Letters to Julia, in Rhyme ... Third Edition. To which are added: Lines Written at Ampthill-Park. By Henry Luttrell |
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 | Letters to Julia, in Rhyme |  |
LINES WRITTEN AT AMPTHILL-PARK,
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1818.
Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas.
VIRG.
That heaves thy grassy slopes no more I rove:—
But long shall Memory feel the magic spell
Unbroken, which thy loveliness has wove.
Has o'er yon steep her sylvan mantle thrown,
And ask can Wealth create, or Power command
The beauties which are hers, and hers alone?
No gloomy caverns yawn, no deserts frown,
No torrents, deafening the affrighted ear,
Rush from their parent-rocks, in thunder, down.
Fair shapes, and glowing hues;—and many a tree
Through vale and upland lifts its tufted head,
Towering in blended grace, and majesty.
Steams upward, as the cloudless orb of day
Sinks to the west, and all the landscape round
Basks in the splendor of his parting ray!
These deepening shadows, and that golden glow
Rich as the gems which, in some eastern mine,
Athwart the gloom their mingled radiance throw.
Soften its lustre with their mellow green,
Telling how long those reverend forms have stood,
The oaks in Ampthill-Park are remarkable for their number and beauty. Some are still sound and flourishing, but the greater part of little value in the eyes of a timber-merchant, though just in the state which a poet or a painter would desire. Perhaps none more picturesque are to be found in England, nor of higher antiquity. A few, in the very last stage of decay, have long cast their shadows “trunco, non frondibus.”
And what their strength and beauty once have been!
O'er the bright meadow, as in ages past:
Deep in their native earth at anchor ride,
And brave the onset of the wintry blast.
Sheltering the flocks, as they recline or graze
O'ercanopied,—what time the Dog-Star sheds
Full on the withered turf his fiercest blaze.
Mourn the last relics of their youthful prime.
Not idly on their stubborn crests have beat
The' unwearied pinions of all-conquering Time.
The timber in Ampthill-Park was surveyed in the year 1608 by Sir Julius Cæsar, who reported it to contain 25,112 timber-trees, value 7722l., and 1018 decaying trees, value 429l. Among these latter were no doubt many of the oaks which are still so great an ornament to the place. In the year 1653, during the Protectorate, another survey was taken by order of Parliament, in which 287 oaks are mentioned as hollow, and unfit for the use of the Navy. This report “incertam excussit radice securim.”
Destined to bear his thunder o'er the main
Their veteran-limbs had felt a mightier stroke,
And with their scattered fragments strewed the plain.
Verdure above, while cankered all beneath;
Fate still suspends the last uplifted blow,
Still, lingering life contends in vain with death.
From youth to age, from vigour to decay,
What deeds have in the busy world been done!
What thrones have sunk, what empires passed away!
His manners, language, garb, religion, laws!
Through what a shifting course his steps have ranged,
Toiling for power, or riches, or applause!
The transitory race,—whate'er his aim,
By hope excited, or by fear subdued,
His feelings, virtues, crimes, are still the same.
Knights, lance to lance, in mortal feud have strove,
Hunters have wound the horn, and pilgrims prayed,
And maidens owned their long-dissembled love.
And Child-hood sported, in the sultry noon:
There the poor outlaw's watchful eyes have closed,
Till on his broken slumbers rose the moon.
Of thy brief masters,—of their joys, and pains;
Record their hardy deeds, their doubtful fate,
Or point where buried lie their proud remains,
Wrung a hard pittance from the half-tilled soil;
Since tyrant-hunters through the prostrate land
Urged the hot work of unrelenting spoil?
Full many a huge misshapen fortress stood
In loneliness—no dwelling, but the den
Of some stern chief, some ruthless man of blood.
Whose priests pronounced his ransomed sins forgiven,
When Conscience, with a voice too deep and loud,
Cried to his parting soul—Despair of heaven!
Harboured and bred the fierce unlettered race:
Quick was their eye to mark, their hand to seize
The plunder of the battle, and the chase.
