University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

THE SONG OF THE BETHLEHEMITE.

THE CONQUEROR.

CHARTLEY CASTLE.

“TELLE EST LA VIE.”

THE WILD ROSE.

AUTUMNAL MUSINGS.

THE MINSTREL.

THE ELFIN WOMAN.

All sad and slow, a little bark
Hath left our northern hold;
The winds are high, the night is dark,
The ocean path untold.
And they who in that boat are set
Are sad and woe-begone;
A gallant knight of stalwart might,
A lady and her son.
And that lady's cheek is pale
As is the lily's breast;
And she, with many a mournful tale,
Has hush'd her babe to rest.
And he who sits beside her there,
With eye of love, and brow of care,
And mantle wrapp'd round aching breast,
Is one who may not taste of rest.
Forlorn of hope, his friends are flown,
Little of joy his soul hath known;
He loves not man, and how should he?
For all have long deserted him:
Nor page nor friend he now may see
Would pledge him on the goblet's brim.
And ladies' love how can he heed?
They too have fled in time of need;
And those bright, laughing eyes that shone
On him, in prideful hour, are gone.
And those dear lips, with wreathed smiles,
And bosoms skill'd in flattery's wiles,
They smile not now, nor seek the power
To soothe him in his woful hour.
But there is one, in weal and woe,
Who hath not changed, nor change can know;
And he is pledged to none beside
Fair Ellen the true, his matchless bride.
And she, when from his lonely hall
The guests and friends were fled,
Cheer'd him, with hope she might not feel,
Nor ever a tear she shed.
And she hath left her maiden bower,
And left her father's side;
And gain'd the scorn and curse of all,
To be a foeman's bride.
And now her little babe is born,
The heir of mickle woe;
And rage is in its father's breast,
As angry chief may know;
For he hath neither kith nor kin
To help him in his strait,
And foemen of the deadliest mould
Are gathering at his gate.
And ever by his side he sees,
To mar his best design,
An elfin woman, stern and old,
The hater of his line.
Awhile, an angel form she wears,
And woos and soothes his pride;
And with a holy oath she swears
To grant and do the whole he dares,
So she may be his bride.
But when she sees his rage arise,
Or hears his Ellen's name,
Before his wilder'd view he spies
A form of disproportion'd size,
All girt in sulphurous flame.
And then a cursed sword she draws
From out her fiery vest,
And dire and deep revenge she vows,
And points it to his breast.
“And see,” she cries, “this trusty blade,
And note its ghastly stain;
This is the blood of thine own race,
Who by this hand were slain.
And hear me now, thou lofty lord,
And listen to my command:
Take thou my dire and proved sword
With firm determined hand,
And hie thee to fair Ellen's side,
And plunge it in her breast,
And rid thee of thy bonny bride,
And so thou shalt have rest.
And give me here thy little son
Whom thou dost so adore,
And I will quit thy castle hall,
And never see thee more.
But if thou scornest my behest,
Ye three shall never taste of rest.”
He took that blade, but not to shed
The blood of his fair bride;
He heard the threat, and, wild with dread,
He turn'd his head aside.
And when he turn'd him round again,
That elfin woman laugh'd amain;
And, with a wild and hideous sneer,
Scream'd loudly in his tortured ear:
“Now fond, true knight, thy courage deal,
And know that blade is trusty steel;
And if thou provest its temper well,
Loved, scornful knight, a long farewell.”
“Woe worth the hour!” the husband cried,
“I cannot wrong thee, bonny bride!
And woe's me,” said the father wild,
“I cannot, will not, lose my child!”
And then he flung the sword away,
And took the twain he loved so well;
And at the closing hour of day,
When slowly toll'd the vesper bell,
They left that tower's beleaguer'd wall;
And from the rocky shore are gone
A young and handsome chieftain tall,
A lady and her son.
They see not now the turret high,
They see not now the rocky shore;
There is a tempest in the sky,
Voices of storm are shrieking by,
And winds with wild uproar.
That little bark, how is it tost!
Good Heaven defend, or they are lost!
He hath his arm round her so dear,
To shield his love from ill;
And he doth strive her soul to cheer,
With hope he cannot feel.
“Fear not, fear not, my fair Ellén,
And hush thy bitter woe;
Thou, who hast faced our dire foemén,
A braver heart shouldst know.
And fear not for thy little babe,
Good Heaven will shield from harm;
His father's arm is stout and strong,
His mother's breast is warm.
Then fear not so, my fair Ellén,
The storm will soon be past;
And we will gain a sheltering bower,
And live in peace at last.”
With that they hear a screaming laugh,
And lo! before them stands
That elfin woman, raising high
Her gaunt and bony hands.
“And strivest thou now, young gallant knight,”
She cried, “'gainst wind and tide?
But who shall shield, in hour like this,
Thy fair and bonny bride?”
“Avaunt!” he cried, “thou spectre foe!
Thy taunts I little heed.”
And drawing forth a trusty blade,
Well tried in time of need,
He makes a firm and furious thrust,
With strength of angry blow;
But how may force of arm prevail
Against an airy foe?
Nor human skill hath any power
To make her vengeance quail;
Prayers have been said, and masses sung,
And all without avail.
There stands his furious, fleshless foe,
With that same bloody brand;
“And well I wot, young knight,” quoth she,
“Thou hast listen'd to my command!
And hear me now, thou young Ellén,
And let thy lord have rest;
Give me thy little baby boy
That slumbers on thy breast.”
“Oh! hear thee, Virgin-mother, hear!”
The lady cried in prayer;
And speechless stood her gallant lord,
And gazed in mad despair.
Now darker, drearier grew the night,
And rougher grew the main;
The sea-birds scream'd in wild affright,
Red flash'd the mazy lightning bright,
And furious pour'd the rain.
And ever, when the lightning's glare
Gleam'd past, they saw that woman there;
And ever, when the storm was laid,
They heard that woman's threats dismay'd.
But she has snatch'd that noble heir,
And the mother has heard its woful cry;
She has seen it dragg'd by its golden hair,
And seen it doom'd to die.
Wild was the shriek the lady gave,
When she saw it plunged in the boiling wave;
Wild was the woe her scream bewray'd,
When she heard its feeble cry for aid.
Ere long, and that elfin woman is gone,
And the little bark moves slowly on;
And the winds are hush'd, and the waters bear
Slowly along the sorrowing pair;
And the skies are clear, and the stars are bright,
And the little bark keeps its course aright;
But the lady is pale in dread and in death,
And has spoken her last with her parting breath;
And the gentle gale, as it wafted by,
Hath borne the lady's parting sigh;
And the morning sun, in light enroll'd,
Hath shone on the lady marble cold.
The knight return'd to his lonely hall,
And found the brave were gathering there,
With guest at his bidding, and page at his call,
And the ready smiles of ladies fair:
But his castle was ever a solitude,
And he never again was blithe of mood.

