The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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THE LADY OF THE MOUNT. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
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THE LADY OF THE MOUNT.
“To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.”
Is not to die.”
A lonely lady mourns upon the land
Where Mount St. Michael guards the Atlantic wave;
A pale brow drooping on a wasted hand,—
The Lady Katherine Gordon —she who gave
All that a bard could hymn or warrior crave
To Warbeck, vaunted heir of York's true line.
She loved him well in life, and o'er his grave,
Hear it, ye misbelievers! as a shrine
She breath'd into his soul a passion all divine!
Where Mount St. Michael guards the Atlantic wave;
A pale brow drooping on a wasted hand,—
The Lady Katherine Gordon —she who gave
All that a bard could hymn or warrior crave
To Warbeck, vaunted heir of York's true line.
She loved him well in life, and o'er his grave,
Hear it, ye misbelievers! as a shrine
She breath'd into his soul a passion all divine!
Slowly she dies! and, one by one, the hues
Pass from her shining cheek, till all is pale;
Tears fall thereon—the unavailing dews
Impearl those leaves that wave beneath the gale.
Fame, worship, wealth! and what could these avail?
He for whom all were dear was far away—
Yet the proud name he gave shall none assail,
Our bards still call'd her, in their honouring lay,
The White Rose of Old England, unto her dying day.
Pass from her shining cheek, till all is pale;
Tears fall thereon—the unavailing dews
Impearl those leaves that wave beneath the gale.
Fame, worship, wealth! and what could these avail?
He for whom all were dear was far away—
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Our bards still call'd her, in their honouring lay,
The White Rose of Old England, unto her dying day.
The White Rose of Old England! at that name
Our hearts shall burn within us. Tales they tell
Of a grey band of monks that seaward came
From the rich Loire; and where these surges swell
They rear'd, in memory of their native cell,
Walls, where St. Michael still might honour'd be.
At the Eighth Harry's breath their cloister fell:—
Therefore the storied rock and girdling sea,
Thou Lady of the Dead! we consecrate to thee!
Our hearts shall burn within us. Tales they tell
Of a grey band of monks that seaward came
From the rich Loire; and where these surges swell
They rear'd, in memory of their native cell,
Walls, where St. Michael still might honour'd be.
At the Eighth Harry's breath their cloister fell:—
Therefore the storied rock and girdling sea,
Thou Lady of the Dead! we consecrate to thee!
1832
A band of monks, from a place of the same name on the Loire, founded a Priory on this rock before the time of Edward the Confessor.
“She loved Warbeck,” says Bacon, “utterly in all his fortunes, and the name of The White Rose, which he gave her in his pride, men continued unto her, because of her beauty.” He left her at St. Michael's Mount on his march to London. Of her fate after his capture and death, there are conflicting legends. Our Cornish dames assert that she died— their husbands, that she married again. I have adopted the more poetical catastrophe.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |