The shower is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dewHangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tearUpon the eyelids of a village child!Mark! where a light upon those far-off wavesGleams, while the passing shower above our headSheds its last silent drops, amid the huesOf the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.10No object on the wider sea-line meetsThe straining vision, but one distant ship,Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.She seems the ship—the very ship I sawIn infancy, and in that very place,Whilst I, and all around me, have grown oldSince she was first descried; and there she sits,A solitary thing of the wide main—As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—20To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice22Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her waySlow up the channel, after many years,Returning from some distant clime, or lands,Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyesCount every nearer surge that heaves around!How many anxious hearts this moment beatWith thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,Intensely fixed upon these very hills,30Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—On—on—into the world of the vast sea,There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,Now fading into mist! So let her speed,And we will pray she may return in joy,When every storm is past! Such is this sea,That shows one wandering ship! How different smileThe sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—40Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shadeUpon the light blue wave, as when of yore,Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,[74]and chidThe tide, that came regardless to his feet,A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlikeYon solitary sea, the summer shines,There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,50And sails, at distance, beautifully swellTo the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—Look! what a fairy lady is that yachtThat turns the wooded point, and silently55Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—And yet as if she said, as she went on,Who does not gaze at me!Yon winding sandsWere solitary once, as the wide sea.60Such I remember them! No sound was heard,Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,Or of the surge that broke along the shore,Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming hereI could have no companion fit for him—So whispered youthful vanity—for himWhom Oxford[75]had distinguished,—can my heart70Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,I wandered forth alone! The first ray shoneOn the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,I listened to the tide's advancing roar,When, for the old and booted fisherman,Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold hazeOf sunrise, I beheld—or was it notA momentary vision?—a fair form—A female, following, with light, airy step,The wave as it retreated, and again80Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,As if in play; and she stood beautiful,Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.I looked that she would vanish! She had left,Like me, just left the abode of discipline,And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,When the pale light first glanced along the wave,88To play with the wild ocean, like a child;And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,And left the scene to solitude. Once moreWe met, and then we parted, in this worldTo meet no more; and that fair form, that shoneThe vision of a moment, on the sands,Was never seen again! Now it has passedWhere all things are forgotten; but it shone100To me a sparkle of the morning sun,That trembled on the light wave yesterday,And perished there for ever!Look around!Above the winding reach of Severn stands,With massy fragments of forsaken towers,Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!Through the lone ivied arch, was it the windCame fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,And deem it some old castle of romance;110And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,Above the wave, fancy it was the formOf a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieksVanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no soundBut of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!There is no bleeding apparition there—No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!Surrounded by the works of silent art,And far, far more endearing, by a group120Of breathing children, their possessor lives;[76]121And ill should I deserve the name of bard—Of courtly bard, if I could touch this themeWithout a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,When one, whose smile I never saw but once,Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—A living and a lovely bride![77]How proud,Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,130With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,Trailing in columns to the midday sun,Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,And the great stir of commerce, and the noiseOf passing and repassing wains, and cars,And sledges, grating in their underpath,And trade's deep murmur, and a street of mastsAnd pennants from all nations of the earth,Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,Hill above hill; and every road below140Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated highOn their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girtWith villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,That ancient city sits!From out those trees,150Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!How many woody glens and nooks of shade,152With transient sunshine, fill the interval,As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,Dark, or with fits of desultory lightFlung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-CoombeAllures the lingering traveller to wind,Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously160The wide scene lies in light! how gloriouslySun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!There the dark yew starts from the limestone rockInto faint sunshine; there the ivy hangsFrom the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,Seem as admonishing the nether woodsOf Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneathThe fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge170One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.And who lives in that far-secluded cot?Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edgeShe lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the soundOf human kind, forsaken as the scene!Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy ringsMarking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,180Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,By moonlight. But what sullen demon piledThe rocks, that stern in desolation frown,Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,[78]Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite183More dismal makes its utter dreariness!But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smilesThe seat of cultivated Addington:[79]And there, that beautiful but solemn churchPresides o'er the still scene, where one old friend[80]190Lives social, while the shortening day unfeltSteals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.Is that a magic garden on the edgeOf Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glensWith porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,200That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,England, thou only art the poor man's home!And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peepsThe Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rockStart from the verdant turf, among the flowers.And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think210Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too![81]He, in retirement's literary bower,Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayerFor her, associate of his early fame,216Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,[82]Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,220Smiling at time!But, hark! there comes a song,Of Scotland's lakes and hills—Auld Robin Gray!Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed wordsMore sadly soothing; but the melody,[83]Like some sweet melody of olden times,A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once—Sung by a maiden[84]of the south, whose look(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,230Are sweeter than her song—no minstrel gray,Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"But would lay down his harp, and when the songWas ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:—Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear."I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,[85]240Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,242And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.
