THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^-^KXt,^a^6wJcJ» Jf^ciCZwiZ 

 
 Word Sketches in Windsor
 
 Word Sketches 
 in Windsor 
 
 By 
 
 Alexander Buckler 
 
 Author of 
 "Tales and Legends in Verse" "Memories of Albert the Good' 
 Odes to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales 
 etc. etc. 
 
 Xon&on 
 Digby, Long & Co. Publishers 
 
 i8 Bouverie Street Fleet Street E.G. 
 1897
 
 
 THE MOST NOBLE 
 
 THE MARQUESS OF LORNE, K.T. 
 G.C.M.G., &c. &c. 
 
 GOVERNOR OF WINDSOR CASTLE 
 
 THIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY HIS LORDSHIP'S 
 GRACIOUS PERMISSION 
 
 18057
 
 Preface 
 
 The list of subjects which the Author has selected 
 in the following pages, may be considered incom- 
 plete without the story of the Norman Gateway, 
 and the captive poet Henry, Earl of Surrey, and 
 the fair Geraldine ; which many persons consider 
 to be the chief romance of Windsor Castle, and 
 which in one sense it is ; but it is omitted here 
 for two reasons ; first, because the story has been 
 so beautifully told in his immortal poem, by the 
 Earl of Surrey himself, that it would be treason 
 to attempt to tell it again in verse : Secondly, 
 because when Surrey's poem was written he was 
 
 7
 
 Preface 
 
 forty years of age and married ; while Lady 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald was a girl of fourteen ; and 
 doubtless for the purposes of poetry, and to wile 
 away the tedious hours in his " cruel prison," the 
 Earl wrote of her in the language of a passion 
 which he could hardly have felt ; and his poem 
 must therefore be considered as a romance, written 
 to gratify the " sacred rage of song." 
 
 The lines on the Curfew Tower are literally an 
 account of the Author's first visit to the inside of 
 its venerable walls, the oldest in the Castle. The 
 restorer's hand has more than once had to re- 
 new the outer stones, but the interior, with its 
 oaken staircase, its clock and bells, and its sad 
 inscriptions, has remained in its present condition 
 for centuries — a few feet have been added to its 
 height during the reign of Queen Victoria. 
 
 Historians differ as to the room in which James 
 I. of Scotland was imprisoned, some stating that 
 
 8
 
 Preface 
 
 it was in the Round Tower or Keep : others in 
 the adjoining Devil Tower. As his imprisonment, 
 though not rigorous, lasted for many years, it is 
 probable that he had apartments in both Towers. 
 Washington Irving states that in his time a room 
 in the Keep was shown as King James' prison, 
 but considering the thickness of the walls, and 
 the consequent deep setting of the windows, it 
 was hardly possible for a prisoner there to see 
 into the garden beneath. Mr Hepworth Dixon 
 in his "Royal Windsor" has given the Devil 
 Tower as the place of King James' imprisonment, 
 and he is confirmed by the best authorities. 
 From enquiries made on the spot, it appears 
 that tradition has handed down the south-west 
 window of the second floor of the Devil Tower 
 (now Edward III.'s Tower) as the window of the 
 Poet King's prison, he could thence look down 
 upon the "garden faire" which before the erection 
 
 9
 
 Preface 
 
 of St George's Gateway, extended nearer towards 
 the Devil Tower than it does at the present day. 
 
 The description of the Albert Memorial Chapel 
 is only intended as a rhythmical enumeration of 
 the works of art contained therein : it has a poetry 
 of its own, which can be better felt within its 
 walls than expressed in verse, but no description 
 of Windsor Castle would be complete without 
 some account of that costly, unique, and loving 
 Memorial. 
 
 Beckenha7n, 1897. 
 
 10
 
 Contents 
 
 I. Introduction 
 
 2. Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 3. The Dean's Cloister 
 
 4. The Curfew Tower 
 
 5. The Martyr's Field 
 
 6. Herne's Oak . 
 
 7. The Poet King 
 
 8. The Forest 
 
 9. The Keep 
 
 PAGE 
 
 13 
 
 16 
 28 
 
 34 
 42 
 46 
 48 
 62 
 81 
 
 II
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 10. St George's Chapel . . . .89 
 
 11. The Funeral of King Charles the 
 
 First 100 
 
 12. The Albert Chapel .... 107 
 
 13. The Norman Dungeon . . . .116 
 
 12
 
 Word Sketches in 
 Windsor 
 
 Last year when balmy spring 
 
 Was growing into summer, day by day ; 
 
 As some fair maid, blooms into womanhood : 
 
 The city's din and smoke I could endure 
 
 No longer, and I took my pencils out, 
 
 Brushes and colours : and I journeyed down 
 
 To sketch at glorious Windsor. There I roamed 
 
 From Datchet meads, o'er daisy-spangled turf, 
 
 By banks of cowslip and forget-me-not 
 
 13
 
 Word Sketches in Windsor 
 
 Which smiled upon the swiftly-flowing Thames : 
 
 And gazed upon the ancient Castle's walls, 
 
 In grandeur rising from the Martyr's Field 
 
 And towering in majesty and strength, 
 
 High o'er the timbered Slopes — then passing on 
 
 To where the bridge unites the ancient town 
 
 With classic Eton, there I gazed again 
 
 Upon the Bell Tower and the hundred steps ; 
 
 Then climbed the steep Thames street, whose 
 
 every stone 
 
 Appeared to have some old world tale to t^l 
 
 Of Tudor, Stuart, or Plantagenet, 
 
 Of Wolsey, Falstaff, or of Bluff King Hal, 
 
 And fair Anne Boleyn. Through the Castle wards 
 
 I passed, and viewed the cloisters and the towers 
 
 14
 
 Word Sketches in Windsor 
 
 And then essayed to sketch, but all in vain : 
 
 My mind was wandering ; and dissatisfied 
 
 I laid the brushes down — I could depict 
 
 The lights and shades, the colours and the forms, 
 
 But how could I the history represent 
 
 Which gilded with its charms those ancient walls, 
 
 And lit up gateways — chapels — terraces— 
 
 And dungeons, with the glamour of romance ? 
 
 Vain effort ! for a hundred visions passed 
 
 Reflected on the tablets of my brain 
 
 In quick succession : so throughout the day 
 
 I made word-pictures in my sketch book — thus : 
 
 15
 
 Henry the Eighth's 
 Gateway 
 
 (A.D. 1529) 
 
 On the Castle Hill at Windsor, stands a venerable 
 
 gate 
 Guarded ever by a sentry, since the days of Tudor 
 
 state. 
 Night and day for centuries, by the grim port- 
 
 cullised arch, 
 
 Bayonet bristling in his rifle, still a soldier keeps 
 
 his march. 
 
 16
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway- 
 Kings have died and Kings succeeded ; Queens 
 
 have reigned for good and ill : 
 Yet that gate was ne'er deserted, there a sentry 
 
 marches still. 
 His the outpost of the Castle, nearest to the Royal 
 
 Town ; 
 Guarding, both the Sovereign's safety, and the 
 
 treasures of the Crown. 
 Sign and watchword must be given, passing 
 
 through that gate at night, 
 Inwards to the Castle precincts, up the grand 
 
 historic height, 
 Not a gateway in the kingdom, even that of 
 
 London's Tower, 
 
 17
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway- 
 opened to so many Princes — sees so much of 
 
 pomp and power. 
 On the ancient roadway standing, Kings their 
 
 Royal guests have met : 
 York and Lancaster and Stuart, Tudor and 
 
 Plantagenet. 
 Rebuilded by the Eighth King Henry, still his 
 
 Royal name it bears, 
 Lily, rose, portcullis, sculptured ; Tudor heraldry 
 
 it wears. 
 Still upon its southern frontal Henry's arms are 
 
 carved in stone ; 
 Yet an earlier gate had stood there, which our 
 
 Norman Kings had known. 
 
 i8
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 Here, descending from his charger — too impetuous 
 
 to wait, 
 Stood the tyrant King and lover, at his Royal 
 
 Castle gate, 
 While a cavalcade approaching, up the ancient- 
 winding street. 
 Glittered in the summer sunlight — centred round 
 
 a lady sweet. 
 And beside her gilded litter, Henry's troops to 
 
 guard her rode, 
 Henchmen of the Royal household, escort to her 
 
 new abode. 
 Many a Lord rode by that litter, and above her 
 
 silken chair, 
 
 19
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 A canopy of gilded tissue fluttered in the morning 
 
 air. 
 Passing by the Curfew Tower, whose bells rang 
 
 forth a merry peal ; 
 Passing next the Garter Tower : still ascending 
 
 as they wheel 
 Leftwards, eastward, upwards gliding, on to 
 
 Windsor Castle's gate : 
 Where the King and Cardinals, Wolsey and 
 
 Campeggio wait. 
 And around, the trumpeters, halberdiers and 
 
 henchmen stand ; 
 And the lover King advancing, takes Anne Boleyn 
 
 by the hand : 
 
