 | England |  |
181
CORONATION OF HENRY VIII. JUNE 24, 1506.
Far upon the throne,
Gloriously he shone,
In purple robes of gold.”
—Old Ballad.
Gloriously he shone,
In purple robes of gold.”
—Old Ballad.
O, what a glorious morn! From out his hall
The sun walks forth, and fills the heavens with flames.
See, how the blushing clouds await his call,
And roll their golden chariots! Mighty Thames
Shouts, from his silver depths, rejoicing names,
And welcomes the glad echoes. From each street
The gathering hum is heard of lords and dames,
Preparing for the show and festal treat;
And banners float afar in many a purple sheet.
The sun walks forth, and fills the heavens with flames.
See, how the blushing clouds await his call,
And roll their golden chariots! Mighty Thames
Shouts, from his silver depths, rejoicing names,
And welcomes the glad echoes. From each street
The gathering hum is heard of lords and dames,
Preparing for the show and festal treat;
And banners float afar in many a purple sheet.
Lo, high in air the glittering domes appear!
Tower, spire, and battlement are clad in light;
The windows seem on fire; the houses hear
The sounds of gratulation! Proud and bright,
Westminster towers aloft in giant might;
And sable-brow'd St. Paul's is shook with pride,
Above his marble tombs of lord and knight.
In every street of London, far and wide,
The mighty impulse spreads, the coming splendours glide.
Tower, spire, and battlement are clad in light;
The windows seem on fire; the houses hear
The sounds of gratulation! Proud and bright,
Westminster towers aloft in giant might;
And sable-brow'd St. Paul's is shook with pride,
Above his marble tombs of lord and knight.
In every street of London, far and wide,
The mighty impulse spreads, the coming splendours glide.
182
Hark, hark! the silver clarions shake the air,
With clear-resounding music, that beats low
The struggling breezes! Hark, the loud drums tear
The idle silence! Louder, louder now,
The trumpet-tones re-echo o'er the brow
Of the huge towns, and the bells gladly ring
In jubilee, to beating hearts below;
And, through the streets, young, beauteous damsels sing,
And waft the mazy dance on pleasure's joyous wing.
With clear-resounding music, that beats low
The struggling breezes! Hark, the loud drums tear
The idle silence! Louder, louder now,
The trumpet-tones re-echo o'er the brow
Of the huge towns, and the bells gladly ring
In jubilee, to beating hearts below;
And, through the streets, young, beauteous damsels sing,
And waft the mazy dance on pleasure's joyous wing.
Bright human faces from each window shine;
And there are blooming cheeks, and burning eyes,
And long, delicious locks that hang divine
Down many a lovely neck. Yea, even the wise
And brave bow down to pleasure: tears and sighs
Are none; for, how shall sorrow linger here,
Where each poor house with golden tapestries
Is clad to hide the dust?—Where, bright and clear,
Women walk rich attir'd, and music fills the ear!
And there are blooming cheeks, and burning eyes,
And long, delicious locks that hang divine
Down many a lovely neck. Yea, even the wise
And brave bow down to pleasure: tears and sighs
Are none; for, how shall sorrow linger here,
Where each poor house with golden tapestries
Is clad to hide the dust?—Where, bright and clear,
Women walk rich attir'd, and music fills the ear!
Why under cloth of gold, and in the hall
Of beauty, and beneath the clustering gem,
The ostrich plume, silk robe, and purple pall,
Helm, banner, and the clustering diadem,
Shall sorrow come? It was not made for them!
This day it was not. Yet, alas, and woe,
Too oft it roots beneath the proudest name,
And to the proudest palace-dome will go,
When, from the shepherd's hut, 'tis banish'd as a foe!
Of beauty, and beneath the clustering gem,
The ostrich plume, silk robe, and purple pall,
Helm, banner, and the clustering diadem,
Shall sorrow come? It was not made for them!
This day it was not. Yet, alas, and woe,
Too oft it roots beneath the proudest name,
And to the proudest palace-dome will go,
When, from the shepherd's hut, 'tis banish'd as a foe!