The shower is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dewHangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tearUpon the eyelids of a village child!Mark! where a light upon those far-off wavesGleams, while the passing shower above our headSheds its last silent drops, amid the huesOf the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.10No object on the wider sea-line meetsThe straining vision, but one distant ship,Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.She seems the ship—the very ship I sawIn infancy, and in that very place,Whilst I, and all around me, have grown oldSince she was first descried; and there she sits,A solitary thing of the wide main—As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—20To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice22Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her waySlow up the channel, after many years,Returning from some distant clime, or lands,Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyesCount every nearer surge that heaves around!How many anxious hearts this moment beatWith thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,Intensely fixed upon these very hills,30Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—On—on—into the world of the vast sea,There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,Now fading into mist! So let her speed,And we will pray she may return in joy,When every storm is past! Such is this sea,That shows one wandering ship! How different smileThe sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—40Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shadeUpon the light blue wave, as when of yore,Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,[74]and chidThe tide, that came regardless to his feet,A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlikeYon solitary sea, the summer shines,There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,50And sails, at distance, beautifully swellTo the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—Look! what a fairy lady is that yachtThat turns the wooded point, and silently55Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—And yet as if she said, as she went on,Who does not gaze at me!Yon winding sandsWere solitary once, as the wide sea.60Such I remember them! No sound was heard,Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,Or of the surge that broke along the shore,Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming hereI could have no companion fit for him—So whispered youthful vanity—for himWhom Oxford[75]had distinguished,—can my heart70Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,I wandered forth alone! The first ray shoneOn the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,I listened to the tide's advancing roar,When, for the old and booted fisherman,Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold hazeOf sunrise, I beheld—or was it notA momentary vision?—a fair form—A female, following, with light, airy step,The wave as it retreated, and again80Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,As if in play; and she stood beautiful,Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.I looked that she would vanish! She had left,Like me, just left the abode of discipline,And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,When the pale light first glanced along the wave,88To play with the wild ocean, like a child;And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,And left the scene to solitude. Once moreWe met, and then we parted, in this worldTo meet no more; and that fair form, that shoneThe vision of a moment, on the sands,Was never seen again! Now it has passedWhere all things are forgotten; but it shone100To me a sparkle of the morning sun,That trembled on the light wave yesterday,And perished there for ever!Look around!Above the winding reach of Severn stands,With massy fragments of forsaken towers,Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!Through the lone ivied arch, was it the windCame fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,And deem it some old castle of romance;110And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,Above the wave, fancy it was the formOf a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieksVanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no soundBut of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!There is no bleeding apparition there—No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!Surrounded by the works of silent art,And far, far more endearing, by a group120Of breathing children, their possessor lives;[76]121And ill should I deserve the name of bard—Of courtly bard, if I could touch this themeWithout a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,When one, whose smile I never saw but once,Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—A living and a lovely bride![77]How proud,Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,130With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,Trailing in columns to the midday sun,Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,And the great stir of commerce, and the noiseOf passing and repassing wains, and cars,And sledges, grating in their underpath,And trade's deep murmur, and a street of mastsAnd pennants from all nations of the earth,Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,Hill above hill; and every road below140Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated highOn their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girtWith villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,That ancient city sits!From out those trees,150Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!How many woody glens and nooks of shade,152With transient sunshine, fill the interval,As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,Dark, or with fits of desultory lightFlung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-CoombeAllures the lingering traveller to wind,Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously160The wide scene lies in light! how gloriouslySun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!There the dark yew starts from the limestone rockInto faint sunshine; there the ivy hangsFrom the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,Seem as admonishing the nether woodsOf Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneathThe fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge170One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.And who lives in that far-secluded cot?Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edgeShe lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the soundOf human kind, forsaken as the scene!Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy ringsMarking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,180Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,By moonlight. But what sullen demon piledThe rocks, that stern in desolation frown,Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,[78]Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite183More dismal makes its utter dreariness!But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smilesThe seat of cultivated Addington:[79]And there, that beautiful but solemn churchPresides o'er the still scene, where one old friend[80]190Lives social, while the shortening day unfeltSteals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.Is that a magic garden on the edgeOf Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glensWith porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,200That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,England, thou only art the poor man's home!And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peepsThe Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rockStart from the verdant turf, among the flowers.And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think210Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too![81]He, in retirement's literary bower,Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayerFor her, associate of his early fame,216Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,[82]Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,220Smiling at time!But, hark! there comes a song,Of Scotland's lakes and hills—Auld Robin Gray!Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed wordsMore sadly soothing; but the melody,[83]Like some sweet melody of olden times,A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once—Sung by a maiden[84]of the south, whose look(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,230Are sweeter than her song—no minstrel gray,Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"But would lay down his harp, and when the songWas ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:—
Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.
"I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,[85]240Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,242And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.
The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.
The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long agoIt died away—died, and was heard no more!And where those hills that skirt the level vale,On to the left, the prospect intercept,I would not, could not look, were they removed;Iwouldnot,couldnot look, lest I should seeThe sunshine on that spot of all the world,Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazedLong since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,10Farewell—farewell, for ever!How sincere,How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,And I look back, and almost seem to hearThe music of the days when we were young,Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,19Was my fond heart's first love!The summer eveShone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,Borne from those scenes for ever, while with songThe sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.30At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwinedLay withering, for the dream had been too sweetFor human life; yet never, though his love,All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,To drown even the remembrance that he lived—Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,Died on his desultory lyre.No more!40Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,That long has passed away! Uplift the eyesTo Him who sits above the water flood,—To Him who was, and is, and is to come!Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,And marking here the record of earth's doom,Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—The sound of the great flood, the peopled earthCovering and surging in its solitude!Let us forget the passing hour, the stir50Of this tumultuous scene of human things,And bid imagination lift the veil52Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!The vision of the deluge! Hark—a trump!It was the trump of the Archangel! SternHe stands, whilst the awakening thunder rollsBeneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he standsUpon Imaus' height!No voice is heardOf revelry or blasphemy so high!60He sounds again his trumpet; and the cloudsCome deepening o'er the world!Why art thou pale?A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,As if the shadow of the Almighty passedO'er the abodes of man, and hushed at onceThe song, the shout, the cries of violence,The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curseOf blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,And mocks the deeper thunder!70Hark! a voice—Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earthAnswers, from north to south, from east to west—Perish! The fountains of the mighty deepAre broken up; the rushing rains descend,Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—80Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!Now, dismally, through all her caverns, HellSends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,And then a loud voice answers—Victory!Victory to the rider and his horse!85Victory to the rider and his horse!Ride on:—the ark, majestic and aloneOn the wide waste of the careering deep,Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!90The ark, from its terrific voyage, restsOn Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—Send out the dove, and as her wings far offShine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—
The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long agoIt died away—died, and was heard no more!And where those hills that skirt the level vale,On to the left, the prospect intercept,I would not, could not look, were they removed;Iwouldnot,couldnot look, lest I should seeThe sunshine on that spot of all the world,Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazedLong since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,10Farewell—farewell, for ever!How sincere,How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,And I look back, and almost seem to hearThe music of the days when we were young,Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,19Was my fond heart's first love!The summer eveShone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,Borne from those scenes for ever, while with songThe sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.30At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwinedLay withering, for the dream had been too sweetFor human life; yet never, though his love,All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,To drown even the remembrance that he lived—Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,Died on his desultory lyre.No more!40Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,That long has passed away! Uplift the eyesTo Him who sits above the water flood,—To Him who was, and is, and is to come!Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,And marking here the record of earth's doom,Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—The sound of the great flood, the peopled earthCovering and surging in its solitude!Let us forget the passing hour, the stir50Of this tumultuous scene of human things,And bid imagination lift the veil52Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!The vision of the deluge! Hark—a trump!It was the trump of the Archangel! SternHe stands, whilst the awakening thunder rollsBeneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he standsUpon Imaus' height!No voice is heardOf revelry or blasphemy so high!60He sounds again his trumpet; and the cloudsCome deepening o'er the world!Why art thou pale?A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,As if the shadow of the Almighty passedO'er the abodes of man, and hushed at onceThe song, the shout, the cries of violence,The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curseOf blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,And mocks the deeper thunder!70Hark! a voice—Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earthAnswers, from north to south, from east to west—Perish! The fountains of the mighty deepAre broken up; the rushing rains descend,Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—80Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!Now, dismally, through all her caverns, HellSends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,And then a loud voice answers—Victory!Victory to the rider and his horse!85Victory to the rider and his horse!Ride on:—the ark, majestic and aloneOn the wide waste of the careering deep,Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!90The ark, from its terrific voyage, restsOn Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—Send out the dove, and as her wings far offShine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—
Go, beautiful and gentle dove;But whither wilt thou go?For though the clouds ride high above,How sad and waste is all below!
Go, beautiful and gentle dove;But whither wilt thou go?For though the clouds ride high above,How sad and waste is all below!
The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast100Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a nightWhen she was listening to the hollow wind,She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;Or when it murmured in her hand, forgotThe long, loud tumult of the storm without.She kisses it, and at her father's word,Bids it go forth.
The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast100Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a nightWhen she was listening to the hollow wind,She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;Or when it murmured in her hand, forgotThe long, loud tumult of the storm without.She kisses it, and at her father's word,Bids it go forth.
The dove flies on! In lonely flightShe flies from dawn till dark;And now, amid the gloom of night,110Comes weary to the ark.Oh! let me in, she seems to say,For long and lone hath been my way!Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!So the bird flew to her who cherished it.116She sent it forth again out of the ark;—Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,120And kissed its wings again, and smilinglyDropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:—Go, beautiful and gentle dove,And greet the morning ray;For, lo! the sun shines bright above,And night and storm have passed away.130No longer, drooping, here confined,In this cold prison dwell;Go, free to sunshine and to wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,Thy welcome sad will be,When thou shalt hear no voice of love,In murmurs from the leafy tree:Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,From this cold prison's cell;140Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well![86]And never more she saw it; for the earthWas dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,Again the great Archangel stands; the lightOf the moist rainbow glitters on his hair—146He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose archSpans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,The ascending dove is for a moment seen,The last rain falls—falls, gently and unheard.150Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up!—Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,Behold a cross!—and round about the cross,Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,Lift their acclaiming voice—Glory to thee,Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnifyThy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,For the great dragon is cast down, and hell160Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,And all the visionary pomp is past!I only see a few sheep on the edgeOf this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,And Banwell Church;[87]and farewell to the shoresWhere, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave170I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breezeThat wanders from that sea, whose sound I heardSo many years ago.Yet, whilst the lightSteals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,I turn a parting look, and lift to HeavenA parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus,—With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,178Her mitred brow tempered with lenityAnd apostolic mildness—in her mienNo dark defeature, beautiful as mild,And gentle as the smile of charity,—Thus on the Rock of Ages may upliftHer brow majestic, pointing to the spiresThat grace her village glens, or solemn fanesIn cities, calm above the stir and smoke,And listening to deep harmonies that swellFrom all her temples!So may she adorn—Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure—190This happy land, till time shall be no more!And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touchedBy time, to show a grace, but no decay,Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,The traveller beholds, crowning the valeOf Avalon, with all its towers in light;So, England, may thy gray cathedrals liftTheir front in heaven's pure light, and ever boastSuch prelate-lords—bland, but yet dignified—200Pious, paternal, and beloved, as heWho prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rockThat Church is founded, though the storm withoutMay howl around its battlements, preserveIts spirit, and still pour into the heartsOf all, who there confess thy holy name,Peace, that, through evil or through good report,They may hold on their blameless way!For me,210Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,Hung on my early hopes, that cloud is passed,—Is passed, but not forgotten,—and the lightIs calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,Soon to be ended. I may wake no moreThe melody of song on earth; but Thee,Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no songOf mine, from youth to age, has left a stainI would blot out; and grateful for the goodThy providence, through many years, has lent,Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high willDismiss me,—blessed if, when that hour shall come,My life may plead, far better than my song.
