The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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A POET'S THOUGHTS AT THE INTERMENT OF LORD BYRON. |
 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
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A POET'S THOUGHTS AT THE INTERMENT OF LORD BYRON.
“The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth possessed no tomb.”
So to wild winds, and to the wilder boom
Of billows, sang the immortal, wayward Childe,
Self-exiled from his country. So from gloom
The morning rose, so breathed, and glowed, and smiled,
That saw his youthful corse on mouldering coffins piled.
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth possessed no tomb.”
So to wild winds, and to the wilder boom
Of billows, sang the immortal, wayward Childe,
Self-exiled from his country. So from gloom
The morning rose, so breathed, and glowed, and smiled,
That saw his youthful corse on mouldering coffins piled.
302
Thousands were risen to see him borne away;
Thousands were thronging towers, and streets, and hills;
I too had vowed to spend that live-long day
In honouring him whose mighty spirit thrills
Yet through our bosoms; animates and chills
With peerless power; and ever will maintain
That proud dominion over human wills
Which, living he has founded; in his chain
Binding even hostile hearts, which wrenched it, but in vain.
Thousands were thronging towers, and streets, and hills;
I too had vowed to spend that live-long day
In honouring him whose mighty spirit thrills
Yet through our bosoms; animates and chills
With peerless power; and ever will maintain
That proud dominion over human wills
Which, living he has founded; in his chain
Binding even hostile hearts, which wrenched it, but in vain.
I went not with the throng,—the rushing throng
Eager, and boisterous, and alive to mirth;
A different mood befits the sons of song
When sinks a chieftain of their house to earth.
Then nature's spell, then solitude gives birth
To solemn thoughts which may not swiftly die;
The mystery of soul; the undying worth,
The royalty of genius; glory high
Of those who in man's heart entombed for ever lie.
Eager, and boisterous, and alive to mirth;
A different mood befits the sons of song
When sinks a chieftain of their house to earth.
Then nature's spell, then solitude gives birth
To solemn thoughts which may not swiftly die;
The mystery of soul; the undying worth,
The royalty of genius; glory high
Of those who in man's heart entombed for ever lie.
303
The plenitude of summer round me glowed;
The breath of summer balmed the living air;
Bright blushed the wild-rose, bright the streamlet flowed
In music o'er my path; and from the fair
Concave of heaven, the gushing splendour bare
Down to the earth a spirit in its tide,
Which thrilled the heart-strings, and subduing care,
Whispered high thoughts of him who, till he died,
Wooed through earth's proudest lands that spirit as a bride.
The breath of summer balmed the living air;
Bright blushed the wild-rose, bright the streamlet flowed
In music o'er my path; and from the fair
Concave of heaven, the gushing splendour bare
Down to the earth a spirit in its tide,
Which thrilled the heart-strings, and subduing care,
Whispered high thoughts of him who, till he died,
Wooed through earth's proudest lands that spirit as a bride.
His birth, his death, dark fortunes, and brief life,
Wondrous and wild as his impetuous lay,
Passed through my mind; his wanderings, loves, and strife;
I saw him marching on from day to day;
The kilted boy, roaming o'er mountains grey;
The noble youth, whose life-blood was a flame,
In the bright land of demi-gods astray:
The monarch of the lyre, whose haughty name
Spread on, from shore to shore, the watch-word of all fame—
Wondrous and wild as his impetuous lay,
Passed through my mind; his wanderings, loves, and strife;
I saw him marching on from day to day;
The kilted boy, roaming o'er mountains grey;
The noble youth, whose life-blood was a flame,
In the bright land of demi-gods astray:
The monarch of the lyre, whose haughty name
Spread on, from shore to shore, the watch-word of all fame—
304
And now a lifeless form.—The spell is broke;
The wizard's wild enchantment is destroyed;
He who, at will, did dreadful forms invoke,
And called up beautiful spirits from the void,
Back to the scenes, in which he early joyed
He comes, but knows it not. In vain earth's bloom,
In vain the sky's clear beauty, which oft buoyed
His spirit to delight; an early doom
Brings him, in glory's arms, to the awaiting tomb.
