, that battled in their sight,
Was, as a king himself, and wore his sword by might.

They all are gone, that train majestical!
Swept clean away from out my vision's range,
As if they heard some mighty spirit's call!
The walks by vision chosen, are wild and strange,
Devious, perplex'd, with many a sudden change—
Shrubs, trees, and flowers immortal, blossom there,
Whilst heavenly visitants their leaves arrange:
We look again—gone is the pageant fair,
And thus my dream is o'er, and past into the air.

THE ABORIGINES.

“A silvan life till then the natives led,
In the brown shades and greenwood forests lost,
All careless, rambling where it pleas'd them most.”
Thomson.

O, Happy people! honest, brave, and true,
How sweetly did your life-time flow along!
Your laws were high and pure, and did embue
Your deeds with freedom—ye, in freedom strong:
Yours was the patriot's thought, the patriot's song!
Amid your quiet homes no stranger came;
Ye never put the hostile helmet on:
Ye sought but rural sport and healthful game;
Ambition held no charms—ye had no heed for fame.

Within no narrow cot your children dwelt,
But in the forest depths had housing wide;
Ye chas'd the red-deer, on the cliff-stones knelt,
And with your arrows stopp'd the eagle's pride,
And hunted through the deserts, side by side.
Love was as free as air, and 'mid the trees
Would roam, or by the mountain streamlets glide:
Pure passion then had sunk not to the lees,
And life's sweet dream flow'd on, calm as a summer breeze.

Yours was the liberty of heart and limb—
To bear hard toil, or, in soft idlesse, sleep;
Ye had your worship 'mid the forests dim,
Where bloom the wild-flowers—where the sweet dews weep,
And where the glad birds do their matins keep:
What need had ye of richly blazon'd pile?
The painted window, or the organ deep?
The morning star gave worship through heaven's aisle;
And God was in the winds and waves that girt your isle!

Did not the lion, in his awful lair,
Or, as along the hills, he bounded on—
Did not the plumage, glancing through the air—
The wonders of the sun, and stars, and moon—
The glories of the heavens at night and noon—
The grass, the trees, the flowers—each scent and hue—
Did these not lift your spirits late and soon?
Teaching your souls a worship, strange and new—
The unerring awe of Power—the instinct ever true?

War's burning foot had not yet scorch'd the land,
Nor swept the forests with his helm and plume;
Nor touch'd the harvests with his fiery hand—
Whilst death and desolation lit the gloom,
And orphan children wail'd their ruin'd home:
The hungry pant of avarice was not;
Revenge lay gibbering on no bloody tomb:
But love, and hope, and joy, rejoic'd each spot,
And to immortal deeds, did elevate the thought!

We had no ships upon the roaring waves,
That, then, were all untramp'd, uncurb'd, and free,
Without a ghost in any of their caves:
We had no carved domes, where night might see
Her moon and stars eclips'd—where minstrelsy,
Dance, feast, and wine-cup, made red riot sound—
But, naked, with high spirits, and great glee,
Each painted savage sought the forest bound,
Where simplest pleasures made their solemn depths resound.

The leaper's anxious toil, and rapid move—
The wrestler's furious pull, or nimble play—
The archer's contest, all for pride or love,
The race that beat the wild-deer wild each day:
And when they met, and held their holiday,
Far fairer maids than crowd the lighted hall,
Danc'd with their lovers in the evening ray—
The trees, the nodding plumes that grac'd their ball,
And the blue heavens, the roof that spread above them all.

Pure were their spirits, as their duties pure:
The crimes that haunt where cities have their root,
These could these savage natures not endure:
Still Mammon, Fear, and Pride were kept without:
Seduction had not dar'd to plant its foot
With them, nor lust, deceit, and perjury.
Oft when the mind's most polish'd, there the fruit
Of death and passions do most rankly lie;
For knowledge caus'd the deed, that drove us from the sky.

No gaudy show of gold, and pearl, and gem—
Of robes of state, the purple, and the pall—
The sceptre, and the glittering diadem,
Then walk'd in state from its embroider'd hall:
Pride had no myrmidons to list its call;
Strength, might, and deed, dwelt only with the good:
The pure of soul were fenc'd as with a wall;
And the fair flowerets bore no stain of blood,
Whilst yet the human heart retain'd its milder mood.

The young man went him forth; his bold bright eye
Undimm'd by wild excess, nor fear'd the wave
That vice and madness roll o'er this our sky;
The old man, still in pride of honour brave,
Fear'd not the gathering blossoms of the grave:
Upon the sunshine of the waters fair
The drop of blood had fallen not, where they lave
Green pastures, and the wild-flowers blooming there;
Nor the hot breath of lust, had poison'd all the air.

Thou, red sun, walking o'er the marbled floor,
Beneath the spangled roof—beheld no stain:
The sparry caverns, by rude waves run o'er,
Heard nought of storms upon the upper main:
And thou, fair moon, with thy celestial train,
Wert startled not by midnight revelry:
Ye stars, that saw your faces shining plain
Among the mountain brooklets, running free,
Veil'd not your lustrous eyes from man's indignity.

Men were as lords and emperors, and trod
Their own domain, as would a conqueror:
They knelt them down to no man's sov'ran nod—
Free as the hills their footsteps wander'd o'er—
Free as the waves that beat against their shore:
They held their Freedom, as a King his crown;
It lit his forehead, and his wild eyes more;
It sounded in his steps; and earthly frown
Could never damp his soul, or break his strong heart down.

O, blessed sun, that had no sight of woe—
O, blessed moon and stars, without a stain—
O, giant sea, that any where might go,
When will ye look on earthly clay again
As, long ago, with angels in your train?
And ye, ye mountains, when will ye awake
Once more your seraph voices to the plain?
And ye, ye valleys, when again shall break
Your songs and hymns aloft, until the mountains quake?

These times are o'er; but yet there is a tongue
In the immortal harp to hymn them still:
These virtues cannot fail whilst they are sung,
Nor faint, whilst yet the harp-strings have their fill:
Ours is a mighty hope—a mighty will!
And if we know to bend a brighter sky,
And throw a fairer rainbow on the hill—
And make old deeds that they can never die,
We still must wield the spell—the magic glories try.

O, joy divine, to have been one of these,
And thou, my Margaret, wandering by my side!
What rapture, roaming 'mid th' embowering trees,
Or where the rivers roll'd their treasures wide;
Or, 'mong the wild flowers, by the mountain side!
How pure thine eyes, as Nature told her tale—
How rich those profuse ringlets' golden tide—
How most divine that face, so fair and pale—
How goddess-like that form, as flow'd the evening gale!

But as it is, in this most changed land,
What hath this heart to do but bleed and pine?
I ne'er can hope to win that beauteous hand,
Nor ever call that heavenly body mine:
Nor win to mine earth's nature, thee divine?
Five hundred miles divide us, hundreds more
By man set up, and custom's laws assign,
Divide our beating hearts, with grief run o'er—
For I am as a ship that never gains the shore.

Heaven's sweet voice bless thee, heavenly Margaret!
May never griefs like mine fasten to thee!
He—who hath dwelling beyond suns that set,
And beareth in his hand the eternal sea—
Love, guard thee, make thy goings glad and free!
I seek no hope or solace—through my breast,
The dart is fixed, and cannot loosen'd be:
But thou shalt still rejoice in constant rest,
'Mid happy, happy dreams—like sunbeams from the west!

Past! and is that blessed time, indeed, no more—
Gone the bright green of gold, gone the delight
By lone caves murmur'd—gone the songs of yore—
Gone the immortal hues that were so bright—
The half-known sounds, then heard, of the starr'd night:
And do we view at length the visible face
Which the veil cover'd—sorrow, fear, and blight—
Sin, lust, deceit, that run a constant race,
The Dead-Sea fruit—the stain—that nought can e'er efface.

They had their forests—these are sunk away—
And the red heath-bells by their tomb-stones glow:
The mighty creatures that upheld their sway,
In lonely sounding caves and rocks, below
Huge cliffs, do rest in peace and quiet now:
Their heroes and their mighty men are dead,
And the high deeds they did are buried low;
All chang'd, save the blue heavens above our head,
Their stars then bright as now, and by the same hand led.

THE ROMAN INVASION. B.C. 54.

England never did, and never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
------ nought shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.
—Shakspeare.

We shall look from tower and steeple,
On the coming ships of the foe!
And dames and daughters shall all your locks
With the spoiler's grasp entwine!
—Campbell's Reullura.

Never was any land so sorely tried!
Its youth was burning fire that aye would cling—
The hostile foot ne'er left its pastures wide—
The foeman's eagle never dropt its wing,
But slew the dove, though caged with a king!
Thus hath its honour aye been pure and fair,
And noblest fruit sprung from its blossoming;
And now old ocean doth her vessels bear,
Whether the fires of war, or perilous tracks they dare.

Rome, the majestic, rose, and England fell!
O, what had England then to tempt the foe?
The simple village and the cottag'd dell

Existed not—and on the river's flow
The ship of commerce rear'd no front of snow:
What then brought mighty Cæsar from the land
Of golden skies, warm suns, and streams that go
Through blushing vineyards, to a rock-strewn strand,
To fight on the sea-cliffs, a rude barbarian band?

Was it ambition to hew down a child,
Born of the billows and the tempest's breath?
Was it for gold to crop our deserts wild,
Or wring the yellow flower'd and purple heath?
England had nought for Rome but war and death.
Yet, the huge world for that belong'd to Rome,
Save this poor ocean gem Ambition's wreath:
Drew forth the fiery legions from their home,
To win the ocean-queen, and bear her o'er the foam.

Say, shall I rear no laurel for thy head,
And rear no monument above thy dust,
Thou noblest one of England's royal dead—
Thou, on whose sword of fame there lies no rust—
Who bear'st no spot upon thy snow-white bust—
Queen Boadicea?—thou wert great indeed:
Belov'd by heaven, even when thy land was lost;
And though a thousand years have dimm'd thy seed,
Thy blood on England's fields hath left a mighty breed!

She drove the Roman back, like a worn wave;
And rear'd triumphant England from the mire:

She taught the hungry battle storm to rave,
And lit the flames of Rome's wild funeral pyre.
Alas, too soon extinguish'd was the fire!
For we had nought but scythe and useless gear:
Feeble, we could not meet a storm so dire—
A storm that, as an earthquake, bellow'd near,
And smote the standard down a Queen was first to rear.

Yea, they dishonour'd her, who was a Queen,
And tore the purple from her snowy breast:
Lust came and dwelt amid our pastures green,
And with hot fingers their fair blooms carest,
And the Queen's daughters were all soil'd and prest;
Ravish'd and murder'd even before her eyes!
Her lands despoil'd, her people sore opprest;
And she so weak, she had not power to rise;
What English Queen, was e'er in such sad piteous wise.

But she is dead—the mighty one is dead!
Nought now remains save History's golden line:
Less worthy queens have monumental bed:
But she has none, who liv'd and died divine!
O'er her fair brow, no garlandings entwine.
Yet, when she reign'd—to meet her queenly eye,
To hear her speak, thousands had sought her shrine;
Thousands had borne her praises to the sky,
Whose mouldering ashes now in black oblivion lie.

And yet, perchance, even then was heard some note,
And the old minstrel Bard could turn a lay:
Perchance her praises warbled from the throat
Of blue-eyed maiden, in the lonely way,
Tending her white lambs in the early May.
Yet now the wild winds watch, the fast rains weep—
Sole mourners, and night's glooms their homage pay—
With the immortal dead she hath her sleep—
The mighty shades, who still the world in bondage keep.

They should have lain her down with helm and spear;
And pil'd the marble, so no flowers might grow:
(Whose bloom and scent had mock'd her life of fear)
And clad her in the sheeted mail;—her woe
Been told by solemn yew-tree, swinging low;
And, for an epitaph,—“They took my all,
“They slew my children, and defil'd their snow;
“They wrung my country's heart and mock'd her call,
“But me they could not chain—I have escap'd their thrall.”

Another of the same great breed—a hand
To guide the helm, when loudest storms were near—
A power sprung forth, to save a falling land!
Bravely and long, he fought the fight of fear,
And blew a trumpet in the foeman's ear.
He was a chief, such as old battles knew;
The hills were glad his guiding voice to hear;

And though of savage times, his faith was true,
And with the noblest dreams all actions did embue.

Perchance, had the same heart beat for the war
Of latter times, his name had swell'd on high,
A patriot's and conqueror's: a bright star
Beckoning afar on Fame's enkindled sky,
To guide the trampled slave to liberty:
Perchance a Hampden, Washington, or Tell,
To cheer the bondsman's heart, and clear his eye!
But as it was, the lofty spirit fell,
Bound to Rome's chariot wheels, proud Cæsar's ranks to swell.

What were his thoughts, when captive borne to Rome?—
One who had trod the deserts—who had made
The haughty cliffs his most approved home—
When, at the conqueror's chariot wheels, they bade
Him hang his locks!—say, was he then dismay'd?
No: his old freedom clad him like the air;
And the vast towers, proud domes, and crowds array'd,
He saw not; for his soul had other care,
And wander'd far away, 'mid England's pastures fair.

He bore the freedom on his mountains won;
The soul elate—the bearing proud and high:
Nature look'd out in him, her savage son,
From the wild raven hair, and eagle eye;
And robed him with her native majesty.

The gorgeous hall—the kingly state—the crowd
Of glittering shapes, ne'er brought a tear or sigh;
And England seem'd already to shout loud,
That she should sway the earth when Rome was in her shroud!

Say ye, that Rome was free?—she slew the free!
Look to her history!—when she arose,
The world was hush'd in love and liberty;
The ocean and the sky were all repose;
The earth had then but heard of half its woes.
But she arose, and Egypt was bent low;
And Macedonia, wrung with mighty throes,
And craggy Carthage, felt the sudden blow;
And the Barbaric Kings she slew, and every foe!

There was not any sea where her proud fleet
Shook not their giant ribs among the foam;
There was no hidden spot whereon her feet
Had trod not, which she sought not as her home:
The strangest caverns knew thy name, O Rome;—
Deserts the most remote, and wastes most lone.
Of fairest cities, thou didst make a tomb;
The loveliest places rung with curse and groan;
And millions bled and died, that thou might'st rear thy throne.

She rose in mists of blood—in blood she fell;
With cruel murder were her temples won;
The pomp that over all the earth did swell,
And like a mighty monument, alone,
Stood forth, even like a shatter'd rock fell down.

Great was the noise—it sounded far and wide;
Earth clapp'd her hands for joy to hear her groan;
And she that with great ocean did divide
All climates, wither'd low, and fell in all her pride.

Yea, she whose conquering ships trode down the sea;
Who, through vast rocks, did carve her hungry way—
She, 'neath whose feet, the mountains, towering free
With elk-trod forests, like new harvests lay,
To whom the wrath of nations was but play—
Hath she not suffer'd for her deeds of ill?—
Yea, Time, hath scourg'd her, and transform'd her clay:
The spear and faulchion long have had their fill;
And slaves pollute the soil, where freemen once held will.

What, though her temples greet the setting sun;
What, though her marble pillars stand in pride,
And tell of the old glory Rome hath won;
Though domes and palaces stand side by side,
On whose white fronts, the loving moonbeams glide;
In whose fair halls, with music, dance, and song,
Great emperors in splendour did abide:—
Even these are not her own: the Austrian long
Hath held them: nought but slaves do walk their glooms among!

As a small stream, that, from the mountain's heart,
In gloom and sunshine, treads its silent way,
Till, as each neighbouring rill doth lend a part,

The rolling tide breaks forth unto the day,
Then, as a mighty river, swells away,
So Rome arose. Earth saw her from afar:
The nations were her feeding rills alway,
Won from their mountains by the sword of war;
And o'er them all she shone a glory-bearing star.

Her waters swept the vineyards of the south,
And topp'd the mountains of the frozen North:
Robed in the vigour of their mighty youth,
O'er Lybia and Syria they went forth,
And where the Ethiopian hath his birth,
Beside the fountains of the Infant Nile
They mingled, and Euphrates: all the earth
Was delug'd; over continent and isle
They swept; o'er every clime, and atmosphere, and soil.—

Till, in the ocean of eternity,
Where time lies dead, and strives to move in vain,
The mighty waters gather'd; far as eye
Could stretch, and far beyond, did stretch this main:
Earth heard the sound, and groan'd aloud in pain:
Ceas'd, long ago, is that tremendous roar;
Nor will it ever lash the world again;
But still the fame will live, nor e'er run o'er:
In History's page, the voice shall sound for evermore.

ANCIENT AND MODERN LONDON.

But thou, Old Troynavaunt, as rose of old,
Thy towers and steeples—spires and temples bold,
So hast thou gleam'd unto the farewell sun
Of many a year; and as the seasons run
No spring delayeth thee. The summer ray
Can never pierce the dimness of thy day,
Or War's delusions, where he hath uprear'd
A temple to the phantom joys.
—Broken Heart, by M. S. Milton.

Hearken, Old London, from thine ancient sleep!
When a few straggling houses, here and there,
Were thine, and simple shepherds with their sheep,
The cattle brows'd amid thy meadows fair—
Within thy gardens fed the timid hare—
Thy maidens in the woods, by the moonlight
Lay on love's breast; the tangles of their hair;
Young children play'd around, in beauty bright,
Whilst sires and matrons joy'd to view the happy sight.

Within thy bowers the little birds did sing,
And wiled the winged hours in amorous play;
Within thy streams the silver trout would spring
Among the sunbeams, shining in their ray:
The breezes came afar, and lov'd to pay

Their homage;—every season had its joy;—
Spring had its leaves; and every summer day
Its loves and sports; and autumn did employ
Its liveries; and winter reign'd without alloy.

How calmly did thy unsoil'd waters flow,
Their white sails glimmering in the morning sun!
The winds were heavy with the dance and song;
The music and the murmur, never done!
Rich were the harmonies Old Thamis sung,
Whilst yet no bard was in the flowery mead:
In those glad days no spot was on the sun;
And pestilence, and famine, with their breed,
Fire, death, revenge, and hate, had not yet sown their seed.

Then shone the peaceful hut among the trees;
Then satisfaction clad each happy face;
Clear happy voices fill'd the flowing breeze;—
Then flourish'd cheerful hearts and native grace—
Content and trust, that nothing could efface.
The lock, and bar, and chain, were needed not;
The braying dog—the sword, and spear, and mace:—
Unfenced, uncar'd-for, smil'd each pleasant spot;
Whilst equal rights and laws their constant blessings brought.

The War's loud thunder had not shook the plain;
Her blood-red scarf had not yet glar'd on high;
Her armaments had not yet trod the main;
The savage dungeon had not mock'd the sky,
And vex'd the blue of heaven with groan and cry;

The Demon of Intemperance, and its hell
Of ruin'd homes and hearts, had come not nigh;
Nor Luxury's pomps, that love in halls to dwell;
Nor rude and bloated Wealth, that aye its gold must tell.

Yet art thou all sublime; and far on high
Thy temples, spires, and monuments, stand fair:
Houses, like rocks, on every side do lie,
That man hath cast about him, without care;
Kings of the earth roll by, with pomp and glare;
And the great sea-like river boundeth free,
With pearl and gem among his rusty hair,
The silks of India hanging to his knee,
And gold and silver sheen, that bear his sov'ranty.

Thames—that like liquid glass once flow'd along,
Clear, from its royal source, and scatter'd o'er
With leaves and new blown flowerets, stolen among
Fair pastures, or glad forests, now no more—
Groans, 'neath the burthens huge, from every shore.
The commerce of the whole great world is here:
North, South, East, West, pour in their precious store;
The fruit and gold of every hemisphere;
The sons of every clime, his kingly waters bear!

And London is sublime. Wed to the sea—
Eye of the universe,—the earth's right hand,
Whose birth and death are with Eternity—
Who art the lord and king of every land—

Whose sons are numerous as the ocean sand—
Whom Freedom blesseth with its sweetest smile,
And scatterest good, as with a magic wand;
Where Genius hath built her noblest pile—
The chief, and guardian god, of this our native isle.

Shadow'd in earliest dreams, thy visage came;
Amid the woods and fields thy footsteps fell:
On the sea-shore swell'd loud thy dreadful name,
And the high mountains of thy fame would tell:
Yea, London!—London!—fill'd each solemn dell.
Thee sought our kings, our warriors, statesmen—all:
From thee came thought, and wisdom, and the will
Of the inspired bards—of those whose thrall
Binds the great earth, and to their utmost bounds doth call.

Just twenty-two of life's few years are gone—
Of strangest dreams, of wanderings, and care—
And now I walk thy solemn streets alone,
Wondering that thou art so exceeding fair;
Even as I deem'd, in Fancy's heighten'd glare!
I view thy palaces in festal light—
I hear thy mighty murmur everywhere;
The noblest aims of man attract the sight,
And beauty, greatness, power, are gaz'd on by the night.

Night!—and the moon in heaven is shining clear,
Even as above my own dear native home;
The thick smokes cannot gloom her face with fear—
O'er all this human life her footsteps roam,
Careless, as if the earth were but a tomb,
And she a lamp beside a monarch's grave.
The din, the war, the strife, can never come
To her; she cannot hear this troublous wave,
Who o'er the heavens doth walk, and bear herself so brave.

Lo, where Westminster's sisters-towers stand forth!
There go for what great England hath become.
A thousand years within these halls have birth,
And here the mighty dead have fitting home.
There, do the ghosts of sceptred monarchs roam;
There, do dead queens repose the crowned brow;
There, stand the laurell'd bards, their voices dumb;
And knights, who in rough battles fought so true;
And senators of power, a mighty band, though few.

Here lies our history!—read it, on the wall!
Here learn how England's thunder hath been heard,
Till the big ocean shook to hear her call—
Beneath her mighty armaments upstirr'd!
Here learn what high-born warriors are interr'd—
The souls that mock at time, and sway the earth!

Here learn that the old bards sung not unheard;
Nor vain was eloquence! celestial birth;
Nor vainly pious saints were lit with truth and worth!

Green grows the grass at proud Westminster's feet;
Calm lie heaven's shadows on her haughty head:
Below, Thames sings his dirges, wild and sweet—
A solemn requiem to her sculptur'd dead;
And London roareth from his sleepless bed:
Old Time hath scarcely touch'd thy tresses free—
Thy pillar'd glooms—thy carvings, quaintly spread:
And, save the tatter'd flags of victory,
And the old sculpture's rust, thou seem'st eternity.

Yet, London, thou art changed. The savage fire
Shall flow no more, along thy paved street,
That burnt from holy martyrs' funeral pyre;
No more kings tread thee, with triumphant feet,
The next day murder'd. War-steeds, rushing fleet,
No more tramp dying men upon thy stone.
May pestilence nor famine never meet
Among thy halls: may Mammon leave his throne;
And lust, hate, pride, revenge, far from thy courts be gone.

The wings of knowledge drop the balm of healing,
And the church towers sound constant calls to prayer:
Alas, that, with so much of glad revealing,
The spot and wrinkle dim its visage fair:
That unknown voices shake the troubled air:—

The hate of lofty heads—the envious hate
Of all that time hath sanctified from fear;
The reptile hissings at the pomp of state;
The rebels' traitorous bands, that aye in darkness wait.

The spirit of the Gracchi hath come down
To English hearths, that once were glad and bright:
A nest of scorpions sleeps around the crown,
And hungry demagogues pollute the light.
When shall we hold again our ancient might—
The heroic times—the splendid deeds of old?
When shall we break from out these glooms of night?
London—arise!—come forth!—be brave and bold,
Even as of yore! and hunt foul treason to its hold!

Thou wast a gorgeous citadel of old,
Where all the kings of all the earth have stay'd:
Freedom was in thy streets, and had its hold
Among thy commerce. Thou didst ever aid
The mighty of this land, when thou wert bade:
Not as a coward;—but the glorious thing
That, with thy splendid towers and temples, made
Thy rule o'er all the world—a royal king;
And o'er the heaven of heavens spread far thine eagle wing.

Thou didst begin coeval with first time;
Of the old world thy pastures still were there;
The smallest of thy atoms was sublime;
When first this world fell from the depths of air

And chaos;—yea, thy visage was most fair:
And, now, 'mid maddest traitors, rebels' guile,
O'er dust and sea, spreads thy redundant hair:
Though Freedom hold false thrones, thou hast not any care.

What is the crime this hath not sanctified?
And for the seas of blood that lave her shrine,
Lift up your eyes to France, when Treason's pride
Made Paris' streets roll wilder than the Seine,
To dye the robes of her who was divine;
Murder and anarchy do spot her train;
On her red brow the steaming blood-drops shine;
Yea, fast as chasing waves on the rude main,
Confusion and dismay dash o'er her stricken plain.

What is the crime this hath not sanctified?
The son hath slain his father on his knees;
Brother hath murder'd brother, side by side;
And groans of dying kings have fill'd the breeze:
And you, Greece, Egypt, Rome—beyond the seas—
Shout ye aloud, your sad and awful tale;
How Freedom's blood stain'd Freedom's obsequies;
And Freedom's sons from Freedom's fires did wail;
When then the patriots' groans were echoed on the gale!

Let not the rebel touch her. Give her wings,
And she will float beyond the utmost cloud;
And where young morn, at heaven's clear portal sings—

And when the blue and gold o'er angels shroud,
Stain her white robes—to earth her soul is bowed.
A heavenly diadem is on her head;
The reddest lightnings gleam when she calls loud;
She hath a voice that might arouse the dead,
And shake her murder'd sons, even in their grassy bed.

She spake; and the old world arose anew;
The clouds of night were banished away;
She wrought the age of gold, and gave a hue
To human mould, as of the light of day,
And made sweet flowers to spring from rotten clay:
She lit the towers of cities, and afar,
Among the hills, her beacon glories lay;
Oh! let not drop so pure, and bright a star—
Oh! let not spot or stain pollute a thing so fair.

“NON ANGLI, SED ANGELI FORENT, SI ESSENT CHRISTIANI.” A.D. 575.
[_]

[These were the words used by Pope Gregory, on seeing some Saxon children at Rome, who had been brought from England to be sold as slaves.]

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

ST. AUGUSTINE.—THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY. A.D. 596.

Theirs was religion of the open sky,
And leafly trees, and sounds that never fade;
They had beheld no martyr'd Saviour die;
His holy look fill'd not the forest shade,
Whilst wondrously from Him this old man's heart was sway'd.

His was religion of a holier kind;
He had beheld a martyr'd God in pain—
Had heard the unfurl'd banners of the wind—
The thunder roaring o'er the affrighted plain—
The lightnings' terrible glare, the temples rent in twain.

And therefore was he cloth'd in heaven's own light;
A holy lustre shone where'er he went;
His speech was as the spheric tunes of night,
That with strange music fill the firmament:
Glad tidings of great joy he bore, this holy saint.

The Wandering Bard and other Poems.

And who is he who walks with shaven crown,
In humblest guise, his face subdued and mild?
The cross of Christ hangs reverently down,
And as he speaks—behold the desert child!—
His gestures quicken, and his eye grows wild!
Great creed! that such can mission to its aid,
Who leave their peaceful homes, their pastures mild—

Their friends—their kindred, and their native glade—
The house where they were born—the forest's pensive shade.

To cross the stormy deep, with all its fears—
Perils of tempests—perils of the night;
To suffer contumely, and withering cares;
Of want, and cold neglect, to bear the blight;
Of loneliness unheeded, and the might
Of hostile tongues. Oh, lofty was the creed,
That o'er so much of gloom could scatter light;
And in such fruitful places plac'd its seed,
That to the heaven of heavens did rear its fulgent head!

He tells the people that the Son of God
Was meek and good, without or pomp or pride:
How lowly were the pathways that he trod—
How much he bore—how much did men deride,
Even though for them Christ wept, and bled, and died!
And of the sweat of bloody agony—
And of the iron thrust into his side—
And of his piteous death. O, can it be!
Nail'd to the cruel cross with all indignity!

How thus, from out the mire, he did them raise,
Unto the only trust—the perfect day,
And fill'd the earth with a celestial blaze—
How purer feelings rose, and they did pray,
Who dwelt in pagan temples; how the ray
Divine had spread, and burst through blackest night;

And how, at last, the true and only way
Would ope its gates to all—and, glorious sight,
The Church of Christ should dwell o'er all the world in might.

Under the shadow of a stately oak
Ethelbert sate: whilst, in majestic train,
The missionaries stood, and silence broke,
With loud-voic'd anthems, and the choir'd strain
That shook, with rapturous glee, the astonish'd main.
Bright shone the silver cross of Christ on high:
Their white-robes, fluttering to the breezes' plain,
Seem'd seraph-like—as, newly from the sky,
The monarch heard their words, and shook with ecstacy;

And said—“tear down these hollow altars—who
“Will charge the mighty Woden, the great Thor?”
'Tis Coifa, clad in warrior mail; and lo!
Even like a man inspired, he seeks the shore,
With spear in hand, and on a white steed bore
On, on, and on—whilst thousands, muttering, stood,
And curses from their fathers' gods implore:
And now he hurls his spear along the wood—
Fell god and altar—red with death and human blood.

Fell Woden and red altar: on the sky
There shone no fiery hand; nor on the wall

Doth horror sit: no hideous mystery—
No angry shape stalk'd through the trembling hall,
Nor lightnings dart, nor furious thunders call:
And now they fire the groves; and far, and far,—
The curling flames, in hollow murmurs, roll;
They plant the cross—they rear the silver star—
The fires lie still at once, nor leave a spot or scar.

Thousands, and thousands, rush'd to hear the word;
Thousands, and thousands, gather'd anxious there,
To know the language of the living Lord:
From hill and vale resounded hymn and prayer—
From dens and hollow caves: youths, maidens fair,
Old men, and little children, crowded near,
And fill'd with gratulations all the air:
O, 'twas, indeed, a blessed thing to hear,
Amid those solemn woods, their voices swelling clear!

The mighty impulse shook the troubled sea,
And bound the storms in chains, and fill'd with awe
The tremulous mountains in their regions free:
And when these savage people heard and saw
Wonders and miracles, and learnt to draw
Fit inference, their souls were fill'd with light:
The fires of heaven were theirs; the precious law,
God-given, that erst on Sinai, blazing bright,
To Moses's eyes appear'd, and led his steps aright.

The Druids, who, amid the embowering woods,
Had outrag'd holy nature, and defied

The sovereign spirit of the solitudes—
Mocking religion with the front of pride,
And pouring savage passions far and wide,
Now mourn'd the bloody sacrifices gone;
Of beauteous virgins, murder'd side by side—
Of royal maidens, butcher'd to atone
Rude crimes, an offering fit, before their godhead's throne.

The Macedonian conqueror is dead;
And what hath Cæsar left but tear and groan?
The mightiest sons of men have bow'd the head;
And none, perchance, lament when they are gone.
But he by whom the blood of Christ was won,
On English ground, shall hold his fame for aye;
A nation's constant blessings greet him one
Of heaven's own breed; and infant tongues shall pray
For him—and aged men shall constant homage pay.

He came, in tribulation and deep fear;
He went, with joyous shouts and loud acclaim:
He found rude rites and impious, far and near:
He left the only God and Jesu's name,
And faithful hearts that did his praise proclaim.
The groves oracular were cleans'd of blood:
The unhallow'd temples sunk to earth in shame:
The priests were driven in hollow caves to brood,
And Antichrist gave way to Jesus, meek and good.

Yea, now the tree of Christ hath taken root;
The storms of ages have not dimm'd its might;

Fair were its blossoms—fairer are its fruit,
And wintry clouds have made it shine more bright:
Yea, in worst darkness was its greater light;
And now millions of voices shout in praise,
And holy bells make glad each Sabbath day:
The hymn and organ swell aloud, and raise
The soul toward God, to walk among the heavenly ways.

ROWENA AND VORTIGERN. ABOUT A.D. 446.

Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,
And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice.
—Richard III.

------ Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine.
—Macbeth.

Love is omnipotent to blight or save—
To lift the soul, or sink it in the mire.
Now bright as sea-bird, skimming o'er the wave—
Now frowning as the storm-cloud, in its ire—
Now clad in darkness, and now robed in fire.
Its brow is wet with dews from seraph's wing,
And fed with music from a seraph's lyre;
Yea, angels, sent from heaven, do come and sing
Within its chamber'd ear, and round its clear robes cling.

Hark! how the clarion rings along the ground!
Hark! how the haughty charger neighs afar!
And how loud cheers send forth their stormy sound!
A thousand banners flout the adoring air—
A thousand swords, and spears, and helmets, glare;
And hark! from out that tent, all snowy white,
And glittering in the sun-light, fresh and fair,

Break forth high merriment, and fresh delight:
A hundred chieftains quaff the wine-cup, ruby bright.

Hush! hush!—and who is she—that stately form?
The Danish falcon slumbers in that eye,
Where, spite of love's sweet sunshine, broods a storm!
Yet, is she beautiful, and calm, and high.
Barbaric pearls amid her dark locks lie;
Silks, won from tropic seas, her limbs adorn,
And scarce conceal their queenly majesty.
She seems a shape new waken'd from the morn—
A heavenly spirit she, in heavenly regions born.

O, but she is indeed exceeding fair!—
Those eyes imperial—that lofty brow—
The sunlit splendour of that burnish'd hair—
That neck, and gorgeous bosom, beating low—
Those parted lips, and cheek of evening's glow.
She might have made a savage monarch's bride,
And trod the deserts with his spear and bow:
The tiger would have crouched at her side,
And the rude nations knelt, to see her move in pride.

Alas! that on the splendour of such light
The midnight cloud and tempest soon shall rest;
That what doth seem so pure, and glad, and bright,
With smouldering fires shall be so much opprest;
That death is grinning 'neath that snow-white breast!
And now each chieftain rises from his seat,

And to the maiden, reverent, dons his crest:
Then knelt the lady at her monarch's feet,
Bearing the golden cup: and thus she spake most sweet:—

“Be of good cheer, lord king.” “The same to thee,”
Spake Vortigern—“the same, celestial maid.”
And he, whose stubborn heart long wander'd free,
At Cupid's feet was now in bondage laid:
Who, from such lovely shape, and so array'd,
Might e'er his love restrain? The chain of fire
Was o'er him: eyes that could the world persuade.
And now Rowena walks in bride's attire,
And thousands shout for joy, as king and queen retire.

And thousands shout for joy:—oh, treachery
Most foul!—oh, cold and cruel-hearted Dane!
The white moon, wandering nun-like o'er the sky—
The white stars and blue heavens, that bore no stain,
Gaz'd down upon their bridal bed in vain:
The heart of passion beat not on that night:
Love flapp'd his wings against the window pane
In grief, and wept—and sheath'd his arrows bright;
And murder shriek'd aloud, with terror and affright.

Not unreveng'd!—Woman, by day and night
Remorse shall haunt thee still, in every place;
The murder'd ghost shall shriek with voice of might,
Glare on thy eye-balls, creep along thy face;
Thy brain shall feel the red blood's fiery trace!
Bed, board, and bower, shall view it on the air.

Around thy foot-prints horrid fiends will race:
The healing hand of time shall not repair
The savage deed: thy soul shall rest not anywhere!

Thou shalt not slumber at a lover's breast;
The clay-cold fingers even shall reach thee there:
Where'er thy feet shall move—thy forehead rest,
Still shall the phantom haunt thee everywhere:
'Twill spoil thy food, and every aspect fair;
'Twill mingle with thy life—thy every deed,
And be thy constant guest, and, smiling fair;
Mock thee, and vex thee, and in greatest need
No soul shall soothe thy pangs—bear up the broken reed.

Even from the heavens, where angels have their home—
Even from the vaults of hell, the murder'd go;
And, in night's silent watches, earthward, roam
The cavern'd hollows of the mountain's brow—
The rocky caves, beneath the ocean's flow:
Nor desert wilds, nor the untrodden pole,
Can shield the murderer from his constant foe:—
Swift as the storm—strong as the billow's roll,
Remorse and conscience hunt the murderer's sleepless soul.

KING ARTHUR. A.D. 516.

King Arthur lives in merry Carlisle,
And seemly is to see;
And there with him Queen Guenever,
That bride so bright of blee.
And there with him Queen Guenever,
That bride so bright in bower,
And all his barons about him stoode,
That were both stiffe and stowre.
Old Ballad of Sir Gawaine.

Where merry Carlisle lifts her towers afar,
Scattering her streamers to the azure air;
Where Calder and swift Eden join their war,
And flow along through pastures, fresh and fair,
Rich with the treasures of their mountain cheer;
Of stately Skiddaw, with his brow of snow;
And proud Helvellyn, with his songs of fear;
And vale and grove, where beauty longs, I trow,
To sigh o'er love's sweet tale, and bind the shooded brow.

There—in a hall most rich, caparison'd
With carvings old, and pictures strange and quaint,
And tapestries all, work'd by ladies' hand,
Of minstrel's legend, or old warrior's plaint;

Or woeful stories told by holy saint—
King Arthur sits around the festive board;
The flower of chivalry—her proudest plant;
The wine-cup circles—the high song is heard,
And each grim warrior there does own King Arthur lord.

Like threads of gold his curling locks hung down;
His stedfast eye was as the burning sun;
His brow shone bright, like moonbeams on the snow;
His cheeks were as the heavens when day is done;
He look'd the lofty birth of Brutus' son.
Beside him, stately sat Queen Guenever,
So bright in bower and hall o'er every one;
And other noble ladies, wond'rous fair,
All clad in purple pall, with jewels rich and rare.

And—shall I leave ye out, who were so great,
Ye mighty knights and lords; and veil mine eyes
To your exploits, that reach'd so great a height—
Your valorous deeds, and daring enterprise?
Grandly ye stood around, in stately wise,
Like the first race of giants: on each face
Shone bright high acts,—and on your forehead's rise
Red battle of its scars left frequent trace;
And on your easy limbs, were strength and kingly grace.

The spell-bound princess never sigh'd in vain;
For war and love with you were ever wed;

Enchantment could not daunt ye with its rain
Of fiery horrors; everywhere ye spread
The fame of your vast deeds, and bore your head
Aloft, and sway'd as kings should ever sway:
And, thus, though age with age hath sunk to bed,
In noble legends shine your names alway;
And ye are of the band, that dwell in constant day.

Valiant Sir Bevis, and the bold Sir Gawaine;
The good Sir Krwene, the often tried Sir Kay;
Sir Roland and Sir Tristram, noble twaine;
Two stoutest knights that ever fought in fray;
Never, I wist, since that triumphant day,
Hath such high cheer in England's castles been:
For now the light is gone that warm'd their clay;
The fierce and fiery bloodhounds dead, I ween,
That kept the wolves and bears behind their forest screen.

And each bold knight his high exploits spake loud,
(Rous'd by the ruby wine, and lady's smile),
Of spotless maidens, in long slavery bow'd,
Rescued, at length, from rude enchanter's guile;
Of mighty giants, that laid waste the isle;
And fell magicians, in their dungeons slain;
Of spell-bound castles, wrung from wizards' wile;
Of gems, and pearls, and gold, that they had ta'en
From wond'rous cavern'd halls—some cruel tyrant's gain.

The minstrel sounded high the lofty song,
And told of love, and war, and chivalry,

With solemn voice that, mournful, roll'd along,
Or proudly swell'd in warlike tones on high;
Or, like the morning lark, sang cheerily.
Honour'd, was then, the lowly minstrel guest;
In princely halls, his form inspired might lie:
Kings lov'd to hear the warblings of his breast—
How fallen the mighty breed—how trampled and opprest!

Yea, (and my heart beats high to tell the tale),
Fair ladies lov'd the tremble of his tongue;
He, like a prophet, walk'd o'er hill and vale,
And of immortal themes and actions sung—
Rivalling the sweetest birds, with living song.
The dastard money-scrivener bound him not;
His wings were free, the forest depths among:
With scoff and sneer, that mock at his high thought,
The foul-reforming slave to brand him never mote.

This is the last song that the land shall know!
The old heroic times are past for aye:
Another garland circles England's brow—
Another sunlight beams upon her day—
Another voice hath mingled with the lay.
The rascal rebel lingers in our halls;
The soot-brow'd traitor tramps each pleasant way;
They seek for other flowers upon the walls,
Than clothe the abbey seams, with gold and purple palls.

Like vipers, they are twined in the grass,
And hiss at every royal thing of state;

The mountain wells are poison'd where they pass—
The air is rank with death: they lie in wait
Among our palaces, and yell with hate:
They fear not the white altars; nor the grave
Where their dead fathers sleep; and nought can sate
Their savage hunger: it would need the wave
Of the great sea, to cleanse their foul and filthy cave.

No more.—To valiant Arthur pass we on:—
Whilst yet a boy, they crown'd him Brittaine's king.
He slew the Saxons—made the Scots be gone—
Made Ireland, Denmark, Norway homage bring,
And over Gallya wav'd the conquering wing.
Five Paynim kings he took; and, what is more,
He won them, Jesu Christ, his praise to sing;
And, when again, he sought his native shore,
A hundred thousand men were buried in their gore.

And when he died, (so the old legends say)
By fairy hands his weary head was borne;
And fairy voices sang his dirge and knell,
And bore him to their halls beyond the morn;
There, stately doth he move, his locks unshorn—
As in the field, his sword and helmet bright;
A thousand warriors hear his silver horn,
And throng around him as the stars of night,
And there he holds his court, belov'd by each true knight.

From emerald cups they quaff the festive wine—
From hands invisible they take their food—
On winged steeds they ride, and are divine,
And heaven is with them in each pleasant mood.
At eventide, in princely halls, they brood;
'Mid lovely ladies' dance, and minstrel's song;
(Who chaunts aloud their ancient deeds of blood)
They quaff the bowl—they fight old fields among;
Whilst spirits watch their sleep, and give their souls a tongue.

There is no cloud, or gloom upon the air;
Nor rain, nor snow, nor chills upon the sky:
The woods, the groves, the fields, are ever fair;
On love's sweet forehead, never stain doth lie,—
And all is beauty, youth, and harmony.
What more can the dead hero seek than this?—
Is it not well for such high meed to die,
Where never shore may bound the ocean bliss—
Where never mist can dim the heavens of happiness!

ALFRED. A.D. 849.

He was a man (then boldly dare to say)
In whose rich soul, the virtues well did suite,
In whom, so mix'd, the elements all lay,
That none to one could sov'rangtie impute;
All else did govern, yet all did obey;
He of a temper was so absolute,
As that it seem'd, when Nature him began,
She meant to shew all that might be a man.
—Drayton.

A meteor wert thou in a darksome night;
Yet, shall thy name conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time
Fix'd as a star: such glory is thy right.
—Wordsworth.

Without a home, or where to lay his head—
Condemn'd to every mean and servile toil—
Alfred, the mightiest of the kingly dead—
The stateliest stem that ever grac'd our soil—
Thus lay encas'd within the serpent's coil:
There, in lone huts, he learnt how virtue shone—
How pure the lowly heart, that did recoil
From all of base or low; through good, alone,
How, from the humblest date, rose deeds to grace a throne.

A patriot king—a teacher—a true guide—
A warrior brave, as England's foes well knew:
One hand smote down the Northman in his pride,
The other gave our soil a greener hue,
And scatter'd pleasant learning's honey dew.

Souls mightier, and the empire of the mind,—
Laws to the lawless—wisdom to the true,
He gave; and Freedom, chainless as the wind,
Rearing a light on high, for those who lagg'd behind.

When he arose—when he with harp in hand,
His gold locks rolling down his shoulders strong,
First walk'd in pride, among the Danish band,
And won them by the magic charms of song,
Hope, freedom, valour, had been banish'd long:
Our bravest sons were slain—children and maids,
Like flowers, lay wither'd, the lone glens among:—
The glory had departed from our glades:
We had been slaves so long, the rust was on our blades.

The laugh had died upon the joyous tongue:
The bright blue Saxon eye was sad; the hair
Of noblest maid, in matted tangles hung:
All songs of love had faded from the air;—
In hut and hall dwelt sorrow and despair;
The orphan had no place to rest its head;
The voice of wailing sounded everywhere;
The madman shriek'd o'er his unburied dead;
The poison-weeds of hell, o'er all the land were spread.

Alas, for gentle men, who in the gloom
Of sacred cloister, sought a peaceful rest!
Even there the wild barbarian shook his plume—
Even there the murderer pierc'd the snowy breast—

Even there came lost, and made himself a guest:
Old priests were slain—the marble stain'd with blood—
The altar-stone by heathen footsteps prest;
And England, like a time-worn pillar, stood—
Her guardian spirit dead, and swept along the flood.

Ye mothers, when your little children died,
Even at your breasts—ye children, when ye saw
Your mothers fade away, and gradual glide
To death—ye maidens, when, in green-wood shaw,
Your wounded lovers could no red sword draw—
Fathers and heroes, when in every bay
The Danish ships were heaving to and fro;
Why, from your sea-cliffs, where they towering lay,
Dash'd ye not down your lives, now worthless, 'mong the spray?

