THE HARP OF HOEL.[132]

[114]Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.[115]The last point of Cornwall.[116]Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there.[117]South coast of Portugal.[118]An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.[119]Æolian harp.[120]Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia. See Bruce, &c.[121]Air-pump.[122]Fixed stars.[123]So the Arabs say, speaking of the stupendous monuments in the deserts.[124]Title of the Persian Emperor.[125]Aurora Borealis.[126]From Josephus.[127]A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction, by which objects appear distinct, and as real, which are below the horizon. This often appears on the coast of Italy, and has been sometimes observed from our shores, where a line of the opposite coast appears.[128]The Fata Morgana are all explained in books; the effect is ascribed to reflection and refraction, as one alone will not correspond with the effects. The time when they occur is not the evening; but the looming in our country is towards the evening.[129]The Mirage: see Denon.[130]Green spots in the desert.[131]Wandsdike, on the Marlborough Downs, opposite.

[114]Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.

[115]The last point of Cornwall.

[116]Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there.

[117]South coast of Portugal.

[118]An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.

[119]Æolian harp.

[120]Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia. See Bruce, &c.

[121]Air-pump.

[122]Fixed stars.

[123]So the Arabs say, speaking of the stupendous monuments in the deserts.

[124]Title of the Persian Emperor.

[125]Aurora Borealis.

[126]From Josephus.

[127]A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction, by which objects appear distinct, and as real, which are below the horizon. This often appears on the coast of Italy, and has been sometimes observed from our shores, where a line of the opposite coast appears.

[128]The Fata Morgana are all explained in books; the effect is ascribed to reflection and refraction, as one alone will not correspond with the effects. The time when they occur is not the evening; but the looming in our country is towards the evening.

[129]The Mirage: see Denon.

[130]Green spots in the desert.

[131]Wandsdike, on the Marlborough Downs, opposite.

