 | England |  |
217
LADY JANE GREY.
“Thus liv'd, thus died she. Never more on her
Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made
Through weary years the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
In the damp earth. Her years and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful; and she sleeps well!”
—Don Juan.
Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made
Through weary years the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
In the damp earth. Her years and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful; and she sleeps well!”
—Don Juan.
“She made no sign of outward woe,
But wish'd that she had angels' wings;
To see that golden, golden, golden
Sight of heavenly things.”
—Old Ballad.
But wish'd that she had angels' wings;
To see that golden, golden, golden
Sight of heavenly things.”
—Old Ballad.
“O mourn, mourn, mourn fair ladies,
Jane, the flower of England's dead.
—Old Ballad.
Jane, the flower of England's dead.
—Old Ballad.
A perfect gentlewoman and a queen;
A queen by nature was the Lady Jane:
Her form was beautiful, her soul serene,
And grace and gentleness did make her train.
O'er all the virtues did she hold her reign,
And dwelt in peace, and love, and tenderness:
Yea, all that teachers tell and poets feign
Of innocence, and truth, and loveliness,
Did guard this gentle lady in their pure caress.
A queen by nature was the Lady Jane:
Her form was beautiful, her soul serene,
And grace and gentleness did make her train.
O'er all the virtues did she hold her reign,
And dwelt in peace, and love, and tenderness:
Yea, all that teachers tell and poets feign
Of innocence, and truth, and loveliness,
Did guard this gentle lady in their pure caress.
218
She in her moonlit bowers had learnt to brood
O'er the rich wisdom of the ancient time.
The bards came to her in her solitude,
And sung of heroes, and the deeds sublime
Of demi-gods, when man was in his prime.
Leaning her ivory brow upon her hand,
She lov'd to let her vivid fancy climb
To the blue climes where science held command;
When Greece, in palmy pride, tower'd far o'er every land.
O'er the rich wisdom of the ancient time.
The bards came to her in her solitude,
And sung of heroes, and the deeds sublime
Of demi-gods, when man was in his prime.
Leaning her ivory brow upon her hand,
She lov'd to let her vivid fancy climb
To the blue climes where science held command;
When Greece, in palmy pride, tower'd far o'er every land.
When Sappho sung entranc'd—(a nightingale—
In love with loveliness!) When Homer sung,
The blind old bard—unto the evening gale.
When Pindar's lays, like thunder, roll'd along;
When Orpheus charm'd the insensate stones with song!—
O, changed times, where shall we wander now?
Where shall we hear the strains that echoed strong
Like midnight sounds? Where's the seraphic glow
That kindled o'er the earth, and lit the poet's brow?
In love with loveliness!) When Homer sung,
The blind old bard—unto the evening gale.
When Pindar's lays, like thunder, roll'd along;
When Orpheus charm'd the insensate stones with song!—
O, changed times, where shall we wander now?
Where shall we hear the strains that echoed strong
Like midnight sounds? Where's the seraphic glow
That kindled o'er the earth, and lit the poet's brow?
The heavens are yet the same! And every star
Is bright, that then gave gladness to the eye!
The stormy sea still wages constant war,
And scatters his rich treasures lavishly.
Are there not lovely flowers in woods that be?
Are there not glorious mountains still the same,
That stand aloft, and brave eternity?
And is there not the passion still of fame,
The hope of constant memory, and a glorious name?
Is bright, that then gave gladness to the eye!
The stormy sea still wages constant war,
And scatters his rich treasures lavishly.
Are there not lovely flowers in woods that be?
Are there not glorious mountains still the same,
That stand aloft, and brave eternity?
And is there not the passion still of fame,
The hope of constant memory, and a glorious name?
219
She was a young philosopher, and fair
And beautiful. Her soul, enlarged, refin'd
With every art, she fear'd wild fashion's glare,
And did to solitude her yearnings bind;
She was by far too gentle, pure, and kind,
For the rude world; and thus she bent her soul,
And tun'd the chords—the music of her mind,
To sweet philosophy's serene control;
Dreading the world's rude storms—ambition's fatal thrall!
And beautiful. Her soul, enlarged, refin'd
With every art, she fear'd wild fashion's glare,
And did to solitude her yearnings bind;
She was by far too gentle, pure, and kind,
For the rude world; and thus she bent her soul,
And tun'd the chords—the music of her mind,
To sweet philosophy's serene control;
Dreading the world's rude storms—ambition's fatal thrall!
She was a flower that fears the flare of day,
And hides itself beneath a mossy stone;
She was a star that shrouds its piercing ray
Behind a cloud, and shines and lives alone.
Love bound her soon with its entrancing tone;
And, leaving courts and flattery's foul wile,
She sought domestic peace, and made a throne
Within her husband's heart; her children's smile
Did greet her in her bower—her silence did beguile.