Your altars and your liberties call'd loud;
The ocean billows shouted in your ear,
That ye were better rotting in your shroud,
Than live as slaves, beneath the Danish spear:
Ye saw your women shrieking with loud fear,
Your tombstones ruined, and your altars broke,—
Your harvests all burnt up; and, far and near,
The invader's axe against each guardian oak.
Why slept your lion hearts?—Where, Freedom, was thy stroke?

But Alfred rose, and, o'er the sounding blast,
His voice, even like a godhead's, thunder'd forth.

England beheld him: he was as the mast
Of some strong ship of war, when storms have birth.
Thus drove he back the sea-kings to the North;
Who, worse than hungry locusts, swarm'd the land:
Yea, on the festival, and wassail's mirth,
He stretch'd his might, as a magician's wand,
And the invader fell beneath his giant hand.

Fresh, like a new-wed bride, England arose;
The dews she shook from off her lion mane;
Her wroth, even then, was death unto her foes;
And well she prophesied, in language plain,
Of future empire over land and main.
Once more, her harvests roll'd their locks of gold—
Her forests spake aloud in jocund strain:
Once more the pulse of England gather'd bold;
Once more her thunders spake in terrors as of gold.

O that all kings were Alfreds! pure and wise,
And swift in deed, and eagle-like in sight;
Soon would the earth from out its bondage rise,—
Soon would the clouds be scatter'd from grim night,
And the earth rise in freedom, glad and bright!
For he did never kneel to vulgar praise;
Nor was the laud of courtiers his delight;
He rather sought the primal source to raise,
And smooth the mind's full path, among more peaceful ways.

Unhonour'd names shall rot in dust and mire,—
But he, my noble theme, shall live for aye;
Pure, bright, and clear, as heaven's immortal fire,
His soul shall shine amid the wormy clay,
When that which held it fades to dull decay.
His monument is with the glorious dead
Of ages, prouder even in fame than they—
Hero, sage, patriot, all in him were wed;—
A saviour of his land, in heaven may rear his head.

What are the pillar'd trophies—what the plume
Of conquest, arch, and monument, and all
That shine o'er warriors, and their deeds illume?
Say, do not groaning nations bear their pall?
But he who loves his kind, and when they fall
Still bears them up:—he who shall purge the state,
And purge men's minds, and listen when they call,—
He, lives beyond the brass and marble's height,
Far in the nation's heart, unchang'd by time or fate.

He found his people, weltering in the mire;
To them he gave the light that cannot die:

100

Valour had sunk, and could no more aspire—
He gave it sword and spear, and liberty;
He rear'd the broken altars upon high;
He taught that knowledge was a spear of flame—
A heavenly blaze, as of an evening sky;
And thus he won himself a fadeless name—
The proudest niche of all within the towers of fame.

Methinks a martyr hath no holier part
Of love immortal, than hath such a king:
Disease, that fell like death upon his heart,
And smote him like a slave,—possest no sting
To bind him down,—or hold his eagle wing:
Yea, as a ship of light, his spirit rose
O'er mortal pain, a glad and blessed thing,
And the dark waves of ignorance did oppose,
Though hemm'd by shapes of night, and ever-watching foes.

Soft fell the winds on England's queenly brow;
Foul treason wail'd not then the live-long hour,
To stir the savage rabblement as now;
Contentment smil'd within each leafy bower,
And peace and plenty were her proper dower;

101

The murderous crimes of France were then unknown;
The atheist and the traitor had no power:
And thus, in peaceful times, the sigh and groan
Were never heard, but peace and happiness alone.

Well had it been for England, had she still,
In her bright path, despis'd the traitor's breath.
Then had her blood ne'er fed the mountain rill,
Nor dyed the blossoms of her flowered heath,
Nor sunk in dastard and ignoble death.
Ye talk of freedom—are strong rivers free?
The skies above—the waters underneath?
And man himself is bound to custom's tree,
And laws, and passions strong, that leave no liberty!

Back, then, ye brawlers for the public good—
Ye champions of a rabble ye despise!
'Tis ye who fill our city streets with blood,
And hurl these midnight fires unto the skies,
And fill the land with misery's loud cries:
These vipers must be crush'd into the mire,
Ere England from the dust shall e'er arise;
England must feel the purifying fire,
Or she must gaze and weep on her own funeral pyre.

103

SAINT BENEDICT. A.D. 678.

War, and the great in war, let others sing;
Havoc, and spoil, and tears, and triumphing;
The morning march that flashes to the sun,—
The feast of vultures, when the day is done;
And the strange tales of many slain for one.
I sing a man—amidst his sufferings here;
Who watch'd and serv'd in humbleness and fear;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.
—Roger's Ode to Superstition.

Of one who liv'd and died in solitude;
In dens and caverns, far from human thought,
I sing—a hermit pure, and kind, and good;
Serene, contemplative:—he car'd for nought
But the fair principles from nature brought—
Nature, and God, and his own thinking soul:
The silent dells were places which he sought
To lift his spirit o'er the earth's controul,
Religion for his guide, and heaven his final goal.

The racing seasons to his cavern came;
The moon and stars gaz'd down in mournfnl love;
Morning and evening show'd their towers of flame;
The pebbled brooks sung to him in their move,
And the birds cheer'd his spirit from the grove.

104

With her most wond'rous impulses, the night
Roll'd her black chariots o'er the clouds above;
The storms spake to him with their voice of might;
The meteors glar'd askance, and shook their tresses bright.

He saw the Northern streamers—when they rise
Like heavenly fires on the embodied wind,
Or greetings from the earth unto the skies—
The first of flowers and fruits he knew to find;
All glorious visions did his spirit bind.
To brood o'er man and human history;
In nooks most barren, precious wealth to find;
To think, to feel, to look around and sigh,
Were tasks he ever sought, and easy could descry.

Far from the hollow murmur and rude cry
Of busy life, the holy hermit stay'd;
The gaudy glare of cities past him by—
The strife, noise, clamour: he, all unarray'd,
Save in poor weeds, beheld the pageant fade:
Disease, death, agony, he never saw;
With war's loud storms and tempests undismay'd:
Great nations sunk away in time's huge maw:
Vast fires, fierce earthquakes rag'd, yet nothing did he know.

Nor ought of love, that in the cottage lone,
Or in high palaces, doth work its way!
Nor ought of pleasure, that with dance and song,
And merriment, doth wile the livelong day.

105

There was a cloud that o'er his spirit lay,
And shut, without, the wayward freaks of time;
And far beyond bright stars held holiday;
And white-rob'd spirits fill'd the shadows dim;
And visions pure and high, and memories sublime.

On the cold clay, the lonely hermit slept;
The food of birds and savage beasts was his:
None heard his prayers—none saw him when he wept—
None knew his sorrows—none partook his bliss;
Heaven's blessed dreams his only happiness.
The love of friends and kinsmen came not near;
No tender offspring sought a father's kiss;
Expos'd to every shape of hate and fear,
That dwells in gloomy caves, and wildernesses drear.

Instead of poets' dreams, and poets' sighs,—
Th' exultant raptures that with silence dwell:
Instead of warrior seeking enterprise,
To rescue spotless maid from wizard fell;
Instead of shepherd's charge or flowered dell;
Instead of hunter's sport with wolf and boar;
Good Benedict, far other joys befel:
To worship God in caverns rude and hoar,
To shrive to perfect truth his soul with sins run o'er.

In every moaning wind that murmur'd low,—
In every running stream, in every sound

106

Of trembling leaf, in every motion's flow,
He heard the voice of God: his praise he found
In all things circled within Nature's bound:—
God, he beheld in clouds that glided by;
God, in the sun, moon, stars, and azure round;
God, when the mountains rear'd their frosts on high;
God, in each sound and sight, that met his ear and eye!

God was his treasure and his ample store;
His constant good—his life, his thought, his aim;
The temples of his soul were crowded o'er
With pictur'd glories—gems of purest flame;
And to his table crowned angels came;
Alone—yet tended by immortal love;
Poor—heaven's most precious riches his became,
Sad—purest raptures cloth'd him from above:
Strength, wealth, love, friendship, hope, wherever he did move.

Thus, pure and blameless did he pass each day;
Not in rude clamour did his worship soar;
Not with mad riot did he homage pay,
With noisy outcry, and blaspheming roar:
The heart's deep strong devotion needs no more
Than simple supplication, and meek prayer;
And Benedict had learnt true wisdom's love
From God's own voice, that sounded in the air,
Or spake in conscience true, when passion hover'd near.

O, calumny—thou mad and bitter thing,
That gnaws at noblest hearts, within the bowers

107

Of virgin pride, or, where, on steady wing,
The eagle heart in truth's bright azure towers—
O, calumny, thee not the purest flowers
Can 'scape unscath'd: and thus this eremite,
On whose clear spirit goodness fell in showers—
This lonely dweller could not 'scape the blight
That cruel men do feign to dim the stars of night.

None ever liv'd untouch'd by calumny:
It shook the throne of God when Satan fell;
It stain'd the angels' garments—wet each eye—
And, seeking paradise, with Eve did dwell:
And cannot earth of this foul spirit tell?—
It came to sceptred Cæsar: Sappho felt
On her white-breast the stain; and Milton well
Knew its vile breath, that ever round him dwelt;
And holiest men have drunk the poison as they knelt.

To rude Cassino, 'mong the savage men
It drove this holy saint: the Volsci knew
The apostle's mantle: miracles even then
Had not all died away: his God was true.
And now, o'er crowded ages, not a few
High deeds record his fame;—he liveth still:
In old cathedrals we his memories view,
And living voices own his ancient will:
The reign of peace and truth can never have its fill.

What, though the earthquake beats the trembling ground,
And the great sea shrinks back with awe and fear,

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And the deep hollow caverns send a sound,
Because of wond'rous tidings that are near;
Rumours of wars and death that fill the air;
Rumours of awful changes; still, the dead—
The mighty dead—in fame, live bright and clear—
The great, the good, of ages past, are wed,
Even with eternal truth, and ne'er will bow their head.

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ELGIVA. A.D. 955.

Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be lov'd? Ah, why
With Cypress branches hast thou wreath'd thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on the breast, but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish,
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Don Juan. Canto 14.

Ah me, for ought that ever I could read—
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never does run smooth.
Midsummer Night's Dream.

Blest be thine earthly dwelling place, O, Love!
Within sweet woman's heart be still thy home,
When, wandering lonely in the quiet grove,
The evening sunlight chequering the green gloom,
The gay birds singing where her footsteps roam,
She lays her blushing cheek on lover's breast!
O, woman, thine is magic to illume
This dreary round, and make us truly blest—
Thine is the perfect love, where we may sweetly rest.

O, Love, what wond'rous spell and power is thine,
To make the waves that they shall anger not!—
To make the hymnings of the storms divine!
Thou hast a way to every pleasant spot;

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To teach pure passions, and exalted thought!
To link, in dearest union, every star!—
Guided by thee, the moon through heaven is brought:
Through thy blest influence sounds the spheric jar,
And visions of the night that gather from afar.

To soothe us when the storm-winds rack the brain—
To drive all melancholy shapes away,
And lift us to that ancient pride again,
When boyhood 'mong the woods held holiday:
To sing all woes asleep—to spread the ray
Of hope and fond delight—to look with eyes
Of solace, when we languish and decay—
To murmur with low voice, and sweet surprise,
And bear the rapturous soul to thy empurpled skies.

O vain aspiring Petrarch, love is mine—
The love that Rousseau at sweet Claren's spake!
Th' imperial soul that Tasso made divine—
The dream that Byron's lofty spirit brake:
Yea, Laura, clad in green, made, not such ache
In Petrarch's breast, nor Heloise did cling
More fondly—nor did Leonora take
Such root—nor her whom Byron lov'd to sing,
As Margaret to me—celestial, blessed thing.

Hear me, oh, hear me, from this mountain side,
Far o'er the waters let my voice be heard:

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Thou hast subdued my spirit's soaring pride,
And made me thine:—my heart, by mandates stirr'd
From thee, bows reverent to hear thy word!
Most matchless creature—beautiful and good;
Thine eye, the fawns—thy voice, the singing bird—
Fair as Diana in the enchanted wood—
High, stately, and serene—the pride of womanhood.

Thy beauty haunts me in the silent night;
At noontide I behold thee gliding by;
Night, morning, noon, I view the blessed light
Of thy bright countenance before mine eye.
By grove, stream, river, and old ocean nigh;
By height inspired, and by the mountain side,
Seraphic spirits wander from the sky,
That all like thee before my vision glide,
And teach how vain it is to seek thee for my bride.

Ah, whither do I wander? They are dead,
The loves I sing; and mine—what do they here!
My Muse for other purpose bar'd her head,
And touch'd her silver harp-strings, hymning clear,
Than o'er my petty griefs to drop the tear!
Sound still the ancient day, my faithfnl lyre,—
Still crop the ancient meadows without fear;
And, if there linger ought of heavenly fire
Amid thy chords, not vainly do my dreams aspire.

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Beauteous Elgiva! I can never bear,
That the loud lyre shall leave thy name unsung—
Thou so exceedingly and very fair,
How dar'd they wound thy name with venom'd tongue,
On whose sweet brow so many virtues hung;
Mar that pure face, pour fire upon that breast,
And tear those tresses where the young Loves sung,
And spoil those beauties that a king had prest:
Oh, whither stay'd that king, when thou wert so opprest?

Did not the winds shriek to him from thy bower?
Was there no dear bird singing all alone
To bear thy plainings, breath'd in that sad hour?
Oh, whither, whither, had thy lover gone,
To hear not this thy melancholy moan?
Strange—strange, that thy low voice, so musical,
Touch'd not these savage hearts—the dreadful groan
Of death-wrung pain—each sad and piteous call—
Or thine immortal beauty, still exceeding all.

Thy error was, that thou hadst lov'd so well—
So passionately, with a power that might not die—
That thou didst suffer in thy heart to dwell
This imag'd god, in mad idolatry,
Who came on wings from love's empurpled sky!
O, heart of woman, full of strength divine,
And full of truth, pure feeling, passion high;
How shall I duly raise th' inspired line—
How shall I sing aloud the honours that are thine?

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When woman wak'd, heaven smil'd, and there was joy
Through Paradise, till the green leaves did move;
The forest birds trill'd forth their sweet employ;
And the glad waters sang the hymns of love;—
Yea, seraphs blest her from the heavens above;
The shape celestial mov'd, and, 'neath her feet,
The fairest flowerets sprung; at eve, the dove
Did minister to slumbers soft and sweet,
And angels fann'd her cheeks, to ward the summer heat.

Eve stole the apple; but she gave us love,
And truth heroic, and a heart of flame;
A fondness that neglect can never move,
And peace domestic, and the household name—
A tear for suffering, and a song for fame.
True, many a broken heart hath died away,
And many a loving spirit sunk to blame:
But go among the tombstones—think, and say,
If all the noblest deeds sleep not with woman's clay.

Doth danger darken—do wars tempests rage?—
The soldier's widow seeks her husband there.
Do death's pale shadows drop on wither'd age?
The bright-hair'd daughter tends with constant care,
And suffers hardships nought but love will dare.
Love fills the prison-gloom with steady light;
And when grim Death rides on the poison'd air,
Love lifts the heart, and fills the soul with might—
It is the purest star that decks our mortal night.

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O, horrid sight!—the murderer has been here:
See how in death's dread agonies she lay!—
She, that the stars did view with love most dear—
She, whom the sun did woo the live-long day,
Shaken, convulsed, and writhing in decay—
She that was beautiful, as is the night,
By rude assassins slain, and in the clay—
She, that was like a seraph clad in light,
Torn from her husband's arms, a sad untimely blight.

Will she awake?—Oh, no!—oh, never more!—
Never again those snow-white eyelids now
Will break in light; that bosom's pulse is o'er—
The sunlight faded on that radiant brow!
Those limbs, that in love's gladness us'd to glow,
Are stiff and cold, and motionless, and hard.
Her flexile fingers bent—her tresses flow
Now lank and dry, their golden clustres marr'd,
And all her beauties shorn upon the grassy sward.

And so they die, and fade away, who love!
Swift was Elgiva's death, and terrible,
To fit her lofty love aims: all others move
With sad, slow pace. Their tongues can scarcely tell
Their pains, although the sorrowing heart-strings swell,
And gradual break. The freshness leaves the face;—
The joy that on the forehead wont to dwell—

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The eyes their brightness lose—the winning grace
Of beauty dies away, and every heavenly trace.

He, whom they sought is lost, or false, or dead:
What unto them is now the earth or sky?
What care they for the sunlight o'er their head—
The cheerful flowers that 'neath their footsteps lie?
Their bowers re-echo but the groan and sigh;
Forlorn and sad, and worn and desolate!—
When Love's deep seals in woman's bosom die,
Her all is gone—all's o'er, which buoy'd her state—
She bends her mournful head, and sinks resign'd to fate.

Whilst Philomel of Tereus shall complain—
Diana weep her lost Endymion;
Whilst Helen's griefs shall wake the mournful strain,
And lovely Sappho's wild laments be sung;
Whilst Cleopatra's woes shall roll along,
And Eloisa weep her Abelard—
So long shall Love with horrid fears be wrung:
Beauteous is Love, but fierce as spotted pard—
A gorgeous serpent coil'd amid the sunny sward.

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DEATH OF EDWARD, THE SON OF EDGAR. A.D. 975.

------ “Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.

------ “Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall me in the dunnest smoke of Hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry Hold, Hold!”------
Macbeth.

The sun shines out, forth from his azure veil,
New waken'd from the arms of blessed sleep;
The wanton breezes, ripe with incense, sail
Among the flowers, and o'er the tree-tops sweep,
And freshest dew-drops from the young blooms weep:
Upon the snow-white temples of the morn
The first streaks lie—the first rays break the deep,
The hills are clad with light—all Nature, worn
By her late toils, now wakes, as if but newly born.

Hark! there is noise of cheer and jubilee;
The court-yard rings with mirth and pleasant sound;

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The gay salute, and merry repartee:
Full cheerfully leaps forth each gallant hound,
And sends his deep-voic'd echo far around:
The horses neigh aloud, and toss the mane,
As their glad masters on the saddle bound:
These merry days will never come again,
When, in the forest depths, the wolf and deer were slain.

They journey forth, a joyous company,
Each worldly feeling banish'd far away;
Delight and rapture light each eagle eye;
The very dogs and horses, on their way,
Are full of gladness, mirth, and wanton play;
The hunters seem e'en now to view the deer,
Whose sport shall wile this whole long summer day:
Each draws his rein, and lifts his hunting spear,
As if the royal game already bounded near.

Oh, many a pleasant morn brings bitter night!
And kings and queens must bow the head to fate!
What, though they dwell in halls and temples bright,
'Mid worshippers, that tremble at their feet—
What, though as gods, they live in lofty state—
What, though they tread on roses—underneath,
Above, around, are shapes of fear and hate.—
There lives a stronger king—that king is Death!—
He watches by their gates, and mingles with their breath.

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Ah, hapless King, how little dost thou know
What serpents revel in the covert shade;
Thou hearest not the distant storm-winds blow,
Nor view'st the clouds of tempest far array'd.
Dark roll those raven locks upon thy head;
The raven plume waves free; and, glancing far,
That eagle eye doth search the cavern'd glade,
Calm, strong, bright, clear as is the morning star—
Alas! that Death, e'en now, doth sharp his spear for war!

Away, o'er hill and dale the hunters go—
O'er river, brook, and hedge! Each mountain side
And cavern'd wood, from out their hollows throw
Loud echoes, that do thunder far and wide:
And many a deer is butcher'd in his pride,
To rear his antlers in the sun no more!
The white foam runs along each charger's hide—
With sweat and dust gay knights are cover'd o'er:
Such glorious cheer as this was never seen before.

The wild sport heightens. Far, and far away
The rapturous glee breaks forth, the princely cheer!—
But who is he that winds along his way,
Alone, when such high transport echoes near?
'Tis Edward!—'stead of hunting for the deer,
Another love takes place of filial pride:
The throne of gold—the cloth of state—the glare
Of glistering gems—the halls, rich tapestried,
Had driven not away, a mother from his side.

120

Alas! that ever human hearts should be
All eaten up with sorrow, shame and sin—
That, wandering from our ancient purity,
All shapes uncouth and every hideous thing—
Murder, revenge, lust, death—have entered in:
Love, peace, and friendship, dwelt in Paradise;
Delights most pure, and joys the most serene:
There was no cloud along the azure skies;
No sea-leaf touch'd the tree, no blight the green;
And blessed angels walk'd along each holy scene.

The dove and falcon own'd the same green bough—
The lamb and tiger held the same sweet play:
Fraud, savage hate, existed not as now,
And peaceful Loves held constant holiday,
And gentlest sports beguil'd each summer day.
But Murder shook her wings, and Abel fell!—
The spirit clasp'd its hands o'er human clay:
And joyous shouts rung through the vaults of Hell,
As the red drops of blood did stain life's crystal well!

By his own mother was the monarch slain,
Spite of the cup of hospitality:
The same green path his charger trod again
That felt, among its flowers, the morning sky,
When life and hope lit up each hunter's eye!
Dragg'd wildly on—on—on—without a stay;
None near to catch his last expiring sigh;
And he, who was so glad but yesterday,
Now, mangled—murder'd—dead—they bear in grief away.

121

ETHELWOLD AND ELFRIDA. REIGN OF EDGAR. A.D. 959-975.

“You are my true and honourable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.”
—Shakspeare.

“Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet,
Whither away, and where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a maid—
Happy the man, whom favourable stars
Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.”
—Shakspeare.

Earl Ethelwold, upon his battle steed,
Pricks forth, all plum'd and belted, on his way;
No common work is his—no common deed—
At Beauty's feet his monarch's love to lay:
Elfrida's high renown had cast its ray
E'en to the palace, where her sovereign king,
In joyous sports, was holding holiday:
Beauty can travel on an eagle's wing;
Not faster can the wind o'er heaven's clear pastures spring.

Lo! far within the solitary gloom,
Stands Devon's castle: far, the forests stand,
Deep and impervious—the savage home
Where elk and lion rul'd in high command:
Huge mountains stretch along at every hand;
Innumerable little brooks roll on,
That yet, in winter, like great rivers band;

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As sweet a place as ever rung with song,
Or strew'd fresh fruits and flowers the silent ways among.

In every season are these woods most bright;
Spring hath her treasures, and she leaves them here—
Fresh flowers, green trees, and birds that sound delight—
Summer hath pleasant streams, that murmur clear,
And sunny mists, and Eden's atmosphere:
Autumn hath wild winds, that majestic flow—
Grand liveries, that the trees rejoice to wear,
And lovely fruits to deck her queenly brow;
And Winter walks sublime, with torrents, storms, and snow.