Controuled their savage force—while holy fraud
Peopled with muttering monks the realms of bliss,
And claimed for cloistered Man the power of God!
Of days so dark and distant,—of the life
Of Rufus, or of Stephen, barbarous Kings,
Their iron rule, and their inglorious strife.
Of Science beamed upon the gladdened world;
Ere Superstition, with her veil withdrawn,
Down from her blood-cemented throne was hurled.
Fanhope, whose grace and gallant bearing went
In the year 1441, Ampthill, with the adjoining estates, was conveyed by one of the Beauchamps to Sir John Cornwall, afterwards created Lord Fanhope, a distinguished military character in the reigns of Henry IV. and V. At a tournament, at York, in 1401, he gained the heart of Elizabeth of Lancaster, the Sister of Henry IV. and widow of John Holland, Duke of Exeter, and, on his marriage with this Princess, received the order of the Garter. He died at Ampthill in the year 1443.
Deep to a royal heart, when, bold and young,
He conquered in the manly tournament.
Marking his birth upon those emerald-waves
That lash the Angel's Mount with ceaseless roar,
When Winter o'er the vexed Atlantic raves.
Lord Fanhope was the founder of Ampthill-Castle. Leland says it was built “of such spoils as he won in France,” and describes it as “standing,” in his time, “stately on a hill, with a foure or five toures of stone in the inner ward, besides the basse courte.” He adds, “it may chaunce that the marriage of the King's sister was a great cause of the sumptuous building there.”
Thy stately Castle, Ampthill.—Britain's isle
Amidst her sons had called to arms in vain
A braver chieftain from a nobler pile.
Of Agincourt, he brought the spoils of France;
Here idle hung the time-worn warrior's shield,
Unplumed his helm, uncouched his blunted lance.
Through all the vassal-country echoed wide,
When courteous knights and dames of gentle birth
Bent in proud homage to his princely bride?
The foe's assault so oft, unshaken, bore?—
Its battlements are swept away, its halls
Are sunk,—its very ruins are no more!
Where once it stood,—till yon fair Cross arose,
On, or near the site of the Castle, a gothic stone-Cross was erected in the year 1770, by the late Earl of Upper-Ossory. A public foot-path passes close to this Cross, along the brow of the hill, commanding an extensive and beautiful prospect. Engraved on its base are the following lines from the pen of an author better known by his name than his title, Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford.
In days of old, here Ampthill's towers were seen,The mournful refuge of an injured queen.
Here flowed her pure but unavailing tears,
Here blinded zeal sustained her sinking years.
Yet Freedom hence her radiant banner waved
And Love avenged a realm by priests enslaved.
From Catherine's wrongs a nation's bliss was spread,
And Luther's light from Henry's lawless bed.
Telling a tale that will not be forgot
Of ill-starred Catherine,—of her wrongs and woes.
Fortune a ray of parting glory cast;
Though graced and honoured oft, in happier hours,
The noblest guest they sheltered was the last.
Soon after the year 1527, the estate of Ampthill became vested in the crown, probably by an exchange with Reginald Grey, Earl of Kent, whose family acquired it, either by purchase or descent, after the death of Henry Duke of Exeter. Upon this exchange, it was made an honour by act of Parliament. Catherine of Arragon resided here while her divorce was pending, and was cited from hence to attend the commissioners at Dunstable, but refused to appear. There is no account of the castle, or of its inhabitants, during the subsequent reigns. Probably it was suffered to go to decay, as the survey made by order of Parliament, under the Protectorate, speaks of it as having been, long before, totally demolished.
Osbourne, in the Traditional Memoirs of his own Time, mentions that the honour of Ampthill was conferred by James I. upon Sir Thomas Erskine, who had rescued the King in the conspiracy of Gowrie, and killed Alexander Ruthven with his own hand. “No small present,” he calls it, “at one time.” This Sir Thomas, then Viscount Fenton, was afterwards created Earl of Kelly. The same author, who expresses upon all occasions an utter contempt of James, says, that when accoutered for the chase, he resembled “a host at Ampthill.”