The wizard's wild enchantment is destroyed;
He who, at will, did dreadful forms invoke,
And called up beautiful spirits from the void,
Back to the scenes, in which he early joyed
He comes, but knows it not. In vain earth's bloom,
In vain the sky's clear beauty, which oft buoyed
His spirit to delight; an early doom
Brings him, in glory's arms, to the awaiting tomb.
He lies—how quietly that heart, which yet
Never could slumber, slumbers now for aye!
He lies—where first, love, fame, his young soul set,
With passionate power, on flame:—where gleam the grey
Turrets of Newstead, through the solemn sway
Of verdurous woods; and where that hoary crown
Of lofty “trees in circular array”
Shrouds Mary's hall, who thither may look down,
And think how he loved her, aye more than his renown.
Never could slumber, slumbers now for aye!
He lies—where first, love, fame, his young soul set,
With passionate power, on flame:—where gleam the grey
Turrets of Newstead, through the solemn sway
Of verdurous woods; and where that hoary crown
Of lofty “trees in circular array”
Shrouds Mary's hall, who thither may look down,
And think how he loved her, aye more than his renown.
305
I stood beside his tomb. 'Twas open thrown,
And in its dimness, shewed the coffined dead,
His long departed sires. I seemed alone;
For from my heart all present things had fled:
My thoughts were in their strong entrancement led
To mighty bards of old, who, living, found,
Like him, the gall of hate and envy shed
Sorely upon them, but in death were crowned
With homage, and deep love, and glory without bound.
And in its dimness, shewed the coffined dead,
His long departed sires. I seemed alone;
For from my heart all present things had fled:
My thoughts were in their strong entrancement led
To mighty bards of old, who, living, found,
Like him, the gall of hate and envy shed
Sorely upon them, but in death were crowned
With homage, and deep love, and glory without bound.
And such shall be his lot. He joyed to stand
Battling with men's opinions: and to be
The dauntless Ismael of the age, whose hand
Rose against all, whilst all, in their degree,
Paid back his blows with wrathful rivalry.
He erred—he suffered;—he provoked the dread
And rancour of the many; and even he,
Who scorned to groan, yet sometimes inly bled:
But sacred rest he now! we war not with the dead.
Battling with men's opinions: and to be
The dauntless Ismael of the age, whose hand
Rose against all, whilst all, in their degree,
Paid back his blows with wrathful rivalry.
He erred—he suffered;—he provoked the dread
And rancour of the many; and even he,
Who scorned to groan, yet sometimes inly bled:
But sacred rest he now! we war not with the dead.
306
Peace, pardon, pity, a relenting sense
Follows youth ever to the desolate tomb,
Even when most cold and cruel the offence;
But Byron's soul had a refreshing bloom;
There was a stirring grandeur in his gloom;
And he has left us, in his peerless lays,
A kindling solace for the drearest doom;
A fountain of deep joy, which, as it plays,
Shall gladden, and gleam on to earth's remotest days.
Follows youth ever to the desolate tomb,
Even when most cold and cruel the offence;
But Byron's soul had a refreshing bloom;
There was a stirring grandeur in his gloom;
And he has left us, in his peerless lays,
A kindling solace for the drearest doom;
A fountain of deep joy, which, as it plays,
Shall gladden, and gleam on to earth's remotest days.
Still let us honour a magnanimous foe.
His sympathies went not with the living throng,
And therefore he found little. His heart's flow
Rushed towards the land of science and of song.
There, in creative dreams, he walked among
The wise, the great, the laurelled of that race
Whose deeds still rouse, whose burning words prolong
Their quenchless fire, and, spite of time and space,
Breathe upon earth high thoughts, and life's diviner grace.
His sympathies went not with the living throng,
And therefore he found little. His heart's flow
Rushed towards the land of science and of song.
There, in creative dreams, he walked among
The wise, the great, the laurelled of that race
Whose deeds still rouse, whose burning words prolong
Their quenchless fire, and, spite of time and space,
Breathe upon earth high thoughts, and life's diviner grace.
307
“Pride,” as he sang, “which not a world could bow,”
Pride, linked to fiery feeling, with the meed
Of Genius given, and restless in its glow,
Urged him in sunny climes his life to lead;
And, like the desert's wild, untutored steed,
Which, whether stricken, or soothed, foams, curvets still,
From custom's thrall, by desperate vigour, freed,
He made himself sole monarch of his will,
And used, with Protean power, the poet's heavenly skill.
Pride, linked to fiery feeling, with the meed
Of Genius given, and restless in its glow,
Urged him in sunny climes his life to lead;
And, like the desert's wild, untutored steed,
Which, whether stricken, or soothed, foams, curvets still,
From custom's thrall, by desperate vigour, freed,
He made himself sole monarch of his will,
And used, with Protean power, the poet's heavenly skill.
His note was as a trumpet, through and through
Thrilling, and kindling strange delight it came:
His wing was the young eagle's; forth he flew,
And boldly gazing on the sun of fame,
Earth sank beneath him, and the critic's aim
Served but to rouse and wing him to his height;
Where, sailing on, through sunshine, or the flame
Of stormy bolts, he found a stern delight,
And woe were to the head which dared him from his flight.
Thrilling, and kindling strange delight it came:
His wing was the young eagle's; forth he flew,
And boldly gazing on the sun of fame,
Earth sank beneath him, and the critic's aim
Served but to rouse and wing him to his height;
Where, sailing on, through sunshine, or the flame
Of stormy bolts, he found a stern delight,
And woe were to the head which dared him from his flight.
308
At times a giant, clad with might, he rose,
And in his sportive joyance, or his rage,
Would shake the temple of man's sole repose;
And all that soothes life's melancholy stage,
Hope's ardent song, the authority of age,
The works of wisdom trembled to their fall:
Then suddenly his wrath he would assuage,
And, with a laugh whose merriment had gall,
He left them, but as things he valued not at all.
And in his sportive joyance, or his rage,
Would shake the temple of man's sole repose;
And all that soothes life's melancholy stage,
Hope's ardent song, the authority of age,
The works of wisdom trembled to their fall:
Then suddenly his wrath he would assuage,
And, with a laugh whose merriment had gall,
He left them, but as things he valued not at all.
Then was he a magician. Rocks and waves,
Dim, desolate wilds were visible at his nod;
Huge mountains with their torrents, crags, and caves,
In whose dark shade, yet darker beings trod;
Beings, in whose natures, demon, man, and god,
Mingled mysteriously; and he would bare
Their spirits to your vision with his rod,
And from their inmost heart to open air
Would draw their grief, guilt, greatness, and their stern despair.
Dim, desolate wilds were visible at his nod;
Huge mountains with their torrents, crags, and caves,
In whose dark shade, yet darker beings trod;
Beings, in whose natures, demon, man, and god,
Mingled mysteriously; and he would bare
Their spirits to your vision with his rod,
And from their inmost heart to open air
Would draw their grief, guilt, greatness, and their stern despair.
309
And then this wild scene, and its wilder crew,
Would dissipate; and in their place would rise
Regions all basking in the radiant blue
Of eastern heavens, and lovely things whose eyes
Were full of the sweet aliment of sighs
And deathless passion: and himself would pour,
Out of his glowing bosom, such supplies
Of a pathetic song, as, evermore,
Melted the chillest hearts, probed soft ones to their core.
Would dissipate; and in their place would rise
Regions all basking in the radiant blue
Of eastern heavens, and lovely things whose eyes
Were full of the sweet aliment of sighs
And deathless passion: and himself would pour,
Out of his glowing bosom, such supplies
Of a pathetic song, as, evermore,
Melted the chillest hearts, probed soft ones to their core.
'Tis past! he sleeps for ever:—nor for me
Is it to tell what living he has been;
Self-traced with hand of power, and pencil free,
He, in his own creations, shall be seen;
Nor, while I trace his genius, do I mean
To hail his glory as exempt from shade.
Alas! no rose is here of thornless sheen;
Alas! too much in Byron's laurelled braid
Are shoots of deadly power, and bitter weeds inlaid.
Is it to tell what living he has been;
Self-traced with hand of power, and pencil free,
He, in his own creations, shall be seen;
Nor, while I trace his genius, do I mean
To hail his glory as exempt from shade.
Alas! no rose is here of thornless sheen;
Alas! too much in Byron's laurelled braid
Are shoots of deadly power, and bitter weeds inlaid.
310
But thou, with passions calm, and soul subdued—
Thou, who thy steed in pleasant paths hast driven,
Judgest thou him who, upon mountains rude,
With desperate coursers terribly has striven?—
When thy light bark to summer streams is given,
What deem'st thou of the vessel on the deep,
When mutiny within all law has riven,
And round it billows in dread thunder sweep?
Such course, and such command, have fervid souls to keep.
Thou, who thy steed in pleasant paths hast driven,
Judgest thou him who, upon mountains rude,
With desperate coursers terribly has striven?—
When thy light bark to summer streams is given,
What deem'st thou of the vessel on the deep,
When mutiny within all law has riven,
And round it billows in dread thunder sweep?
Such course, and such command, have fervid souls to keep.
His lays are dashed with evil—yet they breathe
A loftier spirit into him who hears.
He hated hotly—yet he knew to wreathe
Affections round him. I beheld the tears
And agony of those who loved for years,
And followed to the last; and whilst the name
Of Greece, or love, or liberty endears,
His life's bright close young bosoms shall inflame
To grasp, with generous hands, the coronal of fame.
A loftier spirit into him who hears.
He hated hotly—yet he knew to wreathe
Affections round him. I beheld the tears
And agony of those who loved for years,
And followed to the last; and whilst the name
Of Greece, or love, or liberty endears,
His life's bright close young bosoms shall inflame
To grasp, with generous hands, the coronal of fame.
311
I stood beside his tomb. The crowd had fled;
Silence and twilight gathered o'er the cell.
I laid my hand upon his dreamless bed,
And on my heart life's awful mystery fell.
And was it hence, I cried, were wont to well
Forth those bright gushings of eternal thought?
They are gone—we know not whither—and the spell
Which with fierce passion, fire, and feeling fraught
This agitated frame, is vanished—as 'twere nought.
Silence and twilight gathered o'er the cell.
I laid my hand upon his dreamless bed,
And on my heart life's awful mystery fell.
And was it hence, I cried, were wont to well
Forth those bright gushings of eternal thought?
They are gone—we know not whither—and the spell
Which with fierce passion, fire, and feeling fraught
This agitated frame, is vanished—as 'twere nought.
Rest in thy tomb, young heir of glory, rest!
Rest in thy rustic tomb, which thou shalt make
A spot of light upon thy country's breast,
Known, honoured, haunted ever for thy sake.
Thither romantic pilgrims shall betake
Themselves from distant lands. When we are still
In centuries of sleep, thy fame shall wake,
And thy great memory with deep feelings fill
These scenes which thou hast trod, and hallow every hill.
Rest in thy rustic tomb, which thou shalt make
A spot of light upon thy country's breast,
Known, honoured, haunted ever for thy sake.
Thither romantic pilgrims shall betake
Themselves from distant lands. When we are still
In centuries of sleep, thy fame shall wake,
And thy great memory with deep feelings fill
These scenes which thou hast trod, and hallow every hill.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |