Poems original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

The banner waved on Clermont's highest tower;
Forth rode the Count in glittering armour clad:
But Aldabelle bewail'd the luckless hour,
Alone, amidst the pomp of triumph, sad:
From her fair eyes fast fell the pearly shower,—
Ah tears ill timed, when all things else were glad!
The soul-born pride of female courage slept;
Anglante's spouse, the Rose of Clermont, wept.

And wherefore falls the pearly shower so fast?
And wherefore heaves with frequent sighs her breast?
Not so, when War had blown his deadliest blast,
The mailed hero to her heart she prest;
Then fearless waited, till the storm o'erpast
Should give him back to her who loved him best,
Safe in the prowess of her conquering lord,
And the resistless magic of his sword.

“Orlando, stay! last night the sheeted fire
Blazed from yon western heaven, in crimson dyed—

Orlando, stay! with screeches loud and dire
The deadly raven at my casement cried;
And, when I woke, the spectre of thy sire,
Of Milo, Clermont's lord, was at my side.
Orlando, stay! I'm sick and faint at heart,
Nor can my soul endure the thought,—to part.

“Thou too, my Oliver, my brother, stay!
Thou gentlest knight that ever bore a sheild!
'Tis come, alas! that heaven appointed day—
Orlando breathless lies on Honour's field.
O let thine Aldabelle, thy sister, pray!
To female tears 'tis no disgrace to yield:
Think on the duties of thy knightly vow,
Behold the widow and the orphan now!

“Can ye remember Gano's treacherous tongue,
His smooth deceits, his unextinguish'd hate?
Can ye forget how Malagigi sung
The dark presages of approaching fate?
The warning words, on Namo's lips that hung,
Big with the ruin of the Christian state?
What Salamon's sagacious mind foretold?
What Britain's valiant King, the wise and old?

“In Poictiers' race was friendship ever known?
Then trust the tale by base Maganza wrought.
Was ever truth on Saragossa's throne?
Then throw aside the guard that prudence taught.
But, oh Orlando! 'tis to thee alone,

The generous soul, and unsuspecting thought:
Against thee, in the unequal fight, engage
Unfathom'd Fraud, insatiable Rage.”

Vain are thy prayers and sighs, fair Aldabelle,
Sweet lady, vain;—thy warning who can hear?
Bright Hope and Joy thy brother's bosom swell,
And plumed Pride, the deadly foe to Fear.
But Clermont's lord pronounced one faint farewell,
From his dark brow he dash'd one manly tear,
Omen of ill!—then cried, “On, soldiers, on!—
Long is our journey, and the day far gone.”

Their pleasant road through glades and forests lay
Of shadowy plane rows, and the stately beech,
Beneath whose foliage winds her rapid way
Glad Oise, in haste his regal bride to reach.
Sweet birds from every thicket caroll'd gay,
In melody surpassing human speech;
Soft breezes fann'd the air, and curl'd the stream,
Melting the soul in love's enchanted dream.

I cannot say what amorous thoughts possest
The younger Paladin, as on he rode;
But, ever and anon, his steed he prest
With idle spur; then carelessly bestrode,
The reins let loose, and every limb at rest,
Just as his active spirits ebb'd and flow'd:
Had he in love been constant as in fight,
Not all the world could boast a worthier knight.

Orlando's heart the soft attemper'd air
To different thoughts of graver hue inclined;
No vain delusive fires enkindled there,
But breathed a solemn stillness o'er his mind,
(That mood the gifted sage is said to share
When inspiration leaves the sense behind,)
Recalling every sigh, and sad farewell,
And boding tear of his loved Aldabelle.

From the deep trance, that until eventide
Still held the knights so diversely enthrall'd,
First Oliver awoke, and sportive cried,
“How fares my brother? has his mind recall'd
Some fearful scene by Merlin prophesied?
Or, by Montalban's raven voice appall'd,
Thinks he the dreams of female terror true,
And half regrets the glory we pursue?

“My temper suits not with the gloomy mood
Gender'd by woman's tear and beadsman's groan:
It ever whispers, Seize the present good,
And live in hope, till hope and life are flown.
E'en now, to say thee sooth, I inly brood
On fancied pleasures near the Moorish throne;—
Proud lordships and embattled towers for thee,
For me, high dames, and sports and minstrelsy.

“Then, with the earliest breeze of balmy morn,
The silent Pyrenees shall start to hear
The mountain music of my echoing horn;

And by my side, dispell'd each maiden fear,
The Moorish nymph, to gentler pastimes born,
Shall curb the steed and dart the slender spear,
While her dark lover, following far behind,
May sigh his jealous sorrows to the wind.

“She heeds not his rebuke; but, when the hour
Of feast and revelry begins its reign,
My huntress fair shall sparkling nectar pour
For me, for me awake the amorous strain.
The banquet's past; and o'er the myrtle bower
Night spreads her veil, the fairest bower in Spain;
I know not,—but a Christian knight, 'tis said,
May haply win the love of Moorish maid.”

Thus as he spake, he smiled in merry guise,
And Clermont's lord with temperate smile return'd:
“Fair cousin, while you speak, our elders wise
May wish, full fain, their gravest lore unlearn'd,
And ladies, chaste as ice, whose fixed eyes
Ne'er stray'd from fancy, nor with passion burn'd,
By heaving bosom and warm cheek confess
Some hidden sense of undream'd blessedness.

“Me would it ill beseem to knit my brow
When amorous knights discourse of ladies gay,
Or, like a churchman, mutter penance vow
When laughing minstrels chaunt the merry lay;
The gibing Paladins would ask, Where now

Is he who loved the Princess of Cathay,
Orlando,—whom Angelica the vain
Robb'd of his wits beside the banks of Seine?

“And, trust me, Oliver, no dismal tale
Of dark foreboding, portent dire and strange,
Of shrieking night bird, or of phantom pale,
Can the high purpose of my soul derange:
Though o'er my mind be cast a transient veil,
As passing clouds the summer skies may change,
No fears the champion of the Cross can move,
Whose confidence is firm in heavenly love.”

“Well I believe,” return'd that younger knight,
The unshaken firmness of Orlando's soul:
For when nor prospect of unequal fight,
Nor tempest rattling fierce from pole to pole
Had ever power to make thee blench with fright,
Oh how should peace array'd in gorgeous stole,
The tributary realm and proffer'd throne,
But fill thy breast with joy and pride alone?”

Thus in free converse pass'd the sultry hours,
Till eve descending over hill and vale
With dewy fingers closed the drooping flowers:
Now fresher perfumes load each passing gale,
And sweet birds nestle in their summer bowers,
And tunes her throat the wakeful nightingale.
The wandering knights some friendly shelter claim
With needful sleep to soothe the o'erwearied frame.

Anselm, the generous chief of Arli's race
It chanced some knightly purpose thither led,
At the same hour their frugal board to grace,
And share the lord of Clermont's proffer'd bed.
So fared the knights of old;—no lack of space
To noble spirits in the narrowest shed,
While the wide world was all too small to hold
The guardian and the plunderer of the fold.

In mutual faith, both ask'd, and both declared
Their different journey's end: how Charles had sent
To king Marsilius messengers prepared
To treat, with words of fair arbitrement,
That both by Moor and Christian might be shared
Once more the joys of peaceable content;
How Poictiers' lord the gracious olive bore,
And spread the joyful news from shore to shore,

Orlando told: nor fail'd he to declare
That Saragossa's prince had fix'd the day
Whereon to Roncesvaux he would repair
In pomp of peace, with suitable array,
To meet Anglante's valiant lord, and there
Into his hands with honour reconvey
The realms erst won by conquering Charlemain
From wild Sobrarbe to Ebro's fertile plain.

“Thither, at Charles's high behest, I go;
And little reck I whether false or sooth

Montalban's death-denouncing voice of woe,
That bade beware the subtile mask of truth,
And hold no reverence for his head of snow
Who stain'd with treason the fair page of youth.
Fear must not couple with Orlando's name:
Whate'er betide, his course is still the same.”

Short time the generous Anselm mused, and then—
“Now by the faith of former years,” he cried,
“The mutual faith we pledged in fair Ardenne,
And since in dangerous battle oft have tried,
Orlando, if thou dare the lion's den,
Thy brother knight shall enter by thy side.
Till both return from Roncesvalles free,
Loved Arles, adieu! I'll ne'er revisit thee.”

Meanwhile, upon his rushy couch reclined,
Slept Oliver as on the softest bed;
While fancy left the present scenes behind,
And dreams delusive throng'd about his head:
Now round his brows are rosy chaplets twined,
Now gorgeous tapestry for his feet is spread;
The storied walls, carved roofs, and inlaid floor,
The same that deck'd the courts of Caradore.

The banquet rich in royal state is spread,
Mid the full blaze of artificial day:
The air with music trembles: high o'er head
Harmonious minstrels chaunt the jocund lay:
Piment and clairet, hypocras and mead,

And sparkling cyprus, and the deep tokay,
By courteous knights are pledged to blushing maids,
While peals of laughter shake the proud arcades.

Sudden the feast is vanish'd, hush'd the sound
Of minstrelsy, and quench'd the torches' blaze:
One solitary taper sheds around
A shadowy couch its soft mysterious rays;
And on that couch, as if in trance profound,
Reclines the enchantress of his later days,
Bright as when first with answering fires she burn'd,
And vow for vow, and sigh for sigh return'd.

“My fondest love, awake!” he seem'd to say—
“Meridiana! let those melting eyes
Beam on my soul, once more, celestial day—
And light the path that leads to Paradise!”
They ope, those stars of love; the kindling ray
O'er all her frame in swift emotion flies:
“My Oliver!”—Enraptured, tranced, possess'd,
He hears his murmur'd name—he sinks upon her breast—

Upon her panting breast he sinks—but oh!
No more it heaves his warm embrace to meet—
That breast has ceased to pant, that cheek to glow,
Those eyes to sparkle, and that pulse to beat;
The form he clasps is cold as statued snow;
The couch a bier—the robe a winding sheet—
The sounds, faint struggling those pale lips between,
“Take thy first bride, thy murder'd Florisene!”

With horror wild he bursts the icy chain
Of slumber; and, ere yet the cheerful light
Purpled the billows of the eastern main,
Hath summon'd to the field each brother knight:
His alter'd cheer they note, but seek in vain
To rouse the extinguish'd genius of delight,
Or clear the brow with shades of death o'ercast:—
So heavy sits remembrance of the past.

Five days they journey on, from morning's break
To night, and on the sixth fair evening view
The sun-clad Pyrenean's spiry peak,
Like some proud banner tinged with golden hue.
“Behold,” Orlando cries, “the mark we seek,—
How awful, yet how goodly, to the view!
Hail we the passing glory, as a sign,
Vouchsafed from Heaven, of countenance divine.

“But who are they that, from yon forest glade
Emerging, hither urge their steeds aright?
Full gallant lords they seem, and well array'd,
As on their arms faint glows the expiring light.”
“If well mine eyes distinguish'd,” Anselm said,
“The foremost is, indeed, a gallant knight:
Charles cannot boast a worthier in his train.—
What! know ye not the far famed British thane?”

“Now shame upon mine eyes untimely blind!
“It is, it is Astolpho's self I see;
And now the chief who follows close behind

I note,—the flower of Asia's chivalry,
The heir to Mecca's throne,—whose virtuous mind
From Paynim bonds of prejudice set free,
I press'd him to my heart, and hail'd with pride,
In friendship once, and now in faith allied.

“A third still follows after, who, in show
Of outward pomp, outdazzles both his peers:
And where's the champion in whose veins doth flow
A current of such noble blood as theirs?
Yet else, methinks, that graceful form I know;
It should be own'd by Baldwin of Poictiers,
A generous youth, and, though of Gano's race,
Heir to his fortunes, not to his disgrace.”

By this, the knights advancing wave on high
Their plumed casques, in gratulation fair,
Mid shouts of joy; and as they press more nigh,
With answering shouts resounds the vocal air:
And now, in phrase of untaught courtesy,
(Embraces past,) old Otho's valiant heir
Begins their cause of coming to explain,—
“Orlando, hail! imperial Charlemain

“Sends thee this greeting;—(for myself and these
Brethren in arms all reverence and love!—)
At Fontarabia on the Gascon seas
Our sovereign holds his court; nor thence will move,
Till, as the tenor of the peace decrees,

In the tremendous sight of God above,
Whom Moor and Christian equally adore,
Marsilius shall have seal'd the faith he swore.

“But when into thy hands at Roncesvaux
The solemn cession shall be made complete,
The powers of France and Spain, no longer foes,
In Pampeluna's royal courts shall meet;
And there, instead of rude uncivil blows,
Shall merriment resound through every street;
For shrieks of desolate wives from husbands rent,
The festive dance and knightly tournament.

“On Roncesvalles' field already wait
Thy coming many chiefs of worth declared;
There Turpin, reverend sire, to consecrate
The solemn act with holiest rites prepared,
Saint Michel's lords, the Prince of Neustria's state,
Montleon's Gualtier, good Duke Egibard,
Avino, either Anjolin, are there,
Avolio, and the gentle Berlinghier.

“As marshals, we before the joyous host
Are sent to meet and guide your course aright,
Myself, with Sansonetto, Asia's boast,
And gentle Baldwin, yet untried in fight,
Who, though a little month is gone at most,
Since Charles array'd, and sent him forth, a knight,
Will soon, perchance, eclipse our paler fire,
As he already shames our mean attire.”

So spake he, jesting: but the ingenuous youth,
Who, erst, Orlando's best loved page had been,
And served with matchless constancy and truth,
Advanced with modest blush yet manly mien—
“Think not, my honour'd patron, that in sooth
I would in aught but simplest garb be seen,
Such as befits a knight of worth untried:—
This is not Baldwin's, but a father's pride.

“He bade me wear this rich embroider'd vest,
Which, at your bidding, gladly I restore:”
Orlando strain'd the warrior to his breast—
“No, wear it still—there's none can grace it more:
And, be it freely, noble friend, confest,
I never felt so true a joy before,
As now, that in thy welcome sight I see
The surest pledge of Gano's loyalty.

“For ever be ungenerous doubt,” he cried,
“Offspring of idle fancy, cast away!
Now, Aldabelle, resume thy wonted pride:
Suspicion is a guest that shuns the day.”
A deeper blush the cheek of Baldwin dyed—
“Suspicion!—did my noble patron say?
Now, so sit honour on my virgin sword,
As spotless is the faith of Poictiers' lord.”

So spake the son, unknowing yet the cause
That stain'd with doubt Maganza's perjured name:
And who so strange to nature's holiest laws

But loves the champion of a parent's fame?
Orlando mark'd his warmth with just applause.
“My valiant Baldwin! on my head the blame,
Whose heedless words have hurt a soul like thine:
Henceforth, thy father's honour shall be mine.”

Now must we leave the Paladins awhile.
And ye, who kindly listen to my lay,
Think they have reach'd the destined vale, where smile
Soft meadows in perennial verdure gay,
And, every side surrounding, pile o'er pile
Rise the gigantic hills, and seem to say,
Here are we fix'd by Heaven's creating hand
The everlasting guardians of the land.

CANTO II.

Now to Montalban's raven haunted tower,
Genius of old romance! direct my way;
Where, erst, against the leagued imperial power
The sons of Aymon held rebellious sway.
Then, proud Montalban, was thy courtly bower
Throng'd with the pomp of chivalrous array:
But now, since peace has seal'd the fatal strife
That arm'd a vassal 'gainst his sovereign's life,

For many a slow revolving year, no more
Thy walls have echoed any earthly sound;
While, far from thee, to Asia's distant shore
Thy chiefs are gone, on wild adventure bound:
Now waves the rank grass from thy turrets hoar,
Erewhile with Aymon's feudal banner crown'd;
The sun, whose setting beams reflected shone
From buckler, casque and spear, now warms the mouldering stone.

Yet not untenanted,—so fame reports
Among the credulous peasants of the plain,—
Though Silence in thy halls and spacious courts
Upholds her ancient solitary reign:
But thither oft at midnight hour resorts
From central caves of earth a viewless train,
At Malagigi's potent spell, to wait
His bidding, and lay bare the womb of fate.

'Tis said,—and, courteous hearers, if I seem
On fancy's wing to take too bold a flight,
The reverend Turpin vouches for my theme;
And who can doubt what reverend churchmen write?—
Oft from the banks of Seine's imperial stream,
Borne on the rapid coursers of the night,
The wise enchanter, in one little hour,
Would cleave the sky to gray Montalban's tower;

And there, with cabalistic lore profound,
Summon the princes of the infernal coasts,

Or break with potent words the hallow'd ground,
Waking from death's long sleep unbodied ghosts;
Then deep mysterious converse hold, till sound
Of earliest cock dispersed the shadowy hosts:—
So Turpin writes,—and, if you doubt the tale
By me affirm'd, let Turpin's words prevail.

When false Maganza to the imperial throne
The peaceful answer of Marsilius bore,
Many a brave peer, for faith and courage known,
Doubted a fraud in every smile he wore;
But chiefly Malagigi, whether prone
By cautious nature to suspect, or more
Than others knew by art superior taught,
Freely proclaim'd the peace with treason fraught.

And then, since Charles, unheeding all he told,
And fondly trusting a false favorite's tale,
His mandate sent to Clermont's lord, to hold
That solemn meeting in the appointed vale,
With stern despight that would not be controll'd,
The enchanter sought, beneath the moonlight pale,
Montalban's towers, and there deep ponder'd o'er,
Night following night, his strange mysterious lore.

Down in the infernal cavern's deepest place
His mansion holds a spirit wise and strong
And terrible; of his abandon'd race
Moves none more black those dismal courts among;

Yet over him, by Heaven's eternal grace,
The more to humble that rebellious throng,
Have magic charms permitted power to quell
His savage force with adamantine spell.

Him Malagigi summon'd: by his voice
Compell'd the dæmon rose; but fiercer far
Than subject spirit suits; as if the choice
He had to serve, or wage vindictive war.
He smiled, as devils smile when they rejoice,—
Such smile as murderers in their vengeance wear.
That smile the enchanter mark'd, and felt the hour
Draw nigh when he must render back his power.

Shuddering he mark'd, but soon collected spoke:
“Not yet, oh Astaroth! not yet the day
That frees immortals from my earthly yoke:
Still art thou bound, and still thou must obey.
Hear then my last command! Henceforth be broke
The mighty spell and melt in air away,
So now my potent bidding thou fulfil:
Hear, then, submissive! hear, and do my will!

“First teach me, for thou canst, since Charles hath gone,
Reckless of danger, to the coast of Spain,
And he, the great defender of his throne,
Abides the Moor on Roncesvalles' plain,
What doom is in the rolls of fate foreshown?
What is the doom of France and Charlemain?

Say, doth the dæmon of destruction lower,
With treason leagued, o'er all the Christian power?”

“Master!—so still thou art!”—the fiend replied,
(For that determined voice recall'd the day
When magic bound for his rebellious pride
Seven years within the rifted rock he lay,)
“Things are there in the womb of fate denied
To spiritual ken as sense of mortal clay:
The past and present are our own; but eye
Of creature never pierced futurity.

“Darkly indeed and doubtfully we trace
Shadows that flit behind the eternal veil.
Sometimes we view them imaged in the face
Of outer heaven in colours dim and pale,
But nothing certain. Had Almighty Grace
Thrown such a weight of knowledge in our scale,
How should the boaster, Man, elude our powers?
No,—God hath clipp'd our wings, or the wide world were ours.

“Think'st thou, if Lucifer himself, the first,
As once in heaven, so now in lowest hell,
Could pierce that sacred veil, that he had durst
Claim power supreme, and, claiming it, rebel?—
Or we those easier chains of wrath had burst
To make our second fall more damnable?
No, no; all knowledge is to angels known,—
All but the future: that is God's alone.

“Yet what I can my master may command.
Know then that all the circling air is dense
With spirits, each his astrolabe in hand,
Searching the hidden ways of Providence.
For from his throne in Scorpio o'er the land
Now gloomy Mars sheds baleful influence,
Portending chances terrible and strange,
Treason and blood to man, to empires change.

“Yes,—in that heavenly sign I see portray'd
The massacre of nations, and the fall
Of mighty states, and man by man betray'd,
And many a prince's bloody funeral.
Hast thou not mark'd yon comet, that array'd
In sanguine lustre rules this nightly ball?
All this and worse that sanguine beam foreshows;
A long interminable train of woes.

“Thus far into the future can I see,
And only thus; for, what conclusion thence
The mind may draw, it open lies to thee
As much as to the keenest spiritual sense.
But, for the things that were and those that be,
Somewhat to me my searching sight presents,
To thee unknown, that may, if rightly told,
More of hereafter to thy mind unfold.

“Know then, when Poictiers' traitorous lord was sent,
With courteous phrase the Moorish chief to greet,
Veiling in honest show his base intent,

As if by Charles deliver'd, at his feet
He dared pronounce so rude a compliment,
So full of threats for sovereign's ear unmeet,
That proud Marsilius, swelling with disdain,
Hurl'd back defiance stern to Charlemain.

“And when thus apt for vengeance, hot for blood,
The prince he found, this wily traitor knew
By weaving phrases of more courtly mood,
Unto his damned purpose to subdue
And mould that tiger soul. It were not good,
He said, such insolent mockery to pursue
With open vengeance, which might miss its blow:
No,—make the example terrible though slow.

“From hour to hour his favour stronger grows
With Saragossa's monarch, till it seems
Marsilius through his knowledge all things knows,
Thinks with his thoughts and with his reason deems:
One day it chanced, beneath the verdant rows
Of poplar fringing rapid Ebro's streams,
Tired with the chase, that from the noontide heat
They sought together a secure retreat;

“And there, to end my tale, between them plann'd
A work so full of monstrous villany,
That, heard in hell, the whole infernal band
Raised one loud shout, reechoing to the sky.
The mine is now prepared, the work in hand;

Nor can I in the signs of Heaven descry,
If godlike virtue may not guard the event,
Aught to divert its full accomplishment.

“It matters not, their bloody league complete,
As from the bank arose that son of hell,
That the wild carob shook, and at his feet
The accursed fruit, sign of Heaven's anger, fell;
Though, since Iscariot's death, the judgment seat
Had never witness'd deed so damnable.
A moment's space the traitor stood aghast,
The next, laugh'd at his fears and onward pass'd.

“‘How, if Orlando fears?’ ‘He shall not fear,’
The traitor answer'd:—‘to confirm him ours,
Give me the surcoat thou art used to bear
In purple wrought and stiff with golden flowers:
That vest my son, my only son, shall wear,
A safe protection when the battle lowers,
And thus begirt, as with Jove's ægis, be
Himself the guide of Clermont's chivalry,.

“‘Their ignorant guide to havoc and despair:
Do thou but pledge thy solemn faith to mine,
To bid thy soldiers watch with special care,
And when they mark, amidst the Christian line,
The embroider'd vest their sovereign used to wear
Upon a young and gallant warrior shine,
That warrior see ye spare, and spare alone!—
That warrior is the son of Ganellon.’”

The dæmon paused; and thus the enchanter said:
“Too well, oh Astaroth! too well I see
A sight to fill the stoutest heart with dread,
The fearful hour of Gallia's chivalry.
Already are the mountains wide o'erspread,
Wave following wave, by one devouring sea,
While in the vale our Paladins await,
Thoughtless of ill, the o'erwhelming rush of fate.

“But say, is there no hope of safety yet?
No buckler yet the impending blow to stay?”
“None—Roncesvalles is the fowler's net,
Already cast around the unconscious prey.
They know it not; but ere the sun hath set
That dawns upon the third portentous day,
For every lance in that devoted band,
Unnumber'd Paynim swords will sweep across the land.”

Silent and sad awhile the enchanter sate;
Then cried, “Oh yet—Orlando's powerful sword
May yet carve out for France a nobler fate.”
“Yes, so it please high heaven's imperial Lord
That for the weal of that neglectful state
The days of Amalek shall be restored.”
The irreverent taunt the enchanter heeded not,
But inly musing—“Whatsoe'er their lot,

“Would,” he exclaim'd, “they had Rinaldo there!
That wondrous arm might turn the opposing scale.”

Then thus to Astaroth,—“Say, dæmon, where
Lingers my cousin in this mortal vale?”
Eastward he turn'd those eyes that through mid air
Ten thousand leagues can swift as lightning sail—
“I see him now beneath the sultry skies
Where Pharaoh's everlasting temples rise.”

Then Malagigi gave his last command,
That in three days the dæmon should convey
Montalban's knight from Egypt's burning sand
To Roncesvalles, through the aërial way.
“Henceforth be free from spell of mortal band,
As thou shalt this my last behest obey!”
Grimly the dæmon smiled his last farewell—
“Thou art obey'd,” he cried; then plunged to hell.

Montalban's towers and silent streams and glades
Sleep in the quiet moonshine, when from far
Borne through mid heaven attend the courser shades
Self-harness'd to their visionary car.
“To Charlemain, ere yet the moonbeam fades,
Lost in the brightness of Aurora's star,
Bear me, my steeds, in silence through the sky:
Yet may we change Orlando's destiny!”

He who from dull repose short hours can steal,
Alone to wander mid the calm serene
Of a fair summer's midnight, and can feel
His soul accordant to that solemn scene,

May think how joyful, swift as thought, to wheel
From fleecy cloud to cloud, while all between
Is one pure flood of light, and dim and slow
Rolls the wide world of vapour far below.

And now o'er Roncesvalles' fatal plain
Hovering, the wise enchanter bids descend
His coursers, and awhile their speed restrain:
Now far o'er hill and vale his eyes extend,
Beyond ungifted vision's furthest strain;
And, miles and miles around, space without end,
Where'er the moonbeams fell, their sparkling light
Glanced back from groves of steel, and scared the peaceful night.

Yet not a breath disturbs the air; nor sound
Of clashing arms, nor shout of revelry,
Nor squadrons trampling o'er the hollow ground
Give signal of the Moorish chivalry.
Twice more the sun must walk his daily round,
And bathe his forehead in the Gascon sea,
Ere yet the tallest Pagan spear shall show
Its glittering point to the devoted foe.

Who wakes in Roncesvalles? Is there one
That slumbers not, secure from thought of ill?
All slumber,—all save Oliver alone—
All but unhappy Oliver, whom still
That icy grasp of death, that stifled groan,
Those words of more than mortal warning thrill

With memory's pangs, and force him wide to stray,
A sad, self-brooding man, till dawn of day.

Him when the enchanter saw, as on the brow
Of a projecting precipice he stood,
Fixing his eyes on empty space below,
But inly rapt in his own gloomy mood;
Through a disguise so strange he could not know;
And who had known, in that wild solitude,
With eyes so fixt and looks so wan and drear,
The flower of knighthood, gallant Olivier?

Like one unknown upon his path he came,
And thus in few and hasty words addrest:
“Go, wake yon eagle! for the aspiring flame
Already mounts, and fires his royal nest:
Treason hath writ in blood Orlando's name,
And Hell is busy with the coming feast.
Go, wake yon eagle! for the toils are spread,
And the proud fowler marks him for the dead.”

Thus said, he sprang into his car, and high
Soar'd in an instant out of mortal sight,
Steering his voyage through the dusky sky
To reach the imperial camp ere morning light.
Roused from his trance, long time with eager eye
The Paladin in vain pursues his flight,
Straining the almost bursting orbs, till day
Stole unperceived the shadowy hours away.

“Arm, arm! Orlando, arm! Above, around,
On every side, his toils hath Treason traced.”
Scared from his slumbers at the startling sound,
Soon has the valiant knight his armour braced,
And climb'd with toilsome speed the highest ground;
And thither Anselm, Sansonetto, haste;
Gualtier and youthful Baldwin too are there,
Astolpho, and the gentle Berlinghier.

Above, below, around, on every side,
They cast their eager and inquiring eyes;
But void and waste extend the mountains wide,
And void and waste the silent valley lies,
As at the hour when the Creator cried,
“Be spread, ye valleys! and, ye mountains, rise!”—
“Oh Oliver! what vision, wild and vain,
My friend, my brother! hath disturb'd thy brain?”

Another day, another night are o'er,
And Oliver his watch tower mounts again;
The hills are void and silent as before,
And void and silent as before, the plain.
He warns Orlando of his fate once more,
And once again he finds his warning vain;
Then solitary and dejected strays
Till the third day star o'er the mountain plays.

Above, below, around, on every side,
He turns his eyes; and sees reflected shine
The beaming light from war's advancing tide;

Sees o'er the hills the interminable line
Of steel-clad squadrons wind in martial pride,
Seeming in one bright girdle to confine
All that devoted vale, the closing stage,
To many a knight, of earth's loved pilgrimage.

Too late Orlando owns the truth,—too late
For wise retreat, or provident defence:
Yet not a signal of his coming fate
But swells his bosom with a nobler sense;
And not a partner of his perilous state
But feels a martyr's holy confidence,
While, warm and strengthening like celestial food,
Flows from his lips the stream of Christian fortitude.

“Could I have thought that in the human heart
Such hellish treason might a lodging find,
I would have play'd a soldier's better part,
Not thus untimely to my fate resign'd,
But force opposed to force and art to art.
Hither I came, to peace and love inclined,
And thought the love that in my bosom burn'd
For all mankind, with equal love return'd.

“Yet the deceiver shall himself deceive,
On his own head the dreadful thunders call;
While ye, who in eternal truth believe,
Sure of approving heaven, will nobly fall:
Soon shall ye all rejoice, though now ye grieve,
And change for food divine your bitter gall;

Though now your bread be mix'd with tears and sighs,
Your souls this night shall feast in Paradise.

“So to his Greeks the generous Spartan said,
Whose promises were far less sure than mine:
Them only hope exalted when they bled;
Your hope is faith, your promises divine.
See on the grate the martyr'd Laurence spread;
Even in the flames his eyes with transport shine,
And show how easy and how sweet to die,
When the freed soul is rapt and fixt on high.

“And now, while little life is yet your own,
All fearless mingle in the bloody fray!
Now, Paladins, be all your prowess shown;
So shall your bodies only die this day.
Now let the fathers by their sons be known,
And cast delusive fruitless hope away!
Fight not for life! Caught in this fatal snare,
Our hope is death; our confidence, despair.

“And yet it grieves me, noble Charles, for thee,—
That, after such high fame, thy royal head
Is doom'd so sad, so dark a change to see,
Thine honours blasted and thy glory fled!
But ah! no human state from change is free,
Whole empires hang upon the slenderest thread;
And often Fate, at Heaven's appointed hour,
Exalts the meek, and blasts the proud man's power.

“Thee too!—this faithful bosom bleeds for thee,
My cousin, my Rinaldo! Once again
Might I that much loved form in battle see,
Proud in the field, and dreadful o'er the slain!—
Even while I speak, strange visions welcome me,
Hope's cheering phantoms crowd upon my brain.
I feel,—I know,—that with this mortal eye
I yet shall view Rinaldo ere I die.

“I fear not death; but hope my worth to show,
And nobly on the bloody field to lie;
To deal the wrath of Heaven and tenfold woe
On baneful fraud and curst impiety:
Death is not to be fear'd, but when we know
The soul shall also with the body die;
The loss of life is gain, if spirits flee
From this cold clay to immortality.

“Think how the self-devoted Decii died,
And other noble patriot souls of yore,
Who fell, to satisfy a glorious pride,
And leave their memories when they were no more.
Death is to you the pilot who will guide
Your parted spirits to a happier shore:
O how much greater than all earthly love
Is that which hopes and pants for things above!

“And now, my friends and brethren, O receive
The last fond blessing that your chief can give!
Your parting souls shall holy Turpin shrieve,

Assured in heaven eternally to live.
Even now, in faith's bright mirror, I perceive
The undoubted sign of your prerogative;
The gates of Heaven are open'd wide around,
And radiant angels guard the fatal ground.”

Thus said, he once more vaulted on his steed,
And loud exclaim'd, “Now for our treacherous foes!”
But, when he saw his comrades doom'd to bleed,
Some tender tears of human pity rose.—
“Ah vale accurst!” he cried, “ah vale decreed
For orphans' sufferings and the widow's woes!
The latest ages shall thy name deplore,
And mark with blood, till time itself is o'er.”

On every front the holy Turpin traced
A sacred cross, and benediction gave,
And pardon'd them through him in whom are placed
Our hope and trust, who died mankind to save.
Then all the valiant band in tears embraced,
And drew their swords, and stood, resolved and brave:
Almonte's banner waved their lines before,
The banner won in Aspramount of yore.

CANTO III.

Whoe'er had heard the brazen trumpet's blast
In Roncesvalles on that fatal morn,
Might look to see the world's vain pageant past,
The eternal veil of heaven asunder torn,
And its appointed angel come at last
To bid the grave yield up her dead new-born:
So terrible was that portentous sound
Borne by the mountain echos wide around—

Wide, wide around the mountain echos bore
That soul-dissolving clangor; cold dismay
A moment all the Pagan host came o'er,
And check'd the advancing battle's proud array;
A moment only,—and with answering roar,
Loud as the ocean surges, when the spray
Is tempest-driven against impending skies,
Through all the lengthening line the shouts of slaughter rise.

Strange shouts, and yells, and dissonant turbulence
Of nations, brought from earth's remotest bound,
Mix'd with the din of martial instruments,
The clash of arms, the neigh of steeds, the sound
(Like shock of wildly jarring elements)
Of squadrons trampling o'er the hollow ground:

The Christians felt the gathering storm draw near,
But not a hero's cheek was blanch'd with fear.

Up the steep heights the Christian warriors strain,
Firm and unbroken o'er the rugged ground,
Nor heed the Moorish darts, that fall like rain
On their broad shields and heads with iron bound:
Foremost to climb, and first the ascent to gain,
(As England's sons in war are ever found,)
The English knight his banner plants on high:
“Forward! Behold the Pagan dastards fly!”

Awhile on every side, as panic-driven,
The outnumbering hosts recoil; for at a blow
Astolpho's lance had shield and hauberk riven,
And stretch'd their first and stoutest champion low:
But soon, as clouds, by the rude blasts of heaven
Dispell'd, unite and burst in floods below,
Back to the charge the astonish'd squadrons pour
With hotter fury, and the fight restore.

Here on the right unhappy Olivier,
Desperate of life, deals shame and slaughter round;
Gualtier and gentle Berlinghier are here,
And keep unmoved the hard-won vantage ground:
But in the front of danger, death, and fear,
The English lance is ever foremost found,
And ever there the English crest elate
Moves, the terrific harbinger of fate.

Nor less upon the left, in arms allied,
Each gallant Anjolin his prowess tries,
And Baldwin, with a youthful soldier's pride,
And eye firm fixt on Fame's immortal prize,
Courts Danger, like a new and blushing bride,
And wonders why his eager suit she flies;
Ah brave unhappy boy! his guileless breast
Knew not the charm of Poictiers' treacherous vest!

But who shall speak the terrors of that hour,
When, as o'er Libya's hot and thirsty land
Moves, bursts, and falls, the self-erected tower,
And whelms whole armies in a waste of sand,
So dark and dreadful, o'er the Moorish power,
Hung great Orlando's desolating hand,
And, with unerring aim, where'er it fell,
Laid bare some new and fearful path to hell!

“From morn till noon, from noon till dewy night,”
With unabated rage the contest glow'd;
And not a Christian in that bloody fight
Gave up to Heaven the sacrifice he owed,
But first, in glorious witness of the right,
From Pagan breasts a plenteous current flow'd,
And ghastly heaps on heaps of slaughter'd foes
A monument of Heaven's stern justice rose.

The God of battles, that tremendous day,
Look'd from his throne of vengeance o'er the field,

And scatter'd wild confusion and dismay
From the red terrors of his blazing shield:
'Tis said,—(the crowd believes what zealots say,)
The archangel's self, to human eyes reveal'd,
In radiant armour, on a snow white horse,
Thrice rallied to the charge the Christian force.

And still let those believe who cannot feel
What sovereign force almighty virtue hath:
More hard than adamant, more strong than steel,
Scorning the weak assaults of human wrath,
Virtue thro' life and death, thro' woe and weal,
Keeps irresistible her onward path,
Nor can be turn'd by terror or surprise,
Till Heaven's own towers before her sight arise.

Brave flower of widow'd England! in thy sight
Already do those towers unveil'd appear,
Thou best and earliest victim of the fight,
Cut glorious off in manhood's proud career!
Already beams the fresh created light
On Anjolin and gentle Berlinghier,
Light from a purer heaven, a brighter sun,
Than sparkles on their own beloved Garonne.

Amidst the Paynim host a stranger knight
It chanced that day his maiden faulchion drew,
The son of that old mountain Ismaelite
Whom in a better hour Orlando knew,—
Whom high Montalban's lord in single fight

(Sent by the Persian princess) first o'erthrew,
Then bound in friendship's holiest knot, till He
Who breaks all earthly bondage set him free.

'Twere long to tell what changeful stars had led
That youthful wanderer to the coast of Spain,
What phrensy urged, his heart's best blood to shed
In treason's cause on Roncesvalles' plain:
E'en now the sword of Clermont, on his head
Descending swift, had stretch'd him with the slain,
Had he not mark'd its threatening course, and low
Cowering to earth, escaped the deadly blow;—

Yet so escaped not, but that flaming brand,
Which never thirsted yet in vain for blood,
In glittering fragments scatter'd o'er the sand
His gilded casque, and drank the vital flood.
Tottering he sank; the conqueror's ruthless hand,
Twined in his locks, its murderous aim renew'd—
When “Spare, O spare,” with feeble voice he cried,
“A miserable youth by birth allied!”

When good Orlando heard that voice in prayer,
Before his eyes the father's image stood;
By pity moved, he loosed his twisted hair,
Embraced the youth, and with his tears bedew'd:
“Thy form, thy face,” he cried, “the truth declare;
Mine ancient friend I here behold renew'd:
Yet 'twas ill done, young soldier, to oppose
Thy father's friends, and arm to serve his foes!”

“O chief revered! O master!” he replied,
“To thee my sword, myself, my faith I yield,
So I may hope to perish at thy side,
Devoted warrior, on this bloody field:
For fall thou must! Though war's impetuous tide
This day roll harmless round thy heaven-girt shield,
Though triumph crown the wonders of thy hand,
Yet fall thou must, with all thy generous band!

“Think'st thou, this countless host disperst and fled,
Treason hath laid her cunning toils in vain?
No—Ere to-morrow's sun shall rear his head,
This countless host, thrice number'd crowds the plain;
A brave and stately victim thou art led
To feed the altars of insatiate Spain,
And they who drive thee to the stake are those
Whom thy free bosom for its inmates chose!”

As he who, wandering through some vernal wood,
Or tangled copse, no latent danger fears,
But keeps unmoved his calm or cheerful mood—
If 'chance some ambush'd adder's hiss he hears,
Back to his heart recoils the healthful blood,
And death's pale livery on his cheek appears;—
So, like the serpent's hiss, that hateful sound
To Clermont's inmost soul its freezing passage found.

“What! treason in my camp! among my friends—
My noble generous friends!” he shuddering cried.
“Yes! look where now his onward course he bends,

That friend, to Poictiers' bloody race allied!
Hast thou not mark'd his gorgeous vest, where blends
The sun-bright gold with empire's purple pride?
That to the traitor sire Marsilius gave,
Alone, of all thy host, the traitor son to save!”

O Saragossa! though with blood imbrued,
How fair, when aftertimes thy story tell,
Will show thy guilt by black ingratitude!
It is the sin by which the devil fell
From the bright mansions of beatitude
To unremitting pain, unfathom'd hell;
It is the sin that loudest cries to heaven;
It is the sin that never was forgiven.

Now had Orlando left that old man's son,
And, fired with rage, sought Baldwin o'er the course;
Who call'd for death, which seem'd his path to shun,
And spend on less adventurous heads its force.
When he beheld swift Brigliadoro run
Hot o'er the field, (Orlando's well-known horse,)
He rush'd to meet his friend beloved, and cried,
“What woes, unfortunate!—this head betide!

“I seek to-day among the brave to die,
And many a warrior by my lance lies slain;
But none against this arm their force will try:
I call, I threaten, to the fight in vain!”
“False boy!” return'd the chief, “no more they'll fly,
Lay but that gaudy garment on the plain,

Which to thy traitor sire Marsilius gave,
For which that traitor sold his son a slave!”

“If on this day,” the unhappy youth replied,
“Thee and thy friends my father has betray'd,
And I am curst to live, this hand shall guide
Keen to his heart the parricidal blade!
But I, Orlando!”—thus in tears he cried,
“Was never, never, for a traitor made,
Unless I've earn'd the name in following thee
With true, with perfect love, o'er land and sea.

“Now to the conflict I return once more;
The traitor's name I shall not carry long.”
That fraudful, fatal vest away he tore,
And said, “My love to thee was firm and strong!
This heart no guile, this breast no treason bore;
Indeed, Orlando, thou hast done me wrong!”—
Then burst away—The hero mark'd his air
With altering heart, that droop'd at his despair.

Already to the main's remotest bound
Rolls in his rapid car the glorious sun,
And evening's grateful shadows gather round
On either host, with murderous toil fordone:
How changed, since on the steel-embattled ground
From the bright east his early splendours shone,
When glittering arms pour'd back a brighter flood!
Now half their fires are quench'd in dust and blood.

Still victory suspends in middle air
Her doubtful scale; and for a moment's breath,

As if by sudden concert, both forbear
(Christian and Moor) the fearful work of death.
In that dread pause the generous Olivier
Bends, sadly pensive, o'er the ensanguined heath,
Where cold and stiff the Briton's corse is found;
And with a soldier's tears embalms the sacred wound.

O blest in saint-like slumber! O redeem'd
From all the miseries of this vale below!
Was it for thee the warrior's sorrows stream'd?
Can human tears for happy angels flow?
Ah! how much rather, if but rightly deem'd,
Those tears should fall for human vice and woe,
The retchlessness of life, the fear to die,
Hopeless desire, heart-sinking infamy!

But short the pause to sorrowing friendship lent—
Rise, warriors, would ye call your lives your own!
Lo! from the distant hills in swift descent,
Like some swoln mountain torrent, thunder down
Squadrons unthinn'd by war, by toil unspent,
Led to the charge by Persian Falseron:
Already with the foremost bands in fight
They mix; already bleeds the foremost Christian knight.

Orlando, roused by war's reechoing cries,
Hastes to the charge; back fall the squadrons round:
And see where hapless Baldwin gasping lies,

Pierced to the heart by no dishonest wound!
“I am no traitor now!” he faintly cries,
Then sinks a stiffen'd corse upon the ground—
With bleeding soul Orlando saw him die.
“Thy fate is seal'd; the unhappy cause am I!”

There is a time for woe,—a peaceful hour,
When the sore-wounded heart may seek relief
For ills, past cure of every earthly power,
In the dissolving luxury of grief:
But when the blast of war uproots the bower,
And strews the vale with many a wither'd leaf,
Joy to the mourner!—He no longer hears
In that rude storm his sighs, nor feels his starting tears.

This truth confess'd Anglanté's Paladine,
When vengeance every softer thought subdued
That else, for Baldwin lost, perchance might twine
About his heart, and chill the vital flood:
But when that eastern satrap mark'd the sign
Of Fate, fore-doom'd in Clermont's mantling blood,
As from the bolt of heaven, with headlong speed
Aghast he fled, and urged his purple-harness'd steed.

O how unlike the chief, whose boasts were heard
From far Euphrates to the Ebro wave,
That he would tear Anglanté's honour'd beard,
And set his foot upon the Christian slave,
And wreak such vengeance as the world ne'er heard

For bold Ferrau, whom to a bloody grave
The knight had sent, what time the powers of Spain
First homage paid to conquering Charlemain!

“Turn, traitor!” (the rude gales such sounds convey'd
To his uwilling ears)—“For Baldwin slain,
Turn, traitor! Be that Judas kiss repaid,
Which erst was pledged upon the banks of Seine!”—
Stung by the taunt, the flying soldan staid
His full career; while impotent Disdain
And smarting Pride contended with his fear,
And half resolved him to abide the tempest hurrying near.

But half resolved he staid, and still for flight
Uncertain, or for deed of manly daring,
Till, terrible as thunder, swift as light,
The Christian lance drove on, through buckler tearing,
Hauberk, and plated mail;—the shades of night
Cloud round his swimming eyeballs, and, down bearing
Horseman and horse to earth with thundering force,
Fate irresistible pursues its iron course.

Low sweeps the dust the boaster's humbled head,
And loud and wide his clanging arms resound:
But (so in ancient chronicles 'tis read)
Were never more beheld above the ground
The cold and bloody reliques of the dead:

There where he fell was his rent buckler found,
His empty cuirass, greaves, and morrion there,
But where the naked corse could none declare.

The God of justice (in that elder time
Men fondly deem'd) would sometimes from the course,
By which he guides the wheels of Fate sublime,
Deviate awhile, and with miraculous force
Stamp on the forehead of unblushing Crime,
Dead to the probing search of kind Remorse,
Some direful impress of his wrath, to stand
The warning wonder of a guilty land.

Not now by prophet's tongue, or angel's flight,
Or ghost, or spell, God lets his power be known:
Yet not the less display'd to mortal sight
(Would thankless man his father's empire own)
The blazing beacon stands of wrong and right:
Not he who fills the world's ill gotten throne,—
That self-appointed arbiter of fate,—
Sits so secure in his tremendous state,

But in the solemn hour of secret thought,
In that dark hour, when Pride and Grandeur sleep,
When poison drugs the soul's unhallow'd draught,
Through Sin's voluptuous bowers when scorpions creep,
Then Conscience comes, with nameless terrors fraught,

And with her flaming signet, broad and deep,
Brands the pale tyrant's brow, and fires his brain
With quenchless torments of delirious pain.

For ever shall that fiery torment last,
For ever shall that awful impress stand,
Plain as the old miraculous legend traced
Upon the wall by Heaven's conspicuous hand,
Defaceless as the holy symbol cast
(So sages erst believed) by just command
On Israel's wretched exile, doom'd to stray
A wanderer over earth until the judgement day.

Forgive, kind hearers, my wide wandering strain,
Uncheck'd by rules of sterner minstrelsy,
If, from the baseless fabric of the brain,
I sometimes turn to sad reality.
The genius of romance with loosen'd rein
Still gives his Hippogryff to wander free,
Now o'er the aërial heights that gave him birth,
Now through the calm and lowly vales of earth.

So he, “of dames and knights, of arms and love,
Of courtesies and high attempts,” who sung,
Oft with the web of fancy interwove
Alphonso's praises, or with bolder tongue
Call'd down the vengeful lightning from above
On Cæsar's head, whom mad Ambition stung
O'er blind Ausonia's weeping fields to pour
His harpy legions from Iberia's shore.

Yet rest, my wandering steed, ere long to soar
Mid higher regions of excursive song,
The secrets of the eternal veil explore,
And realms that to the shadowy hosts belong!
The cries of slaughter and the battle's roar
Die on my listening ear, while, borne along
Through midway air, with all too sudden speed
I rise;—then rest awhile my wandering steed!

CANTO IV.

Imagination, whose unbounded sight
Can at one glance embrace all sea and land,
Now swift pursues the dæmon's destined flight,
Prompt to obey his master's last command,
From high Montalban to those realms of night
Where Pharaoh's old sepulchral temples stand,
Where Guiscard and his greater brother bore
Duke Aymon's banner on that Pagan shore.

Turbid and deep the mighty river flow'd,
Curtain'd in shades of evening; by whose side
Montalban's lords pursued their mazy road,
Listening the murmurs of that sullen tide:
When from the tomb, Sesostris' last abode,
Silent a darkling form was seen to glide,
The giant shadow of a knight and horse,
That onward seem'd to bear its threatening course.

“Be mine the adventure!” cried the younger peer,
And spurr'd, that vision new and strange to meet:
The gallant courser stopp'd in mid career,
And toss'd his mane, and, plunging, from his seat
Strove to shake off the rider; while the spear
Of that unearthly warrior, following fleet
The impulse lent, without a blow or wound,
Like some rude tempest hurl'd him to the ground.

Uncheck'd, as through the yielding air he pass'd,
That wondrous spectre,—and o'er all things near
Breathed a damp chillness which the soul o'ercast
Of brave Rinaldo, long unused to fear:
It seem'd as hell had sent some poisonous blast,
Embodied in that image dark and drear,
To freeze the courage of the noblest knight
That e'er curb'd gallant steed or harness'd armour bright.

All powerless stood the Paladin, the while
A laugh insulting from the vision broke,
Laugh, that reechoed from the banks of Nile
Even to his lunar source,—then fiercely spoke:
“My name is Astaroth: from that famed pile
That erst obey'd Duke Aymon's lordly yoke,
Hither I steer my flight to make thee know
His will, whose art compels the powers below.

“Thus then thy wizard kinsman bids me say:
In Roncesvalles, at this fatal hour,

All marshall'd sits in terrible array,
By great Marsilius led, the Moorish power;
Unconscious yet the heaven-devoted prey
Waits while Destruction's dæmons round him lower,
The chief who wields Anglanté's powerful lance;
And with him every prince and paladin of France.”

He ceased: but when Montalban's loyal peer
That mortal danger of his friends had known,
Each baser taint of wonder, doubt, and fear,
Like shadows fled before high reason's throne;
While every impulse form'd and seated there
Gave place, and strong affection ruled alone:
It seem'd a thousand years in every day
That kept him from his valiant friends away.

“And thou, mysterious agent! whether sprung
From shades below, or light above, O say,—
Shall I not mingle in the battle's throng
My blood with theirs upon that fatal day?”
The fiend replied not; but, as if among
Attendant crowds,—“Speed, messenger, away!
And bring that Æthiopian plant, whose flower
To mock the feeble sight of man hath power!”

Thus as he spoke, he look'd towards empty space,
And sound, as if rustling wings, replied:
Seized with strange awe, Montalban's knightly grace
Look'd wild and wide around, but nothing spied.

“Thy wonder cease, weak child of Adam's race!”
Thus with a scornful smile the dæmon cried,
“Know that ten thousand spirits around me stray
To do my bidding, be it night or day.

“As here on earth, so boast the realms below,
Thrones and dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers;
And, as mankind their several stations know,
And keep their destined course, so we do ours.
'Tis mine to bear thee to that field of woe
Where Christian blood distills in purple showers,
A kindred stream,—and, if the will divine
Have so ordain'd, haply to mix with thine!

“Nor fear a dæmon's faith, nor doubt to trust
Thy frail existence to the power of fate;
What though ye be, weak children of the dust,
Sport of our malice, our revenge, and hate,
E'en were I not compell'd, as now I must,
To yield obedience, for a certain date,
To mortal spells and man's accurst control,
This is a fiend-like part and suits my soul.

“I know the deeds of death thine arm will do
In Roncesvalles; therefore freely bear,
With such glad scenes of slaughter in my view,
Thee and thy Christian brother through the air:
What sanguine streams shall rush that valley through!

How shall we feast on anguish and despair!
It is the festival of Hell to see
Man equal to the damn'd in misery.”

By this return'd the attendant sprite and stood
Confest to view, bearing that charmed plant
From where it sprung by Niger's eastward flood,
On Samen's mount, the satyrs' fabled haunt,
Or in Zendero's old inaugural wood,
Or where the hunted pards of Sennaar pant.
From its prest leaves a potent dew is shed,
Veiling in sightless mist the anointed head.

The dæmon's form dispersing seem'd to glide
Into thin smoke, and curl'd along the ground
To where Boyardo stood with nostrils wide
Snuffing the balmy gales that breathed around:
Now by the subtle spirit possest, supplied
With sense unknown, with powers before unfound,
His eyes flash fire and, tossing wild and high
His eager neck, he burns to mount into the sky.

Nor less the steed that good Guiscardo bore
Confess'd some kindred power; each brother knight,
With that strange robe of darkness cover'd o'er,
Leaps on his ready courser swift as light;
And in an instant's space as high they soar
As soars the eagle in his loftiest flight.
The virtues of the charmed herb, or Heaven
Itself, had calm'd their souls and made their courage even.

'Twas now the hour when fond Desire renews
To those who wander o'er the pathless main,
Raising unbidden tears, the last adieus
Of tender friends whom Fancy shapes again;
When the late parted pilgrim who pursues
His lonely walk o'er some unbounded plain,
If sound of distant bells fall on his ear,
Seems the sad knell of his departed joys to hear.

Lights, numberless as by some fountain's side
The silly swain reposing (at the hour
When beams the day star with diminish'd pride,
When the sunn'd bee deserts each rifled flower,
And yields to humming gnats the populous void,)
Beholds in grassy lawn, or leafy bower,
Or orchard plot, of glow-worms emerald bright,
Flamed in the front of that ambrosial night.

Vain fears, the impious progeny of crime,
Hold no alliance with a scene so fair;
Remembrance claims the consecrated time,
And Love refined from every selfish care.
Thus, as they wheel their rapid course sublime
Through the mid realms of circumambient air,
In spirit they have reach'd the fatal place,
And strain their brethren in a last embrace.

Fain would I tell, as Arno's bard hath told,
What hill and valley, sea and running flood,
What peopled cities, and what forests old,

Rich champain, idle desert, waving wood,
Lay underneath like some vast map unroll'd,
As swift their airy voyage they pursued,
Scanning, 'twixt sun and sun, the regions wide
From Meroe's lake to Gades' western tide;—

Fain would repeat, in this my careless rhyme,
The converse held by proud Montalban's knight
With the fall'n angel,—converse, strange, sublime,
Of things beyond the ken of feeble sight:
For spirits, still unharm'd by age or time,
Retain the spark divine of earliest light,
(Angelic nature!) nor, though lost, forget
Their happier state, but hope and tremble yet.

Hope lives through fear: who saith that hope is vain?
Worm of the earth! canst thou presume to trace
The eternal limits of God's holy reign,
Infinite justice and unfailing grace?
Will Heaven destroy its own fair work again?
Or, after some dark, doubtful, lingering space,
All with one voice eternal truth adore,
And humbly sue for peace and gain what they implore?

Beyond the pillars of this world of old,
Far o'er yon western flood's unmeasured plain,
Of other worlds the spirit darkly told,
For ages lost, for ages to remain
Unvisited by light divine, and cold
As Zembla's rocks which endless frosts enchain:

Yet hath the sun of Grace, to them unknown,
E'en for those cheerless realms and untaught nations shone.

Such the high themes that held in wonder bound
The sons of Aymon, while their mystic guide
Still onward bore them through the vast profound.
As to some wretch who, after wanderings wide,
Returns to view his once loved native ground,
Forgotten dreams of youth's gay morning tide
Crowd on each gale, and with a transient light
Delusive gild the lonely gloom of night;

E'en so, as in the dæmon's upward flight
He almost reach'd the heaven from whence he fell,
The purer airs of that celestial height
Might for a space the noxious fumes of hell
Haply disperse, and new-created light
Beam on the darkness of the soul's deep cell,
Renewing traces of the angelic frame,
Long forfeited by sin to death and shame.

But when (descending o'er that fatal plain
At latest eve) before them seem'd to rise
From the low vale the blood of thousands slain
Staining with crimson blush the conscious skies;
When, in wild dissonance, the groans of pain
Came mingled with the battle's fiercer cries;
Then every softer shade at once was flown,
And all the dæmon reassumed his throne.

The barbarous legends of an elder age,
Nursed in the darkness of some cloister'd cell,
Now scorn'd or pitied by the gay or sage,
The chasten'd muse must shun;—else would she tell
How, on the top of yon lone hermitage
Descending swift, the winged sons of hell
Fix'd their damn'd seat, to arrest the upward flight
Of spirits battle-freed, and thrust them back to night.

Aided by grace divine and heavenly love,
The Christian souls elastic spurn'd their hold,
Sprang fearless to their glorious seats above,
And sit amid the angelic choir enroll'd:
But Mahound's impure votaries vainly strove,
Fluttering and struggling, till, in many a fold
Of serpent strength comprest, forworn and spent,
Down, down they sink, a steep, dark, bottomless descent.

Leave we these baseless phantoms and pursue
Montalban's banner through the ranks of war;—
But distant yet;—for, where the standard flew
O'er Saragossa's proud pavilion, far
From the throng'd battle field, confest to view
Alight the brother chiefs, like that twin star
In arms refulgent, whose mild radiance guides
The prosperous vessel o'er obedient tides.

“Do armed angels mingle in the fight?”—
Thus bursts from rank to rank the general cry;

And panic Terror, and disgraceful Flight,
And crimson Slaughter's horrid form were nigh:
E'en He, whose iron heart each sound and sight
Of woe and dread did till that hour defy,
In that appalling vision seem'd to own
A higher power and tremble on his throne.

Perhaps some prescience of approaching fate,
Obscurely shadow'd, flash'd across his brain,
When Aymon's banner in victorious state
Shall wave o'er Saragossa's loftiest fane,
And life prolong'd to misery's utmost date
In dreadful vengeance for Orlando slain,
At length expire, not glorious in the fight,
But midst the groans of scorn and fierce despight.

But not Marsilius, nor the tented field
Those brother warriors sought: where Clermont's lance
Still ruled the opposing war, and Clermont's shield
Protected still the Paladins of France,
Thither while crowds on crowds retiring yield,
Like vapours scatter'd by the sun's advance,
They flew on coursers swifter than the wind,
And left their panic-striken foes behind.

Orlando, as the furious chief drew near,
Like lightning borne across the battle field,
Or friend or foe uncertain, held his spear,
Prepared to meet the thundering shock, or yield:

But when through clouds of dust he saw appear
Montalban's lion on the blazing shield,—
Ye, who the thrilling transport e'er have known
To meet some long-lost friend when every hope was flown,

Judge ye if rapture's full impetuous tide
Swell'd his bold heart, and triumph'd in his face;
If ardent love the strength of wings supplied,
As swift he rush'd to meet his friend's embrace—
No: bloodless was his cheek; his bosom's pride
Was cold; his limbs dropp'd nerveless; and the space
That parts the living from the realm of night
Was closing fast before his dizzy sight.

And Oliver, who ever foremost stood
Where Clermont's banner stemm'd the battle's rage,
Still flow'd the current of his gentler blood?
Still kept his pulse its wonted vassalage?
Oh! loosen'd oft by Joy's too sudden flood,
Asunder bursts the heart's strong anchorage;
And, all the vital spirits at once set free,
The soul springs upward to eternity.

But when the dissipated powers return'd
To fill the seat of thought and life again,
And Nature's fire, rekindling, brighter burn'd
In either breast, and ran through every vein,
Who can conceive the rapture? Who hath learn'd
So well the excess of pleasure sow'd in pain,

The joy that bursts in tears, or seeks relief
In deep-drawn sighs, the natural voice of grief?

And now the panic far and wide hath spread,
And on their camp the routed Paynims pour;
But night's dark curtain screen'd them as they fled,
And the tired Paladins the chase give o'er:
With painful steps their backward course they tread,
Fired with the ardour of pursuit no more;
They mourn the dead, yet wish their happier doom,
Nor bless their own short respite from the tomb.

But when, conspicuous through the gathering gloom,
The lion banner burst upon their sight;
When by the well-known crest and raven plume
Of Aymon's house, the fair proportion'd height,
The lordly port which Aymon's sons assume
And none can doubt, they mark Montalban's knight;
All fear and grief, all languor and all pain,
All sense of woes endured, all thought of what remain,

At once have fled; and through the knightly train
Late so desponding, solemn, and so slow,
Fresh pours the flood of life, as if again
Creating Nature bade the current flow
From the cold heart through every stagnant vein,
And the glazed eyeballs with new lustre glow,
Of some unburied corse, for many an hour
Left vacant by the vivifying power.

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Dark falls the night, no stars her course attending,
And lurid clouds portend a gloomier day:
Oh who that sees it rise shall mark its ending?
Oh who shall live, in after years to say
What tides of precious blood their channels blending
With streams accurst and vile, have roll'd their way,
Dyeing that verdant field with crimson stain
That thousand circling springs shall ne'er make green again?

Yet at the last a prouder day shall dawn,
O Roncesvalles! on thy blighted name;
When Treason to her secret haunts withdrawn,
Shall mourn her conquests past in present shame:
Fresh laurels shall o'ercanopy the lawn
With grateful shade, and fairest flowers of fame
Start from each barren cleft and sun-burnt cave,
To wreathe immortal chaplets for the brave.

But not for France shall swell the solemn strain
Of triumph;—not, degenerate France, for thee!
Thy fame is past; and treason's foulest stain
Blots out thy light of ancient chivalry.
Lo! Britain leads the glorious chase, and Spain
From all her mountain summits follows free,
Leagued in just vengeance for a blacker crime
Than e'er defiled the rolls of elder Time.

Sleeps Arthur in his isle of Avalon?
High favour'd Erin sends him forth once more

101

To realize the dream of days far gone,
The wizard strains of old Caer-merddhyn's lore.
Another Rowland brings his legions on,
The happier Rowland of an English shore;
And thunders in the van with foot of flame
Scotland's romantic champion gallant Græme.

What mournful train, descending through the glade,
“Breaks the long glories of my dazzled sight?”
Rest, Paladin of England! Lowly laid
Beneath the o'erarching pine-tree's towery height,
Rest yet awhile! Erelong thy generous shade
Shall witness with a soldier's proud delight,
High deeds of kindred valour, and inspire
In kindred bosoms old heroic fire!

Or, haply, shall thy spirit, hovering near,
With glorious breathings for immortal fame
Fill the departing warrior's breast, and cheer
With hope's bright dream his weak and suffering frame—
Fair dream!—that o'er Cadogan's early bier
Shed mildest influence, when with faint acclaim
He hail'd his conquering friends, and closed his eye,
Rejoicing, 'mid the shouts of victory!

102

CANTO V.

The funeral rites have ceased; and, lowly laid
Where not a sound shall break his slumbers more,
Astolpho sleeps beneath the pine-tree's shade;
All his proud hopes extinct, his sorrows o'er.
Yet the wild winds that mountain music made
Amid the waving woods with ceaseless roar,—
Though o'er the quiet dead they pass in vain,
One solitary mourner hears the strain.

Breaking the stillness of the unconscious sky,
Is that the bridal voice that calls thee home?
Ah! how unlike the festive minstrelsy
That peal'd through Caradore's illumined dome!
Ah! how unlike the softer melody
Of love, faint murmuring through the grateful gloom!
To thee, oh Oliver! the gentlest breath
That stirs the pine's tall branches, whispers Death.

That fatal morning's dawn how shall I sing?
How paint the impending battle's horrid face?
Have I not said that death is on the wing,
And shall I not o'erleap the middle space?
The bolt hath sped, and oped the sacred spring

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Whence flows the purest blood of Gallia's race;
But never yet Orlando's fixéd mood
Had alter'd, or roll'd back the vital flood;—

Not when Bellande her blooming honour lost,
And headless on the ground lay Neustria's pride;
Not e'en when he, who loved his master most,
And served him best, since hapless Baldwin died,
Of all his youthful followers in the host,
Good Sansonetto, perish'd at his side;
It seem'd nor human fear, nor human woe
Could move his soul again or make his sorrows flow.

Yet once again that inmost soul must bleed
For Oliver, his friend and better part;
Oh! then he knew the doom of all decreed,
And cursed the Paynim traitor from his heart:
While thus the dying chief,—“In thought or deed
If e'er our souls bore undivided part,
O lead me where in death I may be known,
Nor leave me, unrevenged, to die alone!”

“I have no heart, without thee,” he replied,
“In this perplext and dreary life to stay;
I've bid adieu to daring joy and pride,
And human Hope deserts my darkening day:
Love only can the fall of life abide;
Thy love, my Oliver, yet lights my way:
O follow, Oliver, that guiding love,
With me one faith, one hope, one will, to prove.”

104

Thus said, they mingled in the thickest fight;
Once more the dying warrior raised his blade,
And, though the approach of death had dimm'd his sight,
Through the mid ranks a bloody passage made:
Close on the confines of eternal night,
Still his sad friend with wondering eye survey'd
Such deeds as might have graced life's vigorous day,—
For the soul's fire survived the frame's decay.

Thus through the storm of swords and spears they go,
Still dealing vengeance and despair around:
But Oliver, who now more faint and slow
The heavy hand of Death oppressive found,
Press'd towards his tent: the end of all his woe
He felt approaching from that mortal wound.
“Oh yet a little wait!” Orlando cries;
“I'll sound my horn—assistance near us lies.”

“My brother,” he replied, “there's now no need:
My soul is hastening from its bonds to flee;
It soars, expectant of the promised meed;
It beats, it pants, it must, it will, be free—”
More would his faltering tongue,—but Heaven decreed
An instant change for immortality:
Yet the last wish Orlando knew full well,—
“Live thou! and guard my sister Aldabelle.”

105

Now, when he saw the noble spirit fled,
He seem'd on earth's wild coast alone to stray;
And, sick at heart and sorrowful, he sped
To gain a hillock that adjoining lay:
And there he blew a blast so loud and dread,
The Paynim host all trembled with dismay.
Another, and another yet, he blew:
With the third blast, that horn was burst in two.

Then back he hasten'd to the battle field,
As the sad widow'd sire suspends his grief,
Returning from the funeral rite, to yield
His little weeping family relief.
E'en in that moment's space had Fate unseal'd
New springs of sorrow to the afflicted chief:
The desolating Fury had not spared
Avino, Avolio, Gualtier, Egibard.

Still Anselm rear'd his ponderous mace on high;
Still Aymon's banner rode the battle wave;
And Turpin, mid the Christian chivalry,
Still held the sword to strike, the cross to save:
But Clermont's horn, that shook the startled sky,
New hope inspired to rouse the fainting brave,
While to the Paynim host it seem'd to bear,
In each successive blast, defeat, dismay, despair.

At the first blast of that miraculous horn,
That, league o'er league, round hill and vale resounded,

106

By Fontarabian echos westward borne,
And by the Atlantic billows back rebounded,
Like some tired traveller, on the sudden torn
From slumbers that have all his sense confounded,
The Roman Emperor started from his throne,
And sternly eyed the traitor Ganellon.

“Fair speed the chase in Roncesvalles' glade!”
The traitor cried;—“beneath the greenwood bough
How many antlers, brave and tall, are laid
Lowly on earth by Clermont's arrows now?”
Gladly deceived, the momentary shade
Of doubt and fear pass'd o'er the imperial brow;
But Salamon still grasp'd his half-drawn sword,
And Britain's king, and wise Bavaria's lord.

But when the second blast that pierced the sky
Had far and wide its scatter'd echos sent,
From all the circle burst one general cry,
And loud indignant clamour fill'd the tent:
A hundred falchions from the scabbard fly,
And all against the conscious traitor bent:
The conscious traitor, yet unshaken, said
“How well this day Anglante's shafts have sped!”

Again it sounds—but Ganellon no more
Affects the glozing speech and bold disguise:
A shuddering tremor steals his senses o'er,
And heavy clouds of guilt oppress his eyes;
His straining eyeballs seek the expanded door

107

Through which, unseen, a grisly phantom flies;
Unseen by all beside,—for Conscience shows
Such mockeries only to delude Heaven's foes.

And well that fearful vision might appal
And freeze the life-stream in a father's vein,
Speaking of Baldwin's bloody funeral.
It bore upon its front the battle stain,
That marr'd his youthful graces, and, withal,
Grasp'd in its hand the vest of purple grain,—
That fatal vest which well the traitor knew,—
Then, on him sternly frowning, slow withdrew.

How pale he stands! how fixt his look, how strange!
How self-condemn'd, who late so brave appear'd!
In silent dread, all view'd that sudden change,
Mysterious omen of the worst they fear'd:
But not in all thine empire's widest range
Breathed there a peasant, so by hope uncheer'd,
As at that moment, noble Charles, to be
Compared, in bitterness of soul, with thee.

Who breaks the portals of the grave again,
And glares so fiercely on the imperial throne?
Not that the guest of a bewilder'd brain,
Invisible to all but guilt alone:
To all alike it stands confest and plain;
And yet, among the living ne'er was known,
Like meteors flashing from the northern sky,
The withering flame that fired that sunken eye,—

108

The sounds that, labouring in that hollow chest,
As in some sepulchre the imprison'd wind,
Thus the dark oracle of Fate express'd:—
“It is too late, O man perverse and blind!
Yes—thou mayst rend thy garment, beat thy breast,
And round thy loins repentant sackcloth bind;
Yes—thou mayst gird thy potent sword, display
Thy banner, and lead forth thy proud array!

“Vengeance may wake; and, wrapt in smouldering fire,
E'en Saragossa's lofty towers may fall;
Marsilius, and his line accurst, expire
Amid the ruins of his tottering hall;
All this, and more, by Heaven's eternal Sire
May stand decreed: but Heaven can ne'er recall
Thy fatal hour, O widow'd France! nor save
Thy glories from disgrace, thy children from the grave.

“It is too late to avert Astolpho's doom,
Or heal thy wounds, thou gentlest Berlinghier!
It is too late to close the greedy tomb
That opens now its gates for Olivier.
E'en thee, Orlando!—would that earthly fume
That clouds my dying senses disappear,
And leave my sight from doubt and error free,—
My last sad funeral knell might sound for thee!

“One vision yet—it soothes my parting soul—
O sons of Aymon! brethren of my love!”—

109

No more—those flaming orbs have ceased to roll,
That breast to labour, and those lips to move;
Through all the tent a solemn murmur stole,
As fear with rage, with grief amazement strove:
That lifeless corse, the eye's unnatural light
Extinct, to memory gave Montalban's wizard knight.

'Tis said—but who the fearful truth can tell?—
That in his hovering flight, 'twixt earth and sky,
A startling peal, the well-known voice of Hell,
Announced his league dissolved, his hour gone by:
Then from his air-built car the enchanter fell,
And, where he fell, in mortal trance did lie;
Till Clermont's horn, with its awakening blast,
Roused his prophetic rage to speak and breathe its last.

Back to the field of blood, my wandering song,
And wait the ending of that dismal fight!
The wonders of the charméd horn too long
Have staid thy pinions from their onward flight.
Behold, where Aymon's sons the routed throng
Still urge, impetuous, down the mountain's height,
And Anselm follows in that glorious chase—
But where is he, the leader of the race?

Opprest with wounds and toil, the valiant knight
Can now support his helmet's weight no more;
Tired with the labours of so long a fight,
Parcht by a burning thirst unfelt before:

110

He now remember'd where, the former night,
From a clear fount the crystal stream he bore;
Thither he urged his steed, there sought repose,
And wash'd his wounds, and rested from his woes.

His faithful steed, that long had served him well
In peace and war, now closed his languid eye,
Kneel'd at his feet, and seem'd to say “Farewell!
I've brought thee to the destined port, and die.”
Orlando felt anew his sorrows swell
When he beheld the gallant courser lie
Stretch'd on the field, that crystal fount beside,
Stiffen'd his limbs, and cold his warlike pride.

And “O my much-loved steed, my generous friend,
Companion of my better years!” he said;
“And have I lived to see so sad an end
Of all thy toils, and thy brave spirit fled?
O pardon me, if e'er I did offend
With hasty wrong that mild and faithful head!”—
Just then, his eyes a momentary light
Flash'd quick;—and closed again in endless night.

Now when Orlando found himself alone,
Upon the field he cast his swimming eyes,
But there no kindred form, no friend well known,
Of all his host, to glad his sight, arise:
With undistinguish'd dead the mountains groan;
A heap of slaughter, Roncesvalles lies:
Oh, what a pang of grief oppress'd his brain,
As his strain'd eyeballs rested on the slain!

111

“Farewell,” he cried, “ye gallant souls thrice blest,
Whose woes lie buried in that bloody tomb!
For me, I know my fate, but cannot rest;
Feel Death approaching, and he will not come.
How peaceful now is thy distracted breast,
My Oliver! how sweet Astolpho's doom!
Oh yet some human pity feel for me,
And aid my soul, just struggling to be free!”

'Twas then, as ancient chronicles have told,
Orlando gazed upon his faithful blade,
And thus address'd, as if of human mould—
“When in the silent grave thy lord is laid,
And ages o'er his sad remains have roll'd,
O Durindana! let it ne'er be said,
Thy noble steel, aye sacred to the right,
Hath lent to Pagan hands its prostituted might.”

He said, and, far his red right arm extending,
Collected stood for one last dreadful shock:
The sword, high whirl'd in air, and swift descending,
Nor bent nor shiver'd on the marble rock,
But cleaved its solid mass, asunder rending
Even from the summit to the central block.
The rudest peasant, in that valley born,
Still shows the cloven crag and wondrous horn.

In Roncesvalles' melancholy glade
The cries of war were now no longer heard;
And, ere the lingering star of day decay'd

112

No Moorish banner o'er the waste appear'd:
One tribute more, to Gano's treason paid,
The dæmons at their hellish banquet cheer'd;
Spent with fatigue and blood, at evening's close,
Good Anselm's spirit fled to seek its long repose.

The sons of Aymon and the martial priest
Were now the last sad reliques of the brave:
Together from the vain pursuit they ceased,
Together sought Orlando's bloody grave.
At length they found him, where, not yet released
From mortal anguish, by that fountain wave,
His toil-worn limbs reclined. In silent grief
They stood collected round the expiring chief.

But when Orlando raised his clouded sight,
And saw Heaven's consecrated warrior near,
A sacred joy diffused its kindling light,
And bathed his face with many a grateful tear:
Then, cleansed from blood, Heaven's own anointed knight
Laid his pure hands on Clermont's humble peer,
And blest him, in His holy name who gave
Himself to death our ransom from the grave.

This ended, to Rinaldo kneeling by
A parting look of tenderness he sent,
Who grasp'd his hand, but made no more reply—
'Twas the last look that on this earth he bent:
Thenceforth, on Heaven alone he fix'd his eye,

113

Fix'd, as the lights that gem the firmament;
Yet, while his soul sprang upward, Love had share
In every wish, and framed his latest prayer.

Scarce had he offer'd up that silent prayer
With sighs and tears, and breathed his last desire,
When on the dying knight, with sudden glare,
Flash'd from the sun three beams of heavenly fire.
His friends kneel round him with dejected air,
Like children at the death-bed of their sire;
No sounds the dread and solemn silence broke,
Save when deep sighs the heart's sad language spoke.

Soft music, mingling with that heavenly light,
In sweet low murmurs stole upon their ears;
And, like some dying gale of balmy night,
A spirit seem'd descending from the spheres.
Orlando raised his intellectual sight,
When to his ravish'd sense confest appears
He, who from heaven to our benighted earth
Bore the glad tidings of a Saviour's birth.

And thus that vision said, or seem'd to say,
“Thine offering is received, thy soul forgiven!
Wait but a little space—the appointed day
Restores thee to thy mourning friends in heaven.
To those beloved on earth, for whom you pray,
Shall special messengers of peace be given,
To guard your king in his declining years,
And these your fellow-soldiers and your peers.

114

“Bright with eternal youth and fadeless bloom,
Thine Aldabelle thou shalt behold once more,
Partaker of a bliss beyond the tomb
With her whom Sinai's holy hills adore;
Crown'd with fresh flowers, whose colour and perfume
Surpass what Spring's rich bosom ever bore—
Thy mourning widow here she will remain,
And be in Heaven thy joyful spouse again.”

With look seraphic, raised and fix'd on high,
He seem'd transfigured from this earthly vest,
And holding sweet communion with the sky:
O happy end! O soul supremely blest!
At last he hung his languid head to die,
And the freed spirit left his holy breast;
But first the pommel of his sword he laid
Fix'd to his heart, his arms across the blade.

The sound of distant thunder shook the skies,
Play'd round the hills, and in the valley died;
From snowy clouds bright starry meteors rise,
And through mid air celestial lustres glide,
And liquid flames, too fierce for mortal eyes;
To sweetest harps harmonious notes replied;
Such notes as to the Heaven of Heavens aspire,
The holy hymnings of the angelic choir.

The knights, who silent saw their champion die,
Stood rapt in fervent trance upon the plain;

115

Lost to themselves, in Contemplation's eye
They rise at once their radiant thrones to gain;
Till ceased the strains of dulcet psalmody,
And long and loud Hosannas closed the strain.
So stood the sage of old, and so adored,
When up to Heaven Elijah's chariot soar'd.

When Charles beheld that field of blood, he cast
His eyes towards Roncesvalles, and exclaim'd,
“Because in thee the fame of France is past,
Through every age be thou with curses named!
So long as this vile world and Time shall last,
Be desolating barrenness proclaim'd
Thy lofty hills and spreading vales around,
And Heaven's own lightnings blast the accurséd ground!”

But when he reach'd the fatal mountain's base,
Where, at the fount, Rinaldo watch'd, the dead,
More lamentable tears bedew'd his face:
The stiffen'd corse he kiss'd, embraced, and said,
“O blessed soul! look from the realms of grace
Upon this old and miserable head;
And, if all wrongs be not forgotten there,
For peace and gracious pardon hear my prayer!

“Where is the faith, my son, I bade thee prove?
The pledge, in happier days received and given?
O shade adored! if aught of human love
Or human pity may survive in Heaven,

116

Restore me, from thy glorious seat above,
As the dear token of offence forgiven,
That sword with which I made thee knight and count,
Even as thou erst didst swear at Aspramount!”

'Twas so ordain'd, that, at his sovereign's word,
Orlando's body rose from earth once more,
And kneel'd before his ancient king and lord
With solemn reverence as in days of yore;
Stretch'd forth his hand and yielded back the sword,
The same he held at Aspramount before:
Then, with a smile, to Heaven the spirit fled;
The corse fell back, and lay for ever dead.

O'er Charles's limbs a sudden tremor ran,
Something betwixt a thrilling awe and love:
By the cold hand he grasp'd the sainted man,
And felt assured of happier life above.
A holy horror every breast began
To seize, and even Rinaldo's soul to prove
The power of Fear, while, humbly kneeling round,
They kiss'd with bended face the sacred ground.

But who shall say how wretched Alda mourn'd
Her lord and brother on their timeless bier?
“Ye, blessed souls, to kindred light return'd,
Have left me all alone and darkling here,
Me, once the happiest wife on earth, adorn'd
With all that Heaven approves or man holds dear,
Crown'd with the love of the most noble knight
That ever mounted steed or dared the fight.

117

“O my loved husband, father, friend, farewell!
Ne'er shall the world behold thy peer again;
So form'd in camps and cities to excel,
So mild in peace, so dreadful on the plain!
Faithful in life and death, thine Aldabelle
Swears, by thy bones inhumed at Aquisgrane,
This constant heart, that only breathed for thee,
Shall live devoted to thy memory.”

249

IMITATIONS AND PARODIES.

SONG.—“COULD A MAN BE SECURE.”

Could a man be aware
Of the turmoil and care
That a life of ambition attend,
Would he not cast away
Every thought of to-day,
And trifle and dream without end?

Were the miser but told,
Once or ere he grow old,
“All the treasure you leave will be lost—
All the wealth that you've stored
Can no premium afford
To your ashes, nor profit your ghost”—

Could the soldier's stern eye
'Mid the battle descry,
Thro' the cannon's loud thunder and smoke,
What a shade of a shade
Is the idol he made,
And the altar he built, what a joke—

Could the sage, nigh his urn,
His vain learning unlearn,
But this one piece of knowledge to scan;

250

That, howe'er he may prize
The keen sight of his eyes,
Yet the blindest of creatures is man—

Would the miser persist
Still in closing his fist,
The soldier his phantom embrace,
Or again at his book
The philosopher look,
And the same endless diagrams trace?

Then no longer upbraid
That boon Nature has made
Stupid mortals to delve and to spin;
Were their labours untried,
And their books laid aside,
They'd soon fade and grow rotten within.

FROM THE LAY OF A TROUBADOUR.

Ladye! for truth I you it tell
That God and Love accord right well,
Respect and Homage God doth prize,
And true Love doth not them despise.
God hateth pride and falsity,
And true Love loveth loyalty.
In courteous 'haviour God delighteth,
And gentle Love the same ne'er slighteth.
God listens to a worthy prayer,
And true Love shutteth not his ear.

251

SONG.—“SINCE FIRST I SAW YOUR FACE.”

O lady, could I e'er behold
That face so brightly beaming,
And not life's sunny hours regret
When infant Love lay dreaming
Upon thy breast of driven snow,
Beneath thine eye's blue languish?—
But, no! no! no! thy heart was safe;
It cared not for his anguish.