The dove flies on! In lonely flightShe flies from dawn till dark;And now, amid the gloom of night,110Comes weary to the ark.Oh! let me in, she seems to say,For long and lone hath been my way!Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!
So the bird flew to her who cherished it.116She sent it forth again out of the ark;—Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,120And kissed its wings again, and smilinglyDropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:—
Go, beautiful and gentle dove,And greet the morning ray;For, lo! the sun shines bright above,And night and storm have passed away.130No longer, drooping, here confined,In this cold prison dwell;Go, free to sunshine and to wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,Thy welcome sad will be,When thou shalt hear no voice of love,In murmurs from the leafy tree:Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,From this cold prison's cell;140Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well![86]
And never more she saw it; for the earthWas dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,Again the great Archangel stands; the lightOf the moist rainbow glitters on his hair—146He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose archSpans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,The ascending dove is for a moment seen,The last rain falls—falls, gently and unheard.150Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up!—Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,Behold a cross!—and round about the cross,Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,Lift their acclaiming voice—Glory to thee,Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnifyThy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,For the great dragon is cast down, and hell160Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,And all the visionary pomp is past!I only see a few sheep on the edgeOf this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,And Banwell Church;[87]and farewell to the shoresWhere, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave170I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breezeThat wanders from that sea, whose sound I heardSo many years ago.Yet, whilst the lightSteals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,I turn a parting look, and lift to HeavenA parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus,—With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,178Her mitred brow tempered with lenityAnd apostolic mildness—in her mienNo dark defeature, beautiful as mild,And gentle as the smile of charity,—Thus on the Rock of Ages may upliftHer brow majestic, pointing to the spiresThat grace her village glens, or solemn fanesIn cities, calm above the stir and smoke,And listening to deep harmonies that swellFrom all her temples!So may she adorn—Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure—190This happy land, till time shall be no more!And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touchedBy time, to show a grace, but no decay,Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,The traveller beholds, crowning the valeOf Avalon, with all its towers in light;So, England, may thy gray cathedrals liftTheir front in heaven's pure light, and ever boastSuch prelate-lords—bland, but yet dignified—200Pious, paternal, and beloved, as heWho prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rockThat Church is founded, though the storm withoutMay howl around its battlements, preserveIts spirit, and still pour into the heartsOf all, who there confess thy holy name,Peace, that, through evil or through good report,They may hold on their blameless way!For me,210Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,Hung on my early hopes, that cloud is passed,—Is passed, but not forgotten,—and the lightIs calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,Soon to be ended. I may wake no moreThe melody of song on earth; but Thee,Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no songOf mine, from youth to age, has left a stainI would blot out; and grateful for the goodThy providence, through many years, has lent,Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high willDismiss me,—blessed if, when that hour shall come,My life may plead, far better than my song.
FOOTNOTES:[4]The reader is referred to Dr Buckland's most interesting illustrations of these remains of a former world. The Bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.[5]The stupendous Cheddar Cliffs, in the neighbourhood.[6]Wookey,Antrum Ogonis.[7]Uphill church.[8]Flat and Steep Holms.[9]Mr Beard, of Banwell, called familiarly "the Professor," but in reality the guide.[10]Egyptian god of silence.[11]Halt of the French army at the sight of the ruins.[12]The Roman way passes immediately under Banwell.[13]The abbey was built by the descendants of Becket's murderers. Almost at the brink of the channel, being secured from it only by a narrow shelf of rocks called Swallow-clift, William de Courteneye, about 1210, founded a friary of Augustine monks at Worsprynge, or Woodspring, to the honour of the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary, and St Thomas à Becket. William de Courteneye was a descendant of William de Traci, and was nearly related to the three other murderers of à Becket, to whom this monastery was dedicated.[14]See the late Sir Charles Elton's pathetic description of the deaths of his two sons at Weston, whilst bathing in his sight; one lost in his endeavour to save his brother.[15]Called "The Wolves," from their peculiar sound.[16]Uphill.[17]Southey.[18]Three sisters.[19]Dr Henry Bowles, physician on the staff, buried at sea.[20]Charles Bowles, Esq. of Shaftesbury.[21]The author.[22]Young's "Night Thoughts."[23]Clock in the Cathedral.[24]Traditional name of the clock-image, seated in a chair, and striking the hours.[25]Videthe old ballad.[26]A book, called the "Villager's Verse Book," to excite the first feelings of religion, from common rural imagery, was written on purpose for these children.[27]See "Pilgrim's Progress."[28]See Rowland Hill's caricatures, entitled "Village Dialogues."[29]The text, which no Christian can misunderstand, "God isnotwilling," is turned, by elaborate Jesuitical sophistry, to "God is willing," by one "master in Israel." So that, in fact, the Almighty, saying No when he should have said Yes, did not know what he meant, till such a sophistical blasphemer set him right! To such length does an adherence to preconceived Calvinism lead the mind.