 20
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 From her litter he assists her, while the trumpets 
 
 through the ward, 
 Sound a fanfare ; and the soldiers, arms present- 
 ing, stand on guard. 
 " Mistress mine to Windsor welcome," Henry 
 
 says in softest tone ; 
 " Soon this Castle, as my heart is, I intend to 
 
 make thine own.'" 
 Blushing, whispering, coyly sighing, passing 
 
 through his Castle gate, 
 Oh ! I wonder if her bosom felt a pang for 
 
 Katherine's fate. 
 Henry to his Presence chamber led her, in her 
 
 beauty's pride, 
 
 21
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 Lords and ladies following after, and her father 
 
 by her side. 
 Robed in velvet lined with ermine ; on her brow 
 
 the coronet, 
 By her Royal lover's order, of a Marchioness was 
 
 set. 
 Peeress of the Realm he made her, prelude this, 
 
 and stepping-stone, 
 To the sunshine of his favour, as the partner of 
 
 his Throne. 
 Brightly gleamed her half-blown beauty : fair as 
 
 apple bloom her brows, 
 Cherry lips, and brown eyes radiant at King 
 
 Henry's whispered vows : 
 
 22
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway- 
 There she stood a living emblem, of the truth the 
 
 prophet said : 
 '■ Vanity of vanity — brightest things must soonest 
 
 fade." 
 Yesterday but Maid of Honour, standing by 
 
 Queen Katherine's Throne, 
 Now to be a Queen possessing Maids of Honour 
 
 of her own : 
 But among those Maids of Honour, even then a 
 
 rival* stood 
 Destined to avenge soon after, Katherine's woes 
 
 in Anna's blood. 
 Anne, herself a Maid of Honour, took the place of 
 
 Henry's Queen, 
 
 ■''■ Jane Seytnour.
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 Only till her Maid of Honour, came like Nemesis 
 
 between : 
 Then the fickle monarch spurned her, even though 
 
 a daughter fair 
 She had given him ; had not Katherine also given 
 
 his Throne an heir ? 
 So he slandered and traduced her, and as 
 
 Katherine was cast 
 From her Throne, Anne now dethroned, weeping 
 
 from his Castle passed. 
 Few the summers which had gilded Windsor 
 
 forest since the day 
 When, the Castle hill ascending ; smiling, blush- 
 ing, laughing, gay, 
 
 24
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 Anne had passed this Royal Gateway, led by 
 
 Henry to a throne : 
 Then she passed again, descending, all her smiles 
 
 and brightness flown. 
 Parted from her infant daughter, flatterer's friend- 
 ship changed to hate ; 
 Real friends afraid to cheer her, fearing now to 
 
 share her fate. 
 Still a Royal Escort led her — not King Henry 
 
 but his guard ; 
 Bearing her from Windsor Castle, to the Tower's 
 
 gloomy ward. 
 She who had her Queen supplanted, and the 
 
 bitter cup of woe. 
 
 25
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 For Queen Katharine made more bitter ; tenfold 
 
 bitterness must know. 
 In her turn dethroned, supplanted, falsely charged 
 
 and vilified ! 
 Only that the fickle tyrant, might obtain another 
 
 bride. 
 And within the dismal Tower, the chamber where 
 
 the night she slept 
 Before her Coronation day — sad memory — for her 
 
 gaol was kept. 
 Short was her trial ; all in vain her passioned 
 
 plea of innocence : 
 Pre-judged, and to the axe pre-doomed, no tears 
 
 availed for her defence ; 
 
 26
 
 Henry the Eighth's Gateway 
 
 That head so young, so beautiful, upon the block 
 she laid to bleed : 
 
 The axe descended— Katherine, then were thy 
 
 f 
 
 wrongs avenged indeed. 
 
 Thus with the visions of past days, of ancient 
 
 pageantry and state, 
 My mind was filled that summer morn, while 
 
 standing at King Henry's gate. 
 
 27
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 Sad are the Cloisters — sad it is to tread 
 Perforce, above the last homes of the dead ; 
 To wear the ancient epitaphs away, 
 Which love, or reverence, in a by-gone day 
 Carved there, and man replaces not — the stone 
 The cloister paves, but from its face has flown 
 The name, the age, the virtues of the dead ; 
 And left no other record in its stead, 
 Save where in arts or history their name 
 
 Survives engraven on the rolls of Fame : 
 
 28
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 Time which indents with lines man's ageing face, 
 Destroys the lines which mark his burying-place. 
 
 Sad are the Cloisters also, for the fate 
 Of fair Anne Boleyn :— o'er the northern gate 
 Her window hangs projecting, and her face 
 Appears to smile in its accustomed place : 
 As gazing o'er the small Quadrangle green, 
 I seem to see her where she oft has been, 
 Before the mirror which flashed back her charms 
 See how she raises up her round white arms, 
 And tosses back the wealth of hazel hair. 
 Which falls around her neck and shoulders fair. 
 I only dream, and back my fancies cast, 
 To revel in the history of the past :
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 But do I dream ? — for draped they say in white, 
 She passes through these Cloisters in the night, 
 With silent steps, and glides beneath the gate 
 Where, first in joy, and last, to meet her fate 
 She passed — with creeping flesh the sentry stands. 
 His musket trembling in his unnerved hands. 
 
 Sad are the Cloisters — once eight statues fair * 
 Adorned their angles — now each niche is bare 
 Each vacant pedestal and canopy 
 Remains there still, to tell how barbarously 
 Fanatic hands, by hearts remorseless fired, 
 Destroyed the work of architects inspired. 
 
 * There are still two canopies and pedestals at each of the 
 four corners but the statues have been destroyed. 
 
 30
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 Two other statues at the northern gate, 
 
 Met at the spoiler's hands the self-same fate. 
 
 Art is religion's hand-maid, or should be, 
 
 And art-destruction is but devilry ; 
 
 The low indulgence of Satanic hate 
 
 The sport of little minds which would be great. 
 
 Had I the power a while, of England's Queen, 
 
 Or of her Ministers, or Windsor's Dean, 
 
 I would the Cloister's glory all restore. 
 
 The tracery mend, and fill each niche once more 
 
 With statues fair, which should in art excel 
 
 Those which beneath religious madness fell ; 
 
 Whose beauty in its fullness should atone 
 
 For all the ancient glories which are gone ; 
 
 And sentinels should guard them night and day 
 
 31
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 With bayonets fixed, to scare the clown away, 
 Whom art subdues not, and whose groveUing 
 
 mind, 
 If mind he has, is still to beauty blind. 
 Who cannot pass an oak, or elm, or beech, 
 But wrecks a bough ; if but within his reach. 
 Yet, worse than he the Puritans who claim 
 Destruction's licence in Religion's name : 
 For these are they who shame on nations bring 
 Such were the men who murdered Charles their 
 
 king; 
 Debased the Crown, the Sceptre took by stealth, 
 Forced Interregnum, calling " Commonwealth : " 
 By strife intestine, making all to know. 
 That so-called common weal, was common woe.
 
 The Dean's Cloister 
 
 This is the Cloister's lesson — Will ye learn, 
 
 Fools, Puritans, and ruthless men who turn 
 
 To wreak your idiotic wantonness 
 
 On works of art : those works were made to bless, 
 
 To teach, to elevate, to humanize, 
 
 To cause new pleasures in your breasts to rise : 
 
 Iconoclasts unnumbered cannot claim 
 
 The glory of a single sculptor's fame. 
 
 33
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 In the ancient Horse-shoe (!:ioister, by the mul- 
 
 lioned windows old, 
 Of St George's Chapel's choirmen, near the old 
 
 bell tower I strolled, 
 From the marble steps up-rising, gilded by the 
 
 sunset's ray, 
 Grandly stands the Gothic Chapel, built in the 
 
 Fourth Edward's day. 
 High above the western window— perfect still be- 
 cause too high 
 
 34
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 To suffer Puritanic malice* — carved beneath a 
 
 canopy 
 Stands the ever-blessed Mother, meek and gentle, 
 
 lowly, mild, 
 Holding in her arms the Saviour, born for man, 
 
 her God and child. 
 All at once behind me sounded, sweet bells musical 
 
 and low ; 
 Softly chiming, gently striking — then rang forth 
 
 the silvery flow. 
 From the curfew tower above me, of an ancient 
 
 melody ; 
 
 * Windsor is said to have suffered more from Cromwell's 
 " Ironsides " than any town in the kingdom. 
 
 35
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 And I turned and met the keeper of the Belfry 
 
 suddenly .' 
 Old in years as well as service, every legend he 
 
 knew well, 
 And it gave him wondrous pleasure, tales of that 
 
 old tower to tell. 
 Built he said by Julius Ctesar when the Romans 
 
 ruled our land ; 
 Of the score of towers most ancient, standing 
 
 round the Castle grand. 
 And his heavy keys producing, straight he led me 
 
 to a door, 
 Where full often prisoners entered, to depart alive 
 
 no more. 
 