And hides itself beneath a mossy stone;
She was a star that shrouds its piercing ray
Behind a cloud, and shines and lives alone.
Love bound her soon with its entrancing tone;
And, leaving courts and flattery's foul wile,
She sought domestic peace, and made a throne
Within her husband's heart; her children's smile
Did greet her in her bower—her silence did beguile.
O, would that they had never come to her,
Nor tempted her to leave her pleasant home;
She had gone down unto the sepulchre,
A sainted wife, where care had never come.
Science and art to her were as a dome
Of heavenly thought, and love around her dwelt.
But, as it was, she found an early tomb;
The flowers all wither'd round her where she knelt;
And, like a hunted deer, this lovely creature felt.
Nor tempted her to leave her pleasant home;
She had gone down unto the sepulchre,
A sainted wife, where care had never come.
Science and art to her were as a dome
Of heavenly thought, and love around her dwelt.
But, as it was, she found an early tomb;
The flowers all wither'd round her where she knelt;
And, like a hunted deer, this lovely creature felt.
220
She trusted in a people false and foul,
Wrung with ingratitude, whose voices came
Like thunder to her praise. Beneath the cowl
Of false allegiance they roar'd her name,
And knelt to her, and hail'd her rising fame.
But they are changeful as the changeful sea,
And, like the sea, their power we cannot tame;
And thus they scorn'd this gentle maid—to be
The creature of their hate—the mock of infamy!
Wrung with ingratitude, whose voices came
Like thunder to her praise. Beneath the cowl
Of false allegiance they roar'd her name,
And knelt to her, and hail'd her rising fame.
But they are changeful as the changeful sea,
And, like the sea, their power we cannot tame;
And thus they scorn'd this gentle maid—to be
The creature of their hate—the mock of infamy!
Lovely and lofty maid! O, knights of old
Had come to thee, and for thy beauty died!
But England then had changed;—the hearts were cold
That once for truth and faith fell side by side.
The chivalry, that erstwhile dwelt in pride
Beside the sounding sea—in forests dim,
By caves and hoary rocks, were scatter'd wide;
Or, England, thou hadst risen with phalanx grim,
In triumph borne her forth, with march and choral hymn.
Had come to thee, and for thy beauty died!
But England then had changed;—the hearts were cold
That once for truth and faith fell side by side.
The chivalry, that erstwhile dwelt in pride
Beside the sounding sea—in forests dim,
By caves and hoary rocks, were scatter'd wide;
Or, England, thou hadst risen with phalanx grim,
In triumph borne her forth, with march and choral hymn.
I do not hate the mob nor liberty;
But this I say from out my solitude,
That I would rather in oblivion die
Than that with them my mind should be subdued.
False, changeful, angry, fickle is their mood;
Wafted by every breath, they shout and roar
Like famish'd tigers in a desert wood:
They pant for change—change—change for evermore—
Change that o'erturns themselves, and eats the nation's core.
But this I say from out my solitude,
That I would rather in oblivion die
Than that with them my mind should be subdued.
False, changeful, angry, fickle is their mood;
Wafted by every breath, they shout and roar
Like famish'd tigers in a desert wood:
They pant for change—change—change for evermore—
Change that o'erturns themselves, and eats the nation's core.
221
A people roused to vanquish tyranny,
Like you, O, glorious Swiss, is brave and great.
High is the meed of godlike liberty,
Its steps are free—it holds monarchic state.
Cities rise up beneath its feet; its height
Is that of pyramids; it rules all time;
The slave becomes a god; and, soon or late,
The chain is rent, the nations soar sublime,
And, by their mountain-crags, regain their ancient prime.
Like you, O, glorious Swiss, is brave and great.
High is the meed of godlike liberty,
Its steps are free—it holds monarchic state.
Cities rise up beneath its feet; its height
Is that of pyramids; it rules all time;
The slave becomes a god; and, soon or late,
The chain is rent, the nations soar sublime,
And, by their mountain-crags, regain their ancient prime.
But, when I see them grovelling in the mire,
Listening to traitors, (fools, whose brains delight
In treason's maggot brood;) in whom the fire
Of every glorious deed hath sunk to night;
Who mock at deeds heroic, and do slight
Our nation's blood-stain'd wars with rebel guile;
And turn our noblest monuments to spite;
Then do their sneers and curses stir my bile,
And I am wroth in love for thee, our glorious isle.
Listening to traitors, (fools, whose brains delight
In treason's maggot brood;) in whom the fire
Of every glorious deed hath sunk to night;
Who mock at deeds heroic, and do slight
Our nation's blood-stain'd wars with rebel guile;
And turn our noblest monuments to spite;
Then do their sneers and curses stir my bile,
And I am wroth in love for thee, our glorious isle.