[30]"And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."—St Paul.[31]Literally the expression of Hawker, the apostle of thousands and thousands. I speak of the obvious inference drawn from such expressions, and this daring denial of the very words of his Master: "Happy are ye,ifye do them!"—Christ. "Butin vain,"etc.[32]I fear many churches have more to answer for than tabernacles.[33]The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.[34]I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."[35]See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"[36]Cowper.[37]The English landlord has been held up to obloquy, as endeavouring to keep up the price of corn, for his own sordid interest; but rent never leads, it only follows, and the utmost a landlord can get for his capital is three per cent., whereas the lord of whirling wheels gains thirty per cent.[38]These lines were written at Stourhead.[39]The Bishop of Bath and Wells. Ken was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James. He had character, patronage, wealth, station, eminence: he resigned all, at the accession of King William, for the sake of that conscience which, in a former reign, sent him a prisoner to the Tower. He had no home in the world; but he found an asylum with the generous nobleman who had been his old schoolfellow at Winchester. Here, it is said, he brought with him his shroud, in which he was buried at Frome; and here he chiefly composed his four volumes of poems.[40]The Rev. Mr Skurray.[41]The seat of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.[42]Mrs Heneage, Compton House.[43]Mrs Methuen, of Corsham House.[44]For the "Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge," on which occasion a sermon was preached by the author.[45]A book, just published, with this title, "The Duke of Marlborough is rector of Overton, near Marlborough."[46]Rev. Charles Hoyle, Vicar of Overton, near Marlborough.[47]"Killarney," a poem.[48]Sonnets.[49]"Exodus," a poem.[50]Large coloured prints, in most cottages.[51]The letter said to be written by our Saviour to King Agbarus is seen in many cottages.[52]Tib, the cat.[53]The notes of the cuckoo are the only notes, among birds, exactly according to musical scale. The notes are the fifth, and major third, of the diatonic scale.[54]The "whip-poor-will" is a bird so called in America, from his uttering those distinct sounds, at intervals, among the various wild harmonies of the forest. See Bertram's Travels in America.[55]In Cornwall, and in other countries remote from the metropolis, it is a popular belief, that they who are to die in the course of the year appear, on the eve of Midsummer, before the church porch. See an exquisite dramatic sketch on this subject, called "The Eve of St Mark," in Blackwood.[56]Madern-stone, a Druidical monument in the village of Madern, to which the country people often resort, to learn their future destinies.[57]Such is the custom in Cornwall.[58]Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.[59]Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis.[60]Erica multiflora, common in this part of Cornwall.[61]Therhythmof this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."[62]The bay of St Ives.[63]Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.[64]Revel is a country fair.[65]It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.[66]The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages:—"May his days be few.""Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.""Let there be none to extend mercy.""Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."[67]The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids.—Polwhele.[68]Bay of St Michael's Mount.[69]The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."[70]Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.[71]Sudden storms are very common in this bay.[72]A wild flower of the most beautiful blue, adorning profusely, in spring, the green banks of lanes and hedgerows.[73]CalledChickell, in Cornwall, the wheat-ear. This should have been mentioned before, where the small well is spoken of in the garden-plot:—"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."[74]Alluding to the well-known story.[75]Having gained the University prize the first year.[76]J. P. Miles, Esq., whose fine collection of paintings, at his magnificent seat, Leigh Court, is well known.[77]Married, whilst these pages were in the press, to a son of my early friend.[78]A wild, desolate, and craggy vale, so called most appropriately, and forming a contrast to the open downs of Fayland, and the picturesque beauties of Brockley.[79]Langford Court, the seat of the late Right Hon. Hely Addington.[80]The Rev. Thomas Wickham, Rector of Yatton.[81]Langhorne, the poet, Rector of Blagdon.[82]Mrs Hannah More, of Barley-Wood, near Wrington, since dead.[83]The Rector of Wrington, Mr Leaves, was the composer of thepopularmelody; but there is an old Scotch tune, to which the words were originally adapted. By melody, I mean the music to the words.[84]Miss Stephens, now the Countess Dowager of Essex.[85]"She looked in my face, till my heart was like to break."—Auld Robin Gray.Nothing can exceed the pathos with which Miss Stephens sings these words.[86]This song, set to music by the author, was originally written for an oratorio.[87]Banwell church is eminently beautiful, as are all the churches in Somersetshire. Dr Randolph has lately added improvements to the altar-piece.
[4]The reader is referred to Dr Buckland's most interesting illustrations of these remains of a former world. The Bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.
[4]The reader is referred to Dr Buckland's most interesting illustrations of these remains of a former world. The Bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.
[5]The stupendous Cheddar Cliffs, in the neighbourhood.
[5]The stupendous Cheddar Cliffs, in the neighbourhood.
[6]Wookey,Antrum Ogonis.
[6]Wookey,Antrum Ogonis.
[7]Uphill church.
[7]Uphill church.
[8]Flat and Steep Holms.
[8]Flat and Steep Holms.
[9]Mr Beard, of Banwell, called familiarly "the Professor," but in reality the guide.
[9]Mr Beard, of Banwell, called familiarly "the Professor," but in reality the guide.
[10]Egyptian god of silence.
[10]Egyptian god of silence.
[11]Halt of the French army at the sight of the ruins.
[11]Halt of the French army at the sight of the ruins.
[12]The Roman way passes immediately under Banwell.
[12]The Roman way passes immediately under Banwell.