CHARITY.

When thou dost on thy fellow-men look with a wond'ring eye,
And marvell'st they should fall so low, when they do aim so high;
That boasting heaven's own light their guide, they should so widely stray;
With truth's dear name upon their lips, their lips should yet betray;
And coldness, changefulness, and guile, should ever seem to dwell,
Mix'd with small difference of love, in palace, cot, or cell;
Think not too sternly of thy race, look thou on every tree,
Hoar, fresh, or young, where'er they stand, on forest, down, or lea;
Thou shalt not find amongst them all, though thou search well and long,
One single stem exactly straight, however fair and strong.
Perchance there may a few be found, yet those how wond'rous few!
Which, seen upon one only side, shall seem most nicely true:
Yet, look them round, and they shall bend full many different ways,
As wind and sun have fallen on them, in their more tender days.
All with their warps and blemishes thou shalt most surely find,
Curl'd in their tops, with shrivell'd leaves, or rugged in their rind;
Yet all sprung from one mother earth, all clamb'ring towards the skies,
And drawing with a social power each other as they rise;
Bearing around the mighty earth, in every clime and soil,
Beauty, and solitude, and shade, and dropping fruits and oil.
And thus, as in the vastest wood is found no perfect bole,
But each, though faulty in some part, is beauteous in the whole;
And thus, as even the gnarled thorn breaks out with fragrant bloom,
And yews, that poison life's gay walks, wave graceful o'er a tomb;
And thus, as barren branches wave aloft in beauty's pride,
And melting fruits, and honied flowers, on tendrils frail are tied;
And thus, as even mould'ring trunks to winter fuel yield,
Or, where no fruit nor blossom glows, is medicine conceal'd;
Rarely all these do meet in one, or one is wanting all,
Or scene be found where best or worst together only fall,
But with a sweet variety clothe plain, and rock, and glen:
Oh! let thy heart still whisper thee, 'tis even thus with men.

A JUNE DAY.

Oh! hast thou ever wish'd to know
When most this varying world below
Is like the changeless heaven above,
In beauty, pleasure, peace, and love?
Haste thee, in summer's youthful noon,
The green, the joyous month of June,
Far from the sultry streeted town,
And lay thee in the evening down
In some sweet hamlet's white-wall'd cot,
Round which the pear and apricot
Twine their green arms, and sparrows watch
From their snug peep-holes in the thatch;
And the light latticed porch embower
The creeper and the passion-flower.
The morning bursts—all heaven has shed
Its light and music round thy bed:
The birds are busy in the eaves;
The sun-light dances on the leaves
That tremble round the window's rim;
And to and fro the shadows skim
Of busy wings without, that ply
In quest of larva, worm, or fly.
Throw now the sunny casement wide,
In flows the warm and odorous tide
From dew-besprinkled shrub and flower,
That blossom round that sylvan bower.
But oh! thou world of light and glee!
What soul can ever picture thee?
As strays the fond enthusiast eye
Round the green earth and flaming sky,
From every meadow, bush, and tree,
Rings morning's loudest melody.
Hark to the cuckoo's wand'ring notes!
Hark to the lark, whose music floats
Through the wide air in strains that tell,
This is a world where gods might dwell!
The dew yet lingers on the grass,
As down the long green lane you pass,
Where, o'er the hawthorn's snowy wreaths,
The woodbine's honied perfume breathes;
And the wild rose's arching spray
Flaunts to the breeze above your way.
What palace proud—what city hall,
Can match these verdant boughs that fall,
Vaulting o'er banks of flowers, that glow
In hues of crimson, gold, and snow?
Where, midst the wild-brier's emerald leaves,
Her gauze-like nest the white-throat weaves.
What sense of joy hath ever stole
From song, or harp, into thy soul,
Like this, from young birds all unseen,
Chirping amongst the foliage green?
Or, new to life, on wings untried,
Fluttering from bushes by your side;
Or gazing at you unconcern'd,
Their foes, their perils yet unlearn'd;
With yellow bills, and plumage fair,
And down that trembles to the air.
The gale has woke, and, like a soul,
Sent life and beauty through the whole.
One living, restless radiance gleams,
From quivering trees, and flowers, and streams.
Mark! how its bright and silvery sheen
Gilds the tall grass, and corn-fields green:
Wave after wave, the gleaming tide
Of light sweeps o'er their surface wide;
And the quick, dancing splendour plays,
As o'er the sea the summer's blaze.
But hush'd is gale, and hush'd is tune,
As pours the sun the power of noon:
And through the bright and basking scene
No sound is heard, no motion seen,
But the bold sparrow's chirping loud,
And merry minstrel of the cloud;
And the keen buzzing of the fly,
And o'er the heath the pewit's cry.
Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss,
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
Whilst all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
There, still the green flag quivering plays,
The broad-sword of those fairy days;
There, still the water scorpions peep,
Then downward dart into the deep;
There, still the brook the alders greet,
Loosestrife, and foam-like meadow-sweet;
The water-flies there fleetly race
O'er the stream's smooth unruffled face;
There come, as then, the plunging cows,
Rustling amongst the hazel boughs;
And there, as then, they strive to save
Some struggling insect from the wave,
That long has strove and stretch'd in vain
Some floating leaf's safe ark to gain,
That, ever near, excites its toils,
But touch'd—and lo!—it still recoils,
As tempting hope our efforts foils.
But noon's subduing heat and glare
Have melted to a milder air;
And oh! there comes, so calm and boon,
The eve—the Paradise of June.
Past is the glare—but there is still
A light and glow on dale and hill,
Vivid, yet mild and full of grace,
Shining out like an angel's face.
Freed from the sultry thrall of day,
The glad eye revels far away;
All round is bright—and you may see
Green hill and river, tower and tree,
One wide, fair scene of beauteous rest,
Brilliant and sweet, and calm and blest.
All there is peace, and you may hear
Each soften'd sound distinct and clear:
The wood-gate's clap, the peasant's lay,
The low of herds, the mastiff's bay,
And the rich blackbird's strains, that swell
Each sunset from the neighbouring dell.
Who has not wander'd to inhale
Fragrance, and dew, and living gale,
As the far wood's luxuriant waves
Of green the sun's last radiance laves;
And villagers sit at their doors
Beneath the towering sycamores;
And hum the chaffer's ruddy wings?
And sweet are lovers' loiterings
On by the park pales' silvery moss,
Where listening hares the footpath cross;
And partridges, met in the glen,
Are racing swiftly back again;
And from the far heath, drear and still,
Pipes the lone curlew, wild and shrill;
And darker glooms the forest glade;
And heaven's pale gleams yet fainter fade;
Till silence only hears awake
The hoarse, quaint whisperings of the crake.