It was a high and holy sight,1When Baldwin[133]and his train,With cross and crosier gleaming bright,Came chanting slow the solemn rite,To Gwentland's[134]pleasant plain.High waved before, in crimson pride,2The banner of the Cross;The silver rood was then descried,While deacon youths, from side to side,The fuming censer toss.The monks went two and two along,3And winding through the glade,Sang, as they passed, a holy song,And harps and citterns, 'mid the throng,A mingled music made.They ceased; when lifting high his hand,4The white-robed prelate cried:Arise, arise, at Christ's command,To fight for his name in the Holy Land,Where a Saviour lived and died!With gloves of steel, and good broadsword,5And plumed helm of brass,Hoel, Landoga's youthful lord,To hear the father's holy word,Came riding to the pass.More earnestly the prelate spake:6Oh, heed no earthly loss!He who will friends and home forsake,Now let him kneel, and fearless takeThe sign of the Holy Cross.Then many a maid her tresses rent,7And did her love implore:Oh, go not thou to banishment!For me, and the pleasant vales of Gwent,Thou never wilt see more.And many a mother, pale with fears,8Did kiss her infant son;Said, Who will shield thy helpless years,Who dry thy widowed mother's tears,When thy brave father's gone?God, with firm voice the prelate cried,9God will the orphan bless;Sustain the widow's heart, and guideThrough the hard world, obscure and wild,The poor and fatherless.Then might you see a shade o'ercast10Brave Hoel's ruddy hue,But soon the moment's thought is past:—Hark, hark, 'tis the trumpet's stirring blast!And he grasped his bow of yew.Then might you see a moment's gloom11Sit in brave Hoel's eye:Make in the stranger's land my tomb,I follow thee, be it my doom,OChrist, to live or die!No more he thought, though rich in fee,12Of any earthly loss,But lighting, on his bended knee,Said, Father, here I take from theeThe sign of the Holy Cross.I have a wife, to me more dear13Then is my own heart's blood;I have a child, (a starting tear,Which soon he dried, of love sincere,On his stern eyelid stood);To them farewell! O God above,14Thine is the fate of war;But oh! reward Gwenlhian's[135]love,And may my son a comfort prove,When I am distant far!Farewell, my harp!—away, away!15To the field of death I go;Welcome the trumpet's blast, the neighOf my bold and barbed steed of gray,And the clang of the steel crossbow!Gwenlhian sat in the hall at night,16Counting the heavy hours;She saw the moon, with tranquil light,Shine on the circling mountain's height,And the dim castle towers.Deep stillness was on hill and glen,17When she heard a bugle blow;A trump from the watch-tower answered then,And the tramp of steeds, and the voice of men,Were heard in the court below.The watch-dog started at the noise,18Then crouched at his master's feet;He knew his step, he heard his voice;But who can now like her rejoice,Who flies her own lord to greet?And soon her arms his neck enfold:19But whence that altered mien!O say, then, is thy love grown cold,Or hast thou been hurt by the robbers bold,That won in the forest of Dean?Oh no, he cried, the God above,20Who all my soul can see,Knows my sincere, my fervent love;If aught my stern resolve could move,It were one tear from thee.But I have sworn, in the Holy Land,—21Need I the sequel speak;Too well, she cried, I understand!Then grasped in agony his hand,And hid her face on his cheek.My loved Gwenlhian, weep not so,22From the lid that tear I kiss;Though to the wars far off I go,Betide me weal, betide me woe,We yet may meet in bliss.Fourteen suns their course had rolled,23When firmly thus he spake;Hear now my last request: beholdThis ring, it is of purest gold,Love, keep it for my sake!When summers seven have robed each tree,24And clothed the vales with green,If I come not back, then thou art free,To wed or not, and to think of me,As I had never been!Nay, answer not,—what wouldst thou say!25Come, let my harp be brought;For the last time, I fain would play,Ere yet we part, our favourite lay,And cheat severer thought:THE AIR.Oh, cast every care to the wind,And dry, best beloved, the tear!Secure, that thou ever shalt find,The friend of thy bosom sincere.Still friendship shall live in the breast of the brave,And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.I have felt each emotion of bliss,That affection the fondest can prove,Have received on my lip the first kissOf thy holy and innocent love;But perish each hope of delight,Like the flashes of night on the sea,If ever, though far from thy sight,My soul is forgetful of thee!Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave,How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.Now bring my boy; may God above26Shower blessings on his head!May he requite his mother's love,And to her age a comfort prove,When I perhaps am dead!The beams of morn on his helm did play,27And aloud the bugle blew,Then he leaped on his harnessed steed of gray,And sighed to the winds as hegallopedaway,Adieu, my heart's love, adieu!And now he has joined the warrior train28Of knights and barons bold,That, bound to Salem's holy plain,Across the gently-swelling main,Their course exulting hold.With a cross of gold, as on they passed,29The crimson streamers flew;The shields hung glittering round the mast,And on the waves a radiance cast,Whilst all the trumpets blew.O'er the Severn-surge, in long array,30So, the proud galleys went,Till soon, as dissolved in ether gray,The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[136]steal away,And the long blue hills of Gwent.

It was a high and holy sight,1When Baldwin[133]and his train,With cross and crosier gleaming bright,Came chanting slow the solemn rite,To Gwentland's[134]pleasant plain.

High waved before, in crimson pride,2The banner of the Cross;The silver rood was then descried,While deacon youths, from side to side,The fuming censer toss.

The monks went two and two along,3And winding through the glade,Sang, as they passed, a holy song,And harps and citterns, 'mid the throng,A mingled music made.

They ceased; when lifting high his hand,4The white-robed prelate cried:Arise, arise, at Christ's command,To fight for his name in the Holy Land,Where a Saviour lived and died!

With gloves of steel, and good broadsword,5And plumed helm of brass,Hoel, Landoga's youthful lord,To hear the father's holy word,Came riding to the pass.

More earnestly the prelate spake:6Oh, heed no earthly loss!He who will friends and home forsake,Now let him kneel, and fearless takeThe sign of the Holy Cross.