183
He comes—King Henry comes! Ope wide the way,—
Let in his blazing chariot! Louder still
Sound the loud clarion, let the trumpets play!
Let every heart feel his monarchic will!
He comes, he comes, and over vale and hill
Thames shouts aloud in triumph, and doth shake
His streaming flags, and roars to every rill
He hath! His forests and his ancient mountains quake,
And mighty London heaves as if its heart would break!
Let in his blazing chariot! Louder still
Sound the loud clarion, let the trumpets play!
Let every heart feel his monarchic will!
He comes, he comes, and over vale and hill
Thames shouts aloud in triumph, and doth shake
His streaming flags, and roars to every rill
He hath! His forests and his ancient mountains quake,
And mighty London heaves as if its heart would break!
He comes, he comes! Oh! many a beaming brow
Shines bright, and many a bosom heaveth high!
And there is many a manly heart beats now
For him, the youthful king! Slow-winding by,
The glad procession glideth solemnly.
The banners float afar; the rich robes shine
Unto the sun, and dazzle the blue sky:
Sure Bacchus hath come down and walks divine,
And this proud pageant greets the royal god of wine!
Shines bright, and many a bosom heaveth high!
And there is many a manly heart beats now
For him, the youthful king! Slow-winding by,
The glad procession glideth solemnly.
The banners float afar; the rich robes shine
Unto the sun, and dazzle the blue sky:
Sure Bacchus hath come down and walks divine,
And this proud pageant greets the royal god of wine!
Lo, knightly men with casque, and waving plume,
And rattling armour, tread the trembling street!
The pointed spear—the glittering sword illume
The dense approach; and, hark, the charger's feet
Clatter, as they the flinty pavement beat,
Like to a conquering foe. Snorting they come,
And dash their manes amid the sultry heat,
And neigh, as if in triumph was their home,
And thunder through the streets 'mid clouds of dust and foam!
And rattling armour, tread the trembling street!
The pointed spear—the glittering sword illume
The dense approach; and, hark, the charger's feet
Clatter, as they the flinty pavement beat,
Like to a conquering foe. Snorting they come,
And dash their manes amid the sultry heat,
And neigh, as if in triumph was their home,
And thunder through the streets 'mid clouds of dust and foam!
184
But who is he, the proudest of them all?
Is he a god of ancient time come down,
To earthly battles from his heavenly hall?
Is that a mortal face? or doth he own
Immortal lineage—an immortal crown?
Clear beam his azure eyes, bright is his hair,
Low-waving in thick curls; and all the town
Rejoice at his approach; the breezes bear
Loud welcome; acclamations shake the startled air!
Is he a god of ancient time come down,
To earthly battles from his heavenly hall?
Is that a mortal face? or doth he own
Immortal lineage—an immortal crown?
Clear beam his azure eyes, bright is his hair,
Low-waving in thick curls; and all the town
Rejoice at his approach; the breezes bear
Loud welcome; acclamations shake the startled air!
Rich purple robes adorn'd his manly form;
And blazing gems were crowded on his breast:
Brave was his stature, such as in the storm
Of Grecian conquests strove! Upon his crest
Wav'd the white plume, and golden armour prest
His sinewy limbs. Full conscious of the weight
He bore, his noble charger shook the dust
With his proud gambols and unsteady gait,
And wav'd his streaming mane to royal Henry's state.
And blazing gems were crowded on his breast:
Brave was his stature, such as in the storm
Of Grecian conquests strove! Upon his crest
Wav'd the white plume, and golden armour prest
His sinewy limbs. Full conscious of the weight
He bore, his noble charger shook the dust
With his proud gambols and unsteady gait,
And wav'd his streaming mane to royal Henry's state.
Now comes the pageant nearer, nearer still!
Throw wide the gate, throw wide the ponderous gate!
