FOOTNOTES:[194]This ballad was written to be introduced in "The Missionary," but was omitted, as calculated to distract attention from the leading incidents of the story. It has, indeed, no connexion whatever with the poem.[195]Banner consecrated by the Pope.
[194]This ballad was written to be introduced in "The Missionary," but was omitted, as calculated to distract attention from the leading incidents of the story. It has, indeed, no connexion whatever with the poem.
[194]This ballad was written to be introduced in "The Missionary," but was omitted, as calculated to distract attention from the leading incidents of the story. It has, indeed, no connexion whatever with the poem.
[195]Banner consecrated by the Pope.
[195]Banner consecrated by the Pope.
In this wise the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young King, whom, with much honour and humble reverence, he conveyed towards London. But the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following; and that, in secret wise, her son was taken, her brother and other friends arrested, and sent no man wist whither, to be done with God wot what. With which tidings the Queen, with great heaviness, bewailed her child's reign, her friend's mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she dissuaded the gathering of powers about the King; got herself, in all haste possible, with her young son and her daughter, out of the palace of Westminster, in which they then lay, into the Sanctuary; lodging herself and company there in the Abbott's place.—Speed's"History of England," book ix.
In this wise the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young King, whom, with much honour and humble reverence, he conveyed towards London. But the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following; and that, in secret wise, her son was taken, her brother and other friends arrested, and sent no man wist whither, to be done with God wot what. With which tidings the Queen, with great heaviness, bewailed her child's reign, her friend's mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she dissuaded the gathering of powers about the King; got herself, in all haste possible, with her young son and her daughter, out of the palace of Westminster, in which they then lay, into the Sanctuary; lodging herself and company there in the Abbott's place.—Speed's"History of England," book ix.
Eliz.The minster-clock tolls midnight; I have watchedNight after night, and heard the same sad soundKnolling; the same sad sound, night after night;As if, amid the world's deep silence, Time,Pausing a moment in his onward flight,From yonder solitary, moonlit pile,More awful spoke, as with a voice from heaven,Of days and hours departed, and of thoseThat "are not;" till, like dreams of yesterday,The very echo dies!Oh, my poor child!Thou hast been long asleep; by the pale lampI sit and watch thy slumbers; thy calm lidsAre closed; thy lips just parted; one hand liesUpon thy breast, that scarce is seen to heaveBeneath it; and thy breath so still is drawn,Save to a sleepless mother's listening ear,It were inaudible; and, see! a smileSeems even now lighting on thy lip, dear boy,As thou wert dreaming of delightful thingsIn some celestial region of sweet sounds,Or summer fields, and skies without a cloud;(Ah! how unlike this dark and troubled world!)Let not one kiss awaken thee, one kiss,Mingled with tears and prayer to God in heaven.So dream; and never, never may those eyesAwake suffused with tears, as mine are now,To think that life's best hopes are such a dream!Now sleeps the city through its vast extent,That, restless as the ocean-waves, at morn,With its ten thousand voices shall awake,Lifting the murmur of its multitudeTo heaven's still gate! Now all is hushed as death;None are awake, save those who wake to weep,Like me; save those who meditate revenge,Or beckon muttering Murder. God of heaven!From the hyena panting for their blood,Oh save my youthful Edward! and, poor child!Preserve thy innocence to happier hours.Hark! There is knocking at the western gate.A messenger enters, and announces to her thather brother had been arrested on the road, bythe Duke of Glo'ster.Eliz.O my poor child, thou sleepest now in peace!Wilt thou sleep thus another year? shall IHang o'er thee with a mother's look of love,Thus bend beside thy bed, thus part the hairUpon thy forehead, and thus kiss thy cheek?Richard, awake! the tiger is abroad.We must to sanctuary instantly.Richard awaking.Rich.Oh! I have had the sweetest dreams, dear mother!Methought my brother Edward and myselfAnd—Eliz.Come, these are no times to talk of dreams;We must to sanctuary, my poor boy;We'll talk of dreams hereafter. Kneel with me.Takes him from his couch, and kisses him.Rich.Mother, why do you weep and tremble so?Eliz.I have a pain at heart! Come, stir thee, boy!Lift up thy innocent hands to Heaven; here kneelAnd pray with me before this crucifix.Her daughters enter, and they all kneel together.
Eliz.The minster-clock tolls midnight; I have watchedNight after night, and heard the same sad soundKnolling; the same sad sound, night after night;As if, amid the world's deep silence, Time,Pausing a moment in his onward flight,From yonder solitary, moonlit pile,More awful spoke, as with a voice from heaven,Of days and hours departed, and of thoseThat "are not;" till, like dreams of yesterday,The very echo dies!Oh, my poor child!Thou hast been long asleep; by the pale lampI sit and watch thy slumbers; thy calm lidsAre closed; thy lips just parted; one hand liesUpon thy breast, that scarce is seen to heaveBeneath it; and thy breath so still is drawn,Save to a sleepless mother's listening ear,It were inaudible; and, see! a smileSeems even now lighting on thy lip, dear boy,As thou wert dreaming of delightful thingsIn some celestial region of sweet sounds,Or summer fields, and skies without a cloud;(Ah! how unlike this dark and troubled world!)Let not one kiss awaken thee, one kiss,Mingled with tears and prayer to God in heaven.So dream; and never, never may those eyesAwake suffused with tears, as mine are now,To think that life's best hopes are such a dream!Now sleeps the city through its vast extent,That, restless as the ocean-waves, at morn,With its ten thousand voices shall awake,Lifting the murmur of its multitudeTo heaven's still gate! Now all is hushed as death;None are awake, save those who wake to weep,Like me; save those who meditate revenge,Or beckon muttering Murder. God of heaven!From the hyena panting for their blood,Oh save my youthful Edward! and, poor child!Preserve thy innocence to happier hours.Hark! There is knocking at the western gate.
A messenger enters, and announces to her thather brother had been arrested on the road, bythe Duke of Glo'ster.
Eliz.O my poor child, thou sleepest now in peace!Wilt thou sleep thus another year? shall IHang o'er thee with a mother's look of love,Thus bend beside thy bed, thus part the hairUpon thy forehead, and thus kiss thy cheek?Richard, awake! the tiger is abroad.We must to sanctuary instantly.
Richard awaking.
Rich.Oh! I have had the sweetest dreams, dear mother!Methought my brother Edward and myselfAnd—
Eliz.Come, these are no times to talk of dreams;We must to sanctuary, my poor boy;We'll talk of dreams hereafter. Kneel with me.
Takes him from his couch, and kisses him.
Rich.Mother, why do you weep and tremble so?
Eliz.I have a pain at heart! Come, stir thee, boy!Lift up thy innocent hands to Heaven; here kneelAnd pray with me before this crucifix.
Her daughters enter, and they all kneel together.
Rich.O my dear mother! why do we sit here,Amid these dusky walls and arches dim,When it is summer in the fields without,And sunshine? Say, is not my brother king,Why will he not come here to play with me;Shall I not see my brother?Eliz.My own child,Oh! let me hide these tears upon thy head!Thy brother, shalt thou see him? Yes, I hope.Come, I will tell a tale:—There was a boyWho had a cruel uncle—Rich.I have heardMy uncle Glo'ster was a cruel man;But he was always kind to me, and saidThat I should be a king, if Edward died;I'd rather be a bird to fly away,Or sing—Eliz.The serpent's eye of fire,With slow and deadly glare, poor bird, I fear,Is fixed on thee and Edward—God avert it!Rich.And therefore must not I go out to play?Eliz.Go, play among the tombs—I will go too;Go, play with skulls and bones; or see the trainOf sceptred kings come slowly through the gloom,And widowed queens move in the shroud of deathAlong the glimmering aisles and hollow vaults.Would I were with them—I shall be so soon!Rich.Mother, methought I saw him yesterday—Eliz.Saw whom?Rich.My father; and he seemed to look—I cannot say how sadly. Could it beHis spirit? He was armed, but very paleAnd sorrowful his countenance. I heardNo sound of footsteps when he moved awayAnd disappeared among the distant tombsIn further darkness.Eliz.O my son, my son!Thou hadst a king thy father—he is dead;Thou hadst been happier as a peasant's child!Rich.Oh! how I wish I were a shepherd's boy,For then, dear mother! I would run and playWith Edward; and we two, in primrose-time,Would wander out among the villages,Or go a-Maying by some river's side,And mark the minnow-shoals, when morning shoneUpon the yellow gravel, shoot awayBeneath the old gray arch, or bring home cowslipsFor all my sisters, for Elizabeth,And you, dear mother, if you would not weep so.Eliz.Richard, break not my heart; give me your hand,And kneel with me by this cold monument.Spirit of my loved husband, now in heaven,If, at this moment, thou dost see thy son,And me, thus broken-hearted,—oh! if aughtYet human touches thee, assist these prayers,That him, and me, and my poor family,God, in the hour of peril, may protect!Let not my heart yet break.Come, my poor boy!
Rich.O my dear mother! why do we sit here,Amid these dusky walls and arches dim,When it is summer in the fields without,And sunshine? Say, is not my brother king,Why will he not come here to play with me;Shall I not see my brother?
Eliz.My own child,Oh! let me hide these tears upon thy head!Thy brother, shalt thou see him? Yes, I hope.Come, I will tell a tale:—There was a boyWho had a cruel uncle—
Rich.I have heardMy uncle Glo'ster was a cruel man;But he was always kind to me, and saidThat I should be a king, if Edward died;I'd rather be a bird to fly away,Or sing—
Eliz.The serpent's eye of fire,With slow and deadly glare, poor bird, I fear,Is fixed on thee and Edward—God avert it!