[13]The abbey was built by the descendants of Becket's murderers. Almost at the brink of the channel, being secured from it only by a narrow shelf of rocks called Swallow-clift, William de Courteneye, about 1210, founded a friary of Augustine monks at Worsprynge, or Woodspring, to the honour of the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary, and St Thomas à Becket. William de Courteneye was a descendant of William de Traci, and was nearly related to the three other murderers of à Becket, to whom this monastery was dedicated.
[13]The abbey was built by the descendants of Becket's murderers. Almost at the brink of the channel, being secured from it only by a narrow shelf of rocks called Swallow-clift, William de Courteneye, about 1210, founded a friary of Augustine monks at Worsprynge, or Woodspring, to the honour of the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary, and St Thomas à Becket. William de Courteneye was a descendant of William de Traci, and was nearly related to the three other murderers of à Becket, to whom this monastery was dedicated.
[14]See the late Sir Charles Elton's pathetic description of the deaths of his two sons at Weston, whilst bathing in his sight; one lost in his endeavour to save his brother.
[14]See the late Sir Charles Elton's pathetic description of the deaths of his two sons at Weston, whilst bathing in his sight; one lost in his endeavour to save his brother.
[15]Called "The Wolves," from their peculiar sound.
[15]Called "The Wolves," from their peculiar sound.
[16]Uphill.
[16]Uphill.
[17]Southey.
[17]Southey.
[18]Three sisters.
[18]Three sisters.
[19]Dr Henry Bowles, physician on the staff, buried at sea.
[19]Dr Henry Bowles, physician on the staff, buried at sea.
[20]Charles Bowles, Esq. of Shaftesbury.
[20]Charles Bowles, Esq. of Shaftesbury.
[21]The author.
[21]The author.
[22]Young's "Night Thoughts."
[22]Young's "Night Thoughts."
[23]Clock in the Cathedral.
[23]Clock in the Cathedral.
[24]Traditional name of the clock-image, seated in a chair, and striking the hours.
[24]Traditional name of the clock-image, seated in a chair, and striking the hours.
[25]Videthe old ballad.
[25]Videthe old ballad.
[26]A book, called the "Villager's Verse Book," to excite the first feelings of religion, from common rural imagery, was written on purpose for these children.
[26]A book, called the "Villager's Verse Book," to excite the first feelings of religion, from common rural imagery, was written on purpose for these children.
[27]See "Pilgrim's Progress."
[27]See "Pilgrim's Progress."
[28]See Rowland Hill's caricatures, entitled "Village Dialogues."
[28]See Rowland Hill's caricatures, entitled "Village Dialogues."
[29]The text, which no Christian can misunderstand, "God isnotwilling," is turned, by elaborate Jesuitical sophistry, to "God is willing," by one "master in Israel." So that, in fact, the Almighty, saying No when he should have said Yes, did not know what he meant, till such a sophistical blasphemer set him right! To such length does an adherence to preconceived Calvinism lead the mind.
[29]The text, which no Christian can misunderstand, "God isnotwilling," is turned, by elaborate Jesuitical sophistry, to "God is willing," by one "master in Israel." So that, in fact, the Almighty, saying No when he should have said Yes, did not know what he meant, till such a sophistical blasphemer set him right! To such length does an adherence to preconceived Calvinism lead the mind.
[30]"And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."—St Paul.
[30]"And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."—St Paul.
[31]Literally the expression of Hawker, the apostle of thousands and thousands. I speak of the obvious inference drawn from such expressions, and this daring denial of the very words of his Master: "Happy are ye,ifye do them!"—Christ. "Butin vain,"etc.
[31]Literally the expression of Hawker, the apostle of thousands and thousands. I speak of the obvious inference drawn from such expressions, and this daring denial of the very words of his Master: "Happy are ye,ifye do them!"—Christ. "Butin vain,"etc.
[32]I fear many churches have more to answer for than tabernacles.
[32]I fear many churches have more to answer for than tabernacles.
[33]The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.
[33]The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.
[34]I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."
[34]I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."
[35]See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"
[35]See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"
[36]Cowper.
[36]Cowper.
[37]The English landlord has been held up to obloquy, as endeavouring to keep up the price of corn, for his own sordid interest; but rent never leads, it only follows, and the utmost a landlord can get for his capital is three per cent., whereas the lord of whirling wheels gains thirty per cent.
[37]The English landlord has been held up to obloquy, as endeavouring to keep up the price of corn, for his own sordid interest; but rent never leads, it only follows, and the utmost a landlord can get for his capital is three per cent., whereas the lord of whirling wheels gains thirty per cent.
[38]These lines were written at Stourhead.
[38]These lines were written at Stourhead.
[39]The Bishop of Bath and Wells. Ken was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James. He had character, patronage, wealth, station, eminence: he resigned all, at the accession of King William, for the sake of that conscience which, in a former reign, sent him a prisoner to the Tower. He had no home in the world; but he found an asylum with the generous nobleman who had been his old schoolfellow at Winchester. Here, it is said, he brought with him his shroud, in which he was buried at Frome; and here he chiefly composed his four volumes of poems.
[39]The Bishop of Bath and Wells. Ken was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James. He had character, patronage, wealth, station, eminence: he resigned all, at the accession of King William, for the sake of that conscience which, in a former reign, sent him a prisoner to the Tower. He had no home in the world; but he found an asylum with the generous nobleman who had been his old schoolfellow at Winchester. Here, it is said, he brought with him his shroud, in which he was buried at Frome; and here he chiefly composed his four volumes of poems.
[40]The Rev. Mr Skurray.