And now Westminster opens to its fill,
And knights and heroes view their fathers' state,
And kneel beneath the bannerets that date
Of conquest and of fame!—the shreds that told,
In their dim splendour, of the lofty height
Of their brave sires, and all the deeds of old,
Which English hearts shall aye beat proudly to behold
Throw wide the gate, throw wide the ponderous gate!
And now Westminster opens to its fill,
And knights and heroes view their fathers' state,
And kneel beneath the bannerets that date
Of conquest and of fame!—the shreds that told,
In their dim splendour, of the lofty height
Of their brave sires, and all the deeds of old,
Which English hearts shall aye beat proudly to behold
185
The ponderous arches tremble as they go;
The marble tombstones shake; each tatter'd pall
Vibrates; the gloom becomes a sudden glow.
That sepulchre now seems a monarch's hall,
Lit up to some rejoicing festival.
His father's grave is night—O, could he see,
How would he o'er this rich procession call—
Tear down the gold, and stop the maniac glee;
How would the miser mourn this prodigality!
The marble tombstones shake; each tatter'd pall
Vibrates; the gloom becomes a sudden glow.
That sepulchre now seems a monarch's hall,
Lit up to some rejoicing festival.
His father's grave is night—O, could he see,
How would he o'er this rich procession call—
Tear down the gold, and stop the maniac glee;
How would the miser mourn this prodigality!
But he, with all his crimes, is silent now;
He cannot grasp the bars of gold, nor press
The glittering ingots to his wither'd breast:
Death holds the shivering monarch by the tress,
And folds the shatter'd corpse in his caress.
His palace is the clay; 'tis pictur'd o'er
With hideous things that clasp in tenderness
Unto his lips and eyes. Firm 'neath that floor
The miserable king is bound for evermore.
He cannot grasp the bars of gold, nor press
The glittering ingots to his wither'd breast:
Death holds the shivering monarch by the tress,
And folds the shatter'd corpse in his caress.
His palace is the clay; 'tis pictur'd o'er
With hideous things that clasp in tenderness
Unto his lips and eyes. Firm 'neath that floor
The miserable king is bound for evermore.
Ladies and knights are seated. Many a plume
Is dancing; many a bosom heaving high.
Bright eyes and lovely faces now illume
The silence. Lo, the solemn priests move by
In stately show, and their white garments lie
Along the ground. Ah, little did he know
In that glad hour, the lord of Canterbury,
That, as he placed the crown on Henry's brow,
His father's fathers' shrines and sacred towers were tumbling low.
Is dancing; many a bosom heaving high.
Bright eyes and lovely faces now illume
The silence. Lo, the solemn priests move by
In stately show, and their white garments lie
Along the ground. Ah, little did he know
In that glad hour, the lord of Canterbury,
That, as he placed the crown on Henry's brow,
His father's fathers' shrines and sacred towers were tumbling low.
186
Ah, little did he know, that he who sat
Beside him, on the golden-shining throne,
Would soon become the object of his hate,
And drag the pillars of his temples down!
That murder and brute sacrilege would own
That monarch's breast, and loveliness droop low
Beneath his satyr feet, and lose its crown.
That blood, red blood, should stain his reeking brow,
And spot the snow-white altars with an impious glow!
Beside him, on the golden-shining throne,
Would soon become the object of his hate,
And drag the pillars of his temples down!
That murder and brute sacrilege would own
That monarch's breast, and loveliness droop low
Beneath his satyr feet, and lose its crown.
That blood, red blood, should stain his reeking brow,
And spot the snow-white altars with an impious glow!
But, O, the time was come—and heaven was glad
To shake this proud religion, that so long
Usurp'd all wealth, and in its pride was mad:
Insanely triumphing through blood and wrong.
Once, in its pure religion, it was strong;
Once, it was mild and gentle in its sway,
Just in its precepts:—but, alas, too long
The clouds of night had gather'd o'er its day,
And all its might and strength were withered away.
To shake this proud religion, that so long
Usurp'd all wealth, and in its pride was mad:
Insanely triumphing through blood and wrong.