And, here, upon the calm and sleepy lake,
The white-wing'd vessels shake their streamers fair;
And, talking tenderly, young lovers take
Sweet joy, and sing unto the laughing air:
Here crowd all birds, of plumage rich and rare;
Here bloom green islands; here the bright fish leap;
The seasons feast for aye on sumptuous fare,
And Nature doth her court in splendour keep:
Sure heaven and earth are wed, and take their bridal sleep.

'Tis evening: on the distant mountain's height,
The godlike sun doth shower his riches down;
Swift streams of lustre make the lake all bright,
And clothe the forest-tops as with a crown:
Earth, air, and water its sweet influence own:

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But who is she,—who, by the lake-side goes,
E'en like a maid in love,—and, all alone;
The evening breeze among her garments flows—
The sunlight through her hair a double radiance throws:

Most matchless creature!—Surely, never fell
Such light celestial on poor earthly ground!
Is she this water's queen—and doth she dwell
Among their spangled caves? Is this the round
Each twilight ta'en, along her sovereign bound?
Eyes dark as winter clouds—stedfast, serene—
Long raven ringlets, circling all around;
And the warm breeze just lifts her garments sheen,
And bares her snow-white neck, and bosom scarcely seen.

She walks as if a goddess held her hand—
Her look is stately, calm, majestic, high;
These trees do quiver, as at her command,
As though they lov'd to see her wander by.
Why does Earl Ethelwold thus gaze and sigh,
And strike his breast?—he now is at her side;
He hears her silver voice speak tenderly:—
O, shall I more!—he won her for his bride—
That beauteous blessed thing, and bore her home in pride.

He won her for his bride:—but where is he,
The King?—And how shall Edgar know the tale?
And what shall Devon's daughter think of thee,
Proud Earl?—how will she of thy falsehood wail,

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Wrong'd of a monarch's sceptre, crown, and pall!
And envious tongues will hold thy monarch's ear;
And he will come and see thee, in thy hall,
And view this stolen gem, so wond'rous fair—
And thou be hung on high, to feed the birds of air!

He comes!—he comes!—the cheerful trumpets sound
The King's approach!—the glittering gates ope wide:
The chamber door upon its hinge turns round.—
Is she some heavenly presence at his side?—
Divinity or woman? Oh, what pride
Of gold, and purple, and rich precious gem
Adorn her—her—who is his ravish'd bride—
Her, who should now have worn his diadem,
And held his heart—now bound unto another name.

No more, Elfrida, shall thy first love sigh
All tender things: no more amid thy hair
Wind amorous fingers—at thy bosom lie;
For death and he are now a married pair!
A king must reap those treasures, rich and rare,
First by that lone-lake side ador'd and won—
That heart shall beat within its temple fair,
Another note: dance, revelry, and song,
In palaces most rich, shall wile thy days along.

Those raven tresses, glittering like the sun—
Those eyes imperial, that dainty face—
Those gorgeous limbs—the charms that have undone

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Her earth and heaven, each thing of perfect grace,
Still bloom—whilst on her lord the grave-worms race:
A king doth mark the heavings of her breast;
Each wond'rous charm, and perfect beauty trace:
Whilst he, her murder'd lord, in death doth rest—
His paramour, the worm—his marriage bed, the dust.

127

CANUTE. A.D. 1000.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. [OMITTED]
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his gods, where, haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth, there let him lay.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

O, Flattery, that ere all other sin
Wast born—that, rob'd in hues divine and bright,
Didst rear thy burnish'd crescent e'en within
God's Paradise, and shower'd thy baleful light,
And o'er the world's first blooms didst scatter blight:—
That by the thrones of kings dost take thy stand,
The counsellor of death, blood, wrong, affright;
Fair, glittering, deadly thing, thy strong command
Sways all—all know the might of thy enchanted wand.

For thou canst wander in the twilight wood,
And gloze the lover's tale, and twine sweet praise,

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And call thy mistress beautiful and good,
And to her eyebrows sing seductive lays;
And thus thou winn'st her from pure virtue's ways:
The poet, patriot, hero, fear thy touch!
Well by the serpent of the ancient day
We type thee: truth and honour hate thee much:
God guard each British King from thee and every such.

King Canute sitteth by the ocean side,
And, glittering in gay robes, his courtiers stand
Around, brave knights, and ladies bright beside.
The murm'rous waves are rippling to the land,
Moaning low ditties to the barren sand;
The evening airs blow fresh, the air is mild,
The setting sun just waves his parting hand;
The great sea slumbers, quiet as a child,
And happy as a maid, by lover's tale beguiled.

Dare flattery's ranc'rous poison venture here,
And ope its mouth to the monarchic sea?
“O King, these waves will nod to thee in fear,
“And when thou speakest, own thy sovereignty;
“These shores are thine—these sands belong to thee—
“These cliffs are tenanted by slaves of thine;
“All men do own thy might, and bend the knee—
“All earth doth own thy sway, who art divine,
“And the mad noisy waves of the rebellious brine!”

O, could'st thou then, have spoke, thou giant thing,
What royal scorn had lit thy madden'd eye;

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How had thy thunder lash'd this haughty king—
Thou that hadst brav'd the tempest's tyranny,
And made rude rocks beneath thy footsteps lie—
Thou, that into thy hungry maw hast ta'en
Huge navies, spite their cannons thunderous cry,
Levell'd gigantic cities to a plain,
For the sea-vulture's feast, and lash'd the skies to pain.

Stronger than strongest, giant-born art thou—
Resistless, bold, unconquerable and free;
The gems of unseen worlds are on thy brow—
The wealth of empires circles round thy knee—
The temples of old climes do crouch to thee:
Thy pulses from untrodden caverns boil,
Where ghosts and fleshless skeletons still be;
And to the heart that aids thy constant toil
The God of Heaven gives strength, and binds its fibre's coil.

The winter-rains—the mountain-cataract—
The storm's loud thunder—cannot shake thy feet,
Nor tame thy freedom, nor divert thy tract:
And if thou rise, the full-horn'd morn to meet,
'Tis love's free homage, her fresh charms to greet.
The mightiest ship thou heav'st as lilies leaf—
Thou art not warm'd by summer's strongest heat;
Echo can never reach thy caverns deaf—
The whale can make no current, of thy brood the chief.

Time, that can shake the strongest castle-wall,
And eat through rocks, and crumble mountains low,

130

And make vast forests rot away and fall,
Can plant no white upon thy sovereign brow:
The same, when first thy well-springs learnt to flow—
The same, when first thy billows leapt with glee.
To bear the good ship Argo's sacred prow:
The same, when Pharaoh's squadrons bow'd the knee:
The same, when Trafalgar did ring with victory.

O, joyous hearted thing—O glad of soul!
Whither to peace or war thou turn thy song,
Still, as in triumph, do thy waters roll—
Still do we joy to view thee heaving on—
To see thy pleasant ships, and constant throng
Of snow-white birds—to hear thy breezes sound—
To wind thy open rocks and caves among;
Or with lov'd maid, where brightest shells are found,
Wander, or view the sun, with glory circled round.

What, though thou hast no leafy summer bowers,
Where happy birds their fadeless raptures tell;
What, though the green of mountains, with their flowers—
The sights and voices that with nature dwell—
Above, around, o'er thee no raptures swell!
Still hast thou charms, by day and night the same,
A song that never tires—a crystal well
That never dries—a sound, a heart of fame,
And a most wond'rous spell that robes the soul with flame.

Canute is dead, but thou art living still;
The robe of state—the crown of gold is gone,

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But thy green livery never fades, nor will!
Thy locks are blanch'd not; still thy footsteps run,
Strong, bold, majestic, stedfast, heeding none:
Thousands of kings and courtiers find their graves;
Thousands of mighty warriors death has won;
But thou hast still a thunder in thy waves—
A voice of constant power among thy secret caves.

Thousands of monarchs with their subjects lie;
But thou art still coeval with old time—
With something near of immortality—
A strange, wild sound—a countenance sublime.
Aye, and for ever shall thy clear notes chime,
Till, with one foot on land, and one on thee,
The archangel's trump shall sound o'er every clime;
And even as smoke shall all thy waters flee,
Unto the distant realms, where broods eternity.

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KING HAROLD. A.D. 1050.

Old men had many bodings—but—I saw
Reckless King Harold in his plumed helm,
Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry. [OMITTED]
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine.
—Bowles's Grave of the last Saxons.

The mighty Saxon Kings are dead—the power,
So strong in Alfred—(who upheld their land
And bore its fortunes in most evil hour)
The hair that gloss'd the sunbeams—the right hand
So giant-like in battle and command—
The blue eye, like their heavens—the steady feet,
Strong as their rocks—are past and o'er: the wand
Of time hath touch'd them, and they slumber sweet,
Where comes nor winter tempests, nor the summer heat.

Once they held mighty empire, and were great;
The deserts shook beneath them, and their might
Was felt above their mountains craggy height:
And they had glorious chace and glorious fight,
Or love that murmur'd 'mid their bowers bright:
Eye, ear, and touch—the will, the power, and thought;
The blood roll'd quick; the feelings mov'd in light;
Nature to them her influences brought;
Yea, even like us they were—these kings—and now are nought.

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Their names but live upon the empty air;
And transitory as a falling star,
Or meteor, that one moment shineth fair,
And then is lost amid the abysm far.
They liv'd, and they are dead: they felt the jar
Or euphony of life: and now, alas,
Their very dust is gone, and Time's rude war
Revels within their eyeballs; where the grass
And freshest flowerets bloom'd, a thousand seasons pass.

The monuments that loving subjects rear'd
Are crumbled down; nor know we where they stood:
The yew-tree all is gone—its branches sear'd
To dust: the very sun and moon that woo'd
The grass and tombstone, are with change embued.
Myriads of times the circling earth hath run,
And shook their corpses, and their congeal'd blood,
Since they and Death were married, one and one,
Since the old Saxon kings unto the grave were won.

The last—the last of the proud Saxon race!—
His heart was high and brave—his soul was pure,
And kingly greatness sat upon his face:
No storm or peril fear'd he to endure:
The joy of bathe was his chiefest lure:
And of his people's love, who lov'd him well,
And of their homage, he was ever sure:—
And he lov'd them—they at his heart did dwell—
Their noblest, latest king—all England sung his knell.

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Lo, 'mid the solemn wood there is a tower!
The moon shines o'er its ivy in the night;
The low winds greet it from their secret bower.
King Harold walks the battlements: his sight
Beholds a hundred kings array'd in fight,
Each with a golden crown upon his head;
And now along the heavens red swords shine bright;
He hears the furious war-steed's sounding tread—
And, now,—lo! only one remains—the rest are dead!

Again, and where the thickest spears beam out,
And where the twanging arrows glitter most,
The Saxon monarch answers the wild shout,
And, like a demon, breasts the invading host.
“On, on, my noble hearts, or all is lost—
“On, on, brave Englishmen, 'tis ours the day—
“On, on,—this day shall be our dying boast.”
As a fierce river did they roll away,
Like hungry mountain-wolves, that chace their panting prey.

Again, and 'mid a lonely forest's gloom,
Where gleam'd a poor hut in the forest shade,
A stately shape moves slow, as though the tomb
Had let him out—he is so cold and staid.
His hair floats wild—his robes all disarray'd—
His hands are folded on the ample breast:
His eyes are on the ground, as seeking aid;
Heedless of all things, nought can win to rest
The solemn steady woe, with which he is opprest.

136

Again, and forty years have slumber'd o'er,
A Norman robber reigns, anointed king;
And Saxon footsteps tread the Norman shore.
Again red battle waves his burning wing,
The loud drum roars, and the clear trumpets ring:
Death laughs for joy—the English hosts retire.
But who is he, that strange and mighty thing,
Who bears the conqueror back with look of fire?
'Twas Harold,—thus he died, reveng'd—his sole desire.

Again, again with Harold, and no more,
A black steed moves along by soldiers led,
His gallant rider gone, he lov'd of yore:
Ten thousand warriors droop the plumed head,
And weep aloud for the anointed dead:
The last crown'd brow of the proud Saxon race,
The mighty Harold, with the grave is wed.
Never again shall beam his kingly face—
Never again his arm shall wield the conquering mace.

137

THE CONQUEST. A.D. 1066.

The Son of Love, and Lord of War, I sing—
Him who bade England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.
Nor, fann'd alone by victory's fleeting wing,
He rear'd his bold and valiant throne on high;
The bastard kept like lions his prey fast,
And Britons' bravest victor was the last.
—Lord Byron.

[_]

[This fragment was found among Lord Byron's papers after his departure from Genoa to Greece. From this it would appear that that great poet had chosen this important period of our history, as the subject of a poem. The portion of poetry here given is dated March, 1823.]

Fallen!—thy banners torn—thy standard broke—
Thy mightiest slain—thy proudest hero dead!
The branches sever'd from thy sovereign oak
When, England, wilt thou rear again thy head?
With the great deeds of Troy thy name is wed,
And through thy veins doth course its chivalry.
With thine the sturdy Briton's soul is wed;
Heroic enterprise and courage high,
And that wild savage fire that never all can die.

The blue-eyed Saxon came beyond the sea,
And shook his golden tresses on thy shore;
From him came truth and hospitality;
The Dane did fill thee with barbaric store.

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But, most of all, wading through seas of gore,
Roll'd the proud legions of triumphant Rome.
She gave thee peace, and strength, and learned lore,
Religion, honesty, and quiet home,
So that thou now art left the greatest o'er her tomb.

What did the Norman give but tyranny?
And lust and murder planted on our shore?
The Roman gave us peace and liberty;
The Saxon plough'd our fields—the Dane, no more—
The Normans stain'd our homes with reeking gore;
They toss'd young children on the flaming spear,
And with red hands our matrons' tresses tore;
Our lovely maidens, spite of sigh and tear,
With savage lust deflower'd, then murder'd in their fear.

Gaunt famine they let loose upon the land,
Starv'd the young child upon its mother's breast;
Our old nobility, with reckless hand,
They drove to death, and cruelly opprest:
Fire, death, and desolation, rage and lust
Broke loose—ne'er, England, wert thou so forlorn;
Thy wretched children knew not where to rest;
Hunted like hounds from sad and weary morn;
Whilst night brought no relief, but left them weak and worn.

Let Tyranny take root where'er it will,
Its breath, is groans—its sweetest joy, a tear;
The blood of patriots is its feeding rill;

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The sighs of slaves its choicest atmosphere;
The flowers and grass do fade when it is near;
And Truth and Honour cease to lift their head—
Its eyes glare death—its brows are black with fear;
The bloody couch of freedom is its bed;
Speak, Rome, is it not so?—speak out, ye mighty dead!

Speak out, O Carthage, Egypt, Greece, oh speak!
When tyranny did flourish most, ye fell;
Speak, ye old temples, this strong silence break!
Domes, amphitheatres, old cities, tell
How great ye were till tyranny befel!
It choked your power—your sinews sunk in might,
And truth and virtue ceased with you to dwell;
The sword, the pen, the sceptre lost their right;
The deeds of ages sunk in everlasting night.

But freedom is divine, and sanctified
With patriots' blood—her dwelling is on high,
Among the mountains, and in forests wide,
And her white plumes rejoice the morning sky;
Drest, all in savage robes, she wanders by,
Unshackled, fearless, strong, and unsubdued;
Fair is her forehead, clear her eagle eye,—
Her smiling cheeks with health's best colours hued;
And thus she journeys forth, for loftiest good embued.

The best and wisest worship at her feet,
Although she bears not sceptre, pall, nor crown;

140

In noblest hearts she holds her chosen seat,
Nor ever fears the mightiest monarch's frown,
Who from her loftiest state can drag her down?
Where'er she dwells, the earth is glad and bright;
Peace, plenty, happiness, her empire own;
She fills the lands with glory, strength, and might,
And most, O England thou, hast flourish'd in her light.

'Tis this, my country, makes thy fields so green,
And with thy vessels fills the white-wing'd sea,
(What shore on which thy footsteps have not been?)
'Tis this that gives each cottage mirth and glee,
Makes all thy mountains ring with liberty!
That elevates thy councils, and afar
Doth spread thy wisdom and philosophy,
That edges, as with fire, thy sword of war,
And plac'd thy fame in heaven, to shine a glorious star.

They wash his body with the sacred oil;
They shape the cross upon his forehead white;
They wind his shroud; the bell of death they toll—
They chaunt the solemn hymns along the night,
To scare away all evil shapes of might:

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Then, in his royal robes of state array'd,
They lay him on the bier: whilst, shining bright,
Upon his breast the emerald cross is laid—
The cross and book of God: all earthly rites are paid.

The coffin—pall'd and plum'd—they bear along,
Whilst all the holy brethren, side by side,
Bear the white taper, chaunt the burial song,
And sound the prayer that speaks of fallen pride:
The organ peals along the minster wide,
In low deep note, like thunder's latest sound.
The ropes grate harsh—the grave worm is the bride
Of Normandy's best son—a monarch crown'd—
Conquer'd the conqueror, to death's red chariot bound.

Till the last trump shall blow, there let him lie:
Curses be with him—curses deep, and hate,—
The fiends that shriek o'er fallen tyranny;
And when the blast shall burst the charnel gate,
Red demons of remorse, in troops, shall wait,
And bear him onward, through the open sky—
The wrong'd—the slain—shall hunt him soon and late;
Angels be glad to see him from the sky,
And devils yell for joy through all eternity.

143

THE NORMAN'S FORESTS.

“Not content with these large forests, which former kings possessed in all parts of England, William resolved to make a new forest, near Winchester, the usual place of his residence; and, for that purpose, he laid waste the county of Hampshire, for an extent of thirty miles, expelled the inhabitants from their houses, seized their property, even demolished churches and convents, and made the sufferers no compensation for the injury.”—Malmes.

Far, far, and wide, the rude drum beats the air!
The trumpet shouts—the charger neighs aloud!
Gone, England's homes—gone, gone, her pastures fair;
Gone, gone, her castles, long so strong and proud.
Her villages, that in pure quiet stood—
Her pleasant churches, with their Sabbath bell—
The marble tomb-stone and armorial shroud—
Gone, gone,—for what?—Alas, we know too well;
And forests yet remain the woeful tale to tell!

Hundreds must die, that kings may hunt the deer,
'Mong their own pastures murder'd!—Aye, a king,
For his high sport, dare fill a land with fear!
Full many a cottage maiden ceas'd to sing
Her love-songs; whilst the husband could not bring,
From fields hereditary, childhood's bread;
The mother wept to see the cherub's wing
Eras'd.—The grave-flowers 'neath the Norman's tread—
The hunter on the grass, that deck'd her children dead.

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Ah! little of such horrors can we deem,
Now gazing on those forests' waving tide!
There peace and plenty dwell; the pleasant dream,
The rural sport—there dwell a country's pride;
There sing the birds—there roll the seasons' tide—
There do the jocund years hold jubilee.
Scarce can we think that o'er these moss-groves wide
Deep groans were heard, wild sounds of misery—
The tears of deep distress, and bitter agony!

Where was the retribution?—Did the sky
Not hurl its thunders?—Did the lightnings sleep?
Remorse would surely glare before his eye,
Who work'd iniquities so wild and deep?
Sure, at his palace gates, dead ghosts would weep,
And shriek the memories of past deeds of blood!
Ne'er yet did heaven allow the murderer reap,
Unharm'd, his work: it loves the pure and good:
Her myriad eyes at once upon the tyrant brood.

Oh, not unseen was the oppressor's wrong!
Two dearest sons, hunting the stag, were slain.
One lovely daughter, bright, and fair, and young,
Meeting her bridegroom, sunk beneath the main.
His eldest born, 'mid bloody wars, held reign,
And beat his tyrant father to the ground:
His darling wife decay'd in hungry pain;
And he himself, whilst fires were blazing round,
Most miserably died, and in hell-fire sleeps sound.

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.

Long trains of ill may pass unheeded—dumb,
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!

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!

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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.

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.

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.

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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!

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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

151

PETER THE HERMIT. A.D. 1097.

The cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march, that the footprints of Mahommed's slaves
May be wash'd out in blood from our forefather's graves;
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Campbell's Song of the Greeks.

A mighty spirit stirs the sluggish land—
The British hearts are up again: they hear
A lofty call to nerve their palsied hand;
A heavenly summons thunders in their ear,
To scare the heathen from their Saviour's bier!
“Hark!” said the hermit, to the listening mass,
(Whilst from his eyes he wip'd the burning tear)
“Their horses fed upon the sacred grass,
“And on the blessed flowers, around our Saviour's cross.

“Their eyes, profane, within the inner shade
“Of the graves' dwelling gaze: their footsteps go
“Even on the hallow'd tomb, and, undismay'd,
“They curse the holy pilgrims, who would know
“Christ's dreadful tale of agony, and woe,
“And crucifixion: locust-like, they spread
“Where Eden's flowerets bloomed; and the winds blow
“Their banners on Jerusalem's haughty head—
“They stamp the grave-grass down who sav'd the earthly dead.

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“Arise, arise!—They insolently sway
“O'er Syria, Phrygia, and Illyricum,
“Galatia, Caria, and Pamphylia,
“All from the mountains to the sea: they come
“O'er blessed Asia, and have made their home:
“They rule, too, o'er the fertile fields of Spain,
“And on the plains where Carthage is a tomb:
“O'er Palestine, accursed, they e'en do reign—
“Rouse—rouse ye from the dust, and be yourselves again!

“Arouse ye! every age will bless your name,
“And every red cross knight be sanctified
“In the undying memories of fame!
“The fruits of martyrdom ye shall divide
“With saints, and dwell for ever, side by side.
“The God of heaven will grant you happiness!
“Do you fear torments, chains, whose souls shall glide
“From living wretchedness to dying bliss?
“Where heavenly glory soars o'er human wickedness?

“These things your ancestors and martyrs taught,
“By proud example: Death the soul sets free:
“Through Death the mansions of the blest are sought;—
“Death opes the portals of eternity.
“Bound to poor clay, the soul is forc'd to be;
“Heavenly with what is mortal—and divine
“With what is dust. Death causes it to see.
“Death makes it with infinity combine;
“Expands its narrow range immortally to shine.