Oh, nought can touch thy garments, Liberty,
Thy foot-print is on the untrodden way;
Walking in mountain-pomp, serene and high,
Thy tresses wave upon the summer ray.
Thy palaces are in eternal day!
Yea, thou art of a proud and saintly name—
A light and glory over human clay;
And ne'er will mingle thy triumphant fame
With ought of meaner dust—with ought of wrong or shame!
Thy foot-print is on the untrodden way;
Walking in mountain-pomp, serene and high,
Thy tresses wave upon the summer ray.
Thy palaces are in eternal day!
Yea, thou art of a proud and saintly name—
A light and glory over human clay;
And ne'er will mingle thy triumphant fame
With ought of meaner dust—with ought of wrong or shame!
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Hark! there is noise upon the city street,
Moving of feet, and, hark, the solemn bell
Tolls heavily, as through a winding-sheet!
Alas, alas, it is Earl Dudley's knell!
And, from her turret window, she knows well
Her lord is gone—she sees his sever'd head!
And, oh! if, in that hour, her heart could tell
Its weight of adoration for the dead,
Almost new life would warm her husband's charnel-bed!
Moving of feet, and, hark, the solemn bell
Tolls heavily, as through a winding-sheet!
Alas, alas, it is Earl Dudley's knell!
And, from her turret window, she knows well
Her lord is gone—she sees his sever'd head!
And, oh! if, in that hour, her heart could tell
Its weight of adoration for the dead,
Almost new life would warm her husband's charnel-bed!
Another scene—and, lo, the jailors come,
And call that lovely lady from the floor.
The thousands swarm to see her to the tomb,
And greet her murder with triumphant roar,
Who, erstwhile, at her feet allegiance swore.
The block is cloth'd with velvet; all around
The glittering spears stand forth, as if they bore
A part; and neighing chargers madly bound,
But she, our lady stands, and hears no mortal sound!
And call that lovely lady from the floor.
The thousands swarm to see her to the tomb,
And greet her murder with triumphant roar,
Who, erstwhile, at her feet allegiance swore.
The block is cloth'd with velvet; all around
The glittering spears stand forth, as if they bore
A part; and neighing chargers madly bound,
But she, our lady stands, and hears no mortal sound!
She stands entranced, like a holy saint,
With drooping brow and hair dishevelled;
Angels are near, and wash each earthly taint,
And bear her dreams unto the martyr'd dead!
She sees her lord to whom her soul was wed!
She sees the open field of heaven!—the light
Of heaven is in her heart; and, richly spread
Around her, stand pure shapes, saintly and bright!—
No more—the blow is struck—heaven bursts before her sight!
With drooping brow and hair dishevelled;
Angels are near, and wash each earthly taint,
And bear her dreams unto the martyr'd dead!
She sees her lord to whom her soul was wed!
She sees the open field of heaven!—the light
Of heaven is in her heart; and, richly spread
Around her, stand pure shapes, saintly and bright!—
No more—the blow is struck—heaven bursts before her sight!
223
There were no white-robed nymphs to bear away
This gentle lady to the silent tomb;
There was no husband near her buried clay,
To drop a tear into the charnel-gloom;
No tender friend did miss her from her room;
No child wept loud at midnight, for the love
That sooth'd its slumbers. She hath met her doom
A wither'd flower in winter; and alone;
And to her murder'd lord hath desolately gone.
This gentle lady to the silent tomb;
There was no husband near her buried clay,
To drop a tear into the charnel-gloom;
No tender friend did miss her from her room;
No child wept loud at midnight, for the love
That sooth'd its slumbers. She hath met her doom
A wither'd flower in winter; and alone;
And to her murder'd lord hath desolately gone.
We must lament for her, though now her clay
Is seen not, living but in memory!
O, had she liv'd, she might have spread the ray
Of love and hope o'er human misery!
All things had blossom'd 'neath her gentle eye.
She was so good that we must ever weep,
As o'er a vanish'd star, that she should die;
As if a dream were stolen from our sleep;
As if a lovely rainbow sunk into the deep!
Is seen not, living but in memory!
O, had she liv'd, she might have spread the ray
Of love and hope o'er human misery!
All things had blossom'd 'neath her gentle eye.
She was so good that we must ever weep,
As o'er a vanish'd star, that she should die;
As if a dream were stolen from our sleep;
As if a lovely rainbow sunk into the deep!
Beauty hath faded from each bower and hall,
From field, hill, valley, and from sounding shore!
There is a voice of wailing that doth call
In woe and lamentation evermore,
For youth, and love, and beauty, bath'd in gore!
But, O, the sweetest flowers shall deck her grave,
And warmest breezes from the west waft o'er
Her marble tomb! No storm shall ever rave
Around her; and sweet grass shall o'er her tombstone wave.
From field, hill, valley, and from sounding shore!