Once, in its pure religion, it was strong;
Once, it was mild and gentle in its sway,
Just in its precepts:—but, alas, too long
The clouds of night had gather'd o'er its day,
And all its might and strength were withered away.
They had profaned the Saviour, whom they sought;
Shatter'd the crucifix, and spurn'd his blood!
The miracles with which his rule was brought,
They brutaliz'd with fraud: mistook the good
For evil, and made earth a solitude
For wolves and tigers, and the thirst of gain.
The sweat of agony they mock'd. The brood
Of deep distress, the burning tears, the pain,
The ignominious death, had all been borne in vain!
Shatter'd the crucifix, and spurn'd his blood!
The miracles with which his rule was brought,
They brutaliz'd with fraud: mistook the good
For evil, and made earth a solitude
For wolves and tigers, and the thirst of gain.
The sweat of agony they mock'd. The brood
Of deep distress, the burning tears, the pain,
The ignominious death, had all been borne in vain!
187
And they had rear'd majestic towers, and won
Ivory and gold, and gems, and treasures rare
From man; and roll'd in crimes, erstwhile unknown,
In quiet bowers, and solitudes most fair.
Mammon became their god, their only care.
The ancient paths forsook, they now became
Mere worldly engines, ruling everywhere
With swords and superstition. The true name
Of Christ they knew not now, nor to his altars came.
Ivory and gold, and gems, and treasures rare
From man; and roll'd in crimes, erstwhile unknown,
In quiet bowers, and solitudes most fair.
Mammon became their god, their only care.
The ancient paths forsook, they now became
Mere worldly engines, ruling everywhere
With swords and superstition. The true name
Of Christ they knew not now, nor to his altars came.
In dungeons they held orgies, and with chains
Bound their opposers; and with eager sight
Hunted for blood, and agonizing pains,
The mountain grass they stain'd with sanguine fight;
They stain'd the crystal dew-drops of the night,
And rear'd up temples from the fatten'd gore.
Error, and wrong, and darkness 'stead of light,
And truth and gentleness rul'd evermore:
No marvel, then, their way was shatter'd, and was o'er!
Bound their opposers; and with eager sight
Hunted for blood, and agonizing pains,
The mountain grass they stain'd with sanguine fight;
They stain'd the crystal dew-drops of the night,
And rear'd up temples from the fatten'd gore.
Error, and wrong, and darkness 'stead of light,
And truth and gentleness rul'd evermore:
No marvel, then, their way was shatter'd, and was o'er!
So now, the earthquake shook each abbey-stone;
Red lightning sear'd each mouldering battlement.
The glory of their ancient reign was gone;
The tyranny that held their towers, and rent
Their strength, and bore their majesty, was bent
To nought. And now they crown'd this headstrong king,
Whom the Avenger chose for his, and sent
To purify their dross, that he might ring
The tresses of their pride, and tear their fiery wing.
Red lightning sear'd each mouldering battlement.
The glory of their ancient reign was gone;
The tyranny that held their towers, and rent
Their strength, and bore their majesty, was bent
To nought. And now they crown'd this headstrong king,
Whom the Avenger chose for his, and sent
To purify their dross, that he might ring
The tresses of their pride, and tear their fiery wing.
188
O, Time, how is it, that thy headlong sway
Can change the curled child into the man,
Whose crimes disturb the sun's serenest ray?
That he who chas'd among the flowers, and ran
Among the morning dews, must feel the ban
Of Cain, and all his freshest feelings lose?
That all those pure delights and joys that can
Bless infancy, must change to bitter woes,
And all our sweetest blisses turn to painful throes?
Can change the curled child into the man,
Whose crimes disturb the sun's serenest ray?
That he who chas'd among the flowers, and ran
Among the morning dews, must feel the ban
Of Cain, and all his freshest feelings lose?
That all those pure delights and joys that can
Bless infancy, must change to bitter woes,
And all our sweetest blisses turn to painful throes?