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“Purge, then, God's sanctuary; the thieves expel;
“Bring in your Jesus. Kindred, houses, all,
“Forsake; with other patrimonies dwell.
“The world it is your country; heaven your call;
“Held up by God, ye will not, cannot fall—
“The God of increase, power, and majesty.
“Your earthly house, shall be a heavenly hall;
“And where the Lord of Heaven bow'd down to die,
“Ye shall obtain the faith that fits ye for the sky.

“Arise, arise! from this unholy sleep!
“The God on high commands! Your souls shall rot
“In Hell, or ye do break this slumber deep!
“Jerusalem is a bright and blessed spot,
“Where, though ye fall, heaven's crowns will be your lot.
“Ye pass through lovely lands, and ye will gain
“Great wealth of heathen gold; say, will ye not
“Throw off those clouds that hang upon your brain,
“And hunt the tiger forth unto his den again.

“On, with the red cross,—gird ye on the sword—
“Yet shall the sepulchre be sav'd—the place
“Be sanctified, where sleeps our murder'd Lord;
“Or where he slept, till Heaven beheld his face.”
Well spake the enthusiast: well did he encase
In mortal words, the immortal work of love.
Thousands and thousands of the populace
Rush'd to his standard, with the whirlwind's move,
And left their homes to win eternal homes above.

154

The husband left his wife and children dear—
His house, his garden, every pleasant thing—
The fields, where he had liv'd—the water clear,
That from his childhood lent its murmuring,
Where still his little children's footsteps ring.
And it was strange and sweet to hear them cry,
At each new town, and, with clear voices, sing
Jerusalem!—Jerusalem!—and sigh,
To know what thousand leagues their father yet must ply.

And they did well: it was a noble fight,
That sav'd from double death God's only Son;
That open'd to his sepulchre once more
The light of loving eyes; that fought and won
A right of worship; long, too long, o'errun.
They did defend, not force a creed; they fought
But to remove the clouds that hid their sun.
It was not wealth or conquest that they sought;
But piety sublime awoke the mighty thought.

Yea, they did well!—They had endured more
Than martyrdom, of want and nakedness.
Their heart's-blood fed the soil—the grass that bore
Their feet was fat with death; yet not the less

155

Immortal was their passion; and I bless
My country that such lofty hearts were there:
Bravely, too, did they win, through all distress,
Those sacred towers, that gleam'd o'er their despair,
And knelt and pray'd aloud, by God's own sepulchre.

Alas! they should have soil'd so great a deed,
And stain'd, with spots of blood, an act so white!
That, flush'd with conquest, they forgot the need
Of conquering self. It was a day so bright,
They should have kept away the hungry night.
But they had seen the murder'd, near and dear;
Their wives and children, in the bloody fight
Of the inhuman foe; so we will hear,
With joy, the gentler tale, and wipe away the tear;

And write an epitaph for those who died,
When, for the cross, their heart's blood flow'd away:
“Sleep sweetly—though your faith was sorely tried,
It conquer'd, and ye scar'd your foes alway;
And ye shall wake upon the judgment day
With spirits purified, and hear the song
Of joy and jubilee!—Yea, when ye lay
The earthly temple down, that held ye long,
Ye rose to walk in bliss, the heavenly bowers among.”

157

SHIPWRECK OF PRINCE WILLIAM. A.D. 1124.

“Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth, in trim array;
And vigorous as a lark at break of day.”
—Wordsworth.

“Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell;
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leap'd overboard, with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave,
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell.”
—Lord Byron.

“Of his bones are coral made:
They are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him but doth fade—
But doth suffer a sea-change,
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell—
Hark! now I hear them ding-dong bell.”
Shakspeare.—Ariel's Song.

How much I love thee, thou rejoicing deep;
Thou art so glad to look on, and so free;
And, when thou wakest from thy kingly sleep,
There is such glory in thy royal glee!
Where do thy sounding footsteps ever flee?
Why ever beateth thus thy troubled breast?
What giant shakes thee so, thou mighty sea,
And wrings thy tresses, and disturbs thy rest,
And makes the silver foam to dash upon thy crest?

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Yet, in thy restless bosom is a hell
Of murder'd spirits, wandering to and fro.
Death soundeth in the tolling of thy knell,
And tracks thy pearled caverns;—'mid thy flow,
Majestic, wild-hair'd spirits nightly go:
Another sky is thine—another sun—
Another moon than ours: thy pallid brow
Is wreath'd with dead men's bones: when art thou done,
Strange wanderer? when will sound thy latest tone?

Lo, in the Norman harbour, far away,
A white-wing'd vessel sleepeth on the wave,
Like a young sea-bird on a summer day!
Softly, against her side, the waters lave
In loving pastime.—Now the bright and brave
Move t'ward her 'mid the festal melody,
(Unconscious quite of the impending grave:)
Gay cavaliers, fair ladies, gather nigh,
Breathe the farewell, and waft their silken scarfs on high.

Proudly the stately vessel glides along;
Her pennant feeding on the balmy gale;
Loud sounds the music, loud the jocund song,
And sweetly mingle with the ocean's wail,
And the low flutter of the snow-white sail.
The sunny sky looks mildly on her brow—
The softest breezes weave their dreamy tale—
The blue waves sing against her painted prow:
Never did Neptune view so brave a sight till now!

159

Glide gently on, fair ship, and be thy road
A pleasant one, and may the winds blow mild;
And may the waves beat soft where thou hast trod;
And be thou with thy mermaids' songs beguil'd:
But, hark—hark—hark!—a voice speaks strange and wild!
Why stops the music?—why the dancers' feet?
See, how like rolling hills, the waves are pil'd!
See, how the cold winds flap the shiv'ring sheet;
And how the petrel shrieks from his tempestuous seat!

And now a sound like thunder booms beneath;
As if a wounded giant from his cave
Bellow'd the last strong agonies of death.
A myriad souls seem sweeping on the wave,
And shriek aloud from out their horrid grave:
Like to a drunken man the ship doth roll,
And wildly fights the hungry storms that rave;
The Ocean opes his jaws as for a meal:
Around her struggling frame his giant sinews steal.

Louder and louder crash—and louder still,
And the batallion'd billows tear her side.
Vain swell these prayers—the storm must have his fill;
The mast rolls down—down drops her pennant's pride;
And now the sea hath won her for his bride.
Shriek louder—what will it avail ye now?
But who is she?—and, lo, she is descried!
And a strong arm beats back the wave.—Ah, woe!
They sink, that precious pair—they sink for evermore!

160

O, noble act—oh, blessed deed of love!
Angels were gazing from th' applauding sky,
And wept for grief, amid their bowers above,
That two such perfect beings so should die!
The very heart of death did heave a sigh.
And who shall tell King Henry?—who shall bear
The tidings?—Will his tears be ever dry?
And will he ever smile again? or hear
Sweet sounds?—or evermore forget this dream of fear?

Many a castled hall, from that sad day,
Forgot its joy; and many a maiden's eye
Wax'd dimmer; many a sweet shape died away;
And many a beating heart that once swell'd high.
The pale moon gaz'd on from the wintry sky!
Hast thou no mercy, O, thou rav'ning sea,
That even in thy caresses death should lie?
Thou that can'st show such peace and harmony:
How is't that such wild madness ever springs from thee?

161

STEPHEN. A.D. 1135—1154.—THE CIVIL WAR.— THE BARONS.—THE OLD CASTLES.

------ We will not stay:
The bay trees in our country all are dead,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth,
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change:
Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap.
—Shakspeare.

What horrors haunt the track of civil strife!
Each cottage, shining in its silent dell,
Hath lost some shape belov'd, some honor'd life:
Domestic peace is changed into a hell;
Murder and famine in all places dwell.
What now avails the silken garlands wrought
By love and kindred: sons their sires assail!
Truth, justice, honour, virtue, flourish not:
The Tutelary gods have fled from every spot.

The same who, hand in hand, walk'd long ago,
And gather'd flowers to deck each other's hair—
The same who climb'd the welcome mountain's brow,
Or wandered o'er the summer meadows fair,
Contend like hell-hounds at the shout of war:
Oh, when shall men become so pure and good,
To drive this pestilential curse afar?
When, when, shall cease this horrid thirst of blood?
When, when, shall man return unto his ancient mood?

162

The ancient mood, ere sorrow dimm'd the sky—
Ere battle's blood-red standard yet was seen—
That golden age, when man was pure and high;
And love and gladness, in their bowers green,
Each rul'd in sovereignty, a titled Queen!
Ere laughter had a jar, or joy a tear;
Ere any blight had mingled with life's scene:
When men were warm, and women had no fear,
And storm and lightnings slept, nor whirlwinds wander'd near.

The charger's fiery hoofs upon the floor
Of palaces, where grandeur dwelt in pride,
Is seen: the war-plume, 'neath the cottage door,
Where snooded beauty walk'd; and, far and wide,
Where nought but peaceful sounds were wont to glide,
Of birds, and winds, and streams, the battle sound
Is heard, and with the tempests doth divide:
Blood stains the flowers that deck the trampled ground,
And voices of affright, and groans are all around.

Red war leapt forth o'er England—it stalk'd out
Among our pastures. Many a warrior died,
Who, o'er the Saracen, had rais'd the shout
Of triumph, slain by one who, at his side,
Had help'd to beat the foeman in his pride—
To make the standard o'er Jerusalem soar:
High souls, for whom no empire was too wide,
Till, join'd, perchance, with dearest kinsman's gore:
War's chaldron was on fire, and the red fumes stream'd o'er.

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And Famine came and cropp'd the golden corn,
And slew the cattle in their pastures green,
And shut the eyelids of the fruitful morn,
So that the dews and rains were never seen:
Sorrow and desolation rul'd each scene:
Then fell Disease uprear'd its flaming dart,
Veiling Hope's eyelids, and her brow serene:
Still wilder plague-spots work'd at England heart,—
Impoverish'd, bleeding, sad, and torn in every part.

Famine, that even with drops of living blood,
And death of dearest children, still would buy,
With weight of life, the weight of living food:
Disease, that eats the heart-strings, and doth lie
In burning brains, and in the fever'd eye,
Whose couch is poison, and whose sleep is hell:
Despair that broods in fires that never die;
A hungry skeleton: these, came to dwell
With all the ghastly train that their battalions swell.

And now the haughty barons, castled strong,
Like blood-hounds, hunted each his own domain,
(Made savage by the times they liv'd among;
Them, might of king nor people could restrain.)
Time now hath done for them, what long, in vain,
Men strove; and the black ivy waves his plume
Where war's triumphant banners o'er the plain
Shone far, and spear and helmet lit the gloom:
And where proud heroes fought, the raven hath his home.

164

Gigantic pillars shape the skeleton
Of each majestic and unconquer'd pile;
Still, through vast halls, the carvings on the stone
Tell the old memories of our glorious Isle:
The echoing roof still speak of dance and smile,
The banquet, wassail, song and minstrelsie;
Where'er we walk, the mighty dead beguile
Our dreams, and lift our brooding thoughts more high—
And sometimes to our eyes, do ancient ghosts glide by.

We see the chamber, where, by moonlight sweet,
Some haughty maiden heard her lover's plight,
Or wav'd her kerchief when her warrior's feet
Came for the guerdon of his love and might,
Heroic, from the tournament or fight.
We tread the marble, where dead kings have stood—
The tomb-stones of full many a noble knight;
Or walk in caverns, stain'd with heroes' blood,
Or patriots pure and bright, or martyrs just and good.

And, oh, when all the heavens are deeply blue,
The stars all bright, the winds all breathing low;
And when the morn's fair streamers come in view,
Snow-white, on lake and distant mountain's brow,
How lovely and majestic seem ye now!
Ye seem, as if some genii of the past,
Fairies, or shapes of air, this glorious show
Had rear'd, so lightly tower and buttress vast
Stand forth—such heavenly beams all round about are cast.

165

Yea, not in flush of morn, when ploughmen sing,
As merry as the lark; not at bright noon,
When winds and breezes sleep; nor evening,
When love, and leaves, and streamlets join in tune,
Are ye so lovely, as when shines the moon!
Then seem the ghosts of buried forms to rise,
All clad in glittering mail, or rustling gown;
Then wond'rous shapes do flit before the eyes—
Pale phantoms of the past, commission'd from the skies!

Ye, who would know your native land, walk here!
Time, ivy, raven, bat, will tell the tale.
Ponder, and as you ponder, drop a tear,
And think how all things in the end shall fail.
The winter winds among these arches wail—
The only dirge for the majestic dead:
The 'scutcheons and armorial records tell,
That even the mightiest must bow the head,
And greatness, beauty, strength, with conquering Death be wed!

Walk mournfully away, in modest guise;
Ye have been link'd with the old deeds of time;
Ye have held converse with the great and wise,
Who built your fame, and made your land sublime;
Who gave another sunlight to your clime;
Drove off the mists, and rent your bonds in twain!
What though their names have wax'd a little dim,
Their actions live without a spot or stain;
Our liberties and rights still proudly we retain!

167

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.

The blood within her crystal cheekes
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.

Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa Mundi; non Rosa Munda;
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!

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.

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!

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—

169

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.

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!

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!

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,

170

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.

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.

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.”

O, Love! that in the calmest woodland way,
And even in palace, and the castled hall,

171

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.

[_]

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.

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,

172

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!

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?

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.

Even as an angel they have laid her down—
Shriv'd of her woman's weakness, sanctified

173

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.

175

THOMAS A BECKET WAS SLAIN 1171.

“Gilbert, the father of Thomas á Becket, making an expedition to the Holy Land, was, with his only attendant, Richard, made a prisoner by a Mussulman Emir. This man's daughter they were sometimes permitted to see. She asked him about his religion, and whether he was ready to risk his life for his God. “To die,” he answered. “Then,” said she, “let us escape together.” He could not refuse, but either his courage left him, or the attempt failed, and he escaped with bolder companions. She afterwards broke her prison; and by the repetition of the word “London,” found her way marvellously, by sea and land, to that city, where she had no other resource than crying through the streets “Gilbert,” the name of the man she loved—the only European word besides “London” with which the solitary Syrian damsel was acquainted. After many adventures, she was at length recognized by the servant of her lover, Richard—baptized by the royal name of Matilda—was married to her Gilbert, and became the mother of Thomas á Becket.” Need it be marvelled that so much of energy, enterprise, and ambition actuated Thomas à Becket, the son of love, wonder, and romance.—This account taken from John of Brompton.

Were it for nought beside, he should have name,
Because of her whose blood enrich'd his own—
That lovely damsel, whose first deed was fame,
And whose sweet after-life was all divine.
The burning sunbeams on her brow would shine;
Her lonely wail the Syrian deserts hear;
The withering simoon saw her sweet shape pine;
The cold dews wet her; and the tempests drear
Smote her dear limbs, convuls'd with agony and fear.

The sacred places of old Time she knew,
Where Battle's hot feet prest; where cities lay

176

Beneath the desert sands: still she was true
To Love's high precepts, and held on her way,
Though savage beasts, and the waves' savage play,
And roaring winds, and poverty and pain—
All mortal ills, that ever meet the day,
Came near; one only passion fill'd her brain—
The spotless dream of love—the white without a stain.

The Lybian maidens heard her love-sick plaint,
And tended her, and brought her gentle cheer,
And comforted her soul. Where'er she went,
By wood and stream, high rock, and lonely mere,
Their sweet inhabitants in love came near.
The winds wail'd deeply at her bitter woe;
The Atlantic waves did bow them down in fear;
Thus, fair and loving Biblis, long ago,
To feed her fatal love, crost Xanthus' silver flow.

And royal glee was thine—and thou wert great!
The centre-throned mountains, towering high,
And kings o'er time and death, on thee did wait,
And were thy slaves: the storms that travell'd by
Did kiss thy hair: thy eagle-glancing eye
View'd giant rivers roll, in pride, along,
Through vales that own'd their sov'ran majesty.
The mountain forest-trees did pour their song,
And thou wert queen and bride o'er all the mighty throng.

Where, in the far untravell'd solitude,
The unchained eagle desolately dies,

177

And where the sov'ran lion loves to brood,
In sounding caves, remote from human eyes;
Where ghastly forests shriek unto the skies;
And is no flower, nor herb, nor healthful tree,
Nor pleasant streams, nor unseen minstrelsies,
Nor house, nor human face, nor law's decree,
The lonely, lovely maid, still wander'd desolately.

And there were none to heed her! She might weep
The tear-drops from her brain; and she might pine
With sullen sighs and groans; and she might sleep
Under the tiger's roar, and rest the shine
Of her dark locks on cliffs, who was divine!
Yet none did heed her. Love, and joy, and fear,
Grief, hope, and passion—all that intertwine
Their tints with daily life, were hers to bear
Alone, unheard, unpitied,—none to love her near.

What if she died in these lone places, far
From help? would not the horrid carrion crow
Leap from his hollow throned cliff afar,
And tear her eyes, and hair, and breast, and brow?
The burning tempests scorch her limbs of snow,
And bare her skeleton with hungry hate,
That white as the white desert sands would shew?
Each moment Death may ride the storms, and wait,
And none to close her eyes,—forlorn and desolate!

178

And this was Becket's mother. She had come
Alone, a Syrian maid, her love to seek,
Forsaking kin, and the sweet joys of home.
“London!” she cried, with a heart fit to break—
“London”—through unknown lands, a woman weak:
And “London” brought her over hill and dale,
And o'er the wave—the sole word she could speak:
Nor unregarded was her mournful tale;
And London shelter'd her from every angry gale.

Mother of him who plac'd in England's crown
The poison'd thorn, and rear'd the standard high,
Of Papal pride, above his monarch's throne;
Who, swollen and fat, with rank idolatry,
Bearded the nation—mock'd the nation's cry
With curses and anathemas from Rome.
Woe unto England! Antichrist was nigh—
Our fields were eat with locusts—o'er each home,
Once happy, did the wolf and Papal tiger roam!

The fertile fields, from Tees unto the Tyne,
Were burnt—the grass, corn, houses, each and all;
Fire, hunger, desolation, did combine
To do their worst, and drive, from hut and hall,
Rich, poor, and young, and old. In vain they call
Aloud for help. Death shakes his fiery head,

179

And famine starteth from the castle wall,
'Till even on human flesh the wretches fed,
Amid the burning wastes, where lay the unburied dead.

The people had no name: trampled and worn
With all extortions, they were tame and poor;
Their richest lands were gone; their gold was torn
Away the church's gentle prayers to lure.
Where woods and fields bloom'd fairest, there, be sure,
Some stately abbey rear'd its impious head:
All wrong and tyranny they did endure—
Spurn'd by the ruffians whom their heart's-blood fed,
Till all Old England's pride had faded and was dead.

Each stone of these strong fabrics we admire,
Baronial, or with cloisters running wide;
Tower, fortress, pillar, window, arch and spire,
Were dyed with blood from out a people's side.
Thousands of slaves were lash'd to feed the pride
Of bloated power!—Majestic stands each pile;
But when we think what multitudes have dy'd
The stones with blood—what sorrow fill'd the isle
To rear those baubles up—we can no longer smile.

We have no joy or pride, though t'ward the sun
These towers ascend, and meet his ling'ring ray.
The moon, the stars, and all night's glories run
Around them, but in pain. The light of day
Lies ghastly on the tombs: the winds that play

180

Among the arches, breathe a woeful tone:
The owl that hoots where Monks were wont to pray—
The trailing plants—the flowers that bloom alone—
All mourn the blood and tears that moisten every stone.

Blood-stain'd the snowy altar, and the white
Of marble tombstones; and the book of prayer:
Thus sinks ambition in the shades of night—
Thus fade its dreams upon the hungry air;
All men unite to hunt it to its lair.
It is a wolf 'mong lambs—a vulture keen
'Mong gentle doves; 'tis foul where all is fair;
A midnight cloud upon the heavens serene,
And hatred hunts its steps wherever it is seen.

181

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION. A.D. 1189.

“Against whose fury and unmatched force,
The awless lion could not wage the fight,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.”
—Shakspeare.

How shall I do fit honour to a king
So like a hero of the olden time;
How shall I twice of great Achilles sing,
Already sung in strains the most sublime.
Suffice it, he was brave, and dared to climb
The height, whereon immortal heroes sleep.
Frank, generous, brave, such as the lofty rhyme
Delights to praise; his heart was rich and deep;
We cherish such king's life, and for his death we weep.

He drove the Wolf of Scotland to his den,
France trembled when his eagle tower'd on high:
He dragg'd the crescent from Jerusalem,
And rear'd the red-cross banner to the sky.
Death felt the glance of his imperial eye;
No danger daunted him; he rose the most
When life's wild billows strove most wrathfully.
The earth he made his play ground, and the boast
Of kings to him were nought but school boys' frowns when crost.

182

Where, Chivalry—where was thy earliest home?
What numerous names were thine—where sprung thy seed?
Say, was thy noblest birth in Greece or Rome?
Or from the buried cities?—or the breed
That ages lived, and died without their meed
Of the immortal page: love swaddled thee,
And honour gave thee food when thou hadst need.
Valour first taught thy steps to wander free—
A maiden glov'd thy hand, whose name was Courtesy.

The eyes of kings and queens beheld thee there,
And noblest maidens leant the pearled brow—
Joy for the tournament! then didst thou bear
Thy plumes the loftiest—then full well, I trow,
Thy heart beat highest—would it were so now.
Young princes died for love: a lady's smile
Was won by streams of blood: the sovereign glow
Of beauty fill'd with hope the whole green isle:
Oh, for the snowy breast that pillow'd so much toil!

Oh, for the banners, flaring in the sun—
The glittering lance—the gorgeous pageantry—
The bright eyes looking down on glory won—
The sound of after mirth and revelry!
Then, Love, thy voice was as the mighty sea;
The forests owned thee, and the earth was young
With thy first smiles; and all men knelt to thee;
And the warm winds thy constant praises sung,
And, chiming with thy hymns, the spheres their echoes rung.

183

The woods were sacred places, only known
To bird, and flower, and leaf, and running stream;
Untouch'd, might beauty wander, and alone;
For all was soft and holy as a dream;
And chivalry sent down its brightest beam:
Yea, chivalry, gave all things speech and thought
Courteous,—gentle looks and deeds supreme;
It gave us loves that later times have not,
And tales that glorify full many a blessed spot.

The serenade, song, laugh, and dance were thine,
In castled hall, or from the wild sea-shore;
To drive the invading foe to ocean's brine;
To hold, lest haughty valour should run o'er,
Teaching meet words to courts; and, what is more,
Teaching fit acts to all, so all might learn
To bear with much, ere any hate they bore:
Yet, when a jest on honour's truth should turn,
Resting not till the jest should have its fit return.