 36
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 Up an oaken stair he took me, to the ancient clock 
 
 and bells ; 
 To a narrow port-hole pointed whence King 
 
 Henry, history tells, 
 Hanged a butcher for traducing sweet Anne 
 
 Boleyn's name and fame. 
 Little thinking, that soon after, he himself would 
 
 do the same. 
 Then a prison cell he showed me, in the thickness 
 
 of the stone ; 
 And I shuddered for the wretches doomed so sad 
 
 a home to own : 
 On the wall their names are written, carved as 
 
 epitaphs of grief ; 
 
 37
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 Or, that labour which brings blessing, might pro- 
 cure an hour's relief. 
 As I pondered, suddenly those ancient bells rang 
 
 forth again 
 And I wondered if their music gave the prisoners 
 
 joy or pain. 
 Then he led me to a dungeon down beneath the 
 
 old Thames street, 
 Where at the north-western corner, arching to the 
 
 traveller's feet 
 Like the roots of oaks or beeches, rise the tower's 
 
 foundations strong, 
 Underneath the bulging pavement,* where the 
 
 careless pass along, 
 
 * The pavement in Thames Street at the foot of the 
 
 38
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 All unthankful for their freedom ; knowing not 
 
 the tales of woe, 
 And the living death which darkened, many a life 
 
 immured below. 
 Here, he said poetic Surrey, wasted till the brighter 
 
 hour. 
 When his prison-house was altered, to the airy 
 
 Norman tower ; 
 Whence he feasted on the landscape ever bright 
 
 and ever green ; 
 Or, a fairer vision finding, worshipped Lady Geral- 
 
 dine. 
 
 belfry tower, bulges up over the roof of the dungeon 
 below. 
 
 39
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 And my guide then told the legend, of a passage 
 
 far below ; 
 For escape contrived, extending to the friendly 
 
 river's flow, 
 Where a boat or barge in waiting, might receive a 
 
 precious freight. 
 While a foe above was thundering at the Royal 
 
 Castle gate. 
 
 As I left the Belfry tower, thinking of the ancient 
 
 times 
 Of romance and chivalry, again rang forth the 
 
 silvery chimes. 
 Then a grateful feeling seized me, that my lot in 
 
 life is cast 
 
 40
 
 The Curfew Tower 
 
 In blessed days when life is sacred, and oppres- 
 sion's power is past : 
 
 And I thanked the belfry-keeper giving him a well- 
 earned fee, 
 
 Quite as grateful for his service, as he seemed to 
 be to me. 
 
 Thinking of those days of terror, when in blood 
 their faith men sealed ; 
 
 Down the Hundred steps I sauntered, passing to 
 the Martyr's field. 
 
 41
 
 The Martyr's Field 
 
 A PLOT of green and mossy ground, 
 The Royal Castle's slopes beneath, 
 
 Where blooming nature smiles around, 
 Is sacred to the Martyr's death. 
 
 A ruined window's* sculptured stones 
 Rebuilt, stand there to mark the spot 
 
 Which history and religion owns — 
 Religion's triumph, history's blot. 
 
 * The stones of an ancient window, of Edward III.'s 
 Chapel, on the site of the present Garter Chapel. 
 
 42
 
 The Martyr's Field 
 
 Here Testwood, Pearson, Filmer, stood ; 
 
 And for the faith which filled them, died 
 And Pearson's arms embraced the wood, 
 
 His stake ; and kissed it as his bride.* 
 
 And Testwood, on his crutches t came ; 
 
 Jeered by the crowd ; but in his heart 
 There burned a hoUer purer flame, 
 
 Than that which made his soul depart. 
 
 And gathering the burning straw 
 Like rays of glory on their heads : 
 
 These victims of unholy law 
 Fell down upon their fiery beds. 
 
 * See Fox's Book of Martyrs. 
 t Testwood was a cripple. 
 
 43
 
 The Martyr's Field 
 
 They heard not then the savage yell, 
 From the vile crowd exulting rise : 
 
 For on their quickened ears there fell 
 Angelic music from the skies. 
 
 How vain the efforts which essay, 
 By torture, fire, or prison cell 
 
 To stifle faith — her holy ray 
 
 Burns brighter for the arts of hell. 
 
 Faith knows no fear of pain or ache, 
 But through the dungeon bars she flies 
 
 Dove-like to heaven — the rack or stake 
 To her are gates of Paradise. 
 
 44
 
 The Martyr's Field 
 
 Oft when her rays of silver bright 
 The moon upon the Castle flings : 
 
 The plaintive warbler of the night, 
 The holy Martyr's requiem sings. 
 
 And thrushes in the morning tide, 
 And blackbirds, feed, upon the sod 
 
 "Where Testwood, Filmer, Pearson, died 
 By fire, for conscience and for God. 
 
 45
 
 Heme's Oak 
 
 Art thou that venerable tree, 
 
 Which Shakspere in his Comedy 
 
 Has dowered with deathless fame ? 
 
 That blasted oak, which, ere his day, 
 
 Wasted by wizard's craft away ; 
 
 Bore as the ancient legends say, 
 
 Old Heme the Hunter's name ? 
 46
 
 Heme's Oak 
 
 I know not, for men differ still ; 
 But let them differ as they will ; 
 
 Close to this very spot, 
 The old oak stood, and reverently 
 Believing thou art Shakspere's tree, 
 On thee I gaze— he sang of thee 
 
 And therefore I dare not. 
 
 47
 
 The Poet King 
 
 (a.d. 1422-24.) 
 
 High frowned the Devil Tower 
 Over the Maiden's bower, 
 
 In the garden deep : 
 The captive King James of Scotland there, 
 Gazed on a maiden of beauty rare ; 
 Tending sweet flowers, spring's children fair, 
 
 In the fosse of the keep. 
 
 And she seemed a lady of high degree, 
 
 Fit for his Queen were he but free. 
 
 48
 
 The Poet King 
 
 2. 
 
 Clear as the summer skies, 
 Beamed her soft azure eyes, 
 
 Sunny her hair : 
 Rich was the net of pearls 
 Holding her golden curls, 
 As a still flag enfurls 
 
 Blazonry rare. 
 She was Lady Jane Beaufort, a Maiden of 
 
 Honour, 
 And lovingly looked King James upon her. 
 
 3- 
 White was her graceful neck ; 
 
 " Scarce is there need to deck 
 
 Beauty so rare," 
 D 49
 
 The Poet King 
 
 Said the King, as a ruby bright 
 On her throat pearly white 
 Gleamed on his eager sight ; 
 
 And in her hair, 
 A chaplet of spring flowers her fairy head 
 
 crowned ; 
 And he envied the blossoms her forehead which 
 bound. 
 
 4 
 Fearing to meet her eyes ; 
 Lest in abashed surprise. 
 
 She fled away, 
 
 Like startled bird or hare, 
 
 Shunning that garden fair ; 
 
 He from his window there, 
 SO
 
 The Poet King- 
 
 fc> 
 
 Drew back each day : 
 But he fed on her beauty ; wrote sonnets and lays, 
 And set them to music his idol to praise. 
 
 5- 
 Thinking herself alone ; 
 
 She — joyous — care unknown, 
 
 Sang a sweet lay. 
 
 " Mavis or Merle never uttered such notes," 
 
 The lover King said, "from their musical 
 
 throats," 
 
 And a King on a maiden who tenderly doats 
 
 To her heart finds a way : 
 
 So he sang her in answer a verse of his own, 
 
 But ere he had finished, his charmer had flown. 
 
 51
 
 The Poet King 
 
 Ah ! how could he dare 
 While a prisoner there, 
 
 To offer his love ? 
 Were he free, Scotland's throne 
 Should soon be her own : 
 He could only make known, 
 
 From his window above, 
 His passion in song ; for her chamber was near 
 And he poured out his sonnets each day for her ear. 
 
 7. 
 
 As King James sang his lays 
 
 In Lady Jane's praise. 
 
 Queen Katherine hushed 
 52
 
 The Poet King 
 
 All her maidens around, 
 To drink in each sound ; 
 Then the secret she found, 
 
 For Lady Jane blushed, 
 That the words the King sang, his deep love to 
 
 make known, 
 Should be heard — being meant for no ear but 
 her own. 
 
 8. 
 
 Gentle the Queen and kind ; 
 
 Quickly she set her mind 
 
 True love to aid 
 
 " Captive, yet King is he, 
 53
 
 The Poet King 
 
 And of blood Royal she,* 
 Why should the wooing be 
 
 One day delayed ? " 
 Said the Queen, " In the spring of his love's 
 
 early hour, 
 The bee, though in prison, shall not lack a 
 flower." 
 
 9- 
 
 By the Queen's leave they met ; 
 Thus love has ever yet 
 
 Found out its way : 
 And in a willing ear 
 King James, in accents dear, 
 
 * She was the daughter of the Duke of Somerset, and 
 grand-daughter of John of Gaunt. 
 