Alas, that the same youth who, in the bower
Of love and hope, had twin'd with beauty's tresses,
Feeling all holiest dreams, and passions shower
Into his heart, and mix with love's caresses:
Whose soul was full of deepest tendernesses:
That he to whom the streamlets gave delight,
To whom the mountains were his chiefest blisses;
Whose glory was the star-bespangled night,
And to whose spirit came all shapes of power and might;
Of love and hope, had twin'd with beauty's tresses,
Feeling all holiest dreams, and passions shower
Into his heart, and mix with love's caresses:
Whose soul was full of deepest tendernesses:
That he to whom the streamlets gave delight,
To whom the mountains were his chiefest blisses;
Whose glory was the star-bespangled night,
And to whose spirit came all shapes of power and might;
That he whose heart was as a fountain clear,
Gushing all impulses, and pure, and fair;
Should afterward bow down to endless fear,
And be a den for madness and despair:
That every grief shall clutch him by the hair;
That foul ambition shall possess that brain
Where fancy and imagination are
The palm; that like the surges of the main,
Sorrow shall bear him down, and lash him into pain.
Gushing all impulses, and pure, and fair;
Should afterward bow down to endless fear,
And be a den for madness and despair:
That every grief shall clutch him by the hair;
That foul ambition shall possess that brain
Where fancy and imagination are
The palm; that like the surges of the main,
Sorrow shall bear him down, and lash him into pain.
189
Would ye have deem'd that he whom we have sung—
The hero and the demi-god—that he,
Whose matchless strength and majesty, the young,
Struck men, should sink to abject tyranny,
Murder, and savage guile? That he should be
The burthen of foul lust? That loveliness
Should die beneath his feet, and liberty
Be but a coward name, and every tress
Be torn from her fair brow in cruel wantonness?
The hero and the demi-god—that he,
Whose matchless strength and majesty, the young,
Struck men, should sink to abject tyranny,
Murder, and savage guile? That he should be
The burthen of foul lust? That loveliness
Should die beneath his feet, and liberty
Be but a coward name, and every tress
Be torn from her fair brow in cruel wantonness?
Yet, Henry, there shall greet thee on thy bed
Of state, and hail thee in thy marble-hall,
The ghostly phantoms of thy murder'd dead!
Anna Boleyn shall meet thee in her pall;
Fair Howard to thy restless dreams shall call,
And wither thee with smiles, and twine again
Caresses that to rottenness shall fall:
Surrey, and saintly More, in ghastly train,
Shall shriek from out their tombs, and agonize thy brain!
Of state, and hail thee in thy marble-hall,
The ghostly phantoms of thy murder'd dead!
Anna Boleyn shall meet thee in her pall;
Fair Howard to thy restless dreams shall call,
And wither thee with smiles, and twine again
Caresses that to rottenness shall fall:
Surrey, and saintly More, in ghastly train,
Shall shriek from out their tombs, and agonize thy brain!
Bold, headstrong, and presumptuous though thou wert,
Horror would yet affright thee in thy bower,
And nightmare cling unto thy beating heart.
Where'er thy footsteps went spectres would lower
Around thee, and distrub thy every hour.
Even, whilst we live, remorse shall hunt us aye;
And move at midnight on each ancient tower;
And mingle with the moon's divinest ray;
And shoot into our souls, like fire, by night and day!
Horror would yet affright thee in thy bower,
And nightmare cling unto thy beating heart.
Where'er thy footsteps went spectres would lower
Around thee, and distrub thy every hour.
Even, whilst we live, remorse shall hunt us aye;
And move at midnight on each ancient tower;
And mingle with the moon's divinest ray;
And shoot into our souls, like fire, by night and day!
190
Hail, sister towers! Long may ye nobly stand!
Long may our English kings, upon your floor
Of marble, take their crown and hold command!
That long and proud procession now is o'er;
They all are dead and sunk for evermore,
Who held that day high joy and jubilee:
Time hath swept o'er them with a mighty roar;
Time hath destroy'd their merriment and glee;
But ye are yet the same, as stately and as free!
Long may our English kings, upon your floor
Of marble, take their crown and hold command!
That long and proud procession now is o'er;
They all are dead and sunk for evermore,
Who held that day high joy and jubilee:
Time hath swept o'er them with a mighty roar;
Time hath destroy'd their merriment and glee;
But ye are yet the same, as stately and as free!
Still do ye stand; and as I gaze, in pride,
Upon your carved towers, I see the sky
Look on ye, and with you its stars divide!
The moon, like an enchantress, bends her eye
Above ye; heaven's sweetest isles around you lie.
Thames rolleth his loud dirge, solemn and clear,
And from his secret caverns murmurs nigh;
And mighty London roareth in your ear,
With voices that disturb the midnight hemisphere.
Upon your carved towers, I see the sky
Look on ye, and with you its stars divide!
The moon, like an enchantress, bends her eye
Above ye; heaven's sweetest isles around you lie.
Thames rolleth his loud dirge, solemn and clear,
And from his secret caverns murmurs nigh;
And mighty London roareth in your ear,
With voices that disturb the midnight hemisphere.
Since that glad day, far other deeds have come
Within your walls. The mighty dead have laid
Their sacred bones within your charnell'd home.
Shakespeare and Milton long have sought your shade,
And other bards, immortally array'd
With bays undying. Heroes, side by side,
Rest 'neath your marbles;—they whose prowess bade
Europe be hush'd;—and did the world divide;
And, in the battle strife, at length all nobly died!
Within your walls. The mighty dead have laid
Their sacred bones within your charnell'd home.
Shakespeare and Milton long have sought your shade,
And other bards, immortally array'd
With bays undying. Heroes, side by side,
Rest 'neath your marbles;—they whose prowess bade
Europe be hush'd;—and did the world divide;
And, in the battle strife, at length all nobly died!
191
Victorious kings, beneath your banners rest;
Patriots, with mighty hearts, are laid with you.
Men eloquent, and pure, and wise, have prest
Your sepulchres, and sunk the weary brow.
Who, who can walk your solemn shades, and know
Your lofty deeds, and not feel glad and proud?
Feel in his soul a patriotic glow,
When ancient times come to him from their shroud,
And like a trumpet tone, shout to his heart aloud?
Patriots, with mighty hearts, are laid with you.
Men eloquent, and pure, and wise, have prest
Your sepulchres, and sunk the weary brow.
Who, who can walk your solemn shades, and know
Your lofty deeds, and not feel glad and proud?
Feel in his soul a patriotic glow,
When ancient times come to him from their shroud,
And like a trumpet tone, shout to his heart aloud?
Say, are not Gaul's far fields and vineyards red
With conquests, waving on these banners high?
Shout not these walls of the triumphant dead,
Where haughty Spain and spicy India lie?
Each tomb and 'scutcheon tell of victory!
Gazing upon these walls, methinks I hear
The trumpet's clang and the loud charger's neigh:
The cannon's thunder swells upon mine ear,
Knights brave, and strong in arms, start, sounding from the bier!
With conquests, waving on these banners high?
Shout not these walls of the triumphant dead,
Where haughty Spain and spicy India lie?
Each tomb and 'scutcheon tell of victory!
Gazing upon these walls, methinks I hear
The trumpet's clang and the loud charger's neigh:
The cannon's thunder swells upon mine ear,
Knights brave, and strong in arms, start, sounding from the bier!
Long may these arched stones majestic stand!
Long may these sister towers ascend the air,
And be the glory of this falling land!
The moons and stars of ages yet shall share
With them, and shine above them, pure and fair!
Our youth shall wander in the carved shade,
And feel their hearts beat high, and hope to dare
The exalted acts that have these brows array'd:
And in their dreams call up these sculptures to their aid.
Long may these sister towers ascend the air,
And be the glory of this falling land!
The moons and stars of ages yet shall share
With them, and shine above them, pure and fair!
Our youth shall wander in the carved shade,
And feel their hearts beat high, and hope to dare
The exalted acts that have these brows array'd:
And in their dreams call up these sculptures to their aid.
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