Sure, in those times there roll'd a fresher air—
There beam'd a mellower light—there spake a tone,
From heaven, unto the heart amid despair:
Men seem'd of loftier stature; their deeds shone
Prouder, methinks, than now, that seem as none:
Or how did the old bards ascend so far,
As he who sent forth Una all alone?
Imagination then was a bright star,
And walk'd among the heavens in majesty afar.

184

Hail, then, to chivalry! and softened down
To modern usage, still we cry, all hail!
What though a pearl hath fallen from its crown—
What though its cheek hath wax'd a little pale—
What though its once proud limbs are somewhat frail;
Still lives and breathes it through the fallen land,
Harrow'd in empire; yet it cannot fail
On every shore to have a faithful band,
Who listen to its laws, and bow to its command.

But where is Cœur de Lion?—Where is he?
His battles all are won—the war is past;
The Saracen hath bowed the stubborn knee—
Each ancient foe stands trembling and aghast,
And England's banner floats the passing blast:
His queen hath gain'd her throne, and wears her crown—
His ships are safe—his warriors rest at last.
But where is Cœur de Lion?—He alone
Is sought to bear the sceptre, and to fill the throne!

The prison of a far land holds his form;
Chain'd on the stones, the damp upon his beard:
Yea, he who rul'd, a god amid the storm—
He, whose loud voice, aye first in strife was heard—
The conqueror of the crescent—England's lord—
Is bound in chains, and that Duke bars his door—
The Austrian whom he kick'd!—No angry word
Breaks from the prisoner; happy as before:
The more that they oppress, his spirit swells the more.

185

Aye, and far off old England's bells are ringing,
And pleasure sits upon her gaudy throne;
The birds have had their merry May-time singing,
Save the sweet Nightingale, that chaunts alone.
The wild flowers from their forest haunts are gone;
The harvest's voice is o'er; among the trees
The young winds warble not their various song;
The scents and hues of summer feed the breeze,
Whilst England's king must rot in chains beyond the seas.

Hark! hark! is it a spirit on the air,
Warbling her dreams?—It is a heavenly song;
Yea, sweet as if an angel chaunted there,
The holy language that in heaven is sung.
'Twas the same voice he lov'd when he was young;
That wiled him in the garden bower, and sent
Through his rapt soul the melody of song.
And, now again, the strain celestial went
To heart and brain, and swelled in wildest languishment.

Up rose the king, and sung a tender lay,
Of sweet reply, the maiden lov'd of old:
The ditty murmur'd on the air away:
He paused; the minstrel's voice answered more bold,
A song of ancient war, and warlike, roll'd;
His heart beats wildly high—a moment more,
That form is in his arms, all wan and cold.

186

Again, and his chains rattle on the floor;
And now the monarch strides along the lone sea-shore.

Proud was the day for England, when loud gun
And abbey-bell told of their king return'd:
Millions of voices fill'd the air; the sun
Was scar'd, so many were the fires that burn'd:
With joy great England's heart was overturn'd.
No trophy won—no mighty kingdom gain'd—
Might match this monarch thus, in prison mourned;
The very heavens applauding echoes rain'd,
And gladness fill'd the land that could not be restrained!

187

ROBIN HOOD. A.D. 1190.

“In this time, (about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.) were many outlaws and robbers, among the which, Robin Hood and Little John, renowned thieves, continued in woods, despoiling and robbing the goods of the rich. They killed none but such us would invade them; or by resistance for their own defence. The said Robert entertained an hundred tall men, and good archers, with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they never so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested; poore men's goods he spared, abundantle relieving them with that which by theft, he got from abbeys and the houses of rich Earles; whom Maior, (the historian) blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves, he affirmeth him to be the prince and the most gentle theefe.— Stowe's Annals, page 159.

The autumn winds among the pine-trees roam,
Carving strange ditties of unearthly sound;
Each summer bird hath sought some quiet home;
Yet still my Muse doth make her joyous round,
And still my cheerful fancies do abound;
All things opposing, still I tune my lay—
Still, like a stag, among the mountains bound.
Grief, sickness, hate nor scorn can stop my way,
Who trust but to myself, and hold the rest at bay.

When I began, the trees, the grass was green,
The summer dust was light, the winds were low,
The brooks were dry, the ocean lay serene,
The forests and the mountains all a-glow;
Now, what a change!—the leaves in whirlwinds flow,

188

The trees are skeletons—their freshness gone,
And the rude winds, upstirr'd, as tempests blow:
Brooklet and ocean now do nought but moan—
The forests and the hills with lamentation groan;

And weep for the sweet wild-flowers blooming there,
And the rich heath-blooms, with their fragrant light;
And clouds of gold that perfum'd all the air—
And weep the silver moss that now is blight;
The silent trees, whose leaves are on the night;
The merry birds, whose melody is o'er.
Hues, mists, and sunbeams, sights and sounds of might,
And glorious impulse—wither'd at their core,
Past on the hollow winds, and gone for evermore.

O, woeful change!—and whither do you go,
Ye summer melodies, ye sounds of spring?
O'er what far lands, ye breezes do ye blow?
Ye pleasant brooks, where do your murmurs sing?
Where is the parent unto whom ye cling?
Sun, moon, and stars, blue skies, and realms of air,
Where are your cast off garments?—Who shall bring
Ye back, that now are gone, we know not where;
Past, past—and your return will ne'er be half so fair!

Ye never will rejoice mine eyes again,
As in past days!—Ye cannot be so bright!
Your gorgeous hues are gone!—the glories wane

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That lit my brow! I look—and it is night!
Come—come—I yearn—I seek your former light:
Greet me again, as in my boyhood's prime!
It cannot be, my heart hath got a blight
That then was green;—I feel the sear of time—
My dreams are in the dust, that then did soar sublime.

And I must wander in the woods alone,
Amid the wither'd fern, and shaken grass,
And ghosts of leaves that ever shriek and moan—
And I must list the hollow winds—alas,
As o'er the rattling craggs and wastes they pass;
And shudder in the storm—as he I sung—
“The Wandering Bard,” whom time can ne'er efface—
So great he was, when e'en his death-dirge rung,
To tell of whose vast woes, my very heart was wrung!

The shepherd slept upon the grassy sward,
Tuning his pipe unto the early May,
Or chanting love-lorn ditties of old bard,
Merry as any bird upon the spray—
Or sung unto his nymph the tender lay,
Whilst she, far wandering from her summer hall,
Sought fresh and full-blown flowers the live-long day,
Or weav'd gay garlands for the rural ball,
Or sigh'd 'mid evening's gloom, to passion's tender call.

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The eagle on his cliff might live and die;
The wild deer cropp'd fresh pastures at his will;
The forest depths were shut from earth and sky,
To all but the sweet songster's cheerful bill,
Or noise of falling leaf or sounding rill.
There breath'd strange voices from the peaceful rest—
There breath'd a spirit from each cavern'd hill,
And Freedom spake aloud to every breast,
As Robin Hood full well can from his grave attest.

What time attir'd in robes of silken green,
Glad fairies danc'd upon the moss and grass,
Or festively, in sparred halls, were seen
Quaffing from emerald goblets as they pass.
What time each monarch hill and forest was
Haunted by grim enchanter in his tower:
What time fair Una walk'd each sunlit place
Of all the forest depths, the fairest flower;
What time dwarfs, dragons, sprites possess'd each woodland bow'r.

A fresher garland never monarch wore,
Than Robin Hood hath borne from hungry time;
And he was greater in his woods of yore,
Than any lord or duke of ancient rhyme;
And he might go where none could follow him.
He saw the first dews sparkling at his feet—
He saw the first hues on the heavens climb—
He heard the first birds where they warbled sweet;
And freedom, hope, and joy, were in his footsteps fleet.

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His was the royal chace of antler'd deer—
The conqueror's power upon his own domain—
The joyous outlaw's gladdness everywhere,
Fearless of winter snows, or summer rain—
Fearless of loudest tempests in their pain.
Whate'er he took, he spent it honestly
To help the poor, he gave the rich man's gain;
To lift the low—to tame the proud and high—
To prove man's freedom just, brave Robin Hood did try.

What, though he knew not of the pomp of state—
The dance, the masquerade, the lighted hall,
The feast, the revelry, and, what the great
Delight in, song and music, masque and ball;
Yet had he greater raptures than them all;
A heart stirr'd only to the voice of truth;
Health, strength, and freedom, circling as a wall,
And cheerfulness, that scar'd the shapes of ruth,
And pastimes ever fresh, and thoughts of constant youth.

Quiet and calm as hermit's was his life;
Yet, as a warrior's, full of incident;
Pure as a poet's, and as free from strife;
Yet following out the world's most strict intent:
His soul was as a wind-stirr'd instrument;
And, 'mid the billows, came a ship of light,
With freshest breezes, by young morning sent;
And all the forest depths were glad and bright,
When the maid Marion rose from out the gloom of night.

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And she went with him o'er the hill-tops far,
And by the dells to hunt the stately deer;
And, e'er the sun had dimm'd the morning star,
Like Dian she put on the hunting spear,
And join'd the chorus with voice silver clear;
And, with her lover, at sweet even-time,
Lay on the grass, and to his voice gave ear,
And watch'd the clouds amid their golden clime,
And heard the ocean chant his monodies sublime.

Brave Robin Hood is gone—his silver horn
Shall sound no more; no more on Sherwood green
His merry men shall trip at early morn;
No more, on cottage hearths, his form be seen,
Where yet he lives, and long shall live, I ween.
The deer hath left our isle—the mighty trees
Are shrunk away from each gigantic scene;
And shapes so strange now haunt the troubled breeze,
That scarce the wondering eye can know of what it sees.

The gun's loud echo frights the startled hare,
And, when gray winter's foot is on the ground,
The hunter's clarion beats the startled air,
And sounding woods rejoice the deep-voic'd hound.
Aye, time hath roar'd since then a mighty sound;
Great cities mock the heaven's with tower and spire,
And giant engines meet the waves rebound;
And victory hath crown'd our hills with fire,
Till we have risen so high, we can no more aspire.

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Knowledge hath wav'd her wings, and lit her torch;
The mighty abbey towers are rent in twain;
Slow-footed Freedom hath begun her march,
And they who long were slaves are men again;
Great worlds have risen from out the hungry main;
Small empires now are great, that erst were none;
And some are small, that o'er the world did reign:
And still doth England bear earth's loudest tone,
In spite of traitors' guile, and all that slaves have done.

Yea, spite of all that treason's hounds can do—
The hate of lofty heads—the burning hate,
Bred in the anarch's soul; and, spite the woe
Of fire and bloodshed at each castle gate—
Of sword and cannon in the city street,
They cannot tear the trident from the wave,
Nor stain the roses on the brow of state:
England shall mock the loudest storms that rave,
And plant her stedfast feet even on the rebel's grave.

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MURDER OF PRINCE ARTHUR.—ARTHUR OF BRITTANY, BORN A.D. 1187.

------ “throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'r this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me.”
—Shakspeare's King John.

“Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.”
—King John.

One word for him, who lies without a tomb!
No hymn records his virtues, and no tale
Relates the sorrows of his prison gloom.
Vainly his moanings reach'd the evening gale:
The swift Seine listen'd to his lonely wail.
Yet doth he live with Shakspeare, a proud name.
Young, pure, a prince in soul, we needs must hail
His entry 'mong the stars of mortal fame:
'Tis such as he who cause by far the brightest flame.

Thick frown'd the midnight clouds; the winds were wild,
And roar'd along the turrets: not a star
Scatter'd its hidden glory; the Seine boil'd
Wrathfully, as it sought the deep afar:
All Nature seem'd to wage relentless war.

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Yet there was wilder strife within the breast
Of young Prince Arthur: storms of dread and fear,
And horrid nightmares, mov'd amid his rest,
And poison-pangs of death, most grievously opprest.

Unhappy Prince!—this is no place for thee!
For purple-crowned bed, the frozen clay!
Instead of courtly halls, and wanderings free,
This narrow circle, shut from life and day,
Where nought but things obscene and foul do stay:
Cold, darkness, damp,—with nought for company
But the rude winds and hollow waters' play:
With constant fears of death, that round thee lie—
Murders red hungry shapes, that o'er thy visions fly!

To watch, with aching soul, the fading light
Along thy prison walls: to see the gloom
Fall gradual o'er the solemn fronted night:
To feel the horrors of a living tomb.
Whilst the sad Seine laments thy cruel doom
With woeful plaint, and ever sounding moan;
And, dropping always from thy dungeon'd room,
The chill dews patter on the sounding stone,
And the huge creaking doors upon their hinges groan.

False names gave the old bards to sleep! The twin—
The sister—brother—cousin of grim death!
Death, that has neither love nor life within,
Nor ought divine to mingle with its breath.

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Sleep hath high dreams and visions: underneath
Its pillow rainbow-glories oft-time lie:
Spirits celestial do its temples wreathe.
Death hath but gloom and darkness: o'er his sky
Nought radiant ever floats—no splendour passeth by.

“O spare me, spare me; it is hard to die
“In freshest youth, the earth so bright and fair!
“All things divine and new!—My uncle, why,
“Why, would you slay me?”—“Wouldst thou madly dare”
Thus spake the king—“this crown from off me tear;
“Rather, thou carrion, would I drive to hell
“Thy soul and mine, than thou shouldst ever bear
“The sceptre.”—As he spoke the dagger fell—
A moment, and the sprite was where pure angels dwell.

His body welters in the Seine's wild wave;
And none knew more!—No white rob'd children sung
His dirge, or planted flowers upon his grave;
But many a heart through England's fields was wrung;
And Europe curs'd its king with loudest tongue;
And God, the avenger, whose eye seeth all,
Fashion'd the fire that at his heart-strings sprung.
Remorse and pitiless death at length did fall
Upon him, and he sunk amid a nation's howl!

Poor murder'd Prince!—The dripping summer rain
He hears not, nor the ever-lowing wind;
The forests pour their many sounds in vain.

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He views not the blue summer-heavens reclin'd
Soft as a dreaming bride—to all things blind!
Yet, as he died, he heard a heavenly hymn,
And the white clouds cast off the fringe that lin'd
Their hidden depths, and shew'd the seraphim;
And blessed saintly shapes did waft him to their clime!

And were there none wept o'er him?—There was one!
She saw him not awakening at the morn;
She heard not his known footsteps;—they were gone!
The silver voice was mute; the tresses shorn;
The violet eyes glaz'd o'er; and sad and lorn,
What could the desolate mother do but weep?
That lovely child, from her sweet bosom torn,
Shall speak his prayers no more; shall never leap
Again to her glad arms, who in the dust doth sleep!

Vainly the sun may shine on tree and flower,
And wake the songs of the melodious spring;
Vainly shall leaves and blossoms clothe the bower,
Wherein she mourneth, morn and evening,
Where once her bright boy came on angel's wing.
Her eyes are red with tears—her face is pale—
Her locks dishevell'd, and she cannot sing,
Whose voice was pleasant as a summer gale:
O, never, never more, shall cease poor Constance's wail!

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GREAT CHARTER OF RUNNYMEDE. JUNE 15. A.D. 1215.

“White brands have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty. Boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown.”
—Shakspeare.

“Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree;
It has been and shall be the land of the free.”
Campbell's Song of the Greeks.

When o'er the solemn page of history
I turn mine eyes, still, England, have I found
That they who most resisted tyranny—
Held kings and people in their stated bound—
Upheld the laws, and spread all good around:
That they who most regarded sick and poor—
That they who first, at war's alarum sound,
Fought for our fields and altars, in worst hour,
England, were lords of thine—thy citadel and tower!

'Twas they who spurn'd full oft the invader's foot—
Whose noblest children's blood upheld the fight;
'Twas they who took corruption by the root,
In earliest times, and battled for the right,
In wildest tribulation; their hearts light—
Their arms still strong—their valour ever fit:
Dane, Roman, Norman, felt their giant might;
Cressy and Agincourt have heard their feet,
Whose echoes shook but late Napoleon's lofty seat.

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Greater than all our greatest kings are they—
High-soul'd, and chivalrous—courageous, wise,
They are the hand that bears the monarch's sway—
The front on which the monarch's crown relies.
From them it was our thunder did arise;
'Twas they made England's fame to fill the earth;
Through them the law on each so equal lies—
Through them the spirit of the land burst forth,
When England still was young; 'twas they that gave it birth.

Whence, then, the howling of this ruffian rout,
Who seek to drag these lofty natures down?
Why rends the sky this wild and murderous shout
Of scoundrel knaves, who, hating king and crown,
High state, heroic deeds, and old renown;
Fields, castles, grandeur—seek to drag them low?
If, from that niche, the grand old shape would frown,
That sculptur'd knight would nod his stately brow,
The slaves would sink to earth, who nought but slavery know.

Are they not ever treacherous and base—
Despots at heart, bad, envious, fill'd with hate;
Is not the serpents' venom in their race—
The toad's malignity?—These forms of state—
These coronets, and halls, and pomps, that wait
On rank; these castles, forests, garden-flowers,
They, envious, loathe; dastards, whose souls ne'er beat;
Nor will, though they should walk 'mid Rome's old towers,
Or Athen's sculptur'd forms, and academic bowers!

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Ye Lords of England, when, amid the gloom
Of time I look, and view what ye have done—
When, as the heavens, at evening, illume
Your halls and castles, as, of memories gone,
My heart beats high—my spirit is undone—
Awe and deep reverence do chain my soul:
Such thoughts were yours—such lofty deeds ye won,
A thousand dreams amid my musings roll,
Of glory, valour, strength, and acts majestical.

The blaze of chivalry surrounds my brain—
The tournament, and knights in glittering mail;
I see the myriad hosts that, on the plain
Of Palestine, sent out their darts like hail.
Each glorious battle sounds upon the gale:
I hear the clarion, and the helmets jar—
Each spot where'er my wandering footsteps fall,
Tells of your prowess—speaks of love or war;
And to my heart of hearts, your glory shines afar.

A summer noon—the earth is calm and still—
Among the sacred fields of Runnymede
The lazy cattle browse: in each bright rill
The silver trout sail slow: the happy breed
Of birds seem all asleep: scarce the light reed
Doth shake; and the blue heavens are deep and clear:
A holy time, when nuns may count the bead
In amorous faith, and drop the adoring tear—
When poets dreams flow fast by wood and glassy mere.

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Under the shadow of the sovereign oak
The crowned monarch sits upon his throne;
And they whom he had bow'd to servile yoke
Stand round, a mighty band, nor fear his frown:
They bear the crests that drove the Pagan down
In Palestine—the sword and helm of war:
Yet will they touch no gem upon his crown:
To win their rights, it is, they come from far;
In rearing which, they won full many an honor'd scar.

The hot sun glows, in noontide splendour bright,
On banner, helmet, spear, and coat of mail,
As if to sanctify their sacred right,
From harms of earth or hell that may assail.
There float the various banners on the gale,
Of Mowbray, Salisbury, Langton, Audibie;
The sunbeams on their swords and helmets fall:
Their swords unsheath'd—their bearing proud and high—
Such champions seldom crowd thy shrine, O, Liberty!

Slowly, the Primate walks before them all,
And reverently the tyrant king doth greet;
And now the parchment sheet he doth unrol,
And meekly lays it at his monarch's feet.
Not the black cloud that bears the lightning-sheet
More horrid shows than does the monarch's brow;
And that fell hand that shed the heart's blood sweet
Of the young Arthur, with calm steady blow,
Even like a madman drunk, doth shake, and tremble now!

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“'Tis ours!—'tis ours!”—they shout with general cry,
“'Tis ours!—'tis ours!—and truth and freedom won
“From out the tiger-jaws of tyranny!
“The glorious consummation now is done!”
Nor could the despot this proud action shun,
Though hir'd assassins prowl'd o'er all the land,
And strove to nullify the edict gone.
They could not. Slaves can ne'er unlock the hand
Of truth and justice bound, nor shake their proud command.

Long may they stand in pomp majestical,
Our English Lords! Long may they bravely stand!
May not a stone of castle, tower, or hall,
Be touch'd, of those who elevate the land—
Who hold the ruder natures in command—
Who bear the fallen fortunes of the state,
In evil times, with more than giant hand!
Their blood, their lands, their treasures ever wait—
Their arms are ready still, to save the land, tho' late.

Yea, nought shall tear our liberty away.
Strong as the cliffs, eternal as the sea;
Constant, as is the light that beckons day,
England shall live unconquerable and free.
In vain shall the rude hand of tyranny
Strive on our shores—in vain oppression strive:
Immortal names still glow on freedom's sky:
Heroes and patriots in our history live—
Their arms, their deeds are ours—their fame is still alive!

203

EDWARD PLANTAGENET. A.D. 1274.

“O, gorgeous, beyond all that mortal gaze
Hath ever seen! Giants in strength of bone;
Gods in the solemn grandeur of each face;
Gods in the greatness that around them shone!
Each aspect bore the glories that are gone—
The splendour of old pictur'd halls, the might
By conquest, from old seas and mountains won—
The solemn reverence—the homag'd right
From slaves, who still were men, nor knelt without delight.”
The Legendary Kings.

A fair shoot oft will spring from rotten tree,
And sweetest flowers grow from corruption's grave.
And so sprang Edward. Would the mountains free
And wilds of Wales, had never stain'd his glaive;
Nor torn the freedom from Llewellyn brave;
Nor crown'd his forehead with the willow bough;
Nor slain each patriot in his rocky cave;
Nor pluck'd the hero's laurels from his brow,
Where, eagle-like, he pass'd his mountains to and fro!

Then had the tarnish lain not on his crest:
Yet for that he the dastard Scots drove back,
And crush'd them to the mire, where yet they rest;
And o'er each fœtid carcase made a track

204

For his red chariot wheels, and was not slack
To drive his horses' hoofs through heart and brain;
And burnt their homes, till all the land was black;
And hunted forth their young, o'er hill and plain;
And hanged their rebel chiefs, to rot in wind and rain—

I do forgive him all. Their damned guile,
Cant, craft, and lies, he stopp'd with the red sword;
And smooth'd the prickles on their thistled isle.
Rank slaves!—did they not Wallace sell, their lord,
And she, their hapless queen, whom all adored?
And their own king, slain by the hangman's knife?
Long since the hate and curse of God was stirr'd;
And now, like Jews, they lead a vagrant life,
And blacken all the earth with lust, and greed, and strife.

They shout of Bannockburn!—they shout aloud!
Who was their foe?—Our poorest, feeblest king;
An army worn and faint, by famine bow'd.
They shout of Preston!—(well they know each thing
Of scanty conquest, and its honours sing.)
But I a hundred blood-red fields could shew—
I could a hundred glorious victories sing.
No more. The curse burns on their craven brow,
And I have nought but curses, and I curse them now.