The slighted boy at last awoke
From that distracted slumber,
And since has toy'd in sunny bowers
'Mongst beauties without number.
Yet still if by his pathway glides
That form at evening lonely,
Love every later dream forgets,
His first remember'd only.

So wandering spirits, are we told,
By sin from glory sunder'd,
If but a gale blow o'er them, fraught
With sweets from Eden plunder'd,
The furrow'd lines of guilt and care
Are at the moment vanish'd,
And all their native heaven returns,
As if they'd ne'er been banish'd.

252

CHARADE.

A voice of wailing heard and loud lament
From Sinai's rocks to fruitful Lebanon—
The awful warning of destruction sent
To Nineveh the great, and Babylon—
Ruin, and utter desolation;
Thence to all nations, in the dark eclipse
Floundering and sinking, of religion's sun,
Denounced tremendous by the hallow'd lips
Of him, the inspiréd bard that wrote the Apocalypse—

Behold my First. My Second lies conceal'd
In words impervious to the noon-tide beam
Where erst the mighty prophet who reveal'd
The monarch of Assyria's mystic dream,
And thence, borne onward by the viewless stream
Of unborn ages, to the searching eye
Of Faith has given its widest, amplest theme,
Was doom'd in youth by tyrant power to lie
A prey to fiercest beasts, who growl'd and pass'd him by.

—Both grandly dark—Behold yet darker frown
Through the thick gloom of ages past away,
Wearing the semblance of a kingly crown,
With streaming beard, and locks of iron gray;

253

Grim-visaged potentate, whose bloody sway
Crimsons the eternal snows that gird the pole;
Whose name yet lives remember'd in the day
When low in dust repentant bigots roll—
Low, and with ashes soil'd—behold! you have my Whole.

THE ROADMAKERS:

A DOLEFUL BALLAD FOR THE YEAR 1825.

[_]

Tune—“Ye gentlemen of England.”

Ye road-makers of England,
Who sit and plan at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
Our cherish'd lawns and trees!
Give ear unto the gentlemen,
And they will plainly show,
All their cares and their fears,
When a-measuring you go!

This goodly land of freedom,
With all its bowers and halls,
Is turning fast to turnpike roads,
And prisons and canals.
The sylvan elves and fairies
Have vanish'd long ago;
Else what cries would arise
When a-mapping it you go.

254

How merrily we jogged it
O'er breezy hill and down,
Till grateful rest, at eventide,
Our daily toil did crown!
Now, all our roads must level be;
Our pleasant hills laid low;
Whilst the mail, through each vale,
Helter-skeltering doth go.

Our music's sole provider
Must be the twanging horn,
Now every thrush has left its bush,
Each nightingale its thorn.
Then to the sound of coaches,
Since brooks have ceased to flow,
Long and deep be your sleep
Whilst a-rolling it you go.

Here freedom once was cherish'd,
And Englishmen were bold
To call their homes their castles, and
Their lands secure to hold.
But you despise our liberties,
And laugh to scorn our wo,
O'er our land, act in hand,
Whilst a-parcelling you go.

Our lords and knights of parliament
May grant what you require,
While you but press to dispossess
The humble country squire:

255

But keep from their park palings, or
Full soon they'll make you know
How they'll fight for their right,
If a-levelling you'd go.

You prate of public spirit,
And private ends pursue:
Our fathers fought at Agincourt,
Their sons at Waterloo.
Our woods, our bought inheritance,
Their blood hath made to grow;
And we'll flinch not an inch,
Though a bullying you go.

If tyranny assails us,
When England is at war,
From any vaunting foreigners
We fear not wound or scar.
Then for our tyrants of the spade,
The pickaxe and the hoe,
All prepared stand on guard,
Whilst a-rampaging they go.

Now courage, all brave gentlemen,
Your honours forth advance,
And yield to ne'er a despot yet,
From Scotland nor from France.
M---m would reduce us all
To break up stones, we know;
May our stones break his bones,
When a-hammering he'll go.

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ADDITIONAL STANZAS FOR 1836.

But now M---m's reign is o'er,
And railways take his place,
And fourteen miles an hour, or more,
Is deem'd a snail's foot-pace.
“Annihilate both space and time,
To ease a lover's wo,”
None need pray, now-a-day,
While a-steaming it we go.

If so the price of iron
Is risen cent. per cent.
(As one from Sheffield, t'other day,
Announced in parliament,)
What wonder, then, that foundry-men,
And lords of mines also,
O'er the land, hand in hand
With the levellers do go?

Now town with country lunches,
And country dines with town,
And England is the picture of
The world turn'd upside down.
Their griding irons pierce our souls,
Their furnace makes us glow,—
May B---l broil as well
If a-tunnelling he'll go!

257

SONG.—“THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE ON EVERY HAN'.”

[_]

—(BURNS.)

There's nought but iron on every han',
On every road one passes, O!
What signifies the life of man,
That mow'd down like the grass is, O!

Hark! how it crashes, O!
Whiz! how it flashes, O!
Now off we be, and what care we
For broken bones and gashes O?

The war'ly race may riches chase;
But should their han's environ, O,
Great heaps untold of minted gold,
'Twere naething to bar-iron, O.

Hark, &c.

Then gi'e to me on 'change to see
The shares look brisk and cheerie, O,
Geese, women, then, and pigs, and men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

Hark, &c.

A' ye wha jeer, now haud your sneer;
Their sense your sense surpasses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
Was naething to the asses, O.

Hark, &c.

258

Now Exe may change her clouted cream
With Bristol for molasses, O.
So be our theme, first, iron and steam,
And, after, men and asses, O.

Hark! how it crashes, O!
Whiz! how it flashes, O!
Now off we be, and what care we
For broken bones and gashes, O?

BALLAD—IN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS.

“Why should I deprive my neighbour
Of his goods against his will,
Though in works of honest labour
I would fain be busy still?”

Such the Sunday lesson taught us,
Sitting on our nurse's knee,
When the good old dame besought us
To be like the busy bee.

Now our neighbour's goods and chattels—
Nay, his house and land also,
Are no more than children's rattles,
Weigh'd with “bono publico.”

Now 'tis all—“push on, keep moving!”
Iron without, and coals within—
Levelling is term'd “improving,”
And to covet held no sin.

259

Sure there's somewhat most bewitching
Breaking up another's land;
Tunneling, embanking, ditching,
Act of Parliament in hand.

Once the realm was all o'er-ridden
By a lordly Nimrod crew:
Now to hunt's a thing forbidden
By the broker and the Jew.

Aristocracy was once the
Plague that ravaged our abodes;
But our plague is, for the nonce, the
Joint-stock-ocracy of roads.

THE ROAD TO GLORY.

[_]

Tune—“The blue bonnets over the border.”

Up, up, sons of Utility!
Up, and be stirring, boys, all round the borders!
Down, down, rank and gentility!
What are ye for, but to execute orders?

Yield, aristocracy! rule joint-stock-ocracy!
Drive, ye share-holders, your ploughshares before ye!
Mount, and make ready, then, colliers and foundry men—
Rail-roads and waggon trains whisk ye to glory.

260

Rouse, rouse, Manchester, and Brummagem,
Sheffield, Newcastle, Leeds, Durham, and Bristol!
Burn lords! ransack and rummage 'em,
And at their heads hold your radical pistol!

Yield, aristocracy, &c.

March, march, Force and Rapacity!
Push on, incessant indefinite movement!
Join hands, Fraud and Mendacity!
Who'll see your face thro' the mask of improvement?

Yield, aristocracy, &c.

Speed, speed, lawyers and riflemen!
Now is the time for all manner of jobbery.
Look to yourselves—never stand on a trifle, men!
“Publicum bonum” will sanction the robbery.

Yield, aristocracy! rule joint-stock-ocracy!
Drive, ye share-holders, your ploughshares before ye!
Mount, and make ready, then, colliers and riflemen—
Rail-roads and waggon trains whisk ye to glory.

A NEW SONG UPON WHIG AND TORY.

[_]

Tune—“A cobbler there was.”

Come listen, my boy, and I'll tell you a story
How 't has fared with old England betwixt Whig and Tory.

261

Whig stands for sour milk, as I've heard 'em declare,
And Tory's a savage, as rude as a bear,
Derry down, down, down derry down.

The Whigs first were Round-heads—so call'd, 'tis averr'd,
From cropping their poll, tho' they scarce trimm'd their beard;
While the bold Cavaliers, as they dash'd thro' the throng,
Kept their whiskers well shorn, though they wore their hair long.
Derry down, &c.

These Round-heads—it happen'd—cut off a king's head;
But the Cavaliers brought a new king in his stead:
When the first look'd so black for the loss of their power,
That the others declared they turn'd all the milk sour,
Derry down, &c.

Now the proud Cavaliers, in the midst of their glories,
Look'd so fierce with their wigs, that the Whigs call'd 'em Tories;
And king James having leagued with the Pope, as they say,
Whig and Tory united to turn him away.
Derry down, &c.

262

Then under brave Orange the Whigs ruled the roast,
And the Tories were voted rank scoundrels at most.
But—sly fellows—they managed to get good Queen Anne over,
And so stuck to their posts, till king George came from Hanover.
Derry down, &c.

Now down fell the Tory, and up rose the Whig,
And they ran the whole nation a deuce of a rig;
But poor Whig fell asleep while he guarded the fruit,
And sly Tory stole back, with the princess and Bute.
Derry down, &c.

Since then—to make short of this Whiggamore story—
Down, down, went the Whig, and up, up, went the Tory;
Till the Whigs, to get back, put to sea in a storm,
And braved Revolution in urging Reform.
Derry down, &c.

Now let Whig and Tory be heard of no more;
But true Englishmen join, as they once did before,
To stick to the ship, having sworn to defend her;
So a fig for the devil, the Pope, and Pretender.
Derry down, down, down derry down.

263

SACRED AND SCRIPTURAL.

PROVERBS, CHAP. I. v. 20–31.

Wisdom aloud proclaimeth. In the street
Her voice is heard aloud—
In the chief place, where men assembled meet;
And to the listening crowd
Thus from betwixt the expanded gates gives warning:
“How long, ye fools, will ye
Embrace simplicity?—
How long, ye scorners, take delight in scorning?
Turn ye at my reproof.
Behold! for your behoof
On you my inmost spirit I will outpour,
And spread from shore to shore.
Because I call'd, and ye refused—because
My hand I stretchéd forth, and no man heeded—
But ye have set at naught my counsell'd laws,
And spurn'd the lore that from my lips proceeded;
I too will laugh for that ye inly bleed;
I too will mock when fear, as desolation,
Cometh upon you, and with whirlwind speed
Swift devastation.
Then shall they call on me, and I refuse;
Shall seek me early, but they shall not find;
For that they hated knowledge, nor did choose

264

The fear of the Lord their God to keep in mind.
They would none of my counsel; they despised
All my reproof; so may they freely reap
That they have sown; and, what they have devised,
Be theirs to keep!”

ECCLESIASTICUS, CHAP. I.

All Wisdom is from Thee, O Lord! with Thee
Abideth ever.
The drops of rain that fall—the sand of the sea—
The sum of days that makes eternity,
Who shall endeavour
To number?—who, to measure Heaven's height,
Earth's breadth, the depth of ocean infinite,
The boundless stream
Of Wisdom—first of all created things—
Wisdom, that from the eternal fountain springs
Of God supreme?
Her ways are everlasting laws—to whom
Have the recesses of her secret womb
Been e'er reveal'd?
Who knows her solemn councils? who so blest,
To whom she hath herself made manifest,
And kept conceal'd
From all beside?—Yet is there One, most wise,
One, greatly to be fear'd, who in the skies
Hath built his throne;

265

Who Wisdom's self did into being call,
And saw, and number'd, and hath since thro' all
His works made known—
And, most of all, to them that live, and move,
And their Almighty Father know and love,
Hath given her for their own.
The fear of the Lord is Honour, Glory, Gladness;
A crown of happiness without alloy;
The fear of the Lord dispelleth grief and sadness,
And giveth length of years, increase of joy.
Who fears the Lord, with him it shall be well
E'en to the last, and peace upon his death bed dwell.
The fear of the Lord is Wisdom's first creation,
Found with the faithful yet within the womb,
And will continue with them to the tomb,
And with their seed upon secure foundation.

WISDOM OF SOLOMON, CHAP. II.

Thus said the heathen, in their reasonings vain;
“Man's life is short, or but prolonged in pain:
In death no remedy, no comfort, lies,
And from the grave we may not look to rise.
Born to all chance, on all adventures driven,
The sport of fortune or capricious heaven,
We pass away, and are no longer seen,
And leave no record that we once have been.
Our breath is smoke, our heart's warm pulse a spark,

266

Soon kindled, soon extinct, then all is dark;
Consumed to ashes our poor house of clay,
Our spirit vanish'd like soft air away;
Our name erased from Time's unfaithful page;
Our works unnoticed by the rising age.
We die, alas! and leave no trace behind,
Like empty vapour driven before the wind,
Or mists that, gathering thick at close of night,
Are scatter'd by the day's increasing light.
And, when this vision is dissolved at last,
This airy, trifling, fleeting shadow past,
A seal is put upon the funeral urn,
And Fate itself prohibits our return.

“Come, then, enjoy the hours that yet are thine,
Give thy full soul to perfumes, baths, and wine;
Let youth enhance the moments as they fly,
And let no flower of painted spring go by!
With early rose-buds let us crown our head,
Ere yet their full-blown leaves be torn and shed!
No pleasure pass untried, nor dear delight—
The festive day, the soft voluptuous night;
Leave through the world the tokens of your bliss,
This is our portion, and our lot is this.

“Let us the poor and righteous man oppress,
Nor spare the widow nor the fatherless,
Nor hold in reverence grey antiquity—
But let our strength the law of justice be.
That which is weak is ever worthless found—
Let then our toils the righteous man surround;
For that he thwarts our arts, and doth prevent

267

By stern reproof our lawless will's intent;
And boasts himself of knowledge all divine,
And claims descent from God's peculiar line.
Nay—e'en his face it irks us to behold;
For not like other men's his days are told:
His ways are of a different fashion,—He
Proclaims the end of the just man bless'd to be.
But let us see if so his words be sooth:
For, say the just man be God's child in truth,
Then surely God will help, and set him free
From powerless hands of human enemy.”

Such thoughts they did conceive, by sin made blind.
God's hidden mysteries were not in their mind;
The meed of goodness 'twas not theirs to earn,
Nor the reward of blameless souls discern.
For God made man immortal—form'd to be
The image of His own Eternity.

[Great Universal Father—Thou]

Great Universal Father—Thou
Whose form no eye hath seen,
Whose seat we image in the space
Of the infinite Serene!

Thy name with reverential awe
Be ever hallow'd here,
And not a thought profane the place
Where angels come not near.

268

In lowliest confidence we wait
For thine appointed day:
“Thy kingdom come! Thy will be done!”
This only let us pray.

Thy kingdom come! Thy will be done
On earth as 'tis in Heaven;
And what our feeble nature craves
Be in like measure given.

Forgive us, Father, O forgive
Our still increasing debt
Of sin, as We forgiveness grant
To those who Us forget.

When stormy passion o'er the brink
Our tossing souls would urge,
O lead us not within the gulf,
Of that o'erwhelming surge!

But from the power of Sin and Death,
The soul's worst enemy,
Deliver us—Thou who alone
Canst set the prisoner free!

For only Thine the kingdom is,
And Thine the sovereign sway,
And Thine the glory that abides
Through everlasting day.

269

[Father of mercies, God of might]

Father of mercies, God of might,
By whom all things were made;
We from thy paths of truth and light
Like wandering sheep have stray'd;
Lost, but for Thee, our stedfast hold,
All-seeing guardian of the fold.

The vain devices and desires
Of hearts propense to wrong,
The flickerings of delusive fires,
We follow'd have too long:
Against Thy wise and holy laws
We have rebell'd without a cause.

The good Thou willest us to do,
That we have left undone;
The evil that Thou bidd'st eschew,
We into it have run;
And none amongst us can be found,
But all is tainted, all unsound.

Yet, Lord, have mercy!—Mercy, Lord,
On us, thy humbled race!
To them that own their guilt accord
The riches of thy grace.
Spare them that in true lowliness
Of soul their inmost thoughts confess.

270

Spare us, good Lord! save and restore
According to thy will,
Declared in promises of yore,
And sure and constant still,
By Him—to make the charter good,
Who seal'd it with his precious blood.

For whose dear sake, O Father! grant
Our lives henceforth may prove
The mercies of thy covenant,
The wonders of thy love.
Righteous, and pure from sinful blame,
In honour of Thy glorious name.

[Almighty God! before Thy Throne]

Almighty God! before Thy Throne
We kneel for grace to cast away
The robes of darkness, and put on
The armour of eternal day;
Even now, in life's meridian way,
The spring-tide of our mortal prime,
Or e'er we sink in swift decay,
And nature's doom is seal'd by Time.

Even now, to this benighted clime
When Thine own Son, in humble strain
Descending, left his seat sublime
To help us, struggling with our chain:

271

That, when he shall return again
The judge of quick and dead to be,
We may, through His great love, attain
A glorious immortality.

[Thou Great First cause of life and light]

Thou Great First cause of life and light,
Unsearchable by mortal sight,
From whose perpetual fountains flow
All we enjoy, and all we know;

Who in our days hast deign'd dispense
A larger view of Providence,
And on the thirsty nations pour'd
The boundless riches of Thy word;

O grant that we may so embrace
The means allotted by Thy grace,
So read Thy will, and so improve
The stores of Thine exhaustless love;

That, by the help of thoughts resign'd,
By patient humbleness of mind,
By daily prayer before Thy throne,
By pious trust in Thee alone,

We may attain that blissful coast,
Where hope in certainty is lost,
And truth reveals, through every line,
The wonders of Thy vast design.

272

“EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD.”

—MILTON.

“Evil, be thou my good”—in rage
Of disappointed pride,
And hurling vengeance at his God,
The apostate angel cried.

“Evil, be thou my good”—repeats,
But in a different sense,
The christian, taught by faith to trace
The scheme of Providence.

So deems the hermit, who abjures
The world for Jesus' sake;
The patriot midst his dungeon bars,
The martyr at his stake.

For he who happiness ordain'd
Our being's only end—
The God who made us, and who knows
Whither our wishes tend,

The glorious prize hath station'd high
On virtue's hallow'd mound,
Guarded by toil, beset by care,
With danger circled round.

Virtue were but a name, if vice
Had no dominion here,
And pleasure none could taste, if pain
And sorrow were not near.

273

The fatal cup we all must drain
Of mingled bliss and woe;
Unmix'd, the cup would tasteless be,
Or quite forget to flow.

Then cease to question Heaven's decree,
Since Evil, understood,
Is but the tribute nature pays
For Universal Good.

If the concluding couplet should assume the air of a paradox, the author has only to plead, that nothing less pointed would express all the meaning he intends to convey.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

EPITAPH.

[When at the holy altar's foot is given]

When at the holy altar's foot is given
Some blushing maiden to the enamour'd youth,
Whose long tried honour, constancy, and truth,
Yield the fair promise of an earthly heaven,
Though to far distant friends and country led,
Fond parents triumph mid the tears they shed.

Shall we then grieve that a celestial spouse
Hath borne this virgin treasure from our sight,
To share the glories of the eternal light,
The end of all our prayers and all our vows?
We should rejoice—but cannot as we ought.
Great God! forgive the involuntary fault.

274

ANOTHER EPITAPH.

Thou'rt gone, my Jane—for ever gone—
And in thy silent urn
Can holy rapture breathe no more,
Nor fond affection burn.

Mute are the strains—for ever mute—
On which we lingering hung,
While adoration swell'd each heart,
And fetter'd every tongue.

Yet still on one—one sister breast
Does the remembrance lie,
Vivid—as in the deepest lake
We view the brightest sky;

Thence ne'er to be effaced, till day
And all its tints expire;
And then—O God! with her to join
In Thine immortal choir?

TO A SON ENTERING COLLEGE.

“Go forth, my boy! and on the swelling tide
Of honourable fame securely ride!
Go forth! and may a father's blessing fill
Thy prosperous sail, and aid the steersman's skill,

275

With power to shield from passion's tempest sway,
From pleasure's hidden shoals avert thy way,
Break pride's dull waveless calm, and bid retreat
Each eddying gust of folly and conceit;
So on thy brow exulting we may see
The glorious prize—the wreath of victory!”