TO ------.

A LEGEND OF DALE ABBEY.

SONNET.

[Oh love of country!—flame of liberty!]

Oh love of country!—flame of liberty!
Thou glow'dst with fervour in the Grecian breast;
Led Codrus to the hostile camp, to wrest
Chains from his land, and die to make her free.
Oh! glorious pass of old Thermopylæ,
Grave of Leonidas! an altar thou
Sacred to freedom, and to thee shall bow
The curse of earth, iron-sceptred tyranny.
Deep in the dungeon-gloom of Carthage bound,
Heard Regulus a call,—the voice he knew;
It pleaded for his country:—“Ne'er shall sound,”
Said he, “thy captives' wail:” and then he threw
A glance of triumph o'er the land he saved,
And gloried in the chains that else had her enslaved.

SONNET.

[When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize]

When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize,
And hope, the herald of unseen delight,
Pass, like the vivid meteor of the night,
Just seen, to tempt our steps where danger lies;
When hearts link'd in the dearest sympathies,
By unthought perfidy, are doom'd to sever;
Think'st thou the shock can break the thousand ties
That seem to bind as they would bind for ever?
Ah no!—what tender images will start,
To tell there was a time it was not so;
Young love is faithful, though a faithless heart
May rive its hopes, and, with a traitorous blow,
Destroy the link that life was wont to boast:
Yet here will memory dwell, and love to linger most.

SONNET.

1.

[I climb'd the glorious mountains of the north]

I climb'd the glorious mountains of the north,
And gazed in transport from Ben Lomond's brow;
And many a desert cry and wild view now
Are into my glad spirit thence sent forth:
But none more livingly, than when in mirth
We scaled Helvellyn's steep and rocky side,
That gleaming sabbath morn: the storm had died,
And left all radiance round us; but its wrath
Had fallen upon one little mountain lamb,
That by the loud and craggy torrent lay,
Shivering and nestling to its perish'd dam:
The wild flock thence had wander'd all away,
All but one other lamb, that seem'd to keep
Near it for love—not sorrow—it could sleep.

SONNET.

2.

[As we approach'd, that little wretched thing]

As we approach'd, that little wretched thing,
Storm-drench'd, rose up with meek imploring eye,
And gave a feeble, but a piteous cry,
As if it deem'd that we did comfort bring.
But, as we onward pass'd, still following
With pleading gaze, at length it wearily press'd
Once more, in mute despair, its mother's breast.
What is there in a sound, a glance, to bring
All the soul gushing out beneath its power?
For pleasure I was wandering in that land,
A stranger, and there never from that hour
Perchance to be, yet pity seized my hand,
My heart—nay all, and goaded me until
I sought and sent the shepherd to that hill.

THE LARK.

A WOODLAND REVERIE.

THE RETURN.

ON READING THE FOLLOWING EXTRACT.

STANZAS.

[Away with the pleasure that is not partaken!]

FAREWELL TO THE HARP,

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.