Then many a maid her tresses rent,7And did her love implore:Oh, go not thou to banishment!For me, and the pleasant vales of Gwent,Thou never wilt see more.

And many a mother, pale with fears,8Did kiss her infant son;Said, Who will shield thy helpless years,Who dry thy widowed mother's tears,When thy brave father's gone?

God, with firm voice the prelate cried,9God will the orphan bless;Sustain the widow's heart, and guideThrough the hard world, obscure and wild,The poor and fatherless.

Then might you see a shade o'ercast10Brave Hoel's ruddy hue,But soon the moment's thought is past:—Hark, hark, 'tis the trumpet's stirring blast!And he grasped his bow of yew.

Then might you see a moment's gloom11Sit in brave Hoel's eye:Make in the stranger's land my tomb,I follow thee, be it my doom,OChrist, to live or die!

No more he thought, though rich in fee,12Of any earthly loss,But lighting, on his bended knee,Said, Father, here I take from theeThe sign of the Holy Cross.

I have a wife, to me more dear13Then is my own heart's blood;I have a child, (a starting tear,Which soon he dried, of love sincere,On his stern eyelid stood);

To them farewell! O God above,14Thine is the fate of war;But oh! reward Gwenlhian's[135]love,And may my son a comfort prove,When I am distant far!

Farewell, my harp!—away, away!15To the field of death I go;Welcome the trumpet's blast, the neighOf my bold and barbed steed of gray,And the clang of the steel crossbow!

Gwenlhian sat in the hall at night,16Counting the heavy hours;She saw the moon, with tranquil light,Shine on the circling mountain's height,And the dim castle towers.

Deep stillness was on hill and glen,17When she heard a bugle blow;A trump from the watch-tower answered then,And the tramp of steeds, and the voice of men,Were heard in the court below.

The watch-dog started at the noise,18Then crouched at his master's feet;He knew his step, he heard his voice;But who can now like her rejoice,Who flies her own lord to greet?

And soon her arms his neck enfold:19But whence that altered mien!O say, then, is thy love grown cold,Or hast thou been hurt by the robbers bold,That won in the forest of Dean?

Oh no, he cried, the God above,20Who all my soul can see,Knows my sincere, my fervent love;If aught my stern resolve could move,It were one tear from thee.

But I have sworn, in the Holy Land,—21Need I the sequel speak;Too well, she cried, I understand!Then grasped in agony his hand,And hid her face on his cheek.

My loved Gwenlhian, weep not so,22From the lid that tear I kiss;Though to the wars far off I go,Betide me weal, betide me woe,We yet may meet in bliss.

Fourteen suns their course had rolled,23When firmly thus he spake;Hear now my last request: beholdThis ring, it is of purest gold,Love, keep it for my sake!

When summers seven have robed each tree,24And clothed the vales with green,If I come not back, then thou art free,To wed or not, and to think of me,As I had never been!

Nay, answer not,—what wouldst thou say!25Come, let my harp be brought;For the last time, I fain would play,Ere yet we part, our favourite lay,And cheat severer thought:

THE AIR.

Oh, cast every care to the wind,And dry, best beloved, the tear!Secure, that thou ever shalt find,The friend of thy bosom sincere.Still friendship shall live in the breast of the brave,And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

I have felt each emotion of bliss,That affection the fondest can prove,Have received on my lip the first kissOf thy holy and innocent love;But perish each hope of delight,Like the flashes of night on the sea,If ever, though far from thy sight,My soul is forgetful of thee!Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave,How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

Now bring my boy; may God above26Shower blessings on his head!May he requite his mother's love,And to her age a comfort prove,When I perhaps am dead!

The beams of morn on his helm did play,27And aloud the bugle blew,Then he leaped on his harnessed steed of gray,And sighed to the winds as hegallopedaway,Adieu, my heart's love, adieu!

And now he has joined the warrior train28Of knights and barons bold,That, bound to Salem's holy plain,Across the gently-swelling main,Their course exulting hold.

With a cross of gold, as on they passed,29The crimson streamers flew;The shields hung glittering round the mast,And on the waves a radiance cast,Whilst all the trumpets blew.

O'er the Severn-surge, in long array,30So, the proud galleys went,Till soon, as dissolved in ether gray,The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[136]steal away,And the long blue hills of Gwent.

[132]This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old Welsh melody. I have placed the circumstance in the time of the Crusades.[133]Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales.[134]Monmouthshire.[135]The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name of the woman.[136]Islands in the Bristol Channel.

[132]This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old Welsh melody. I have placed the circumstance in the time of the Crusades.

[133]Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales.

[134]Monmouthshire.

[135]The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name of the woman.

[136]Islands in the Bristol Channel.

High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown,1A hermit chapel stood;It spoke the tale of seasons gone,And half-revealed its ivied stone.Amid the beechen wood.Here often, when the mountain trees2A leafy murmur made,Now still, now swaying to the breeze,(Sounds that the musing fancy please),The widowed mourner strayed.And many a morn she climbed the steep,3From whence she might behold,Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep,And mingling with the mighty deep,The sea-broad Severn rolled.Her little boy beside her played,4With sea-shells in his hand;And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed,And sometimes running onward, said,Oh, where is Holy Land!My child, she cried, my prattler dear!5And kissed his light-brown hair;Her eyelid glistened with a tear,And none but God above could hear,That hour, her secret prayer.As thus she nursed her secret woes,6Oft to the wind and rainShe listened, at sad autumn's close,Whilst many a thronging shadow rose,Dark-glancing o'er her brain.Now lonely to the cloudy height7Of the steep hill she strays;Below, the raven wings his flight,And often on the screaming kiteShe sees the wild deer gaze.The clouds were gathered on its brow,8The warring winds were high;She heard a hollow voice, and nowShe lifts to heaven a secret vow,Whilst the king of the storm rides by.Seated on a craggy rock,9What aged man appears!There is no hind, no straggling flock;Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock,And shake my soul with fears?Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn;10A pale man stands confessed;With look majestic, though forlorn,A mirror in his hand, and hornOf ivory on his breast.Daughter of grief, he gently said,11And beckoned her: come near;Now say, what would you give to me,If you brave Hoel's form might see,Or the sound of his bugle hear!Hoel, my love, where'er thou art,12All England I would give,[137]If, never, never more to part,I now could hold thee to my heart,For whom alone I live!He placed the white horn to her ear,13And sudden a sweet voiceStole gently, as of fairies near,While accents soft she seemed to hear,Daughter of grief, rejoice!For soon to love and thee I fly,14From Salem's hallowed plain!The mirror caught her turning eye,As pale in death she saw him lie,And sinking 'mid the slain.She turned to the strange phantom-man,15But she only saw the sky,And the clouds on the lonely mountains' van,And the Clydden-Shoots,[138]that rushing ran,To meet the waves of Wye.Thus seven long years had passed away,—16She heard no voice of mirth;No minstrel raised his festive lay,At the sad close of the drisly day,Beside the blazing hearth.She seemed in sorrow, yet serene,17No tear was on her face;And lighting oft her pensive mien,Upon her languid look was seenA meek attractive grace.In beauty's train she yet might vie,18For though in mourning weeds,No friar, I deem, that passed her by,Ere saw her dark, yet gentle eye,But straight forgot his beads.Eineon, generous and good,19Alone with friendship's aid,Eineon, of princely Rhys's blood,Who 'mid the bravest archers stood,To sooth her griefs essayed.He had himself been early tried20By stern misfortune's doom;For she who loved him drooped and died,And on the green hill's flowery sideHe raised her grassy tomb.What marvel, in his lonely heart,21To faith a friendship true,If, when her griefs she did impart,And tears of memory oft would start,If more than pity grew.With converse mild he oft would seek22To sooth her sense of care;As the west wind, with breathings weak,Wakes, on the hectic's faded cheekA smile of faint despair.The summer's eve was calm and still,23When once his harp he strung;Soft as the twilight on the hill,Affection seemed his heart to fill,Whilst eloquent he sung:When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind,And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe,In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find,All that friendship and kindness and truth could bestow.Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed,But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine,Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast,And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.He paused, then with a starting tear,24And trembling accent, cried,O lady, hide that look severe,—The voice of love, of friendship hear,And be again a bride.Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,—25Lady, he is dead, is dead,—Far distant wanders his pale ghost,—His bones by the white surge are tossed,And the wave rolls o'er his head.She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled,26Since thus brave Hoel spake,When last I heard his voice, Behold,This ring,—it is of purest gold,—Then, keep it for my sake.When summers seven have robed each tree,27And decked the coombs with green,If I come not back, then thou art free,To wed or not, and to think of meAs I had never been.Those seven sad summers now are o'er,28And three I yet demand;If in that space I see no moreThe friend I ever must deplore,Then take a mourner's hand.The time is passed:—the laugh, the lay,29The nuptial feast proclaim;From many a rushing torrent gray,From many a wild brook's wandering way,The hoary minstrels came.From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed;30From Skirid, bleak and high;From Penalt's shaggy solitude;From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude,That frowns o'er mazy Wye.With harps the gallery glittered bright,—31The pealing rafters rung;Far off upon the woods of night,From the tall window's arch, the lightOf tapers clear was flung.The harpers ceased the acclaiming lay,32When, with descending beard,Scallop, and staff his steps to stay,As, foot-sore, on his weary way,A pilgrim wan appeared.Now lend me a harp for St Mary's sake,33For my skill I fain would try,A poor man's offering to make,If haply still my hand may wakeSome pleasant melody.With scoffs the minstrel crowd replied,34Dost thou a harp request!And loud in mirth, and swelled with pride,Some his rain-dripping hair deride,And some his sordid vest.Pilgrim, a harp shall soon be found,35Young Hoel instant cried;There lies a harp upon the ground,And none hath ever heard its sound,Since my brave father died.The harp is brought: upon the frame36A filmy cobweb hung;The strings were few, yet 'twas the same;The old man drawing near the flame,The chords imperfect rung:Oh! cast every care to the wind,And dry, best beloved, the tear;Secure that thou ever shalt findThe friend of thy bosom sincere.She speechless gazed:—he stands confessed,—37The dark eyes of her Hoel shine;Her heart has forgotten it e'er was oppressed,And she murmurs aloud, as she sinks on his breast,Oh! press my heart to thine.He turned his look a little space,38To hide the tears of joy;Then rushing, with a warm embrace,Cried, as he kissed young Hoel's face,My boy, my heart-loved boy!Proud harpers, strike a louder lay,—39No more forlorn I bend!Prince Eineon, with the rest, be gay,Though fate hath torn a bride away,Accept a long-lost friend.

High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown,1A hermit chapel stood;It spoke the tale of seasons gone,And half-revealed its ivied stone.Amid the beechen wood.

Here often, when the mountain trees2A leafy murmur made,Now still, now swaying to the breeze,(Sounds that the musing fancy please),The widowed mourner strayed.

And many a morn she climbed the steep,3From whence she might behold,Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep,And mingling with the mighty deep,The sea-broad Severn rolled.

Her little boy beside her played,4With sea-shells in his hand;And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed,And sometimes running onward, said,Oh, where is Holy Land!

My child, she cried, my prattler dear!5And kissed his light-brown hair;Her eyelid glistened with a tear,And none but God above could hear,That hour, her secret prayer.

As thus she nursed her secret woes,6Oft to the wind and rainShe listened, at sad autumn's close,Whilst many a thronging shadow rose,Dark-glancing o'er her brain.

Now lonely to the cloudy height7Of the steep hill she strays;Below, the raven wings his flight,And often on the screaming kiteShe sees the wild deer gaze.

The clouds were gathered on its brow,8The warring winds were high;She heard a hollow voice, and nowShe lifts to heaven a secret vow,Whilst the king of the storm rides by.

Seated on a craggy rock,9What aged man appears!There is no hind, no straggling flock;Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock,And shake my soul with fears?

Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn;10A pale man stands confessed;With look majestic, though forlorn,A mirror in his hand, and hornOf ivory on his breast.

Daughter of grief, he gently said,11And beckoned her: come near;Now say, what would you give to me,If you brave Hoel's form might see,Or the sound of his bugle hear!

Hoel, my love, where'er thou art,12All England I would give,[137]If, never, never more to part,I now could hold thee to my heart,For whom alone I live!

He placed the white horn to her ear,13And sudden a sweet voiceStole gently, as of fairies near,While accents soft she seemed to hear,Daughter of grief, rejoice!

For soon to love and thee I fly,14From Salem's hallowed plain!The mirror caught her turning eye,As pale in death she saw him lie,And sinking 'mid the slain.

She turned to the strange phantom-man,15But she only saw the sky,And the clouds on the lonely mountains' van,And the Clydden-Shoots,[138]that rushing ran,To meet the waves of Wye.

Thus seven long years had passed away,—16She heard no voice of mirth;No minstrel raised his festive lay,At the sad close of the drisly day,Beside the blazing hearth.

She seemed in sorrow, yet serene,17No tear was on her face;And lighting oft her pensive mien,Upon her languid look was seenA meek attractive grace.

In beauty's train she yet might vie,18For though in mourning weeds,No friar, I deem, that passed her by,Ere saw her dark, yet gentle eye,But straight forgot his beads.

Eineon, generous and good,19Alone with friendship's aid,Eineon, of princely Rhys's blood,Who 'mid the bravest archers stood,To sooth her griefs essayed.

He had himself been early tried20By stern misfortune's doom;For she who loved him drooped and died,And on the green hill's flowery sideHe raised her grassy tomb.

What marvel, in his lonely heart,21To faith a friendship true,If, when her griefs she did impart,And tears of memory oft would start,If more than pity grew.

With converse mild he oft would seek22To sooth her sense of care;As the west wind, with breathings weak,Wakes, on the hectic's faded cheekA smile of faint despair.

The summer's eve was calm and still,23When once his harp he strung;Soft as the twilight on the hill,Affection seemed his heart to fill,Whilst eloquent he sung:

When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind,And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe,In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find,All that friendship and kindness and truth could bestow.

Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed,But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine,Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast,And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.

He paused, then with a starting tear,24And trembling accent, cried,O lady, hide that look severe,—The voice of love, of friendship hear,And be again a bride.

Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,—25Lady, he is dead, is dead,—Far distant wanders his pale ghost,—His bones by the white surge are tossed,And the wave rolls o'er his head.

She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled,26Since thus brave Hoel spake,When last I heard his voice, Behold,This ring,—it is of purest gold,—Then, keep it for my sake.

When summers seven have robed each tree,27And decked the coombs with green,If I come not back, then thou art free,To wed or not, and to think of meAs I had never been.

Those seven sad summers now are o'er,28And three I yet demand;If in that space I see no moreThe friend I ever must deplore,Then take a mourner's hand.

The time is passed:—the laugh, the lay,29The nuptial feast proclaim;From many a rushing torrent gray,From many a wild brook's wandering way,The hoary minstrels came.

From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed;30From Skirid, bleak and high;From Penalt's shaggy solitude;From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude,That frowns o'er mazy Wye.

With harps the gallery glittered bright,—31The pealing rafters rung;Far off upon the woods of night,From the tall window's arch, the lightOf tapers clear was flung.

The harpers ceased the acclaiming lay,32When, with descending beard,Scallop, and staff his steps to stay,As, foot-sore, on his weary way,A pilgrim wan appeared.

Now lend me a harp for St Mary's sake,33For my skill I fain would try,A poor man's offering to make,If haply still my hand may wakeSome pleasant melody.

With scoffs the minstrel crowd replied,34Dost thou a harp request!And loud in mirth, and swelled with pride,Some his rain-dripping hair deride,And some his sordid vest.

Pilgrim, a harp shall soon be found,35Young Hoel instant cried;There lies a harp upon the ground,And none hath ever heard its sound,Since my brave father died.

The harp is brought: upon the frame36A filmy cobweb hung;The strings were few, yet 'twas the same;The old man drawing near the flame,The chords imperfect rung:

Oh! cast every care to the wind,And dry, best beloved, the tear;Secure that thou ever shalt findThe friend of thy bosom sincere.

She speechless gazed:—he stands confessed,—37The dark eyes of her Hoel shine;Her heart has forgotten it e'er was oppressed,And she murmurs aloud, as she sinks on his breast,Oh! press my heart to thine.

He turned his look a little space,38To hide the tears of joy;Then rushing, with a warm embrace,Cried, as he kissed young Hoel's face,My boy, my heart-loved boy!

Proud harpers, strike a louder lay,—39No more forlorn I bend!Prince Eineon, with the rest, be gay,Though fate hath torn a bride away,Accept a long-lost friend.

This tale I heard, when at the close of dayThe village harper tuned an ancient lay;He struck his harp, beneath a ruin hoar,And sung of love and truth, in days of yore,And I retained the song, with counsel sage,To teachonelesson to a wiser age!

[137]"Wales, England, and Llewellyn,All would I give for a sight of William."Giraldus, vol. i. p. 46.[138]"Nearly through the centre of the hill that backs the village (Landoga) is a deep ravine, called Clydden-Shoots, which, when the springs are full, forms a beautiful cascade."—Heath.

[137]"Wales, England, and Llewellyn,All would I give for a sight of William."Giraldus, vol. i. p. 46.

"Wales, England, and Llewellyn,All would I give for a sight of William."

[138]"Nearly through the centre of the hill that backs the village (Landoga) is a deep ravine, called Clydden-Shoots, which, when the springs are full, forms a beautiful cascade."—Heath.

How soothing sound the gentle airs that moveThe innumerable leaves, high overhead,When autumn first, from the long avenue,That lifts its arching height of ancient shade,Steals here and there a leaf!Within the gloom,In partial sunshine white, some trunks appear,Studding the glens of fern; in solemn shadeSome mingle their dark branches, but yet all,All make a sad sweet music, as they move,Not undelightful to a stranger's heart.They seem to say, in accents audible,Farewell to summer, and farewell the strainsOf many a lithe and feathered chorister,That through the depth of these incumbent woodsMade the long summer gladsome.I have heardTo the deep-mingling sounds of organs clear,(When slow the choral anthem rose beneath),The glimmering minster, through its pillared aisles,Echo;—but not more sweet the vaulted roofRang to those linked harmonies, than hereThe high wood answers to the lightest breathOf nature.Oh, may such sweet music steal,Soothing the cares of venerable age,[139]From public toil retired: may it awake,As, still and slow, the sun of life declines,Remembrances, not mournful, but most sweet;May it, as oft beneath the sylvan shadeTheir honoured owner strays, come like the soundOf distant seraph harps, yet speaking clear!How poor is every sound of earthly things,When heaven's own music waits the just and pure!

[139]The Earl of Aylesbury.

Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more braveNe'er triumphed on the green-sea wave!Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave,Toll Nelson's knell!The ball of Death unerring flew;His cheek has lost its ardent hue;He sinks, amid his gallant crew!Toll Nelson's knell!Yet lift, brave chief, thy dying eyes;Hark! loud huzzas around thee rise;Aloft the flag of conquest flies!The day is won!The day is won—peace to the brave!But whilst the joyous streamers wave,We'll think upon the victor's grave!Peace to the brave!

Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more braveNe'er triumphed on the green-sea wave!Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave,Toll Nelson's knell!

The ball of Death unerring flew;His cheek has lost its ardent hue;He sinks, amid his gallant crew!Toll Nelson's knell!

Yet lift, brave chief, thy dying eyes;Hark! loud huzzas around thee rise;Aloft the flag of conquest flies!The day is won!

The day is won—peace to the brave!But whilst the joyous streamers wave,We'll think upon the victor's grave!Peace to the brave!

When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore,From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar;When flash succeeding flash, tremendous brokeThe haze incumbent, and the clouds of smoke,As oft the volume rolled away, thy mien,Thine eye, serenely terrible, was seen,My gallant friend.—Hark! the shrill bugle[140]calls,Is the day won! alas, he falls—he falls!His soul from pain, from agony release!Hear his last murmur, Let me die in peace![141]Yet still, brave Cooke, thy country's grateful tear,Shall wet the bleeding laurel on thy bier.But who shall wake to joy, through a long lifeOf sadness, thy beloved and widowed wife,Who now, perhaps, thinks how the green seas foam,That bear thy victor ship impatient home!Alas! the well-known views,—the swelling plain,Thy laurel-circled home, endeared in vain,The brook, the church, those chestnuts darkly-green,[142]Yon fir-crowned summit,[143]and the village scene,Wardour's long sweep of woods, the nearer mill,And high o'er all, the turrets of Font Hill:These views, when summer comes, shall charm no moreHim o'er whose welt'ring corse the wild waves roar,Enough: 'twas Honour's voice that awful cried,Glory to him who for his country died!Yet dreary is her solitude who bendsAnd mourns the best of husbands, fathers, friends!Oh! when she wakes at midnight, but to shedFresh tears of anguish on her lonely bed,Thinking on him who is not; then restrainThe tear, O God, and her sad heart sustain!Giver of life, may she remember stillThy chastening hand, and to thy sovereign willBow silently; not hopeless, while her eyeShe raises to a bright futurity,And meekly trusts, in heaven, Thou wilt restoreThat happiness the world can give no more!

[140]He bore down into the thickest fight with a bugle-horn sounding.[141]His own words, the last he spoke. If I have here been more particular in this description than in that of the great commander, it will be attributed to private friendship, Captain Cooke having lived in the same village.[142]Portrait of Captain Cooke's place, at Donhead.[143]Barker's Hill, near Donhead.

[140]He bore down into the thickest fight with a bugle-horn sounding.

[141]His own words, the last he spoke. If I have here been more particular in this description than in that of the great commander, it will be attributed to private friendship, Captain Cooke having lived in the same village.

[142]Portrait of Captain Cooke's place, at Donhead.

[143]Barker's Hill, near Donhead.

The tide of fate rolls on!—heart-pierced and pale,The gallant soldier lies,[144]nor aught avail,The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave,From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save,Land of illustrious heroes, who, of yore,Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore,Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurledDefiance to the conquerors[145]of the world!Oh, when we hear the agonising taleOf those who, faint, and fugitive, and pale,Saw hourly, harassed through their long retreat,Some worn companion sinking at their feet,Yet even in danger and from toil more bold,Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled;—While tears of pity mingle with applause,On the dread scene in silence let us pause;Yes, pause, and ask, Is not thy awful handStretched out, O God, o'er a devoted land,Whose vales of beauty Nature spread in vain,Where misery moaned on the uncultured plain,Where Bigotry went by with jealous scowl,Where Superstition muttered in his cowl;Whilst o'er the Inquisition's dismal holds,Its horrid banner waved in bleeding folds!And dost thou thus, Lord of all might, fulfilWith wreck and tempests thy eternal will,Shatter the arms in which weak kingdoms trust,And strew their scattered ensigns in the dust?Oh, if no human wisdom may withstandThe terrors, Lord, of thy uplifted hand;If the dark tide no prowess can control,Yet nearer, charged with dread commission, roll;Still may my country's ark majestic ride,Though sole, yet safe, on the conflicting tide;Till hushed be the wild rocking of the blast,And the red storm of death be overpast!

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