University of Virginia Library

2. Part Second.

TO THOMAS LISTER.

THE CHAINED EAGLE.

Slow Time seems swift. Since Charles stood here with me
Three years have pass'd o'er Wharncliffe's wood and stream;
And Charles is busy still, where'er he be,
Willing to labour, if he may but dream.
Poor Pemberton! the forest speaks of thee;
The eagles? No; they dwell with other things;
But he who caged them here, though chain'd, is free,
And might do better for us, with his wings,
Than flap his mental bonds, to flatter kings.
When will he fly away, and be at rest?
Can he roll back the ocean to its springs?
Ye chain'd in soul! what must be, shall be best:
To Space and Time, their food Improvement brings;
“We dwell with God in both,” Obstruction's poet sings.

CASTLE HOWARD.

Palfreyman! hither, with toil-strengthen'd frame,
What time Napoleon warr'd on Russian snows,
I came, a wanderer's privilege to claim,
And gaze on deathless death, and deathless woes.
The soul of truth glow'd then, as now it glows,
O'er all the life and glory of these walls;
Ideal Power, in pomp of gloom and flame,
Call'd on my spirit then as now he calls:
“Do not my sons,” he said, “deserve their fame?”
I could not scorn his bright star-written name,
Though, in her majesty heart-deified,
A beauteous friend, all graceful, with me came;
Yet I turn'd from him with a husband's pride,
And bless'd the LIVING WOMAN at my side.

THE THREE MARYS AT CASTLE HOWARD, IN 1812 AND 1837.

The lifeless son—the mother's agony,
O'erstrain'd till agony refused to feel—
That sinner too I then dry-eyed could see;
For I was harden'd in my selfish weel,
And strength and joy had strung my soul with steel.
I knew not then that man may live to be
A thing of life, that feels he lives in vain—
A taper, to be quench'd in misery!
Forgive me, then, Caracci! if I seek
To look on this, thy tale of tears, again;
For now the swift is slow, the strong is weak.
Mother of Christ! how merciful is pain!
But, if I longer view thy tear-stain'd cheek,
Heart-broken Magdalene! my heart will break.

WALKLEY.

Sarah and William Adams! here we stood,
Roof'd by the cloud, which cast his frown between
Wardsend and Loxley's moorlands. From the wood
Of one-starr'd Grenno, like a sea unseen,
The wind swept o'er us, seeming, in his might,
To shake the steadfast rocks; while, rushing keen
Beyond the edge of darkness, stormy light,
As from a league-wide trumpet, on the scene
A cataract of glory pour'd; and, bright
In gloom, the hill-tops islanded the night
Of billowy shade around us. Vale and hill,
Forest and cloud, were restless as a fight;
They seem'd as they would never more be still;
While, anchor'd over all, the high-poised kite
Saw the foam'd rivers dash their blue with white.

WORDS AND THINGS.

Our wordy friend in metaphor transcends
All mortal scribes—his figures always strike!
And when he makes of far-sought odds and ends
Pictures of nothing, wonderfully like,
He calls them “THOUGHTS that startle!” Evening blends
Green with her red and purple with her gold;
And, while yon all-hued sun-born rainbow bends
O'er blush-tinged peak, cragged glen, and shadowed wold,
Harmonized melodies in light are roll'd
Wherever lake reflects her dying beam,
Or mourns in Eden sad-voiced breeze, or stream,
Or showery cloud! but ne'er will man behold
The truth of beauty in a pedant's dream,
Cold as his sympathies, and false as cold.

MAUSOLEUM AT WENTWORTH.

Hither I came—when life itself was new,
And new this form of greatness dead and gone—
To tremble in the gloom which draws and drew
A purple veil o'er deathlike life in stone.
This man a pitying look on frailty threw:
Have I not heard a matron, good and true,
Speak of him, with a tear upon her cheek?
Knaves call'd him weak—but when was virtue weak?
O ye who wring the heart until it break,
And scourge pale nations with the wealth ye steal!
Here, if late pardon for your crimes ye seek,
To your cold souls the thoughts ye dread reveal;
Think of our vulture with the gory beak!
And of meek Rockingham, with humbled malice, speak.

WENTWORTH HOUSE.

“Now, for the enchanted palace of our youth!”
But what have I with palaces to do,
Taught as I am, by Nature, time, and truth,
That pride can envy pomp, and hate it too?
Yes; but the ideal of the fair and true
Lives here in marble, by creative mind
Made sacred to the glory of mankind;
And if ideal beauty cannot woo
Thy steps to enter Taste's proud temple—Go!
Yet, wherefore? Wentworth's princely halls can show,
By Vandyke limn'd, the form of one who knew
How best to strike a tyrant's basest blow.
Behold him! nor to curse his crimes be slow—
Behold fell Strafford! man's and freedom's foe!

PORTRAIT AT WENTWORTH.

Was he then human? Tools of Tyrants! could
This face be Strafford's? Strafford's! who his hands
Wrung in Hibernia's hair, and, drunk with blood,
Call'd murder wisdom! Brutal as his bands,
He startled hell with crime. His savage mood
Nor pity sooth'd nor reason's might could bow.
But Hampden dared withstand him, Pym withstood;
And men were found who laid his master low,
And sent the servant—whither tyrants go.
And, lo, at length, strange pangs his heart have riven!
There is a touch of feeling on his brow,
“For pledges left him by a saint in heav'n.”
No more than this, could royal Charles allow?
“Put not your trust in princes!” Why didst thou?

BUST AND PORTRAIT AT WENTWORTH.

This bust, which beautifully doth relate
What heav'n's beloved are born to do and be;
These lines, these hues, which long shall renovate
Thy gentleness, thy truth, thy purity;
Are all, Fitzwilliam! that remain of thee.
The steward of the trampled poor is gone!
The prince of charity hath bow'd to fate!
The godlike friend of him that wanteth one,
Finds good deeds done on earth his best estate.
How long for thee God bade his angel wait!
O reverend brow! thou conquerest Envy's frown,
And dead, half-humanizest Faction's hate;
As when a poet of time-tried renown
Casts o'er the world he left the light of suns gone down.

THRYBERG.

Scenes of my thoughtless youth! here are ye all;
Dalton! and Dalton school! and Dalton Deign!
But changed ye are! or I am. Mean and small
Ye seem, and humbled. Sunk into the plain,
The hill is dwarf'd with age. Its coronal
The glen hath lost, its ferny plumes, and, more
Than these, its freedom! Thryberg's verdant wall
Is here, and here the oak I knew of yore;
But who, to me, their grandeur can restore?
My heart hath made them bankrupt. Where they stood
Stand Wentworth's halls; but not, as heretofore,
Portall'd for gods. O far-known Silverwood!
O cavern'd Ravensfield! Don, flowing o'er
A narrower bed, bathes now a tamer shore.

PROSPECT FROM THRYBERG.

Thou only, Wincobank, reign'st undespoiled,
King of the valley of my youth and prime,
Through which the river, like a snake uncoil'd,
Wanders, though tamed, a match for conquering time.
Behind thee mountains, solemn and sublime,
Take from the stooping skies their purply gold;
And could I in that brightness steep my rhyme,
And steal yon glow of green and crimson, roll'd
Far o'er the realms of evening's western clime,
A tale of Nature's splendour should be told
Which Byron might transcribe for Scott, and deem
That earth, like heav'n, hath scenes which grow not old;
O let me dip my pencil in thy beam,
Thou setting sun! ere death cut short this fever'd dream.

RETROSPECTION.

World of my boyhood! art thou what thou wast?
Seen through the melancholy mist of years,
Thy woods a pale diminish'd shadow cast
O'er thoughts grown grey, and feelings dimm'd with tears.
Our spirits, biggen'd by their griefs and fears,
Sadden and dwindle, with their backward view,
All they behold. Chang'd world! thy face appears
Poor as the toy that pleas'd when life was new;
And mournful as th' inscription, trite and true,
That lingers on our little sister's grave.
Roch Abbey! Canklow! Aldwark! if I crave,
Now, a boy's joy, from some lone flower's deep blue,
Will your loved flowers assume a pensive hue?
Or smile as once they smiled, still growing where they grew?

ROCH ABBEY.