 54
 
 The Poet King 
 
 Breathed words so sweet to hear, 
 
 Day after day ; 
 That they were both happy as lovers can be, 
 Though the captive took captive, a heart which 
 was free. 
 
 lo. 
 
 Ah ! how short-lived is joy ; 
 
 How soon does war destroy 
 
 Young lovers' bliss. 
 
 Parting for time unknown, 
 
 Fond hearts to sigh alone. 
 
 Nothing to call their own 
 
 But their last kiss : 
 55
 
 The Poet King 
 
 King Henry of England took his prisoner o'er 
 
 the sea 
 To share his tent, and fight in France, for 
 
 England's sovereignty. 
 
 II. 
 When lovers are parted, 
 A while broken-hearted 
 
 Restless they pine. 
 Maids' hearts grow fonder then, 
 Man's love grows stronger then, 
 Maids' hearts with hearts of men 
 
 Closer entwine. 
 
 For hope, the heart's nourisher ever will prove, 
 
 And absence bind stronger the fetters of love. 
 
 56
 
 The Poet King 
 
 12. 
 
 Still it was hard to wait 
 Passive, for battle's fate 
 
 Day after day ; 
 Yet winter's longest night, 
 Bound in ice fetters tight 
 Must to the morning light 
 
 Vanquished give way ; 
 The Scots sent his ransom — his bondage untied, 
 And James, King of Scotland, came back for 
 his bride. 
 
 Braving the storms of fate, 
 
 Thus shall they win who wait, 
 
 57
 
 The Poet King 
 
 Faithful and true ; 
 King James to the Altar his sweet bride led* 
 And the Scottish crown adorned her head, 
 And Garter titles on each were shed ; 
 
 And, as their due, 
 An escort from Windsor their course to speed 
 
 Bore them home to their Kingdom across the 
 
 Tweed. 
 
 14. 
 His Nation's care 
 Could not love impair, 
 
 Blessed from above. 
 His heart was her world, 
 
 * They were married at St Mary Ovaries, Southwark, 
 now St Saviour's. 
 
 58
 
 The Poet King 
 
 And around it were furled, 
 
 Each day closer curled, 
 
 The tendrils of love : 
 Each to each was the heart's desire ; 
 No earthly joy could they wish for higher. 
 
 •I 
 
 15- 
 To her was he 
 
 Like a brave oak tree, 
 
 Storms could not blast ; 
 
 And she to him was the ivy green, 
 
 Strengthening while it seems to lean, 
 
 Such was Jane Beaufort, Scotland's Queen, 
 
 True to the last, 
 
 When assassins vile to their chamber came 
 
 To perpetrate a deed of shame. 
 
 59
 
 The Poet King 
 
 i6. 
 
 Vile traitors had drawn 
 The bolt that morn 
 
 From the staples rude : 
 But Catherine Douglas, " tender and true," 
 Her white arm placed, the staples through. 
 To give her King time — all a woman could do 
 The foes to exclude : 
 Torn was her gentle flesh, crushed was the bone. 
 She flinched not for pain, nor uttered a groan. 
 
 17. 
 
 Faithful through life, 
 
 Till the murderer's knife 
 
 Came to rob him of breath, 
 60
 
 The Poet King 
 
 His Queen, brave and true, 
 
 Her slender form threw 
 
 As a shield to pierce through 
 
 Between him and death. 
 Pierced was her gentle breast — pierced was her 
 
 side, 
 Ere they tore her away — thus the Poet-King died. 
 
 6i
 
 The Forest 
 
 (An Eisteddfod Prize ■poem 1892.) 
 
 Like some old Family whose pedigree, 
 
 Upwards extends through many a century ; 
 
 Far backward to the long-forgotten past, 
 
 And leaves one manly stripling youth at last, 
 
 To represent his ancient, honoured race : 
 
 Of bearing stately, and of noble face ; 
 
 Such is thy forest Windsor in our day : 
 
 Thy patriarchal oaks in their decay, 
 
 62
 
 The Forest 
 
 Speak of the dynasties which they have seen ; 
 
 The Normans reigned, when they were saplings 
 
 green : 
 
 Plantagenets, their stately boughs beneath, 
 
 Chased the wild stag and pierced the boar to death ; 
 
 Or, in the open, let the merlin fly 
 
 To bring the quarry headlong from the sky : 
 
 And Tudor Kings, beneath their summer shade, 
 
 Breathed the soft vow, and kissed the blushing 
 
 maid ; 
 
 Joined the gay dance, the sylvan shades among, 
 
 Raised the light laugh, or trilled the lighter song. 
 
 The Conqueror's Oak, more ancient than the 
 
 rest, 
 
 With caverned trunk gigantic, rears its crest. 
 
 63
 
 The Forest 
 
 Eight hundred winters froze its sap in vain, 
 Eight hundred springs brought forth its leaves again, 
 Brave oak — thy branching arms which upwards 
 
 soared 
 Eight centuries towards the sun thy lord. 
 Are stunted now. Though sad and sure decay 
 Has slowly worn thy vigorous heart away : 
 Thy giant girth, a man's height from the ground ; 
 Still measures eight and thirty feet around : 
 Type of the Empire which within thy day 
 From one small centre stretched its arms away 
 East, west, north, south, and adding width to 
 
 length, 
 
 Grew with thy growth, and strengthened with thy 
 
 strength. 
 
 64
 
 The Forest 
 
 And may that Empire flourish grand and free 
 
 Till thy last acorn yields as old a tree : 
 
 For, as Earth snatches back her own in death, 
 
 Soon as her sons and daughters yield their breath : 
 
 As Nature triumphs over Art's decay, 
 
 Crumbling our glorious ruins all away ; 
 
 While other races, other temples grand, 
 
 Spring from her teeming breast on every hand : 
 
 So fall the acorns — so the oaks arise : 
 
 And six small acorns, this world's age comprise. 
 
 In leafy beauty and in length of years, 
 
 The beech, as rival of the oak appears ; 
 
 See where its knotted trunk contorted throws 
 
 New bulwarks to the storms, as still it grows. 
 E 65
 
 The Forest 
 
 See with what grace it droops its boughs around : 
 Sheltering the deer upon the mossy ground 
 All dozing in the shade, save one, intent, 
 Whose horns thrown back, head raised, ears for- 
 ward bent, 
 Denote a sentinel as prompt on guard, 
 As those on duty in the Castle ward. 
 Quick to the crouching herd he gives the sign 
 Of man's approach ; and all with instinct fine 
 Rise to their knees and listen — then a sea 
 Of antlers waves beneath the old beech tree : 
 Up springs the herd, and from its shade they fly 
 Like sirens to the waves when man is nigh ; 
 And lightly bounding through the leafy glade, 
 
 To seek another ancient beech tree's shade ; 
 
 66
 
 The Forest 
 
 Swift o'er the springing turf alarmed they flee 
 To yonder thicket's shady canopy ; 
 And leave the intruder^who but seeks to press 
 Their glossy shoulders with a fond caress, 
 Or cull high branches which they long to eat 
 And feed them lovingly with herbage sweet, — 
 To find some living creature, if he can, 
 Which loves the generous sympathy of man. 
 
 Onward I stroll and cast my glance around : 
 
 And o'er the fern-edged path of mossy ground, 
 
 A soft brown hare, more timid than the deer, 
 
 Bounds quickly from my gaze in mortal fear. 
 
 A small red squirrel springing at my feet 
 
 Scales the tall elm tree's trunk with motion fleet ; 
 
 67
 
 The Forest 
 
 Scorn and contempt replace his terror now, 
 As down he gazes from the topmost bough. 
 
 Here blooms the odorous thorn in smiling May, 
 
 While in the ferns beneath, the rabbits play : 
 
 The balmy air around with perfume filled, 
 
 From dewy blossoms white and red distilled. 
 
 The scarlet pimpernel — to prophesy 
 
 A day of brightness — opens to the sky 
 
 And courts the sun : while like a vestal maid 
 
 The modest violet nestles in the shade. 
 
 And daisy tufts, and cowslips brilliantly, 
 
 Like stars reflected in a waveless sea, 
 
 Adorn the banks ; and feathered songsters gay 
 
 Proclaim with joyful voice the welcome May. 
 
 68
 
 The Forest 
 
 On yonder bough beside the mossy nest, 
 Where sits his spouse, a thrush with dappled breast, 
 His head up-turned towards the leaf- veiled sky ; 
 Pours forth a strain of gushing melody : 
 And wakes the echoes of the long elm grove, 
 Striving to tell unutterable love. 
 
 The blackbird warbles to his mate love lorn, 
 
 On the soft moss beneath the twisted thorn ; 
 
 With yellow beak and busy scratching feet, 
 
 Labouring to find the food which both must eat : 
 
 Loudly he calls her — but she comes not yet, 
 
 Unwilling for a moment to forget 
 
 The cherished eggs, warmed by her loving heart, 
 
 For many a night and day ; nor will she part 
 
 69
 
 The Forest 
 
 From her soft nest to feed — he calls again 
 
 In louder and in more imperious strain : 
 
 She answers in a language all unknown 
 
 To those who listen, but its pleading tone 
 
 Is by her consort quickly understood ; 
 
 He takes her place a while ; and to her food 
 
 Hawk-like she flies, in fear lest ill befalls 
 
 Her eggs, and hastens back where duty calls. 
 