Daughter of Arragon!—That royal mien
Bespeaks thee, through the grief that clouds thy brow,
Through all a woman's sorrows,—still a queen.
What can restore the tyrant to thy arms,
Though earth and heaven were warring on thy side,
'Gainst Henry's headstrongwill, and Anna's charms?
But fan the flames which in his bosom rise,
While beauty unenjoyed, and blooming youth
Play round her cheek, and sparkle in her eyes.
Resolved in silence to submit thy cause
Rather to open force and princely power,
Than coward-judges and perverted laws.
“Reft of a crown,” insulted in thy love,
Faith held her stedfast empire o'er thy breast,
Catherine's dream, in her last illness, is imagined with striking conformity to her situation and character.
Cath.Saw ye none enter while I slept?
Griff.
None, Madam.
Cath.
No?—Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me like the sun?
They promised me eternal happiness,
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
I am not worthy yet to wear—I shall
Assuredly.
Hen. VIII. Act 4, Scene 2.
And whispering angels cheered thee from above.
Where the worn path imprints yon terraced height,
Courting the freshness of the breeze, I pass,
And with the opening landscape feast my sight.
Stoops to the valley!—Not unblest who roves
Or lingers on its brink, and views, around
Far-stretched, this lovely scene,—these plains and groves.
Allied to Ampthill, crowned with many a tree
Of shape and hue nor different, nor the same;—
Such should the kindred-forms of sisters be.
Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum.
Ovid. Metam.
Ampthill and Houghton may, poetically, be considered as sisters. Both, in early times, belonged to the same person, from whom they were conveyed to Lord Fanhope. Fuller, in his “Worthies,” when he speaks of Ampthill (where no building then existed) as boasting “one of the three houses of the best credit in Bedfordshire,” confounds it with Houghton, which is situated partly in Ampthill-parish. The two enclosures are divided only by the road, and, together, occupy the hilly and wooded ground so remarkable in a generally level country. The surface of both is beautifully varied, and clothed with abundance of fine trees.
Adorn them both;—beneath the' enchanted eye
Wide-spreading oaks along their shady dells
And their rough knolls, in rival beauty, lie.
Full in the' horizon flaming, braves the west,
Both share the' impartial splendor, in a robe
Fromthe same loom,—of heaven's own colours, drest.
Which from the mists of autumn, as they sail
Along the meadow, rears its lofty brow,
And with a leafy rampart bounds the vale.
O'er thy grey tower, romantic Milbrook, pass!
Touched by the slanting beam, what hues it takes,
Ere Evening blends them in one shadowy mass!
Half sunk, and ivy-clad, rude forms arise
Of antique masonry,—the shattered frieze
Beneath them, and the broken column lies.
And clustering chimneys, mark the spot where stood
Chambers once tenanted, and spacious halls,
The mansion of the “fair, and wise, and good.”
Houghton-Park was purchased, in the beginning of the reign of James I. by the sister of Sir Philip Sidney, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, whose fame still survives in the epitaph ascribed to Ben Jonson, part of which has been moulded into the text. By her the building now in ruins was erected. Its architecture was of the mixed kind so prevalent at that period.
Dwelt “Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother,”—here
On all so bright and beautiful she gazed,
Blessing, and blest, through many a changeful year.
In Houghton-Park a tree is shewn under which Sir Philip Sidney is said to have written some of his works. But this tradition must be without foundation, as he died many years before his sister, Lady Pembroke, had acquired any interest or property in the place.
------ Sic extorta voluptas,Et demptus, per vim, mentis gratissimus error!
Or bards have dreamed (O! were the vision true!)
That here her kinsman-knight enraptured roved,
And from these scenes his own “Arcadia” drew.
Their faith!—to yonder legendary tree
The rustic points, boasting how there reclined
Sidney, the flower of English chivalry.
From blazing hearths the smoke ascends no more:
No human step, no voice, within the gate,
Recalls the memory of the days of yore.