There is a voice of wailing that doth call
In woe and lamentation evermore,
For youth, and love, and beauty, bath'd in gore!
But, O, the sweetest flowers shall deck her grave,
And warmest breezes from the west waft o'er
Her marble tomb! No storm shall ever rave
Around her; and sweet grass shall o'er her tombstone wave.
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Yes, she is dead, and we are left to mourn
That one, so much an angel, should decay;
That, gaunt and fleshless, in the charnell'd urn,
That fair and lovely shape is dust and clay;
That innocence and truth are past away.
And we must mourn that o'er that snowy brow,
The grave-worm steals, and mocks its lustrous ray;
And that those silken tresses linger now
Among the matted clods;—vanish'd their golden glow!
That one, so much an angel, should decay;
That, gaunt and fleshless, in the charnell'd urn,
That fair and lovely shape is dust and clay;
That innocence and truth are past away.
And we must mourn that o'er that snowy brow,
The grave-worm steals, and mocks its lustrous ray;
And that those silken tresses linger now
Among the matted clods;—vanish'd their golden glow!
Yet shall she dwell in heaven, when thou, vile queen,
Art burnt in roaring flames! O she shall be
Robed in white garments, with a crown, I ween,
When thou art rotting in eternity!
Better for her to die than live like thee;
Better to die in youth than live in hate,
Scoff'd—scorn'd—despis'd, the mock of infamy!
She lives on high, in pomp and queenly state,
Whilst thou with fiends and demons in deep hell dost mate.
Art burnt in roaring flames! O she shall be
Robed in white garments, with a crown, I ween,
When thou art rotting in eternity!
Better for her to die than live like thee;
Better to die in youth than live in hate,
Scoff'd—scorn'd—despis'd, the mock of infamy!
She lives on high, in pomp and queenly state,
Whilst thou with fiends and demons in deep hell dost mate.
O, 'twas a dreadful time! Young maidens came,
Procession-like, in saintly show, and died.
The burning fires, that quench'd their house and name,
Could shake them not; they perish'd, side by side,
And sunk away in the eternal tide,
Unspotted and unstain'd! The surges flew
Around them; and the roaring fires did glide
Along their limbs, yet chang'd they not the hue
Of these young martyrs' cheeks: heaven kept them brave and true.
Procession-like, in saintly show, and died.
The burning fires, that quench'd their house and name,
Could shake them not; they perish'd, side by side,
And sunk away in the eternal tide,
Unspotted and unstain'd! The surges flew
Around them; and the roaring fires did glide
Along their limbs, yet chang'd they not the hue
Of these young martyrs' cheeks: heaven kept them brave and true.
225
Ruffians did dance for joy around the fires
That burnt them; and there came a maniac rout
Of priests, who gloated at the funeral pyres,
And hail'd each shriek and groan with horrid shout!
Then, aged men, like dogs, were hunted out,
And saint-like perish'd. Holy Cranmer died
Heroic, and the slaves who throng'd about
Did almost weep to see it. Yea, in pride
And exultation deep, his soul to heaven did glide!
That burnt them; and there came a maniac rout
Of priests, who gloated at the funeral pyres,
And hail'd each shriek and groan with horrid shout!
Then, aged men, like dogs, were hunted out,
And saint-like perish'd. Holy Cranmer died
Heroic, and the slaves who throng'd about
Did almost weep to see it. Yea, in pride
And exultation deep, his soul to heaven did glide!
These times are over now! The sun looks down
On other scenes. There is no triumph now
O'er agony: and they do wear a crown
Who died, and glory circles on their brow!
These flame, that roar'd in Smithfield, left below
A glorious light that never shall decay.
A phœnix left the dust, and did endow
The air with inspiration. A new day
Hath blossom'd; Truth, and Hope, and Piety hold sway.
On other scenes. There is no triumph now
O'er agony: and they do wear a crown
Who died, and glory circles on their brow!
These flame, that roar'd in Smithfield, left below
A glorious light that never shall decay.
A phœnix left the dust, and did endow
The air with inspiration. A new day
Hath blossom'd; Truth, and Hope, and Piety hold sway.
Thy foe, sweet lady, died in misery!
That Mary, whom we hate, did not away
'Mid scorn and execration. Thou didst die
Even like a flower beneath the summer ray,
In incens'd beauty; and didst take thy way,
Even like its fragrance, up into the sky.
Thy name it is embalm'd in many a lay;
And, oh, we weep to think of thee, and sigh,
And, with lamenting loud, bewail thy memory!
That Mary, whom we hate, did not away
'Mid scorn and execration. Thou didst die
Even like a flower beneath the summer ray,
In incens'd beauty; and didst take thy way,
Even like its fragrance, up into the sky.
Thy name it is embalm'd in many a lay;
And, oh, we weep to think of thee, and sigh,
And, with lamenting loud, bewail thy memory!
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