 And he — his part performed with conscious pride, 
 
 Gives her her place, and warbles by her side. 
 
 With cautious step the beech tree's trunk draw near, 
 
 Give the green woodpecker no cause for fear : 
 
 See how he taps the bark with labouring beak, 
 
 And peering eyes, his insect meal to seek : 
 
 70
 
 The Forest 
 
 For those old boughs which look so hard, are rife 
 With one vast moving mass of insect life. 
 Absorbed, he sees me not, his meal pursues, 
 And as I nearer draw, his lovely hues 
 To gaze on, fortunate myself I deem 
 To stand so near, when lo a sudden scream 
 Above me in the tortuous branches high 
 I hear — it is the jay's loud shrieking cry ; 
 His brilliant wings just glitter in the tree, 
 Then jay and woodpecker are lost to me. 
 
 In the long avenue by Anna made ; 
 
 Four lines of stately elms, three miles of shade 
 
 Afford ; and like a long Cathedral nave, 
 
 Their branches o'er the Royal highway wave ; 
 
 71
 
 The Forest 
 
 And right and left, are aisles of leafy green ; 
 And flickering sun-light on the path is seen : 
 Here calls the chaffinch, here the linnet sings. 
 And the pied wagtail flits with half-spread wings 
 Upon the path he settles, man draws near. 
 He flies again in temporary fear, 
 But settles only twenty yards ahead, 
 As if near-sighted, till my coming tread 
 Again he hears — a few more yards he flies, 
 Then rests again, as if to tantalise ; 
 A type of pleasure's chase which men pursue ; 
 When almost reached, to be commenced anew. 
 
 I reach a gate and lodge, and watching stand ; 
 
 A dozen acres brown, of new ploughed land 
 
 72
 
 The Forest 
 
 Before me stretch — a lark with carol gay 
 
 Soars upwards in the open, and his lay 
 
 First loud, grows fainter as with joy elate 
 
 He strives to journey up to heaven's high gate. 
 
 A tiny speck he seems, but still his song 
 
 Is heard — and when invisible yet long 
 
 He warbles, but not half his song he lends 
 
 To earth, the greater part to heaven ascends : — 
 
 It ceases — and from whence I saw him rise, 
 
 Upwards I turn my gaze into the skies ; 
 
 I see him now descending : like a stone 
 
 A while he falls, then hovers, pinions thrown 
 
 Wide open now, to check his downward flight 
 
 Too swift for breathing, from that giddy height ; 
 
 Then, like a traveller who has earned his rest, 
 
 73
 
 The Forest 
 
 His journey o'er, he sinks into his nest. 
 
 Where the ploughed ridges join the copse's side 
 
 A kingly pheasant struts in conscious pride 
 
 Bathes his gay plumage in the dust and flings 
 
 The soil, like water, o'er his training wings ; 
 
 Then gazes round and sees that he is seen 
 
 By peering eyes above the hedge-row green, 
 
 Descends into a furrow, and then creeps, 
 
 Back where his mate her watch of duty keeps. 
 
 Less proud than he the yellow-hammer flies 
 
 Swift down the hedge-row, as he vainly tries 
 
 His plumage to conceal, but where the plough 
 
 The turf has turned, secure he settles now : 
 
 Near him a partridge runs, with head raised high 
 
 Now crouching down, and now prepared to fly ; 
 
 74
 
 The Forest 
 
 His feathers brown, so like the up-turned sod 
 He almost seems to be a living clod : 
 He listens to the call importunate, 
 Across the field, of his impatient mate ; 
 He answers — to the copse he turns his eyes, 
 Skims o'er the field as to her nest he flies, 
 A morsel bringing with paternal care. 
 Back to his young — 'tis all that he can bear : 
 Then to their beaks, his crop's soft contents yields, 
 Love's harvest gathered in the sunny fields. 
 
 Heard everywhere, yet scarcely ever seen ; 
 
 With voice monotonous from tree tops green, 
 
 The cuckoo calls— and skimming through the air 
 
 The hissing swift pursues his insect fare ; 
 
 75
 
 The Forest 
 
 And swallows glide low o'er the dusty ground 
 Where, ere the rain, the tempting gnat is found. 
 Down fall the drops upon the rustling leaves, 
 And the dry earth the summer shower receives ; 
 And in return a grateful perfume sheds 
 O'er the green woodlands and the cowslip beds. 
 
 Delightful forest I in thy depths I see 
 
 Nature's eternal, true divinity. 
 
 Nature, dear Mother, how thine influence 
 
 Pervades my being, charming every sense : 
 
 My heart, my brain, my soul, my veins, are filled ; 
 
 And all my senses with thy beauty thrilled. 
 
 When anxious care, or clouds of sadness roll 
 
 And ills unknown seem hovering o'er my soul : 
 
 76
 
 The Forest 
 
 Here let me roam awhile till I forget 
 
 Absorbed in thee, the cares which life beset. 
 
 With Nature in soul-contact let me rest 
 
 Her holy calm reflected in my breast ; 
 
 Deep as pine shadows in some placid lake 
 
 At noon, when sleeping winds no ripples make : 
 
 Here I can feel my life — more freely breathe, 
 
 Where some for town's excitements would but 
 
 giieve ; 
 Here I can think deep thoughts, new visions see 
 Of Nature's beauty and immensity. 
 And, like a lover, feeding while I gaze, 
 Some new perfection ever find to praise : 
 For as the harp beneath the minstrel's hand, 
 Breathes at his touch, and speaks at his command,
 
 The Forest 
 
 Its chords attuned to his soul's melody. 
 
 So, Nature, is my being swayed by thee. 
 
 Here let me roam a while, till I forget, 
 
 Absorbed in thee, the cares which Hfe beset ; 
 
 With Nature in soul-contact let me rest, 
 
 Her holy calm reflected in my breast, 
 
 Deep as pine-shadows in some placid lake 
 
 At noon, when sleeping winds no ripples make : 
 
 Here I can feel my life ; more freely breathe, 
 
 Where some for town's excitement would but 
 
 grieve : 
 
 Here I can think deep thoughts, new visions see. 
 
 Of Nature's beauty and immensity ; 
 
 And, like a lover, feeding while I gaze. 
 
 Some new perfection ever find to praise : 
 
 78
 
 The Forest 
 
 For as the harp beneath the minstrel's hand, 
 Breathes at his touch and speaks at his command. 
 Its chords attuned to his soul's melody, 
 So, Nature ! is my being swayed by thee. 
 Yet I, unlike the harp, am powerless 
 A fraction of thy influence to express : 
 For language fails, and speech is impotent ; 
 So ins oul-worship must my praise be spent. 
 And now while birds their sweet siesta take 
 At noon, in copse, and wood, and shaded brake ; 
 Like him addressed in Virgil's foremost line * 
 Beneath this spreading beech tree I recline 
 My weary limbs upon the inviting sod : 
 And join in that grand hymn of praise to God. 
 * VirgiPs First Pastoral, line i. 
 
 79
 
 The Forest 
 
 Which trees, and kine and flowers are offering 
 
 round, 
 In colour, voice, and fragrance, from the ground : 
 While the soft hum of insects, on the breeze 
 In low, soft monotone, comes through the trees : 
 And my eyes ranging o'er the bending grass 
 Can almost see scent-laden zephyrs pass : 
 Here on thy lap, fair Nature, let me rest, 
 And fall asleep, dear mother, on thy breast. 
 
 80
 
 The Keep 
 
 {Or Rotmd Tower) 
 
 Up the dim and winding staircase, of the ancient 
 
 moated keep, 
 Toiling, struggling, upwards stumbling, on the 
 
 steps both dark and steep 
 
 Still ascending, gaining glimpses ever changing, 
 
 ever fair, 
 
 F 8i
 
 The Keep 
 
 Through the slits which serve for windows to the 
 
 tedious circling stair ; 
 Of the green and smiling country, basking in the 
 
 summer sun, 
 Still I laboured, and a prospect worthy of my toil 
 
 I won. 
 
 On the lofty summit standing, like a picture-map 
 outspread, 
 
 A dozen counties lay around me — from the flag- 
 staff o'er my head 
 
 Britain's quartered standard floated, in the southern 
 summer breeze, 
 
 Token of the Sovereign's presence ; and a million 
 
 forest trees — 
 
 82
 
 The Keep 
 
 Beeches stately, oaks most ancient, groves of elms, 
 
 for many a mile * 
 Lay before me, waved and glittered, in the glorious 
 
 sunshine's smile ; 
 And meandering through the prospect, Thames his 
 
 winding course pursued, 
 Like a silvery serpent gliding, passing meadow, 
 
 town and wood. 
 Rolling down from classic Oxford — passing 
 
 Windsor Castle's walls, 
 On his course to mighty London, where the cross 
 
 which tops St Paul's 
 
 * The Long Walk grove is nearly three miles long, and 
 Queen Anne's ride five miles. 
 