Rank weeds and wiry grass obstruct my way;
There reptiles lurk, there owls in darkness build,
And soaring kites dart headlong on their prey.
Behold where gleam in sculptured stone on high
Amid the general wreck unhurt, unstained,
The crests and scutcheons of quaint heraldry!
When Strength and Beauty from these walls are fled;
Vain as the hovering of some steel-clad ghost
Round the damp vaults where sleep the mighty dead!
Within the varnished holly's fence enclosed;
And paths be trodden yet, and haunts look green
Where Age and Youth have wandered or reposed.
Pass but a few short years, they melt away.
Thine, Nature, thine are adamant,—they stand
Impassive in their strength, and mock decay.
The elements, the varying seasons last.
The glorious sun shines with as bright a beam
Now, as through all the countless ages past.
The long-suspended stroke of Time derides;
But still Soracte crowns the Latian plain,
As when the snow first veiled its glittering sides.
Whether such was, in Horace's time, the usual winter-dress of the mountain, or worn in seasons of extraordinary rigour only, does not appear. But it may be questioned if, since its ancient appellation has been so strangely travestied, the snow has ever lain deep on the sides, or on the summit of St. Oreste.
And meanly mingle with their native earth,
While on their unregarded dust shall frown
The marble rocks and caves which gave them birth.
Are on the breeze.—Returning, I pursue
My homeward way, where, through o'ershadowing limes,
On to the Mansion leads the avenue.
The present Mansion was built in the year 1694, by the first Lord Ashburnham. It was purchased, with the estate of Ampthill, in the year 1720, by Viscount Fitz-William, who sold it, in the year 1736, to Lady Gowran, the grandmother of the late Earl of Upper Ossory. He died in the month of February, 1818, having devised the estates of Ampthill and Houghton to his nephew, Lord Holland, their present proprietor.
Among the friends of Lord Ossory, who formed, at different periods, the Society at Ampthill-Park, were some of the most distinguished persons of their time in England. His brother General Fitzpatrick, Messrs. Fox, Burke, Wyndham, Horace Walpole, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Gibbon, Mr. Garrick, &c. The catalogue might be enriched with many living names, were not those already enumerated sufficient to justify the expressions in the text.
Persuasion dwelt on many a tuneful tongue,
And listening Beauty has sat silent by,
While statesmen held debate, and poets sung.
By friends and children, say, does earth afford
Aught fairer than the wreath which, blooming here,
Crowned, in his own domains, their happy lord?
So nobly used!—Tears were in every eye
When those, alas! who knew and loved thee best
Bent o'er thy grave, lamented Ossory!
He held not, nor prolonged the' unequal strife,
But sudden came, and with resistless force
Checked the bright current of thy prosperous life.
These uplands now?—to him, who, yet a child,
Here bounded, roe-like, once—o'er hill and plain,
On the smooth lawn, and in the forest wild
How dear to him, in manhood's prime, must be
The soil he trod, the very air he breathed
In the blithe hours of careless infancy!
How grateful Memory loves each spot to trace
Where once the happy school-boy, welcomed home,
In his fond kinsman's viewed a father's face!
Through unborn ages:—o'er this hallowed ground
Ne'er may the spoiler tread, nor wasting wind
Nor axe among these storied woods resound.
As now, by knowledge, and by manly sense
Wedded to childhood's mirth, by classic taste,
And sparkling wit, and vigorous eloquence.
Long, long around his hospitable board
'Mid kindred spirits, with unfading ray,
The sunshine of its Master's mind be poured.
Unhonoured here;—ne'er unresisted be
“The' oppressor's wrong,” nor the relentless creed
Forged for her slaves by tyrant-Bigotry.
Hours of delight, how quickly are you past!
Down from the glimmering west the sun is gone,
And Night has waved her ebon-wand at last.
Which heaves thy grassy slopes no more I rove:
But long shall memory feel the magic spell
Unbroken, which thy loveliness has wove!
| Letters to Julia, in Rhyme | |