[40]The Rev. Mr Skurray.
[41]The seat of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.
[41]The seat of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.
[42]Mrs Heneage, Compton House.
[42]Mrs Heneage, Compton House.
[43]Mrs Methuen, of Corsham House.
[43]Mrs Methuen, of Corsham House.
[44]For the "Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge," on which occasion a sermon was preached by the author.
[44]For the "Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge," on which occasion a sermon was preached by the author.
[45]A book, just published, with this title, "The Duke of Marlborough is rector of Overton, near Marlborough."
[45]A book, just published, with this title, "The Duke of Marlborough is rector of Overton, near Marlborough."
[46]Rev. Charles Hoyle, Vicar of Overton, near Marlborough.
[46]Rev. Charles Hoyle, Vicar of Overton, near Marlborough.
[47]"Killarney," a poem.
[47]"Killarney," a poem.
[48]Sonnets.
[48]Sonnets.
[49]"Exodus," a poem.
[49]"Exodus," a poem.
[50]Large coloured prints, in most cottages.
[50]Large coloured prints, in most cottages.
[51]The letter said to be written by our Saviour to King Agbarus is seen in many cottages.
[51]The letter said to be written by our Saviour to King Agbarus is seen in many cottages.
[52]Tib, the cat.
[52]Tib, the cat.
[53]The notes of the cuckoo are the only notes, among birds, exactly according to musical scale. The notes are the fifth, and major third, of the diatonic scale.
[53]The notes of the cuckoo are the only notes, among birds, exactly according to musical scale. The notes are the fifth, and major third, of the diatonic scale.
[54]The "whip-poor-will" is a bird so called in America, from his uttering those distinct sounds, at intervals, among the various wild harmonies of the forest. See Bertram's Travels in America.
[54]The "whip-poor-will" is a bird so called in America, from his uttering those distinct sounds, at intervals, among the various wild harmonies of the forest. See Bertram's Travels in America.
[55]In Cornwall, and in other countries remote from the metropolis, it is a popular belief, that they who are to die in the course of the year appear, on the eve of Midsummer, before the church porch. See an exquisite dramatic sketch on this subject, called "The Eve of St Mark," in Blackwood.
[55]In Cornwall, and in other countries remote from the metropolis, it is a popular belief, that they who are to die in the course of the year appear, on the eve of Midsummer, before the church porch. See an exquisite dramatic sketch on this subject, called "The Eve of St Mark," in Blackwood.
[56]Madern-stone, a Druidical monument in the village of Madern, to which the country people often resort, to learn their future destinies.
[56]Madern-stone, a Druidical monument in the village of Madern, to which the country people often resort, to learn their future destinies.
[57]Such is the custom in Cornwall.
[57]Such is the custom in Cornwall.
[58]Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.
[58]Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.
[59]Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis.
[59]Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis.
[60]Erica multiflora, common in this part of Cornwall.
[60]Erica multiflora, common in this part of Cornwall.
[61]Therhythmof this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."
[61]Therhythmof this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."
[62]The bay of St Ives.
[62]The bay of St Ives.
[63]Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.
[63]Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.
[64]Revel is a country fair.
[64]Revel is a country fair.
[65]It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.
[65]It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.
[66]The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages:—"May his days be few.""Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.""Let there be none to extend mercy.""Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."
[66]The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages:—
"May his days be few.""Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.""Let there be none to extend mercy.""Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."
"May his days be few."
"Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow."
"Let there be none to extend mercy."
"Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."
[67]The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids.—Polwhele.
[67]The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids.—Polwhele.
[68]Bay of St Michael's Mount.
[68]Bay of St Michael's Mount.
[69]The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."
[69]The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."
[70]Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.
[70]Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.
[71]Sudden storms are very common in this bay.
[71]Sudden storms are very common in this bay.
[72]A wild flower of the most beautiful blue, adorning profusely, in spring, the green banks of lanes and hedgerows.
[72]A wild flower of the most beautiful blue, adorning profusely, in spring, the green banks of lanes and hedgerows.
[73]CalledChickell, in Cornwall, the wheat-ear. This should have been mentioned before, where the small well is spoken of in the garden-plot:—"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."
[73]CalledChickell, in Cornwall, the wheat-ear. This should have been mentioned before, where the small well is spoken of in the garden-plot:—
"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."
"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."
[74]Alluding to the well-known story.
[74]Alluding to the well-known story.
[75]Having gained the University prize the first year.
[75]Having gained the University prize the first year.
[76]J. P. Miles, Esq., whose fine collection of paintings, at his magnificent seat, Leigh Court, is well known.
[76]J. P. Miles, Esq., whose fine collection of paintings, at his magnificent seat, Leigh Court, is well known.
[77]Married, whilst these pages were in the press, to a son of my early friend.
[77]Married, whilst these pages were in the press, to a son of my early friend.
[78]A wild, desolate, and craggy vale, so called most appropriately, and forming a contrast to the open downs of Fayland, and the picturesque beauties of Brockley.
[78]A wild, desolate, and craggy vale, so called most appropriately, and forming a contrast to the open downs of Fayland, and the picturesque beauties of Brockley.
[79]Langford Court, the seat of the late Right Hon. Hely Addington.
[79]Langford Court, the seat of the late Right Hon. Hely Addington.
[80]The Rev. Thomas Wickham, Rector of Yatton.
[80]The Rev. Thomas Wickham, Rector of Yatton.
[81]Langhorne, the poet, Rector of Blagdon.
[81]Langhorne, the poet, Rector of Blagdon.
[82]Mrs Hannah More, of Barley-Wood, near Wrington, since dead.
[82]Mrs Hannah More, of Barley-Wood, near Wrington, since dead.
[83]The Rector of Wrington, Mr Leaves, was the composer of thepopularmelody; but there is an old Scotch tune, to which the words were originally adapted. By melody, I mean the music to the words.
[83]The Rector of Wrington, Mr Leaves, was the composer of thepopularmelody; but there is an old Scotch tune, to which the words were originally adapted. By melody, I mean the music to the words.
[84]Miss Stephens, now the Countess Dowager of Essex.
[84]Miss Stephens, now the Countess Dowager of Essex.
[85]"She looked in my face, till my heart was like to break."—Auld Robin Gray.Nothing can exceed the pathos with which Miss Stephens sings these words.
[85]"She looked in my face, till my heart was like to break."—Auld Robin Gray.Nothing can exceed the pathos with which Miss Stephens sings these words.
[86]This song, set to music by the author, was originally written for an oratorio.
[86]This song, set to music by the author, was originally written for an oratorio.
[87]Banwell church is eminently beautiful, as are all the churches in Somersetshire. Dr Randolph has lately added improvements to the altar-piece.
[87]Banwell church is eminently beautiful, as are all the churches in Somersetshire. Dr Randolph has lately added improvements to the altar-piece.
The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public.The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.[88]His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.When the battle was gained, he knew not on what course to determine: instead of marching to London, he retired towards Dover. When he was met by the Kentish men, with green boughs, the quaint historian says, "He wasdaunted." These and many other incidental circumstances may occur to the reader.In representing him, therefore, as under the control of superstitious impressions, I trust I have not transgressed, at least, poetical verisimilitude. An earthquake actually happened about the period at which the poem commences, followed by storms and inundations. Of these facts I have availed myself.I fear the poem will be thought less interesting, from having nothing oflovein it, except, in accordance with the received ideas of the gentleness of Atheling's character, I have made him not insensible to one of my imaginary females; and have, therefore, to mark his character, made him advert to the pastoral scenes of Scotland, where he had been a resident. There is a similarity between my "Monk," and "The Missionary," but their offices and the scenes are entirely different, and some degree of resemblance was unavoidable in characters of the same description.Filial affection, love of our country, bravery, sternness (inflexible, except under religions fears); the loftier feelings of a desolate female, under want and affliction, with something of the wild prophetical cast; religious submission, and deep acquiescence in the will of God;—these passions are brought into action, around one centre, if I may use the word,The Grave of the last Saxon.That Harold's sons landed with a large fleet from Denmark, and were joined by an immense confederate army, in the third year of William's reign, is a well-known historical fact. That York was taken by the confederate army, and that all the Normans, except Sir William Malet, and his family, were killed, is also matter of record.[89]That afterwards, the blow against William failing, the whole country, from the Humber to Tyne, from the east to the west, was depopulated by sword and famine, are facts which are also to be found in all historians.Some slight anachronisms may I hope, be pardoned—if anachronisms they are—such as the year in which the Tower was built,etc.The plan of the Poem will be found, I trust, simple and coherent, the characters sufficiently marked and contrasted, and the whole conducive, however deficient in other respects, to the excitement of virtuous sympathy, and subservient to that which alone can give dignity to poetry—the cause of moral and religious truth.
The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public.
The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.[88]His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.
When the battle was gained, he knew not on what course to determine: instead of marching to London, he retired towards Dover. When he was met by the Kentish men, with green boughs, the quaint historian says, "He wasdaunted." These and many other incidental circumstances may occur to the reader.
In representing him, therefore, as under the control of superstitious impressions, I trust I have not transgressed, at least, poetical verisimilitude. An earthquake actually happened about the period at which the poem commences, followed by storms and inundations. Of these facts I have availed myself.
I fear the poem will be thought less interesting, from having nothing oflovein it, except, in accordance with the received ideas of the gentleness of Atheling's character, I have made him not insensible to one of my imaginary females; and have, therefore, to mark his character, made him advert to the pastoral scenes of Scotland, where he had been a resident. There is a similarity between my "Monk," and "The Missionary," but their offices and the scenes are entirely different, and some degree of resemblance was unavoidable in characters of the same description.
Filial affection, love of our country, bravery, sternness (inflexible, except under religions fears); the loftier feelings of a desolate female, under want and affliction, with something of the wild prophetical cast; religious submission, and deep acquiescence in the will of God;—these passions are brought into action, around one centre, if I may use the word,The Grave of the last Saxon.
That Harold's sons landed with a large fleet from Denmark, and were joined by an immense confederate army, in the third year of William's reign, is a well-known historical fact. That York was taken by the confederate army, and that all the Normans, except Sir William Malet, and his family, were killed, is also matter of record.[89]That afterwards, the blow against William failing, the whole country, from the Humber to Tyne, from the east to the west, was depopulated by sword and famine, are facts which are also to be found in all historians.
Some slight anachronisms may I hope, be pardoned—if anachronisms they are—such as the year in which the Tower was built,etc.
The plan of the Poem will be found, I trust, simple and coherent, the characters sufficiently marked and contrasted, and the whole conducive, however deficient in other respects, to the excitement of virtuous sympathy, and subservient to that which alone can give dignity to poetry—the cause of moral and religious truth.