 83
 
 The Keep 
 
 Rising o'er the distant landscape, seemed the 
 
 summer sky to kiss : 
 Only sign — at nine leagues distance — of the vast 
 
 Metropolis. 
 There unfolded lay before me, many a leaf from 
 
 history's page — 
 Runnymeade with armed barons, ripe in contest to 
 
 engage, 
 Magna Charta Island, smiling, as if conscious that 
 
 its name 
 Holds high place in England's annals — thence the 
 
 people's freedom came ; 
 And I saw the Norman Gateway, looking on the 
 
 garden green, 
 
 84
 
 The Keep 
 
 Where the captive Earl of Surrey, gazed on Lady 
 
 Geraldine ; 
 The Devil Tower whence James of Scotland, 
 
 England's prisoner, first espied 
 That flower sweet, sweet flowers tending, lovely 
 
 Jane, his future bride. 
 Deep beneath me was the dungeon, hallowed by 
 
 the agony 
 Of a son and mother,* victims of a tyrant's cruelty. 
 Eton College and its Chapel, nestled in the elm 
 
 trees shade. 
 Founded by the sixth King Henry— there had 
 studied, there had played, 
 
 * Maud de Braose. See page 38. 
 
 8:
 
 The Keep 
 
 England's scholars, soldiers, statesmen ; youthful 
 Commoners and Peers, 
 
 Men who built the Nation's greatness, in the wis- 
 dom of their years ; 
 
 Chatham, Canning, Fox, two Walpoles, Boling- 
 broke and Littleton, 
 
 Harley, Hallam, Gray and Waller, learned Boyle, 
 great Wellington. 
 
 Like the prospect fair around me, pleasant to the 
 heart and eye, 
 
 History outspread before me pictures of the years 
 gone by : 
 
 Kings and princes, queens, princesses, in proces- 
 sion passing on ; 
 
 86
 
 The Keep 
 
 All the Henrys — all the Edwards — Richards — 
 
 Stephen — cruel John : 
 Tudors and Plantagenets — Charles, who met a 
 
 martyr's death — 
 Eleanor and Catherine — Mary and Elizabeth — 
 Salisbury's Countess— fair Anne Boleyn — Falstafif 
 
 — Slender — sweet Anne Page ; 
 Chaucer — Wyckham — Wolsey — Shakespere — 
 
 Maids of honour — Satesmen sage : 
 All were there again in Windsor, pictured in my 
 
 day-dream long. 
 Till the bell aroused me ringing, for St George's 
 
 evensong. 
 
 Then again one last glance casting, over villages 
 
 and towns, 
 
 87
 
 The Keep 
 
 From Nettlebed in Oxfordshire, from Chiltern 
 
 Hills to Brighton Downs ; 
 To that bright scene reluctantly I gave a loving 
 
 last farewell, 
 Descending, to the summons pealing, from the 
 
 Garter Chapel's bell. 
 
 88
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 The bells rang forth the hour of prayer, 
 
 For St George's vespers. I entered there, 
 
 And a sudden vision of beauty bright, 
 
 In grandeur burst on my ravished sight : 
 
 Fifty stalls of ancient oak, 
 
 In vista long on my vision broke : 
 
 Fifty canopies carved and tall, 
 
 Covered each Knight's appointed stall ; 
 
 Fifty banners of silk and gold, 
 
 Above the stalls, the Knight's names told : 
 
 89
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 Fifty helmets and fifty swords, 
 
 And the crowns of Kings, and the crests of 
 
 Lords ; 
 
 And from every hehnet barred and bright, 
 
 The mantle hung of a Garter Knight : 
 
 And his arms on polished brass below 
 
 Reflected back the sunshine's glow. 
 
 Tints of ruby, and blue, and gold, 
 
 Shone through the carved canopies old ; 
 
 From windows decked in Heraldic state 
 
 With the shields of arms of the high and great. 
 
 The western window's colours bright 
 
 Tinted the Altar with varied light ; 
 
 (Where many a Prince and many a King 
 
 Conferred on his bride the nuptial ring ;) 
 
 90
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 They fell upon columns and tombs and stalls, 
 Gilding the carving and painting the walls ; 
 And from each window's arched head 
 Shone forth St George's cross of red : 
 Twice triple the lions of England's might, 
 On the Royal Standard glittered bright 
 With the Lion of Scotland, rampant and bold, 
 Blazoned on silk and broidered in gold : 
 Quartered with Erin's tuneful lyre, 
 Emblems meet for the Sovereign's quire. 
 
 I sat in the Stall of Wellington,* 
 
 And the sun's west rays through the windows shone 
 
 *The "Faithful Herbert," King Charles's attendant, 
 states that the King was buried ' ' about the middle of the 
 
 91
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 And through the canopies carved, the beams 
 From Heraldic windows in brilliant gleams, 
 Of ruby, and blue, and green, and gold, 
 Like jewels seemed set in the carving old. 
 On the Fourth Edward's tomb there fell, 
 Blood red tints like magic's spell, 
 Above the Altar gently stealing,— 
 Sculptured figures bold revealing ;— 
 On the carved reredos came 
 Mingled hues of gold and flame 
 Gilding marbles which record 
 The Rising of our Blessed Lord. 
 
 choir, over-against the eleventh stall upon the sovereign's 
 side : " the Stall of Wellington is exactly opposite.
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 Then to make the charm complete 
 
 Solemn strains of music sweet 
 
 Filled the quire — of worship telling. 
 
 Plaintive first ; then grandly swelling, 
 
 Up where sculptured palm leaves spread, 
 
 And rival roses, white and red, 
 
 Portcullis, crown, and fleur-de-lys, 
 
 The signs of royal heraldry, 
 
 From the vaulted roof depend ; 
 
 And Art with England's history blend : 
 
 Down the aisles in grandeur pealing 
 
 Through the ante-chapel stealing ; 
 
 Whence a long procession wending, 
 
 Up the ancient steps ascending — 
 
 At the Sovereign's stall dividing— 
 
 93
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 White robed choristers were gliding 
 Each with slow and solemn tread, 
 O'er the pavement, where the dead 
 Who ruled the Kingdom in their day : 
 Beneath are mouldering away. 
 
 Then sacred strains of praise and prayer, 
 
 Time-honoured, filled the Chapel fair ; 
 
 The cadence sweet of solemn reading, 
 
 The plaintive notes of earnest pleading : 
 
 Sounds which are grateful to the soul 
 
 Escaped from town's continuous roll. 
 
 A double chaunt then sweetly rose 
 
 In strains antiphonal, like those 
 
 Of quires celestial on high, 
 
 94
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 As each to other made reply ; 
 Each joining in united song 
 When " Gloria Patri" rolled along 
 Nave, Aisles and Roof— then came again 
 The chaunt's antiphonal sweet strain : 
 Now low, now high, now feelingly ; 
 Changed to a plaintive minor key : 
 Then grandly swelling as before — 
 The " Gloria" arose once more. 
 
 Midway in that heraldic choir 
 
 Where every crest and shield inspire 
 
 Historian, antiquary, sage. 
 
 Herald and poet, youth and age ; 
 
 And each impresses with its charms 
 
 95
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 Of architecture, art, and arms : 
 
 There lies a cold slate-coloured stone * 
 
 Which tells two histories in one. 
 
 A force resistless thither drew 
 
 My eyes and thoughts, for well I knew 
 
 Within a dark foundation arch, that cold grey 
 
 stone beneath, 
 The butcher King and the Martyr King sleep side 
 
 by side in death : 
 The blood-stained King no monument has ever yet 
 
 been given ; 
 
 * The "Faithful Herbert," King Charles's attendant, 
 states that the King was buried " about the middle 
 of the choir over-against the eleventh stall upon the 
 Sovereign's side": the stall of Wellington is exactly 
 opposite. 
 
 96
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 The Martyr King needs none, he has his epitaph 
 
 in heaven.* 
 The choir recalled my thoughts and sang, in the 
 
 Creed of Christendom 
 " The resurrection of the dead, and the life of the 
 
 world to come : " 
 And I thought of the dust of Kings and Queens 
 
 and Princes lying round 
 Awaiting earth's last miracle at the great trumpet's 
 
 sound. 
 The anthem's solemn strains rose high, 
 
 * Henry VIII. 's monument was designed, but never 
 
 executed. Charles II. received ^^70,0030 from Parliament 
 
 for his father's monument, and kept the money, on the plea 
 
 that the grave could not be found. — Tighe's Annals of 
 
 Windsor. 
 
 G 97
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 Great Handel's glorious melody. 
 
 Next came the ancient Garter prayer — 
 
 Used here but never heard elsewhere : 
 
 And when the blessing had been given 
 
 The last Amen rose up to heaven ; 
 
 Then from the organ's muffled breath 
 
 Came solemn strains which told of death ; 
 
 The roll of distant drums, the tread 
 
 Of troops who seemed to bear the dead, 
 
 Advancing nearer and more near : 
 
 The.i rose a passage sweet and clear ; 
 
 Strains like the angel's voices sweet 
 
 Descending the freed soul to greet. 
 
 With mellow voices from the sky. 
 
 While yet the rolling drums reply : 
 
 98
 
 St George's Chapel 
 
 And in melodious strains and soft, 
 
 The spirit seemed to soar aloft, 
 
 To meet the joyful angel's kiss. 
 
 In realms of everlasting bliss ; 
 
 And as the last roll reached the ear. 
 
 Earth seemed more distant, heaven more near. 
 
 Thus the " Dead March," in tones now sweet, now 
 
 dread, 
 Told that a noble Garter Knight was dead. 
 And yet again those solemn strains will roll 
 In' requiem, for each Knight's parted soul. 
 
 99
 
 The Funeral of King 
 Charles the Martyr 
 
 (a.d. 164S) 
 
 Cold blew the wintry- wind, 
 
 Bitter, but yet more kind 
 
 Than the King's foes : 
 
 Wreaked was their fiendish spite, 
 
 Wrong trampling over right, 
 
 Day giving place to night, 
 
 At his life's close. 
 100
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 Dark was the wintr>' sky ; 
 And from the ramparts high, 
 
 Sad eyes were gazing : 
 Watching with dread and fear, 
 Waiting the Martyr's bier ; 
 Their King and Master dear, 
 
 Mourning and praising. 
 
 " While I yet breathe I hope 
 With my stern foes to cope," * 
 
 Oft said the King. 
 
 * " Dum spiro spero" was Charles I.'s motto, and it 
 is WTitten in his own hand, in a copy of Shakespeare 
 given by him to Mr Herbert, which is preserved in the 
 library at 'Windsor.^/esse's Windsor. 
 
 lOI
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 Now by the headsman's stroke, 
 Hushed was the voice which spoke ; 
 Hope beneath sorrow's yoke 
 
 Vanquished, took wing. 
 
 From the cold battlement, 
 Sad friends keen glances sent 
 
 Over the Slopes : 
 Full, like the hearts of men, 
 Thames rolled his current then ; 
 Bare as the forest glen 
 
 Royalist hopes. 
 
 Yet their King came at last, 
 
 Headless and coffined fast ; 
 1 02
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 Ruthlessly slain ; * 
 Passing through Eton Town, 
 Sceptre and life laid down, 
 Yet was his Martyr's crown 
 
 Glorious gain. 
 
 Up the steep Windsor Street 
 Paced the black horses' feet, 
 
 Blacker the hands ; 
 Blacker the hearts of those 
 Who to dethrone him rose ; 
 Whose names, for England's woes, 
 
 Infamy brands. 
 
 * "The most execrable murder that was ever committed 
 since that of our blessed S2cv\o\ir. "—Clarendon's History of 
 the Rebellion. 
 
 103
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 Daring these fiends of hell, 
 Friends who had served him well, 
 
 Loving and brave, 
 Came to receive their King ; 
 Sorrowing, suffering. 
 Thus they the Martyr bring 
 
 Home to his grave. 
 
 First, to the Dean's hall, 
 
 Covered with velvet pall, 
 
 Weeping, they bore him : 
 
 As to the Church they go, 
 
 Heaven, his pure life to show. 
 
 Wept forth soft tears of snow,* 
 
 Lovingly o'er him. 
 * Before the corpse reached the west end of the 
 104
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 Puritan spite 
 Refused burial rite* ; 
 
 Malice most dire : 
 To atone for the wrong, 
 Sounds a service of song 
 Two centuries long ; 
 
 Where he sleeps in the Quire. 
 
 Chapel the black pall was all white." — Wood's AtheneB 
 Oxonensis. 
 
 * " King Charles was buried at Windsor without any 
 words or other ceremonies than the tears and sighs of the 
 few beholders. " — Lord Clarendon. "The ceremony was a 
 very hasty one, performed in the presence of the governor, 
 who had refused to allow the service, according to the Book 
 of Common Prayer, to be used on the occasion." — Sir 
 Henry Ha/ford. 
 
 105
 
 Funeral of King Charles the First 
 
 The Kings of our land 
 Have obsequies grand ; 
 
 Chiefs of the Garter. 
 One, without dirge or prayer, 
 Sleeps in that Chapel fair : 
 He best such rites could spare. 
 
 Dying a Martyr. 
 
 1 06
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Eastward of St George's Altar, yet another Chapel 
 
 fair 
 For his tomb the Seventh Henry, builded but he 
 
 lies not there ; 
 And his son to Wolsey gave it, for his tomb but in 
 
 disgrace 
 Wolsey found in Leicester's cloister a more humble 
 
 burial-place. 
 Thrice a hundred years passed over ere its destiny 
 
 and name 
 
 107
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Queen Victoria changed and made it, sacred to 
 
 her Consort's fame. 
 Wealth untold, on precious marbles lavishing with 
 
 open hands, 
 Porphery and alabaster, purchasing from distant 
 
 lands ; 
 Sculptures fair and mural pictures, all inlaid in 
 
 coloured stones ; 
 Windows rich in hues most brilliant, blended in 
 
 harmonious tones — 
 Two, resplendent with the heroes of the Coburg 
 
 family 
 And their old heraldic bearings ; one depicts 
 
 Gethsemane : 
 
 io8
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Another glows with Eden's garden : and " The 
 Garden of the Blest," 
 
 Pictured there in brightest colours, tells of ever- 
 lasting rest. 
 
 Colours more subdued and paler, tinge the decora- 
 tions chief. 
 
 Marbles carved, to marble etchings, forming frames 
 in bold relief. 
 
 Here the virtues and the graces brightly gleam, in 
 tablets fine ; 
 
 Justice, Prudence, Resignation, Truth and Charity 
 combine. 
 
 Setting forth the Prince's goodness, each a sermon 
 
 graved in stone, 
 
 109
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Moses, Solomon, and David, each for different 
 
 virtues known. 
 Ruth and Boaz, Jephtha's daughter, Rachel, 
 
 Deborah, and Saul, 
 Jacob, Abraham, and Joseph, pictured on the 
 
 inlaid wall ; 
 Each a Scripture history telling ; and the Chancel's 
 
 Sanctuary 
 Glows with yet more costly marbles, and a Gothic 
 
 canopy 
 Carved in precious alabaster, arches panels in 
 
 relief : 
 And the Cross above them rises, type alike of joy 
 
 and grief. 
 
 no
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Rich in jasper and in sardine, malachite and 
 
 porphery, 
 Pohshed spa, green serpentine, onyx and lapis- 
 
 lazuli 
 Gleams the Altar : and above it, rising from his 
 
 open grave. 
 With His hand in blessing lifted o'er the world He 
 
 died to save, 
 Crowned with glory stands the Saviour ; angels are 
 
 on either side : 
 One upholds the sacred Chalice, one the Cross on 
 
 which He died 
 Kneels embracing — these the Reredos form in 
 
 sculpture fair to see, 
 
 III
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 In the purest costly marble from the rocks of 
 
 Sicily. 
 And before this priceless Altar, high above the 
 
 polished floor, 
 Stands the Cenotaph of Albert. Art and wealth 
 
 their utmost store 
 Here have lavished, Tuscan marble forms its 
 
 base : and sculptures rare. 
 Representing Truth and Honour, Hope and 
 
 Charity are there ; 
 Emblems of the Prince's virtues : Science at the 
 
 western side 
 Weeping sits ; and at the eastern, deeply plunged 
 
 in sorrow's tide 
 
 112
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Kneels our stricken Queen in anguish, o'er a fald- 
 stool mournfully 
 Bending, and above is sculptured, armed in Royal 
 
 panoply, 
 Albert, to whose memory sacred, every stone a 
 
 tribute yields ; 
 And the Angels who support him bear a legend 
 
 on their shields 
 Of a glorious fight well ended, of a noble course 
 
 well run, 
 Much attempted, much accomplished, self ignored 
 
 and victory won ; 
 And the Garter's honoured emblems, gleam upon 
 
 his manly breast. 
 
 H 113
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Angels bearing up his pillow, types of his eternal 
 rest. 
 
 And his hand his sword is sheathing, to denote 
 earth's warfare o'er — 
 
 Fought his fight, and his course finished, passing 
 to the golden shore ; 
 
 So this Chapel reads a lesson — Wolsey's tomb as 
 brass was sold : * 
 
 Arrogance to virtue yielding, brass is now ex- 
 changed for gold : 
 
 Stone, for porphery and jasper ; iron, for mosaics 
 fair ; 
 
 * What remained in 1646 of the ornaments of Wolsey's 
 tomb was sold for ^^600 as defaced brass. — /esse. 
 