205

Yea, from my heart of hearts, and on the day
I lie in death, my last curse be for them.
Wildly they wrong'd me, and my sullen clay
Shall lend a light to shew the world their shame—
A might to tear away their latest gem—
Whose hearts are barren as their shatter'd shore—
Bleak as their deserts—narrow as their fame.
O, that the stripe might lash them as of yore,
That English swords might chace them forth for evermore!

Rear ye a tomb for him; and plant his feet
Upon the Lion's mane;—and rest his shield
On his broad breast, who never knew defeat;
And give his hand the sword he wont to wield,
And rear the banners of the crimson'd field.
Then, on the day of each succeeding year,
Bring forth your youth, and after they have seal'd
In dust their reverence, teach their souls to hear
Of wisdom, courage, truth, all that high minds hold dear.

Not the heroic race that fell at Troy,
Than the Plantagenet's did rank more high:
Heroic, brave, just, generous—no alloy
Mingled with their pure gold. The eagle's eye,
Strong limbs, great stature, truth, and chivalry,
Were theirs—the pillars of an evil time.
They smooth'd the waves of stormy bigotry,

206

And, liv'd as shining lights, when all was dim—
In all their feelings just—in all their deeds sublime.

They bearded the rude Lion in his den
Of tyranny, and dragg'd his castles down.
They rear'd the oriflamme o'er Scotland, when
Her scorpions dar'd to creep on England's crown.
They crush'd the vipers that beset the throne:
And, for the rest—go, dream on Agincourt—
Cressy, Poictiers, and Calais' leagur'd town.
They wore the Celtic mountains as their dower,
And o'er rude Ireland's cliffs, did make their standards tower.

Their fame is as a vision of romance—
The work of some enchanter's magic spell;
Through the dim glooms of time their helmets glance;
Their mailed might on memory's temples dwell:—
For them oblivion cannot sound the knell!
Imagination can do nought to bear
Their glory higher—more their stature swell:
In history's enduring tablets—there—
The records of their fame is proudest and most rare!

When, England, were thy shores so glad and bright—
When did thy conquering banners stream so far?
When all the earth was brave and full of might,
Shone o'er them all, thy beacons of red war,
In all the heavens thine was the brightest star.

207

Then, England, for each word thou hadst a blow;
Thy voice was as a trumpet, heard afar;
The greenest laurels flourish'd on thy brow—
O that one leaf would drop upon our councils now!

209

KING EDWARD IN PALESTINE.

“Oh, the lofty love of womanhood,
So perilous yet strong!
With the flush of Death upon her cheek,
But no word upon her tongue.”
—Danby's Poems.

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:
Beauty, too rich for use, for earth, too dear!
So shows a snowy dove, trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shews.”—Romeo and Juliet.

Why leaps Queen Eleanora's heart so high,
As thus in Edward's arms she lies at rest?
Why flushes her pale face, dilates her eye;
Why clings she closer to her husband's breast?
O, she is sad, and grievously opprest,
And Death, in visions, sends his shades before!
She sees her lord beneath the assassin prest—
She sees him weltering, helpless, in his gore:
He will not, cannot speak—lost, lost, for evermore!

A thousand years seem to have bound her brain,
Such agonies have burst in that brief hour.
She thought of that fair time, that ne'er again
Shall come, when Edward woo'd her, in her bower—
When love and life were beautiful and pure:
She thought of all that years had stolen away,
Of her brave Prince, since love was in its flower.
These mov'd before her, like a passing ray,
As in that wond'rous dream she saw his body lay!

210

And more: but hark! the raven flaps the pane!
See, a red light across the heavens darts clear!
She wakes!—O bliss!—she views her lord again!
Soft, at her side, he sleeps devoid of fear.
She views his noble face—his forehead fair,
O'er which the jet black locks profusely flow;
And she deeply feels how very dear
Is he, her monarch, lord, and lover now,
Whom she but late saw bleed beneath the assassin's blow.

“Edward,” she spake, and his dark eyes flash'd clear—
“Edward, I saw thee, 'neath the traitor's arm.
“Thou wert alone, unarm'd; and, lo! like night,
“When, to the bowers of Eve, her billows swarm,
“Stealthily slow, the murderer work'd thy harm!
“I saw him draw the dagger from his breast—
“I saw it gleam—I saw the blood-drops warm—
“I saw his knees upon thy bosom prest—
“I saw his eyeballs glare—my waking hid the rest!”

“O, heed it not, sweet spouse,” the monarch said;
“Visions are baseless as the hollow air;”
Then did he wipe away the tears that sped
Along her cheeks, and calm'd her fallen hair.
“Thy dream, sweet spouse, springs forth from secret care:
“It hath no substance, for thou see'st me here;
“Nor ever will I leave thy bosom fair;
“But guard thee, aye, in peril and in fear;
“Yea, love and guard thee still, though hosts should interfere.

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“Calm all thy fears; look up; behold the sky;
“How softly does the mild moon glide along;
“While, pillow'd round, the silver'd cloud-groves lie;
“And the clear stars seem newly wak'd to song:
“Hush'd are the heavens—the earth to sleep is won;
“There is no murmur; even the waves are still,
“And slumber sweetly the white sands among.
“Peace, like a giant, seems to have his will,
“Then, let us rest, dear love, and of blest sleep take fill.”

The scene is chang'd!—lo, in a lofty hall,
With all the splendours of the East hung round,
(Rich silks and purples, tapestries, and all
That with bright skies and constant suns abound)
King Edward rests upon the cushion'd ground—
Robed lightly; donn'd his casque, and sword, and spear,
Hauberk and glaive!—beside him, in death-swound,
Lies one all arm'd; his life-blood flowing clear—
From that deep gurgling wound, the king transfixed there!

Again; and who is she, that swan-like form—
That shape imperial?—Lo, she kneeleth down;
Her lips press'd close unto that cruel harm—
That poison'd wound—her king. Oh, happy crown,
That decks that lofty head! Oh, glorious throne,
That bears such virtue, truth, and loveliness!
Oh, blessed land, that such a queen doth own!
Oh, happy husband, how supreme thy bliss!
O crown, throne, kingdom, lord, how vast your happiness!

212

She doth not fear the poison's agony—
The horrid pains and shoots, and writhing dread;
The fires that burn like hell, and will not die;
She fears them not, who unto love is wed!
Her husband's bosom is her marriage-bed;
And, were he lost, who is her life, her all—
Were he engulphed with the pulseless dead—
With him her life, her joys, her hopes must fall;
And all the world to her, be but a funeral pall!

O, woman! what will thy fond heart not do;
What will thy soul not dare, when love is near?
Death cannot chain thy stedfast footsteps' flow;
The grave can never clothe thy face with fear!
Where war can never tread, and where the deer
Can never bound, thou, Love, wilt force thy way;
Yea, where the tempests scarce can climb their sphere;
And where, in deserts, nought but horrors stay;
Love still will breathe in smiles, and shed its heavenly ray!

It came from heaven, and dwelt in Paradise,
With songs and gladness, among bowers divine;
The softest airs came with it from the skies—
The sweetest scents—the brightest hues that shine:
It came, and fairest flowers did intertwine.
It came, and most celestial hymns arose;
It came, and from it sprung a glorious line
Of household virtues, that dispell'd our woes:
Peace, tenderness, delight—affections' sweet repose.

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Let the fierce storm-winds of black passion blow—
Let the wild waves of vice uprear their head—
Let the red streams of human madness flow,
Still Love is there to calm their utmost dread:
Love hath a power to beautify the dead,
And plant around the tomb sweet scents and hues:
Time cannot bind it, that, with worlds, is wed;
That o'er eternity doth pour its dews—
That with our life and death its being doth suffuse!

I look upon the calm and azure sky—
I look upon the gentle summer sea—
I look upon the meadows blooming nigh—
I look upon the stars that glitter free.
Love paints the heavens, and holds the waves in fee—
Spreads the green pastures where the fairies roam,
And binds the spheres in constant harmony:
Its head in heaven—its feet make earth their home—
Its life is woman's heart, and Mammon is its tomb!

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THE MAID OF ORLEANS. (BURNT AS A SORCERESS. A.D. 1431.)

“Alas, poor country,
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be called a mother, but a grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstacy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps—
Dying, or ere they sicken.”
—Macbeth.

Lo, in the proud cathedral—the dim light—
All rainbow colour'd—streaming softly down
From painted window, o'er each form of might,
And marble altar, aisle and white tombstone,
A lofty spirit wandereth alone:
Her eyes flash bright with passion; 'mid the hair
That shrouds her brow a lambent glory shone;
And, though a woman, and exceeding fair,
She wears a hero's look, and an inspired air!

No marvel!—'tis Orlean's mission'd maid!
Heaven came to her in sleep; yea, spirits came,
Making her dreams with glory all array'd;
Yea, spirit-voices spake aloud her name,
And beckon'd her unto the halls of Fame.
For she was fallen on evil times for France,
When might was more than guile; ere France became
The serpent's tongue, and crouch'd at England's glance;
And Joan of Arc had come for helmet, sword, and lance.

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Hark, there is war at Orleans!—At the wall
Ten thousand warriors bear the battle-spear,
And shout aloud to Death's re-echoing call!
But who is she, who smooths the front of fear—
That lofty maid?—Her eye is bright and clear—
Her dark eye flashes, and her long robes lie
Upon the admiring winds!—Her voice they hear;
And Orlean's heart responds to Liberty—
And Freedom, with her flag, is floating on the sky!

And, now, Rheims opens wide her iron gate,
For the gay cavalcade that rolls along;
A myriad faces flash—their hearts elate;
A myriad thunders stir the madden'd throng.
Young white-rob'd maidens chaunt the choral song,
To Charles, their crown'd and consecrated king;—
But, O, that maid, how beautiful!—among
Her hair the window hues—whilst she doth sing—
Melodious as a seraph—that most blessed thing,

Swells far the numerous choir and harmony!
The organ, from its thousand throats, roars loud,
Sounding as God had ton'd its raptures high.
The minster-walls are deck'd in silken shroud,
Whilst holy tapers throw a lustre proud,
That clothes in sheen celestial the dim gloom:
The prayer is said—Christ on the altar bow'd;

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And angels stood around each marble tomb;
And the white Lamb of God the shadows did illume.

And there God's minister, (a holy sight!)
In shining vestments at the altar stood!
(The altars, with rich gold and silver bright;
Above it, shining clear, the silver rood,
And the small jasper cup of Christ's own blood)
And now the sceptred rod is in his hand;
Upon his head the crown and silken hood;
Loud hymns now swell from all the white-rob'd band,
Follow'd by holy prayers for people, king, and land.

“Yea,” saith the priest, “blessings be with thy land;
“Heaven's precious dews—the springs that swell the deep;
“Fruits of the sun—fruits of the moon—the wand
“Of strength—the treasures that in mountains sleep!
“The blessings of old prophets—patriarchs keep
“Sweet watch around, and his who, long ago,
“Who, on the bloody cross, his joys did weep;
“And may the God of heaven protect thee so,
“That France shall rise again, and conquer every foe!”

And may he watch thy goings out and in;
Exalt thee; make thee pure, and good, and strong;
Purge thee from gross desires of earthly sin;
Rude tyrannies, that in high temples throng—
Dwelling with kings, their palaces among;—

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God of the heavenly hosts! the God Most High!
O'er time, and change, and worlds that roll along,
And all that dwell beyond the circling sky,
Protect thee, guard thee well, and all thy councils try!

France, like a sleeping giant from the spell
That bound his soul, awoke, and shook her hair;
A spiritual did ever with them dwell;
Heaven blest them, and they felt no lingering fear.
The mission'd Maid of Orleans aye was near,
And everywhere her country's foes were slain;
The inspired look even Talbot could not bear—
The heavenly arms—the white steed she doth rein,
A goddess, sent from heaven to mortal wars again!

Heaven's blessings shield thee, thou immortal maid!
The ruffians seize her—the wild fires surround—
Yet is the heroic virgin not dismay'd—
Yet her sweet voice sends forth no plaining sound,
Well knowing she will soar beyond their bound;
That she will rise from out the hungry flame,
And join the shapes God's sov'ran throne around,
And sing the jubilee, and praise his name,
Where nought can spot her robes, of earth, or earthly shame.

Blest maid, thy spirit was indeed divine!
A spark of heaven was mingled with thy clay—

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Such thoughts heroic—such high deeds were thine—
Such glorious sunlight of the ancient day,
Of the world's youth, around thy spirit lay—
When Freedom, like a monarch, was array'd,
And held the oppressor and his slaves at bay,
And trod the cliffs and forests undismay'd,
Whilst earth and all her towers beneath his feet were laid!

Great must have been thy childhood—greater still
Thine earlier youth—and, O, how great, indeed,
When heavenly visitants obey'd thy will,
And wav'd their wings of light when thou hadst need,
Even as of old, they sought earth's earlier breed!
The parted lips, the wide dilated eye,
The bosom trembling with immortal seed,
The dreaming hands stretch'd toward the open sky—
These told thy passion's faith—thy far rais'd ecstacy.

The patriot is of God—God nerves his hand—
Greater than martyr, or than crowned bard;
From out the mire he bears a trampled land;
And where his voice, amid the gloom, is heard,
The slave starts up, and all men hear his word.
Thus, Curtius, Vasa, Kosciusko, Tell,
Have justly won from time their rich reward,
A niche in Fame's proud temple, where to dwell—
And Freedom's columns stand, where Freedom's patriots fell!

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I look upon the eternity of sea;
I look upon the clouds that veil the sky;
I look upon the birds—they all are free—
Free are the winds that rush about on high;
All earth and heaven do speak of Liberty.
She sung in Paradise her first sweet song;
And Asia heard her footsteps wander by.
Greece, Rome, and Carthage, felt her move along,
But most she loves to brood fair England's bowers among.

Alas, that men do live, who know her not;
Who hiss their hissings at the monarch's throne!
The wild-flowers, bright'ning every quiet spot—
The forests and the wildernesses lone—
The solemn pomps and pageants time hath won,
The deeds heroic, and the works divine
Of kings, knights, patriots, warriors, martyrs gone,
Cannot arouse them—nought that's hallow'd in
Historic page, can purge their spirit of its sin.

Accursed France hath fed a locust breed,
Who mock their God, and shame the place of prayer;
From England's cities springs a hellish seed,
That, as their smoke, pollute the angry air;
And Sheffield shrouds an Elliott in his lair.
They sneer at what hath been; would quench the sun,
And blot the stars out, where they mingle fair;
Stop the melodious circles of the moon,
And shake, forsooth, the cliffs on their foundation stone.

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But though a hue shall leave the rainbow's arch,
That bends above old England; though some light
May leave her forehead; though her lands do parch
'Neath Treason's foot; her eyes be shut in night;
The sun of freedom shall again grow bright!
Rebellion may assail, the atheist yell,
The ancestral glories wither from our sight—
Yet shall the right still o'er the wrong prevail,
Each traitor-slave be driven unto his native hell.

Did the old mighty spirits strive in vain?
Did the old heroes fight their wars for nought?
For nought the old bards rear the lofty strain?
For nought old statesmen brave the realms of thought—
That all they did at length shall sink and rot?
That this rank rabble shall profane the hall
Which such as Alfred, Edward, Shakspeare sought?
Down on thy knees, O England—let thy call
Rouse up the shiv'ring dead, to break their charnel thrall!

I love the people, but I loathe the mob—
The scoundrel-rabble. What are they, at best,
But as the shaken mud where toads have trod?
Hate, lies, revenge, and envy fill their breast;
There rage foul jealousies that will not rest:
False, treacherous, thankless, none may trust their tale;
They are most dangerous when the least opprest—

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And for the rest, all History will tell,
And philosophic minds who knew their hearts full well.

223

MASSACRE OF THE JEWS AT YORK.

“The most arch-deed of piteous massacre
That ever yet this land was guilty of.”
—Shakspeare.

“After the miserable slaughter of the Jews, at the destruction of Jerusalem, they were scattered unto all corners, oppressed and detested, and sometimes massacred and extirpated.”—Atterbury.

“Hath not a Jew eyes, hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions: fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, heated and cooled by the same winter and summer that a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you poison us, do we not die?”—Merchant of Venice.

September's moon, from out her fields of blue,
Dwells on the stately halls of Constantine;
Majestic York, whose towers she loves to view—
York's battlements like heavenly temples shine;
Ouse murmurs low his melodies divine;
Hush'd, and asleep, the mighty city lies,
Where dwelt the lords of all the world!—the din
At rest:—most placid look the moonlit skies—
The restless pulses still, of human groans and sighs.

But, hark! there is a stir of moving feet,
And lights glance swiftly through each window pane;
Noises and murmurs fill the troubled street,
As if some earthquake had begun its reign:
Red fiery shapes wage battle on the plain
Of heaven; yea, horrid portents fill the sky!
Ouse groaneth from his caverns, as in pain;

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And obscene birds of night go flitting by:
Surely some fearful war—some frightful deed is nigh!

Lo, now a madden'd crowd roll wildly on;
Their bright swords flash—their fiery torches glare,
And glow o'er the grim groups, that rush along—
On marble pillars, domes and temples fair!
The silver moon, in heaven, shines calm and clear
O'er these rude sights, untroubl'd and serene:
Murder and death may shriek and tremble there;
She heeds them not—her path for aye hath been
O'er earth and earthly woes—of night and heaven the queen.

Hark!—hark!—that horrid yell—that dreadful scream!
See, naked shapes, like madmen, hurry by!
(O, is it real, or a waking dream—
A fearful vision, or reality?)
Like hungry hounds, fierce murderers I descry,
With blood-red swords, that pierce each bared breast,
And with hoar voice—“The Jews!—the Jews!”—they cry;
“Down with the accursed Jews, and never rest,
“That slew the Son of God, who died to make them blest!”

O, horrible!—when pathway, alley, street,
With notes of blood and carnage did resound;
While slaughter stain'd with gore the flying feet
Of the poor shrieking wretches!—Some they bound
And dragg'd along the stones—some round and round
In courts and chambers chas'd—whilst the red blood

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Roll'd to old Ouse in torrents: such dread sound
Was never heard. The shrieks of womanhood—
Babes, fathers, maidens—all, whom hate and lust subdued!

Yea, some were murder'd, praying on their knee—
White-headed men, and infants laid asleep
Within their mother's arms. No age was free,
Nor helpless sex. Then some they made to leap
From dizzy battlements, or 'mid the deep
Swift river, swoll'n with human blood, and red:
And some in fearful tortures long they keep,
And hew their mangled corpses, e'en when dead:
Surely with fiends of hell, these human souls are wed!

And hundreds who, upon the castle wall,
Fought bravely, and repulsed their murderers long,
When savage strength at last had vanquish'd all,
And the blood-thirsty crowds came rushing on,
Their wives and children hurl'd the spears among,
Then set the mighty citadel on fire,
And nobly perish'd—in their faith still strong;
And, as the meteor billows billow'd nigher,
Still sung exultant hymns to their Almighty Sire!

Undaunted, even in death!—For still they saw
The groves and temples of Jerusalem.
Brighter than the red fires, old memories draw
The splendours of past Judah's diadem.
Abraham, and Moses, and their kings, to them

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Appear'd, and Israel, Egypt, Canaan came—
Priests, prophets, martyrs, every noble theme!
Bright shone the glories of their ancient name—
Unquench'd, unconquer'd, strong, amid the scorching flame.

And thou, thyself, proud Northern capitol!
How chang'd! of mighty Emperors, the seat!
Where the antique religion held chief stole—
Where mailed knights rode on thy royal street;
The very stones are gone that bore their feet!
Thou that didst boast a kingly hall and throne—
Thou that wert next to Rome, how fall'n thy state;
Though yet thy proud cathedral wears the crown
Of faded pomp, and still thy ancient pride doth own!

Nor, Ebor, dost thou, mournful, sit alone:
Fallen, too, is Venice, Empress of the sea;
And the high towers of glorious Babylon;
And Athens, city of the brave and free!
Fallen, mighty Rome, that held the earth in fee!
Of stately Carthage, there is not a stone!
Egypt's vast cities scarcely seem to be!
Then, mourn not, though thy majesty is gone,
Thou that in England's crown, so gloriously hast shone!

227

GERARD'S MARTYRDOM.

“Prayers and tears may serve a good man's turn; if not to conquer as a soldier, yet to suffer as a martyr.”—King Charles.

“The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend, your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
—Pope.

Hark! the loud trumpet from its brazen throat
Echoes, and the deep sounding drum!—The air
Is shook—the church towers ring with joyful note:
Surely, some royal jubilee is there,
Such num'rous hosts in bands are gathering near,
Each face so happy, every eye so bright:
Hunters chase not the wolf and shaggy bear
With greater glee, than rush they to the sight
Of these wild fires, that soon shall fill the heavens with light!

The evening sun illumes the window pane,
And every window glows with happy life;
The house-tops are alive, and groan with pain—
The trees with joyful human souls are rife:
Tower, spire, and battlement, ring with the strife
Of clanging noises, that might wake the dead.
A monarch rescued from th' assassin's knife—
A mighty tyrant by his conqueror led—
Could scarce give half the joy, with which the land is spread!

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But, lo! another sight salutes the eye!
Gerard—first star of English martyrdom!
Heavy he walks, and utters frequent sigh,
As if his dreams were of his native home.
It is not terror of his coming doom;
He feels not the rude chains that bind his feet:
His soul is on far waters, and the gloom
Of grief is with his wife and children sweet,
And the rejoicing Rhine, where boyhood sail'd its fleet.

What careth Gerard for the groan and shout,
The jeering laughter, and the riot loud?
What careth Gerard?—His high soul is out
O'er other lands, and cannot be subdued!
Life's fever soon will o'er.—His heart beats proud,
That heaven hath chosen one so poor as he!
And well he knows that, from the funeral shroud,
His spirit will break forth, all bright and free,
To join the glorious hosts that throng eternity!

The fires all scorch his limbs, and burn his hair,
And make his eyeballs red: yet is he strong,
Calm, and serene—without an earthly fear!
For well the martyr Gerard knows ere long
The fires shall fade; and saints and kings among—
Seraphs and blessed martyrs—he shall dwell;
That his shriv'd soul shall join th' angelic throng,
To hear the lofty harmonies that swell
All o'er the vaulted heavens, and through the caves of hell!

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“I see!—I see!—my Saviour at my side—
“My blessed Lord hath risen from the dead:
“A thousand angels all around me glide,
“With crowns and garlands each around his head!”
Even whilst he spake, the fiery billows spread;
His sainted soul hath left its earthly clay;
The fires of martyrdom his funeral bed:
Oh, not Elijah, borne to heaven away,
Was holier than this martyr's blessed clay!

And, like fierce demons, stood the rabble round—
The blood-stain'd fires lighting each savage face:
They shout, with fiendish glee, the horrid sound
Of triumph. On that desecrated place
The grass and flowers have never left their trace.
Thus, Gerard, first of English martyrs died;
And time and rude decay do now deface,
In retribution, arch and cloisters wide—
Tombs, altars, carvings—all, of Rome, and Popish pride!

The long grass moans, where Nuns and Monks have pray'd;
The ivy lingers on each abbey wall—
The lofty pillars in the mire are laid,
That echo'd once to pious footsteps' fall—
The winter tempest through those arches call,
Once quaintly carv'd in lines of finest art:
Grey time hath fixed his throne: his banners roll
Aloft on tower and pinnacle, in sport;
And desolation's grasp is fix'd on every part!

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Great God! how have thy laws been trampled down!
How have men scorn'd, despis'd, thine only Son!
He, meekly, purely liv'd, and all did own
His truth and virtues! They have trampled on
His precepts, and his deeds of love undone.
Yea, Mammon came, where meekness did abide,
And stately abbeys mock'd the morning sun;
And Christ, who, on the cross, for sinners died,
Had servants hunting gold, who liv'd in pomp and pride!

Who made the God of heaven a savage king,
Tyrannic—one, who loves the scent of blood;
Servants, who worshipp'd Cain, nor fear'd to ring
Once more the heart of Abel, meek and good!
How long shall fear, and black intolerance brood
Around religion's altars?—Say, how long
Shall truth, God-sanctified, in lustful mood
Of slaves and despots, bear this weight of wrong,
That, in its own pure beams, is so serene and strong?

They rear'd high palaces, and dwelt in state—
Sceptred and ermin'd, with meek slaves around:
They, tiger-like, in dens, for gold laid wait:
They spread their nets the whole great world around,
And kings and emperors were captives bound:
Jesus forgot—truth trampled—tyranny,
With fire and sword upheld; they did surround
The earth, with chains of wrong and cruelty,
And with fall'n angels leagued, once more heaven's wars to try!

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The slaves of lust and gold, they did uprear
Unhallow'd standards erst by devils borne!
They laid the seeds of ignorance and fear,
And horrid superstition then was born!
Fair truth they strangled in its brightest morn;
They turn'd God's blessed language into lies.
From out religion's breast the heart was torn;
And, in their drunken sloth and luxuries,
Forgot their murder'd Lord—his woes and agonies!

That, with the wealth of all the earth, they spread
Brute ignorance—that o'er our monarch's throne,
And Europe's thrones, proud Rome uprear'd its head—
That each of their huge abbeys, stone by stone,
Was wrench'd tyrannic, amid tear and groan—
That they held back fair Freedom on her way,
And bound in caves its brave defenders down—
Is nought. They Cranmer, Latimer, did slay;
And round their blood-fed fires, like fiends of hell did pray.

That they were cruel, false, imperious,
Tyrannic, murderous, presumptuous, proud;
That all wild passions flourish'd in God's house
Is nought: speak out, ye, who, as martyrs, bow'd
To die!—Speak loudly each from out your shroud—
Ye, who in horrid fires, were burnt to death,
And murder'd on your knees—O, speak aloud!
Or in the valleys slain, or on the heath
Hunted—still seeking God, even with your dying breath!

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Speak, Valais, where the groans of dying men
Join'd with the eagle's scream—where human gore
Fatten'd the moss and flowers of hill and glen!
Speak, blood-stain'd France; speak, let us hear thy roar!—
Myriads of murder'd ghosts do haunt thy shore,
Who all shall curse thee at the judgment day!
Speak, Spain, and let us view each dungeon-floor,
Where Torture's hell-hounds kept their fiendish play,
And priests, from blood and groans, went forth to sing and pray!

'Tis o'er!—'tis o'er!—those horrid things are gone—
And England gladdens in a purer light:
Sweetly at eve, o'er spire and minster, run
The western hues, and o'er their bowers bright;
And sweetly do the chiming bells delight:
There sleep our kindred in their solemn shade;
We heard, from babes, the organ roll in might—
Heard the same voice that o'er our dead hath pray'd,
To speak, perchance, the same, when we in dust are laid.

O, beautiful, do our cathedrals stand,
Time's solemn hues upon their sacred head!
They seem the pillars of a falling land,
The links that bind the living with the dead.
We look upon the past; what thoughts are spread
O'er the fair page; what lofty hearts been here!
Beneath our feet what glorious names are laid!
How fills the breast with deep religious fear,
As by the illustrious dead our footsteps wander near!

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Bred in the noblest schools of all the earth,
Our clergy are refined, high-soul'd, and pure;
Virtuous and learned, full of truth and worth,
Of all that makes the soul immortal sure:
With such a clergy, shall the church endure:
Endure, when stately mausoleums fall,
Pillar and marble, pyramid and tower—
The rock of ages its foundation wall,
Through martyrs' sacred blood, strong and majestical.

Back, then, ye cowards—who upon the grave
Of all your kings would tramp, and at the side
Of God's own shrines would slay the good and brave,
Though your dead kindred frown!—back, hungry tide,
Defilers of the altars, to divide
The gold and silver dedicate to God!
Fear, lest heaven's thunders slay you in your pride—
The mountains fall at high Jehovah's nod—
The graves give up the dead where sacrilege hath trod!

Woful the day, when Oxford tumbles low
Beneath the Atheist's foot: a horrid morn
Will follow when the church hath veil'd her brow:
When of her gorgeous apparel shorn—
The bay from off her stately forehead torn,
The school where Cranmer, Taylor, Barrow, fed,
The house of God, 'neath savage feet is borne—
From that sad day, shall never rear its head
Proud England, lost, accurs'd, to slaves and cowards wed!

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Woful that day, when the foul Atheist band
Shall tread our marble aisles, and on the height
Of God's own church, with foul and impious hand
Erect the sway of Antichrist and night,
Burn down our altars, and for murder fight;
Pour desecration on their fathers' tomb,
And, with red fingers, stain the sculptures white.
Farewell to piety—come, hellish gloom—
The time will not be far, of England's final doom!

O, visions, swell my soul, of what thy name
Has been, proud English Church, and still shalt be!
Where Oxford's solemn groves accept the flame
Of evening, where Cam still wanders free:
As on a rock of marble, in the sea,
I view thee, where the storms and tempests roar,
And on thy brow is writ, Eternity:—
In highest heaven thy snow-white banners soar,
Where, when the earth is lost, thou'lt live for evermore!

The fires of martyrdom have purg'd thee quite,
Through groans, and blood, and suffering purified;
There is no stain upon thy garments white,
And truth and wisdom flourish at thy side:
Oh, white-hair'd priests—that for religion died—
Priests and philosophers—the sons of God,
Defend us—be your tongues heard far and wide:
The Atheist's foot is on your sacred sod—
The Atheist walks, where none but holiest feet have trod!

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THE YOUNG PRINCES IN THE TOWER. (REIGN OF RICHARD III.—1483-1485)

“Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
And in their summer beauty kiss'd each other;
A book of prayers on their pillow lay [OMITTED]
------ them we smother'd
The most replenish'd sweet work of Nature
That from the prime creation ere she formed.”
Shakspeare's Rich. II.

------ “We still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still went coupled and inseparable.”
—As you Like it.

See, the sweet children lie in blessed sleep,
Their faces clad in smiles of pleasant dream,
As if they never yet had learnt to weep!
Their curling locks throw out a golden gleam—
Their pure, fair cheeks, ev'n as young cherubs' beam:
Soft lie their silken eyelids, softer still
The slumber underneath, and, well I deem,
That two young birds, aye fed from the same bill,
Than these two sleeping babes, ne'er lov'd with sweeter will.

Their dear eyes look'd the same, they spake the same,
With self-same curl their sunlit hair hung down;
Alike each pleasure and alike each game—
All of the one, the other made his own:

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Loves, fears, hates, joys—in nought were they alone.
The wood-walks knew their feet—the quiet brook
Mirror'd their forms, and mourn'd when they had gone:
The flowered fields all knew their happy look,
And their young hearts were taught from Nature's holy book.

No two young doves upon the self-same bough—
No two fresh blossoms, born on the same tree—
No two bright stars, together on heaven's brow—
No two glad sea-birds, resting on the sea,
Were e'er so like, or did so well agree:
All lov'd them, for they were so pure and bright—
So good and kind, in spirit all so free,
They seem'd young angels dropt upon our night,
All shrived and spotless made, to fill the earth with light!

O, say, can human passion venture here?
Can earthly stain dim flowers so heavenly bright?
See, how like carved marble, polish'd clear,
The lovely dreamers lie encas'd in light,
Shedding a radiance o'er the brow of night!
Can human hand unlock that soft embrace—
Empty those violet veins, and stop the might
Of the sweet life that runs along each face?
Aye, even on Eden's flowers red blood hath left the trace!

Oh, ye sleep well! the flower was just in bloom,
'Mid the fresh dew-drops, when the swift blight came;
The first sweet song was murmur'd, the perfume

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Of the young May just felt; the mellow gleam
Of the bright morn just shed its purple flame;
The shadow on the blue—the wreck-strewn wave—
The horrid fears that mingle in life's game—
Care-wrinkled hag, that broodeth by a grave,
They knew not; their eyes clos'd ere sorrow left her cave.

They were so pure, the winds might scare them not;
No evil thing dar'd touch their golden head;
Angels walk'd with them in each gloomy spot;
And, when they lay upon the midnight bed,
Spirits sang o'er them of the saintly dead;
And, when they died amid the prison's gloom,
Celestial shapes the radiant children led
To sit at God's right hand—their brows array'd
With amaranthine wreaths and crowns that will not fade.

Sleep on—blest little ones—your slumber take:
The grave will hold ye well—though murder glare
Upon your slumbers, and his red locks shake!
What, though no mother kiss those cheeks so fair,
Nor on those foreheads drop the tender tear;—
What, though no mother's gentle fingers close
Those violet eyes, nor comb your golden hair;
Ye are at rest—asleep your earthly woes,
Escap'd from all the ruth and pain that manhood knows.

Your lullaby shall be the slumb'rous wind—
And, like a mother's voice, 'twill sound for you:

238

Instead of tears, the summer rain shall find
Your faded cheeks, and cool each pallid brow;
The softest breezes from the west shall blow;
The brightest flowers shall blossom on each breast;
The warmest sunbeams shall their gladness throw
Among the waving grass that clothes your rest;
All heaven and earth shall join to make you truly blest.

And ye shall rise before the God on high,
In snow-white robes, and sing aloud his praise;
And they shall do ye homage in the skies,
And ye shall rest among the milky ways:
And your sweet innocent voices aye shall raise
Blest anthems, that shall swell around the throne;
About your robes shall stream celestial rays—
And, 'mong the cherubim, with golden crown,
Ye evermore shall sit, in majesty alone!

239

CONCLUDING ADDRESS.

TO MARGARET W---

“So now my summer task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, my own heart's home,
As to his queen some victor knight of Faëry,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome.
Percy Bysshe Shelly.

These later hymns I consecrate to thee,
Margaret, who art my house, my home, my all;
If there was ought that made my songs more free,
And bore them high, and would not let them fall,
It was that thou wast near, and held'st me in thy thrall.

What though the roaring sea doth shake his mane
Between us; that his voices swell on high,
And drown my feebler notes and gentler plain;
What though the blue-rob'd mountains touch the sky,
And the rude cavern'd crags consume each tender sigh.

What though the winter storms are on the air,
And the fast snows and frozen sleets have come;
What though the loud-tongued torrents foam and tear:

240

Yet will I hail thee in thy distant home—
Yet shall my vagrant thoughts around thy dwelling roam!

Is there a note more lofty in my song;
Is there a dream more distant from the earth?
Doth ought inspired stray my chords along—
A deeper woe, or more exalted mirth?
'Tis thou, angelic maid, hast given these feelings birth.

The poet's life is love—it is his food,
His being, and the house where he doth dwell:
'Twas this that roll'd like fire in Tasso's blood—
That made sweet Petrarch that he sung so well—
That like the horn of song tun'd Byron's gorgeous shell.

Love mellows all he says, and bears him up,
Even to the golden heavens: Love wings his feet,
And robes his head, and revels in his cup;
Love shines through winter's cold and summer's heat—
His morning, evening star—in death, his winding sheet.

As shade to glow-worm's glory—as the light
Of sun to moon—as heat unto the spring—
As darkness to the splendour of the night—
As the blue heavens unto the eagle's wing,
Is Love unto the spell that wakes the poet's string.

241

Blest maid, when I began, the flowers of May,
The grass, the green, were blooming everywhere;
The violets possess'd each silent way,
And happy birds were singing in the air;
The heavens were full of light, and all the earth was fair.

I could not hold my Muse—she sprung afar,
And robed herself—and strove to be divine—
And hymn'd aloft beside the morning star:
Then summer came, with visions that did shine,
Among green woods and fields with which they intertwine.

Song murmur'd still on every verdant bough,
And blossoms shone on every fruitful tree;
And silken mosses deck'd each mountain's brow—
Still did I sing, and still my songs were free,
And still my footsteps trod the hills in liberty.

Then did the autumn's sunbeams hotly fall,
And the glad harvests met the setting sun:
I heard the harvest singers loudly call
In glee—I saw the golden fruitage won—
My Muse was still aloft—my task was not yet done!

But now the bleak December winds are near;
I hear them bellowing to the shaken air:
The leaves are dead, the forests groan with fear,
And stand like skeletons—but late so fair—
And now my chords are mute, I can no longer dare.

242

And I shall never feel, what I have felt—
Such raptures ne'er shall swell my breast again—
The mountains, on whose foreheads I have knelt,
The silent shores that gird the heaving main,
Have stolen their hues away from out my spirit's train.

As the dead heath-bells on yon mournful moor—
As the sweet honey-bees that murmur'd there—
As the calm waters, whose low hymns are o'er—
As all our birds, whose songs were everywhere,
Even so my songs have died upon the hollow air.

Beloved maiden!—thy celestial face
Did ever gaze on me—I had no might
That was not thine—no power had I to trace
One thought that shone not on thy forehead bright;
'Twas thou that drove away the shapes and fears of night.

Can I forget thee!—Can this frozen clay
Forget that thou hast borne it from the mire?
Sooner, far sooner, shall the ungrateful day
Forget the sun—the sun forget its sire,
Than shall thy praises cease on my enraptur'd lyre.

I see thee not—I hear thee not, fair maid,
And thou may'st never more rejoice my sight;
And thou may'st never more, in love array'd,
Come gliding forward in the summer light,
To clothe my burning brow with laurels fresh and bright.

243

O, loveliest dream that ever lit the earth!
O, brightest dawn that ever woke on high!
Where had'st thou first, O, lovely spirit, birth?
In what blue isles beyond yon laughing sky,
That such celestial calm all round thy form doth lie?

The trees shower'd down their glories on her head—
The brooks sung joyfully where'er she went;
And summer winds among her ringlets play'd;
And summer thoughts from happy nooks were sent,
That fill'd her face and eyes with heavenly languishment.

O, fluttering heart, be still!—O, why so loud
The beatings that disturb this anxious breast?
Will never more most sweet oblivion shroud
That first wild tremor that disturb'd our rest,
When in that solemn dream two lovers were so blest!

I never saw an eye so bright as thine—
I never saw a cheek so soft and fair—
I never saw a stature so divine—
So much of grace, so spiritual an air:
Thou could'st bring down from heaven a seraph to despair.

When first I saw thee, 'twas in sorrowing:
Alone, and like a star thou greet'dst my sight—
When last I saw thee, thou didst strike the string
Of thy loud harp, amid the festal light,
Within thy father's hall, in all thy beauty bright.

244

When, on the harp, thy glancing fingers shone;—
When, through the hall, thy silvery voice arose,
O, how enraptur'd was each heart of stone!
Thou scatter'dst from the earth our human woes,
And every tone fell soft as dew-drop on a rose.

I said—“Whence came that seraph to my sight;
“Such rich embroidery of soul is there;
“She is an angel come to spread the light
“Of distant lands upon our blank despair,
“And all do love alike, she is so very fair.

“Poets will worship her in many a lay,
“And sing of her aloud, undying praise;
“And, as they wander from the world away,
“Each one, from out his sounding lyre, will raise
“A hymn that will not die among the peaceful ways.

“For they will speak of one, that was a flower,
“One moment seen, then wither'd from the grass;
“Of one bright bird that fill'd its evening bower
“With song most heavenly that ever was—
“Whose fame from the green earth shall never, never pass.

“And I—oh, never from my beating heart,
“Shall these thy tender dreams and memories die;
“Thy glorious image is of mine a part,
“Thou minglest with each laughter every sigh—
“Thou art the beam that wakes my Memnon to the sky.”

245

I lov'd thee with the passion of all love;
With love like fire, and wildest ecstacy,
As if a blessed angel from above—
I lov'd thee with a love that cannot die,
Love strong as death—a love eternal as the sky.

Hast thou not heard me, O, thou mournful moon,
Call on her name—have ye not heard me, all
Ye sullen frowning mountains, late and soon?
Hast thou not striv'n, thou angry waterfall,
To drown my groans and sighs that rose above ye all?

I saw thee, like the splendour of a dream,
In sleep, and stretch'd mine hands to meet thee there;
Thy dewy eyes let fall a starry gleam;
I strove to kiss away the tear-drops fair;
I started from my couch—the form had sunk in air.

But yestermorn, as long and long ago,
I saw thy snow-white forehead near mine own;
I saw thy burnish'd tresses' heavenly flow;
Thy large bright orbs, all pensive, looking down;
I clasp'd thee to my heart—alas!—the dream was gone!

So I arose, and swore to consecrate
My thoughts of thee, and speak aloud thy name—
To pour my passion forth in spite of hate,
And make thy dwelling place the halls of fame;
Alas, that human words should be so poor and tame!

246

And I have sworn, that ere this body die,
To distant lands thy heavenly light shall go;
(Angels, perchance, will gaze from out the sky;
And weep that love should be so great a woe;
And that to mortal tongue such feeble strains should flow.)

I swore, that where the Alpine mountains soar;
Beyond where the Atlantic billows swell:
Beyond where Niger's cataracts shall roar
To barren depths—beyond Charybdis fell;
Thy blessed name shall go—thy blessed shape shall dwell!

Most matchless maid!—how shall I fitly paint
Thy beauty, who art so exceeding fair?
Thou who, on earth dost seem a holy saint,
Whose every look of angels' seems to share,
How of thy wond'rous charms shall I with truth declare?

Have the blue heavens a brighter eye than thine?
Can the rich harvests shew thy tresses' pride?
Dare the deep ocean, with his notes divine,
Profane thy voice!—with thee his songs divide?
Have the far mountains ought to match thy holy side?

Thou scarcely seem'st of earth, so high my soul
Exalts thee—thou art scarce of human clay!
I would that all the bells of heaven would toll
Into thy sleep—that all the beams of day
Would do thee homage meet, and at thy footstool lay!

247

Thou shouldst have liv'd when earth was bright and young,
And godlike shapes did homage in the shade
To beings that they lov'd, whose praise they sung;
When flowers celestial bloom'd in every glade,
And armour'd kings from heaven to man gave heavenly aid!

They would have brought thee gold, and pearl, and gem,
And, with their shining swords, attir'd thee well—
Clothing thy forehead with a diadem
To shine afar; and given thee halls to dwell,
And walks to meet the sun, in some enchanted dell.

And as it is, where shall I meet thy peer?
Where is the human shape to match with thee?
Where is the human clay that is so dear?
Where limbs and features so divine and free,
And smiles to calm the depths, even of eternity?

Hair that, like drooping sunbeams, falleth low;
Eyes, that with every richest light are one;
The glories of the heavens upon thy brow;
A stately presence—a most queenly tone
Of voice—a beaming face that of the earth seems none.

And of that precious soul, what shall I say,
But that a cave of diamonds it doth seem,
Where every bright creation spreads a ray—
Where every thought is as a heavenly beam—
Where every cavern'd nook is as a heavenly dream.

248

Margaret, thou never—never wilt be mine;
Thy blessed breast will never bear my head;
Nought of the earth can link with thee, divine:
How can an angel with the world be wed?
How can poor human dust o'er heavenly flowers be spread?

With thee I could have been, what never now
I shall be—high and radiant as the rest
Of bards—and fame, perchance, had clad my brow;
And, with the love that springs from thy dear breast,
I might have plum'd my wings unto the gorgeous west.

Aided by thee—by thy most saintly voice—
By the dear light that shroudeth all thy frame;
By thy dear eyes, that bid the earth rejoice—
By that fair soul that seems the eye of fame—
I might have walk'd the woods, and won myself a name.

I have a heart to bind the world with fire;
It should have bound thee as the halo'd morn;
I have a soul that heavenward doth aspire:
It should have own'd thy footstool, late and soon,
And been thy slave, to loose the latchets of thy shoon.

It cannot—cannot be: and this my dream
Must fall away upon the empty air;
My sighs must linger as an idle theme;

249

My lofty hopes must lose their aspect fair;
And this, my bounding heart, must pine in sullen care.

And I can never wander in the grove
With thee, nor seek a pillow for thy head;
Nor breathe into thy brain the songs of love;
Nor kiss thy blessed cheeks, like roses spread;
Nor bear that queenly shape unto the marriage bed.

Love, like the stedfast rocks, hath stedfast root:
Its cavern'd depths are with eternity:
Upon its trees do bloom unfading fruit;
And thus its might is bold, and it is free,
And on its forehead springs the blooms of liberty.

Farewell!—I dedicate this lengthen'd dream—
This “England,” to be laid before thy feet;
I could have tun'd a lay to be supreme;
But England long hath left her ancient seat,
And I must change with her, and sing in language meet!

To scoundrels I despise, I must give ear:
No more!—my sweet farenell I give to thee;
The flowers from thee shall blossom on my bier:
'Tis thou hast caus'd my being that it be—
'Tis thou hast wing'd my heart, my feet with liberty!

Farewell!—My dream is over, and I lay
The offering before thy drooping eye:

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Perchance this book will bring a former day
Before thy soul; and thou wilt heave a sigh
O'er one now far away—o'er one who soon must die!

JOHN WALKER ORD. Guisborough, Cleveland, Yorkshire, November 30th, 1833.

University of Virginia Library

VOLUME I

INTRODUCTION.