Presumptuous wish—in doting fondness bred!
Unthinking prayer, recall'd as soon as sped!
Condemn'd by reason's voice, religion's power,
And proved delusive every passing hour.

In different strains experience bids arise,
Affection's offer'd incense to the skies.

“O God! receive, protect, and bless my son!
And, whatsoe'er Thy will, that will be done.
I ask but that Thou teachest all to pray—
The rest be Thine to give or take away.
Vouchsafe him health, if such Thy pleasure be;
And grant that he may use in honouring Thee!
If not, in sickness may he still be Thine,
And through the body's pains the soul refine.

“If happiness consist with length of days,
Long life be his, devoted to Thy praise!
But, whatsoe'er—or long, or short, his doom—
Should parents' tears bedew his early tomb,
Or children's children follow to the grave,
Be present Thou, Omnipotent to save!

276

“If thou hast form'd him in thy purpose high,
A mark conspicuous for the world's broad eye,
O let him honour'd live, lamented die!
But, if Thou willest that his heart be tried
By disappointed hope and wounded pride,
By cold neglect, or scorn more hard than hate,
Attendants of a low or fallen estate,
O make his spirit be resigned, and free
To hug retreat, and welcome privacy:
Oblivion's hermit portion bid him share;
But plant content and resignation there!

“Thy grace to aid each generous thought impart,
Invigorate the mind, keep pure the heart;
On Honour's sun-like form to fix his sight,
Firm as yon eagle's in his mountain flight;
Yet rather brave the world's contempt, than be
By conscience stricken, or disown'd by Thee!

“Let the bright star of reason's cloudless day
Beam on his soul with unobstructed ray,
Expand its powers, exalt its high desires,
And purge its weakness with etherial fires:
Full in his sight set virtue's sacred shrine,
And make him worthier heaven, as wholly Thine!”

277

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

ENTITLED “RETROSPECTION.”

To-day I enter on my fiftieth year.
My spring of Life is past—in swift career
Summer rolls down apace; and winter's blast
Will soon shake off the few green leaves that last.
The rapid foot of Time I may not chide;
Rather myself, who have so vainly tried
To strip some plumage from his wing, and raise
A trophied monument of deathless praise.
Yet this were pride—pride only—in the dress
That Lucifer best loves, of lowliness.
Ah no! far wiser were it to survey
In sober retrospect my travell'd way—
To note each blessing of my favour'd lot,
—Too thankless oft received, or heeded not—
But, chief, that thou, &c. [OMITTED]
“Praise doth not always to desert belong—
The race to speed—the battle to the strong.”
Thus, haply, love too partial might persuade:
But truth severe, in memory's garb array'd,
The fond deceit indignantly repels,
While of false hope and wasted strength she tells,
Of mis-directed aims, and toil mis-spent,
Talents for interest given, but kept as lent;

278

Means unembraced, occasions unemploy'd,
Pleasures unwisely used, and half enjoy'd:
And when—as faint I climb the rugged road,
“So distant wherefore still from Fame's abode?”
Stern conscience asks, “and why so poorly sped?”—
I've nought to answer, but must hang my head.
Yet do the years seem hours, or scarce so long,
Since on this chequer'd scene of right and wrong,
Of stern debate, and animated strife,
Where passions, good and evil, all are rife,
I enter'd first amid the bustling throng;
Nor heeded then my own prophetic song
That pointed to some lone sequester'd bower,
Where I might linger out life's evening hour. [OMITTED]
Ambition! honour! are ye empty breath?
Is there no refuge from life's ills but death?
Not so I thought while following year by year,
The airy phantoms your enchantments rear:
These busy peopling the unreal void
With hopes illusive, ne'er to be enjoy'd;
Those shedding noxious dews o'er every sense,
And steeping thought in mental indolence.
And yet, e'en then, in youth's ecstatic hour,
While Fancy held with undiminish'd power
Her empire o'er my breast, full well she knew
To shade the brightest forms her pencil drew
With sombre tinctures of funereal hue.
But, haply, still amid that waste of thought,
Some wiser lessons, by reflection taught,

279

Sprang timely forth—I learn'd that man is born
For nobler ends than but to joy or mourn;
That life is given, not just to feel and taste,
Then lose in slumber, or in idlesse waste;
A little folding of the arms to sleep—
A little space o'er imaged woes to weep. [OMITTED]
Words are the wheels of thought, by Heaven impell'd;
Such as of old the sacred bard beheld,
What time he sat by Chebar's silent strand,
Amongst the captives in Chaldæan land;
Whither the Spirit directs still made to go,
With Him to soar above, or sink below.
Yet better far to want the gift of speech—
All godlike though it be when used to preach
The words of wisdom, virtue, knowledge, sense,
To move by pathos, fire by eloquence,
By sweet persuasion to constrain, or roll
The tide of just invective o'er the soul,
Command the right, or reprobate the wrong,
Give courage to the weak, and judgment to the strong—
Aye—better far to want it, than employ
In falsehood's cause—to flatter and destroy,
Pervert the law, confound the fact, or raise
Dishonouring trophies or ill-measured praise—
Nay, better than to spend in idle flow
Of fond unmeaning phrases, or bestow
In waste of words, while pining suitors shame
The court's delay, and justice bears the blame;

280

To whine in maudlin cant, or loosely prate
Of all things save the subject of debate;
Regardless of each sign of just rebuke—
The hapless adversary's hopeless look;
The yawn that justice vainly strives to hide;
The long long list of causes still untried;
Rapt in one sole perfection—deaf and blind
To all without, around, before, behind.

Nor this alone, of all the gifts that start
For wealth and power, did nature fail to impart:
When in half angry, half indulgent mood,
The cup of Fancy's mingled ill and good
She bad me freely drink, the sorceress knew
That draught of bliss was dash'd with poison too;
That, never wholly blest, whose favour'd lips
The nectar touch, the wormwood also sips.
Imagination's willing slave, he flies
Too oft from stagnant life's realities,
To the bright regions of the upper air,
Content to starve, so he inhabit there.
But e'en this glorious error was not mine— [OMITTED]
O think not heaven e'er meant the immortal mind
A mere machine, in ceaseless round to grind
Food for the loud-tongued wranglers of the bar,
Or forge the weapons of forensic war.
Dare rather trust that man was made to use
The talents it hath lent for nobler views
Than such as these—commission'd high to soar
Beyond the fane where Mammon's sons adore—

281

Superior to the grovelling herd obscene,
Born but to serve where Avarice sits as queen,
And, glorying in their crime, who loud declare
Their base indifference whose the badge they wear—
Alike to them, whom Slavery stamps her own,
Whether they bow at Truth's or Falsehood's throne;
Just or unjust—who serve with equal zest
(If equal pay) the oppressor, and the opprest. [OMITTED]
Patriots there are—e'en now—but few or none
Who take their stand at duty's post alone;
Who dare appeal to men as men—the good
And true—for all existing—understood
By all. Their foes are better taught than they—
E'en Satan's self has learn'd that wiser way,
By system'd force the human will to bend.
Virtue and truth, firm fix'd, will, in the end
(Doubtless,) prevail; but wavering good is still
No match for resolute, consistent ill.
O for some wise, some potent voice, to make
The startled soul at duty's call awake!

There are, who, hearing what these notes proclaim,
May brand the preacher with the zealot's name;
May term him Superstition's slave and tool,
Or, bred themselves in rancour's narrow school,
Write him down hypocrite. Rash men, forbear—
Remembering what he is, and what ye are—
God's children all—the secret mind unknown
To all, but him who form'd it—God alone.

282

The mind!—mysterious essence—subtlest spark—
Of power to pierce the chambers, vast and dark,
Of death's profoundest cave—yet oftener doom'd
Amongst the living to remain entomb'd,
As in a sepulchre of breathing clay;
Instinct the body's mandates to obey,
But aimless as the dead, and uninform'd as they.
Wo to the man in whose distrustful mind
Power, virtue, freedom, no admittance find,
Because unmix'd they never yet were view'd
With sin, with weakness, and with servitude!
In the wide fields of science soon we learn
The things by nature separate to discern:
So, by like reason, in the moral state,
We must discern, that we may separate;
And in the right discerning good from ill
Begins the task of separation still. [OMITTED]
What in all ages, everywhere, hath been
By all believed, although unfelt, unseen
By outward sense, accept; nor ask for more
Than patriarch, saint, or prophet held of yore.
Not on cold logic rests the christian plan—
It is engrafted in the heart of man;
Fix'd in his memory; and rooted there
With the dear image of his mother's chair,
Her first remember'd accents—'tis self-proved—
Witness the power by which ourselves are moved;
Or as the sun by his own light is seen.
Thus sense suggests; and reason steps between

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To separate what we feel from what we know.
That says it is—but this, it must be so.
The reasoning faculty, and that we name
The understanding, are no more the same,
Than are a maxim and a principle—
A truth eternal, indestructible,
And a bare inference from facts, how great
Soe'er their number, magnitude, and weight.
—At best, how fallible!—who sees a rose,
Sees that 'tis red; and what he sees he knows.
Day after day, at each successive hour,
Where'er he treads, the same love-vermeil'd flower
Blooms in his path. What wonder if he draw,
From facts so proved, a universal law,
And deem all roses of the self-same hue?
And this is knowledge; yet 'tis only true
Until a white rose gleams upon his view.
Where is his reason then?—his science, bought
With long experience? All must come to nought.

So, when creation's earliest day had run,
And Adam first beheld the new-born sun
Sink in the shrouded west, the deepening gloom
He watch'd, all hopeless of a morn to come.
Another evening's shades advancing near
He mark'd with livelier hopes, yet dash'd by fear.
Another—and another—hopes prevail;
Thousands of years repeat the wondrous tale:
Yet where is man's assurance, that the light
Of day will break upon the coming night? [OMITTED]

284

Without all sense of God, eternity,
Absolute truth, volition, liberty,
Good, fair, just, infinite—think, if you can,
Of such a being in the form of man;
What but the animal remains?—endow'd
(May be) with memory's instinctive crowd
Of images—but man is wanting there,
His very essence, unimpressive air;
And, in his stead, a creature subtler far
Than all the beasts that in the forest are,
Or the green field, but also cursed above
Them all—condemn'd that bitterest curse to prove—
“Upon thy belly creep, and, for thy fee,
Eat dust, so long as thou hast leave to be.”

There needs no hell of flames—for, if the will,
(Law of our nature,) be not with us still—
If from our reason that dissever'd be,
From fancy, understanding, memory—
No hell conceived by ignorance or zeal
Can equal that unbodied spirits must feel
From mental anarchy—from senses wrought
To conscious madness. Who can bear the thought?
And yet, how doubt it, grant there be a state—
Nor life, nor death, but intermediate—
Where souls, discharged their prison-house of clay,
And clothed in robes impervious to decay,
Await their final doom?—If this be plain
From holy writ, to seek elsewhere were vain.
If human virtue—(how imperfect found
E'en in the best who walk this earthly round!)

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Shall in those unknown realms be further tried,
Enlarged, refined, exalted, purified;
If human wisdom—(e'en in man most wise,
How ill prepared for commune with the skies!)
Shall there be given with stronger wing to steer
Its venturous flight to an immortal sphere;
Or if, our earthly pilgrimage complete,
And place appointed nigh the mercy seat
By purchase made secure, we there shall rest,
Of future joy by present faith possest,
Not blest, but only waiting to be blest—
(Passive fruition!) none can ever know
Whose feet yet lingering press this sod below;
Unless—(as hath been told, and as I fain
Would think) in blissful intervals from pain,
Are sometimes sent, to spirits half set free,
Bright, transient glimpses of eternity,
Withheld from all beside, of power to shed
Serenest raptures o'er the dying head.

[OMITTED]

What most affects us—what we most desire,
Yet dread, to learn, and tremblingly inquire,
Of this uncertain state, this dreamy sea,
Is, if the soul, from mortal bonds set free,
Still lingers round the spot it once held dear,
Partakes the joy, arrests the falling tear,
Exalts the rapture, mitigates the pain,
Of those it loved, and hopes to meet again.
—Deep mysteries all, and far beyond the sense
Of man, or grasp of human evidence.

286

Yet these are reason—throned, in nature's spite,
By truth, self-poised, on revelation's height.

To such, in solemn reverence, I submit,
Unmoved by ridicule, my humble wit;
Nor count the seed ill sown; tho' doom'd to see
From the bare soil spring forth no goodly tree—
Sure that at heaven's appointed day 'twill rise
In full-grown strength, and spread into the skies. [OMITTED]
All lesser natures find their chiefest good
In straining after better, worthier food:
All strive to ascend, and all ascend in striving—
Each, each subduing, and itself surviving.
And shall man's strivings only—the reflection
Of his most inward self—his soul's election,
Be like an image in the glassy tide
Of some fair tree, that, bending o'er the side,
Deep and more deep, still downward seems to grow,
And in the unstable element below
Finds a mock heaven amid dull weeds, that spread
Their living wreaths around its pictured head—
Substance and shade—the real and the dream:
Yet better these that are than those that seem. [OMITTED]
Is it a crime in days like these to plead
The mind's exemption from all party creed?
Or is it timid, wavering, insincere,
By reason's glimmering lamp our course to steer—
Tho' clouds of doubt by fits our path may hide,
And intercept the soul's unerring guide—

287

Strait for the haven of eternal truth;
E'en though some loved companion of our youth
Fall from our side, as earth-born vapours chill,
And faction's withering genius warps the will?
Is this a spirit of change?—or, if it be,
Say, has the changeful mood pass'd over me
Alone?—is it not common as the sea,
And boundless?—Nay, breathes there one constant friend
To freedom's cause, from Europe's furthest end,
Across the wild Atlantic to the shore
Where erst her brightest smiles the goddess wore,
Whose ardour has no faint misgivings proved,
Whose faith in man's high destinies has moved
Alike progressive, since the hour when fell
Gaul's proud bastille, and wild destruction's yell
Was scarcely heard amid the general cry
Of honest joy for rescued liberty?
Or since that dawning of a brighter day,
While wrapt in shade the giant future lay,
That fairest hour that e'er had beam'd on earth,
Resplendent light! creation's second birth!
Yet then—ay, then—when France assembled sate,
Prince, nobles, people, in that hall of state,
When all she held, of brave, and fair, and free,
Expectant hail'd the world's great jubilee,—
There wanted not the seer's prophetic glance,
Nor sad Cassandra's doom-denouncing trance,
To dash the rapturous joy that proudly smiled
Through the bright eyes of Neckar's gifted child:

288

The wife, the matron, claim that boding tear,
That stifled groan, which none beside might hear.
Ill-fated Montmorin!—the tear, the groan,
That mark thy country's doom, forecast thine own:
Nor sex, nor age, the thirsty scaffold spares,
Nor infant innocence, nor reverend hairs.
Breathes there one constant friend—I ask again,
Nor care who scoffs the thrice repeated strain,—
One constant friend, to freedom's holy cause,
To equal rights, and all-protecting laws,
Who dared all conscious doubt and fear disown,
When terror's form usurp'd the Bourbon throne,
When nations heard the solemn dirge—“Arise,
Son of Saint Louis, to thy native skies?”
Or now, when Britain's alter'd land repeats
Each rank delusion of Parisian cheats,
In wisdom's vain pretence, religion spurns,
And mocks the altar and the throne by turns? [OMITTED]
Say, is it then this Faith in things unseen,
In better still to come than what has been,
This loathing for the sordid and the base,
For petty lucre's mean and stealthy pace,
For fulsome pedantry, contention vain,
And low ambition's mercenary train—
Is this the cause that I so long have stood,
Scorn'd and rejected, baffled, press'd, subdued?
Ah no! a different page I've learn'd to read,
And reason bids me own an humbler creed;
Only, which way heaven points, resolved I'd go,

289

Brave every chance, encounter every foe,
Still toward perfection strain, however blind
And frail mortality may lag behind;
No more, in wavering balance held, from fear
Of caution's censure, or derision's sneer,
Stand shivering on the margin of the flood,
Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would;”
But boldly plunge, and though the tempests roar,
Bear on undoubting to the further shore.

ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE. 1814.

The hour of blood is past;
Blown the last trumpet's blast;
Peal'd the last thunders of the embattled line:
From hostile shore to shore
The bale-fires blaze no more;
But friendly beacons o'er the billows shine,
To light, as to their common home,
The barks of every port that cut the salt sea foam.

“Peace to the nations!”—Peace!
O sound of glad release
To millions in forgotten bondage lying;
In joyless exile thrown
On shores remote, unknown,
Where hope herself, if just sustain'd from dying,
Yet sheds so dim and pale a light,
As makes creation pall upon the sickening sight.

290

“Peace! Peace the world around!”
O strange, yet welcome sound
To myriads more that ne'er beheld her face;
And, if a doubtful fame
Yet handed down her name
In faded memory of an elder race,
It seem'd some visionary form,
Some Ariel, fancy-bred, to soothe the mimic storm.

Now the time-honour'd few,
Her earlier reign that knew,
May turn their eyes back o'er that dreamy flood,
And think again they stand
On the remember'd land,
Ere yet the sun had risen in clouds of blood,
Ere launch'd the chance-directed bark
On that vast world of ocean, measureless and dark.

And is it all a dream?
And did these things but seem—
The vain delusions of a troubled sight?
Or, if indeed they were,
For what did nature bear
The long dark horrors of that fearful night?
Only to breathe and be once more
Even as she was and breathed upon that former shore?

O'er this wild waste of time,
This sea of blood and crime,
Doth godlike virtue rear her awful form,

291

Only to cheat the sight
With wandering barren light—
The meteor, not the watch-fire, of the storm?
The warrior's deed, the poet's strain,
The statesman's anxious toil, the patriot's sufferings, vain?

For this did Louis lay,
In Gallia's sinful day,
On the red altar his anointed head?
For this did Nelson pour,
In Britain's glorious hour,
More precious blood than Britain e'er had shed?
And did their wingéd thoughts aspire,
Even in the parting soul's prophetic trance, no higher?

Ye tenants of the grave,
Whom unseen wisdom gave
To watch the shapeless mist o'er earth extending,
Yet will'd to snatch away
Before the appointed day
Of light renew'd, and clouds and darkness ending,
Oh might ye now permitted rise,
Cast o'er this wondrous scene your unobstructed eyes;

And say, O thou, whose might,
Bulwark of England's right,
Stood forth, the might of Chatham's lordly son;
Thou “on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung,”

292

When freedom's ebbing sand almost had run;
To the deliver'd world declare,
That each hath seen fulfill'd his latest, earliest prayer.

Rejoice, kings of the earth!
But with a temperate mirth;
The trophies ye have won, the wreaths ye wear—
Power with his red right hand,
And empire's despot brand,
Had ne'er achieved these proud rewards ye bear;
But, in one general cause combined,
The people's vigorous arm, the monarch's constant mind.

Yet that untired by toil,
Unsway'd by lust of spoil,
Unmoved by fear, or soft desire of rest,
Ye kept your onward course
With unremitted force,
And to the distant goal united press'd;
The soldier's bed, the soldier's fare,
His dangers, wants, and toils, alike resolved to share.

And more—that when, at length,
Exulting in your strength,
In tyranny o'erthrown, and victory won,
Before you lowly laid,
Your dancing eyes survey'd
The prostrate form of humbled Babylon,
Ye cried, “Enough!”—and at the word
Vengeance put out her torch, and slaughter sheathed his sword—

293

Princes, be this your praise!
And ne'er in after days
Let faction rude that spotless praise profane,
Or dare with license bold
The impious falsehood hold,
That Europe's genuine kings have ceased to reign,
And that a weak adulterate race,
Degenerate from their sires, pollutes high honour's place.

Breathe, breathe again, ye free,
The air of liberty,
The native air of wisdom, virtue, joy!
And, might ye know to keep
The golden wealth ye reap,
Not thrice ten years of terror and annoy,
Of mad destructive anarchy,
And pitiless oppression, were a price too high.

Vaulting ambition! mourn
Thy bloody laurels torn,
And ravish'd from thy grasp the sin-bought prize;
Or, if thy meteor fame
Still win the world's acclaim,
Let it behold thee now with alter'd eyes,
And pass, but with a pitying smile,
The hope-abandon'd chief of Elba's lonely isle.

294

FOR THE GENERAL FAST. 1832.

The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
Who can resist His awful rod?
His gather'd vengeance who withstand?

What may this vast corruption be,
That makes our God His face to hide—
That flows as hugely as the sea,
And swallows all it reaches?—Pride.

The pride of reason and of power,
The pride of knowledge and of skill,
The pride of fashion's painted flower,
And of ungovernable will.

Pride—that deforms our beauteous vales
With riot fierce and gloomy rage—
That makes o'erflow our groaning gaols
With desperate youth and harden'd age.

Pride—that the towering statesman steels
To point the unhesitating wound,
And reckless what his victim feels,
To dart sarcastic lightnings round.

Pride—that perverts the sacred theme
By glosses drawn from man's decrees—
That makes an atom judge supreme
Of heaven's unfathom'd mysteries;

295

That bids the pamper'd heir of wealth
From misery's plaint regardless turn;
The confident in youth and health
Grey hairs and pale diseases spurn;

Self-honour'd virtue shut the door
On penitence for errors past;
Self-worshipp'd wit disdain the lore
That sage antiquity held fast;

Half-letter'd pedantry assume
The lofty magisterial speech;
And to its own base level doom
The heights it ne'er was given to reach;

All sects, all classes, all degrees
Of men that move beneath the sun,
One universal madness seize
Of struggling not to be out-done.

Hence mutual jealousies and fears;
Deadly revenges; devilish hates;
And hours perform the work of years
In urging on the fall of states.

—Haste, Britain, to the mercy-seat,
And gird thy robe of sackcloth on;
And thus in solemn strain repeat,
Devoutly prostrate at the throne—

“The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
None can resist His awful rod;
His gather'd vengeance none withstand.

296

“Yet, Lord, our humble offering take,
And turn no more thy face aside,
Whilst at thy altar we forsake
Our rebel wit—our idol Pride.

“The festering plagues that round us wait
Are but the type of that within.
O God! of thy great power abate
The moral pestilence of sin!

“So may our land thy holy name
Again with hymns of triumph sing;
Again with ceaseless shout proclaim—
The Lord of Hosts is Britain's king!”

SONNETS. 1834–5.

SONNET I.

Yon party zealot, ignorant as warm,
Has taunted me with change—a charge untrue.
I ne'er was one with that deceitful crew,
Who mean Destruction when they roar “Reform;”
My purpose ever to prevent the storm
'Tis theirs to excite. The wholesome air I drew
With my first breath was Loyalty. I grew
In childhood reverence of her sacred form:
And, as she beam'd upon my youthful eye,
Link'd with her mountain sister Liberty,

297

In holiest union, all the more she won
My love and worship; and so made me shun
The fellowship of those who madly try
To rend asunder what heaven join'd in one.

SONNET II.

“The king's name is a tower of strength”—e'en so
May it be ever in this favour'd land—
Of strength alike for succour and command,
Shelter from storms, and safety from the foe;
For refuge to the needy and the low,
When leagued oppressors their just rights withstand;
The nation's sure defence, whene'er the hand
Of bigot faction seeks its overthrow.
Then honour'd be that name by all who share
The blessings it protects; nor honour'd less
The patriot chieftain's, who, when dangers press,
Alike regardless, or of ambush'd snare,
Or fierce assault, with soldier steadfastness
Is ever at his post—to do and dare.

SONNET III.

“Awake! arise! or be for ever fallen.” —MILTON.

------, awake!—or sleep thy long, last sleep—
------, arise!—or be for ever lost
Among the fallen—What? know'st thou not the cost
Of real glory?—canst thou look to reap

298

The great reward, by following those that creep
Along shore, when thy country's hopes are tost
On the wide main—by warring tempests crost,
And well nigh founder'd in the yawning deep?
------, awake! It is thy country's voice
That bids thee rouse—that calls thee to her side.
Thy name, so oft in glorious conflict tried,
When victory hath bid her sons rejoice,
We now invoke, to stem destruction's tide.
Awake! arise! the patriot hath no choice.

SONNET IV.

“Upon the king!” —SHAKSP. HENRY V.

------, awake!—The warning voice again—
Again, again it sounds—awake! arise!
Purge off the noxious film that clouds thine eyes,
Engender'd erst in faction's secret den.
There is no party now for honest men—
None but their country's. Here the good and wise
Have fix'd the sacred standard, that defies
Mere human force, and will be shaken then
Only, when God ordains. Upon a rock
It stands secure. An oak's wide branches fling
Their shadows round its base. About it flock
The nations, and there rest the wearied wing,
Unscathed by scorching hate, or envy's shock—
That rock our country, and that oak our king.

299

A CHRONICLE OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND,

FROM THE INVASION OF JULIUS CÆSAR TO THE REVOLUTION OF 1688.

PROLOGUE.

My worthy little Joe, come listen to my song!
I hope you will not think it dull, albeit something long.
I began it for your brothers, some twenty years ago,
And now I'll finish it for you, my worthy little Joe.

This famous land of Britain, 'tis since two thousand years,
Was parcell'd out to various tribes, as plainly it appears
By Cæsar's martial pen; though, how it so befell,
Whatever we may guess, is more than you or I can tell.
For, since the use of letters was to those tribes unknown,
And men ne'er chronicled their acts on parchment or on stone,
So all we've since been told of Brute, that Trojan bold,
Of Gorboduc, or Albanact, or Lud or Bladud old,
Of good King Coil, or Lear, with his royal daughters three,
Are tales invented but to please a nation's vanity.

300

Yet of their ancient Druids from Rome we something know,
Of rites perform'd in oaken groves, and the sacred misletoe;
And wonderful Stonehenge, on Sarum's lonely height,
Yet stands, to show how well they built, although they could not write.

INVASION OF JULIUS CÆSAR. BEF. CHR. 55.

Ere man's redemption dawn'd, some fifty years or more,
His conquering legions Julius led from Gaul's opposing shore;
Twice visited our isle; the Thames at Coway cross'd,
Encamp'd in London, and advanced to Verulam his host.
Cassibelan was chief among the Britons then,
Whose son was Cymbeline, renown'd by Shakspere's famous pen;
Him follow'd Caradoc, a name to freedom dear,
Who with the Roman eagle strove through many a tedious year,
But, led at length in chains, to swell the victor's state,
Display'd the unconquerable will, triumphant over fate.
Nor till a century pass'd since Cæsar had survey'd

301

Our sea-girt coast, and Rome had yet no lasting conquest made,
Agricola first traversed the land from side to side,
Beat Galgacus, and built a chain of forts 'twixt Forth and Clyde.

SECOND CENTURY.

Another age glides o'er, unmark'd in history's line,
Save by the walls which Hadrian raised, and peaceful Antonine,
To curb the lawless Scots in their ungenial home,
And guard from painted Highlanders the provinces of Rome.
To humbled Britain then it little difference made
If rightful loins the purple wore, or usurpation sway'd;
And profitless the tale how bold Albinus held
Cæsarean power, to be at length by stern Severus quell'd.

THIRD CENTURY.

Four years in Britain's isle the conqueror remain'd,
Completed Hadrian's bulwark mound, and many victories gain'd;
Made famous York his seat; then closed his aged eyes:
Whose monster son with brother's blood achieved the imperial prize.
Nigh fourscore winters more, with slow and silent pace,

302

Crept on, and of their peaceful lapse scarce left a dubious trace;
Then Caros, “king of ships,” unfurl'd his “wings of pride,”
And dared with Rome's acknowledged lords the sceptre to divide.
Seven years the shores of Britain confess'd his sovereign sway;
Then, beat at Boulogne, he at York by traitors murder'd lay.
Constantius well avenged his fate, and soon was made
Joint emperor, and Italy with Gaul and Britain sway'd—
A true and valiant prince, who, summon'd to resign
By death, his peaceful sceptre left to chosen Constantine.

FOURTH CENTURY.

When Constantine was dead, and Rome had ceased to be
Sole mistress of the subject world, and seat of empery,
The lawless Scots and Picts, who long had kept, controll'd,
Within their Caledonian woods, now, rushing from their hold,
Burst thro' the Roman mounds, and, fiercely rolling down,
Laid waste fair Britain's peopled fields, and humbled tower and town.

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These Constans first repell'd; then Theodosius, sent
By Valentinian, backward drove, and in their forests pent;
Restored Severus' wall, and the towers of Antonine,
And all the land Valentia named, between the Forth and Tyne:
A brief, though generous gleam of Rome's expiring power—
For now with silent pace glides on the inevitable hour;
And ere the century's close, from Roman bondage free,
Deserted Britain trembling found her long sought liberty.

FIFTH CENTURY.

That day was all o'erspread with gloom of blackest night,
Which saw the Roman eagle stoop, to take his parting flight.
No pœans then were heard, nor hymns of liberty,
But lamentations loud and long, and many a boding cry.
Yet freedom, which with force resistless arms the brave,
Has power to raise the coward soul, and renovate the slave;
And forty years of doubtful and bloody strife attest
That servitude has not destroy'd the virtues it repress'd.

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At length, in evil hour, the British prince dismay'd,
To quell his Scottish foes, besought the Saxon pirates' aid.
Bold Hengist seized the moment, by fate propitious lent,
Claim'd for his fee dominion, and became First King of Kent.
Him other chieftains follow'd, with like desire possess'd,
And Ælla ruled it in the south, and Cerdic in the west.
Still, as the danger thicken'd, the more to meet it rose
The spirit which, in noble minds, with opposition grows:
Then lived renownéd Arthur, who, as old stories tell,
Was begotten of a dragon, with aid of Merlin's spell.
But of him, or his queen Guiniver, or the “fifty good and able
Knights, that resorted unto him, and were of his round table,”
I need no more relate, nor of “Lancelot du lake,
Nor Tristram de Léonnois, who fought for ladies' sake,”
Nor of the famous battle o'er traitor Mordred won,
Nor how the hero sleeping lies in the isle of Avalon;
Dreams once received as true in lordly hall and bower;
The solace since of age and youth in many a vacant hour;
But now no longer prized, while all they seem to show
Is, that there lived in Britain, thirteen hundred years ago,

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A valiant native prince, who his country's cause upheld,
And Cerdic, with his ravagers, at Badon's mount repell'd.

SIXTH CENTURY.

As wave on wave will wear the hardest rock away,
Outnumber'd thus by host on host, the British powers decay:
Jutes, Angles, Saxons, all the sons of Odin, swarm
Around the rich unguarded hive, with thirst of plunder warm.
The south already settled, the east they next o'errun,
And Erkenwin rules Essex ere the century's begun;
Then Ida to the north directs his chosen band,
At Bamborough builds his royal seat, and rules Northumberland.
These Saxon both—two more were from the Angles named—
The east was Offa's—in the west was Crida king proclaim'd:
The boundaries of whose realm, extending more and more,
Encircled soon the land from Trent to Severn's winding shore,
By the Welsh marches border'd, thence Mercia call'd by name:
Thus, ere the century closed, complete the Heptarchy became.

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And, since of all the tribes that Odin's standard rear'd,
The Angles first in number, as in warlike strength, appear'd,
The land—as inch by inch, its native tribes gave way,
Assumed the English name and style, and bears them to this day.
Nor long the conquering hordes their father's creed retain'd;
Kent first embraced the christian faith, where empire first they gain'd;
To Ethelbert, its king, the convert's praise is due,
And holy Austin sow'd the seed that soon to fulness grew.

SEVENTH CENTURY.

Another age succeeds, unmark'd in rolls of fame;
But wider yet, and yet more wide, extends the English name:
Wales, Cornwall, Cumberland, the Britons still possess'd;
The monarchs of the Heptarchy divided all the rest.
At Bampton Cynegils a mighty victory gains,
And thus confirms his sovereignty o'er beauteous Devon's plains;
While Ethelfrid, near Chester, the prince of Powis quells,
Tho' Bangor's holy monks assist with candles and with bells.

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Cadwallon still retains the hope which never fails
In noble minds, of better days, and more auspicious gales;
In league with furious Penda, the Mercian king, allied,
Invades Northumberland, and thrice with royal blood is dyed;
At length by Oswald slain; whom Penda shortly paid
At Oswestry; himself to fall by Oswy's vengeful blade.
Near Leeds the blow was struck which set the nations free
From tyrant yoke, and saved our church from heathen cruelty.

EIGHTH CENTURY.

By christian light illumined, now brighter days succeed;
And learning still adores the name of venerable Bede.
The lust of power gives way to mild religion's call,
And monarchs for the cowl exchange the sceptre and the ball—
Exchange of death for life, short pomp for endless bliss—
Which, if we superstition term, we judge our sires amiss.
Then were rich abbeys founded, where arts and letters reign'd,

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And warriors fierce—their swords laid by—more glorious triumphs gain'd.
Then peaceful Ina ruled with wisdom's just applause,
And to his realm of Wessex gave, the volume of her laws;
Alike on church and state his benefactions pour'd,
At once as patriot chief beloved, as royal saint adored.
Offa, for bolder deeds renown'd, maintain'd his sway
O'er Mercian fields, and made the kings of lesser states obey:
By battle some he quell'd, and some to death betray'd;
Saint Alban's founded, and a dyke from Dee to Severn made:
Then went to Rome, in penance for blood of kindred spilt,
And sought by tributary pence atonement for his guilt.

NINTH CENTURY.

With the ninth century's dawn another face is seen
Of England, parted long so many rival states between:
Three crowns alone, of all the Heptarchy, remain
For fierce ambition to dispute, or fortune to attain.
In two, intestine faction distracts the bleeding land;
In Mercia first, since Offa's death—and, next, Northumberland.
This Egbert, by descent from Cerdic rightful heir
Of Wessex, whence he long had learn'd the exile's lot to bear,

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Now home returning found, and having fix'd secure
His native throne—through many an age still destined to endure—
The Mercian first o'erwhelm'd on Wilton's bloody day,
Northumbria next in peace received beneath his kingly sway.

THE HEPTARCHY UNITED.

And now I've brought my tale to royal Egbert down,
And happy England owns henceforth an undivided crown;
I too will seek to curb the licence of my strain,
And chronicle in order due the acts of every reign.
Egbert, in Twenty-seven, the Heptarchy unites,
And Cornishmen with Danes combined defeats on Hengsdown heights.
Next, Ethelwolf, his son, in Thirty-six succeeds,
Who with the Danes at Okeley fights, in Surry's pleasant meads,
And frees the invaded isle: then superstitious grown,
Grants of his lands a tenth to Rome, and leaves a crippled throne.
In Fifty-seven he yields to Ethelbald the west,
To Ethelbert the eastern parts, who soon the whole possess'd.
Their brother Ethelred in Sixty-six is crown'd,
Who from the Danes at Basingstoke receives his mortal wound,

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And leaves the land a prey to pirates fierce, agreed
With fickle Mercians and the tribes from Humber unto Tweed.
Alfred—surnamed the Great—the fourth and youngest son
Of Ethelwolf—survives the rest, and reigns in Seventy-one;
In many a hard-fought field defeats the bloody Danes,
Sets free the land, rebuilds its towns, and slighted law maintains:
Yet not at once he rose to glory's dizzy height,
From whence so many soar to fall to lower depths of night.
With painful steps ascending,—beset by doubt and dread—
Now wandering o'er the pathless down, now housed in peasant shed,
A name at length he gains, the Saviour of the land,
Fairer than conquest e'er bestow'd, or fortune can command.

TENTH CENTURY.

In valour next his sire—this century begins
With Edward, who from Ethelwald the crown contested wins;
By aid of Ethelflede, his martial sister, shields
From Britons and Northumbrian Danes fair Mercia's threaten'd fields,
And dies in Twenty-five. His son, tho' basely born,

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Wise Athelstan, defends the crown he ought not to have worn,
The Britons, Danes, and Scots, at Brunanburgh confounds,
And restless Cornishmen confines within the Tamar's bounds.
Edmund, the rightful heir, in Forty-one succeeds,
Who conquers British Cumberland, and by a robber bleeds.
Edred, in Forty-six, assumes the vacant helm—
But bold Saint Dunstan now appears, and rules both king and realm;
From youthful Edwy tears his consort and his throne,
And bids his brother Edgar seize the conquest not his own.
Edgar—the tool of priests—but amorous, brave, and free,
First fixes England's empery, majestic on the sea;
For justice well maintain'd, and peaceful arts renown'd,
The court with regal pomp he kept, the land with plenty crown'd.
Edward, the martyr named, his false step-mother kills
In Seventy-nine; and Ethelred the seat of empire fills;
The second Ethelred, in whose long, feeble reign,
The realm is ravaged by the Danes, and yields to conquering Sweyn.

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ELEVENTH CENTURY.

The sceptre next descends on Edmund Ironside;
A valiant prince; but forced ere long his kingdom to divide,
From Severn unto Thames, with Great Canute the Dane,
And afterwards at Oxford by the traitor Edric slain.
Canute, at Edmund's death, the sever'd realm unites
In Seventeen, and rules in peace, and guards the nation's rights.
England and Denmark both confess his sovereign sway,
And Norway bends beneath his yoke, and Scotia's isles obey.
Harold in Thirty-six succeeds; in thirty-nine
Queen Emma's son, fierce Hardicnute, the last of Danish line.
Edward the Confessor, King Edmund's youngest son,
Restores the ancient Saxon race, and reigns in Forty-one;
But, long in foreign lands a wandering exile known,
Calls in his Norman friends to share the honours of his throne.
Earl Godwin and his sons the English rights support,
Expel the foreigners, and rule in Edward's feeble court.

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THE NORMAN CONQUEST.

Harold, Earl Godwin's son, is next acknowledged king,
And wears the crown that should have fall'n on Edgar Atheling.
In sixty-six he reigns, but, ere a twelvemonth's o'er,
Yields up his empire and his life on Hastings' bloody shore
To Norman William, who supports his doubtful claim,
Founded on Edward's royal will, by conquest's prouder name;
Then, of the crown possess'd, his subject realm maintains
By laws severe, and force of arms, and curbs with iron chains.
Parcell'd in Doomsday book, the forfeit lands are given
Among his Norman followers. He dies in Eighty-seven.
Robert, the Conqueror's eldest son, and heir by right,
Against his sire in Normandy then waged unnatural fight;
This lost him England's crown, which Rufus makes his own,
And reigns at Westminster secure upon a wrongful throne.

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But Heaven not long permits his tyrant sway to last;
In the New Forest hunting slain, ere thirteen years are pass'd.

TWELFTH CENTURY.

Another century dawns, while hapless Robert bore
The sacred standard of the cross on Judah's hallow'd shore;
Returning home to claim once more the regal prize,
Finds Henry crown'd—against him strives—and in a dungeon dies.
First Henry, Beauclerk named, the Conqueror's youngest son—
His usurpation's guilt forgot, deserved the crown he won:
Learn'd, fortunate, and wise, he reign'd with just applause,
And granted the first charter of our liberties and laws;
Unhappy tow'rds the close, his only son he lost,
Wreck'd, with his sister and his friends, upon the Norman coast.
Stephen, in Thirty-five, usurps the English crown,
But for that wrong and fraudful act, a prince of fair renown;
With Maud, King Henry's daughter, for eighteen years and more,
Maintains a fierce and doubtful fight, and dies in Fifty-four.

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Henry, Fitz-empress styled, the first Plantagenet,
Assumes as rightful heir the crown his progeny holds yet;
Extends his royal sway o'er Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
And, wedding Eleanor, unites the realm of Aquitaine;
Ireland and Wales subdues, and humbles Scotia's pride,
But quarrels with the Church, and is by his own sons defied;
At Canterbury bows to murder'd Becket's shrine,
And, broken hearted, yields to fate, and dies in Eighty-nine.
Richard, the Lion's heart, disdains a peaceful throne;
He routs the Saracens before the walls of Ascalon;
A barren laurel wreath from Saladin obtains,
While England, to maintain his pride, her dearest life blood drains;
Then, homeward bound, is captived by an unworthy foe,
And afterwards, in war with France, is slain by a cross-bow.

THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

John reigns in Ninety-nine, Plantagenet's youngest son,
Who kills his nephew Arthur, rightful heir to England's throne;
From Normandy expell'd, and urged by wars at home,

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Basely surrenders up his lands in vassalage to Rome;
Then by his barons humbled, and forced with France to fight,
He Magna Charta signs, the lasting bulwark of our right.
Henry the Third succeeds his father in Sixteen,
And proves himself in action weak, irresolute, and mean.
His sire's extorted charter he threatens to revoke;
Then by his barons forced, confirms, and bends him to the yoke;
But soon by broken faith his perjured soul sets free,
While they, by potent Montfort led, proclaim their liberty.
Thence bloody wars ensue. At Lewes prisoner made,
The vanquish'd king his rescue owes to Edward's filial aid:
Montfort at Evesham pays to death the tribute due,
And Henry his inglorious reign concludes in Seventy-two.
Edward—the Fourth since Alfred—First since William reign'd—
Was stout of stature, and in arms a knightly fame obtain'd;
Against the barons leagued maintain'd his father's crown,
And, after, won in Palestine the meed of high renown:
There mourn'd his father's death, and thence returning king,

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To stern ambition left a name of doutful blazoning.
Scotland and Wales attest his perjury and pride;
France, Spain, and Germany, his sense, high prized, and often tried.
England in him revered her lawgiver and sage,
Her second Alfred, sent to stamp his impress on the age.

FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

To Edward, his first-born, 'mid scenes of blood and tears,
(First prince of conquer'd Wales,) he left, in Thirteen-seven, his cares.
Twice ten unhappy years, he of Caernarvon held
The sceptre, like a trembling reed, by every gust impell'd;
Enslaved to base delights, by baser minions led,
Wallowing in glutton's filthy sty, and stew'd in sluggard's bed.
'Gainst him his barons bold their blushing banners bore,
And with them “the she-wolf of France” her husband's entrails tore.
As when awhile the sun curtain'd with cloudy red
Reposes on the orient wave—then, rushing from his bed,
Flames forth on all around, the glorious lord of day,
So the third Edward, rising, chased rebellion's fumes away;
His wolf-like mother tamed in penitential bower,

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And to a sterner fate consign'd her bloody paramour;
Then urged his claim, by birth, to Gaul's disputed throne,
Repelling Valois' boastful taunts with freedom's loftiest tone.
Victor o'er half the world array'd on Cressy's field,
He made them to his English bow the foremost honours yield:
France yet beheld the sire exceeded by the son,
Who on famed Poictiers' day renew'd the wreath at Cressy won.
Then brightest shone the star, we never more shall see
Except in memory's faithful glass, of ancient chivalry;
By whose reflected light, whoe'er would justly view
The deeds of those romantic days must history's line pursue—
Not weigh the amount of blood and crime in scales precise,
But ask how dear was glory deem'd ere they condemn the price.
Yet soon or late high heaven will vindicate its sway,
Abase the crest of full-blown pomp, and make the proud obey.
Thus England learn'd to mourn her sable warrior dead,
While dotage laid her palsied hand on Edward's laurell'd head.
The sun in clouds is set; but bright the morning smiles

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That hails his grandson Richard lord of Britain's favour'd isles.
“Fair laughs” that rosy morn, and “soft the zephyrs play,”
While, gliding o'er the glassy waves, the bark pursues its way:
The gaily painted bark bounds o'er the liquid realm,
While fond youth frolics at the prow, and pleasure guides the helm;
Fit emblem, poor Bordeaux, of thine inconstant soul,
That tempted still the fate it own'd no virtue to control.

FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

Since Bethlehem's star had risen, the Fourteen Hundredth year
Breaks on the treason-purchased reign of banish'd Lancaster.
With blind ambition leagued, dark vengeance aim'd the stroke,
Which laid the rightful monarch low, and lifted Bolingbroke.
Well has the faithful muse that chronicled his guilt,
And paints him reeking from the blood of foes at Shrewsbury spilt,
Display'd how fell remorse, with her relentless tooth,
More sharp than rebel swords, destroy'd the promise of his youth.
His thorn-encircled crown scarce thirteen years he wore;

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Yet be that short and feverish space renown'd on Albion's shore—
Dawn of a purer faith, by persecution fann'd
To a bright flame, that silently possess'd the wondering land—
First kindled in the cot; thence spreading, sure of proof,
To peopled towns, and castled hall, and proud cathedral roof.
[Harry, of Monmouth named, from lawless youth and wild,
Steps forth—in war a chief renown'd, in peace a monarch mild;
Asserts o'er Gallia's crown his unforgotten claim,
And calls his warlike subjects out to battle for the same;
With men at arms and archers, a small but gallant host,
Lays siege to Harfleur's famous wall, hard by the Norman coast;
Thence carving thro' the fields of Picardy his way,
Confronts the French at Agincourt upon St. Crispian's day.
'Gainst sixty thousand men with thousands ten he fights,
And strews the field with Gallia's best—her nobles and her knights;
Received in Paris' gates, by factious traitors' aid,

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By wedding tie confirms anew the conquests he has made,
Then hastes to arms afresh, the dauphin to subdue,
But leaves to fate his half-won realm, and dies in Twenty-two.]
Sixth Harry, by the name of royal Windsor known,
Plantagenet and Valois mix'd, is cradled on the throne;
His baby brows the badge of double empire wear,
His childish hands the sceptre grasp they have not strength to bear.
By jarring uncles wrong'd, by shaven priesthood led,
And govern'd in his riper years by her who shared his bed.
First, Bedford lost him France, by maiden's arm subdued;
Next, Beaufort's ghostly pride the flames of civil broil renew'd;
By whom, with Suffolk leagued, (Queen Margaret's minion slave,)
The good Protector Humphry found in Alban's shrine a grave.
Thence bloody times come on; the din of battle bray'd,
To pointed lance was lance opposed, to war-horse war-horse neigh'd.
Thro' kindred ranks fell slaughter pursued her hellish work;
The red rose bloom'd for Lancaster, its pallid foe for York.

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[In Fourteen-fifty-five that desperate strife began,
And thrice five years the afflicted land with blood incessant ran.
Then sack'd was many a castle, and rifled many a shrine,
And sword and spear and headsman's axe thinn'd many an ancient line.]
All England then put on the crimson or the white;
The anointed monarch some maintain'd, and some the king by right:
At length the right prevail'd; and Towton's well-fought field
Beheld, in Sixty-one, his crown “the meek usurper” yield.
By Warwick's power upheld, Fourth Edward grasps the prize,
Which, when the earl his aid withdraws, he, hunted, quits, and flies;
But when, on Barnet field, by all-subduing death
The mighty king-maker, compell'd, has paid his forfeit breath,
O'er England's war-worn soil he re-assumes his sway,
And Lancaster his mortal blow receives on Tewkesbury's day.
There fell, untimely cropt, its young and hopeful flower;
The parent stem to wither left in London's storied tower—
This fell'd by brutal rage, and that (if fame speaks true,)

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Doom'd with his sacred blood the hands of murder foul t'embrue.
But sober history doubts the tale of useless guilt;
Enough of crime without it wrought, enough of life-blood spilt.
England in Henry mourn'd the saint, as king, she spurn'd,
While Edward, passion's lawless slave, unwept to dust return'd.
He died in Eighty-three; and, ere a year had flown,
His brother Gloster sate, acknowledged king, on Albion's throne—
His nephews first removed, and, as old histories say,
By bloody ruffians smother'd, while embraced in sleep they lay;
But, true or false the fame by crafty Richmond spread,
It gain'd a crown on Bosworth field, and lost a monarch's head.
Henry the Seventh, sole heir of Lancaster confest,
Now weds with York, and twines each rose on Tudor's British crest;
In Eighty-five begins to reign; and lives to see
The dawn of Europe's brightest age, the Sixteenth century—
Resplendent age, for acts and arms alike renown'd,
For sacred wisdom's purer light, and learning more profound.
His empire he cemented with blood of nobles, spilt
In thirty years of slaughter wild, by others' woes and guilt;

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With prudent laws repress'd the pride of high estate,
And raised the monarchy above the envy of the great;
But own'd a narrow soul, and, dead to future fame,
With avarice and extortion stain'd the brightness of his name.
When Fifteen Hundred years, with three times three, had run,
He dying left a quiet throne to his more famous son.

The lines inclosed between brackets are by another hand.

SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

High swoln with pride of birth and undisputed sway,
Eighth Harry yet aspired to bear the schoolman's palm away;
Rome's self-elected champion, bold Luther he reviled,
And by her grateful pontiff was “The Faith's Defender” styled;
But, thwarted in the hope of freedom from his vows
To Katharine of Aragon, his first and lawful spouse,
Turn'd rebel to his church, the papal power defied,
Pull'd Wolsey down, divorced his queen, and crown'd his chosen bride.
Yet 'twas no “gospel light that beam'd from Anna's eyes,”
Nor blind self-will, nor stubborn pride, e'er made a monarch wise,
And England's church, at length from Rome's corruptions freed,
Might blush to own so foul a source for her regenerate creed.

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Then ancient abbeys mourn'd their rifled cloisters void,
Their lands to new possessors pass'd, and holiest shrines destroy'd.
Rapacious courtiers shared whate'er the monarch's hand
In mad profusion scatter'd o'er the desecrated land.
Then stream'd the headsman's axe with blood of richest dye;
More, Fisher, Cromwell, fell to glut a jealous tyrant's eye:
Two queens beneath it bled; by guilt or slander stain'd;
Two queens divorced; one died; and one, though doom'd to die, remain'd.
These gallant Surrey follow'd: at last, in Forty-seven,
The pamper'd king was call'd to meet the just award of heaven.
Jane Seymour's only son—the tyrant's best loved queen—
Edward, at ten years old, succeeds, and dies ere yet sixteen.
Age ripe enough the germ of inward worth to scan,
And from the promise of the boy, predict the future man.
For learning's envied prize was to his youth assign'd,
And early discipline improved the virtues of his mind.
Then great Protector Somerset, with Cranmer's aid,
The church new modell'd, and complete the Reformation made;

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Tho' Gardiner, with savage Bonner link'd, oppose,
While, for their ancient faith array'd, the murmuring Commons rose.
Great Somerset pull'd down, and pious Edward dead,
Mary, as Henry's eldest born, was rightful queen instead;
But for her faith profess'd in Romish tenets known,
Found fierce rebellion arm'd to guard the passage to the throne.
With Dudley Grey combined, their sordid end to gain,
Set up a claimant to the crown in poor devoted Jane;
Proclaim'd, abandon'd, left to pay the traitor's due,
The fairest, gentlest victim stern ambition ever slew.
Now mass again was said thro' all the darken'd isle;
The holy rood again was seen in every sainted pile;
And sacring bells were rung, and holy water shed,
And consecrated tapers hung around the dying bed.
Too blest, had superstition no worse designs embraced,
When Pole for toleration sued, and Heaven his pleading graced.
But bigotry prevail'd, and persecution fann'd
The flames of glorious martyrdom that sanctified the land.
Then Hooper, Ridley, Latimer, the compact seal'd,
And Cranmer burn'd the recreant hand that once was known to yield.
In pitiless resolve, the gloomy queen survey'd,
With Philip, her yet darker spouse, the waste her edicts made;

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Beheld how fruitless all—then, sullenly, to fate
Resign'd her fond, deluded soul. She died in Fifty-eight.
Elizabeth—the third, and last surviving flower
Of Henry's royal stem, now quits, compell'd, her maiden bower;
Fair Boleyn's only child, the new religion's pride,
Learnéd and wise beyond her years; by early perils tried.
Old superstition shrank confounded from the view
And Reformation, warier grown, commenced its work anew.
Yet joyless is the feast that love has never crown'd,
And heaven rejects the sacrifice where not the heart is found.
Another age, and yet another, must succeed,
Ere charity be understood, or wiser England freed
From persecution's stain, which dimm'd her face no less
In confiscation's garb, or mere exclusion's milder dress,
Than when her fiery robe in Smithfield she put on,
And stupid ignorance half excused the deeds in darkness done.
The more it was repress'd, the more opinion grew;
Geneva sounded through the land, and Knox the trumpet blew.
That fierce and stirring blast uprooted Scotland's throne;
The sister queen—the beauty—pleads in misery's humbled tone.

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O blot of Tudor's line! O England's lasting shame!
Again the ruthless steel descends on woman's sacred frame—
That frame, an outraged queen's—the third since Boleyn bled,
Who on the thirsty block laid down her unresisting head.
Yet not for this the mighty debt we owe to thee,
And thy great name, Elizabeth! can ever cancell'd be.
No—Britain first may sink beneath her subject main,
Ere she forget the dauntless arm that quell'd the pride of Spain,
O'er native freedom threw a broad protecting shield,
And England's rising energies to her own sons reveal'd.
Then was her golden age in arts and learned lore,
When free-born genius burst away, to heights unknown before,
And never equall'd since. Then Shakspeare's deathless lays
Were heard, and Spenser pour'd the song in Gloriana's praise.

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Another century breaks; and Tudor's royal line
Has seen its last and brightest star 'mid vapourish mists decline;

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[When James, the Sixth of Scots, of England's crown the First,
In ancient pride and penury bred, in letter'd dulness nursed,
Call'd by the voice of state to seize the vacant helm,
Full gladly quits for southern fields his black and lawless realm.
Of dubious will, and weak; no pilot fit to guide
When winds and furious waves assault the vessel's labouring side;
Yet kindly and sincere, his soul rejoiced to see
The rich freight ride in safe repose upon the quiet sea.
Thus, while he reign'd, the land was blest with lasting peace,
And heaven gave forth its favouring dews and earth her large increase.
And learning, call'd from cell and college forth to day,
Blazed round the throne, tho' flattery's mists obscured the heavenly ray.
Thrice happy, had he sought thro' her alone to shine,
Nor fix'd on law his pedant grasp, nor dream'd of power divine!
The young oak tho' ye bind with brazen clasp and chain,
The sap will rise, the bark will swell, and rend the links in twain:
So England, roused at last her lingering strength to prove,
Shall moisten with the son's heart-blood the web the father wove.

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With many a presage dark of public doubt and fear,
The Century opes with Charles's reign its Six-and-twentieth year.
Led by his Gallic spouse, he tries in evil hour
Ambition's steep and dark ascent to reach forbidden power:
He screens from public hate his favourite's threaten'd life,
Who 'scapes vindictive law's pursuit to meet the assassin's knife.
He braves the Commons' right, betrays the nation's weal,
Sustain'd by Strafford's gloomy pride, and Laud's unholy zeal.
In vain would law resume her violated sway,
While sovereigns scorn to hold their trust, and subjects to obey.
The fatal hour of strife has dawn'd upon the earth;
New times, new thoughts, and monstrous deeds, are struggling into birth;
The patriot arms for right, the courtier for the crown,
But sharpest bites the zealot's steel, who deems God's cause his own.
Opposed in many a fight, the kindred squadrons stood;
Each mansion was a fortalice, each river ran with blood—
That blood which flow'd apace on Keynton's fatal down,
At Marston, and on Naseby Heath, and twice by Newbury town.

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Ill was their glory won, who led each adverse line,
Stout Fairfax, Waller, and Montrose, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Oh! be each 'scutcheon rased; forgot each soldier name,
Which gains in fields of civil strife a dark unenvied fame!
The people's cause prevails; but, ere the sword they sheathe,
The victors join their blood-stain'd hands, and doom their king to death.
A dark and desperate deed—a precedent of crime—
A blot on freedom's blazon'd scroll to all succeeding time.]
The Thirtieth January was the recorded day,
And Sixteen-forty-eight the year, as old-style annals say—
As time is now computed, Sixteen-hundred-forty-nine—
When royal Charles was martyr'd in the cause of right divine—
Religion the pretence—in truth, the exploded creed
Of many made for one, and kings by God from duty freed.
Yet not those daring men, who cast so far away
All reverence, faith, and loyal love that mark'd an elder day,
Could well their cause approve, when to their shame they saw
The soldier-saint profanely step into the seat of law;

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When by his single stamp their sanhedrim disperst,
With all its dream'd omnipotence, the empty bubble burst.
[A few short months endured the new republic's state,
'Mid treason foul, and threatening arms, and impotent debate.
He mounts him to the throne, with recent slaughter wet,
And tramples on the pride of Tudor and Plantagenet.
In Windsor's halls the shades of kings look grimly down
On him whose sceptre is his sword, his cap of steel the crown.
Avoid that gleaming helm, ye vanquish'd, from afar!
For on its crest the furies sit of Worcester and Dunbar.
Avoid that falchion bathed in Ireland's richest gore,
Which parcell'd out to stranger bands her wide unpeopled shore!
By many a bloody step he won his upward way,
But held with wisdom and renown his self-supported sway;
Then Holland stoop'd to share the empire of the main,
Then quail'd beneath resistless Blake the chivalry of Spain;
And Cromwell's voice proclaim'd his England's future doom
To soar in pride and strength beyond the eagle flight of Rome.

333

Fate gave one transient glance to his prophetic sense,
Then call'd, in darkness and in storms, the mighty spirit hence.
With bonfires and with healths, with joyous peal and din,
The Second Charles' inglorious reign is fondly usher'd in.
Now change we cap and band, and cloak of solemn gray,
For lace, and scarf, and flowing locks, and foreign pageants gay.
The merry monarch's self leads down the festive dance,
With ribald wits, and graceless lords, and pleasant dames of France;
While seers proclaim the signs of judgment on the land,
And London weeps, in sackcloth dight, beneath the Almighty hand.
She feels, in Sixty-five, fierce plague's commission'd ire,
Sees tower and town, in Sixty-six, sink down 'mid smouldering fire;
Within the arms of Thames our fleet the Dutchman braves;
The Bourbon deals his treacherous gold, and rules a court of slaves.
The people's wrath aroused, yet reckless of its aim,
Wreaks fancied crimes on guiltless heads, while justice bears the blame.

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Again the scaffolds rise, the generous victims bleed,
And Russell for his country dies, and Stafford for his creed:
Foe to his people's cause—apostate from their faith,
The king expires, despised in age, deserted at his death.]
The Second James succeeds, as York already known;
The zealot of a slavish faith, and a despotic throne;
Not like his age corrupt—perhaps in soul sincere—
But blind in judgment, stiff in act, and gloomily severe.
No Nero—yet could see, with cold and tearless eye,
A brother's young and cherish'd hope upon the scaffold die—
No Valois—yet could goad the servile law's delay,
And revel in the blood that flow'd beneath her ermined sway.
But not on him be laid, nor on his head, the blame
Of freedom scourged, and justice spurn'd; let England own her shame.
By her, and by her sons, in ages yet unborn,
Like amulet of saving power, be this remembrance worn.
She forged herself the chain—she drugg'd herself the bowl;
Kind Heaven the Great Deliverer sent; and light on darkness stole.
[Hail, single hero of a mean corrupted age,
Illustrious William, dear alike to soldier and to sage!
What tho', in after times, thy glorious name be lent

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To gild the cause of party strife, and factious discontent;
What tho', whilst yet on earth thy star auspicious beam'd,
Black clouds of envy paled its light, and thwarting meteors gleam'd:
Tho' all thy steps were dogg'd by traitors doubly sold,
Tho' titled patriots play'd the game of state with foreign gold,
Tho' laws were wrench'd to serve oppression's coward aim,
While sots “the immortal memory” pledge, and slaves insult thy name;
Still be that name enshrined in every British breast,
On ours, and on our fathers' heads the foul dishonour rest!
Our altars, and our rights, our fame by land and sea,
Our smiling fields, our pleasant homes, are consecrate to thee!]

EPILOGUE.

And now my varied song must hasten to its close:
To tell of Britain's after fates demands severer prose,
The tribute of the heart, for temper'd freedom due,
A scheme more wise than ever sage of Rome or Athens drew;
Scheme not by man contrived, by no strait fetters tied,
For what it merits least, alike, most vaunted and decried.

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But oh! be ours the task, with juster sense embued,
To guard the blessings which it bears with jealous gratitude;
No bigot foes to change, which alter'd times demand,
Nor hireling slaves to mob applause when faction tears the land:
With trust in heaven reposed, that, whensoever fate
Shall write Victoria's cherish'd name—(far distant be the date!—)
Sixth in the monumental roll of Brunswick's line,
That name amidst the noblest stars of England's host may shine;
Next hers—the virgin queen, “who quell'd the pride of Spain”—
But purer, milder, and more bright—the bard's true Gloriane.