 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
88
CHARTLEY CASTLE.
There was an hour of passion—it is past;
It shone too brightly with the beams of heaven
More than a momentary term to last;
Lighting up life's dull path, like moments given
To those who on its darkest wilds are cast,
And, with a wayward fate, have toil'd and striven;
Like dazzling flashes through the tempest sent,
That spring forth, glitter, and for aye are spent.
It shone too brightly with the beams of heaven
More than a momentary term to last;
Lighting up life's dull path, like moments given
To those who on its darkest wilds are cast,
And, with a wayward fate, have toil'd and striven;
Like dazzling flashes through the tempest sent,
That spring forth, glitter, and for aye are spent.
Yet, like those gleamings, in an instant shot
Through Nature's dark pavilion, and resumed,
They leave a vivid sense, that dieth not,
Of majesty and beauty, which entomb'd
In the heart's loneliness, endears its lot,
Though still to darkness and bereavement doom'd;
Soothing their pangs, by their remember'd light,
In future hours of peril, wrath, and blight.
Through Nature's dark pavilion, and resumed,
They leave a vivid sense, that dieth not,
Of majesty and beauty, which entomb'd
In the heart's loneliness, endears its lot,
Though still to darkness and bereavement doom'd;
Soothing their pangs, by their remember'd light,
In future hours of peril, wrath, and blight.
89
I saw two youthful lovers; they were wont
To feed affection's current in their heart
In nature's oratory; to the fount
Of her perfections wand'ring far apart,
Unseen, and reckless of the world; to mount
The crag-strewn upland, whence bright waters start,
And rush resounding through the willowy dell,
Where blooms retired the Canterbury-bell.
To feed affection's current in their heart
In nature's oratory; to the fount
Of her perfections wand'ring far apart,
Unseen, and reckless of the world; to mount
The crag-strewn upland, whence bright waters start,
And rush resounding through the willowy dell,
Where blooms retired the Canterbury-bell.
Their young, quick, conscious spirits drank in bliss
Each sight, sound, odour of the joyous spring;
The snow-piled cloud hung in the blue abyss;
The cuckoo's merriment, the mingling
Of thousand fragrant scents in gales that kiss
Young leaves and dewy, nodding flowers, and fling
Their rich aroma forth upon the air,
To greet amid the wild the lingering passenger.
Each sight, sound, odour of the joyous spring;
The snow-piled cloud hung in the blue abyss;
The cuckoo's merriment, the mingling
Of thousand fragrant scents in gales that kiss
Young leaves and dewy, nodding flowers, and fling
Their rich aroma forth upon the air,
To greet amid the wild the lingering passenger.
One morning they had follow'd, side by side,
The leading of her glory, and had stood
Musing on many an eminence, then hied
Down through the bowery windings of the wood,
And o'er the mossy heath where vipers glide
And dwell at peace in its waste solitude;
Where haunts the wild duck, and glad pheasants crow
Amongst the young, green birches that there grow.
The leading of her glory, and had stood
Musing on many an eminence, then hied
Down through the bowery windings of the wood,
And o'er the mossy heath where vipers glide
And dwell at peace in its waste solitude;
Where haunts the wild duck, and glad pheasants crow
Amongst the young, green birches that there grow.
90
And now, the sun declining, they sate down
Upon the scene they sought, a green hill side:
From young, begirding trees upon its crown
Two ruin'd towers look'd forth, still in the pride
Of their past loftiness, seeming to look down,
Like fallen kings striving their griefs to hide,
Yet with a mournful and disconsolate air,
O'er all that scene that shone so fresh and fair.
Upon the scene they sought, a green hill side:
From young, begirding trees upon its crown
Two ruin'd towers look'd forth, still in the pride
Of their past loftiness, seeming to look down,
Like fallen kings striving their griefs to hide,
Yet with a mournful and disconsolate air,
O'er all that scene that shone so fresh and fair.
The green sward flourish'd in the southern fosse,
And there those young, embowering trees had grown;
And, midst their trunks, half pillow'd in its moss,
Lay, here and there, a mass of fallen stone:
Above, the ivy and the woodbine cross
Their ruin-loving arms, and darkly down
Their mingling tresses sweep; and there the smile
Of the wild-rose shone o'er the wasting pile.
And there those young, embowering trees had grown;
And, midst their trunks, half pillow'd in its moss,
Lay, here and there, a mass of fallen stone:
Above, the ivy and the woodbine cross
Their ruin-loving arms, and darkly down
Their mingling tresses sweep; and there the smile
Of the wild-rose shone o'er the wasting pile.
Upon its western side a terraced mound
Arose, whereon some tenement had stood—
Perchance a summer bower, whence far around
The landscape in its glory might be view'd,
For oh! 'twas beautiful; such as is found
To soothe a troubled spirit: a thick wood
Now circled its remains, of frowning yew,
Beneath whose gloom no living verdure grew.
Arose, whereon some tenement had stood—
Perchance a summer bower, whence far around
The landscape in its glory might be view'd,
For oh! 'twas beautiful; such as is found
To soothe a troubled spirit: a thick wood
Now circled its remains, of frowning yew,
Beneath whose gloom no living verdure grew.
91
In sooth, sad desolation's darkest air
Hung o'er this still and melancholy place;
And pensive grew the features of that pair,
As slowly round its crumbling walls they pace.
Yet many a living thing resorted there:
The wren dwelt in the wall, and at its base
The rabbit delved, the lizard, and the toad,
And on a sunny knoll the green snake glow'd.
Hung o'er this still and melancholy place;
And pensive grew the features of that pair,
As slowly round its crumbling walls they pace.
Yet many a living thing resorted there:
The wren dwelt in the wall, and at its base
The rabbit delved, the lizard, and the toad,
And on a sunny knoll the green snake glow'd.
I saw them step into the wide area,
Where once, amidst the proudly 'scutcheon'd hall,
Gay lords and high-born dames held jocund cheer;
But deep, rank grass, nettles, and hemlock tall,
Sprang thick, and trees had flourish'd many a year;
And, by the fury of a wintry squall,
A mighty one, though kill'd not, lay o'erthrown,
Carved thick with names ambitious, but unknown.
Where once, amidst the proudly 'scutcheon'd hall,
Gay lords and high-born dames held jocund cheer;
But deep, rank grass, nettles, and hemlock tall,
Sprang thick, and trees had flourish'd many a year;
And, by the fury of a wintry squall,
A mighty one, though kill'd not, lay o'erthrown,
Carved thick with names ambitious, but unknown.
The gale pass'd like the sighings of lost love,
And all was silent but the cushat's plaint,
Most sorrowful amongst the boughs above;
And in the ivied tower the cooings faint
Of its sole empress, a lone mateless dove,
Meet emblem of its former habitant.
Deep musing seem'd those wanderers midst that scene,
While thus their thoughts pass'd o'er each speaking mien.
And all was silent but the cushat's plaint,
Most sorrowful amongst the boughs above;
And in the ivied tower the cooings faint
Of its sole empress, a lone mateless dove,
Meet emblem of its former habitant.
Deep musing seem'd those wanderers midst that scene,
While thus their thoughts pass'd o'er each speaking mien.
92
Spirit! of Scotland pride and shame!
Mary! thou love of pitying breasts!
Well could I deem more than thy name
The sadness of this scene attests;
For though thy soul from suffering rests
In a far more forgiving sphere,
Thy spirit's fate this spot invests,
Its tone and sorrows linger here.
How many youthful hearts can tell
That here on them its influence fell!
Here, yet, how many an eye shall be
Wet with the tears of sympathy!
Mary! thou love of pitying breasts!
Well could I deem more than thy name
The sadness of this scene attests;
For though thy soul from suffering rests
In a far more forgiving sphere,
Thy spirit's fate this spot invests,
Its tone and sorrows linger here.
How many youthful hearts can tell
That here on them its influence fell!
Here, yet, how many an eye shall be
Wet with the tears of sympathy!
For though war's deadly blast, that smote
Thy grandson on fair England's throne,
Scathed every tower, fill'd every moat,
Where long thy prison griefs were known;
Though birds have built, and trees have grown
For ages in those feudal halls;
Though Tutbury's far-seen piles of stone,
Though Wingfield bower, and Hardwick's walls,
And even fatal Fotheringay,
Are mould'ring in their last decay,
And many a race, since here thou wept,
Has woke, has sorrow'd, and has slept;
Thy grandson on fair England's throne,
Scathed every tower, fill'd every moat,
Where long thy prison griefs were known;
Though birds have built, and trees have grown
For ages in those feudal halls;
Though Tutbury's far-seen piles of stone,
Though Wingfield bower, and Hardwick's walls,
And even fatal Fotheringay,
Are mould'ring in their last decay,
And many a race, since here thou wept,
Has woke, has sorrow'd, and has slept;
93
Yet do I see thee in thy cage,
Thou widow'd, lone, and captive dove!
Thou Helen of a barbarous age!
Victim of jealousy and love!
Thy blue eyes o'er a prospect rove,
Ah! how unlike this cultured scene!
Oaks stretch their mossy arms above,
Beneath them springs the bracken green;
The deer rests on the grey hill side,
Or bounds o'er moss and moorland wide:
No sounds are heard of life that tell,
Save warder's voice and turret bell.
Thou widow'd, lone, and captive dove!
Thou Helen of a barbarous age!
Victim of jealousy and love!
Thy blue eyes o'er a prospect rove,
Ah! how unlike this cultured scene!
Oaks stretch their mossy arms above,
Beneath them springs the bracken green;
The deer rests on the grey hill side,
Or bounds o'er moss and moorland wide:
No sounds are heard of life that tell,
Save warder's voice and turret bell.
Soft shines the evening sun, as now,
Ah! what avails! it soothes thee not.
Blanch'd are the locks about thy brow;
Blanch'd is thy cheek; but unforgot
Their spell, their majesty, the lot
That fortune, beauty, genius gave;
That made thee—ah! that made thee what?
A tale—a wonder—and a slave!
Thy heart still turns upon that theme;
Labours thy fancy in that dream,
No arts, no chivalry can break,
From which thou never canst awake!
Ah! what avails! it soothes thee not.
Blanch'd are the locks about thy brow;
Blanch'd is thy cheek; but unforgot
Their spell, their majesty, the lot
That fortune, beauty, genius gave;
That made thee—ah! that made thee what?
A tale—a wonder—and a slave!
Thy heart still turns upon that theme;
Labours thy fancy in that dream,
No arts, no chivalry can break,
From which thou never canst awake!
94
Thou see'st thy morning's radiant scene,
Passion—hope—glory—friends a host;
Of Scotland and of France the queen,
A youthful monarch's bliss and boast.
That king is dead!—one crown is lost!
And flying from a mother's hate,
The ocean midst fierce foemen cross'd.
Again thou know'st a milder fate,
For thou art on thy father's throne;
His realm, his people are thine own;
And, happier still, canst sweetly rest
Upon a chosen consort's breast.
Passion—hope—glory—friends a host;
Of Scotland and of France the queen,
A youthful monarch's bliss and boast.
That king is dead!—one crown is lost!
And flying from a mother's hate,
The ocean midst fierce foemen cross'd.
Again thou know'st a milder fate,
For thou art on thy father's throne;
His realm, his people are thine own;
And, happier still, canst sweetly rest
Upon a chosen consort's breast.
But ah! what melts—what moves thee now?
Thou weep'st as for an only child.
What kindling passions fire thy brow?
Pale hate, revenge, and horror wild!
Wrong'd was thy love; a demon smiled
Within thine arms—but he is gone!
Yet hence life's fiercest ills are piled
Upon thy head. Lost is thy throne—
Armies—dread rout—rebellious powers;
Mid Leven's lake those prison towers!
Dark, darker still, the vision grows,
Thy son a foe, amidst thy foes!
Thou weep'st as for an only child.
What kindling passions fire thy brow?
Pale hate, revenge, and horror wild!
Wrong'd was thy love; a demon smiled
Within thine arms—but he is gone!
Yet hence life's fiercest ills are piled
Upon thy head. Lost is thy throne—
Armies—dread rout—rebellious powers;
Mid Leven's lake those prison towers!
Dark, darker still, the vision grows,
Thy son a foe, amidst thy foes!
95
Far flies thy lord, pursued by fear,
An outcast in thy northern isles!
While thou, all lost and lonely here,
The victim of a woman's wiles,
Deep ponderest, how a woman's smiles
Can clothe such deep and deadly hate.
But ah! the heart where envy coils
What years of scorn and wrongs can sate!
Mary! thy crimes the woman tell;
Thy cousin's crimes were crimes of hell!
And milder are thine errors seen
Midst the fell wrath of England's queen.
An outcast in thy northern isles!
While thou, all lost and lonely here,
The victim of a woman's wiles,
Deep ponderest, how a woman's smiles
Can clothe such deep and deadly hate.
But ah! the heart where envy coils
What years of scorn and wrongs can sate!
Mary! thy crimes the woman tell;
Thy cousin's crimes were crimes of hell!
And milder are thine errors seen
Midst the fell wrath of England's queen.
Mary! what sage will e'er forgive
The darker deeds that thou hast done?
But ah! whoe'er again shall live
Whom such wild fate shall rest upon?
Spirit, far loftier than thy throne,
A heart all fervour, soul all light;
Beauty's bewildering glance and tone,
All met to blazon and to blight!
Ah! who such perilous gifts could own,
And live unscathed upon a throne!
Therefore we mourn thy brighter years,
But love thee midst thy wrongs and tears.
The darker deeds that thou hast done?
But ah! whoe'er again shall live
Whom such wild fate shall rest upon?
Spirit, far loftier than thy throne,
A heart all fervour, soul all light;
Beauty's bewildering glance and tone,
All met to blazon and to blight!
Ah! who such perilous gifts could own,
And live unscathed upon a throne!
Therefore we mourn thy brighter years,
But love thee midst thy wrongs and tears.
| The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems | |