Dramatic Scenes, Sonnets, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

My little book, as o'er thy page so white,
With half-closed eyes in idlest mood I lean,
Whose is the form that rises still between
Thy page and me,—a vision of delight?
Look on those eyes by the bright soul made bright;
Those curls, which who Antinous' bust hath seen
Hath loved; that shape which might beseem a queen;
That blush of purity; that smile of light.
'Tis she! my little book dost thou not own
Thy mistress? She it is, the only she!
Dost thou not listen for the one sweet tone
Of her unrivalled voice? Dost thou not see
Her look of love, for whose dear sake alone,
My little book, thou art so dear to me?

294

II. ON MRS HOFLAND'S PICTURE OF JERUSALEM AT THE TIME OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

Jerusalem! and at the fatal hour!
No need of dull and frivolous question here!
No need of human agents to make clear
The most tremendous act of human power!
The distant cross; the rent and falling tower;
The opening graves, from which the dead uprear
Their buried forms; the elemental fear
Where horrid light and horrid darkness lower;
All tell the holy tale: the mystery
And solace of our souls. Awe-struck we gaze
On that so mute yet eloquent history!
Awe-struck and sad at length our eyes we raise
To go;—yet oft return that scene to see
Too full of the great theme to think of praise.

295

III. THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

Blossom that lov'st on shadowy banks to lie,
Gemming the deep rank grass with flowers so blue,
That the pure turquoise matched with their rich hue
Pales, fades, and dims; so exquisite a dye,
That scarce the brightness of the Autumn sky,
Which sleeps upon the bosom of the stream,
On whose fringed margent thy star-flowerets gleam
In its clear azure with thy tints may vie;
Shade-loving flower, I love thee! not alone
That thou dost haunt the greenest coolest spot,
For ever, by the tufted alder thrown,
Or arching hazel, or vine mantled cot,
But that thy very name hath a sweet tone
Of parting tenderness—Forget me not!

296

IV. TO MR. HENRY RICHARDSON,

ON HIS PERFORMANCE OF ADMETUS IN THE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES, AS REPRESENTED IN THE ORIGINAL GREEK AT READING SCHOOL. October, 1824.

For us, on whose sealed ear the classic strain
Of Athens' tenderest bard would idly fall
As instrumental music, or the call
Of wordless nightingales, for us again
I thank thee, wondrous boy! that not in vain
The scene hath overpast which held in thrall
Milton and Wordsworth, mightiest names of all
Living or dead that haunt the Muses' fane!

297

Thy genius was a language; voice and look,
Gesture and stillness the deep mystery
Of a strong grief unveiled. As lightnings dart
Their quivering brightness o'er the world, each nook
Illumining and thrilling, so from thee
Burst the storm-cloud of passion on the heart.

Milton's allusion to the Alcestis in the sonnet on his wife is well known. Mr. Wordsworth in his Laodamia has the following exquisite lines on the same subject.

------“Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb
Alcestis a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's bloom?”

298

V. WRITTEN JULY, 1824.

How oft amid the heaped and bedded hay,
Under the oak's broad shadow deep and strong,
Have we sate listening to the noonday song
(If song it were monotonously gay)
Which crept along the field, the summer lay
Of the grasshopper. Summer is come in pride
Of fruit and flower, garlanded as a bride,
And crowned with corn, and graced with length of day.
But cold is come with her. We sit not now
Listening that merry music of the earth
Like Ariel “beneath the blossomed bough;”
But all for chillness round the social hearth
We cluster.—Hark!—a note of kindred mirth
Echoes!—Oh, wintery cricket, welcome thou!

299

VI. TO MY MOTHER SLEEPING.

Sleep on, my mother! sweet and innocent dreams
Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams that gild
Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure filled
And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems,—
Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams,
Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build
And calmest thoughts, like violets distilled,
Their fragrance mingle with bright wisdom's beams.
Sleep on, my mother! not the lily's bell
So sweet; not the enamoured west-wind's sighs
That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell
So gentle; not that dew-drop ere it flies
So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee to dwell
Oh model most beloved of good and wise!

300

VII. ON A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Look where she sits in languid loveliness,
Her feet upgathered, and her turban'd brow
Bent o'er her hand, her robe in ample flow
Disparted! Look in attitude and dress
She sits and seems an Eastern Sultaness!
And music is about her, and the glow
Of young fair faces, and sweet voices go
Forth at her call, and all about her press.
But no Sultana she! As in a book
In that fine form and lovely brow we trace
Divinest purity, and the bright look
Of genius. Much is she in mind and face
Like the fair blossom of some woodland nook
The wind-flower ,—delicate and full of grace.

The Hampshire name of the wood-anemone.

301

VIII. TO MISS PORDEN ,

ON HER POEM OF CŒUR DE LION.

Proudly thy sex may claim thee, young and fair
And lofty poetess! proudly may tell
How thou hast sung the arms invincible
Of him the lion-hearted, in the snare
Of Austria, as amid the sultry glare
Of Palestine, triumphant; or the spell
Of poor Maimonne; or the thoughts that swell
When suddenly the old remembered air
Rings from the harp of Blondel; or the bright
And gorgeous train of England's chivalry;
Or, worthy of his kingly foe, the might
Of paynim Saladin. Oh, proud of thee
Is woman! proud of thy bold muse's flight!
Proud of thy gentle spirit's purity.

My late dear and lamented friend Mrs. Francklin.

302

IX. TO MR. HAYDON,

ON A STUDY FROM NATURE.

“Tears in the eyes and on the lips a sigh!”
Haydon! the great, the beautiful, the bold,
Thy wisdom's king, thy mercy's God unfold,
There art and genius blend in union high.
But this is of the soul. The majesty
Of grief is here, grief cast in such a mould
As Niobe of yore. The tale is told
All at a glance—A childless mother I!
The tale is told:—but who can e'er forget
That e'er hath seen that visage of despair!
With unaccustom'd tears our cheeks are wet;
Heavy our hearts with unaccounted care;
Upon our thoughts it presses like a debt;
We close our eyes in vain—that face is there!

303

X. ENGLEFIELD HOUSE:

THE SEAT OF R. BENYON DE BEAUVOIR, ESQ. NEAR READING.

There is a pride, as of an elder day
About thee, Englefield! mid way thy steep
And wood-crowned eminence, where round thee sweep
Green flowery lawns, trees in the fresh array
Of summer, meadows with the close-piled hay
Studded, blue waters that do seem to creep
All listlessly for heat, and cots that sleep
I' the sunshine. How thou tower'st above the gay
And lovely landscape, in the majesty
Of thy old beauty! Even those mansions bright,
That pretty town, that gothic chapelry
With front and pinnacle so rich and light,
Seem all as toys and costly pageantry
Made but for thy proud halls and their delight.

The new Church at Theale, a beautiful specimen of modern Gothic.

304

XI. NEW YEAR'S DAY. 1819.

TO MRS. DICKINSON.

Banquet and song, and dance and revelry!—
Auspicious year born in so fair a light
Of gaiety and beauty! happy night
Sacred to social pleasure, and to thee
Its dear dispenser, of festivity
The festive queen, the moving spirit bright
Of music and the dance, of all delight
The gentle mistress, bountiful and free.
Oh happy night! and oh succeeding day
Far happier! when 'mid converse and repose
Handel's sweet strains came sweetened, and the lay
Divine of that old Florentine arose,
Dante, and Genius flung his torch-like ray
O'er the dark tale of Ugolino's woes.

305

XII. ON TWO OF MR. HOFLAND'S LANDSCAPES.

A mighty power is in that roaring main
Broken into huge and foamy waves, which knock
Against yon mass of battlemented rock
Dark with storm-laden cloud, and wind-tost rain.
A lovely power is in that sunny plain
Where in their beauty the clear waters sleep,
Fringed in by tender grass, or idly creep
Where the close tufted banks their course restrain.
Oh Painter of the elements! to thee
Alike the gentle or tempestuous hour:
The throes and heavings of the wintery sea,
Whilst earth, and sky, and storm, and darkness, lour:
Or the sweet sunshine brooding peacefully
O'er wandering rivulet and summer bower.

306

XIII. ON HEARING MR. TALFOURD PLEAD IN THE ASSIZEHALL AT READING, ON HIS FIRST CIRCUIT,

March 1821.

Wherefore this stir? 'Tis but a common cause
Of Cottage plunder: yet in every eye
Sits expectation;—murmuring whispers fly
Along the crowded court;—and then a pause;—
And then a clear crisp voice invokes the laws,
With such a full and rapid mastery
Of sound and sense, such nice propriety,
Such pure and perfect taste, that scarce the applause
Can be to low triumphant words chained down
Or more triumphant smiles. Yes, this is he,
The young and eloquent spirit whose renown
Makes proud his birth-place! a high destiny
Is his; to climb to honour's palmy crown
By the strait path of truth and honesty.

307

XIV. THE FISHING-SEAT, WHITEKNIGHTS.

There is a sweet according harmony
In this fair scene: this quaintly fluted bower,
These sloping banks with tree and shrub and flower
Bedecked, and these pure waters, where the sky
In its deep blueness shines so peacefully;
Shines all unbroken, save with sudden light
When some proud swan majestically bright
Flashes her snowy beauty on the eye;
Shines all unbroken, save with sudden shade
When from the delicate birch a dewy tear
The west-wind brushes. Even the bee's blithe trade,
The lark's clear carols, sound too loudly here;
A spot it is for far-off music made,
Stillness and rest—a smaller Windermere.

308

XV. TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

This is the day sacred to love and mirth
And tender wishes; this the favoured day
(Sweet superstition!) when the artless lay
Is welcomed, and the token little worth,
And the fond vows, which live and have their birth
In the affectionate heart; a holiday
It is, for good and gentle, fair and gay,
My lovely Jane, it gave thee to the earth.
And thou hast trodden life's path with a wise glee,
Maid of the laughing eye! Were I the Queen
Of that so famous land of Faëry
Where quaintest spirits weave their spells unseen,
No better benison I'd pour on thee
Than to be happy still as thou hast been.

309

XVI. ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PICTURE.

Young world of peace and loveliness farewell!
Farewell to the clear lake; the mountains blue;
The grove, whose tufted paths our eyes pursue
Delighted; the white cottage in the dell
By yon old church; the smoke from that small cell
Amid the hills slow rising; and the hue
Of summer air, fresh, delicate, and true,
Breathing of light and life, the master spell!
Work of the Poet's eye, the Painter's hand,
How close to nature art thou, yet how free
From earthly stain! the beautiful, the bland,
The rose, the nightingale resemble thee;—
Thou art most like the blissful Fairy-land
Of Spenser, or Mozart's fine melody.

310

XVII. WRITTEN IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Book of memorials fair! I cannot trace
On thy white page the quaintly pencilled bower;
I have no skill to bid the vivid flower
Bloom 'mid thy leaves; nor with the immortal grace
Of proud Apollo, or the goddess face
Of Hebe deck them. 'Las! my ruder power
Can but bear record faint of many an hour
Passed thou mute witness in thy dwelling-place.
Oh happiest hours, that ever me befall,
Rich in commingling mind, in fancy's play!
Oh happiest hours, whether in music's thrall,
Or converse sweet as music pass the day!
Oh happiest hours! and most beloved of all
The cherished friend that speeds them on their way!

311

XVIII. ON VISITING DONNINGTON CASTLE,

SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE LATEST RESIDENCE OF CHAUCER, AND CELEBRATED FOR ITS RESISTANCE TO THE ARMY OF THE PARLIAMENT DURING THE CIVIL WARS.

Oh, for some gentle spirit to surround
With clinging ivy thy high-seated towers,
Fair Donnington, and wipe from Chaucer's bowers
The last rude touch of war! All sight, all sound
Of the old strife boon nature from the ground
Hath banished. Here the trench no longer lours,
But, like a bosky dell, begirt with flowers
And garlanded with May, sinks dimpling round

312

A very spot for youthful lover's dreams
In the prime hour. Grisildis' mournful lay,
The “half-told tale ” would sound still sweeter here.
Oh for some hand to hide with ivy spray
War's ravages, and chase the jarring themes
Of King and State, Roundhead and Cavalier!

“Or call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold.”

Milton of Chaucer.—Il Penseroso.

313

XIX. WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT FROM SOME FRIENDS.

I could have lengthened out one fleeting hour
Into an age; sitting at set of sun
Under the long, low, open shed where won
The mellow evening light through leaf and flower;
Playing the hostess in that summer bower
To such dear guests, whilst rose the antique song
By those young sister voices poured along
So wild, so pure, so clear, full of sweet power
Ringing and vibrating. It was a lay
That sent a smile into the very heart;
As when the early lark shoots up in May
With his blithe matins, rarer than all art
Save this. Oh happiest and most fleeting day,
Why art thou gone so soon! Why must we part!

314

XX. ON AN INTENDED REMOVAL FROM A FAVOURITE RESIDENCE.

November, 1820.

Adieu, beloved and lovely home! Adieu,
Thou pleasant mansion, and ye waters bright,
Ye lawns, ye aged elms, ye shrubberies light
(My own cotemporary trees, that grew
Even with my growth;) ye flowers of orient hue,
A long farewell to all! Ere fair to sight
In summer-shine ye bloom with beauty dight,
Your halls we leave for scenes untried and new.
Oh shades endeared by memory's magic power
With strange reluctance from your paths I roam!
But home lives not in lawn, or tree, or flower,
Nor dwells tenacious in one only dome.
Where smiling friends adorn the social hour,
Where they, the dearest are, there will be home.

315

XXI. ON THE DEPARTURE OF A FRIEND TO LISBON FOR THE RECOVERY OF HER HEALTH.

Nov. 1813.

Thou freshest spirit, that on Lisbon's shore
Didst shake health-breathing airs so cheerily
From thy soft wing, as oft the murmuring bee
Scatters the full-blown rose,—the cannon's roar
Scared thee, mild spirit! and the flood of gore,
Tinging the bosom of thy heaving sea,
Defiled thy snowy feet, and thou didst flee
From ills thou could'st not cure and must deplore.
War's demons are gone by. Thy lovely strand
Is purified. Oh spirit thither bend
Thine airy flight, and wave thy healing wand
O'er yon fair form where grace and virtue blend!
Then proudly waft her to her native land—
Her, loved and blest, the mother, wife and friend.

316

XXII. WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1825.

Within my little garden is a flower,
A tuft of flowers, most like a sheaf of corn,
The lilac blossomed daisy that is born
At Michaelmas, wrought by the gentle power
Of this sweet Autumn into one bright shower
Of bloomy beauty; Spring hath nought more fair,
Four sister butterflies inhabit there,
Gay gentle creatures! Round that odorous bower
They weave their dance of joy the livelong day,
Seeming to bless the sunshine; and at night
Fold their enamelled wings as if to pray.
Home-loving pretty ones! would that I might
For richer gifts as cheerful tribute pay,
So meet the rising dawn, so hail the parting ray!

SONGS.

317

I. [Evening's richest colours glowing]

Evening's richest colours glowing
Skirt the golden West;
Snowy clouds, like vapours flowing,
Crown its beamy crest.
I've nothing seen so rosy red,
Nor aught so brightly pure,
Since Laura's cheek with blushes spread,
And Laura's brow demure.

O'er its pebbly channel creeping
Flows the murmuring tide;
Through the gloomy pine-grove sweeping
Twilight breezes glide.
I've heard no sound so softly clear,
Nor breathed such balmy air,
Since the sweet voice of Laura dear,
The sigh of Laura fair.

318

II. [Sweet is the balmy evening hour]

Sweet is the balmy evening hour;
And mild the glow-worm's light,
And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower,
With pearly dew-drops bright.
I love to loiter by the rill
And catch each trembling ray;—
Fair as they are, they mind me still
Of fairer things than they.

What is the breath of closing flowers
But feeling's gentlest sigh?
What are the dew-drop's crystal showers
But tears from pity's eye?
What are the glow-worms by the rill
But fancy's flashes gay?
I love them, for they mind me still
Of one more fair than they.

321

III. ['Tis a gay summer morn, and the sunbeams dance]

'Tis a gay summer morn, and the sunbeams dance
On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance,
Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws
O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose.
And in that rosy bower a lady so bright
Sits telling her beads for her own absent knight,
Whilst her little son plays round the fond mother's knee
And the wandering stock-dove is scared by his glee.

'Tis a calm summer eve, and the moonbeams dance
On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance,
Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws
O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose.
But the pitiless spoiler is master there,
For gone is the lady, and gone the young heir;
The good knight hath perished beyond the salt sea,
And they, like the stock-dove, poor wanderers be.

322

IV. [The lily bells are wet with dew]

The lily bells are wet with dew,
The morning sunbeams kiss the rose,
And rich of scent and bright of hue
The summer garden glows.
Then up, and weave a garland, sweet,
To braid thy raven hair,
Before the noontide's withering heat
Strike on those flowerets fair.

A flickering cloud is in the sky,
A murmuring whisper in the gale;
They tell that stormy rain is nigh,
Or desolating hail.
Then up, and weave a garland, sweet,
To deck thy glossy hair,
Nor wait till evening tempests beat
Upon those flowerets fair.

323

V. [With hound and horn and huntsman's call]

With hound and horn and huntsman's call
They chase the fallow deer;—
And thou, the noblest of them all,
Why dost thou loiter here?

Thou canst not deem within her bower
Thine own true love to see;—
Dost thou not know at matin hour
I ne'er can come to thee?

My sister's voice is on the stair,
All in her maiden glee;
My mother's flitting every where,
And calling still on me.

324

My father's by the southern wall,
Pruning the old vine tree;
My brothers playing in the hall;—
And all are wanting me.

Then off, and mount thy gallant steed
To hunt the fallow deer;
Off, off, and join the chase with speed,
Nor loiter longer here.

At eventide my mother sits,
Her knitting on her knee,
And wakes by starts, and dreams by fits;—
But never dreams of me.

At eventide my sister fair
Steals to the great oak tree;
I may not tell who meets her there,—
But nought want they of me.

325

At eventide, beside the bowl,
With some old comrade free,
My father many a song doth troll
But never thinks on me.

Off, then, with hound, and echoing horn
To chase the fallow deer;—
Nor deem again at peep of morn
To meet thy true-love here.

327

ANTIGONE.

A PORTRAIT IN VERSE.

[_]

From the Œdipus Tyrannus, the Œdipus Coloneus, and the Antigone of Sophocles.

329

'Twas noon; beneath the ardent ray
Proud Thebes in all her glory lay;
On pillar'd porch, on marble wall,
On temple, portico, and hall,
The summer sunbeams gaily fall,
Bathing, as in a flood of light,
Each sculptured frieze and column bright.
Dirce's pure stream meanders there,
A silver mirror clear and fair;
Now giving back the deep-blue sky,
And now the city proud and high,
And now the sacred grove;

330

And sometimes on its wave a shade,
Making the light more lovely, play'd,
When some close-brooding dove
Flew from her nest, on rapid wing,
For needful food across the spring,
Or sought her home of love.
The very air in that calm hour,
Seem'd trembling with the conscious power
Of its own balminess;
The herbage, if by light foot press'd,
Sent up sweet odours from its breast;—
Sure, if coy happiness
E'er dwelt on earth, 'twas in that clime
Of beauty, in that noon-day prime
Of thrilling pleasantness!

But who are they before the gate
Of Thebes convened in silent state?
Sad grey-haired men, with looks bow'd down,
Slaves to a tyrant's haughty frown;

331

And he the wicked king, and she
The royal maid Antigone,
Passing to death. Awhile she laid
Her clasp'd hands on her heart, and stay'd
Her firmer step, as if to look
On the fair world which she forsook;
And then the sunbeams on her face
Fell, as on sculptured Nymph or Grace,
Lighting her features with a glow
That seemed to mock their patient woe.

She stay'd her onward step, and stood
A moment's space;—oh, what a flood
Of recollected anguish stole
In that brief moment o'er her soul!
The concentrated grief of years,
The mystery, horror, guilt, and tears,
The story of her life past by,
E'en in the heaving of a sigh!

332

She thought upon the blissful hour
Of infancy, when, as a flower
Set in the sun, she grew,
Without a fear, without a care,
Enjoying, innocent and fair,
As buoyant as the mountain air,
As pure as morning dew;
'Till burst at once like lightning's flame,
The tale we tremble but to name,
Of them from whom her being came,
Poor Œdipus, and one,
The wretched yet unconscious dame,
Who wedded with her son!
Then horror fast on horror rose:
She maddening died beneath her woes,
Whilst crownless, sightless, hopeless, he
Dared to outlive that agony.
Through many a trackless path and wild
The blind man and his duteous child

333

Wandered, till pitying Theseus gave
The shelter brief, the mystic grave.
One weary heart finds rest at last:
But, when to Thebes the maiden pass'd,
The god's stern wrath was there:—
Her brothers each by other slain,
And one upon the bloody plain
Left festering in the sun and rain,
Tainting the very air:
For none, the haughty Creon said,
On pain of death should yield the dead
Burial, or tear, or sigh;
And, for alone she feebly strove
To pay the decent rites of love,
The pious maid must die.
She paus'd—and in that moment rose
As in a mirror all her woes;
She spake,—the flush across her cheek
Told of the woe she would not speak,

334

As a brief thought of Hæmon stole
With bitter love across her soul.
“I die,—and what is death to me
But freedom from long misery?
Joyful to fall before my time,
I die; and, tyrant, hear my crime:
I did but strive his limbs to shield
From the gaunt prowlers of the field;
I did but weave, as nature weaves,
A shroud of grass and moss and leaves;
I did but scatter dust to dust,

335

As the desert wind on marble bust;
I did but as the patient wren
And the kind redbreast do for men.
I die—and what is death to me?
But tremble in thy tyranny,
Tyrant! and ye, base slaves of power,
Tremble at freedom's coming hour!
I die—and death is bliss to me!”
Then, with a step erect and free,
With brow upraised and even breath,
The royal virgin passed to death.

Antigone was beloved by Hæmon the son of the tyrant Creon, who, after the death of his mistress, killed himself for grief. In the fine play of Sophocles, Antigone only once alludes to her unhappy lover:

“Oh my dearest Hæmon!
And is it thus thy father doth disgrace thee?”

In the original her complaint consists but of one line, which, as the translator, Dr. Francklin, observes, “a modern writer would have spun out to many a page.”

337

INDEPENDENCE.

[_]

These stanzas were occasioned by reading the following paragraph in an old magazine. “There now resides in Cawsand a man who has not slept in a bed for thirty years. He was a sailor in his youth and unfortunate. He always refused an asylum in the workhouse, subsisting on the miserable pittance of two-pence or three-pence a day, earned by carrying pitchers of water, and indignantly preferring this to living by the bounty of others. In the coldest night of winter he would sleep under a boat on the beach of Cawsand; at other times he took refuge in the cliffs of the rocks, and couched himself with the raven and the otter.” I have endeavoured to give more animation to this little poem, by putting the sentiments into the mouth of the hero of the tale; the anecdote itself seems to me a fine instance of English spirit.

339

“Talk not to me of food or bed
Or the warm winter coat:—
Whence comes the meat with which you're fed?
What does that dress denote?

“What is that room from storms aloof
In which so snug you lie?
What are they all, coat, bed and roof?
Badges of slavery.

“Must you not cringe and beg and fawn,
Slave even to the clocks,
Your matin call the bolts undrawn,
Your vesper creaking locks?

340

“Must you not in that house miscalled
Of miserable sloth,—
Your mind and body both enthralled,
Degraded, sunken both;—

“Must you not bear the bitter taunt
Of oft imputed blame?
Your only crimes old age and want!
Disease your only shame!

“Must you not crouching ask the boon
Avarice is forced to give;
And hear them calculate how soon
You'll die, how long can live?

“And must you not—Oh direst woe!—
Seem grateful, bow and smile,
Thank them from whom those blessings flow,
Soothe, flatter, and beguile?

341

“And would you have me such as you?
Me, from whose honest tongue
No sentence consciously untrue
From youth to age has sprung!

“And would you court me to your home
In joyless prison pent?
Me, when all kingdoms I can roam,
And find in all content!

“What though I draw for scanty gain
Fresh water from the spring;—
Did she, of Isaac loved, disdain
An equal load to bring?

“What though my clothes in squalid rags
Hang fluttering to my knee;—
They breathe, like sea-weed on the crags,
The air of liberty.

342

“Free as that buoyant breeze I rove,
All nature's joys my own,
See earth and sky, the clouds above,
The rocks in masses thrown.

“At summer's eve those rocks among
I with the otter lie;
The sea-mew's cry my evening song,
The wave my lullaby.

“The moonbeams falling on my form,
The spray that dews my hair,
The breathing of the summer storm,
All, all to me are fair.

“And when in wintry nights I creep
Beneath the sheltering boat,
And feel my ice-bound fingers sleep,
And doff my frozen coat,

343

“What though I lack reviving food,
Though bare my aged form,
'Till life be o'er the freeman's blood
Shall keep his bosom warm.

“But frozen, stagnate, would it chill
In thy stern prison pent.
Away! I'll keep my treasures still,
Peace, freedom, and content.”

345

WATLINGTON HILL:

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

346

[_]

The two following poems, slight and imperfect as they are, require, perhaps even more than the rest of this little volume, the kind indulgence of the reader. They were written many years ago, and are inserted chiefly from a wish to preserve some sketch, however rude, of very beautiful scenery, and some memorial, however inadequate, of very dear and valuable friends.

347

I.

'Tis pleasant to dance in lordly hall
When the merry harp is ringing;
'Tis sweet in the bower at evening's fall
To list to the night-bird's singing;
'Tis lovely to view the autumnal hue
As it gilds the woodland mountain;
Or when summer glows to pluck the rose
And quaff from the sparkling fountain.
But fatigue in pleasure's guise is clad;
And the song so sweet makes the light heart sad;
And autumn tells of joys that fly;
And summer's charms in languor die:

348

If ye would have all hope can bring,
Take the first morn of early spring!
If ye would warm your life-blood chill,
Go course on Watlington's fair hill!

II.

The mountain gale the vapour flings
Aloft upon his giant wings:
And now the sun in high career,
Wakens a thousand dew-drops clear,
That in their downy moss-couch sleep,
Or from the trembling grass-top weep.
O lovelier than the brightest gem
That shines in princely diadem,
How transient is thy sway;
Sportsmen and steeds, and hounds and hare,
Hunters and hunted from thy lair
Shall drive thee, diamond of the air,
And sweep thy charms away.

349

And yet, in sooth, upon the hill
Thy glittering place they better fill:
Upon the shelving mossy side,
And on the furze-clad steep,
The impatient horsemen gaily ride,
The gallant dogs reluctant bide,
And ladies fair, though storms betide,
Their anxious station keep.

III.

Greyhounds are there of noble name
Coursers who equal praise may claim,
And many a bright and gentle dame.
Oh could my rustic string
Their beauty and their feats proclaim.
And give and steal the minstrel's fame
Of all, of each my harp should ring!
But light as he the strain should spring
That sings the greyhound rare;

350

And soft as beauty's plumy wing
The lay that paints the fair;
Whilst harsh and rude the notes I fling,—
Coursing nor beauty dare I sing,
The greyhound nor the hare.
Yet well each gentle maid may spy
Her triumphs in her lover's eye;
And ye, kind sportsmen, well may claim
For gallant dogs scarce-rivalled fame.
And durst I sing, in venturous guise,
Of ricks and turns, and falls and byes,
And all the courser's mysteries,
Then should the swan-necked Nancy show
As spotless as her fur of snow;
Then should the Sharks successive reign
And all their master's fame sustain;
Nor Windsor shame his breeding high:
Nor thou thy name, Northumbrian Fly;
Nor thou Prince Hal, thy name-sake old
“The nimble-footed madcap” bold;

351

Nor thou the meed thy mother won,
My golden crested Marmion .

IV.

Leave we them all: to stand awhile
Upon the tompost brow,
And mark how, many a lengthening mile,
The landscape spreads below.
Here let us stand! The breezes chill
A healthful freshness breathe,
The blood with stirring quickness fill,
And fancy's garlands aid to wreathe.
How pure, how transient is the storm!
See in yon furze poor puss's form
A vacant cradle seems,
Rocked by the loud wind to and fro;
Whilst the coy primrose blooms below
Nursed by the southern beams;

352

And overhead in richer gold
The gorse's hardy flowers unfold
Training wild wreaths most sweet, most fair,
To hang above her mountain lair.

V.

Methinks I too should love to dwell
Within this lone and cloud-capped cell:
With all around of vast and rude,—
A wild romantic solitude;
With all below to charm the eye;
With nought above me but the sky.
Here would I watch each sailing cloud
Scudding along in grandeur proud;
And mark the varying shadows cast
On down or fallow as it past;
Or view the sudden catching light
Now part the shades and now unite;
Till noon's refulgent brightness spread
Its glories o'er the mountain's head:

353

Then would I bend from my high place
To gaze upon the horizon's space,
A tract sublime of various grace.

VI.

Yet first the charmed eye would greet
The lowland home-scenes vallies sweet,
Of wood and turf and field;
Where the snug cot, the lordly seat
Like grandeur and contentment meet
And mutual beauty yield.
And first would trace the winding road
Which through the beech-wood leads
By red-cloaked maids and ploughmen trod,
Rich wains and prancing steeds.
And first admire those beechen trees,
Whose upper branches in the breeze
All bare and polished seem to freeze;
Whilst, feathered like an archer's barb,
Each lower bough in saffron garb,

354

Catches the rain-drops as they fall
And answers to the night-wind's call.
Among those woods one chimney white
Just glances in the southern light,
Deep bosomed in the impervious glades
The fairy bower of Brittwell's shades .
Is it the woodman's fair retreat
Where merry children sport?
Or the rough keeper's jovial seat,
Where hounds and huntsman frequent meet,
And hold their sylvan court?
Is it the laugh of infants gay,
Shaking the forest with their play,
That wakes the echoes round?
Or trampling steeds at break of day,
The noisy pack, the clarion's lay?
What wakes thy voice, coy echo, say?
It is a holier sound.

355

VII.

There, from their native country driven,
The nuns' sweet vespers rise to heaven.
Exiles of France! in early life
They fled the world's tumultuous strife,
To find within a convent's breast
The present calm, the future blest.
They sought for peace, and peace they found,
Till impious Havock glaring round
Of earth, of heaven the ties unbound,
And said, maids ye are free!
But freedom's prostituted sound
To them was misery.
Chased from their voluntary prison,
They seemed as from some earthquake risen,
Where all they loved, where all they knew
Had vanished from their tear-dimmed view.
Nor place to sit them down and pray,
Nor friends, nor home, nor grave had they.

356

Sickening at war's tumultuous din
They fled that clime of woe and sin;
And here they dwell, the pious band,
Honoured and safe in Albion's land;
And though perchance a casual tear
Fall for the convent once so dear,
Yet sweet contentment's patient smile
Shall grace each placid cheek the while;
Here, where they keep their holy vow,
Here is their native country now:
For here, though all unknown the tongue,
The tenderest sound of welcome rung;
Here pity beams in every eye;
Here blest they live—more blest shall die.

VIII.

From pious Brittwell pass we now
At freedom's honoured shrine to bow

357

On Chalgrove's neighbouring field ;
An undistinguished speck it seems
Where scarce the sun's refulgent beams
One spark of light can vield;
A common spot of earth, where grows
In summer time the yellow corn;
Where now his grain the seedsman throws
With careful hand from early morn;
Yet pauses midst his toil to tell
That in that field bold Hampden fell.
Hampden! thy name from age to age
The patriot heart shall fire;
The good, the fair, the brave, the sage
All weep thy funeral pyre.
Thy very enemy confest
The virtues of thy noble breast ;
Hard as it is amid the jar
Of falling thrones, of civil war

358

To judge of man's inconstant state,
Even he confessed thee good and great.
How was the Stuart fallen, when thou
Didst brave his power with dauntless brow!
How raised when Falkland by him stood
As great as thou, as wise, as good!
Oh who, by equal fame misled,
Who shall the righteous cause decide,
When for his king Lord Falkland bled,
When Hampden for his country died!

IX.

How boldly yonder cloud so bright
Throws out that clump of trees;
Scarce, till it crost the ethereal light,
Like the wren's plume on snow-ridge white,
The keenest eye that wood could seize.
'Tis distant Farringdon I deem;
And far below Thames' silver stream

359

Thrids through the fair romantic bridge
Of Wallingford's old town;
And high above the Whittenham ridge
Seems the gay scene to crown.
But what is that, which to the right,
Upon the horizon's utmost verge,
A fairy picture glitters bright,
Like sea-foam on the crested surge?
Is it the varying fleecy cloud
That takes in sport the figure proud,
Where domes and turrets seem to rise,
And spiry steeples mock our eyes?
No; real is that lovely scene,
'Tis England's boast, 'tis learning's Queen,
'Tis Oxford. Not the unlettered maid
May dare approach her hallowed shade;
Nor chant a requiem to each name
That wakened there to deathless fame;
Nor bid the Muse's blessing rest
For ever in her honoured breast.

360

X.

Oh, when I dared the Muse to name
Did it not wake my spirit's flame?
Did it not guide my eye, my soul
To yonder distant shadowy knoll?
And whisper in each joyous thrill
'Tis Milton's home, 'tis Forest Hill ?
Yes, there he lived, and there he sung,
When life and hope and love were young;
There, grace and genius at his side,
He won his half-disdainful bride;
And there the lark “in spite of sorrow,”
Still at his “window bade good morrow
“Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine.”

361

Oh happy hill! thy summer vest
Lives in his richest colouring drest;
Oh happy hill! thou saw'st him blest.
Thou saw'st him blest, the greatest man
That ever trod life's grovelling span—
Shakspeare alone with him could try,
Undazzled and untired the sky.
And thou didst view his blooming charm,
That eagle plumed like the dove,
Whose very sleeping grace could warm
The Italian maiden's heart to love. .
Thou saw'st him in his happier hour,
When life was love, and genius power;

362

When at his touch the awakened string
All joyous hailed the laughing spring;
And, like the sun, his radiant eyes
Glanced on thy earthly Paradise.
Thou didst not see those eyes so bright
For ever quenched in cheerless night;
Thou didst not hear his anguished lays
Of “evil tongues and evil days;”
Thou saw'st but his gay youth, fair spot—
Happiest for what thou sawest not.
And happy still! Though in thy sod
No blade remain by Milton trod;
Though the sweet gale that sweeps thy plain
No touch of Milton's breath retain;
Yet here the bards of later days
Shall roam to view thee and to praise.
Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame,
A lone romantic votary came;
He too is gone, untimely gone!
But lured by him full many a one

363

Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage;
And minstrel, patriot, or sage,
Who bent not o'er his Indian bier,
Shall mourn him with his Milton here:
For till our English tongue be dead,
From freedom's breast till life be fled,
Till Poesy's quick pulse be still
None shall forsake thee, Forest Hill.

XI.

Few are the scenes of power to chain
The rapt enthusiast's mind,
Like that where Milton's wondrous strain
Still seems to linger o'er the plain
Or whisper in the wind.
Not pent within the crowded town,
Where meanness sweeps away renown;
But fresh, and innocent, and fair,
As if the mighty master there
Still flung his witch-notes on the air.

364

Yet taste and fancy's visions gay
Life's deeper feelings shun,
And fade at friendship's light away,
Like stars before the sun.
The spirits of the honour'd dead
Before one living form have fled:
For here beneath fair Sherburn's shade
My Zosia dwelt, my Polish maid,
My friend most tender and most true,
My friend ere friendship's name we knew;
The partner of those blissful hours
When the world seemed one bank of flowers,
Life but a summer's cloudless morn,
And love a rose without a thorn.
Fleeting as that illusive day,
Was friendship's joy, was Zosia's stay;

365

For when o'er her majestic form
Youth shed his mantling roses warm,
When beauty saw her work matured,
And grandeur awed whom grace allured,
The imperious mandate harshly bore
The finished charmer from our shore;
Bore her from friendship, bliss, and love,
Envy, neglect, contempt to prove
From hearts, who frozen as their clime,
Would antedate the work of time,
And nip her beauties in their prime.
Oh, ever-loved, return again!
Return! and soon the blooming train
Of childish friends shall meet to share
Thy soft caress, my Polish fair!
Again shall view thy sparkling eye
And Empress-form admiringly;
Each emulously crowding round;
Each listening for one silver sound;

366

And thou to all, with Queen-like smile,
Wilt sweet attention shew the while,
Of kindness full and courtesy;
Though one alone,—Oh happiest she!—
Scarce from thy tongue shall greeting hear,
Or find thy love, but in thy tear.
The dews of heaven fall not so sweet
As friendship's tears with joy replete;
Haste on my breast such dews to rain,
My ever-loved, return again!

XII.

The pause hath checked my spirit glad,—
Deep doubting hope is ever sad;
But sadder thoughts now intervene
To cloud that sweet and tranquil scene.
Direr than absence is the foe
Who waits to give the fatal blow;

367

Weeping within that mansion fair
Sits filial love, Death hovers there.
He comes not now to lead the bloom
Of youth to an undreaded tomb;
He comes not now to tame the pride
Of matron health confirmed and tried;
Not towering man provokes his rage;
'Tis woman, feebleness, and age.
And yet nor beauty early cropped,
Nor manhood's strength untimely dropped,
Could waken more regretful sighs
Or more with sorrow blend surprise.
For she, his noble prey, had stood
Like an old oak in Sherburn wood.
In deepest verdure richly decked
Whose ample branches waved unchecked;
And though dead boughs commingling grew,
Abrupt and bare, of darker hue;
Though weeds minute and yellow moss
With varied tints the bark emboss;—

368

Yet lovely was its pleasant shade;
Lovely the trunk with moss inlaid;
Lovely the long-haired lichens grey;
Lovely its pride and its decay.
Such Macclesfield thou wast! Old Time
Himself had spared thy beamy prime
Uninjured, as on Greece's strand
He views the works of Phidias' hand,
And bids the sun, the dews, the air
Perfection's noblest image spare.
So time had passed o'er thee, bright dame;
All changed, but thou wast still the same,
Still skilled to give the fading flower
More brilliant life by painting's power;
Still skilled the nimble steel to ply
With quick inventive industry;
Still skilled to frame the moral rhyme,
Or point with Gospel truths the lay sublime.
And rarer yet, 'mid age's frost
The fire of youth thou had'st not lost;

369

Still at another's bliss could'st glow;
Still melt to hear another's woe;
Still give the poor man's cares relief;
Still bend to soothe the mourner's grief.
Though near a century's course had sped
And bleached thy venerable head,
By age's vice and woe untold
Thy years remained—thou wast not old!
And so to live, and so to die,
Is endless rare felicity.
But there is one , whose ready tear
Bedews thy pale cheek on thy bier;
One shrinking from the admiring gaze,
Whom I may love but dare not praise.
Oh friend of Zosia! friend of all
Whom misery, pain, and want enthral!
Be comforted. Though ne'er again
Thy mother's hand thy hand shall strain,

370

Though never shall she feel thy cares,
Congenial joys her spirit shares,—
Congenial, yet superior, given
By sister Angels in her native Heaven.
Oh who would weep the loved-one dead
When death is bliss! Be comforted.

XIII.

Why thus in fond though vain relief
With weeping praise perpetuate grief?
Why, on the dead, the absent Muse,
And joy from present friends refuse?
Why dwell on yonder mournful dome,
And shun those friends' delightful home?
'Twere hard to sing thy varying charm,
Thou Cottage, Mansion, Village, Farm ,

371

Thou beautiful epitome
Of all that useful is and rare,
Where Comfort sits with smiling air,
And laughing Hospitality.
'Twere hard to sing,—and harder still
The dearer charms those halls that fill.
'Twere hard to sing,—the sun is low,
Quick to the lovely Farm we go,
Its strongest spells to find;
And clustered round the blazing fire,
When Beauty, Music, Wit inspire,
Oh they that learn not to admire
Dull must they be, and deaf, and blind!

Celebrated greyhounds belonging to different gentlemen who formed the party.

Brittwell Nunnery. The retreat of several aged nuns, who were driven from France by the Revolution.

The spot where Hampden fell.

See the character of Hampden in Lord Clarendon's History.

The village from which Milton married his first wife, Miss Mary Powel, and the supposed scene of L'Allegro. For a very interesting account of this interesting spot the reader is referred to a letter from Sir William Jones to Lady Spencer, contained in Lord Teignmouth's edition of Sir William Jones's Works.

In Mr. Todd's Life of Milton there is a wild romantic story of an Italian lady of high birth, who in travelling through England saw Milton, then very young, asleep upon a bank. Enamoured of his beauty, she wrote some verses expressive of her admiration, laid them on his hand, and left him still sleeping. This incident is said to have occasioned his travels in Italy, where he hoped to meet his unknown fair one; and to have been the first cause of his assiduous cultivation of Italian literature, afterwards so dear to him for its own sake.

Sherburn Lodge, the seat of the late Countess Dowager of Macclesfield, under whose care Zosia Choynowska, the early and beloved friend of the author was placed for education.

The Right Honourable Lady Mary Parker; now, alas! also dead.

Watlington Farm, the residence of the late William Hayward, Esq. It is saddening to reflect that of the circle of friends for whose amusement this little poem was originally written, scarcely one now remains alive.

373

WESTON GROVE.

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

375

I.

Who hath not met in meadows gay
Th' illusive touch of morn,
The freshness of the dewy spray,
The matin lark's melodious lay,
The brightness of the herald ray,
Which tells that day is born?
Who hath not sought the mellow glow
The topaz-tinted beam
Whose lambent glories seem to grow
Lapping the woods above, below,
In evening's golden stream?

376

Who hath not marked the river pale
Just gleaming through night's misty veil?
Some scenes morn's chastened beams require;
And some rich evening's tints of fire;
And some the silvery moon:
The fairest still, like ladies bright,
Look loveliest in the clearest light!—
Ye who would gaze from Weston's height
Go seek its shade at noon.

II.

'Tis now the very hour to see
That scene of wide-spread witchery:
For now on Weston's verdant side
Meridian radiance straying,
Seems through the colonnade to glide,
Or 'mid the tufted arbours slide
Like ringlets on the snowy pride
Of beauty's bosom playing.

377

Whilst o'er the pure and deep blue sky
The fleecy clouds like smoke-wreaths fly,
Borne lightly on the sweetest gale
That ever filled the swelling sail.
Bright as the sun that landscape proud
Extends; and various as the cloud.
I might as soon describe a dream
As tell where falls each golden beam;
As soon might reckon up the sand,
Sweet Weston, on thy sea-beat strand,
As count each beauty there;
Hills which-the purple heath-bell shield,
Forest and village, lawn and field,
Ocean and earth, with all they yield
Of glorious or of fair.

III.

Yet e'en amid that brilliant scene
Close to the left one wood so green

378

Fixes the wandering eye:
Fringing the margin of the waves,
Southampton's tide its verdure laves,
Whilst one small fort the fury braves
Of wind, and sea, and sky.
Even to behold that solemn shade,
“For melancholy musing made,”
The pensive heart would inly say
There the world-weary wretch may stray,
There best in Nature's-temple pray.
And there in Netley's mouldering cells
The solitary nightbird dwells;
There in each moss-grown stone we trace
The pious tenants of the place;
There in each lingering footstep tread
Upon the unmonumented dead.
Yes, image of Rome's fallen power,
This, this is Netley's hallowed bower!
And it is holy still. Each wall
And silent aisle and roofless hall,

379

The chapel, where luxuriant trees
Wave proudly in the sighing breeze,
Each gothic arch and fretted nich,
And venerable window rich,
Where deftly ivy wreaths supply
The light and graceful tracery,
Each stone decayed, and tottering stair,
Each mark of ruined grandeur there
All to the charmed heart whisper prayer.
Methinks that e'en from Netley's gloom
To look upon the tide
Seems gazing from the shadowy tomb
On life in all its pride.
And aching with the o'erpowering light
The mind shrinks dazzled from the sight.

IV.

Yet soon the buoyant spirit springs
On hope and joy's exulting wings

380

That lovely wave to view;
Its shores with softest verdure green,
Seats, cots, and villages between,
And graceful boats and vessels sheen
Spotting its surface blue.
And now that brighter beauty gleams,
From the sweet air and sparkling beams,
How pleasant 'twere to tempt the breeze
And on these smooth undangerous seas
In mimic danger ride;
To hear the freshening summer gale,
Whistling and flapping in the sail,
And mock the feathery billows pale
Dash o'er the rocking side;
Whilst, gilding strand, and wood, and ground,
The glorious sunbeams dance around,
And turn to lovely mockery
The chiding of the angry sea.

381

V.

'Tis hard such cheerful scenes to leave:
But sweeter far it is at eve,
When the vexed billows cease to heave,
When sleeps th' untroubled air,
Upon the glassy wave to glide,
Scarce conscious of the gentle tide,
That ripples still the boat beside,
So silent and so fair:
So silent, that the light oar seems
To break on evening's fairy dreams;
So fair, that e'en where brightest streams
The moon's long radiance o'er the flood,
Where Calshot spreads its nightly beams
Or cottage fires peep through the wood,
Though lovely every starlike ray
They match not that small pearly spray.
Oh, 'tis in such a moonlight hour
That Music best asserts her power!

382

Then if the mellow flute prolong
Some wandering note, some artless song,
Renewed and broken like the strains
When the lorn nightingale complains;
Or woman's voice such sweetness pour
As soothes the Adriatic shore,
What time the rapt Venetian woos
The magic of his Tasso's muse;
Then more than passion's strong controul
It lulls, it charms, it lifts the soul;
It strikes the chords with feeling fraught;
It stirs the living spring of thought;
And to the syren fancy flings
Dreams of unutterable things,
Forms, which like summer lightning fly,
And tints, which like the rainbow die.

VI.

Oh gentlest wave! upon thy breast
Pleasure's light burthens love to rest,

383

Mixed only with the lazy raft,
Or the laborious fisher's craft.
Thee war defiles not, blessed wave!
No, though the very drops that lave
Thy peaceful shores have bathed the side
Of many a ship of war;
Though thou hast viewed our navy ride
In peerless triumph o'er the tide,
Thou saw'st unstained the ensanguined pride,
Thou heard'st the guns afar.
Spithead's long moving forest here
Just breaks the cloudy line,
As gleams the grass-top's slender spear
In horizontal sunset clear,
As taper and as fine.
And yonder ship in proud array
That by St. Helen's floats,
Yon Indiaman with pennons gay
Her barges and her boats;

384

She scarcely to the straining eye
Seems more of space to occupy
Than one small flake of gossamer
That flies ere one can say 'tis there!

VII.

That ship were beautiful to see
In all her gorgeous majesty:
Her streamers glittering in the sun,
Her topsails to the breezes bent,—
A Queen let loose her course to run,
And rein each stubborn element.
But many a cheek is pale with fears,
And many an eye is wet with tears
That gazes on her charms;—
The mother, to whose aching breast
The livelong night her boy was prest,
Now folds her childless arms
Condemned through long long years to trace
The anguish of that last embrace.

385

There the betrothed maiden caught
The fond, the parting vow,
Scarce had she owned one tender thought,
Scarce breathed a sigh till now;
Till now that on the crowded deck
She hung upon her lover's neck.
'Twas chiefly then the parting pain
That rent her heart, that pierced her brain;
But soon the fear so undefined
So terrible will fill her mind;
And then the very lightest breeze
That strips the sere autumnal trees;
The flickering rack; the sun-gilt cloud
Hung in midsky, a column proud;
The wave as calm as infant's breath;
All to her soul shall speak of death;—
A death unblest by mortal knell,
A fate which none returns to tell,
Like theirs who in the Blenheim fell.

386

VIII.

Such thoughts, though all uncalled they dart,
As shades in moonlight forests start,
Yet to the eye and to the heart
They dim the ocean's smile.
Where shall the saddened spirit rest?
Where, but upon thy verdant breast,
Moulded by Grace, by Nature drest,
Most loved most lovely Isle!
Fair Isle! thou lingerest on the eye
Like the sweet world of Faëry,
Which brightens in the Italian beam
When Reggio's towers reflected gleam .
For all along thy lengthening coast
From Ryde's romantic town,
To where, like threatening giants tost,
The beetling Needles frown;

387

Each lonely cot, or woody bay,
Or silver stream, or village gay,
Has caught the sweetly blended charm
Of distance soft, of sunshine warm;
A bloomy green of shadowy hue,
Like meadows pale with morning dew;
Outline so tender, so unfelt
It seems in sea and sky to melt;
Colours, which language cannot teach,
Graces, which art despairs to reach.

IX.

Short distance seems to intervene
'Twixt that enchanted land,
And the long variegated scene,
Where, forming tiny harbours green
Mid mimic promontories seen,
New Forest stretches to the strand.

388

I marvel not the waters blue
Are dappled with reflected hue
Of mansion spire and cot;
I marvel not that through the trees
The light smoke curling on the breeze
In glens which scarce the eye can seize,
Points many a peopled spot;
I marvel not that all invade,
For all, Ytene, love thy shade.
The sportsman, though he little reck
Of scenery grand or rude,
Will oft his mettled courser check
To view thy solitude;
Then dart across thy velvet lawn
As jocund as the bounding fawn.
The lover, joyless though he be,
Even he delights thy paths to see;
And there, while fern and holly meet
Encompassing his green retreat,

389

Close by a rill where gray with moss
An aged aspen falls across,
He lies, and listens to the sound
Of leaves and streamlets murmuring round,
Till half he deems the water clear
Reflects the form he holds so dear.
The maid—no love sick maiden she!
Blythe as the warbling bird and free,
Joys with May-blossoms from the tree
To deck her lonely bower;
Or seek 'mid brake and bramble bred,
Just peeping from its mossy bed,
The anemone's fair flower.
The minstrel—Oh each leafy spray
Is vocal with the minstrel's lay!
His is the exquisite delight
To ramble here at noon of night,
And by the glow-worm's trembling light
Hold converse with the Fay.

390

X.

All love Ytene's pleasant shades;
Yet rapidly the forest fades,
As, circling still from left to right,
Southampton bursts upon the sight.
How proudly on that lovely town
This lovelier villa glances down,
And stoops to art from nature's crown!
Castle and street, and quay and boat,
Blent in one busy picture float,
Gay, laughing, brilliant, debonair,
As if nor woe nor want nor care,
Nor aught but bliss could harbour there;
Though still the walls of antique mould
Tell the proud tale of days of old:
They saw him burst from youthful sport,
They echoed to his mailed tread,
Who England's noblest battle led,
And won a realm at Agincourt.

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XI.

Is there a better, brighter fame,
Than waits on British Harry's name?
Embalmed in history's stately page
The hero of the heroic age;
By Shakspeare's tricksy fancy drest
Lord of the sword and of the jest;
The deftest knight at joust or dance,
The conqueror of conquering France!
Though centuries have rolled away
His fame is fresh as yesterday.
But why should truant fancy sing
Through the bright noontide hours,
Of glittering town and warlike king,
When she might wake the trembling string
To Weston's peaceful bowers?
Yet, lovely Weston, need I tell
That art's assembled beauties dwell
Beneath thy classic dome?

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The unmouldering pride of Greece's land,
The glories of the Ausonian strand,
The rival gems of Britain's hand,
All here have found a home
With woman's taste, and man's fine sense,
And shy retiring eloquence.
Oh why from Fame doth Genius fly
And shun the world's admiring eye?
'Tis ever so. He towers still
An eagle on his aërie hill;
Or, like the golden beetle, glows
Close nestled in his mansion rose.
Whilst we, the ungifted many, stray,
Like chattering jays, from spray to spray;
Or like the gnats in evening sky,
Wind the small horn of Poesy.—

The beautiful seat of William Chamberlayne, Esq. M.P. on the Southampton Water.

It can scarcely be necessary to mention that I allude to the supposed operations of the Fata Morgana in the Faro di Messina.

THE END.