Rich.And therefore must not I go out to play?
Eliz.Go, play among the tombs—I will go too;Go, play with skulls and bones; or see the trainOf sceptred kings come slowly through the gloom,And widowed queens move in the shroud of deathAlong the glimmering aisles and hollow vaults.Would I were with them—I shall be so soon!
Rich.Mother, methought I saw him yesterday—
Eliz.Saw whom?
Rich.My father; and he seemed to look—I cannot say how sadly. Could it beHis spirit? He was armed, but very paleAnd sorrowful his countenance. I heardNo sound of footsteps when he moved awayAnd disappeared among the distant tombsIn further darkness.
Eliz.O my son, my son!Thou hadst a king thy father—he is dead;Thou hadst been happier as a peasant's child!
Rich.Oh! how I wish I were a shepherd's boy,For then, dear mother! I would run and playWith Edward; and we two, in primrose-time,Would wander out among the villages,Or go a-Maying by some river's side,And mark the minnow-shoals, when morning shoneUpon the yellow gravel, shoot awayBeneath the old gray arch, or bring home cowslipsFor all my sisters, for Elizabeth,And you, dear mother, if you would not weep so.
Eliz.Richard, break not my heart; give me your hand,And kneel with me by this cold monument.Spirit of my loved husband, now in heaven,If, at this moment, thou dost see thy son,And me, thus broken-hearted,—oh! if aughtYet human touches thee, assist these prayers,That him, and me, and my poor family,God, in the hour of peril, may protect!Let not my heart yet break.Come, my poor boy!
Eliz.Now, my Lord Cardinal, what is the willOf our great lords with me? Your Grace well knowsI am a helpless woman, have no power;My only wish, for what of life remains,Prayer and repose, and for my poor child hereSafety.Car.The Council, madam, wish no less;But, for your son, they deem his durance hereBreeds ill report. This separation, too,Of those in blood allied, almost of yearsThe same, who have been cradled in one lap,What can it say, but that one brother standsIn peril of the other? And, besides,Were it not for the comfort of them bothThat they should be together? Sport, not care,Becomes their early years.Eliz.I say not nay;It is most fitting that my youngest sonWere with the king, his brother; in good faith,I know it would be comfort to them both:But, when I think upon the tender years,Even of the eldest, I must also thinkA mother's custody were best for either.You have no children, else I would not ask,Is there a guardian like a mother's love?Richard, look up! This good man here intendsNo harm to me or you. Look up, my boy!No power on earth, nothing but death itselfShall sever us.What would you more, my Lord?Car.Madam, no man contendeth that your GraceIs not the fittest guardian of your child,And tenderest; but, if so it pleases youHere to lie hid, shut out from all the world,Be it for humour or for jealousy,We hold it meetest, that no power on earthShould so detain a brother of the King.And let me add, when reasons of the stateRequired the absence of your eldest son,Yourself were well content.Eliz.Not very well;Nor is the case the same; one was in health,The other here declines; and let me marvelThathe, the Lord Protector of this realm,Should wish him out; for, should aught ill betide,Suspicion, in some tempers, might ariseAgainst the keeping of his Grace. My Lord,Do they complain that my child Richard hereIs with his desolate and widowed mother,Who has no other comfort? Do they claimHis presence, for that here his residenceConsorts not with his fortunes? I am fixedNot to come forth and jeopardy his life.Car.Jeopardy! Where, and how;—why should, indeed,Your friends have any fears? Can you say why?Eliz.Truly; nor why in prison they should be,As now they are, I know no reason why.But this I know, that they who, without colour,Have cast them into prison, if they will,Their deaths may compass with as little cause.My Lord, no more of this.Car.My gracious queen,This only let me say; if, by arrest,Your Grace's high and honourable kinBe now confined, when trial has been had,They shall do well; and for your Grace's self,There never was, nor can be, jeopardy.Eliz.Why should I trust? That I am innocent!And were they guilty? That I am more loved,Even by those enemies, who only hateThem for my sake!Therefore I will not forth,Nor shall my son,—here will we both abide.These shrines shall be the world to him and me;These monuments our sad companions;Or when, as now, the morning sunshine streamsSlant from the rich-hued window's height, and restsOn yonder tomb, it shall discourse to meOf the brief sunshine in the gloom of life.No, of heaven's light upon the silent grave;Of the tired traveller's eternal home;Of hope and joy beyond this vale of tears.Car.Then pardon me. We will not bandy wordsFurther. If it shall please you, generous queen,To yield your son, I pledge my life and soul,Not only for a surety, but estate.If resolutely still you answer no,We shall forthwith depart, for nevermoreWill I be suitor in this businessUnto your Majesty, who thus accuse,Either of want of knowledge or of truth,Those who would stake their lives on the event.Madam, farewell!Eliz.[after a pause]. Stay, let me think again.If you say sooth—and I have found you ever,My Lord, a faithful friend and counsellor—Into your hands I here resign, in trust,My dearest treasure upon earth, my son.Of you I will require him, before Heaven;Yet, for the love which his dead father bore you,For kindnesses of old, and for that trustThe king, my husband, ever placed in you,Think, if a wretched mother fear too much,Oh think, and be you wary, lest you fearToo little!My poor child, here then we part!Richard! Almighty God shower on your headHis blessings, when your mother is no more.Farewell, my own sweet son! Yet, ere we part,Kiss me again, God only knows, poor babe,Whether in this world we shall meet again!Nay, my boy Richard, let me dry thy tears,Or hide them in my bosom; dearest child,God's blessing rest with thee!—farewell, farewell!My heart is almost broken—oh, farewell!
Eliz.Now, my Lord Cardinal, what is the willOf our great lords with me? Your Grace well knowsI am a helpless woman, have no power;My only wish, for what of life remains,Prayer and repose, and for my poor child hereSafety.
Car.The Council, madam, wish no less;But, for your son, they deem his durance hereBreeds ill report. This separation, too,Of those in blood allied, almost of yearsThe same, who have been cradled in one lap,What can it say, but that one brother standsIn peril of the other? And, besides,Were it not for the comfort of them bothThat they should be together? Sport, not care,Becomes their early years.
Eliz.I say not nay;It is most fitting that my youngest sonWere with the king, his brother; in good faith,I know it would be comfort to them both:But, when I think upon the tender years,Even of the eldest, I must also thinkA mother's custody were best for either.You have no children, else I would not ask,Is there a guardian like a mother's love?Richard, look up! This good man here intendsNo harm to me or you. Look up, my boy!No power on earth, nothing but death itselfShall sever us.What would you more, my Lord?
Car.Madam, no man contendeth that your GraceIs not the fittest guardian of your child,And tenderest; but, if so it pleases youHere to lie hid, shut out from all the world,Be it for humour or for jealousy,We hold it meetest, that no power on earthShould so detain a brother of the King.And let me add, when reasons of the stateRequired the absence of your eldest son,Yourself were well content.
Eliz.Not very well;Nor is the case the same; one was in health,The other here declines; and let me marvelThathe, the Lord Protector of this realm,Should wish him out; for, should aught ill betide,Suspicion, in some tempers, might ariseAgainst the keeping of his Grace. My Lord,Do they complain that my child Richard hereIs with his desolate and widowed mother,Who has no other comfort? Do they claimHis presence, for that here his residenceConsorts not with his fortunes? I am fixedNot to come forth and jeopardy his life.
Car.Jeopardy! Where, and how;—why should, indeed,Your friends have any fears? Can you say why?
Eliz.Truly; nor why in prison they should be,As now they are, I know no reason why.But this I know, that they who, without colour,Have cast them into prison, if they will,Their deaths may compass with as little cause.My Lord, no more of this.
Car.My gracious queen,This only let me say; if, by arrest,Your Grace's high and honourable kinBe now confined, when trial has been had,They shall do well; and for your Grace's self,There never was, nor can be, jeopardy.
Eliz.Why should I trust? That I am innocent!And were they guilty? That I am more loved,Even by those enemies, who only hateThem for my sake!Therefore I will not forth,Nor shall my son,—here will we both abide.These shrines shall be the world to him and me;These monuments our sad companions;Or when, as now, the morning sunshine streamsSlant from the rich-hued window's height, and restsOn yonder tomb, it shall discourse to meOf the brief sunshine in the gloom of life.No, of heaven's light upon the silent grave;Of the tired traveller's eternal home;Of hope and joy beyond this vale of tears.
Car.Then pardon me. We will not bandy wordsFurther. If it shall please you, generous queen,To yield your son, I pledge my life and soul,Not only for a surety, but estate.If resolutely still you answer no,We shall forthwith depart, for nevermoreWill I be suitor in this businessUnto your Majesty, who thus accuse,Either of want of knowledge or of truth,Those who would stake their lives on the event.Madam, farewell!
Eliz.[after a pause]. Stay, let me think again.If you say sooth—and I have found you ever,My Lord, a faithful friend and counsellor—Into your hands I here resign, in trust,My dearest treasure upon earth, my son.Of you I will require him, before Heaven;Yet, for the love which his dead father bore you,For kindnesses of old, and for that trustThe king, my husband, ever placed in you,Think, if a wretched mother fear too much,Oh think, and be you wary, lest you fearToo little!My poor child, here then we part!Richard! Almighty God shower on your headHis blessings, when your mother is no more.Farewell, my own sweet son! Yet, ere we part,Kiss me again, God only knows, poor babe,Whether in this world we shall meet again!Nay, my boy Richard, let me dry thy tears,Or hide them in my bosom; dearest child,God's blessing rest with thee!—farewell, farewell!My heart is almost broken—oh, farewell!
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried,Liberty! and the shores, from age to ageRenowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,Liberty! But a spectre at his sideStood mocking, and its dart uplifting highSmote him; he sank to earth in life's fair pride:Sparta! thy rocks echoed another cry,And old Ilissus sighed, Die, generous exile, die!I will not ask sad pity to deploreHis wayward errors, who thus early died;Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more,Will I say aught of genius misapplied;Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride.But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave,Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave.So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!Ends in that region, in that land renowned,Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,And on the Muses' consecrated ground;His pale cheek fading where his brows were boundWith their unfading wreath! I will not callThe nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound,But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall,And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral.Slow move the plumed hearse, the mourning train,I mark the long procession with a sigh,Silently passing to that village faneWhere, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie;Where sleeps the mother, who with tearful eyePondering the fortunes of thy onward road,Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;Who here, released from every human load,Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode.Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak,When first the earth is heaped upon thy head,In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,She thus might give the welcome of the dead:Here rest, my son, with me—the dream is fled—The motley mask and the great coil are o'er;Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed,Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roarOf earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.Here rest!—on all thy wanderings peace repose,After the fever of thy toilsome way;No interruption this long silence knows;Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray;The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey:Here both shall sleep in peace till earth and seaGive up their dead, at that last awful day,King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me;And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried,Liberty! and the shores, from age to ageRenowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,Liberty! But a spectre at his sideStood mocking, and its dart uplifting highSmote him; he sank to earth in life's fair pride:Sparta! thy rocks echoed another cry,And old Ilissus sighed, Die, generous exile, die!
I will not ask sad pity to deploreHis wayward errors, who thus early died;Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more,Will I say aught of genius misapplied;Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride.But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave,Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave.
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!Ends in that region, in that land renowned,Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,And on the Muses' consecrated ground;His pale cheek fading where his brows were boundWith their unfading wreath! I will not callThe nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound,But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall,And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral.
Slow move the plumed hearse, the mourning train,I mark the long procession with a sigh,Silently passing to that village faneWhere, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie;Where sleeps the mother, who with tearful eyePondering the fortunes of thy onward road,Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;Who here, released from every human load,Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode.
Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak,When first the earth is heaped upon thy head,In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,She thus might give the welcome of the dead:Here rest, my son, with me—the dream is fled—The motley mask and the great coil are o'er;Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed,Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roarOf earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.
Here rest!—on all thy wanderings peace repose,After the fever of thy toilsome way;No interruption this long silence knows;Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray;The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey:Here both shall sleep in peace till earth and seaGive up their dead, at that last awful day,King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me;And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!
Pomp of Egypt's elder day,Shade of the mighty passed away,Whose giant works still frown sublime'Mid the twilight shades of Time;Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude,That strew the sandy solitude,Lo! before our startled eyes,As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,Glimmering larger through the gloom!While on the secrets of the tomb,Rapt in other times, we gaze,The Mother Queen of ancient days,Her mystic symbol in her hand,GreatIsis, seems herself to stand.From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim,Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?And saw ye not in order dreadThe long procession of the dead?Forms that the night of years concealed,As by a flash, are here revealed;Chiefs who sang the victor song;Sceptred kings,—a shadowy throng,—From slumber of three thousand yearsEach, as in light and life, appears,Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast,Three thousand years have silent passed,Suns of empire risen and set,Whose story Time can ne'er forget,Time, in the morning of her prideImmense, along the Nile's green side,The City[197]of the Sun appeared,And her gigantic image reared.As Memnon, like a trembling stringWhen the sun, with rising ray,Streaked the lonely desert gray,Sent forth its magic murmuring,That just was heard,—then died away;So passed, O Thebes! thy morning pride!Thy glory was the sound that died!Dark city of the desolate,Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great!This busy-peopled isle was thenA waste, or roamed by savage menWhose gay descendants now appearTo mark thy wreck of glory here.Phantom of that city old,Whose mystic spoils I now behold,A kingdom's sepulchre, oh say,Shall Albion's own illustrious day,Thus darkly close! Her power, her fameThus pass away, a shade, a name!The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke;A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke;It answered not, but pointed as it fledTo the black carcase of the sightless dead.Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife,And the streets ringing to the stir of life.
Pomp of Egypt's elder day,Shade of the mighty passed away,Whose giant works still frown sublime'Mid the twilight shades of Time;Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude,That strew the sandy solitude,Lo! before our startled eyes,As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,Glimmering larger through the gloom!While on the secrets of the tomb,Rapt in other times, we gaze,The Mother Queen of ancient days,Her mystic symbol in her hand,GreatIsis, seems herself to stand.
From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim,Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?And saw ye not in order dreadThe long procession of the dead?Forms that the night of years concealed,As by a flash, are here revealed;Chiefs who sang the victor song;Sceptred kings,—a shadowy throng,—From slumber of three thousand yearsEach, as in light and life, appears,Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast,Three thousand years have silent passed,Suns of empire risen and set,Whose story Time can ne'er forget,Time, in the morning of her prideImmense, along the Nile's green side,The City[197]of the Sun appeared,And her gigantic image reared.
As Memnon, like a trembling stringWhen the sun, with rising ray,Streaked the lonely desert gray,Sent forth its magic murmuring,That just was heard,—then died away;So passed, O Thebes! thy morning pride!Thy glory was the sound that died!Dark city of the desolate,Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great!This busy-peopled isle was thenA waste, or roamed by savage menWhose gay descendants now appearTo mark thy wreck of glory here.
Phantom of that city old,Whose mystic spoils I now behold,A kingdom's sepulchre, oh say,Shall Albion's own illustrious day,Thus darkly close! Her power, her fameThus pass away, a shade, a name!The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke;A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke;It answered not, but pointed as it fledTo the black carcase of the sightless dead.Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife,And the streets ringing to the stir of life.
Look at those sleeping children; softly tread,Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nighTill their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,'Tis morn, awake! awake! Ah! they are dead!Yet folded in each other's arms they lie,So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly,So breathing and so beautiful, they seem,As if to die in youth were but to dreamOf spring and flowers! Of flowers? Yet nearer stand—There is a lily in one little hand,Broken, but not faded yet,As if its cup with tears were wet.So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death,And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,As when she first did lay her head to restGently on that sister's breast,And kissed her ere she fell asleep!The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.Take up those flowers that fellFrom the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!Your spirits rest in bliss!Yet ere with parting prayers we say,Farewell for ever to the insensate clay,Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wroughtThis work of nature, feeling, and of thought;Thine, Chantrey, be the fameThat joins to immortality thy name.For these sweet children that so sculptured rest—A sister's head upon a sister's breast—Age after age shall pass away,Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.For here is no corruption; the cold wormCan never prey upon that beauteous form:This smile of death that fades not, shall engageThe deep affections of each distant age!Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,Shall gaze with tears upon the monument!And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath:How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!July 2, 1826.
Look at those sleeping children; softly tread,Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nighTill their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,'Tis morn, awake! awake! Ah! they are dead!Yet folded in each other's arms they lie,So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly,So breathing and so beautiful, they seem,As if to die in youth were but to dreamOf spring and flowers! Of flowers? Yet nearer stand—There is a lily in one little hand,Broken, but not faded yet,As if its cup with tears were wet.So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death,And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,As when she first did lay her head to restGently on that sister's breast,And kissed her ere she fell asleep!The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.Take up those flowers that fellFrom the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!Your spirits rest in bliss!Yet ere with parting prayers we say,Farewell for ever to the insensate clay,Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wroughtThis work of nature, feeling, and of thought;Thine, Chantrey, be the fameThat joins to immortality thy name.For these sweet children that so sculptured rest—A sister's head upon a sister's breast—Age after age shall pass away,Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.For here is no corruption; the cold wormCan never prey upon that beauteous form:This smile of death that fades not, shall engageThe deep affections of each distant age!Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,Shall gaze with tears upon the monument!And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath:How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!
July 2, 1826.
Yes, Pamela, this infant treePlanted in sacred earth by thee,Shall strike its root, and pleasant growWhilst I am mouldering dust below.This churchyard turf shall still be green,When other pastors here are seen,Who, gazing on that dial gray,Shall mourn, like me, life's passing ray.What says its monitory shade?Thyself so blooming, now shalt fade;And even that fair and lightsome boy,Elastic as the step of joy,The future lord of yon domain,And all this wide extended plain,Shall yield to creeping time, when theyWho loved him shall have passed away.Yet, planted by his youthful hand,The fellow-cedar still shall stand,And when it spreads its boughs around,Shading the consecrated ground,He may behold its shade, and say(Himself then haply growing gray),Yes, I remember, aged tree,When I was young who planted thee!But long may time, blithe maiden, spareThy beaming eyes and crisped hair,Thy unaffected converse kind,Thy gentle and ingenuous mind.For him when I in dust repose,May virtue guide him as he grows;And may he, when no longer young,Resemble those from whom he sprung!Then let these trees extend their shade,Or live or die, or bloom or fade,Virtue, uninjured and sublime,Shall lift her brightest wreath, untouched by time.
Yes, Pamela, this infant treePlanted in sacred earth by thee,Shall strike its root, and pleasant growWhilst I am mouldering dust below.This churchyard turf shall still be green,When other pastors here are seen,Who, gazing on that dial gray,Shall mourn, like me, life's passing ray.What says its monitory shade?Thyself so blooming, now shalt fade;And even that fair and lightsome boy,Elastic as the step of joy,The future lord of yon domain,And all this wide extended plain,Shall yield to creeping time, when theyWho loved him shall have passed away.Yet, planted by his youthful hand,The fellow-cedar still shall stand,And when it spreads its boughs around,Shading the consecrated ground,He may behold its shade, and say(Himself then haply growing gray),Yes, I remember, aged tree,When I was young who planted thee!But long may time, blithe maiden, spareThy beaming eyes and crisped hair,Thy unaffected converse kind,Thy gentle and ingenuous mind.For him when I in dust repose,May virtue guide him as he grows;And may he, when no longer young,Resemble those from whom he sprung!Then let these trees extend their shade,Or live or die, or bloom or fade,Virtue, uninjured and sublime,Shall lift her brightest wreath, untouched by time.
When evening listened to the dipping oar,Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,Reflects that stately structure on his side,Within whose walls, as their long labours close,The wanderers of the ocean find repose,We wore, in social ease, the hours away,The passing visit of a summer's day.Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,I lingered on the river's marge alone,Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.As thus I mused amidst the various trainOf toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,Two sailors,—well I marked them, as the beamOf parting day yet lingered on the stream,And the sun sank behind the shady reach,—Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight,For ever. As I drew, more anxious, near,I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;But neither said a word. He who was blind,Stood as to feel the comfortable wind,That gently lifted his gray hair—his faceSeemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.The other fixed his gaze upon the light,Parting, and when the sun had vanished quite,Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!And then, as meek and silent as before,Back, hand in hand, they went, and left the shore.As they departed through the unheeding crowd,A caged bird sang from the casement loud,And then I heard alone that blind man say,The music of the bird is sweet to-day!I said, O heavenly Father! none may knowThe cause these have for silence or for woe!Here they appeared heartstricken and resignedAmidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time,Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder bellPealed slow, and bade the dying day farewell,Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to night,They thought upon that world of distant light!And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;Then sighed, as the blithe bird sang o'er his head,No morn shall shine on me till I am dead!
When evening listened to the dipping oar,Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,Reflects that stately structure on his side,
Within whose walls, as their long labours close,The wanderers of the ocean find repose,We wore, in social ease, the hours away,The passing visit of a summer's day.
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,I lingered on the river's marge alone,Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.
As thus I mused amidst the various trainOf toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,Two sailors,—well I marked them, as the beamOf parting day yet lingered on the stream,And the sun sank behind the shady reach,—Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight,For ever. As I drew, more anxious, near,I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;But neither said a word. He who was blind,Stood as to feel the comfortable wind,That gently lifted his gray hair—his faceSeemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.
The other fixed his gaze upon the light,Parting, and when the sun had vanished quite,Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!And then, as meek and silent as before,Back, hand in hand, they went, and left the shore.
As they departed through the unheeding crowd,A caged bird sang from the casement loud,And then I heard alone that blind man say,The music of the bird is sweet to-day!
I said, O heavenly Father! none may knowThe cause these have for silence or for woe!Here they appeared heartstricken and resignedAmidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.
There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time,Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder bellPealed slow, and bade the dying day farewell,Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to night,They thought upon that world of distant light!And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;Then sighed, as the blithe bird sang o'er his head,No morn shall shine on me till I am dead!
Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale,How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale,Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose,When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows,Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close,Came blended with the airs of eventide,When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!But all is silent now! silent the bell,That, heard from yonder ivied turret high,Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell;Silent the vesper-chant, the litanyResponsive to the organ!—scattered lieThe wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray,Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh!And even the mouldering shrine is rent away,Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.Now look upon the sister fane of Wells!It lifts its forehead in the summer air;Sweet, o'er the champagne, sound its Sabbath bells,Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer.Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare,Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state!Oh! say,—shall time revere the fabric fair,Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate,Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate!No! to subdue or elevate the soul,Our best, our purest feelings to refine,Still shall the solemn diapasons roll,Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shineFrom the tall windows on the sculptured shrine,Tinging the pavement! for He shall afford,He who directs the storm, his aid divine,Because its Sion has not left thy word,Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!
Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale,How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale,Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose,When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows,Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close,Came blended with the airs of eventide,When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!
But all is silent now! silent the bell,That, heard from yonder ivied turret high,Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell;Silent the vesper-chant, the litanyResponsive to the organ!—scattered lieThe wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray,Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh!And even the mouldering shrine is rent away,Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.
Now look upon the sister fane of Wells!It lifts its forehead in the summer air;Sweet, o'er the champagne, sound its Sabbath bells,Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer.Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare,Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state!Oh! say,—shall time revere the fabric fair,Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate,Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate!
No! to subdue or elevate the soul,Our best, our purest feelings to refine,Still shall the solemn diapasons roll,Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shineFrom the tall windows on the sculptured shrine,Tinging the pavement! for He shall afford,He who directs the storm, his aid divine,Because its Sion has not left thy word,Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!
The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]The buried coins of mighty men are found,Silent remains of Cæsars and of kings,Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,In its sad story! These have had their dayOf glory, and have passed, like sounds, away!And such their fame! While we the spot behold,And muse upon the tale that Time has told,We ask where are they?—they whose clarion brayed,Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed;Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way,Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray!Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands,That, now, a lone and broken column stands!Ask of that road—whose track alone remains—That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and plains;And still along the silent champagne leads;Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds?Ask of the dead, and silence will reply;Go, seek them in the grave of mortal vanity!Is this a Roman veteran?—look again,—It is a British soldier, who, in Spain,At Albuera's glorious fight, has bled;He, too, has spurred his charger o'er the dead!Desolate, now—friendless and desolate—Let him the tale of war and home relate.His wife (and Gainsborough such a form and mienWould paint, in harmony with such a scene),With pensive aspect, yet demeanour bland,A tottering infant guided by her hand,Spoke of her own green Erin, while her child,Amid the scene of ancient glory, smiled,As spring's first flower smiles from a monumentOf other years, by time and ruin rent!Lone city of the dead! thy pride is past,Thy temples sunk, as at the whirlwind's blast!Silent—all silent, where the mingled criesOf gathered myriads rent the purple skies!Here—where the summer breezes waved the wood—The stern and silent gladiator stood,And listened to the shouts that hailed his gushing blood.And on this wooded mount, that oft, of yore,Hath echoed to the Lybian lion's roar,The ear scarce catches, from the shady glen,The small pipe of the solitary wren.
The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]The buried coins of mighty men are found,Silent remains of Cæsars and of kings,Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,In its sad story! These have had their dayOf glory, and have passed, like sounds, away!
And such their fame! While we the spot behold,And muse upon the tale that Time has told,We ask where are they?—they whose clarion brayed,Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed;Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way,Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray!
Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands,That, now, a lone and broken column stands!Ask of that road—whose track alone remains—That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and plains;And still along the silent champagne leads;Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds?Ask of the dead, and silence will reply;Go, seek them in the grave of mortal vanity!
Is this a Roman veteran?—look again,—It is a British soldier, who, in Spain,At Albuera's glorious fight, has bled;He, too, has spurred his charger o'er the dead!Desolate, now—friendless and desolate—Let him the tale of war and home relate.His wife (and Gainsborough such a form and mienWould paint, in harmony with such a scene),With pensive aspect, yet demeanour bland,A tottering infant guided by her hand,Spoke of her own green Erin, while her child,Amid the scene of ancient glory, smiled,As spring's first flower smiles from a monumentOf other years, by time and ruin rent!
Lone city of the dead! thy pride is past,Thy temples sunk, as at the whirlwind's blast!Silent—all silent, where the mingled criesOf gathered myriads rent the purple skies!Here—where the summer breezes waved the wood—The stern and silent gladiator stood,And listened to the shouts that hailed his gushing blood.And on this wooded mount, that oft, of yore,Hath echoed to the Lybian lion's roar,The ear scarce catches, from the shady glen,The small pipe of the solitary wren.
Monastic and time-consecrated fane!Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,Almost august as in thy early day,Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.No more the mass on holidays is sung,The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung;No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,With lighted tapers, in long order go;Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light;Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows,Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose,Amid the silent sanctity of death,Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,Reprints the tracery of the holy pile,Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?O mightiest Master! thy immortal strainsThese roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow,Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chantPeal through the echoing arches, jubilant?More softly now, imploring litanies,Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighsOf penitence from yon altar rise;Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings—"Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime;Reckless alike of injuries or time;Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty,The tempest hast defied and shalt defy!The temple of our Sion so shall mockThe muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!
Monastic and time-consecrated fane!Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,Almost august as in thy early day,Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.No more the mass on holidays is sung,The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung;No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,With lighted tapers, in long order go;Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light;Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows,Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose,Amid the silent sanctity of death,Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,Reprints the tracery of the holy pile,Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?O mightiest Master! thy immortal strainsThese roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow,Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chantPeal through the echoing arches, jubilant?More softly now, imploring litanies,Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighsOf penitence from yon altar rise;Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings—"Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime;Reckless alike of injuries or time;Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty,The tempest hast defied and shalt defy!The temple of our Sion so shall mockThe muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!