 | England |  |
3
INTRODUCTION.
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.
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.
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.
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.
4
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
5
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.—
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.
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!
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.
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.
Of Egypts sand, thy solemn footsteps go;
Old Babylon doth greet thee from her bowers;
6
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Around the ocean-calm of Poetry,
And with the golden hues and tones of even:—
7
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 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.
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.
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.
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!
Her minstrelsies, her sounds, her heavenly light;
8
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.
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?
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!
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.
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.
9
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
10
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.
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!
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 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 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.
From the old ballads spoke by every tongue:
Fame placed the laurel on his lofty brow,
11
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 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.
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!
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.
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?
Full many a storm thou'st borne, and more wilt bear:
12
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?
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.
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?
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!
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!
13
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.
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?
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.
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.
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 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.
14
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.
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!
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.
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.
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 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.
15
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.
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!
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.
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!
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!
Of woes, that crowd even halls all tapestried;
16
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.
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 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!
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.
(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.
17
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
18
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
19
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
20
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
21
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
22
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, 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.
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.
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!
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!
23
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
24
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.
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.
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.
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!
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 | |