 114
 
 The Albert Chapel 
 
 Worth the tomb of pride inherits ; what a Nemesis 
 
 is there I 
 Pondering thus I reached the doorway, passing 
 
 with abated breath 
 In alabaster niches sculptured, angels twain of life 
 
 and death.* 
 
 * As you enter the Albert Chapel the Angels of life and 
 death are not seen, but on leaving they claim the con- 
 templation of every visitor. 
 
 "5
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 (A.D. I2Io) 
 
 I. 
 
 'TWAS evening, but the Royal Standard yet 
 
 Was proudly floating o'er the Norman Tower : 
 
 The spendthrift sun was shedding, ere he set, 
 
 The lavish rays of his departing hour, 
 
 On Windsor's topmost battlements. Each flower, 
 
 And herb, and tree below, were bathed in shade : 
 
 And the deep fosse, whose gardens still embower 
 
 The dungeons of the Keep, saw daylight fade 
 
 While yet the sun's last rays on the high Standard 
 
 played. 
 
 ii6
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 2. 
 
 The day was lingering, and I lingered too ; 
 Until at last the Royal Standard fell, 
 As sank the sun — then tints of green and blue 
 And orange, in the west, a witching spell 
 Threw over sky and castle, to foretell 
 A glorious morrow — like a slender cord, 
 Or glittering edges of a silver shell, 
 The crescent moon in modest beauty soared. 
 And followed in the wake of the great sun, her Lord. 
 
 3. 
 
 Upon the wall which skirts the fosse below, 
 
 I leaned, and yielded, to the charm around 
 
 Of soothing summer twilight, and the glow 
 
 Man ever feels of interest profound, 
 
 117
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 Standing on history's lore-enchanted ground. 
 A pale green lamp beside me shed its light 
 Upon the ancient Deanery, renowned 
 In Shakspere's play ; where in her beauty 
 bright 
 The sweet Anne Page by stealth, was wed on such 
 
 a night. 
 
 Below me in the garden was the spot, 
 
 Where on a summer's morning, Lady Jane 
 
 The fairest of the fair ; the captive Scot, 
 
 King James, attracted by her song's sweet 
 
 strain, 
 
 Twice captive he that day. And then again 
 
 Ii8
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 I lost myself in that old history : 
 And while their tender stor>' filled my brain, 
 Deep in the darkness of the dungeon nigh 
 I seemed to hear below, a woman's wailing cry. 
 
 5- 
 Was it some bat upon the ivied wall ? 
 Or sceech-owl perched upon a neighbouring tower? 
 Some late-returning swift with hissing call ; 
 Or did some troubled spirit choose the hour 
 When o'er the Castle evening shadows lower ; 
 To wander where its mortal life was shed 
 By some dark wanton deed of cruel power ? 
 Sad spirit what might be thy history dread ? 
 
 Listening I heard alone the sentry's measured tread. 
 
 119
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 6. 
 
 But to my memory came the fearful tale ; 
 Most awful of all tales of cruelty, 
 Which ere made flesh to creep or blood to quail, 
 And stamped a tyrant's reign with infamy : 
 Blackening a page of England's history ; 
 Here on this spot seven centuries ago — 
 Thank God, the days when such iniquity 
 Was possible are gone — by torture slow 
 A mother and her son were starved to death below. 
 
 7- 
 
 Baron De Braose bought of John his King 
 
 Lands which the King had not the power to sell : 
 
 De Braose, finding this, refused to bring 
 
 The money to the tyrant, knowing well 
 
 1 20
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 The lands would not be his. Then vengeance 
 
 fell 
 Upon him and he fled beyond the sea ; 
 His wife and son were seized. In yonder cell 
 Damp, dark, and narrow, in his cruelty 
 King John immured them both, to die in misery.* 
 
 * ' ' Matthew Paris gives a different version, and attributes 
 it to the King's distrust of William de Braose, in that he 
 determined to take his children as hostages, and that when 
 the persons employed in that service, came to William de 
 Braose, his wife Matilda taking the words out of her 
 husband's mouth, with the inconsiderateness of a woman, 
 said to them she would never deliver up her children, to 
 their master who had basely murdered his own nephew, 
 Arthur. De Braose rebuked his wife, and replied if he had 
 given any offence to the King, he without hostages was 
 ready to make satisfaction according to the judgment of the 
 
 121
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 8. 
 
 There, with one coarse and slender meal alone, 
 Were Maud De Braose and her son confined — 
 The victims of the vengeance of the Throne : 
 Locks, bolts, and bars shut out the world behind. 
 For ever ; and in dark despair they pined 
 
 King's Court and his Peers. Tlie tyrant, it is said, was 
 greatly offended when he heard this report, and sent troops 
 to apprehend William and all his family, but they having 
 timely notice escaped into Ireland. About a year after, 
 John took the fortress in Ireland where Matilda and her 
 son William had taken refuge, and they were starved to 
 death in Windsor Castle A.D. 1210. William de Braose 
 himself escaped from Shoreham into France, and died in 
 the year 1212 at Ebula, and was buried at Paris in the 
 Abbey of St Victor." — Elwes " Castles, Mansions, and 
 Manors." 
 
 1 22
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 Ten days and nights ; enduring death's 'slow 
 
 sting ; 
 Wasting in body, agonised in mind : 
 Rather than own such guilt and be a King 
 Who would not far prefer his victim's suffering ? 
 
 The dungeon door was opened — side by side, 
 
 Supported by the damp and slimy wall ; 
 
 The mother and her son had starved and died ; 
 
 He first — and she, with scarcely strength to crawl 
 
 Beside him and with love maternal fall 
 
 Upon his shivering form, or clasp him tight 
 
 To her fond heart, or futile help to call : 
 
 Kissed his dear cheek, so haggard cold and white: 
 
 But hunger conquered love, her kiss became a bite. 
 
 123
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 lO. 
 
 His cheek was gnawed, and told starvation's 
 
 tale- 
 Repenting then, upon the youthful breast 
 Her own had fed, she fell ; and her wild wail 
 Rang through the echoing vault ; then feebler 
 
 pressed 
 The arms which his poor lifeless form caressed ; 
 For, with that shriek, from its wan dwelling 
 
 place, 
 Her soul went forth ; 'tis said it knows not 
 
 rest. 
 Thus died they — centuries can not efface 
 The infamy of that foul deed. God grant them 
 
 grace. 
 
 124
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 II. 
 
 How long I mused I know not. Damp and cold 
 From the deep fosse the dew rose up around : 
 And brilliant stars, creation's story old, 
 In heaven's high arch above the castled mound 
 Repeated once again from heights profound : 
 But as I gazed on heaven's high canopy, 
 I heard again below that fearful sound 
 As of a woman's shriek of agony, 
 And shuddering left the scene of that dread tragedy. 
 
 12. 
 
 Ye ancient stones of Windsor, cry to heaven 
 For deep in her foundations lies the stain 
 Of many a deed of blood still unforgiven, 
 Of many a cry for mercy asked in vain 
 
 125
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 Ere power gave place to law's supreme domain. 
 Weep for the blood your dungeon floors which 
 
 smears. 
 For every crime in every tyrant's reign, 
 For every victim in your bye-gone years, 
 Shed, if ye can, ye stones, a cataract of tears. 
 
 As he who long in foreign lands has ranged. 
 
 Returning, seems to find his own land changed ; 
 
 I, from life's daily round, a while set free, 
 
 Had travelled in the realms of history : 
 
 The present in the past for one long day 
 
 Had lost, and scarce had power to cast away 
 
 My visions, till the hissing, panting train 
 
 Brought back the nineteenth Century again : 
 
 126
 
 The Norman Dungeon 
 
 Then like a sleeper who, against his will 
 
 In some bright dream disturbed, would dream on 
 
 still, 
 Leaving the Royal Town regretfully, 
 " How full," I said, " the page of history, 
 How blank the future's page, for memory 
 Clings to the past — while hope alone can see 
 Aught in the future" — I could banquet still 
 Upon the lore of Windsor's castled hill, 
 But in the train the day's romance was o'er 
 Yet said I not " Farewell " but " Au revoir." 
 
 127
 
 asg tbe same Butbor. 
 
 Tales and Legends in Verse. 
 
 2nd Edition. 
 
 " Many exquisite gems are to be met with in * Monica. ' " 
 — Windsor Gazette, 
 
 " Rather skilfully done." — Civil Service Gazette. 
 
 "Mr Buckler writes with considerable ease and 
 grace." — The Queen. 
 
 "Something more than verse, it is genuine poetry." — 
 Brighton Gazette. 
 
 "The author is a very accurate and graceful versi- 
 fier." — Court Circular. 
 
 Ode to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales 
 on his happy restoration to health 
 
 "H.R.H. has directed Sir Wm, KnoUys to express 
 the gratification which the perusal of the Ode has 
 afforded him." 
 
 Memories of Albert the Good. 
 
 "You have erected a beautiful pedestal to Prince 
 Albert."— COMTE de Fleury.
 
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