'IiN SPRING, SHE GATHERED BLOSSOMS FOR THE STILL.'
Page 29.
The Laureates
of England
ffrom :en Joneon to BlfreD GenitESon
WITH SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WORKS AND AN INTRODUCTION
DEALING WITH THE ORIGIN AND SIGNIFICANCE OF
THE ENGLISH LAUREATESHIP
Kenyon West
VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH NUMEROUS NEW
ILLUSTRATIONS
Frederick C. Gordon
1
Hew lord an& aLon&on
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copsrfgbt, 1895, by
ffreoedcfe B. Stohes Company,
Printed in America.
These brief sketches of the
POETS LAUREATE OF ENGLAND
are dedicated, by permission, to
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
M4TC63
CONTENTS.
< PAGE
Prefatory Note xi
Imtroduction, . . . . . xiii
t Hen Jonson, . . V . i
Selections from Jonson :
To Celia, 6
On Truth, 6
Happiness, 7
Lines from " The Sad Shepherd," 7
Life and Death, . . . ."7
The Pleasure of Heaven, . . 7
Fantasy, . . ... . .8
A Vision of Beauty, ... 8
Truth, q
Epitaph on My First Daughter, . 9
Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H., . . 10
Epitaph on Master Philip Gray, . 10
Epitaph on Margaret Ratcliffe, . 10
Song, . . . . . .11
Fame, . . . . . .11
Ode to Himself, . . . . 11
"Chivalry, 12
Song, 12
"Translation of Cowley's Epigram
on Francis Drake, . . .12
Nature, 12
Echo's Lament of Narcissus, . 13
To the Memory of My Beloved
Master, William Shakespeare,
and What He Hath Left Us,
Hymn to Diana,
The True Growth,
Chans' Triumph, .
Song, .....
A Fragment, ....
On the Portrait of Shakespeare
1623,
Lines from " Catiline," .
Jealousy, ....
Begging Epistle to the Chancellor
of the Exchequer,
Stray Thoughts from Jonson,
Sir William Davenant,
Selections from Davenant^
^ To the Queen, . . . .24
Song, 24
Prayer and Praise, . . .25
On a Soldier Going to the Wars, . 25
Weep no More for What is Past, . 26
Cursed Jealousy,
On the Captivity of the Countess
of Anglesey,
Ballad,
Platonic Lovers,
Stray Selections from Davenant,
Conscience, ....
Character and Love of Birtha,
PAGE
26
13
15
16
16
John Dryden, 31
Selections from Dryden :
Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687, . 35
Alexander's Feast : or, the Power
of Music, an Ode in^Honour of
St. Cecilia's Day, November,
1697, . . . >
Selection from " Eleonora
Veni Creator Spiritus,
Selection,
Limit of Fate,
The Old Age of the Temperai
Human Life, .
The Infant,
Beauty and Youth,
Selection,
Reason and Religion,
A Simile,
Men
The Unity of the Catholic CI
From " Rival Ladies," .
" Ah, How Sweet,"
Under Mr. Milton's Picture 1
his Paradise Lost,
Song, ....
Tradition,
Selections from "Absalom
Achitophel,"
Shad '
urch
efore
Stray Lines from Dryden,
Thomas Shadwell, .
Selections from Shadwell
Ode on the Anniversary of the
King's Birth, . !*
Song for St. Cecilia's Day,
From " The Innocent Impostors,"
On Dryden's Heroic Tragedies,
Satirical Bines on Dryden,
On Ben Jonson,
On Ben Jonson,
46
46
46
47
47
)47
40
40
53
59
59
60
60
Contents*
Nahum Tate, ....
Selections from Tate :
Charles II
On the Death of Queen Mary II.
Chorus from " The Ode for the Year
fage
. 61
1705
The Tea Table,
On the "Spectator,"
From " The Loyal General,"
Song, " Damon's Melancholy,"
Eclogue of Virgil, .
The Tear,
The Upright Man,
The Birth of Christ,
Hymn, ....
Psalm XLII, .
From " Psalm XCV," .
From " Psalm C," .
From " Psalm CIV,"
Selections from Psalms, .
Selection from "An Essay for Pro
moling Psalmody,"
Nicholas Rowe,
Selections from Rowe :
Ode for the New Year, 1717, .
Colin's Complaint,
Song,
Ulysses, '
To Mrs. A. D., While Singing,
On Mr. Bayes' Dramatic Pieces,
Selection, .....
Stray Selections from " The Fair
Penitent,"
Stray Selections from " Lady Jane
Grey,"
Penitence and Death of Jane Shore
Lawrence Eusden, ....
Selections from Eusden :
A Poem on the Happy Succession
and Coronation of His Present
Majesty, King George II., .
George II., . . .
The Courtier. A Fable,
To Mr. , . . . .
On The Spectator's Critique on
Milton,
To the Reverend Dr. Bentley,
Medea, Act IV. Last Chorus,
90
90
9 1
92
92
94
COLLEY ClBBER, . . . .95
Selections from Cihrer :
An Ode to His Majesty for the
New Year, 1730-31, . . .99
Cibber's Ironical Lines on Himself 100
The Blind Boy 101
From " She Wou'd and She Wou'd
^ Not," ...... 101
From " Woman's Wit," . . . 101
From " Love's Last Shift," . . 101
PAGE
From " The Rival Fools," . . 102
From " Caesar in Egypt," . . 102
From " Richard III.," . . . 102
From " King John," . . . 103
From " King John," . . . 103
William Whitehead, . . . 107
Selections from Whitehead :
The Laureate, . . . .111
From " A Charge to the Poets," . 111
Ode for the New Year, 1761, . . xix
Ode for His Majesty's Birthday,
June 4, 1765, .... 112
The Je Ne Scai Quoi, . . . 113
The Double Conquest, . . . 113
On the Birthday of a Young Lady
Four Years Old, . . . . 114
The Enthusiast, .... 114
Lines to Garrick, .... 116
On One of his Lampooners, . . 117
Selections from " The Roman ~~"
Father," . . . . . 117
Selections from " Lines to the Hon-
ourable Charles Townsend," . 118
To Lady Nuneham, on the Death
of Her Sister^ the Honourable
Catharine Venables Vernon,
June, MDCCLXXV, . .118
Variety, 119
Thomas Warton, .... 123
Selections from Warton :
On His Majesty's Birthday, June
4- 1787 127
Selection from " Ode on His Maj- - <
esty's Birthday, June 4, 1788," . 128
Selections from " The Pleasures of
Melancholy," .... 129
Oxford, 131
Selections from " The Hamlet," . 133
Retirement, 134
To Sleep, 134
From " Euripides," . . -135
Selection from " The First of
April," 135
Sleep 136
Monody, 136
Selections from the Sonnets :
I. On Revisiting the River Lodon, 137
II. Written at Winslade, Hamp-
shire, ..... 137
III. Written in a Blank Leaf of Dug-
dale's " Monasticon," . . 138
IV. Written at Stonehenge, . . 138
V. Written after Seeing Wilton
House 139
VI. On Summer, .... 139
Henry James Pye 140
Selections from Pye :
Ode for the New Year, 1791, . . 144
X
Contents*
i
PAGE
Selection from " The Ode for the
King's Birthday, 1792," . . 146
Selection from " The Ode for the
New Year, 1797," . . . 146
Birthday Ode for the Year 1800, 147
Selection from " Naucratia, or
Naval Dominion," . . . 147
Shooting, 148
From " Alfred," .... 148
Robert Southey, . . . .151
Selections from Southey :
Selection from "Carmen Trium-
phale," ......
Selections from " Ode written dur-
ing the Negociations with Buona-
parte, in January, 1814," . . 157
Selections from " Funeral Song," . 159
Selections from " Ode Written Dur-
ing the War with America," 1814, 162
The Spanish Armada, . . . 163
Remembrance,
Roderick in Battle,
The Curse,
The Swerga, .
From " Kehama," .
From " Kehama," .
From " Thalaba," .
From "Madoc,"
The Source of the Ganges
The Sea, ....
Impulse, ....
Freedom of the Will,
The Ebb-Tide,
The Dead Friend, .
Inscription, ...
From " The Rose,"
The Traveller's Return,
The Old Man's Comforts and
He Gained Them,
From " The Devil's Walk
The Battle of Blenheim,
The Well of St. Keyne,
The Cataract of Lodore,
The Inchcape Rock,
Stanzas Written in my Library,
Epitaph, .
To Mary Wolstonecraft
57
. 164
. 166
. 167
. 167
. 169
. 169
. 170
. 170
. 170
. 171
How
171
171
172
i73
i74
i74
i75
*75
t 7 6
177
179
182
185
Selections from, the Sonnets :
I. " Fair is the Rising Morn," . 185
II. " How Darkly o'er Yon Far-off
Mountain," . . . .186
III. "O Thou Sweet Lark!" . .186
IV. " Thou Lingerest, Spring," . 186
V. " As Thus I Stand," . . .187
Sonnet to the Evening Rainbow, . 187
William Wordsworth, . . . 188
Selections from Wordsworth :
The Poet Laureate, . . . 193
The Poet, 193
page
Self-Portraiture :
I. From " Poet's Epitaph." , . 194
II. " How Pure His Spirit," . . 195
III. " For I Would Walk Alone," . 195
IV. " There Was a Boy," . . 195
V. Personal Talk, . . . 196
Poems Relating to Wordsworth' 's Mis-
sion, the Growth of His Mind, the
Subjects of His Verse :
I. " Fair Seed-time Had my Soul," 197
II. ** For the Man, Who in this
Spirit," .... 199
III. " Ye Presences of Nature," . 200
IV. " On Man, on Nature," . . 201
V. " Here Might I Pause," . .203
VI. " The Hemisphere of Magic
Fiction," .... 203
VII. " Thus From a Very Early
Age," . . . .204
VIII. First Perception of Words-
worth's Mission, . . 204
IX. " What Want We?" . . 204
' X. " (I Have) Sate Among the
Woods, .... 205
XL " (I) Would Speak," . . 206
XII. " I Felt What Independent
Solaces," .... 206
XIII. "Call Ye These Appearances," 207
XIV. " Were I Grossly Destitute," . 207
XV. " What we Have Loved," . . 208
The Lucy Poems :
I. " Strange Fits of Passion," . 208
II. " She Dwelt Among the Un-
trodden Ways," . . . 209
III. " I Travelled Among Unknown
Men," ..... 209
IV. " Three Years She Grew," . 210
V. " A Slumber," .... 211
Some Poems Relating to Mrs. Words-
worth :
I. " A Farewell," 211
II. "She was a Phantom of De-
light," 213
III. " Thereafter Came One," . . 214
IV. " By Her Exulting Outside Look
of Youth," .... 214
V. " O Dearer Far," . . . 214
Some Poems Relating to Dorothy
Wordsivorth :
I.
Choice of the Home
mere,
at
Gras
21s
II.
" Mine Eyes Did Ne
er.
"
215
III.
" Child of My Paren
216
IV.
From " The Sparrow
's
Mest,'
216
V.
" I was Blest,"
217
VI.
"Such Thraldom,"
217
VII.
/in.
To my Sister, .
To a Butterfly,
217
218
IX.
To a Butterfly,
21Q
X.
Nutting, .
219
Contents.
PAGE
Lines Composed a Few Miles
Above Tintern Abbey, . .221
Ode on Intimations of Immortality, 224
Composed upon an Evening of
Extraordinary Splendour and
Beauty, 230
From " The Excursion" :
I. Description of Mist Opening in
the Hills, . . . . 232
II The Soul's Perception, . . 233
III. Power of the Soul, . . . 234
Stray Lines from "The Excursion," 235
Character of the Happy Warrior, 236
Ode to Duty, 238
Elegiac Stanzas, .... 240
Lines Composed at Grasmere, . 241
Selections front The Sonnets :
I. " Scorn Not the Sonnet," .
II. " Great Men Have Been
Among Us," .
III. " It Is Not to be Thought
of." . . ...
IV. Composed by the Sea-side,
Near Calais, August,
1802, . .
V. September, 1802,
VI. Written in London, Sep-
tember, 1802, .
VII. London, 1802,
VIII. " England ! The Time is
Come," ....
IX. Thought of a Briton, on the
Subjugation of Switzer-
land, ....
X. ToTouissant L'Ouverture,
XL To B. R. Haydon, .
XII. " The World is too Much
with Us," . . .
XIII. Composed upon Westmin-
ster Bridge,
XIV. " It is a Beauteous Even-
ing," . . . .
XV. " The Shepherd Looking
Eastward,"
XVI. To the Supreme Being,
XVII. "Most Sweet It Is,"
XVIII. " Where Lies the Land," .
XIX. "Her Only Pilot," .
XX. To Sleep
XXI. " I Watch, and Long Have
Watched,"
XXII. Mutability, . . .
XXIII. Inside of King's College
Chapel, Cambridge,
XXIV. The Same,
XXV. The Same, ...
XXVI. After-thought, .
XXVII. The Trossachs, .
XXVIII. Highland Hut, .
XXIX. On the Departure of Sir
Walter Scott from Ab-
botsford for Naples,
Written in March, .
Lines Written in Early Spring,
From " Ode to Lycoris,"
Yew-Trees
Airey Force Valley,
The Echo, ....
The Nightingale and the Dove,
To the Cuckoo,
To a Skylark, ....
To the Skylark,
The Green Linnet,
To the Daisy, ....
" So Fair, So Sweet,"
To the Small Celandine,
To the Same Flower,
Daffodils, ....
254
. 255
255
. 256
257
. 258
. 258
. 259
. 260
. 260
. 261
. 262
. 264
. 265
266
267
245
246
246
Some Ballads, Narratives and Pas-
torals :
I. Song at the Feast of Brougham
Castle, 268
II. Hart-Leap Well, . . .272
III. Power of Music, . . . 277
IV. Resolution and Independence, 278
V. The Reverie of Poor Susan, . 281
VI. We are Seven, . . . 282
VII. Anecdote for Fathers, . . 284
VIII. Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude, . 286
IX. The Two April Mornings, . 287
X. The Fountain, . . . 289
XI . The Affliction of Margaret, . 291
XII. Michael, 293
Laodamia, 304
From "Memorials of Scotland" :
I. Stepping Westward, , . 308
II. To a Highland Girl, . . 309
III. The Solitary Reaper, . . 311
IV. Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow
Glen ..... 312
V. At the Grave of Burns, 1803, 313
3*5
317
3>8
321
324
3 2 5
325
VI. Thoughts,
VII. Yarrow Unvisited, .
VIII. Yarrow Visited,
IX. Yarrow Revisited, .
Memories of Departed Friends,
Memories of Cambridge,
To Hartley Coleridge, .
Evening Voluntaries :
I. " Calm Is the Fragrant Air," . 326
II. On a High Part of the Coast of
Cumberland, .... 327
III. " Not in the Lucid Intervals, . 328
Devotional Incitements, . . 328
Inscriptions ;
I. " Hopes, What Are They ? " . 330
II. " Hast Thou Seen," . . . 331
III. " Troubled Long," . . . 332
IV. " Not Seldom," .... 332
Contents.
Stray Selections:
1. To a Child, . . . -333
II. "My Heart Leaps Up," . 333
III. To a Young Lady, . . 333
IV. From " The Tabies Turned, 334
V. From '* Expostulation and
Reply," . . -334
VI. To Lady Fleming, . . -335
VII. Song for the Spinning Wheel, 335
VIII. A Night Piece, . . .336
IX. The Moon, .... 336
X. The Echo 337
Stray Lines from Different Poems, 337
Stray Beauties from " The Pre-
lude," 344
Selection from " The Ode on Prince
Albert,' 1 34 8
349
Alfred Tennyson,
Selections from Tennyson :
To the Queen,
The Poet, ....
Poland, .
From " The Two Voices,"
The Miller's Danghter, .
The Palace of Art, .
The Lotos-Eaters, . .
From " Lines to J. S.."
From "Love Thou Thy Land,"
Love and Duty,
Ulysses, .....
Locksley Hall,
St. Agnes' Eve,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guine
vere,
The Eagle
" Come Not When I Am Dead,"
*' Move Eastward,"
14 Break, Break, Break,"
Selection from " The Princess,"
Songs from the " Princess"
I. " As Through the Land,"
II. " Sweet and Low," ...
III. " The Splendour Falls,"
IV. "Tears, Idle Tears,"
V. " O Swallow, Swallow."
VI. *' Thy Voice is Heard,"
VII. "Home they Brought Hei
Warrior," ...
VIII. " Ask Me no More,"
Ode on the Death of the Duke o
Wellington, ....
The Higher Pantheism,
" Flower in the Crannied Wall,"
337
" One Writes,"
" Dark House,"
" A Happy Lover," .
" Fair bhip,"
" 1 Hear the Noise,"
"Calm is the Morn,"
"The Danube,"
"And Was the Day,"
" My Own Dim Lite,"
"Could We Forget."
" Do We Indeed Desire,'
" Oh Yet We Trust,"
"The Wish," .
" Tho' it an Eye." .
" Dost Thou Look Back
" How Pure at Heart,"
" You Say,"
" I Will Not Shut Me from
My Kind," .
" 'Tis Held that Sorrow,
" Who Loves not Know
edge," . .
" Now Fades,"
"Is It, then, Regret,'''
"That Which We Dare It
voke,"
"O Living Will," .
402
403
403
404
405
405
406
406
407
408
408
409
409
410
410
Selections from " In Memoriam ".
" Strong Son of God," . . . 399
I. "I Held it Truth," . . 400
IV. " To Sleep I Give my Powers," 400
V. " I Sometimes Hold it Half a
Sin," ..... 401
VI.
VII.
Vlll.
IX.
X.
XI.
XIX.
XXIV.
XXXIV.
XL.
u.
LIV.
LV.
LXII.
LXIV.
XC1V.
XCVI.
CVI1I.
CXIII.
CX1V,
cxv.
CXVI.
CXXIV.
CXXX1
Stray Lines from " In Memoriam," 415
Selections Jrom " Maud' :
" We are Puppets," . . . 417
" A Voice by the Cedar Tree," . 417
"Whom but Maud Should I
Meet," 413
" Birds in the High Hall-garden," 419
" Go not, Happy Day," . . 419
" T Have Led Her Home," . . 420
I. "Come into the Garden, Maud," 420
Selections from " Idylls of the King" :
I. Dedication, .... 423
II. Songs from " Gareth and Lyn-
ette." 424
III. Selection from " Enid and
Geraint," .... 425
IV. Stray Lines from " Enid and
Geraint," .... 426
V. Song from " Merlin and
Vivien," .... 427
VI. Song from " Lancelot and
Elaine," . . . 427
VII. Stray Lines from ' k Lancelot
and Elaine," . . . 428
VIII. Songs from "The Last Tourna-
ment," .... 428
IX. Song from "Guinevere," . 428
X. The Farewell of Arthur, . . 429
To Alfred Tennyson, . . . 433
Rizpah, 433
Dedicator}' Poem to the Princess
Alice, 437
De Profundis, .... 438
Songs from " The Ancient Sage," 430
Contents.
Selections from " Locksley Hall.
Sixty Years After' 1 '' :
" Late, My Grandson,'" . . . 441
"On This Day," .... 443
Duet from " Becket," . . . 447
Marjory's Song from '* Becket." . 448
Rosamund's Song from " Becket," 448
Songs from " The Promise of May " /
I. " The Tower Lay Still," . . 448
II. "O Happy Lark," . . 449
The Progress of Spring,
Merlin and the Gleam, , .
Parnassus, .
Far Far Away, .
Beautiful City,
The Roses on the Terrace,
To One who Ran Down the
lish, ....
The Snowdrop,
The Throstle,
The Oak,
In Memoriam Ward,
Crossing the Bar, .
Ehg-
449
452
455
456
457
457
457
457
458
458
459
459
PREFATORY NOTE.
THESE biographical sketches and critical estimates of the
laureates (especially in the case of Southey, Wordsworth, and
Tennyson, whose genius has evoked a whole literature of analytic
criticism) are necessarily fragmentary and brief, designed merely
to stimulate detailed study. Such study would be fruitful of
much delight as well as include a survey of many momentous
historical and literary events, and furnish glimpses of a large
number of famous men whose lives touched directly or remotely
those of the poets laureate.
As the field is so wide, the task of making these selections
from the fourteen laureates has been difficult, not only because
the works of several of them are buried in out-of-the-way
and forgotten places, but because in many cases the flowers
of poetry have had to be plucked from a mass of coarse or
noxious weeds. For this valuable aid in our work we are
indebted to Miss Josie Russell, who, in the selections, has shown
taste and critical judgment as well as industry. She has not
attempted to give the strictly official poems of these poets
laureate, but to, as far as possible, furnish examples of their
lyrical genius. In cases where their official poems are repre-
sentative of their genius they are of course included. A com-
plete collection of these official odes of the laureates would be
of unique value and interest, though it would exclude the work
of the greatest poet among them all. After Wordsworth's
acceptance of the laurel he wrote nothing official except a tine
ode on the installation of Prince Albert as Chancellor of the
University of Cambridge.
The Introduction dealing with the origin and significance of
the Laureateship appeared originally in The Century Magazine ;
and is here reproduced by kind permission of the publishers.
Statistics are not always entertaining reading, but they are
essential for accuracy, and nowhere more essential than in the
discussion of this subject of the Laureateship of England ; as so
much has been written upon it which is misleading. Many
journalists, in wishing to present to the public the outlines of a
" timely subject," read hurriedly a few " authorities," not wait-
ing to investigate whether these be reliable ; they do not weigh
xiv UntroDucttoiu
What these laureates have suffered at the hands of the critics
of the present time is not to be compared to the abuse which
was lavished upon them by their contemporaries, //the literary
history of England is full of the records of the burlesques, the
lampoons, the coarse wit and satire, which have been directed
against any poet who lias struggled into notice, and won dis-
tinction above his fellows. The poets of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries were especially exposed to these satirical
assaults.
The prevailing opinion is not always the true or the just one,
though, of course, it has a measure of truth and of justice as its
foundation. The prevailing opinion in regard to these poets of
England who were crowned with the laurel is more often based
upon the satires and lampoons of which they were the occasion,
than upon the nature of their own poetical work. People read
Dryden and Pope instead of Shadwell and Cibber ; but the
Colley Cibber of the " Dunciad," and the Thomas Shadwell of
" Mac Flecknoe " are not the true Cibber and the true Shad-
well. The laureates have been more assailed by satire than
other poets, and this not because they were necessarily poor
poets, but because their very position excited envy. Though
men like Gray and Scott refused the appointment of the Laure-
ateship, the position was often eagerly sought. Especially
about the time of Davenant, poets vied with one another for
preference ; some were even bold enough to call themselves
laureates when they had no cause whatever to assume the title.
After the death of Eusden, when the unfortunate Richard
Savage failed to receive the appointment for which he sued
with so much servility, he called himself the volunteer laureate,
and in that capacity wrote a number of odes for the queen,
services which she liberally rewarded.
II.
When the origin and true significance of the Laureateship
are fully understood, there seems less disposition on the part of
the student of literature to disparage the achievement of those
men upon whom the honour was bestowed.
Being appointed a poet laureate did not always in the past,
nor would it at the present time, imply that such a poet was
greater than his fellows. To suppose this is to misapprehend
the nature of the office. It must always be remembered that
the Laureateship was a court appointment, an office in the gift
of the Government. Hence the laureate was a court poet, and
one who of necessity must be in sympathy with the monarch
IfntroDuction. xv
and all monarchical measures. That this misapprehension of
the Laureateship is very common is proved by the numerous
newspaper remarks upon the subject. A recent writer, in
expressing the usual cant about these laureates being- such sorry
poets, says, " Think of Southey being laureate while Byron was
alive ! " We might retort, " Think of Byron, the poet of revo-
lution, writing a ' Vision of Judgment,' in which an infamous
king was canonised ; or of Byron being in a position where odes
like Southey's on the negotiations with Bonaparte, or the
visits of the king to Ireland and Scotland, were expected ! "
Shelley and Byron were undoubtedly greater poets than
Southey ; but to have seen them made court poets would have
been one of the strangest things that could ever occur in the
history of English poetry !
III.
It is true that from the era of Ben Jonson to that of
Southey, few of these poets laureate sought to penetrate far
into the meaning of human life ; they were neither impressed
by its mystery, nor did they sound the depths of its joy and its
pawi^^/Lhe^iUd-^^dt-^ wisdom from the central deep//
nor possess ihajLwJiicii Bodenstedt describes as the philosophy
which.
" Auf stolzen Schwinge
Sucht wie ein Adler zum Lichte zu dringen,
Forscht nach dem Urgrund von alien Dingen."
Their work, therefore, lacks power and loftiness as well as
depth, and it is without moral strength and dignity.
'The cause of this is not far to seek. When Elizabeth was
well established upon the throne of England, and in the full
enjoyment of her power, a new spirit became evident in litera-
ture, which caused her reign to be considered the most glorious
in English history. This outburst of the national mind was
ardent and eager, original and creative. This eagle-like spirit
of genius reached the height of its flight in the years between
1603 and 1626, in the reign of Elizabeth's successor. In the
reign of Charles I., however, a marked change began to mani-
fest itself the glory had begun to wane. Ben Jonson, the
first poet to be honoured by the office of the Laureateship as it
now is understood, did his best work amid the influences which
made the Elizabethan age so great.
It was because of his eminent services to literature that in
1616 some authorities say 1619 James I. granted to Ben Jon-
xvi flntro&uctfom
son letters patent making him poet laureate. Charles I. had
been king five years when he reconsidered this appointment of
his father. He issued new letters patent to Ben Jonson, which
for the first time made the Laureateship a permanent institution.
But after this, the glory of the " Elizabethan Age " not only
began to wane, but the Laureateship came to be considered not
only a reward for literary services, but a gift dependent largely
upon court patronage.
From the death of Jonson in 1637 to the death of Henry
James Pye in 18 13, when Southey succeeded him, one hundred
and seventy-six years passed. In that period the Stuarts lost
the throne of England. During the Coma^nwealth the laure-
ate, Sir Willam Davenant, was deposed. Jw hen the Restoration
came English poetry received a blow fi/n which it took over a
hundred years to recover, The creatire age of Shakespeare was
past and gone. The influence of French taste and of French
codes of morality, of foreign standards of art, was felt every-
where. Literature became artificial and concerned itself with
externals, and there was a moral blight upon the drama.
The Augustan age of Anne, which gave us Pope and Swift
and all that brilliant circle, though it was rich in prose, pro-
duced no great inspired natural poet. Inspiration, natural-
ness, and a high poetic ideal seem to have vanished until
Cowper and Burns appeared.
It is therefore not surprising that during these hundred and
seventy-six years, when there were ten poets laureate, there
should be among the number no supremely great poet. Amrfig
the ten, Dryden stands first, and next to him, Warton. J^ut
Dryden, with all his facile skill, his command of the resources
of language, and his brilliant wit, produced no poem which was
the outcome of an exalted mood. His work lacked dignity and
moral strength, and was wholly without those finer influences
which tend to inspire and elevate humanity. Warton, noble
poet as he was, stood halfway between the school that was
going out and the school that was coming in. Cowper and
Burns appeared only a few years before Warton died, and
Wordsworth published nothing till after Warton's death.
Warton scarcely felt the force of the tide which was bearing
English poetry on to new regions of thought. He was great
compared to the men who immediately preceded him, but he
belonged to an artificial school, and his art felt the influence
of its limitations.
For twenty-three years Henry James Pye wore the wreath of
laurel. During that time English poetry was being brought
back to nature by the inspired work of Wordsworth and his
great contemporaries, but the new revelation which had come
to them, the new spirit which was animating English poetry,
ffntrotmctiom xvii
touchedlti^^ureate so lightly that he might just as well have
beea0mng in the age of Anne as in that of George III.
" vnd so, from the death of Jonson to the accession of Southey,
none of these laureates could be called poets of the highest
order. They were not only the creatures of their age, but their
position as court poets called for no grand heroic effort in verse.
The monarchs, whom it was their duty to extol and flatter,
had few qualities to inspire genuine enthusiasm. Charles I.,
whose soul, Ben Jonson said, lived in an alley; Charles II.,
false and corrupt at heart; James II., who tried so hard to sub-
vert the liberties of the nation ; William III., who cared noth-
ing for English poetry or poets ; Anne, under the rule of her
favourites, with little regard for the brilliant writers who made
her reign illustrious. Then came the Georges. Is it any wonder
that when the poor laureates were obliged to celebrate the
birthdays of these ignoble sovereigns by odes and lyrics, that
the divine afflatus failed? In other fields of literature these
laureates sometimes did valuable work, especially in the domain
of the drama, but as far as their strictly official poems, which
their position made compulsory, are concerned, they cannot be
said to deserve high praise.
IV.
In many accounts of the Laureateship, there is not sufficient
distinction maintained between those poets whose claim to the
title was shadowy and intangible, and those who had authentic
right to the honour. Some authorities, in speaking of Chaucer,
or Skelton, or Spenser as laureates, often neglect to explain
just how they came to be so called.
All history is founded on tradition ; mists and clouds veil the
far past, and it is only by inference and reasoning from analogy
that definite knowledge is gained. Much confusion prevails,
and probably will ever prevail, in regard to the origins of various
customs and institutions. Many of them have
" Broadened slowly down
From precedent to precedent."
The idea of the Laureateship appears to have assumed form
gradually ; but this much is certain, that, as it now exists, it
began with Ben Jonson. It was not until 1630 that it became a
definite and permanent institution. It was then that Charles I.
ratified the appointment which had been conferred upon
Jonson by James I. The annual pension which had been given
before was increased to one hundred pounds, and a butt of wine
xviii Untrofcuctiom
from the king's cellars. When this great poet and dramatist was
thus formally recognised as an officer of the royal household,
he undoubtedly occupied the first place in the world of letters.
Before Ben Jonson's time, however, there were court poets
who sang the praises of their sovereigns, who celebrated in
heroic verse the victories which exalted the nation, and who
were rewarded for their services with pensions and emoluments.
It had been from very early times the custom in Italy, Ger-
many, and even Spain, to crown certain poets who were con-
sidered pre-eminent. The custom probably originated in the
mythologic period. If some writers wish to call Apollo the first
laureate they may do so ; though he might possibly wish to
be in better company than among the laureates of the Augustan
age of England. Better to place him among those of the
Augustan age of Rome, for Vergil and Horace were both
crowned with the laurel wreath.
It had been the custom among the ancient Greeks to crown
their poets with a wreath symbolical of both appreciation and
reward. The Romans imitated the Greeks of course in this as
in so many other things. The universities of the Middle Ages
must in their turn have derived their custom of laureation from
the well-known crowning of Petrarch by the Roman senate.
Many universities on the Continent blended with the poetic
distinction a reference to theology quite characteristic of the age.
Thus in the early times there were many poets laureate.
They were not, however, necessarily court poets.
Warton asserts that the universities conferred the honour as a
degree upon those graduates who excelled in rhetoric and Latin
versification. A wreath of laurel was placed upon their heads,
and, if they were, at the same time, licensed to be teachers of
boys, they were publicly presented with a rod and ferrule.
Warton describes several interesting instances of these de-
grees in versification being conferred at Oxford. One student
received the laurel on condition that he compose a Latin com-
edy and one hundred Latin verses in praise of the university.
We see in this perhaps the beginning of the custom of linking
to the honour of laureation certain conditions which made it
somewhat like a mercantile transaction.
Caxton, in a work printed in 1490, mentions " Mayster John
Skelton, late created poete laureate in the university of Oxen-
ford." Skelton had been crowned with the laurel probably in
1489, and four years after he was permitted to wear the same
badge also at Cambridge. This is the cause of Skelton's sign-
in^himself " Poeta Skelton Laureatus."
^There seems to be considerable uncertainty in regard to the
origin of the term poet laureate as applied to a member of the
royal household of England.
IFntroDuctton. xix
The custom must gradually have arisen for English mon-
archs to choose from among these laureates of the university
one who would be present at court, and would on stated oc-
casions sing the praises of his country and his king. Many
times this poet was called simply king's versifier, and there
are a few instances on record of this king's versifier being chosen
when he had never received from Oxford any laureate degree ;
though, as a rule, the appointment was conferred because the
recipient had already received the laurel crown for skill in Latin
versification. It was customary also for the court poets to
write in Latin, as the English language was regarded with
universal contempt. Warton is of the opinion that the royal
laureate did not begin to write in English till the Reformation
had begun to diminish the veneration for Latin.
An institution, somewhat like ^he Laureateship, calculated to
encourage literature and develop the national language, is traced
to the early reign of Henry III. when a yearly salary of one
hundred shillings was given to Henry d'Avranches, and he has
therefore been called the pioneer laureate ; but this is a mere
tradition. " l Yrmhirl nrtidnlitj n nn p i no fmll ii i lindi llhin I n
thai i fot tor t nf Engl is h Pont*^'
Chaucer, by his close relationship to John of Gaunt, to whose
influence he owed some official appointments, has often been
styled poet laureate to Edward IV., but there is no evidence
whatever that he had any right to the title. He was simply a
great poet who was often at court, and who received certain
rewards for definite political, not poetical, services.
After Richard II. met Gower rowing on the Thames, and
asked him straightway to book some new thing, Gower called
himself the king's laureate \ IJTil GUiilt o rrrw ii ik. ' piaisTng"buth
Ga mE.flrad Ch ft Mer fi a i d ~ < tt&ey~ -wanted nothing but the Law-
rell." We hear of John Kay, a court poet who lived over fifty
years later than Gower, addressing himself to Edward IV. as
" hys humble poet laureate." But the title was wholly self-
given. Henry VII. is said to have granted to Andrew Bernard,
poet laureate, a small salary till he should obtain some employ-
ment which would insure him the same sum ; but there is
nothing very permanent in this.
The court jester Scogan called himself laureate, but his claim
cannot be sustained.
Skelton aspired to be court poet as well as the laureate of
Oxford, r py his keeirv md pungent satire he must have been a
power in Helping on the Reformation. He was connected by
the whole scope of his literary purpose with the reign of Henry
VIII. , and in that reign the ijlea of religious liberty became
manifest with irresistible power
The portrait of a great poet the immortal Spenser has
xx ITntroDuction.
been placed recently in a periodical beside that of Chaucer, and
both are called poets laureate of the past ; but there is no 'evi-
dence whatever to justify the statement. Edmund Spenser
was pensioned by Queen Elizabeth, but there arc^even doubts
whether this pension was paid more than once. j$v hen Southey
was appointed laureate he wished to magnify his office, and he
thereupon wrote some poetry about it, and by poetic license
spoke of that
Wreath which in Eliza's golden days
My master, dear, divinest Spenser wore ;
but in plain prose Southey admitted that none of the poets
of whom he sang had, with the exception of Ben Jonson, any
right to the title of laureate. It was given to them, he says, not
as holding the office, but as a mark of honour to which they
were entitled. Among these volunteer laureates whonkSouthey
thus praised were Samuel Daniel and Michael Draytojp Daniel
held important posts at court, and \fras much beldved there ;
but when the courtiers of James I. began to concern themselves
with the production of the masques which were becoming so
popular, it was considered that Ben Jonson was the poet best
fitted to be responsible for their management. Daniel there-
fore retired from the court. Drayton's portrait has come down
to us, his brow encircled by the wreath of laurel. This is owing
to the poet's secret wish, and was^also the tribute of his friends.
Drayton's sonnets rank high in the language, but though
he may have deserved the laurel it was never his by royal
appointment.
We find in every case that, prior to the era of Ben Jonson, the
claims of any poet to the title of laureate cannot be sustained,
unless that poet had received the honour from the University
of Oxford.
BEN JONSON.
THE LAUREATES.
BEN JONSON.
FIRST POET LAUREATE WITH LETTERS PATENT.
Born in London in 1573 Made court poet to James I. in 1616, the year of
Shakespeare's death. This appointment confirmed in 1630, and the Laureateship
made permanent. Died in 1637.
(Reigns of James I. and Charles I.)
THOUGH the fame of Ben Jonson has been affected by
certain misrepresentations of his character, both literary and
persona], notably by the betrayal of trust of which Drummond
of Hawthornden was guilty, the words which have been applied
to Dryden can much more appropriately be applied to him :
" He wrestles with and conquers time."
By his strong creative genius and his healthful vigour, he was
an honour not only to the office he held, but to English
literature. The fact that he was the first laureate has added
little to his fame. His name has lived because he was a man
of colossal mental stature, who by his powerful personality
made a deep impression upon his age, and because as a great
dramatist and as a lyric poet his work forms a part of
" Those melodious bursts which fill
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still."
Many poets have acknowledged their indebtedness to him.
Milton himself so admired him that some of his poems are
directly modelled upon his. Shadwell openly took him as his
master in the dramatic art. In Keats' best work we find traces
of the stately majesty and the perfect workmanship of some of
Jonson 's lines. Even Tennyson has felt the influence of this
great and original thinker.
Ben Jonson's work, however, will be found to be full of
; 2 # - ; : : : : * men Jonson.
'*
<tefefctsV'iJjs irne^ual.'. Some of it is imitative of the classics,
^antfimucrfirf it js' heavy and gloomy. B**t in his lighter moods
his touch is exquisite, his lyrical genius enchanting. His elegies
are perhaps as fine as any in the language ; and his wide and
profound learning give to his dramatic productions a classical
elegance often lacking in those of his contemporaries. Austin
and Ralph very justly call attention to the fact that Ben Jon-
son is no exception to the rule that clear and strong utterance
is one of the chief characteristics of genius, and that great poets
have been good prose writers. " The destruction of his prose
manuscripts is to be much regretted ; what are left show erudite
criticism and severity of judgment. Notes on books and on
life written in a concise and pregnant style remind us of Bacon's
Essays."
Ben Jonson's life was one of desperate struggle and of
manysorrows as well as glorious success. He was of noble
family, his grandfather having been a man of rank and fortune
in the service of Henry VIII. His father, however, suffered
persecution in the reign of Bloody Mary, and it was only at
her death that he was liberated from prison. He took orders
soon after the accession of Elizabeth, but death came to him
just a month before the birth of his famous son.
Little is known of Ben's childhood, except that he was brave
and courageous at school, a good student, a good fighter, a
good hater, as well as an ardent lover. How well he loved his
teacher at Westminster school where his boyhood was passed
is shown by the famous dedication of his works to the great
Camden.
The youth of the poet was full of vicissitude. Disdaining
bricklaying, a trade thrust upon him probably by his step-
father, he entered Cambridge at the age of sixteen. But he
soon found his means totally inadequate to his remaining at
the university, and so he volunteered into the army. He per-
formed many heroic deeds in the Low Countries; once engag-
ing in single combat, when he slew his opponent, seized his
arms, and carried them away in full view of both armies. This
achievement at the age of eighteen was no ignoble one. But
the trade of arms as well as that of the artisan failed to satisfy
the restless temperament of Ben Jonson. He returned to
England and found an outlet for his intellectual energy as well
as a means of support, upon the stage. He appeared first in a
small playhouse called the Green Curtain. At the outset of his
career, however, a misfortune overwhelmed him which coloured
all his future life. A quarrel with a fellow-actor resulted in a
duel, in which Ben Jonson killed his opponent. Overcome
with remorse for the deed, and himself wounded painfully, he
was thrown into prison and, as he says, brought near to the
gallows. The prisons of that time were sorry places ; Jonson
suffered acutely both in body and in spirit. It is hinted by
some of his biographers that during this period of suffering no
solace was offered him from the clergymen of his own church.
Popish priests, however, sought him out and under their influ-
ence the forlorn youth forsook the faith for which his father
had undergone such cruel persecution. Years after, Jonson
returned to the church his father had loved so well. Both
apostasy and reconversion were undoubtedly sincere, and
whatever sins and errors stained the life-record of this head-
strong, impetuous thinker, he never gave up his faith in God.
Though Jonson has won his lame principally as a dramatist, he
wrote many beautiful religious poems, which reveal a thought-
ful, sincere, and devoted spirit.
--Released at length from prison, Jonson reassumed the profes-
sion of the stage, and at the age of twenty, with no settled
income, he showed his impulsive disposition by plunging into
matrimony. The woman he married had domestic tastes and
was brave and courageous in enduring the privations of their
early life together. A hard time they had of it too. At first
Jonson was very poor and quite unknown ; then, as his genius
found recognition and he was rewarded with court honours, he,
who was always careless in the use of money, became recklessly
extravagant. The poor wife could never have had either a
very happy or serene life. That for five years she lived apart
from her husband is not surprising. Yet Jonson's heart was
tender and affectionate and he was a loving father.
Jonson was never a good actor, and at first his principal
occupation was recasting old plays. But by the writing of his
drama, " Every Man in his Humour," he placed himself among
the great dramatists of his time. He showed that he had found
his true life-work, and from the commencement of the new
century he had a succession of triumphs.
Jonson's great strength was comedy, but he wrote two
tragedies which were full of power and dignity. His comedies
show versatility, breadth of treatment, and overflowing wit.
His wide knowledge of life led him to analyse many base and
contemptible passions, and yet he sought to elevate his readers,
and his efforts to instruct as well as to elevate led him often to
be accused of pedantry.
Jonson's high rank in the world of letters rests not only upon
his dramas, but upon those masques which were so popular
among the courtiers of James I. In his plays he does not
show the creative strength or the imaginative insight of Shakes-
peare. His personages have not the living, vital force nor the
finer and more subtle distinctions of character. To use his
own phrase, he often delineated humours rather than persons.
4 JScn Jonson,
This analysis of minute eccentricities and of striking whims
and propensities makes Ben Jonson's personages often too
abstract types rather than individuals. The accentuation of
one dominant passion is impressive and original, but it is not
natural. In v many plays Jonson satirised the vices and affecta-
tions of the time. He wished honestly enough to reform his
age, -ami unlike Dryden he pandered to no prevailing taste; he
spoke out his convictions fearlessly careless whether he won
worldly advancement or general scorn. His language of invec-
tive is sharp, nervous, and forcible in all his work there is a
mighty egotism as well as a mighty and manly strength. The
man's individuality is all pervasive.
It is_in his lovely masques that the true poetic genius of Ben
Jonson is most apparent. Seldom tender or pathetic in his
plays, he is both in the masques, and they have, also, a lyrical
charm most entrancing.
Jonson's days were spent in laborious study, winning distinc-
tion for his great learning, and his nights were usually spent in
the indulgence of his convivial habits at the Mermaid Club.
This club, made up of the most famous wits and poets, was of
course frequented by Shakespeare, Selden, Raleigh, Beaumont,
Fletcher, and the rest. Many a good time must these friends
have had together.
Keats, whose genius was in such thorough sympathy with
these old Elizabethans, wrote :
" Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern.
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison ? O generous foodi
Drest as though bold Robinllood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can."
Ben Jonson's ardent, tempestuous nature exposed him to
many rude shocks of fate : he had many bitter quarrels with
his fellow-dramatists, but he many times showed fine qualities
of magnanimity and justice, and he was often forgiving.
About the time of Shakespeare's death Jonson brought out
a complete edition of his own plays, and James I. honoured him
by conferring upon him a pension and the office of poet to his
court. Soon after this he travelled both in Scotland and on
the Continent, meeting many notable people and winning every-
where both friends and enemies. At the death of the king
in 1625, Jonson began to suffer a decline in court favour. His
extravagance had been so great that in spite of his pension and
the many costly gifts from friends at court, he was always in
want, and his drinking habits brought with them their inevitable
punishment disease and suffering.
Charles I. had been five years on the throne before he paid
much attention to his father's favourite poet. But when Jonson
appealed to him for help, he quickly responded with a large
gift. Then, desirous of paying some tribute to literature, and
to confer distinction upon his own reign, he made the Laureate-
ship permanent an office founded upon letters patent, with
an annual salary of a hundred pounds ; and in deference to
Jonson's well-known tastes, he added to this salary a butt of
Canary wine. The laureate was so fond of this particular wine
that his boon companions often called him the canary bird.
Suckling, in his famous burlesque, " The Session of the Poets,"
where he represents the foremost wits of the day as having a
contest for the laurel, says :
" The first that brake silence was good old Ben,
Prepared with Canary wine,
And he told them plainly he deserved the bays."
This preparation with Canary wine, not to mention stronger
potations, had altered Jonson's personal appearance greatly.
Thin and pale in youth, he soon became stout, his face flushed
and unattractive. A lady of the court described him once to
someone who had likened him to the poet Horace : " That
same Horace of yours has a most ungodly face, by my fan ! It
looks for all the world like a russet apple when 'tis bruised."
And, though we must take with a liberal dose of salt all that
Drummond said of his guest, Drummond said that drink was
the element in which Ben Jonson lived.
Jonson's last days were sad and lonely. His wife and all his
children had long since died ; palsy had attacked him ; he was
poor and weak, and in great suffering. And yet all his finest
poetic qualities united in the production oT his pastoral play,
" The Sad Shepherd, or The Tale of Robin Hood." We can
trace echoes of this exquisite poem in many of the lyrics of our
own time. But death came to Ben Jonson before he could
finish this beautiful swan song.
In the Poet's Corner of the great Abbey he was laid, and to
the kind act of a stranger we owe that unique and wonderful
epitaph : " O rare Ben Jonson ! "
SELECTIONS FROM JONSON.
TO CELIA.
{From tc The Forest,")
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And send'st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
ON TRUTH.
TRUTH is the trial of itself,
And needs no other touch,
And purer than the purest gold
Refine it ne'er so much.
It is the life and light of love,
The sun that ever shineth,
And spirit of that special grace,
That faith and love defineth.
It is the warrant of the word,
That yields a scent so sweet,
As gives a power to faith to tread
All falsehood under feet.
3Ben Jonson.
HAPPINESS.
True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends,
But in their worth and choice:
LINES.
(From ' ' The Sad Shepherd. ")
Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here!
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow;
The work] may find the spring in following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk !
But like the soft west wind she shot along,
And where she went the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.
LIFE AND DEATH.
The ports of death are sins ; of life, good deeds ;
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
And hath it in his powers to make his way.
This world death's region is, the other, life's;
And here, it should be one of our first strifes
So to front death as men might judge us past it ;
For good men see but death, the wicked taste it.
THE PLEASURE OF HEAVEN.
There all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place.
There shall the brother with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk ;
But all of God ; they still shall have to say,
But make him all in all their theme that day;
That happy day that never shall see night !
Where he will be all beauty to the sight ;
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste ;
A music in the ears will ever last ;
JBen 5on6om
Unto the scent, a spicery or balm ;
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm.
He will all glory, all perfection be,
God in the Union and the Trinity !
That holy, great, and glorious mystery,
Will there revealed be in majesty,
By light and comfort of spiritual grace ;
The vision of our Saviour, face to face,
In his humanity ! to hear him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach,
Through his inherent righteousness in death,-
The safety of our souls and forfeit breath !
FANTASY.
{From ' The Vision of Delight.'")
Break, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things ;
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and naught of phlegm ;
And though it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odour rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music in their ear.
A VISION OF BEAUTY.
It was a beauty that I saw,
So pure, so perfect, as the frame
Of all the universe were lame
To that one figure, could I draw,
Or give least line of it a law :
A skein of silk without a knot !
A fair march made without a halt !
A curious form without a fault !
A printed book without a blot !
All beauty ! and without a spot.
0$
V
' BREAK, FANTASY, FROM THE CAVE OF CLOUD,
AND SPREAD THY PURPLE WINGS." Page 8
J5Sen Jonson.
TRUTH.
{From " Hymenal, or the Solemnities of Masques and Barriers at the
Marriage of the Earl of Essex, 1606.")
Upon her head she wears a crown of stars,
Through which her Orient hair waves to her waist,
By which believing mortals hold her fast,
And in those golden cords are carried even,
Till with her breath she blows them up to heaven.
She wears a robe enchased with eagles' eyes,
To signify her sight in mysteries :
Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white dove,
And at her feet do coilly serpents move :
Her spacious arms do reach from east to west,
And you may see her heart shine through her breast.
Her right hand holds a sun with burning rays,
Her left a curious bunch of golden keys,
With which heaven's gates she locketh and displays.
A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast,
By which men's consciences are searched and drest,
On her coach-wheels Hypocrisy lies racked ;
And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory backed,
Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which shines Fate :
An angel ushers her triumphant gait,
Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists,
And with them beats back Error, clad in mists.
Eternal Unity behind her shines,
That fire and water, earth and air combines.
Her voice is like a trumpet loud and shrill,
Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still.
EPITAPH ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.
Here lies, to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of our youth ;
Yet, all Heaven's gifts being Heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.
At six months' end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence ;
Whose soul Heaven's Queen whose name she bears-
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed among her virgin train :
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth,
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.
io j53en Jonsoiu
EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.
Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little ? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth ;
The other, let it sleep in death,
Fitter, where it died to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell !
EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY.
{From " Underwoods."}
Reader, stay;
And if I had no more to say
But " Here doth lie, till the last day,
All that is left of Philip Gray,"
It might thy patience richly pay :
For if such men as he could die,
What surety o' life have thou and I ?
EPITAPH ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.
Marble, weep ! for thou dost cover
A dead beauty underneath thee,
Rich as nature could bequeath thee :
Grant, then, no rude hands remove her !
All the gazers on the skies
Read not in fair heaven's story
Expresser truth or truer glory
Than they might in her bright eyes.
Rare as wonder was her wit,
And, like nectar, overflowing ;
Till Time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it :
fficn Jonson.
Life whose grief was out of fashion
In these times. Few so have rued
Fate in another. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth ! thou hast not such another.
SONG.
How near to good is what is fair,
Which we no sooner see,
But with the lines and outward air
Our senses taken be.
We wish to see it still, and prove
What ways we may deserve ;
We court, we praise, we more than love,
We are not grieved to serve.
FAME.
HER house is all of echo made,
Where never dies the sound ;
And as her brows the clouds invade,
Her feet do strike the ground.
ODE TO HIMSELF.
Where dost thou careless lie
Buried in ease and sloth ?
Knowledge that sleeps, doth die ;
And this security,
It is the common moth
That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both.
Are all the Aonian springs
Dried up ? Lies Thespia waste ?
Doth Clarius' harp want strings,
That not a nymph now sings ?
Or droop they as disgraced,
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced ?
If hence thy silence be,
As 'tis too just a cause,
Let this thought quicken thee ;
Minds that are great and free
Should not on fortune pause ;
'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
JBen Sonson.
CHIVALRY.
The house of Chivalry decayed,
Or rather ruined seems, her buildings laid
Flat with the Earth, that were the pride of Time;
Those obelisks and columns broke and down,
That strook the stars, and raised the British Crown
To be a Constellation.
When to the structure went more noble names
Than to the Ephesian Temple lost in flames,
When every stone was laid by virtuous hands.
SONG.
The faery beam upon you,
And the stars to glister on you,
A moon of light
In the noon of night,
Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you :
The wheel of Fortune guide you,
The boy with the bow beside you
Run aye in the way, till the bird of day
And the luckier lot betide you.
TRANSLATION OF COWLEY'S EPIGRAM ON
FRANCIS DRAKE.
The stars above will make thee known,
If man were silent here;
The sun himself cannot forget
His fellow-traveller.
NATURE.
How young and fresh am I to-night,
To see't kept day by so much light,
And twelve of my sons stand in their Maker's sight !
Help, wise Prometheus, something must be done,
To show they are the creatures of the sun.
That each to other
Is a brother,
And Nature here no stepdame, but a mother.
Come forth, come forth, prove all the numbers then,
That make perfection up, and may absolve you men
slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt teaks,
yet slower, yet." Page 13.
JSen 5ort0on. 13
But show thy winding ways and arts,
Thy risings, and thy timely starts
Of stealing fire from ladies' eyes and hearts.
Those softer circles are the young man's heaven,
And there more orbs and planets are than seven.
To know whose motion
Were a notion
As worthy of youth's study, as devotion.
Come forth, come forth ! prove 'all the time will gain,
For Nature bids the best, and never bade in vain.
ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS.
{From " Cynthia s Revels.")
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears :
Yet slower, yet ; O faintly, gentle springs :
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop, herbs and flowers,
Fall, grief, in showers,
Our beauties are not ours :
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE
HATH LEFT US.
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ;
Wnile I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For silliest ignorance on these would light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
14 JBen Jonson,
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or need.
I therefore will begin : Soul of the age !
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great but disproportioned muses :
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou had small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I will not seek
For names ; but call forth thund'ring ^Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to shew,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time !
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm !
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun, and even so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat-
Such as thine are and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,
JSen 3onscm. 15
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn ;
For a good poet 's made as well as born.
And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue ; even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well turned and true filled lines :
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James !
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there !
Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like
night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
HYMN TO DIANA.
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep :
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close :
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy shining crystal quiver;
Give unto the flying heart
Space to breathe, how short soever :
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
16 JBen Sonson.
THE TRUE GROWTH.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, cloth make man better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear :
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
CHARIS' TRIUMPH.
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a clove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty ;
And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride,
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth !
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth !
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her archecl brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone their triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the element's strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it ?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it ?
Have you felt the wool of beaver ?
Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar ?
Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she !
' HAVE YOU MARKED BUT THE FALL O' THE SNOW
BEFORE THE SOIL HATH SMUTCHED l^V'^-Page 16.
JBen Soneon. 17
SONG.
(A Translation from the Latin of Bonne fonins.}
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going- to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found.
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free :
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art :
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
A FRAGMENT.
BOAST not these titles of your ancestors,
Brave youths, they're their possessions, none of yours.
When your own virtues equalled have their names,
'Twill be but fair to lean upon their fames ;
For they are strong supporters ; but, till then
The greatest are but growing gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds ;
Which all men do, that urge not their own deeds
Up to their ancestors'; the river's side
By which you're planted, shows your fruit shall bide.
Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree ;
'Tis virtue alone is true nobility :
Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall ;
Stqdy illustrious him, and you have all.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE -1623.
This figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life ;
Oh, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he has hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass ;
But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.
l8 JBen Soneon.
LINES FROM CATILINE.
It is, methinks, a morning full of fate,
It riseth slowly, as her sullen car
Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it !
She is not rosy-lingered, but swollen black,
Her face is like a water turned to blood,
And her sick head is bound about with clouds,
As if she threatened night ere noon of day !
It does not look as it would have a hail,
Or health wis'd in it, as on other morns.
JEALOUSY.
{From " Every Man in His Humour.")
A new disease ! I know not new or old,
But it may well be called poor mortal's plague;
For like a pestilence it doth infect
The houses of the brain. First it begins
Solely to work upon the phantasy,
Filling her seat with such pestiferous air
As soon corrupts the judgment ; and from thence
Sends like contagion to the memory ;
Still each to other giving the infection,
Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensitive part,
Till not a thought or motion in the mind
Be free from the black poison of suspect.
BEGGING EPISTLE TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER.
My woful cry
To Sir Robert Pye ;
And that he will venture
To send my debenture.
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time when
He loved the Muses :
Though now he refuses
To take apprehension
Of a year's pension,
And more is behind :
Men 3onson* 19
Put him in mind
Christmas is near,
And neither good cheer,
Mirth, fooling, or wit,
Nor any least fit
Of gambol or sport
Will come at the Court ;
If there be no money,
No plover or coney
Will come to the table,
Or wine to enable
The Muse or the Poet
The Parish will know it.
Nor any quick warming pan help him to bed
If the chequer be empty, so will be his head.
STRAY THOUGHTS FROM JONSON.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace.
The Silent Woman,
Preserving the sweetness of proportion and expressing itself
beyond expression- The Masque of Hymen.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
Good Life, Lotig Life.
That for which all virtue now is sold
And almost every vice, almighty gold.
Epistle to Elizabeth.
Get money, still get money, boy
No matter by what means.
Every Man in his Humour.
Many might go to heaven with half the labour they go to hell,
if they would venture their industry the right way. Prose Notes.
Language most shows a man : speak that I may see thee : it
springs out of the most retired and inmost parts of us. Ibid.
Opinion is a light, vain, crude, and imperfect thing, settled in
the imagination, but never arriving at the understanding, there
to obtain the tincture of reason. Ibid.
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.
Born in Oxford in 1605. Made laureate in 1637. Died in 1668.
(Reigns of Charles I. and Charles II.)
Sir William Davenant, whom Southey called that emi-
nently thoughtful poet, passed his life as laureate in the stirring
and exciting days which preceded and followed the rebellion
which deprived Charles I. of his throne and his life. But Austin
and Ralph remark that though Davenant's life spanned the
mighty chasm which separates the ancient from the modern of
English history, his character, unlike that of his great contem-
porary Milton, took no form or colour from the solemn events
passing around him. Davenant's intellectual work was, how-
ever, notable. He contributed to found a new literature. Call-
ing to his aid the music of Italy and the scenery of France, he
undertook, at the Restoration,* to also restore the stage, and
though he readily debased or refined his material in deference
to the depraved taste of the age, he certainly deserves praise
for what he accomplished.
Colley Cibber says that to Davenant the English stage
" stands more deeply indebted than to any other individual, so
far as zealous application deserves to be considered in promot-
ing those rational pleasures that are fittest for the entertain-
ment of a civilised people." And Cibber said this with all due
deference to the inestimable services of Shakespeare and
Jonson.
The father of Davenant was an Oxford innkeeper, his mother
very beautiful. Rumour busied itself with uniting the name of
this beautiful woman with that of Shakespeare, and Davenant
himself often seemed to wish to attribute his own poetical and
dramatic instincts to the fact that his father was other than the
3taid and sober innkeeper.
The boy was bright and lively, with a handsome face, and he
did well at the Oxford grammar school, and matriculated at
Lincoln College at sixteen. But he never was graduated : his
tastes all seemed to point to a life far different from one spent
in secluded college walls. He seemed cut out to be a courtier,
and towards the court his aspirations early converged.
Therefore, he went to London, and winning there the favour
SIR WILLIAM DAVE N A NT.
Sit William 2>avenant. 21
of Lord Brooke he was admitted to the inner circle of society.
In obedience to the prevailing taste of the age, Davenant
perceived that if he were to become a writer, the best way
to win distinction at court was to write plays. Many noble-
men of high rank whom he flattered in his dedications re-
sponded by their unstinted patronage, and the numerous plays
and masques which he brought out with great industry soon
brought him fame and wealth. Best of all, he sought both the
friendship and the advice of Ben Jonson, and, all things con-
sidered, it seemed natural that when that great dramatist died
in 1637, the laurel which he had worn with so much honour
should be given to his young associate. But Davenant did not
win this distinction at once ; for many months the office
remained in abeyance, and when at last he received the appoint-
ment he had several formidable rivals. That he defeated them
all does not necessarily prove that he was a better poet. The
office which had been conferred upon Ben Jonson because he
was the foremost man of letters of his time, ceased with Jonson
to have this peculiar significance. With Davenant, who owed
his appointment to the intercession of the queen, we see that
the Laureateship was beginning to be more a mark of courtly
favour than a reward for poetic merit. After Dryden's death
the office became still more degraded.
Davenant not only served the crown by his services as
laureate, but when the king's fortunes grew dark he stood firmly
by his side, winning distinction at the seige of Gloucester
(where he was knighted), and helping the queen by many friendly
and delicate services.
Davenant's political as well as literary eminence invited many
audacious satirical attacks. The lampoons which he inspired
were oftentimes directed against his personal appearance. It
is not known how it happened, but the face which in youth
had been distinguished for its beauty, was marred in manhood
by the loss of its principal feature. One of the most painful
of the many insults he received on account of his disfigured
nose was when, one day, he refused an unworthy woman charity.
Instead of her curses he heard her beseeching Heaven to spare
his eyesight. His attention being arrested thus, as he was
passing on, he told her that his eyesight was very good. Her
reply was that it pleased her much to hear this, as should it
ever fail he would be in a sorry plight, as he would then have
nothing upon which to rest his spectacles ! Poor Davenant's
portrait which has come down to us plainly shows this dis-
tressing disfigurement.
When the Parliament came into power Davenant fled to
France, where he busied himself with his heroic poem, "Gondi-
bert." Embarking after a time for the New World, his ship
22 Sir TPGUUfam Davenant
was driven by a storm upon the English coast. The poet was
made prisoner and taken to London. To the friendly inter-
cession of Milton he probably owed his life, though the Tower
held him captive for two years. " Gondibert," which he had
thought was to be interrupted by " so great an experiment as
dying," was here resumed, and the sad and lonely days in the
Tower were cheered by this congenial work.
Released at length, he plunged with zest into his former
theatrical life, but he was now the deposed laureate and had to
work in secret. The Puritan reaction had closed the theatres,
and the results of Davenant's efforts were very uncertain. But
his aim was to revive the stage, and he worked on faithfully
until the Restoration, and then he came boldly forth from his
retirement. He opened a theatre for the production of his own
plays, where he introduced many novelties in scenery, was the
author of many innovations, such as women actors, musical
accompaniments, etc., and thus the progress of the English
drama owed much to this industrious worker.
Davenant was the first to begin that despicable remodelling
of Shakespeare which Dryden, Tate, and others imitated ; but
they were all but catering to the depraved taste of the age,
which could not appreciate the higher flights of genius. " The
giant race before the flood " had long since departed, Shakes-
peare and Jonson were in their graves, the Elizabethan age was
past and gone. Mere amusement was what was demanded of
the poets if they were to win popular approval. The people
wanted no great ennobling work of art, no moral strength and
dignity on the stage.
At the Restoration the laurel had been again placed upon
the brow of Davenant, and he wore it till his death in 1668.
His last days were quiet and uneventful, much happier than
those of Ben Jonson, and the end came in peace. His life had
" exhibited a moving picture of genius in action and in con-
templation. With all the infirmities of lively passions, he had
all the redeeming virtues of magnanimity and generous affec-
tions," and at the last his friends laid him to rest in the sacred
seclusion of the grand old Abbey.
Of Davenant's numerous plays it would be impossible to
speak in detail. They are energetic and bold in construction,
show novelty in imagery, and often originality in the analysis
of character. They teem with philosophical reflections and
condensed epigrams, and yet they lack passion and fire, and
have not the exalted view of human nature and of the earnest-
ness of human life which is shown in " Gondibert." Even with
Davenant the stage began to take its downward course. And
this, in spite of the great and undeniable services he rendered
it. With all his talent, Davenant had not the moral force to
Sir William Davenant 23
stem the tide of his age. He could not dictate to it like
Jonson, nor was he unworldly enough, like Milton, to go se-
renely on, unmindful of its applause and its alluring rewards.
In the hands of dramatists like Wycherley, Etheredge,
Congreve, and Davenant's successor in the Laureateship,
Dryden, the English stage became a mere panderer to vice,
well meriting the vigorous onslaughts of Jeremy Collier.
Milton said that he who aspires to write a heroic poem must
make his own life heroic. Davenant himself said that he who
writes a heroic poem gives a greater gift to posterity than to
the present age. Poor Davenant hoped to win a place among
the immortals by his " Gondibert," but, though many of its
fine and sonorous phrases live in the language, the poem, as a
whole, is seldom read. Yet the versatile genius of Davenant
claims a far better fate for this poem than has been accorded
it. Disraeli very justly calls attention to the new vein of
invention in narrative poetry which Davenant opened in " Gon-
dibert." " The poet styled it heroic, but we have since called
it romantic." Scott, Byron, and Southey worked this same
vein of invention, and discovered richer treasures than ever
came within the ken of Davenant, and they had a depth of
passion also unknown to him ; but he was the pioneer, and
should, for his originality, receive due praise. Davenant's work
has neither the vitality nor the permanence of the best work
of Jonson, and therefore it has not withstood the disin-
tegrating power of time. But, as Disraeli says, one of the
curiosities in the history of our poetry is this very poem, which
is now nearly forgotten by the world : " The fortunes and the
fate of' this epic are as extraordinary as the poem itself.
Davenant had viewed human life in all its shapes, and had
himself taken them. A poet and a wit, the creator of the
English stage, a soldier, an emigrant, a courtier, and a politi-
cian, and at all times a philosopher, he was, too, a state pris-
oner, awaiting death with his great poem in his hand."
SELECTIONS FROM DAVENANT.
TO THE QUEEN.
Fair as unshaded light, or as the day
In its first birth, when all the year was May ;
Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new
Unfolded bud, swell'd by the early dew ;
Smooth as the face of waters first appear'd,
Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard ;
Kind as the willing saints, or calmer far
Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are.
You that are more than our discreeter fear
Dares praise, with such full art, what make you here ?
Here, where the summer is so little seen,
That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at green
You came, as if the silver planet were
Misled awhile from her much-injured sphere;
And t' ease the travels of her beams to-night,
In this small lanthorn would contract her light.
SONG.
The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes this window for the east ;
And to implore your light, he sings,
Awake, awake ! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,
Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn,
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.
Sir William Davenant. 25
PRAYER AND PRAISE.
FOR Prayer the ocean is, where diversely
Men steer their course, each to a different coast,
Where oft our interests so discordant be,
That half beg winds by which the rest are lost.
Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds,
The diff'ring World's agreeing sacrifice.
ON A SOLDIER GOING TO THE WARS.
Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl,
To purify the air ;
Thy tears to thread instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
And wakes the louder drum ;
Expense of grief gains no remorse
When sorrow should be dumb.
For I must go where lazy Peace
Will hide her drowsy head ;
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.
But first I'll chide thy cruel theft :
Can I in war delight,
Who, being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight?
Thou knows't the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stol'n away.
Thy payment shall but double be,
O then with speed resign
My own seduced heart to me,
Accompany'd with thine.
26 Sir TOlliam 2>avenant.
WEEP NO MORE FOR WHAT IS PAST.
{From " The Cruel Brothers.")
Weep no more for what is past,
For Time in motion makes such haste
He hath no leisure to descry
Those errors which he passeth by.
If we consider accident,
And how repugnant unto sense
It pays desert with bad event,
We shall disparage Providence.
CURSED JEALOUSY.
This cursed jealousy, what is't ?
'Tis Love that has lost itself in a mist ;
'Tis Love being frighted out of his wits ;
'Tis Love that has a fever got ;
Love that is violently hot,
But troubled with cold and trembling fits.
'Tis yet a more unnatural evil,
'Tis the god of Love, 'tis the god of Love,
Possessed with a devil.
ON THE CAPTIVITY OF THE COUNTESS OF
ANGLESEY.
O WHITHER will you lead the fair
And spicy daughter of the morn?
Those manacles of her soft hair,
Princes, though free, would fain have worn.
What is her crime ? what has she done?
Did she, by breaking beauty, stay,
Or from his course mislead the sun,
So robbed your harvest of a day ?
Or did her voice, divinely clear,
Since lately in your forest bred,
Make all the trees dance after her,
And so your woods disforested ?
Sir William Bavenant* 27
BALLAD.
{From " The Rivals.")
My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare ;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear ;
Yet still I cry, O turn, love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And, alack ! what remedy !
I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring;
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing.
O turn to me, my dear love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man who alone can'st
Procure my liberty.
But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan,
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone.
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.
PLATONIC LOVERS.
How sad and dismal sound the farewells which
Poor lovers take, whom destiny disjoins,
Although they know their absence will be short ;
And when they meet again how musical
And sweet are all the mutual joys they breathe !
Like birds, who when they see the weary sun
Forsake the world, they lay their little heads
Beneath their wings, to ease that weight which his
Departure adds unto their grief.
'Tis true, my love : But when they see that bright
Perpetual traveller return, they warm
And air their feathers at his beams, and sing
Until their gratitude hath made them hoarse.
28 Sir TWUlUam 2>avenant.
STRAY SELECTIONS FROM DAVENANT.
Care visits cities, but she dwells in thrones.
Rich are the diligent, who can command
Time, nature's stock, and could his hour-glass fall,
Would, as for seed of stars, stoop for the sand,
And by incessant labour gather all.
The laws, men from themselves, and not from power, secure.
A library : a monument of vanished minds.
Truth's a discovery of travelling minds.
Honour's the moral conscience of the great.
They grow so certain as to need no hope.
The pious man served Heaven with praise, the world with
prayer.
All that God did e'er invent, or breath inspired,
Or flying fingers touched into a voice are here.
A library :
Where they thought they saw
The assembled souls of all that men held wise.
This Florentine 's a very saint, so meek
And full of courtesy, that he would lend
The devil his cloak, and stand i' th' rain himself.
Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy
It is not safe to know.
Go7idibert.
CONSCIENCE.
For though the judge, Conscience makes no show,
But silently to her dark session comes,
Not as red law does to arraignment go,
Or war to execution, with loud drums.
Though she on hills sets not her gibbets high,
Where frightful Law sets hers ; nor bloody seems,
Like war in colours spread, yet secretly
She does her work, and many men condemns ;
Sir William Davenant. 29
Chokes in the seed what Law, till ripe, ne'er sees ;
What Law would punish, Conscience can prevent ;
And so the world from many mischiefs frees ;
Known by her cures, as Law by punishment.
CHARACTER AND LOVE OF BIRTHA.
( Extracts from * ' Gondibert. ' ')
To Astragon, Heaven for succession gave
One only pledge, and Birtha was her name ;
Whose mother slept, where flowers grew on her grave,
And she succeeded her in face and name.
She never had in busy cities been,
Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'd with fears ;
Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin;
And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears.
But here her father's precepts gave her skill,
Which with incessant business rill'd the hours ;
In Spring, she gathered blossoms for the still ;
In Autumn, berries ; and in Summer, flowers.
Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends,
The busy household waits no less on her :
By secret law, each to her beauty bends;
Though all her lowly mind to that prefer.
The just historians Birtha thus express,
And tell how, by her sire's example taught,
She served the wounded duke in life's distress,
And his fled spirits back by cordials brought ;
Black melancholy mists, that fed despair,
Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervain
clear'd ;
Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air,
And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd.
He that had served great Love with reverend heart,
In these old wounds worse wounds from him endures;
For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart,
And she kills faster than her father cures.
3<> Sir TMillfam Davcnant
Her heedless innocence as little knew
The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took ;
And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew ;
Which at their stars he first in triumph shook.
Love he had lik'd but never lodg'd before ;
But finds him now a bold unquiet guest ;
Who climbs to windows when we shut the door;
And, enter'd, never lets the master rest.
Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart
Affection turns to faith ; and then love's fire
To heaven, though bashfully, she does impart ;
And to her mother in the heavenly choir.
If I do love (said she), that love, O Heaven !
Your own disciple, Nature, bred in me ;
Why should I hide the passion you have given,
Or blush to show effects which you decree ?
This said, her soul into her breast retires ;
With Love's vain diligence of heart she dreams
Herself into possession of desires,
And trusts unanchor'd Hope in fleeting streams :
She thinks of Eden-life ; and no rough wind
In their pacific sea shall wrinkles make ;
That still her lowliness shall keep him kind,
Her cares keep him asleep, her voice awake.
She thinks if ever anger in him sway
(The youthful warrior's most excused disease),
Such chance her tears shall calm, as showers allay
The accidental rage of winds and seas.
Thus to herself in day-dreams Birtha talks :
The duke (whose wounds of war are healthful grown),
To cure Love's wounds, seeks Birtha where she walks :
Whose wandering soul seeks him to cure her own.
JOHN DRYDEN.
JOHN DRYDEN.
Born in Aldwinckle, Northamptonshire, in 1631. Made laureate in 1670, two
years after the death of Davenant. Deposed at the Revolution. Died in 1700.
(Reigns of Charles II. and James II.)
" POETRY, to be just to itself, ought always to precede and
be the herald of improvement," wrote Longfellow years ago
in the pages of the North America?i Review. How little
Dryden's work was the herald of improvement every earnest
student of literature feels keenly. All his influence seemed to
hasten the downward course of poetry in England. Dryclen
was neither true to himself nor to his genius. His splendid
endowments fitted him to be a dictator to mankind, and he was
himself governed by the worst tendencies of his age. A superb
reasoner; a critic of learning and ability, possessing powers of
satire which have never been surpassed; master of a prose
style which was sinewy, flexible, and eloquent, and of a poetical
versification remarkable for its clearness, its grace, its com-
mand of variations in metre yet to Dryden there was not
*' That sublimer inspiration given
That glows in Shakespeare's or in Milton's page
The pomp and prodigality of Heaven."
The record of Dryden's life proves that it was clearly his own
choice that he missed the highest. The poetical achievement
and moral dignity of his great contemporary, Milton, show
that a man may, if he choose, emancipate himself from the
influences of his age, and stem the tide of its evil. But in
Dryden, from first to last, we see a lack of earnestness, of
honesty of purpose, of " belief in and devotion to something
nobler and more abiding than the present moment and its
petulant need."
Without such devotion a man's work cannot be called truly
great. And yet, with all Dryden's fatal defects of soul, his
intellectual services cannot be ignored : he has been justly
called both the glory and the shame of our literature.
Dryden's grandfather was a baronet; his father a younger
son of an ancient and honourable family, whose traditions were
all Puritan. Little is known of his childhood, except that he
was sturdy and precocious. Sent to Westminster school, he
3 2 3obn Dr^Dcn.
often felt the "classic rod" of Dr. Busby, but the boy's tem-
perament was such that neither punishments nor abuse had
much power to affect his serene self-confidence. He was very
susceptible to praise, and in this we see the root of his subse-
quent literary methods.
Dryden did not win many honours at Cambridge, whither he
went at the age of nineteen, but he took his degree; and then,
as his income was very small, he went to live in London as
secretary to a kinsman. Here his career began. All his
interests were with the Puritan party, and on the death of Crom-
well he wrote an elegy strong in praise of republicanism. But
Dryden was bent on personal advancement, and for the true
welfare of England he had little regard ; at heart he was a
time-server and a political and religious turncoat. At the
Restoration his hopes from the Puritan party were frustrated,
and among the flatterers who sang the glories of the old order
of things, he stood pre-eminent. In " Astrea Redux," and other
poems about Charles II., Dryden 's tributes to the king's virtues
and god-like qualities might almost rank as satire, if that were
possible.
In the beginning of Dryden's career he married a woman of
rank and beauty, but little happiness came to him. Lady
Elizabeth Howard was quick-tempered, and he was not domestic
in his tastes, and much friction was, therefore, the inevitable
result. A man who, to his wife's wish that she were a book
that she might have more of his company, could reply : " Be an
almanac then, my dear, that I may change you once a year,"
could not be called a model husband.
Attracted to the stage in the same way as Davenant had
been, Dryden brought out his first play in 1662, but it fell flat.
Successful with his third, and wishing to win the favour of a
king who advocated the use of rhyme, Dryden soon began
those rhyming dramas which have been so justly condemned.
Pepys, though he censured the rhyme as breaking the sense,
said that he and his wife returned home after the performance
of one of these plays before the king, mightily contented.
Dryden's plays were artificial ; showed no insight into
character ; no pathos or tenderness, and, worst of all, they were
disfigured by those obscenities which make them utterly unfit
to be read. Pepys pronounced many of them "very smutty."
During the year of the fire and the plague, when the theatres
were closed, Dryden wrote that work which has won him dis-
tinction as a critic, " The Essay of Dramatic Poesy." In this
he defended the use of rhyme, but profiting by the parodies of
the Duke of Buckingham, Dryden soon changed his opinion of
rhyme, and we find that whenever he employed blank verse he
gained in both depth and range.
5obn Drg&em 33
Dryden's " Essay on the Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy,"
in which he paid tributes to the Shakespearean drama, show
him with all his ethical limitations to have possessed an intel-
lectual breadth and accessibility to ideas very essential in a
critic. In these essays, and his numerous dedications and pref-
aces, we see Dryden's decided power as a writer of prose.
In 1670, two years after the death of Davenant, Dryden was
made laureate. The appointment of Historiographer added
another hundred pounds to his income. But the court favour,
which had first been obtained by being false to hereditary tra-
ditions, could only be kept by obedience to the same methods.
When James II. came to the throne, Dryden, probably to
please him, became a Roman Catholic. But the poet who
with such eloquence had upheld the Church of England in
" Religio Laici," and the Church of Rome in " The Hind and
Panther," could not, with any dignity, recant in the short
space of three years and swear allegiance to the Protestant
William. Therefore, at the Revolution, which deprived James
of his crown, poor Dryden was left out in the cold. The
people had little patience with the Romanist laureate. Lord
Dorset, the Lord Chancellor, was compelled to yield to the
popular voice, and Dryden was deposed.
In 1678 a change in Dryden's literary methods manifested
itself, which resulted in works of greater scope and individuality.
After this we have his great satires, his best plays, his odes,
and his translations and Fables. It would be impossible to
speak of these in detail. In the splendid satire " Absalom and
Achitophel " Dryden first showed the hand of the master. He
has immortalised his literary rivals as well as political foes. In
" MacFlecknoe " Dryden's satire became still more caustic
and pointed, but many of his hits degenerate into caricature, and
prove that satire is one of the falsest of guides. From Shad-
well himself Dryden might have learned a lesson of steadfast-
ness and political constancy which would have done him good.
It must have been hard for Dryden to have had the Laureateship
taken from him and given to the very man whom he had treated
so unjustly.
Dryden lived eleven years after the loss of the laurel, and
some of his best work was done under the pressure of poverty,
notably that magnificent " Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," called also
" Alexander's Feast," which was the finest burst of his lyrical
genius. Dryden laboured hard at his translations and Fables,
and his rewards were fame and money, but even during the
last of his life we find his poetry, with all its intellectual subtlety,
its felicity of style, its charm and its power, disfigured by that
disregard of moral purity and dignity which was a feature of
the poet's own character and of the age in which he lived.
34 3obn BrgOem
When Jeremy Collier attacked the stage, of course his vigor-
ous criticism touched the literary lion of the day whose influence
was so widespread and powerful. Dryden felt the criticism to
be just, and with singular openness of mind confessed so
publicly.
Two years after the publication of Collier's great work,
Dryden died of an inflammation of the foot, and was buried
with great pomp in the grand old Abbey. It is almost certain
that, had he lived, we should have had poetry from his hand
purer and greater than any which he had written before.
William Whitehead, one of the laureates of the latter end of
the eighteenth century, thus feelingly painted the situation of
Dryden in his last days :
44 The hapless Dryden of a shameless age !
Ill-fated bard ! where'er thy name appears
The weeping verse a sad momento bears ;
Ah ! what availed the enormous blaze between
Thy dawn of glory and thy closing scene? "
Leslie Stephen but recently wrote of Dryden : " He is a
master within his own sphere of thought. But there is some-
thing depressing about his atmosphere. . . He ought to be on
our shelves, but he will rarely be found in our hearts."
SELECTIONS FROM DRYDEN.
SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687.
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began :
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high
Arise, ye more than dead !
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began :
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound. *
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangour
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms,
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries " Hark ! the foes come ;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat ! "
3 6 Jobn DrEfcert.
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of hapless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion
For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh ! what act can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre :
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking earth for heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above :
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST : OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC,
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY,
NOVEMBER, 1697.
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son :
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were placed around ;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound :
THE TREMBLING NOTES ASCEND THE SKY.
Page 37.
5obn Brgfcen. 37
(So should desert in arms be crowned).
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair !
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above
(Such is the power of mighty love).
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god ;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd ;
And while he sought her snowy breast ;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the
world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity, they shout around :
A present deity the vaulted roofs rebound :
With ravish 'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young :
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ;
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face :
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes !
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain.
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
3 8 Sobn 2>rDen.
Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain ;
Fought all his battles o'er again ;
And twice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise;
His gleaming cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
And, while he heaven and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good.
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood ;
Deserted, at his utmojt need,
By those his former bounty fed ;
On the bare earth exposed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below ;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ;
Honour but an empty bubble ;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause ;
So Love was crown 'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
3obn Brg&en. 39
Now, strike the golden lyre again ;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark ! the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head :
As avvak'd from the dead ;
And, amazed, he stares around,
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries ;
See the Furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair !
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
Behold a ghastly br.nd,
Each a torch in his hand !
Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And unbury'd remain
Inglorious on the plain,
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy :
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.
Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn 'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute ;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came
Inventress of the vocal frame ;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown ;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.
4o Jobn 2>rg&en.
SELECTION FROM ELEONORA.
No single virtue we could most commend,
Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend ;
For she was all, in that supreme degree,
What as no one prevailed, so all was she.
The several parts lay hidden in the piece ;
The occasion but exerted that or this,
A wife as tender, and as true withal,
As the first woman was before her fall :
Made for the man, of whom she was a part :
Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.
A second Eve, but by no crime accursed ;
As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.
Had she been first, still Paradise had been,
And death had found no entrance by her sin.
Yet unemployed no minute slipped away ;
Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of Heaven to have her was so great
That some were single acts, though each complete ;
But every act stood ready to repeat.
Her fellow-saints with busy care will look
For her blest name in fate's eternal book ;
And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see
Numberless virtues, endless charity :
But more will wonder at so short an age,
To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page :
And with a pious fear begin to doubt
The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.
But 'twas her Saviour's time ; and could there be
A copy near the original, 'twas she.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple and expire;
So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence,
A short sweet odour of a vast expense.
She vanished, we can scarcely say she died ;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide :
She passed serenely with a single breath ;
This moment perfect health, the next was death :
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure ;
So little penance needs, where souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue ;
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep :
5obn H)rEfcen. 41
So softly death succeeded life in her:
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckoned to a feast,
And treated like a long familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go :
E'en on that day in all her trim prepar'd,
As early notice she from heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warning to remove :
Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Clothed all in white, the livery of the day.
VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS.
This paraphrase of the Latin hymn popularly attributed to Charlemagne was
first printed in Tonson's folio edition of Dryden's Poems, 1701.
Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit every pious mind ;
Come, pour thy joys on human kind ;
From sin and sorrows set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
Oh, source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy !
Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence,
Refine and purge our earthly parts ;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts !
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul ;
4 2 3obn Drgfcem
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ;
And lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe :
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father and the Son by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died :
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee !
SELECTION.
ALAS ! what stay is there in human state,
Or who can shun inevitable fate ?
The doom was written, the decree was past,
Ere the foundations of the world were cast.
LIMIT OF FATE.
ON what strange grounds we build our hopes and fears !
Man's life is all a mist, and in the dark our fortunes
meet us.
If fate be not, then what can we foresee ?
And how can we avoid it if it be ?
If by free will in our own paths we move,
How are we bounded by decrees above ?
Whether we drive, or whether we are driven,
If ill, 'tis ours ; if good, the act of Heaven.
THE OLD AGE OF THE TEMPERATE.
Some few, by Temperance taught, approaching slow,
To distant fate by easy journeys go :
Gently they lay them down, as ev'ning sheep,
On their own woolly fleeces softly sleep.
Vf
'the fair, but short lived lily.'
Pare 43.
3obn BrgDen. 43
So noiseless would I live, such death to find ;
Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind :
But ripely dropping from the sapless bough,
And, dying, nothing to myself would owe.
Thus daily changing, with a duller taste
Of lessening joys, I by degrees would waste :
Still quitting ground by unperceiv'd decay;
And steal myself from Life, and fade away.
HUMAN LIFE.
{From ' 'A urengzebe. ")
When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat ;
Yet, fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit:
Trust on^and think to-morrow will repay :
To-morrow's falser than the former day ;
Lies wbrse ; and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys cuts off what we possessed.
Strange cozenage ! None would live past years again ;
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain ;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
THE INFANT.
{From "Lucretius.")
Thus like a sailor by the tempest hurled
Ashore, the Babe is shipwrecked on the World ;
Naked he lies and ready to expire,
Helpless of all that human wants require :
Exposed upon inhospitable Earth,
From the first moment of his hapless birth.
BEAUTY AND YOUTH.
Beauty and youth are frail : their charms will soon
decay,
Their lustre fades as rolling years increase,
And Age still triumphs o'er the ruined face.
This truth, the fair but short-lived lily shows,
And prickles, that survive the faded rose.
U Jobn S>r&en.
Learn, lovely Boy : be with instruction wise;
Beauty and youth misspent are past advice :
Then cultivate the mind with wit and fame :
Those lasting charms survive the fun'ral flame.
SELECTION.
And could we choose the time and choose aright,
'Tis best to die our honour at the height.
When we have done our ancestors no shame,
But served our friends, and well secured our fame.
Then should we wish our happy life to close,
And leave no more for fortune to dispose,
So should we make our death a glad relief
From future shame, from sickness, and from grief.
Enjoying while we live the present hour,
And dying in our excellence and flower.
REASON AND RELIGION.
(From 4< Religio Laid")
Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars,
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers,
Is Reason to the soul ; and as on high
Those rolling fires discover but the sky,
Not light us here, so Reason's glimmering ray
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upward to a better day.
And as those nightly tapers disappear
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere,
So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight,
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
A SIMILE.
Till, like a clock worn out with beating time,
The weary wheels of life at last stood still.
5obn 2>rgDen. 45
MEN.
(From "All for Love")
MEN are but children of a larger growth ;
Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving too, and full as vain ;
And yet the soul shut up in her dark room,
Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing ;
But like a mole in earth, busy and blind,
Works all her folly up, and casts it outward
To the world's view.
THE UNITY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.
(From '* The Hind and the Panther."')
One in herself, not rent by schism or sound,
Entire, one solid shining diamond,
Not sparkles shattered into sects like you :
One is the Church, and must be to be true,
One central principle of unity ;
As undivided, so from errors free ;
As one in faith, so one in sanctity.
Thus she, and none but she, the insulting rage
Of heretics opposed from age to age ;
Still, when the giant-brood invades her throne,
She stoops from heaven and meets them half way down,
And with paternal thunder vindicates her crown.
But like Egyptian sorcerers you stand,
And vainly lift aloft your magic wand
To sweep away the swarms of vermin from the land.
You could like them, with like infernal force,
Produce the plague, but not arrest the course.
But when the boils and blotches with disgrace
And public scandal sat upon the face,
Themselves attacked, the magi strove no more,
They saw God's finger, and their fate deplore ;
Themselves they could not cure of the dishonest sore.
Thus one, thus pure, behold her largely spread,
Like the fair ocean from her mother-bed ;
From east to west triumphantly she rides,
All shores are watered by her wealthy tides.
The Gospel-sound, diffused from pole to pole,
Where winds can carry and where waves can roll,
The self-same doctrine of the sacred page
Conveyed to every clime, in every age.
4^ 3obn 2>rg&en.
FROM RIVAL LADIES.
My soul lies hid in shades of grief,
Whence, like the bird of night, with half-shut eyes
She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day.
AH, HOW SWEET!
Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young desire !
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire !
Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart :
E'en the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart.
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.
Love and time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend ;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send ;
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein ;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again.
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE, BEFORE HIS
PARADISE LOST.
Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd ;
The next, in majesty ; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go ;
To make a third, she join'd the former two.
3obn 2>rfcem 47
SONG.
Ah, fading joy ! how quickly art thou past !
Yet we thy ruin haste.
As if the cares of human life were few,
We seek out new :
And follow fate which would too fast pursue.
See how on every bough the birds express
In their sweet notes their happiness.
They all enjoy and nothing spare,
But on their mother nature lay their care :
Why, then, should man, the lord of all below,
Such troubles choose to know
As none of all his subjects undergo ?
Hark, hark ! the waters fall, fall, fall;
And with a murmuring sound
Dash, dash upon the ground,
To gentle slumbers call.
TRADITION.
{From " Religio Lata.")
Must all tradition then be set aside ?
This to affirm, were ignorance or pride,
Are there not many points ; some needful sure
To saving faith, that Scripture leaves obscure,
Which every sect will wrest a several way ?
For what one sect interprets, all sects may.
SELECTIONS FROM ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide ;
Else why should he, with wealth and honour blessed,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ?
Punish a body which he could not please,
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?
And all to leave what with his toil he won,
To that un feathered two-legg'd thing, a son ;
Got, while his soul did huddled notions try;
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
In friendship false, implacable in hate ;
Resolved to ruin or to rule the state.
48 Sobn DrgDen.
Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late,
Some lucky revolution of their fate :
Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill
(For human good depends on human will),
Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent,
And from the first impression takes the bent :
But, if unseized, she glides away like wind,
And leaves repenting folly far behind.
Whate'er he did was done with so much ease ;
In him alone was natural to please.
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,
And o'er informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity ;
Pleased with the danger when the waves went high,
He sought the storms.
Heaven had wanted one immortal song.
Wild ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.
A successive title, long and dark,
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's ark.
Who think too little and who talk too much.
His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen.
Whose weighty sense
Flows in fit words, and heavenly eloquence,
Beware the fury of a patient man.
To show his judgment in extremes
So over violent or over civil,
That every man with him was god or devil.
Dashed through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in.
Jobn DrEfcem 49
SHADWELL.
{From ' ' Mac Flecknoe " 1682.)
All human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire and had governed long,
In prose and verse was owned without dispute
Through all the realms of nonsense absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried, " Tis resolved, for nature pleads that he
Should only rule who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years ;
Shadwell alone of all my sons is he
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through and make a lucid interval ;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty.
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way,
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came
To teach the nations in thy greater name."
STRAY LINES FROM DRYDEN.
For truth has such a face and such a mien,
As to be loved needs only' to be seen.
Hind and Panther,
5 5obn Brgbett
Thus all below is strength and all above is grace.
Epistle to Congreve.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise for cure on exercise depend ;
God never made his work for man to mend.
Epistle to John Dry den.
Wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
To the Memory of Mr. Oldham.
Defend against your judgment your departed friend.
Epistle to Co7igreve.
As sure as a gun.
The Spanish Friar.
Bless the hand that gave the blow.
The Spanish Friar.
Second thoughts, they say, are best.
The Spanish Friar.
I have a soul, that like an ample shield
Can take in all.
Don Sebastian.
O gracious God ! how far have we
Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy !
Elegy on Mrs. Killigrew.
For art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
The Cock and the Fox.
The sweet civilities of life.
Cymon and Iphigenia.
Happy who in his verse can steer, gently steer
From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.
The Art of Poetry.
Happy the man and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own ;
He, who, secure within can say
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day.
Imitations of Horace.
Jobn 2>n>Den. 5 r
He's a sure card.
The Spanish Friar.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been.
Imitations of Horace.
Virtue though in rags will keep me warm.
Imitations of Horace.
Errors like straws upon the surface flow,
He who would search for pearls must dive below.
All for Love.
Your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
The Maiden Queen.
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
Prologue to The Tempest.
Forgiveness to the injured does belong ;
But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong.
Conquest of Granada.
All delays are dangerous in war.
Tyrannic Love.
Whatever is, is in its causes just.
CEdipus.
THOMAS SHADWELL.
Born at Lanton Hall, Norfolk, in 1640. Made laureate in 1689, after the Revo-
lution. Died in 1692.
(Reign of William III.)
When Southeysaid that of all his predecessors Nahum Tate
would rank the lowest of the laureates if he had not succeeded
Shadwell, he was scarcely just ; though as a poet Shadwell
does not take high rank. He was a true son of his age, and he
belonged to the artificial school that prevailed. That school,
as we have seen, dealt only with the surfaces of things, ignored
the depths of life, the mysteries of human existence, and had
little appreciation of the sublime loveliness of the outward
world ; and when it did seek to describe or interpret that beauty
in nature, it did so " under the guidance of sentiments put on
for the most part like a stage dress, and in language which
seemed not to belong to the world which we know."
As a writer of plays which mirrored the fashions and ideas
of his time Shadwell did good work. But Shadwell had not
that perseverance in detail which attains perfection. His plays,
with all their unmistakable cleverness, are not symmetrical. He
began well, but much of his work was either left unfinished, or
finished so hastily that it is far from artistic. Wycherley used
to say of him that " he knew how to start a fool very well, but
that he was never able to run him down." And Rochester
alluded to the same defect in the lines :
44 Of all our modern wits none seems to me
Once to have touched upon true comedy,
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of nature's force, though none of art ;
With just, bold strokes he dashes here and there
Showing great mastery."
It is one proof of a man's power if his peculiarites of style, or
his methods of delineating character or social conditions, are
imitated by his successors. One of Scott's novels is obviously
modelled upon Shadwell's " Squire of Alsatia," and Scott never
hesitated to express his admiration of Shadwell's talents. It is
a significant fact that Macaulay in " seeking illustrations of the
times and occurrences of which he writes, cites Shadwell five
THOMAS SHADWELL.
Gbomas SbafcwelL 53
times where he mentions contemporary dramatists but once."
In the nineteenth chapter of his history he quotes a whole scene
from Shadwell's "Stockjobbers."
Otvvay was warm in his praise of Shadwell ; and Langbaine
said: " I own I like his comedies better than Mr. Dryden's, as
having more variety of characters, and those drawn from the
life." The truthfulness of Shadwell's comedies show but too
well the state of society of the time.
There had been a great change since the era of rare Ben
Jonson. The delicate airy Masques which were so well fitted
to reveal his lyrical genius had now ceased to be the favourite
diversion. Instead of truth to nature, vivid portraiture of char-
acter, and analysis of motives, the corrupt court of Charles and
James craved amusement, and that, of the most dissolute
kind. Dryden, who had been so willing to pander to the
vices of the court, despised and underrated Shadwell, and as
far as morality is concerned, Shadwell's plays are no better
than Dryden's. He preserved the old coarse traditions of the
Restoration. His comedies are disfigured by that grossness,
that rank impurity, which makes them now unfit to be read.
Yet the originality and humour, the brilliancy and sparkle, of
these plays made him one of the most popular writers of the age ;
and he showed far more insight and real power than Dryden.
The " Lancashire Witches and Teague O'Divelly " held the stage
many years after Shadwell had bidden life a last farewell, and
this after the taste of the people had changed and become purer
and more healthful. This was doubtless owing to the fine
flashes of humour in the play, for it contains one of the earliest
specimens of the " stage Irishman " who is always so irresistibly
attractive. In delineating the vices and follies so fashionable,
Shadwell showed both skill and wit, but many times he conde-
scended to coarse caricature. His aim was not, like Jonson, to
reform and change. He was the observer and the painter,
never the reformer or the preacher. From an unknown hand
came the Epilogue to Shadwell's " Volunteers " perhaps he
wrote it himself, who knows ?
" Shadwell, the great support o' the comic stage,
Born to expose the follies of the age.
To whip prevailing vices and unite
Mirth with instruction, profit with delight.'"
But his popularity was owing to his skill in delighting, never
instructing his audience.
Shadwell always had an ardent admiration for Ben Jonson,
and called him the greatest dramatist of the world. Many of
his own plays were modelled upon. Jonson's original method of
bringing into prominence certain " humours "or personal eccen-
54 Gbomae SbabwelU
tricities. It is obvious that the personification of single pro-
pensities does not result in the creation of real men and women,
but abstract beings, who have little in common with the great
mass of humanity. Then, though Shadwell was a quick
observer, he did not see far beneath the surfaces of human life.
He neither knew how to develop character nor depict its more
subtle differences. This lack of intellectual depth affected his
estimate of Shakespeare. In 1678 he " improved " " Timon of
Athens," saying, " Shakespeare never made more masterly
strokes than in this, yet I can truly say I have made it into a
play." This attempt of Shadwell's was, in Southey's opinion,
temerity which should have caused his bust in Westminster
Abbey to have been cast either in lead or in brass, or an
emblematic amalgama of the two metals.
As a laureate Shadwell's poetical efforts showed little origi-
nality or power. It was he who first inaugurated the Annual
Birthday Odes. Each laureate who came after continued to
furnish a poem on the occasion of every royal birthday, or im-
portant anniversary, or court festival his "quit rent ode, his
peppercorn of praise," as Cowper teiAned it, until Southey him-
self wisely abolished the custom. Avhen Southey was offered
the laurel he expressed the wish tlrat the appointment might be
placed on a footing which would exact from the holder nothing
like a schoolboy's task, but leave him at liberty to write when
and how he pleased, and thus rentier the office as honourable as
it was originally intended to be. /
Shadwell's odes to William were poor enough. Had they
been better it is doubtful if William would have known it.
Shadwell's life was uneventful. Born in 1640 at Lanton Hall
in Norfolk, his childhood was a happy one. He was of good
family, but his father's fortune had been greatly reduced by the
civil war, and "Tom" was educated for the bar. After a
course of study at Cambridge and the Inner Temple, he went
for a tour on the Continent, but his travels but increased an
unrest and dislike of steady application to study which had been
evident from the first. He returned to London to write verses
and design plays rather than attend to his profession. The
attractions of the theatre proved too alluring for his pleasure-
loving temperament, so he soon gave up law entirely, frequented
the taverns and coffee houses, and lived a life of alternate dissi-
pation and earnest devotion to literary pursuits. The result
of that devotion was seen in the production of a comedy
every year after he had once won fame by his " Sullen Lovers."
He married an actress whose knowledge of the stage and its
requirements was of great help to him in his work. The
marriage was a happy one, and to the generosity of his son. Sir
John Shadwell, we owe the monument in Westminster Abbey.
Gbomas SbaDwelL 55
Shad well's private life was unfortunately not free from the vices
so common to his age ; but politically he was honourable, stead-
fast, and sincere. Always a " true blue Protestant," no hopes of
court preferment ever had the slightest power to tempt him to
change his faith. He was also a true friend and an open-
hearted enemy. He never struck an opponent in the back, but
faced him in fair fight. He and Dryden had once been friendly
enough for Dryden to write one of Shadwell's prologues, but
Dryden's religious apostasy excited Shadwell's ire, and he
attacked Dryden in some satirical verses which were never for-
given. Poor Shad well paid dearly for his rashness. The injus-
tice of " Mac Flecknoe " has been a serious detriment to Shad-
well's fame. Dryden's satire hurt him in the same way as
Pope's " Dunciad " hurt Cibber. Dryden and Pope were so
much greater than either Shadwell or Cibber that it is not sur-
prising that the world all these years has drawn its impression
from the two great satires rather than from an independent
study of the lives or works of Shadwell and Cibber. Shadwell
felt in a measure compensated by the gift of the laurel, though
he was too magnanimous to ever taunt Dryden with his mis-
fortunes. He was laureate only four short years, and he died
eight years before his great enemy. The end was due to an
overdose of opium sad termination to a dramatic career of
unusual brilliancy and influence. Shadwell's funeral sermon
was preached by Dr. Brady, chaplain to the king. Old Chelsea
Church was thronged by a sympathetic audience, and many
tears were shed for the man whose life had not all been spent in
selfish pleasure, but had diffused itself in many kindly acts. The
sermon dwelt on Shadwell's political integrity, and then Dr.
Brady said : " His natural and acquired abilities made him very
amiable to all who conversed with him, a very few being equal
in the becoming qualities which adorn and set off a complete
gentleman ; his very enemies, if he has now any left, will give
him this character, at least, if they knew him as thoroughly as I
did." Panegyrics of this kind are not always to be trusted ;
but we can feel sure, that in spite of Shadwell's faults as a man
and his limitations as a poet, he in no way resembled the por-
trait of him which has come down to us in the immortal verse
of Dryden.
SELECTIONS FROM SHADWELL.
ODE ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE KING'S
BIRTH.
Welcome, thrice welcome, this auspicious morn
On which the great Nassau was born,
Sprung from a mighty race which was designed
For the deliv'rers of mankind.
Illustrious heroes, whose prevailing fates
Raised the distressed to high and mighty states ;
And did by that possess more true renown,
Than their Adolphus gained by the Imperial crown.
They cooled the rage, humbled the pride of Spain.
But since the insolence of France no less,
Had brought the States into distress,
But that a precious scion did remain
From that great root, which did the shock sustain,
And made them high and mighty once again.
This prince for us was born to make us free
From the most abject slavery.
Thou hast restored our laws their force again ;
We still shall conquer on the land by thee ;
By thee shall conquer on the main.
But thee a Fate much more sublime attends,
Europe for freedom on thy sword depends ;
And thy victorious arms shall tumble down
The savage monster from the Gallick throne ;
To this important day we all shall owe,
Oh glorious birth, from which such blest effects shall flow.
{General chorus of voices and instruments!)
On this glad day let every voice
And instrument proclaim our joys,
And let all Europe join in the triumphant noise,
Io Triumphe let us sing,
Io Triumphe let us sing,
And let the sound through all the spacious welkin ring.
56
Gbomas SbaDwelL 57
Thus the prophetic muses say,
And all thy wise and good will pray,
That they long, long, may celebrate this day.
Soon haughty France shall bow, and coz'ning Rome,
And Britain mistress of the world become ;
And from thy wise, thy God-like sway,
Kings learn to reign, and subjects to obey.
SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
O SACRED harmony, prepare our lays,
While, on Cecilia's day, we sing your praise,
From earth to heaven our warbling voices raise !
Join all ye glorious instruments around,
The yielding air with your vibrations wound,
And fill Heaven's conclave with the mighty sound.
You did at first the warring atoms join,
Made qualities most opposite combine,
While discords did with pleasing concords twine.
The universe you fram'd, you still sustain ;
Without you, what in tune does now remain
Would jangle into Chaos once again.
It does your most transcendent glory prove,
That, to complete immortal joys above,
There must be harmony to crown their love.
Dirges with sorrow still inspire
The doleful and lamenting choir,
With swelling hearts and closing eyes,
They solemnise their obsequie s ; tit
For grief they frequent discords choose,
Long bindings and chromatics use.
Organs and viols sadly groan
To the voices' dismal tone.
If Love's gentle passions we
Express, there must be harmony;
We touch the soft and tender flute,
The sprinkling and melodious lute,
5 8 Gbomas Sba&well.
When we describe the tickling smart
Which does invade a love-sick heart :
Sweet nymphs in pretty murmurs plain,
All chill and panting with the pleasing pain,
Which can be eas'd by nothing but the swain.
If poets in a lofty epic strain,
Some ancient noble history recite,
How heroes love, and puissant conquerors fight,
Or how of cruel fortune they complain ;
Or if the muse the fate of empires sings
The change of crowns, the rise and fall of kings ;
CHORUS.
This sacred music does impart
Life and vigour to the art ;
It makes the dumb poetic pictures breathe,
Victors and poet's names it saves from death.
How does the thundering martial song
Provoke the military throng !
The hautboys and the warlike fife,
With clamours of the deafening drum,
Make peasants bravely hazard life
And quicken those whom fears bemoan !
The clangour of the trumpets' sound
Fills all the dusty place around,
And does from neighbouring hills rebound :
To triumph when we sing,
We make the trembling valleys ring.
GRAND CHORUS.
All instruments and voices fit the choir,
While we.enchanting harmony admire.
What mighty wonders by our arts are taught,
What miracles by sacred numbers wrought,
On earth : in heaven, no joys are perfect found,
Till by celestial harmony they're crown 'd^__> y
FROM THE INNOCENT IMPOSTORS.
How long must women wait in vain
A constant love to find ?
No art can fickle man retain,
Qr fix a roving mind.
1 BUT OH ! THE TORMENT TO DISCERN
A PERJURED LOVER GONE/' Page 59.
Gbomas Sbafcwell. 59
Yet fondly we ourselves deceive,
And empty hopes .pursue :
Though false to others, we believe
They will to us prove true.
But oh ! the torment to discern
A perjured lover gone ;
And yet by sad experience learn
That we must still love on.
How strangely are we fool'd by fate,
Who tread the maze of love :
When most desirous to retreat,
We know not how to move.
ON DRYDEN'S HEROIC TRAGEDIES.
BUT of these ladies he despairs to-day
Who love a dull, romantic, whining play :
Where poor frail woman's made a deity,
With senseless, fond idolatry.
And love-sick heroes sigh and pine and cry,
Though singly they beat armies and huff kings,
Rant at the gods and do impossible things ;
Though they can laugh at danger, blood and wounds,
Yet if the dame once chides, the milksop hero swoons.
Epilogue to The Virtuoso.
SATIRICAL LINES ON DRYDEN.
How long shall I endure without reply,
To hear this Bayes, this hackney-rayler lie?
The fool uncudgelled for one libel, swells,
Where not his wit, but sauciness excells ;
Whilst with foul words and names which lie lets tlie,
He quite defiles the satyr's dignity.
For libel and true satyr different be,
This must have truth and salt with modesty.
Sparing the persons, this does tax the crimes,
Galls not great men, but vices of the times,
With witty and sharp not blunt and bitter rhymes,
Methinks the ghost of Horace there I see,
Lashing this cherry-cheeked dunce of fifty-three.
Who, at that age, so boldly durst profane,
With base hir'd libel, the free satyr's vein. . .
6o Gbomae Sbafcwell.
An oyster wench is sure thy muse of late,
And all thy Helicon's at Billingsgate. . .
As far from satyr does thy talent lye,
As far from being cheerful, or good company ;
For thou art Saturnine, thou dost confess
A civil word thy dulness to express. . .
Now farewell, wretched, mercenary Bayes,
Who the king libell'd, and did Cromwell praise-,
Farewell, abandoned rascal, only fit
To be abused by thy own scurrilous wit.
The Medal of John Bayes.
ON BEN JONSON.
He was incomparably the best dramatic poet that ever was,
or, I believe, ever will be ; and I had rather be the author of one
scene in his best comedies than of any play this age has pro-
duced.
ON BEN JONSON.
The mighty Prince of Poets, learned Ben,
Who alone dived into the minds of men,
Saw all their wanderings, all their follies knew,
And all their vain fantastic passions drew.
'Twas he alone true humours understood,
And with great wit and judgment made them good.
Dedication to The Virtuoso.
NAHUM TATE.
Born in Dublin in 1652. Made laureate in 1692. Died in 1715.
(Reigns of William III., Anne., and George I.)
NAHUM Tate belonged to a family of clergymen, but all his
tastes were for a life radically different from theirs. He had
considerable poetic ambition, though his soul longed the most
intensely for political distinction. A son of Dr. Faithful Teat,
who afterwards changed his name to Tate, he was born
in Dublin, passed a happy childhood, and did well at school
and managed to matriculate at Trinity College, but he 'did
not distinguish himself for his scholarship, and it is not
known whether he took his degree. Drawn to London by an
irresistible magnet, he left his native city, and seldom visited it
afterward. When he first began to try his fortunes in the field
of literature he was fortunate in securing the friendship of the
great Dryden, and through him he soon obtained the patronage
of Lord Dorset. Tate's first volume of poems did not pay him
very well, so he began to write for the stage. With the ful-
some flattery so common among all the poets of the day, he
dedicated his first tragedy to Lord Dorset. This was "Brutus
of Alba, or the Enchanted Lovers." The plot was a curious
blending of Virgil, of ancient legendary lore, and of ideas cur-
rent in the reign of William and Mary. The dedication to
Dorset and the prologue written' by Dryden helped Tate to
such an extent that his bark seemed well launched on a sea of
glory. Tate's object was no higher than simply to entertain
his audiences. There was no lofty moral motive to his work.
He wished to get on in the world, he would therefore drift
with the tide of public opinion ; he aspired to the favour of the
rich and the great, therefore he would not venture to satirise their
weaknesses or vices. He would simply paint life as he saw it,
and, by adding certain imaginative touches, he would make his
picture as bright and charming as possible.
The most popular writers of the day did not scruple to take
the plots of Shakespeare and Jonson and other old dramatists,
and remodel them to suit their own convenience. It was an
open secret that Tate borrowed right and left. He even
62 IRabum Gate*
assumed to alter Shakespeare. Garrick and Colman refused to
act " Lear " as Tate changed it, but Kemble preferred Tate's
version, and it held the stage for many years. It seemed to be
from no lack of respect that Tate thus ventured to tamper with
the great master's work. He only sought to make it more popu-
lar with an age that in many respects was incapable of appreci-
ating the highest and best in dramatic art. That Tate adapted
" Richard II." and " Coriolanus," as well as " Lear," to his own
notions of propriety, excited both the indignation and the con-
tempt of Southey, and yet he felt more inclined to excuse "poor
Nahum,"as he called him, than to excuse Dryden's and Daven-
ant's obtuseness of feeling men of whom loftier poetic ideals
would be expected when they joined in " interpolating ' The
Tempest' with their own base inventions." Tate boldly justi-
fied his alterations of " Lear." He described the original as a
heap of jewels unstrung and unpolished, which he could reduce
to order only by interpolating the text. For instance he intro-
duced a love scene between Edgar and Cordelia which is utterly
foreign to the spirit of the tragedy ; and he also cut out many
fine % and noble scenes. Addison considered the play thus lost
half its beauty, but the public liked Tate's version better than
the purity of the original, and once an attempt being made at
Covent Garden to act the play as Shakespeare wrote it, the
result was total failure.
A certain critic, who used a poisoned arrow for his pen,
describes Tate as the author of the worst alteration of Shakes-
peare, the worst version of the Psalms of David, and the worst
continuation of a great poem,
This opinion is probably based on the fact that Pope put
Tate into the " Dunciad." Pope wrote that Tate leaned alter-
nately to sense and nonsense, that he blundered round a mean-
ing, that his fustian was
11 So sublimely bad
It is not poetry, but prose run mad."
It is true that a personal study of Tate's work results in dis-
appointment. It is wholly lacking in imagination, has no depth
of insight or feeling, except as it shows depth in the borrowed
thought with which it is pervaded; yet it contains often wit
and fancy, and has much beauty of phrase and of versification.
His translations from Juvenal and Ovid have many graces of
style, and his own poem called " Panacea " has much artistic
excellence. The subject is uninteresting to readers now, con-
cerned as it is with the charms of tea, but in Tate's time tea
was a luxury which was very much prized.
Tate's great defect is that he had not only little originality
IRabum Gate. 63
of thought, but that his metaphors and turns of expression
are borrowed right and left. As Pope said :
" He steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left."
Tate's merit is, that, in an age which enjoyed the coarseness
of Dryden and Shadwell, he lived a moral and upright life, and
reflected that morality in his later poetry. When first he began
to write he catered to the taste of the age by the usual coarse
allusions in his plays. But as the profligacy of the Restoration
gradually grew less, and virtue and religion began once more to
be considered of some importance, Tate of-course had the good
sense to forecast the future and change his methods. And
therefore his later poems are not disfigured by the impurity
unhappily so prevalent. An admiring friend wrote to him :
44 Long may the laurel flourish on your brow
Since you so well a Laureate's duty know,
For virtue's rescue daring to engage,
Against the tyrant vices of the age."
One of Tate's volumes went by the name of " Sacred Miscella-
nies, or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects."
Tate's morality was so obtrusive that it gave rise to many
bitter satires against him. From choice he mingled little with
the wits and dramatists of the time, though with a few chosen
companions he was free and jovial. In general society he was,
however, taciturn and reserved, showing little trace of brilliancy
of mind or ease of manner. His portrait is not extant. He is
said to have had a somewhat refined face, with a downcast
look, and that in many respects he realised in his personal
appearance the drowsy characteristics of his muse.
The worst continuation of a great poem of which Tate was
guilty was the second part of " Absalom and Achitophel." But
as Tate's satirical powers were altogether too feeble for such
invective, Dryden put in two hundred lines of bitter abuse of
Shadwell. These lines are "as plainly distinguishable from
the rest as a patch of gold upon cloth of frieze," says an
admirer of Dryden.
The success of this literary partnership made Tate ever after-
ward seek the help of others in his work. Tate's chief title to
fame rests, upon his version of the Psalms. His helper was Dr.
Brady, the court chaplain. This version appeared in 1696, one
hundred and thirty-four years after the appearance of the ver-
sion of Sternhold and Hopkins.
It was received with suspicion by conservative people, and a
storm of hostile criticism was provoked ; but it grew steadily in
favour, and gradually supplanted the old version> which was
inadequate and obsolete.
64 Iftabum Gate.
It was authorised by King William and recommended by the
Bishop of London, but it was never imposed upon the English
Church. But many of these Psalms have found a place in
modern hymn books. The Church at large makes use of Tate's
version of Psalm xlii., set to music by Spohr. It is certainly a
most beautiful rendering of the original :'
" As pants the heart for cooling streams
When wearied in the chase."
It is even surpassed by Psalm civ. Tate's imagery here is
exquisite.
When Shadwell died in 1692, Dryden urged the claims of
William Congreve, but by this time the Laureateship had
ceased to have any special significance as a tribute to poetic
genius. It was a mere official gift, dependent either upon
patronage or the possession of certain political opinions.
William III. was not a lover of the stage like Charles II. It is
said that never once during his reign did he even enter a theatre.
He could therefore have little appreciation of the genius of
Congreve. But Tate's political ideas, his commendable life,
and his -willingness to eulogise his Majesty made the king
quite willing to listen to his Lord Chamberlain, who was none
other than Dorset, Tate's patron from the very beginning of his
career. So it was not surprising that Tate received the laurel
crown.
Tate's laureate odes have been commended for their brevity,
and criticised for their weakness and their abject and fulsome
flattery. They pleased the king, however, and he had them set
to music by the court organist and sung in the Royal chapel.
Tate's Elegy on the death of Queen Mary was one of the best
things he ever wrote. Tate lived to mourn the death of
William also ; but Queen Anne retained him as laureate, issued
new letters patent, and placed the gift of the laurel in the hands
of the Lord Chamberlain, independent of the crown.
Tate's records of the notable events of Anne's reign, the
victories of Marlborough, etc., were really creditable. They
were events certainly grand enough to stir up poetic ardour and
passion. And yet how far removed from genius are Tate's
odes !
Dr. Johnson made the assertion that when Queen Anne died
the laurel was torn from Tate's unwilling hands and given to
Nicholas Rowe. But the assertion is not correct. The same
mistake has been repeated by several writers on the laureates.
George I. ascended the throne in 17 14, and Tate was officially
reappointed laureate, and wrote one ode for George. The date
of Rowe's appointment is 171 5, the year of Tate's death.
Some enemies said that Tate in his later years became
Iflabum Gate. 65
intemperate, but this has never been proved. But one folly he
had committed, and it was not consistent with his worldly wis-
dom or his retired life. He had been very extravagant, and
after Dorset's death became very much embarrassed. The
Monitor, a penny paper projected two years before his death,
of which he became editor, did not succeed as he hoped it might.
He became bankrupt. There was no one to relieve him, now
Dorset, Dryden and other friends were in their graves, and
poor Tate's last days were sad in the extreme. Burdened with
debt, ill and discouraged, he sought refuge from his creditors
in the old Mint, Southwark, and died there in great misery in
171 5. His life could indeed point a moral and adorn a tale.
SELECTIONS FROM TATE.
CHARLES II.
How great are the blessings of government made
By the excellent rule of our prince,
Who, while trouble and cares do his pleasures invade,
To his people all joy does dispense :
And while he for us carking and thinking,
We have nothing to mind but our shops and our trade,
And then to divert us with drinking.
From him we derive all our pleasure and wealth.
Then fill me a glass nay, fill it up higher,
My soul is athirst for His Majesty's health ;
And an ocean of drink can't quench my desire,
Since all we enjoy to his bounty we owe,
'Tis fit all our bumpers like that should o'erflow.
ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY II.
With robes invested of celestial dies,
She towers and treads the empyrean skies ;
Angelic choirs, skilled in triumphant song,
Heaven's battlements and crystal turrets throng.
The signal's given, the eternal gates unfold,
Burning with jasper, wreathed in burnish'd gold :
And myriads now of flaming minds I see
Pow'rs, Potentates, heaven's awful Hierarchy
In gradual orbs enthroned, but all divine
Ineffably those sons of glory shine.
CHORUS FROM THE ODE FOR THE YEAR 1705.
While Anne and George their empire maintain
Of the land and the main,
And a Marlborough fights,
Secure are the rights
Of Albion and Europe in Piety's reign.
IRabum Gate, 6 7
THE TEA TABLE.
{Fro??i '''Panacea")
Hail, Queen of Plants, pride of Elysian bowers !
How shall we speak thy complicated powers ?
Thou wondrous panacea, to assuage
The calentures of youth's fermenting rage,
And animate the freezing veins of age.
To Bacchus, when our griefs repair for ease,
The remedy proves worse than the disease ;
Where reason we must lose to keep the round,
And, drinking others' healths, our own confound.
Whilst tea, our sorrows safely to beguile,
Sobriety and mirth does reconcile :
For to this nectar we the blessing owe,
To grow more wise as we more cheerful grow.
Whilst Fancy does her brightest beams dispense,
And decent Wit diverts without offence;
Then, in discourse of nature's mystic powers
And noble themes, we pass the well-spent hours.
Whilst all around the virtues, sacred band,
And list'ning graces, pleased attendants stand.
Thus our tea-conversation we employ,
Where, with delight, instruction we enjoy;
Quaffing, without the waste of time or wealth,
The sovereign drink of pleasure and of health.
ON THE SPECTATOR.
AHusque et idem
Nasceris. Horace.
(You rise another and the same.)
When first the Tatler to a mute was turned,
Great Britain for her censor's silence mourned ;
Robbed of his sprightly beams, she wept the night,
Till the Spectator rose and blazed as bright.
So the first man the sun's first setting viewed,
And sighed till circling day his joy's renewed.
Yet, doubtful how that second sun to name,
Whether a bright successor, or the same,
So we ; but now from this suspense are freed,
Since all agree, who both with judgment read,
'Tis the same sun, and does himself succeed.
68 mabum Gate.
FROM THE LOYAL GENERAL.
Friendship's the privilege
Of private men ; for wretched greatness knows
No blessing so substantial.
Secure and free they pass their harmless hours,
Gay as the birds that revel in the grove
And sing the morning up.
SONG : DAMON'S MELANCHOLY.
Retired from any mortal's sight,
The pensive Damon lay ;
He blessed the discontented night
And cursed the smiling day.
The tender sharers of his pain,
His flocks no longer graze,
But sadly fixed around the swain,
Like silent mourners gaze.
He heard the music of the wood,
And with a sigh reply 'd ;
He saw the fish sport in the flood,
And wept a deeper tide :
In vain the summer bloom came on,
For still the drooping swain,
Like autumn winds, was heard to groan,
Outwept the winter's rain.
" Some ease," said he, " some respite give,
Ah, mighty powers ! Ah, why
Am I too much distressed to live,
And yet forbid to die ? "
Such accents from the shepherd flew
Whilst on the ground he lay ;
At last so deep a sigh he drew
As bore his life away.
ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL.
(The shepherd Corydon woos Alexis ; but finding he could not prevail, resolves
to follow his affairs, and forget his passion.)
A hopeless flame did Corydon destroy,
The lov'd Alexis was his master's joy,
No respite from his grief the shepherd knew,
But daily walk'd where shady bushes grew ;
'the angel of the lord came down." Page 69.
IRabum Gate* 69
Where, stretch'd on earth, alone he thus complains,
And in these accents tells the groves his pains :
Cruel Alexis ! has thou no remorse ?
Must I expire, and have my songs no force ? . .
'Tis Pan preserves the sheep and shepherd too.
Disdain not then the tuneful reed to ply,
Nor scorn the pastime of a deity.
What talk would not Amyntas undergo,
For half the noble skill I offer you ? . . .
Come to my arms, thou lovely boy, and take
The richest presents that the spring can make.
See how the nymphs with lilies wait on thee;
Fair Nai's, scarce thyself so fair as she,
With poppies, daffodils, and violets join'd,
A garland for thy softer brow has twin'd.
Myself with downy peaches will appear,
And chestnuts, Amaryllis' dainty cheer;
I'll crop my laurel, and my myrtle tree,
Together bound, because their sweets agree.
THE TEAR.
I will convert
This tear to a gem 'tis feasible ;
For laid near Julia's broken heart
'Twill to a diamond congeal :
And yet if I consider well,
These tears of Julia can forbode no ill
The frost is breaking when such drops distil,
THE UPRIGHT MAN.
Though whirled by storms the racking clouds are seen,
His unmolested breast is all serene.
THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.
While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.
" Fear not," said he (for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind) ;
" Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.
7 fltabum Gate.
" To you, in David's town this day,
Is born of David's line,
The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord,
And this shall be the sign.
" The heavenly Babe you there shall find
To human view display 'd,
All meanly wrapped in swathing bands,
And in a manger laid."
Thus spake the Seraph ; and forthwith
Appear'd a shining throng
Of angels, praising God, and thus
Address'd their joyful song :
" All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace ;
Good will henceforth from Heaven to men
Begin, and never cease ! "
HYMN.
Through all the changing scenes of life,
In trouble and in joy,
The praises of my God shall still
My heart and tongue employ.
The hosts of God encamp around
The dwellings of the just ;
Deliverance he affords to all
Who on His succour trust.
Oh, make but trial of His love,
Experience will decide,
How blest are they, and only they,
Who in His truth confide.
Fear Him, ye saints, and you will then
Have nothing else to fear ;
Make you His service your delight,
Your wants shall be His care.
For God preserves the souls of those
Who on His truth depend,
To them and their posterity
His blessings shall descend.
mabum Sate. 7 1
PSALM XLII.
As pants the hart for cooling streams,
When heated in the chase,
So longs my soul, O God for Thee,
And Thy refreshing grace.
For Thee, my God, the living God,
My thirsty soul doth pine ;
Oh, when shall I behold Thy face,
Thou Majesty Divine ?
Why restless, why cast down, my soul ?
Trust God, and He'll employ
His aid for thee, and change these sighs
To thankful hymns of joy.
God of my strength, how long shall I,
Like one forgotten, mourn ;
Forlorn, forsaken, and exposed
To my oppressor's scorn ?
My heart is pierced, as with a sword,
While thus my foes upbraid.
" Vain boaster, where is now thy God ?
And where His promised aid ? "
Why restless, why cast down, my soul ?
Hope still, and thou shalt sing
The praise of Him who is thy God,
Thy health's eternal Spring.
FROM PSALM XCV.
Oh come, loud anthems let us sing,
Loud thanks to our Almighty King!
For we our voices high should raise
When our Salvation's Rock we praise.
FROM PSALM C.
With one consent let all the earth
To God their cheerful voices raise
Glad homage pay with awful mirth,
And sing before him songs of praise-
7 2 Babum Gate.
For He's the Lord supremely good,
His mercy is forever sure ;
His truth, which all times firmly stood,
To endless ages shall endure.
FROM PSALM CIV.
Bless God, my soul ! Thou, Lord, alone
Possessest empire without bounds ;
With honour Thou art crown'd, Thy throne
Eternal majesty surrounds.
With light Thou dost Thyself enrobe,
And glory for a garment take ;
Heaven's curtains stretch beyond the globe,
Thy canopy of state to make.
God builds on limpid air, and forms
His palace-chambers in the skies ;
The clouds His chariots are, and storms
The swift-winged steeds with which he flies.
As bright as flame, as swift as wind,
His ministers heaven's palace fill ;
All have their sundry tasks assign 'd
All proud to serve their Sovereign's will.
The various troops of sea and land
In sense of common want agree ;
All wait on Thy dispensing hand,
And have their daily alms from Thee.
Thus through successive ages stands,
Firm fixed, Thy providential care ;
Pleased with the work of Thy own hands,
Thou dost the wastes of time repair.
SELECTIONS FROM PSALMS.
Untimely grave.
Psalm viz.
And though He promise to his loss,
He makes His promise good.
Psalm xv.
The sweet remembrance of the just
Shall flourish when he sleeps in dust.
Psalm exit.
IRabum Gate. 73
SELECTION FROM AN ESSAY FOR PROMOTING
PSALMODY.
O Queen of Sacred Harmony,
How powerful are thy charms !
Care shuns thy walks, Fear kindles with courage,
And joy sublimes into ecstasy.
What ! Shall stage syrens sing and Psalmody sleep ?
Theatres be thronged and thy temples empty ?
Shall thy votaries abroad find heart and voice
To sing in the fiery furnace of persecution,
Upon the waters of affliction,
And our Britons sit sullenly silent
Under their vines and fig trees?
NICHOLAS ROWE.
Born at Little Beckford, Bedfordshire, in 1674. Made laureate in 1715. Died
in 1718.
(Reign of George I.)
Tate's successor was a far better poet, and he was also a
more prosperous and happy man. His happiness, however,
was not due to the gift of the laurel, for he wore it only three
short years. Rowe belonged to a good family, and his advent
into the world brought great joy to affectionate parents. In
the garden adjoining the house where he was born there has
been erected a stone to his memory. The boy was clever and
fond of books, and won distinction at Westminster School,
where Dr. Busby of birchen fame alternately abused and
praised his pupils. At sixteen, when Rowe entered the Middle
Temple, he plunged with zest into the study Of law, but general
literature soon proved so alluring and he showed such taste
and intellectual superiority in its study, that law soon lost its
hold upon him. Then, as always afterward, he showed especial
skill in foreign languages. His knowledge was profound and
thorough, and this knowledge not only improved his taste and
made him a good translator, but was of great service to him as
an original worker in the field of dramatic art.
The death of Rowe's father made him not only independent,
but wealthy, and he soon gave up his brilliant prospects of
fame as a lawyer for the more uncertain rewards of literature.
At the age of twenty-five he entered into competition with the
brilliant circle of dramatists in London, by publishing a play
called " The Ambitious Stepmother." In this we see a great
advance upon the work of any dramatist since the death of
Davenant. The sentiment of this play is noble and dignified,
its moral influence good, while the language is refined and has
much grace and beauty. Congreve praised it, and Betterton,
Mrs. Barry, and Mrs. Bracegirdle were enthusiastic actors of it.
Thus Rowe stepped at once into a successful career. Rowe's
handsome face and figure, his vivacious talk, his charming
manners soon won him many friends, not only among men of
NICHOLAS ROWK.
micbolae IRowe, 75
letters, but among the social dignitaries of the great city.
After his death Amhurst wrote :
" Enough for him that Congreve was his friend,
That Garth and Steele and Addison commend,
That Brunswick with the bays his temples bound."
The friendship with Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Prior, and
others stimulated Rovve's intellectual ardour and widened the
range of his knowledge of men and of society, and yet all this
knowledge never gave him the skill to write a good comedy ; when
he attempted it, he failed signally. But he had the good sense
to perceive wherein his strength and his weakness lay. His
second tragedy was probably the indirect cause of his being
appointed laureate. In this play he catered to the popular
hatred of France, and he complimented King William in lan-
guage both enthusiastic and animated. " Tamerlane " became
very popular, and was performed on every birthday of the king
and on every anniversary of his landing on British soil. The suc-
cess of " Tamerlane " was followed by that of " The Fair Peni-
tent." Its principal character Lothario has become a house-
hold word, the immortal type of the careless, faithless lover.
And we can trace a resemblance in it to Richardson's famous
Lovelace. To Rowe's devotion to tragedy alone we owe " Jane
Shore " and " Lady Jane Grey." The tenderness, the grace, the
pathos of these plays show how thorough and affectionate had
been Rowe's study of the great Elizabethan drama. The
proof of Rowe's power is in the fact that they held the stage so
long and were so popular even in the age other than his own.
Jane Shore was one of the great Sarah Siddons' favourite char-
acters. Sir James Mackintosh spoke with great feeling of the
way she acted it, but he added that even were the play never
seen upon the stage, but simply read, it would prove itself to be
most thrilling poetry, dealing as it does with some of the most
touching phases of remorse and pain. But with all the genuine
power of these two great tragedies, Rowe's chief distinction in
the history of English literature lies in the fact that he was the
first to bring out an edition of Shakespeare, and to inaugurate
that revival of the legitimate Shakespearean drama which gave
Shakespeare his rightful place in the hearts of the people. His
admiration of Shakespeare was honest and sincere, and the effect
of that admiration is seen in the excellence of his own work.
Rowe had several important offices which brought him both
influence and money ; he was under-secretary to the Duke of
Queensbury, clerk of the Council to the Prince of Wales, etc.
It was therefore not surprising that on the death of Tate, the
Lord Chamberlain should select this handsome, courtly, and
7 6 IFUcbolae IRowe.
popular poet to be laureate. The odes Rowe wrote have a good
deal of poetic vigour and eloquence, and give animation and
grace to themes essentially conventional and commonplace. It
must be remembered that he wrote these odes for only three
short years, whereas poor Tate had been obliged to grind them
out for three-and-twenty years. Perhaps Rowe's inspiration
would have failed him under such pressure. His odes, few as
they are, have that glow and passion, and that eloquence of versi-
fication which are absent from those of Tate or of any of
Rowe's successors in the Laureateship till Thomas Warton
appeared. And yet Rowe's poetry would have been called by
Macaulay a fair example of the critical poetry of his age, the
" poetry to which the memory, the judgment, and the wit con-
tribute far more than the imagination."
There were few lampoons directed against Rowe. His charm
of manner,his magnetism of character, made him a favourite with
all the wits who usually write such things. Though not strictly
domestic in his habits, his gay and vivacious disposition leading
him much into the life of the court and of London society, he
lived comparitively free from the vices and extravagances of his
time. He was married twice, and this in spite of the fact that
Pope thought him heartless, and Addison considered his heart of
very light material. A son and daughter made him very happy,
and the latter inherited much of her father's beauty of person
and brilliancy of mind. She won such a reputation that on her
death an inscription to her was put beneath the inscription
upon her father's monument in Westminster Abbey.
This poet, so rich in friends and in all that makes life desir-
able, who was, as Pope said, seldom grave, but would laugh all
day long, and do nothing else but laugh, had to bid the world
good-night at the early age of forty-five. The funeral service
was read by the famous Bishop Atterbury, who had been a
schoolfellow of the poet years before. He was buried near
Chaucer in the Poet's Corner, and Pope wrote an epitaph
beginning :
" Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And sacred place by Dry den's awful dust. . .
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest ! "
Pope subsequently changed the epitaph to one much longer but
not so fine.
SELECTIONS FROM ROWE.
ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1717.
Winter ! thou hoary, venerable sire,
All richly in thy furry mantle clad ;
What thoughts of mirth can feeble age inspire
To make thy careful wrinkled brow so glad ?
Now I see the reason plain ;
Now I see the jolly train :
Snowy headed Winter leads ;
Spring and Summer next succeeds;
Yellow Autumn brings the rear.
Thou art father of the year.
While from the frosty mellow'd earth
Abounding Plenty takes her birth,
The conscious sire exulting sees
The seasons spread their rich increase;
So dusky night and chaos smil'd
On beauteous form, their lovely child.
O fair variety !
What bliss thou dost supply !
The foul brings forth the fair
To deck the changing year,
When our old pleasures die,
Some new one still is nigh ;
O fair variety !
Our passions, like the seasons, turn,
And now we laugh, and now we mourn.
Britannia, late oppress'd with dread,
Hung her declining, drooping head :
A better visage now she wears,
And now at once she quits her fears :
Strife and war no more she knows,
Rebel sons, nor foreign foes,
77
7 8 IFUcbolas IRowe.
Safe beneath her mighty master,
In security she sits ;
Plants her loose foundations faster,
And her sorrows past forgets.
Happy isle ! the care of Heaven,
To the guardian hero given,
Unrepining still obey him ;
Still with love and duty pay him.
Though he parted from thy shore
While contesting kings attend him ;
Could he, Britain, give thee more
Than the pledge he left behind him ?
COLIN'S COMPLAINT.
Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid ;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And to the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas ! silly swain that I was !
Thus sadly complaining he cried ;
When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had died :
She talked and I blessed her dear tongue;
When she smiled, 'twas a pleasure too great;
I listened, and cried when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet ?
How foolish was I to believe
She could dote on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine folk of the town-;
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove ;
Or so clad, like our maidens, in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love !
What though I have skill to complain,
Though the muses my temples have crown'd ;
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around ?
TO THE BROOK AND THE WILLOW THAT HEARD HIM COMPLAIN.
Pate 79.
IFUcbolas IRowe* 79
Ah ! Colin ! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,
Thy false one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Though through the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ;
'Twas hers to be false and to change,
'Tis mine to be constant and die.
If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground :
The last humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew ;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array ;
Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day :
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talked of or seen,
Unless when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.
SONG.
To the brook and the willow that heard him complain,
Ah, willow ! willow !
Poor Colin went weeping and told them his pain.
Sweet stream ! he cry'd, sadly, I'll teach thee to flow,
And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe.
All restless and painful my Celia now lies,
And counts the sad moments of time as it flies :
To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers repair,
Spread your downy wings o'er her and make her your care ;
Let me be left restless, mine eyes never close,
To the sleep that I lose give my dear one repose.
8o Wcbolas IRowe.
Sweet stream ! if you chance by her pillow to creep,
Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her to sleep.
But if I am doom'd to be wretched, indeed,
And the loss of my charmer the fates have decreed,
Believe me, thou fair one, thou dear one, believe,
Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give;
One fate to thy Colin and thee shall betide,
And soon lay thy shepherd down by thy cold side.
Then glide, gentle brook, and to lose thyself haste,
Bear this to my willow ; this verse is my last.
Ah, willow ! willow ! Ah, willow ! willow !
ULYSSES.
Learn to dissemble wrongs, to smile at injuries,
And suffer crimes thou want'st the power to punish :
Be easy, affable, familiar, friendly :
Search and know all mankind's mysterious ways,
But trust the secret of thy soul to none :
This is the way,
This only, to be safe in such a world as this is.
O love ! how are thy precious, sweetest moments
Thus ever crossed, thus vex'd with disappointments !
Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels,
And sullen coldness, give us pain by turns ;
Malicious meddling chance is ever busy
To bring us fears, disquiet and delays ;
And ev'n at last, when, after all our waiting,
Eager we think to snatch the dear-bought bliss,
Ambition calls us to its sullen cares,
And honour, stern, impatient of neglect,
Commands us to forget our ease and pleasures,
As if we had been made for nought but toil,
And love were not the business of our lives,
TO MRS. A. D., WHILE SINGING.
What charms in melody are found
To soften every pain !
How do we catch the pleasing sound,
And feel the soothing strain !
Still when I hear thee, O, my fair,
I bid my heart rejoice;
I shake off every sullen care,
For sorrow flies thy voice.
Of
1
' SHE BIDS THE WINTER FLY AWAY,
AND SHE RECALLS THE SPRING." Page 81.
1fttcbola6 1Rowe. 8l
The seasons Philomel obey,
Whate'er they hear her sing;
She bids the Winter fly away,
And she recalls the Spring-.
ON MR. B AYES'* DRAMATIC PIECES.
Wit and the Laws had both the same ill fate,
And partial Tyrants sway'd in either state.
Ill-natur'd Censure would be sure to dawn
And alien Wit of independent fame,
Wlijle Bayes, grown old, and harden 'd in offence,
Was suffer'd to write on in spite of sense ;
Back'd by his friends, th' invader brought along
A crew of foreign words into our tongue,
To ruin and enslave the free-born English song,
Still the prevailing faction propt his throne,
And to four volumes let his plays run on.
SELECTION.
WHO knows the joys of friendship ?
The trust, security, and mutual tenderness,
The double joys, where each is glad for both ?
Friendship our only wealth, our last retreat and strength,
Secure against ill-fortune and the world.
STRAY SELECTIONS FROM THE FAIR PENITENT.
As if Misfortune made the throne her seat,
And hone could be unhappy but the great.
Prologue.
At length the morn and cold indifference came.
Act I.
Is she not more than painting can express,
Or youthful poets fancy when they love?
Act III.
Is this that haughty gallant, gay Lothario ?
Act V.
Bayes was Dryden's name in the satirical verse of the day.
82 Wicbolae 1Rowe,
STRAY SELECTIONS FROM LADY JANE GREY.
Some secret venom preys upon his heart ;
A stubborn and unconquerable flame
Creeps in his veins and drinks the streams of life.
Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next heaven, I trust.
Thou hast prevaricated with thy friend,
By underhand contrivances undone me ;
And while my open nature trusted in thee,
Thou hast stepp'd in between me and my hopes,
And ravish'd from me all my soul held dear,
Thou hast betray 'd me.
PENITENCE AND DEATH OF JANE SHORE.
Jane Shore, her Husband, and Belmour.
Belmottr. How fare you, lady ?
Ja?ie Shore. My heart is thrilled with horror.
Belmour. Be of courage ;
Your husband lives. 'Tis he, my worthiest friend !
Jane Shore. Still art thou there? Still dost thou hover
round me ?
Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade !
Belmour. 'Tis he himself. He lives ! Look up.
Jane Shore. I dare not.
Oh, that my eyes could shut him out forever !
Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly <to thee
To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I'm
Grown a burden to the world, myself, and thee,
Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more.
Jane Shore. Oh, thou most injured, dost thou live, indeed?
Fall, then, ye mountains, on my guilty head !
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns !
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night !
And shield me with thy sable wing forever.
Shore. Why dost thou turn away ? Why tremble thus ?
Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror ?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,
flltcbolas Irtowe* 83
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond, forgiving love.
Let us haste.
Now, while occasion seems to smile on us,
Forsake this place of shame and find a shelter.
Jane Shore. What shall I say to you ? But I obey.
Shore. Lean on my arm.
Jane Shore. Alas ! I'm wondrous faint.
But that's not strange. I have not ate these three days.
Shore. Oh, merciless !
Jane Shore. Oh, I'm sick at heart !
Shore. Thou murderous sorrow !
Would thou still drink her blood, pursue her still ?
Must she, then, die ? Oh, my poor penitent !
Speak peace to thy sad heart. She hears me not.
Grief masters every sense.
Enter Catesby, with a Guard.
Catesby. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state !
Behnour. What means this violence ?
[Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.
Catesby. Have we not found you,
In scorn of the protector's strict command,
Assisting this base woman and abetting her infamy ?
Shore. Infamy on thy head !
Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority !
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her.
Catesby. You'll answer this at full. Away with 'em !
Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What honest man would live beneath such rulers ?
I am content that we should die together.
Catesby. Convey the men to prison ; but for her
Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may.
Jane Shore. I will not part with him. For me forme?
Oh ! must he die for me ?
[Following him as he is carried off. She Jails.
Shore. Inhuman villains !
{Breaks Jrom the Guards.
Stand off ! The agonies of death are on her.
She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand.
Jane Shore. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin ?
Oh, let me go, ye ministers of terror !
He shall offend no more, for I will die,
And yield obedience to your cruel master.
Tarry a little, but a little longer,
And take my last breath with you.
84 fUcbolas IRoxve.
Shore. Oh, my love !
Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me,
With such an earnest, such a piteous look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou couldst not speak ?
Jane Shore. Forgive me, but forgive me.
Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of heaven to shew thee,
May such befall me at my latest hour,
And make my portion blest or curst forever !
Jane Shore. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace,
'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now.
Was there not something I would have bequeathed you ?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh.
Oh, mercy, heaven ! ' {Dies.
LAWRENCE EUSDEN.
LAWRENCE EUSDEN.
Born at Spotisworth, Yorkshire. Date of birth not definitely known. Made
laureate in 1718. Died in 1730.
(Reigns of George I. and George II.)
" PRAISE," said the poet Lee, " is the greatest encourage-
ment we chameleons can pretend to, or rather the manna that
keeps soul and body together ; we devour it as if it were angels'
food, and vainly think we grow immortal. There is nothing
that transports a poet, next to love, like commending in the
right place."
Poor Eusden had little commendation to transport him. The
abuse heaped upon him by his contemporaries was without
palliation no rays of light relieve the shadows. Cooke spoke of
** Eusden, a laurelled bard, by fortune raised
By very few was read, by fewer praised."
The neglect of the present age has been added to what Eusden
suffered in his own. He is completely ignored in the Encyclo-
paedia Britannica and other biographical dictionaries. Time has
sifted his work to the verge of annihilation, and were it not for
the satires upon him written by poets who have themselves
become famous, and for the fact that he was laureate, and as
such is mentioned in the letters of men like Gray and Mason,
even his name would be forgotten.
Southey might far better have ranked Eusden as the lowest of
his predecessors, rather than either Tate or Shadwell. And yet
Eusden wore the laurel wreath for twelve years !
" Praise," wrote Pope,
" Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise:
And when I flatter let my dirty leaves,
Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things
As Eusden, Phillips, Settle, wrote of kings,
Clothe spice, line trunks."
And Oldmixon said : " The putting of the laurel on the head
of one who writ such verses will give futurity a very lively idea
of the judgment and the justice of those who bestowed it. For
of all the galimatias I ever met with, none comes up to some
verses of this poet which have as much of the ridiculum and the
fustian in them as can well be jumbled together."
85
86 Xawrence jEuefcen.
This contains in epitome all the numerous criticisms which
have been written upon this unfortunate laureate, and a per-
sonal study of Eusden's poetry will result in very much the
same opinion. His official odes are not only insufferable in
their exaltation of royalty, but have even a blasphemous tone
opposed to all sentiments of dignity and good taste. He not
only flattered and exaggerated, but he showed no tact in the
flattery, no method of veiling it by artifice or clever allusion.
It all came out unblushingiy direct. This is well seen in one of
our selections on the accession of George II.
What first tempted Eusden to make verses is not known,
unless some hereditary influence, for his father was rector of
Spotisworth, and he belonged to a good Irish family. The pre-
cise date of the laureate's birth is not known, nor is anything
known of his childhood or schooldays. He went to Cambridge
and graduated from Trinity College. We may infer that his
college career was one of honour, for we are told by Gray that
his friends had great hopes of his future. Anyway he attained
a knowledge of the classics, which later resulted in a good
translation of Ovid. The study of Latin led him on to Italian,
and Eusden left in manuscript a Life of Tasso and a translation
of his works. He had plunged with great enthusiasm into this
very useful literary work, but irregular habits made the execution
extend over such a number of years that he lost heart and
never had the ambition to publish the result of his labours.
Probably hereditary influence determined Eusden's choice of a
profession. After leaving Cambridge he took orders, and soon
was appointed Chaplain to Lord Willoughby de Broke. In a
few years more he obtained the living of Coningsby in Lincoln-
shire. His sermons were not distinguished for erudition,
though at first he seemed animated by an earnest desire to be
of benefit to his parish, and his labours were unselfish and faith-
ful. All too soon, however, his fatal propensity toward intem-
perance manifested itself : his earnestness relaxed ; his influence
waned, and in Gray's significant words, he who in his youth
had been a person of great hopes, turned out at last merely a
drunken parson.
In the beginning of his career Eusden had the good fortune
to win the favour of Lord Halifax, and after he had rendered
Halifax's poem on the Battle of the Boyne into excellent Latin,
the relations between the two became one of warm friendship.
When the Duke of Newcastle married Lady Godolphin, Eusden
honoured him by writing an epithalamium. This highly pleased
the duke, and when, as Lord Chamberlain he had the laurel at
his disposal he had little hesitation in his choice of Eusden.
Eusden had been quite industrious in writing poetry before this
honour came to him. His efforts showed no genius, but they
Xawrence JEus&en. 87
were far better than any of the odes he wrote in his official
capacity. Their versification was smooth and flowing, and
often there were traces of wit and sprightly humour.
In addition to his poetical labours, Eusden contributed to the
Spectator and the Guardian certain prose articles which
mirrored some of the aspects of the age and showed also con-
siderable humour. But all of his work was disfigured by the
laxity of expression so characteristic of his century.
The appointment of Eusden to the Laureateship was the
occasion of the famous satire written by the Duke of Bucking-
ham in imitation of Suckling's " Session of the Poets." It seems
that on the death of Rowe the contest for the vacant position
had been very active. Buckingham takes this contest as the
subject of his satire. He speaks of a great crowd assembling
to crown a new laureate. Apollo comes in state accompanied by
his lyre and harp, and abundance of fire. Pope, Cibber, Steele,
and Congreve lampooners, critics, dramatists, and poets rush
in like a tide, all with confidence, all flushed with hope. Apollo
demurs to granting Steele's wish ; confesses that the lashes of
Dennis and Gildon have stings, but he couldn't choose beadles
and hangmen as kings ; he dismisses Pope and Cibber with a
smile ; Buckingham himself is asked to walk in, but a laureate
peer had never been known, and so the kind god cannot break
an old rule. The kind god gets somewhat confused by all the
clamour, but his doubts as to the bestowal of the crown are at
length merged into certainty :
" At last rushed in Eusden, and cried, who shall have it,
But I the true Laureat, to whom the King gave it ?
Apollo begged pardon, and granted his claim,
But vowed, that till then, he had ne'er heard his name."
The record of the twelve years after the bestowal of this
honour is one of sadness. Between the intervals of his devotion
to the cup that inebriates without giving cheer, Eusden wrote
his birthday odes full of tiresome and fulsome flatteries of those
in power. These poems have something in them of pathos,
being so obviously forced, so faithfully obedient to a ridiculous
custom, so untrue to the spirit of true poetry. At irregular
times he worked on Tasso, but it and his clerical duties were
neglected more and more. When sober he won friends by his
kindly ways, though after a lime his conceit became somewhat
insufferable. The portrait of him which is extant in the British
Museum shows the marks of this conceit in the lines of the
mouth, and the very position he allowed himself to assume,
holding a laurel wreath in both hands. Eusden had the
temerity to prophesy that his poetry would be considered
sweeter than that of Catullus, Ovid, and Tibullus ; but his
&& Hawrence J&mben.
friends who were the recipients of this confidential prophecy
had little hope that such immortality would be his!
The excesses of Eusden undoubtedly shortened his life, and
when the end came, in 1730, there were few to regret him even
the court which had honoured him forgot the beautiful and
sweet things he had written, and turned with zest to listen to
the voice of another.
Pope wrote :
" Know Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise ;
He sleeps among the dull of ancient days. . .
Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest,
Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest. .
Thou, Cibber ! Thou his laurel shalt support,
Folly, my son, has still a friend at court."
SELECTIONS FROM EUSDEN.
A POEM ON THE HAPPY SUCCESSION AND COR-
ONATION OF HIS PRESENT MAJESTY, KING
GEORGE II.
So when great Brunswick yielded to his fate,
O'ercast and cheerless was Britannia's state ;
Her cheeks to lose their bloomy hue began,
And all her roses vanished with the sun.
Till a new Brunswick, with an equal ray,
Recalled at once her beauties, and the day,
Firm and unchanged, the spires and turrets stand,
Religion, join'd with Liberty's fair hand,
In triumph walk, and bless with wonted smiles, the land.
Hail, mighty monarch ! whose desert alone
Would without birthright raise thee to a throne.
Thy virtues shine peculiarly nice,
Ungloomed with a confinity to vice,
What strains shall equal to thy glories rise,
First of the world and borderer on the skies ?
How exquisitely great, who canst inspire
Such joys, that Albion mourns no more thy sire?
Thy sire ! a Prince she loved to that degree,
She almost trespassed to the Deity.
Imperial weight he bore with so much ease,
Who but thyself would not despair to please?
A dull, fat, thoughtless heir, unheeded springs
From a long, slothful line of restive kings
And thrones, inur'd to a tyrannic race,
Think a new tyrant not a new disgrace,
Tho' by the change the state no bliss receives,
And Nero dies in vain, if Otho lives.
But when a stem, with fruitful branches crowned,
Still ever seem (if they survive or fall),
All heroes and their country's fathers all,
His great forerunners when the last outshone,
Who could a brighter hope, or ev'n as bright a son ?
9 Xawrence BusDem
Old Rome, with tears the younger Scipio viewed,
Who not in fame her African renew'd.
Avaunt, degenerate grafts, or spurious breed,
'Tis a George only can a George succeed ;
The shafts of Death, the Pelian art have found,
They bring at once the balm that give the wound.
Such to Britannia is her king
As the softly murmuring spring.
CHORUS.
Genius ! now securely rest,
We shall evermore be blest.
Thou thy guardianship may spare,
Britannia is a Brunswick's care !
GEORGE II.
A MARVELLOUS child most precious sweet,
For deeds heroic, glorious from his birth,
The Rhine, the wide-spread Earth,
His praises send most meet.
His deeds to mountains name
Have lent since here to earth he came.
Streams which in silence flowed obscure before,
Swell'd by his conquests, proudly learn 'd to roar.
THE COURTIER. A FABLE.
A milk-white rogue, immortal and unchang'd,
By Fate and Parliaments severely bang'd,
Without a Saint, a Devil was within ;
He fought all dangers, for he knew all sin.
Resolv'd for grandeur, and to acquire wealth,
Robb'd some by force, and others trick'd by stealth ;
A wheedling, fawning, parsimonious knave,
The prince's favour he resolv'd to have.
The only means by which he thought to rise,
He shuffl'd cards and slyly cogg'd his dice;
A true state juggler could make things appear
Such as would please his prince's eye or ear;
Produc'd false lights his monarch to mislead,
Which made him from his paths of interest tread.
Xawcence JCusfcen. 9 1
He screen 'd all villains from due course of laws,
And from his prince his truest subjects draws ;
Till angry senates the vile monster took,
And from the root the upstart cedar shook,
Squeez'd the curst sponge had suck'd the nation's coin,
And made him cast up what he did purloin :
Then on a gibbet did the monster die,
A just example to posterity.
THE MORAL.
Let favourites beware how they abuse
Their prince's goodness or the people's laws :
How they clandestine methods ever use
To propagate a wrong unrighteous cause.
The prince's favour, like a horse untam'd,
Does often break the giddy rider's neck :
On him who for preferments so much fam'd,
The people oft their bloody vengeance wreak.
Let these beware how they mislead their prince,
Or rob the treasure of a potent nation,
(Or multiply enormous armies : from hence)
Come hanging oft, or noble decollation.
TO MR.
You ask, my friend, how I can Delia prize,
When Myra's shape I view, or Cynthia's eyes ;
No tedious answer shall create your pain,
For beauty if but beauty, I disdain.
'Tis not a mien that can my will control,
A speaking body with a silent soul.
The loveliest face to me not lovely shows,
From the sweet lips if melting nonsense flows
Nor must the tuneful Chloris be my choice,
An earthly mind ill suits a heavenly voice.
What though my Delia not decay'd appears,
She wants, you cry, the gaudy bloom of years.
True; but good sense perpetual joys will bring
Her wit is ever youthful as the spring.
So kneels at some fam'd antiquated shrine,
The pious pilgrim to the power divine.
9 2 Xawrence ;6u6&en.
Around he sees wild rugged heaps of stone,
Where Parian marble once and jasper shone :
Yet, conscious what those ruins were of old,
Dares not, unwoo'd, the mossy walls behold ;
But trembles at the Deity's abode,
And owns the powerful presence of the God.
ON THE SPECTATOR'S CRITIQUE ON MILTON.
Look here, ye pedants, who deserve that name,
And lewdly ravish the great critic's fame.
In cloudless beams of light true judgment plays,
How mild the censure, how refin'd the praise !
Beauties ye pass, and blemishes ye cull,
Profoundly read and eminently dull.
Though linnets sing, yet owls feel no delight ;
For they the best can judge who best can write.
O ! had great Milton but surviv'd to hear
His numbers try'd by such a tuneful ear;
How would he all thy just remarks commend !
The more the critic, own the more the friend.
But, did he know once your immortal strain,
Th' exalted pleasure would increase to pain ;
He would not blush for faults he rarely knew,
But blush for glories thus excell'd by you.
TO THE REVEREND DR. BENTLEY.
{On opening Trinity College chapel.)
Long have we, safe, Time's envious fury scorn'd,
By kings first founded, then by kings adorn 'd;
If fainting e'er we fear'd a fatal close
Some new Maecenas with new life arose.
Fretted by age, we still the stronger grow,
And to our ruins all our beauties owe.
So cassia roughly chaf'd the sweeter smells,
And silver more consum'd in brightness more excels.
Rais'd on high columns the proud fabric stands,
Where Barrow praise from every tongue commands ;
Where the vast treasures of the learn 'd are shown ;
No works more rich, more noble, than his own.
The Muses soon the stately feat admir'd,
And in full transports their glad sons inspir'd :
Their sons, inspir'd, sung loud, and all around
Echo redoubled back the cheerful sound ;
Xawrence jEusDen. 93
Sweet was the song, when lays (if such they give)
Worthy of cedar shall in cedar live,
This sumptuous pile show'd the brave founder's mind
But equal labours still remain behind.
God's sacred house too long neglected lies,
And from some other Jonah wants supplies ;
But none was found, till you resolv'd to show
How far exalted piety could go :
From little funds so largely to design,
Yet to make all in full perfection shine,
Great is the glory, and the glory's thine !
Of old a joy in every face was seen,
Flush'd by the promise of a bounteous queen.
She vow'd a temple ; but too soon her breath
Vanish'd, and seal'd her pious vows in death ;
Thus David drew the scheme, but not begun ;
The dome was builded by his wiser son.
Not so we far'd. Though by Eliza lov'd,
Her sister's thoughts were lost, but not disprov'd,
Till now we mourn'd our fate, but mourn no more ;
Chac'd are the mists, which clull'd the light before.
New golden censers on new altars blaze,
New music sounds the great Creator's praise.
Angels again from Heaven might listening stray,
Did but another sweet Cecilia play.
Much more we see, and, silent with surprise
Recall times past, and scarce believe our eyes;
How gloomy once these hallow'd mansions were,
But now how wondrous lovely, how divinely fair !
So quickly, where the fragrant dust was spread,
Riseth the Phoenix from the spicy bed ;
Or such the change the witty poet's figur'd
When hoary ^Eson his young bloom regain'd
He but regain'd what was before his own,
While here are beauties seen, till now unknown.
If it so charms, how can we ever show
Thy matchless worth, to whom those charms we owe,
Our vain essays our weakness may proclaim,
But not enlarge the circle of thy fame.
Praises from some delusive may appear ;
When foes extol, we need no flatteries fear,
The stubborn Atheist a fierce shock has felt ;
Steel'd though he was, he now begins to melt :
Since thus he sees all prejudice remov'd,
Thy acts confess the God thy learning prov'd.
94 Xawrence Busfcen.
MEDEA. ACT IV. LAST CHORUS.
{From the Greek of Euripides!)
From things considered with a stricter view,
And deepest thought, this fatal truth I drew :
Sure of mankind the unmarried part is blest,
By joys too much distinguished from the rest.
Suppose there are ('tis but suppose, I fear),
Pleasures which could the nuptial state endear:
Think, thou may'st wish, and every wish enjoy,
A beauteous daughter and a blooming boy;
Still where's the mighty comfort of a wife ?
Or what is wanting in a single life ?
Pity not ours, nor thus by fate admire ;
The bliss we know not, we can ne'er desire.
Yet this advantage on our side we boast,
The good is little, vast the ill we lost.
All hush'd, and calm ! no griefs our ear impair,
Few from the Father's many a griping care ;
First, how the child may generously be bred,
Adorn'd with arts, and through each virtue led.
Next, how to crown him with a fair estate,
And so to make him happy, make him great.
Parents from labours to new labours run,
To hoard-up treasures for the darling son :
Yet know not what this darling son, may prove,
A roving spendthrift may reward their love.
Not small the evils which we here behold,
But far the greatest still remain untold,
Just when with utmost pain the drudging sire
Has rais'd a fortune answering his desire ;
Already the first scene of life is done,
Whom once he call'd his child, he calls his son :
The boy forgotten and the man begun.
Large promises and hopes the youth incite,
His father's glory and his friends' delight:
But sullen clouds involve the brightest day,
While all look on, to some disease a prey,
The lov'd, the wondrous youth untimely pines away.
Too well, alas ! too well, ye gods, we knew,
Our troubles many, and our pleasures few :
Why needed this fresh plague be added more
To the rich, boundless, miserable store ?
The old, as cloy'd with life, to death belong,
But must it rudely seize the young ?
In vain we strive ; the cruel doom is read,
The blossom's wither'd, and our hopes are fled.
COLLEY CIBBER.
COLLEY CIBBER.
Born in London in 1671. Made laureate in 1730. Died in 1757.
(Reign of George II.)
Sir John Denham once made this peculiar request of the
king : " Please, your Majesty, do not hang George Withers, but
spare his life that it may not be said I am the worst poet alive ! "
Colley Cibber never went so far as that, but he himself laid
no claim to being a poet, and in that respect he was the most
modest of men. Nevertheless Cibber was a man of real genius.
His name has lived, not because he was made poet laureate and
was put into the " Dunciad," but because he was one of the
best actors of his time, and he added to our literature some
comedies of unmistakable power, which tended to elevate the
stage ; and also wrote a history of his life which contains many
criticisms of subtle and discriminating insight.
Cibber's father was a Dane, who had studied art in Italy and
come to England during the Restoration, and there won fame
by his fine works in sculpture. He transmitted to his son that
taste for art which determined his career. Cibber's mother
belonged to the family of Colley a family of rank which had
become impoverished during the Civil War. Cibber was born
in London in 167 1. At his first school at Grantham, in Lin-
colnshire, he distinguished himself both for his quickness and
his carelessness. His father was ambitious for him, and
wanted him to enter Cambridge, but circumstances shaped
themselves differently. On his way from school to join his
father, the Revolution broke out, and the father had to take up
arms. But he showed so little heart that Cibber offered to be-
come his substitute and join the forces of the Earl of Devon-
shire. He saw no fighting, but many varied and exciting
events impressed his susceptible mind and influenced his future
dramatic work. When the Prince of Orange was once firmly
established upon the throne, Cibber threw down his musket
with joy. By this time thoughts of a college career were for-
gotten. " I saw no happiness in any other life than that of an
actor," he says. Accordingly in spite of parental prejudices and
wishes ho returned to London and joined the Drury Lane Com-
pany, and thus he " found his niche." His progress was slow,
his apprenticeship long and tedious ; but amid discouragements,
9 6 Golleg Gibber*
rebuffs, poverty, and toil, his gayety and amiability, bis buoy-
ancy of temperament, made him happy and content. At last
he became known as a comedian of splendid abilities, and suc-
cess both as an actor and an author crowned his patient effort.
His history of his theatrical life is absorbingly interesting, and
the glimpses he gives of the famous actors and dramatists with
whom he was connected are charming. He delighted to play
with Mrs. Barry, and later with the famous Peg Woffington,
and their skill but stimulated his own wonderful power. It is
said that he seemed to put on the character he was acting, and
every limb and gesture spoke the part as truthfully as the words
he uttered. His great role was the fop or the man of fashion.
But Cibber's success was modified and embittered by the per-
sistent malice of many enemies, who did their best to ruin his
reputation by slander and obloquy. His life certainly was not
free from error and folly, but the utter profligacy attributed to
him is refuted by the whole tenor of his writings. In them he
showed a regard for truth and honour, and sobriety of language
and of conduct, which could not but have been a reflection of
his personal conviction. He did much to reform the stage, to
correct prevailing abuses, to counteract its degrading tenden-
cies ; he strove in his plays to depict pure and chaste charac-
ters, to extol virtue, to cast a slur upon vice, and bring back,
also, some of the truth and the dignity and the strength of the
Elizabethan drama. Thus Cibber is a fine contrast to Dryden
and Shadwell, Wycherley, Etheridge, and Congreve.
Cibber's first comedy was " Love's Last Shift." Lord Dorset
considered this the best first play that any author in his mem-
ory had produced. And the public received it with great ap-
plause. Collier in his " Short View " included it among those
plays which he condemned ; but Cibber's subsequent works
would have escaped that censure. Dr. Blair, who in some-
what exaggerated style considered "The Provoked Husband ".
the best comedy in the English language, also added that it
was calculated to expose licentiousness and folly, and would do
honour to any stage. Cibber's adaptation of Moliere's " Tar-
tuffe," called the " The Nonjuror," was immensely successful and
even now is occasionally acted under another name. But we .
have no space to even mention Cibber's numerous comedies.
His autobiography, of course, deals with the details of his author-
ship as well as his management of Drury Lane, and of the law-
suit with Steele. This suit showed Cibber to be a man of
varied talent he pleaded his own cause with so much skill,
such force of logic, that he won his case without help from the
lawyers.
Cibber's domestic life contrasted unfavourably with his public
career. Gentle and gracious of character in many respects, he
Collet Ctbber, 97
yet lacked steadfastness and constancy ; he was shallow ; had
brilliancy but not depth ; was amiable without being strong.
It is said that he was an inattentive husband, and that he was
lacking - in love for his children. But it is impossible to
determine how true this is, so much has been said of him
which is the direct outgrowth of personal envy. Cibber had
a large family, but only two of his children grew up. The
son led an infamous life and made his wife the famous
actress very unhappy. Cibber's daughter had a career highly
romantic and full of varied adventures. She died in extreme
poverty. As a proof of how impossible it is to judge correctly
of Cibber's domestic relations, one authority asserts that this
daughter died two or three years after her father's death ;
another that she died in destitution while he was yet alive !
One thing is, however, certain, that Cibber repeatedly urged
upon his children the charms and duty of virtue, but that
his appeals and his warnings were alike in vain.
In Cibber's early days a sight of Charles II. had inspired
a poem, and he also wrote an ode on James II. But these
efforts showed no trace of the sparkle of his subsequent com-
edies. George I. had been delighted with " The Nonjuror."
When Eusden died the queen promised the laurel to Richard
Savage, but George II. and his Lord Chamberlain willed other-
wise. For twenty-seven years Cibber wrote odes with great
patience and industry. In these the vitalising power, the im-
aginative spirit of true poetry is wholly lacking ; and yet they
are not contemptible. They are correct in form, and have
some eloquence and terseness of phrase and melody of versi-
fication. Of course, Cibber was not fitted for the position of
laureate, and he should have had the good sense to decline,
but being one of the vainest of men he accepted, and so he
incurred the ridicule of all the satirists of the day. But he
never lost his temper. He would often read to his friends the
best things written against his unlucky odes, and would reply
in epigrams satirising himself with much wit and spirit.
The persistent malice of Pope has become a part of history.
Pope's " Dunciad " is immortal, and so Cibber's name will always
suffer. It is surprising how well Cibber bore Pope's attacks,
only once or twice did he even notice them, and then he
said that Pope considered a lick at the laureate a sure bait
to catch little readers. When Cibber wrote his famous letter
of remonstrance to Pope, he showed dignity as well as un-
answerable logic, but Pope was unappeasable. All critics, from
Johnson to De Quincey, concur in the belief in Pope's inaccu-
racy. De Quincey even spoke of his radical insincerity of char-
acter, of his indifference to truth whenever it stood in the way
of pungent satire or any literary effect. Disraeli wrote : " Pope
9 8 Collet Gibber,
forced a dunce to appear as Cibber, but this was not making
Cibber a dunce." But after all the just things are said of Cib-
ber which can be said, the fact remains that
" Truth of history goes to wreck under the perversities of Satire."
Bentley said to one who threatened to write him down, that
no author was ever written down but by himself. But Bentley
was wrong. The world at large judges Cibber more by the
" Dunciad " than by his own Autobiography. Cibber's book,
however, still retains its charm for its naivete, its childlike
egotism, its many accurate pictures of famous men and women
and great events ; and as a history of the stage in one of its
most interesting epochs it is an important contribution to litera-
ture. When Cibber heard that Swift had sat up all night to
read his book, he shed tears of joy. Betterton's prophecy,
early in Cibber's career, that he would make an actor of decided
power, had also brought tears to the eyes of this volatile, mer-
curial nature, who, in spite of grave defects of character, showed
many wise and sagacious traits traits in marked and favour-
able contrast to the famous poet who maligned him.
Soon after being appointed laureate Cibber retired from the
stage, acting only occasionally with his favourite, Peg Woffing-
ton. His last days were quiet and peaceful, and he died quite
suddenly at the advanced age of eighty-six.
SELECTIONS FROM CIBBER.
AN ODE TO HIS MAJESTY FOR THE NEW YEAR,
1730-31.
Once more the ever circling sun
Through the celestial signs has run ;
Again old Time inverts his glass,
And bids the annual seasons pass.
The youthful Spring shall call for birth,
And glad with opening flowers the earth ;
Fair Summer load with sheaves the field,
And golden fruits shall Autumn yield :
Each, to the Winter's want, their stores shall bring
Till warmer genial suns recall the Spring.
Ye grateful Britons, bless the year
That kindly yields increase,
While plenty that might feed a war,
Enjoys the guard of peace.
Your plenty to the skies you owe ;
Peace is your Monarch's care,
Thus bounteous Jove, and George below
Divided empire share !
Turn, happy Britons, to the throne your eyes,
And in the royal offspring see
How amply bounteous Providence supplies
The source of your felicity.
Behold in every face,
Imperial graces shine !
All native to the race
Of George and Caroline.
100 Colleg Gibber.
CIBBER'S IRONICAL LINES ON HIMSELF.
{In reply to the assertion of his enemies that he had written praises
of his own genius.)
Ah ! bah ! Sir Coll, is that thy way,
Thine own dull praise to write ?
And wouldn't thou stand so sure a lay?
No, that's too stale a bite.
Nature and Art in thee combine,
Thy talents here excel,
All shining Brass thou dost outshine
To play the cheat so well.
Who sees thee in Iago's part,
But thinks thee such a rogue?
And is not glad with all his heart,
To hang so sad a dog ?
When Bayes thou playest, Thyself thou art ;
For that by Nature fit,
No blockhead better suits the part,
Than such a Coxcomb wit.^
In Wronghead too, thy Brains we see,
Who might do well at Plough ;
As fit for Parliament was he,
As for the Laurel, Thou !
Bring thy protected verse from Court,
And try it on the Stage ;
Here it will make much better sport
And set the town in rage.
There Beaux and Wits and Cits and Smarts,
Where Hissing's not uncivil,
Will show their hearts to thy deserts
And send them to the Devii.
But ah ! in vain, 'gainst Thee we write,
In vain thy verse we maul,
Our sharpest Satyr's thy Delight,
For Blood ! thou 'It stand it all.
Thunder, 'tis said the Laurel spares ;
Nought but Thy brows could blast it ;
And yet, O curst, provoking Stars !
Thy comfort is, thou hast it.-
'WHAT ARE THE DLESSINGS OF THE LIGHT?
O TELL YOUR POOH BLIND BOY!" Pct^e 101
Colles Gibbet *of
THE BLIND BOY.
SAY what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the Light,
O tell your poor blind boy !
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright ;
1 feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night ?
My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe ;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy,
Whilst this I sing, I am a king
Although a poor blind boy.
FROM SHE WOU'D AND SHE WOU'D NOT.
This business will never hold water.
FROM WOMAN'S WIT.
Possession is eleven points in the law.
Words are but empty thanks.
FROM LOVE'S LAST SHIFT.
As good be out of the world as out of the fashion.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disap-
pointed woman scorned ! slighted ! dismissed without a part-
ing pang.
tfolleg dibber.
FROM THE RIVAL FOOLS.
Stolen sweets are best.
FROM CAESAR IN EGYPT.
Is there a crime
Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of man with more infernal hue than damn'd
Assassination ?
How sudden are the blows of fate! what change,
What revolution, in the state of glory !
Oh ! had he ever lov'd, he would have thought
The worst of torture bliss, to silent parting.
Virtue never is defac'd ! unchanged
By strokes of fate, she triumphs o'er distress,
And every bleeding wound adorns her beauty.
FROM RICHARD III.
Life's but a short chase, our game content.
Which most pursued, is most compelled to fly :
And he that mounts him on the swiftest hope,
Shall soonest run his courser to a stand ;
While the poor peasant from some distant hill,
Undanger'd and at ease, views all the sport,
And sees content take shelter in his cottage.
Why now my golden dream is out
Ambition, like an early friend, throws back
My curtains with an eager hand, o'erjoyed
To tell me what I dreamt is true a crown,
Thou bright reward of ever-daring minds ;
Oh ! how thy awful glory fills my soul !
Nor can the means that got thee dim thy lustre;
For, not men's love, fear pays thee adoration,
And fame not more survives from good than evil deeds.
Th' aspiring youth that fir'd th' Ephesian dome,
Outlives in fame the pious fool that rais'd it.
Colter Cfbber. 103
Off with his head ! So much for Buckingham.
I've lately had two spiders
Crawling upon my startled hopes
Now tho' thy friendly hand has brush'd 'em from me,
Yet still they crawl offensive to my eyes ;
I would have some kind friend tread upon 'em.
Hark, from the tents
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With chink of hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
Richard is himself again.
FROM KING JOHN.
Is death more cruel from a private dagger
Than in the field, from murdering swords of thousands ?
Or does the number slain make slaughter glorious?
Were men t' appear themselves,
Set free from customs that restrain our nature,
Nor wolves nor tigers would dispute more fiercely !
Yet all we boast above the brute is what ?
That in our times of need we dare dissemble.
FROM KING JOHN.
Act V.
Falconbridge. O Reverend Father, haste, the dying King
Implores thy holy aid.
Abbot. Said'st thou the King?
Falconbridge. Dying he seems, or cannot long survive :
Whether by heat of action in the field,
His latent fever is inflam'd to danger,
Or, as suspicion strongly has avouched,
The gloomy Monk, who serv'd him with the cup,
Might impiously infuse some bane of life,
We know not, but his interval of sense
In grones calls earnest for his Confessor.
Constance. In his accounted sins be this remembered.
[Pointing to the corpse of Arthur.
i4 Collet Cibber.
Falconbridge. If Grief or Prejudice could bear to hear me,
I could a truth unfold would calm thy sorrows.
Constance. Lies not my child there murdered ?
Falconbridge. Hear my story.
Enter Salisbury with Arundel.
Salisbury. How fortunate the hour ! that he had sense
To ratify our rights and seal the charter.
Abbot. What news, my Lords ? How fares the King ?
Salisbury. I fear me, poison 'd ! his whole mass of blood
Is touch'd corruptibly, and his frail brain,
Which some suppose the mansion of the soul,
By the disjointed comments that it makes,
Foreshows its mortal office is expiring.
Falconbridge. And Hubert dying disavowed the deed.
[Apart to Constance.
Constance. Admitting this, that mere mischance destroyed
him,
What but his wrongs expos'd him to mischance?
Nor therefore are my sorrows more reliev'd,
But as oppression may be less than murder.
Enter Pembroke.
Pembroke, The King seems more at ease and holds belief,
That were he brought into the open air,
It might assuage the ferment that consumes him.
Salisbury. Behold the sad remains of royalty !
Falconbridge. Let those who lov'd him not endure the sight,
When he is gone my hopes in life are friendless. {Exit.
King John is brought in.
Abbot. How fares your majesty?
King John. The air's too hot,
It steams, it scalds ! I cannot bear this furnace !
Stand off, and let the Northern wind have way,
Blow, blow ! ye freezing blasts from Iceland skies !
O blissful region, that I there were king I
To range and roll me in eternal snow,
Where crowns of icicles might cool my brain,
And comfort me with cold.
Abbot. O gracious Heaven
Relieve his senses from these mortal pangs,
That his reflecting soul may yet look back
On his offences past with penitence !
King John. Why am 1 tortur'd thus ? I kill'd him not ;
Collet Gibber. io 5
Was it so criminal to wish him dead ?
If wishes were effectual, oh, my crown,
My crown should from the grave with joy redeem him !
Abbot. If penitence, not frenzy prompts thy tongue!
Behold this object of calamity,
Whom thy severities have sunk with sorrow.
O, carry not beyond the grave your enmity.
King John, Constance, the mournful relict of my brother,
How do thy wrongs sit heavy on my soul ;
But who was ever just in his ambition !
Thou seest me now an object of thy triumph,
The vital cordage of my heart burnt up !
All to a single thread on which it hangs
Consumed ; now may the fearless lamb approach,
Now close the lion eye of enmity.
Hence but a moment all this royalty,
This pride of power will crumble into ashes.
Abbot. In his extremities, Heaven help the King !
Constance. And may his contrite soul receive its mercy.
King John. The lamp of life is dry Thy prayers, O Father!
At Worcester let these mortal bones have rest.
My eyes refuse the light the stroke is given.
O, I am call'd I wander mercy, Heaven ! [Dies.
Constance. He is gone.
The turbulent oppressor is no more.
The hour of heav'nly justice has at last
Demanded his account of England's Empire ;
But since he seem'd to pass in penitence,
Let all his crimes be buried in his grave.
Thou Power ador'd, what thanks shall I repay thee,
That my affections have subdu'd my soul,
T' extend its charity even to my enemies ?
Now Life, I have no farther use for thee ;
Defer awhile the obsequies of Arthur,
Pass but some hours and I shall soon o'ertake him,
Then lay us in one peaceful grave together.
[Exit, led off.
Enter Falconbridge, who, seeing the King, starts back.
Falconbridge. My fears are true, good news comes now too
late;
Deaf is the ear which best might give it hearing.
Salisbury. O Falconbridge! if thou hast aught that may
dispel our general consummation, speak it.
Falconbridge. Something I bring to cheer this sudden sad-
ness ;
106 Colleg Ctbber.
From France the Lady Blanch, arriv'd, has wrought
Her comfort Dauphin to such peaceful temper,
That hearing you the Barons had disclaim'd him,
He now accepts the Legate's mediation,
And, on such terms as honour may accord,
He and his forces leave our land in peace.
Salisbury. Lose not a moment then to close this treaty ;
Build we a bridge of gold for his retreat !
And may the recent dangers we have passed.
Never by civil discord be recall'd.
Falconbridgc. There only lives the error can mislead us.
Let not self-wounds our native strength impair,
What rash invader can have hope to shake us ?
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
England no foreign force shall e'er subdue
While Prince and Subjects to themselves are true.
WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.
WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.
Born at Cambridge in 1715. Made Laureate in 1757. Died in 1785.
(Reigns of George II. and George III.)
On the death of Cibber the laurel was offered to Thomas
Gray. But Gray seemed to have -no ambition to be the suc-
cessor of men like Tate and Eusden. For Dryden's genius
Gray always had that earnest admiration which made him
attribute to its influence his own poetic power. And yet of
Dryden's character Gray sternly stood censor. " He was,"
said Gray, " as disgraceful to the office of the Laureateship
from his character, as the poorest scribbler could have been
from his verses. The office itself has humbled the possessor
hitherto, if he were a poor writer, by making him more con-
spicuous ; and, if he were a good one, by setting him at war
with the little fry of his own profession, for there are poets
little enough even to envy a Poet Laureate."
So even the opportunity to be a successor to the great Dry-
den had no charm for this rare spirit of genius. Even when
urged to accept, and promised that no birthday odes would be
required from him unless he chose to write them, Gray remained
firm. But he wrote to his friend Mason, that he would like to
know to whom the laurel would be given, as he interested him-
self not a little in its history.
Whitehead had never put forth his own claims, but his
unsought honours were due to the influence of the Earl of Jer-
sey, who urged Pitt to appoint him laureate.
The liberty of choice offered to Gray was not extended to
Whitehead. He had to furnish the customary odes every year,
as Shad well, Tate, and others had done before him. Mason
remarked that he should think King George would have wished
to dispense with hearing music for which he had no ear and
poetry for which he had no taste. But Campbell said he need
not have thought so. " If the King had a taste for poetry he
would have abolished the laureate odes altogether ; as he had
not, they were continued."
Whitehead was of humble origin, the son of a baker of Cam-
bridge, who gave his son a good education amid numerous
difficulties and embarrassments. The boy very early showed a
taste for poetry, had even written a comedy when his com-
i8 militant TimbltebeaO,
panions were thinking only of field sports. At Winchester
school, when a prize was offered for a poem on a subject chosen
by Alexander Pope, it was Whitehead who, to his own delight
and the surprise of his good father, was fortunate in winning
the prize.
The boy showed his good sense by not being ashamed
to win an education at the expense of his pride. Entering
Cambridge as a sizar, he graduated w 7 ith honours and was
elected a fellow of his college. He then became tutor to the
son of the Earl of Jersey. He travelled with him, and then
settled down with him in his quiet, beautiful home, where many
happy years were passed. Whitehead had leisure for literary
studies, and he enjoyed not only the friendship and confidence
of his employers, but formed many close connections with the
nobility, who treated him with respect and deference. White-
head became very popular among his friends, winning their
regard, and keeping it, too. His manners were not only polished,
but were the outward expression of a sincere and kind heart.
Though fond of society, he indulged in no dissipation. He
visited the theatres frequently, and this finally led him to try
his hand at dramatic writing, and his success was greater than
he had himself anticipated.
" Creusa " is perhaps the best of Whitehead's plays. It is
founded upon the story told long ago by Euripides in " Ion,"
but in the hands of Whitehead it is divested of all supernatural
machinery, and deals with many ideas current in his own age.
Whitehead was a far better dramatist than poet. Garrick
praised him and liked to act his characters, and Mrs. Gibber
thought some of them her best roles. The people applauded
the sprightly, elegant dialogue, which even if it did not show
the genius of men like Congreve or Southerne, was pure and
dignified, upheld virtue and honour, and made intrigue and
insincerity of life contemptible.
The temper of the age was, as we know, not poetical.
Literature appealed to the intellect, and ministered little to the
spiritual instincts of humanity. The thought which strove to
express itself in poetical form had no strength of flight, few
touches of imaginative or vitalising power, little glow and fire
of spontaneous passion. In 1756 William Whitehead gave to
the world a volume of poems which were perfectly in harmony
with the whole spirit of his age. Their versification was grace-
ful, obviously modelled upon that of Pope. Their thoughts
were conventional, and the poet's treatment of his themes
showed little originality, though many times his style had a
sparkle really captivating, and his skill in narrative was both
interesting and dramatic. Occasionally Whitehead became
eloquent with earnestness and a semblance of passion.
TKflUHam TObttcbcaD. 109
Two years before being- appointed laureate Whitehead
became Secretary and Registrar of the Order of the Bath. To
the patronage of his constant friends, the Jerseys, this appoint-
ment was due, not to his own political services. The same
might be said of his winning the laurel. The gift was not due
to his services to literature, though he himself had the obtuse-
ness to think it was, and wrote so repeatedly in his answers to
his critics.
The satirical assaults he suffered from the wits of the day
had the unfortunate effect of making' his comedies less popu-
lar. After he became laureate, Garrick even went so far as
to accept one of Whitehead's plays only on the condition
that the author's name be withheld. The laureate replied to
his lampooners in his "Charge to the Poets," which Coleridge
praised so highly. The. forced humour of this poem, as well as
its dogmatism and conceit, provoked a storm of abuse. Then
came " The Pathetic Apology for All Laureats," another poem
which would naturally excite still more ridicule. The infamous
Churchill spoke of Whitehead as being in the laureate's chair,
" by grace, not merit planted there," and of his " mongrel kind
of tinkling prose." Even Dr. Johnson spoke slightingly of
Whitehead's talents, but the cause was not so much the doc-
tor's critical sagacity as his enmity to Garrick, for Whitehead
had shown his good sense in upholding Garrick when he
had revived Ben Jonson's two great plays. The prologue he
wrote to " Every Man in his Humour " is as good as anything
he ever did. Horace Walpole, even when he praised White-
head's " Variety " for its humour and originality, and called it a
pretty poem, could not help adding that it possessed not more
poetry than is necessary for a laureate. I should class " The
Enthusiast " even higher than " Variety." It is a poem written
in thorough sympathy with the peace and charm of nature, and
also points to that wider sympathy with humanity which is so
characteristic of the true dramatist.
A writer in Blackwood wrote thus of Whitehead's laureate
odes, and coming as it does from an English source it is espe-
cially interesting to Americans: "What now appears most
noticeable in Whitehead's odes is his prolonged and ludicrous
perplexity about the American War. At the first outbreak of
it, he is the indignant and scornful patriot, confident in the
power of the mother country, and threatening the rebels with
condign punishment. As they grow more and more obstinate,
he becomes the pathetic remonstrant with these unnatural
children, and coaxes them to be good boys. .When any news
of success to the British arms has arrived, he mounts his high
horse again and gives the Yankees hard words, hints that the
gates of mercy are not quite closed to repentance. Reverses
no TNUlUam TObtteDeaD.
come, and he consoles the King. Matters grow worse, and he
is at his wit's end. At last the struggle is over ; he accommo-
dates himself to the unpleasant necessity of the case, and
sings the blessings of peace and concord."
Laureate from 1757 to 1785, Whitehead died very suddenly
at the age of seventy, only a few days before the King's birth-
day. Though George the Third's ignorance of both poetry and
music would have excited the contempt of Mason, the king
did not wish his birthday to pass without the customary tribute
to his many and sterling virtues. It is said that Thomas War-
ton was appointed to the vacant Laureateship even before the
funeral of Whitehead, and was forced to write an ode in great
haste.
SELECTIONS FROM WHITEHEAD.
THE LAUREATE.
Obliged by sack and pension,
Without a subject or invention,
Must certain words in order set,
As innocent as a gnzette
Must some meaning half disguise,
And utter neither truth nor lies.
FROM A CHARGE TO THE POETS.
The following fact is true
From nobler names and great in each degree,
The pension'd laurel has devolved on me,
To me, ye bards ; and what you'll scarce conceive,
Or, at the best, unwillingly believe,
Howe'er unworthily I wear the crown,
Unask'd it came, and from a hand unknown.
ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1761.
And who is he of regal mien,
Reclined on Albion's golden fleece,
Whose polished brow and eye serene
Proclaim him elder born of Peace ?
Another George ! ye winds convey
Th' auspicious name from pole to pole !
Thames catch the sound, and tell the subject sea
Beneath whose sway its waters roll.
The hoary monarch of the deep,
Who soothed its murmurs with a father's care,
Doth now eternal Sabbath keep,
And leaves his trident to his blooming Heir.
O, if the muse aright divine,
Fair Peace shall bless his opening reign,
William WbitebeaD,
And through its splendid progress shine,
With every art to grace her train,
The wreaths so late by glory won,
Shall weave their foliage round his throne,
Till kings abashed shall tremble to be foes,
And Albion's dreaded strength secure the world's repose.
ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY, JUNE 4, 1765.
Hail to the rosy morn, whose ray
To lustre wakes the auspicious day.
Which Britain holds so dear !
To this fair month of right belong
The festive dance, the choral song,
And pastimes of the year.
W T hate'er the wintry colds prepar'd,
Whate'er the spring but faintly rear'd,
Now wears its brightest bloom ;
A brighter blue enrobes the skies,
From laughing fields the zephyrs rise
On wings that breathe perfume.
The lark in air that warbling floats,
The wood-birds with their tuneful throats,
The streams that murmur as they flow,
The flocks that rove the mountain's brow,
The herds that through the meadows play,
Proclaim 'tis nature's holiday !
And shall the British Lyre be mute,
Nor thrill through all its trembling strings,
With oaten reed, and pastoral flute.
Whilst every vale responsive rings?
To him we pour the grateful lay
Who makes the season doubly gay :
For whom, so late, our lifted eyes,
With tears besought the pitying skies,
And won the cherub Health to crown
A nation's prayer, and ease that breast
Which feels all sorrows but its own
And seeks by blessing to be blest.
Fled are all the ghastly train,
Writhing pain, and pale disease ;
Joy resumes his wonted reign,
The sunbeams mingle with the breeze,
And his own month, which Health's gay livery wears,
On the sweet prospect smiles of long succeeding years.
TOllfam TKilbttebeab. i*3
THE JE NE SCAI QUOI.
A SONG.
YES, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Caelia has undone me ;
And yet I'll swear I can't tell how
The pleasing plague stole on me.
'Tis not her face which love creates,
For there no graces revel ;
'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates
Have rather been uncivil.
'Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common;
And all her sense is only chat,
Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm
'Twas both perhaps, or neither;
In short, 'twas that provoking charm
Of Caelia all together.
THE DOUBLE CONQUEST.
Of music, and of beauty's power,
I doubted much and doubted long :
The fairest face a gaudy flower,
An empty sound the sweetest song.
But when her voice Clarinda rais'd,
And sung so sweet and smil'd so gay,
At once I listen'd, and I gaz'd ;
And heard, and look'd my soul away.
To her, of all his beauteous train,
This wondrous power had Love assign'd,
A double conquest to obtain,
And cure at once the deaf and blind.
"4 mtlliam mhitehent).
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF A YOUNG LADY
FOUR YEARS OLD.
Old creeping Time, with silent tread,
Has stol'n four years o'er Molly's head.
The rose-bud opens on her cheek,
The meaning eyes begin to speak ;
And in each smiling look is seen
The innocence which plays within.
Nor is the falt'ring tongue confin'd
To lisp the dawnings of the mind,
But fair and full her words convey
The little all they have to say ;
And eaqh fond parent, as they fall,
Find volumes in that little all.
May every charm which now appears
Increase, and brighten with her years !
And may that same old creeping Time
Go on till she has reach'd her prime,
Then, like a master of his trade,
Stand still, nor hurt the work he made.
THE ENTHUSIAST.
AN ODE.
Once, I remember well the day,
'Tvvas ere the blooming sweets of May
Had lost their freshest hues,
When every flower and every hill,
In every vale had drunk its fill
Of sunshine and of dews.
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
When Spring gives up the reins of time
To Summer's glowing hand,
And doubting mortals hardly know
By whose command the breezes blow
Which fan the smiling land.
'Twas there, beside a greenwood shade,
Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head,
I urged my devious way,
With loitering steps regardless where,
So soft, so genial was the air,
So wondrous bright the day.
*\
'twas that sweet season's prime
when spring gives up the reins of time
to summer's glowing hand." Page 114.
Militant Wbftebeafc. 115
And now my eyes with transport rove
O'er all the blue expanse above,
Unbroken by a cloud !
And now beneath delighted pass,
Where winding through the deep green grass,
A full-brimmed river flowed.
I stop, I gaze, in accents rude,
To thee, serenest solitude,
Burst forth th' unbidden lay :
" Begone, vile world ! The learned, the wise,
The great, the busy, I despise,
And pity even the gay.
" These, these are joys alone," I cry ;
" 'Tis here, divine Philosophy,
Thou deign'st to fix thy throne !
Here contemplation points the road
Through nature's charms to nature's God !
These, these are joys alone !
" Adieu, ye vain, low-thoughted cares,
Ye human hopes and human fears,
Ye pleasures and ye pains ! "
While thus I spake, over my soul
A philosophic calmness stole,
A stoic stillness reigns.
The tyrant passions all subdue,
Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride,
No more my bosom move ;
Yet still I felt, or seemed to feel,
A kind of visionary zeal
Of universal love.
When lo ! a voice, a voice 1 hear.
'Twas Reason whispered in my ear
These monitory strains :
" What mean'st thou, man ? Would'st thou unbind
The ties which constitute thy kind,
The pleasures and the pains ?
"The same Almighty Power unseen,
Who spreads the gay or solemn scene
To contemplation's eye,
Fixed every movement of the soul,
Taught every wish its destined goal,
And quickened every joy.
n6 Militant OTbitebeaO.
" He bids the tyrant passions rage,
He bids them war externa] wage,
And combat each his foe ;
Till from dissensions concords rise,
And beauties from deformities,
And happiness from woe.
" Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find
A bliss which leans not to mankind ?
Presumptuous thought and vain !
Each bliss unshared is unenjoyed,
Each power is weak unless employed
Some social good to gain.
" Shall light and shade, and warmth and air
With those exalted joys compare
Which active virtue feels,
When on she drags, as lawful prize,
Contempt and indolence and vice,
At her triumphant wheels ?
" As rest to labour still succeeds
To man, whilst virtue's glorious deeds
Employ his toilsome day,
This fair variety of things
Are merely life's refreshing springs
To soothe him on his way.
" Enthusiast, go, unstring thy lyre,
In vain thou sing'st if none admire,
How sweet soe'er the strain ;
And is not thy o'erflowing mind,
Unless thou mixest with thy kind,
Benevolent in vain ?
" Enthusiast, go, try every sense ;
If not thy bliss, thy excellence,
Thou yet hast learned to scan ;
At least thy wants, thy weakness know,
And see them all uniting show
That man was made for man."
LINES TO GARRICK.
A nation's taste depends on you ;
Perhaps a nation's virtue, too.
O think how glorious 'twere to raise
A theatre to virtue's praise,
TWUIHam TKHbftebea&. lI 7
Where no indignant blush might rise,
Nor wit be taught to plead for vice.
But every young, attentive ear
Imbibe the precepts living there ;
And every inexperienced breast
There feels its own rude hints exprest,
And, wakened by the glowing scene,
Unfold the world that lurks within.
ON ONE OF HIS LAMPOONERS.
Churchill had strength of thought, had power to paint,
Nor felt from principle the least restraint.
Fiom hell itself his characters he drew,
And christen'd them by every name he knew ;
For 'twas from hearsay he picked up his tales,
Where false and true by accident prevails.
Hence, I, though older far, have lived to see
Churchill forgot, an empty shade like vie.
That I'm his foe, e'en Churchill can't pretend ;
But, thank my stars, he proves I am no friend.
Yet, Churchill, could an honest wish succeed,
I'd prove myself to thee a friend indeed ;
For, had I power like that which bends the spheres
To music never heard by mortal ears,
Where in his system sets the central sun
And drags reluctant planets into tune.
So would I bridle thy eccentric soul,
In reason's sober orbit bid it roll ;
Spite of thyself would make thy rancour cease,
Preserve thy present fame and future peace,
And teach thy muse no vulgar place to find
In the full moral chorus of mankind.
SELECTIONS FROM THE ROMAN FATHER
This is true courage, not the brutal force
Of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve
Of virtue and of reason. He who thinks
Without their aid to shine in deeds of arms,
Builds on a sandy basis his renown,
A dream, a vapour, or an ague fit
May make a coward of him.
ii8 tWUlliam TObttebeafc.
My soul,
Like yours, is open to the charms of praise.
There is no joy beyond it, when the mind
Of him who hears it can, with honest pride,
Confess it just, and listen to its music.
SELECTIONS FROM LINES TO THE HONOURABLE
CHARLES TOWNSEND.
O Charles, in absence hear a friend complain,
Who knows thou lov'st him wheresoe'er he goes,
Yet feels uneasy starts of idle pain.
And often would be told the thing he knows.
Why then, thou loiterer, fleets the silent years,
How dar'st thou give a friend unnecessary tears ?
O I remember, and with pride repeat,
The rapid progress which our friendship knew !
Even at the first with willing minds we met ;
And ere the root was fix'd, the branches grew.
In vain had Fortune plac'd her weak barrier ;
Clear was thy breast from pride, and mine from servile
fear.
TO LADY NUNEHAM, ON THE DEATH OF HER
SISTER, THE HONOURABLE CATHARINE VEN-
ABLES VERNON, JUNE, MDCCLXXV.
Mild as the opening morn's serenest ray,
Mild as the close of summer's softest day,
Her form, her virtues (fram'd alike to please
With artless grace and unassuming ease),
On every breast their mingling influence stole,
And in sweet union breath'd one beauteous whole.
Oft, o'er a sister's much-lamented bier,
Has genuine anguish pour'd the kindred tear:
Oft, on a dear-lov'd friend's untimely grave,
Have sunk in speechless grief, the wise and brave.
Ah, hapless thou ! for whose severer woe
Death arm'd with double force his fatal blow,
Condemn'd (just Heaven ! for what mysterious end ?)
To lose at once the sister and the friend !
IKHilliam TKHbitebeab. 119
VARIETY.
(A Tale for Married People.)
Two smiling springs had waked the flowers .
That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers
Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears,
Who count by months, and not by years
Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude and love :
When lo ! they find, they can't tell how
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were changed ; the place
Had, somehow, got a different face,
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene ;
The lawns, the woods were not so green.
The purling rill, which murmured by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish, reedy pool ;
The days grew hot, the evenings cool.
The moon, with all the starry reign,
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter-night
They could not read by candle-light.
Full oft, unknowing what they did,
They called in adventitious aid.
A faithful favourite dog 'twas thus
With Tobit and Telemachus
Amused their steps ; and for a while
They viewed his gambols with a smile.
The kitten, too, was comical,
She played so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleased to find
Another cat, and peeped behind.
A courteous neighbour at the door,
Was deemed intrusive noise no more.
Yet neighbours were not quite the thing
What joy, alas! could converse bring
With awkward creatures bred at home
The dog grew dull, or troublesome,
The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit,
And, with her youth, had lost her spirit.
And jokes repeated o'er and o'er,
Had quite exhausted Jenny's store.
TKHilliam IIMbftebeaD.
" And then, my dear, I can't abide
This always sauntering side by side."
" Enough," he cries ; " the reason's plain ;
For causes never rack your brain.
Our neighbours are like other folks ;
Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes,
Are still delightful, still would please
Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease.
Look round, with an impartial eye,
On yonder fields, on yonder sky ;
The azure cope, the flowers below,
With all their wonted colours glow ;
The rill still murmurs ; and the moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sun.
No change has made the seasons fail,
No comet brushed us with his tail,
The scenes the same, the same the weather
We live, rny dear, too much together."
Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
An added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.
Why should we paint in tedious song,
How every day, and all day long,
They drove at first with curious haste
Through Lud's vast town ; or, as they passed
'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs
Of streets on streets, and squares on squares,
Describe how strong their wonder grew
At buildings and at builders too ?
Advanced to fashion's waving head,
They now, where once they followed, led ;
Devised new systems of delight,
Abed all day, and up all night,
In different circles reigned supreme;
Wives copied her, and husbands him ;
Till so divinely life ran on,
So separate, so quite bon-ton
That, meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tete-a-tete across the fire ;
Looked in each other's face a while,
-With half a tear and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face
1 WE LIVE, MY DEAR, TOO MUCH TOGETHER." Page 120.
raiUam TlTObitebeafc.
Now scarce retained its faintest streak,
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She lank and pale, and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.
Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.
Both wished to speak, both hung the head.
At length it burst : " Tis time," he cries,
"When tired of folly, to be wise.
Are you, too, tired?" then checked a groan.
She wept consent, and he went on :
" How delicate the married life !
You love your husband, I my wife ;
Not even satiety could tame,
Nor dissipation quench the flame.
True to the bias of our kind,
'Tis happiness we wish to find.
In rural scenes retired we sought
In vain the dear, delicious draught,
Though blest with love's indulgent store,
We found we wanted something more.
" We left the lonesome place, and found,
In dissipation's giddy round,
A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life, and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feathered tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move,
Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossoms on the bough ;
We sported freely with the rest,
And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.
Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight ;
Not happy yet ! and where 's the wonder
We live, my dear, too much asunder ! "
The moral of my tale is this :
Variety's the soul of bliss ;
William lixabttebeafc.
But such variety alone
As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power
The life-blood pours its genial store ;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again ;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there,
So real happiness below
Must from the heart sincerely flow ;
Nor, listening to the siren's song,
Must stray too far or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend ;
Must there begin, and there must end ;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.
L
THOMAS WARTON.
THOMAS WARTON.
Born at Basingstoke, Hampshire, in 1728. Made laureate in 1785. Died in
1790.
(Reign of George III.)
Not since Dryden's time had the laurel been bestowed so
worthily as now. At last a man of genius and a true poet had
been willing to accept the honour. Warton was undoubtedly
the best poet of the prevailing school, though he had also
shown traces of being in harmony with that reaction which
was already manifesting itself, soon to be expressed in the work
of Cbwper and Burns, and later of Coleridge, Southey, and
Wordsworth. Warton was, as it were, a bridge between the
poets of Queen Anne's time and the poets who were to work
out the great revolution in English poetry. Warton not only
showed traces of that enthusiasm for nature which was soon to
be expressed so gloriously, he not only viewed with sympathy
the spiritual phases of the age as contrasted with its predomi-
nant critical and artificial temper, but he wrote in harmony
with that romantic and historical impulse which gave birth to a
sublime passion for the glories of the past. It has long been the
opinion that Percy's " Reliques "and Warton's " History " turned
" the course of our literature into a fresh channel." In Warton's
case his passion for the past resulted in the production of poetry
infinitely fresher, nobler, truer than any since the time of Milton,
and by influence he was the " veritable literary father of Sir Walter
Scott." In many respects Warton was imitative. Often we see
in his work the influence of Gray as well as of older writers,
but it was an unconscious imitation which has its charm. And
it is far better to imitate noble models and show some power,
than to produce the tame, conventional, correct verses of men
who followed so closely the lead of Dryden and Pope.
Warton's powers as a descriptive poet were notable, not so
much where he treated natural scenery, but historic places.
He showed a delight in Gothic architecture, in the grand ruins
of his country, in all that was in harmony with his historical
and critical tendencies. It is said that his poem on Oxford in
which come the lines beginning :
" Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime,"
123
i24 Gbomaa TNlarton.
so affected Dr. Johnson that when he first heard it read, he ap-
plauded till his hands pained him. The poem for its eloquence
and vigour has many admirers still.
As a politician Warton was acceptable to the government.
He was an ardent Conservative in all his opinions, and in
religion somewhat of a bigot. The bestowal of the laurel
pleased him greatly, and he alluded to it in one of his sonnets
with a naivete which is charming. Like Southey, Warton
wished to magnify his office, and in his verse classed Chaucer
and Spenser among the laureates of the past, but when driven
to state plain facts, he, too, acknowledged that the true English
Laureateship began with Ben Jonson.
Of all the laureates, with the exception of Rowe, Warton
suffered the least from satirical attacks. His unmistakable
claim to greatness seemed to impress the small buzzing gnats
that usually swarmed about the poets of the day. Warton's
first official ode was composed in haste and was not at all equal
to the poetry he had been writing for many years, and it ex-
cited more or less ridicule ; but after that, his official work was
done with such genuine power that even the famous Wolcot,
who under the name of Peter Pindar, produced such biting,
brilliant, and unmerciful satires, contented himself with a
few harmless thrusts. Warton was too great a poet and too
amiable a man to treat such attacks with anything but com-
posure and dignity. To his official odes we can apply the
words which he himself applied to Dryden :
*' He came to light the muse's clearer flame,
To lofty numbers grace to lend,
And strength with melody to blend ;
To triumph in the bold career of song,
And roll th' unwearied energy along."
We notice in Warton's official work not only lyric grace and
manly strength, but an absence of that servility, that insincerity
of adulation, which had disgraced the work of Tate and Eusden.
He expressly said that he spurned Dryden's panegyric strings,
that servile fear that had disgraced his regal bays that it was
his wish, however, to catch Dryden's manlier chord.
Every family influence seemed to stimulate Warton's natural
bent towards poetry. His father, the vicar of Basingstoke in
Hants, and professor of poetry at Oxford, had distinguished
himself for his verses. His elder brother, Joseph, was famous
as a poet, a translator, an editor, and a critic. But his duties
as head master of Winchester prevented him from giving his
time to these congenial pursuits, and from carrying out many
of his poetical theories theories opposed to the dominant
school of Pope.
Thomas early showed great powers of application and a de-
ftbomas iKflarton. * 2 5
votion to poetry in harmony with family traditions. At the
age of nine he translated an epigram of Martial, and thus be-
gan to lay the foundation for his subsequent profound and far-
reaching scholarship. At sixteen he entered Trinity College,
Oxford ; and in the following year he wrote " The Pleasures of
Melancholy." He took his degree with honour, and was elected
a fellow in 175 1. Subsequently became professor of poetry,
and then of ancient history. Like his brother, Warton entered
the Church and held different livings, but his clerical duties
were merely nominal. He lived most of his life at Oxford, and
he never married. Old Oxford honoured him all through his
busy, useful career ; and when the end came, he was buried in
Trinity College Chapel with every mark of respect and all
"academical pomp."
The quiet days at Oxford were spent in editing various edi-
tions of the classics, and in compiling anthologies ; in writing
some sonnets which rank as among the best in our literature;
and in publishing poems, some of them humorous and satiri-
cal, and these were a relief from the statelier efforts of his
genius. The critical sagacity of the man showed itself in his
" Observations on the Poetry of Spenser;" and he did great
service to Milton's fame by his able and sympathetic editing of
the minor poems. But Warton spent most of his time in inves-
tigating our early literature ; and it resulted in his great work,
" The History of English Poetry." Of the value of this work no
student can be forgetful. He was a pioneer in a new field, and
as such his labours were prodigious, but he won an enviable
success. His influence upon English literature has indeed been
great, "greater than at the first glance we should imagine," say
Austin and Ralph, " not from any peculiar force of mind
stamping its impress on his own age and giving a direction to
the thinking of posterity, but from his opportune appearance,
and the accidental bent of his studies. Himself a traveller in
unaccustomed regions of research, he pointed out the way to that
wide field of romantic literature which had become almost a
shadowy land to his contemporaries." And William Minto says
with equal justice and enthusiasm that though specialists may
here and there detect errors in WartOn's work, it is always in-
teresting, while its breadth and exactness of scholarship must
always command wonder and respect. He became, as I said
before, the veritable literary father of Sir Walter Scott, and it
was through him, in fact, that the mediaeval spirit which always
lingered in Oxford first began to stir after its long inaction, and
to claim an influence in the modern world.
Warton was not only a profound scholar and a poet, but he
was an entertaining companion ; " the life of the common room,"
is the Oxford tradition. He told stories well, with a charm of
i26 Gbomas TDClattom
wit most irresistible. Though never married, he was passion-
ately fond of children ; and this natural love found outlet in fre-
quent visits to Winchester School, and with all the boys he was
a great favourite. He often helped them with their tasks. Once
discovering that on a poor fellow the composition of a poem on
a difficult subject had been imposed, he wrote the poem for
him. But it was so exceedingly well done that the innocent
fraud was of course detected immediately. Joseph Warton,
however, with a mischievous glance at his brother's imper-
turbable face, allowed the matter to pass with the remark that
he should expect another poem of equal merit the following
week.
Warton's portrait as painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds
shows an earnest, grave face, with a sparkle to the eyes, the
mouth inclined to curve into a smile. Handsome in youth, he
grew stout as the years passed. He had some eccentricities,
and was not wholly free from certain harmless superstitions ;
but he was at all times the jovial, free-hearted English gentle-
man. His literary eminence, joined to his brilliant wit and his
charm in conversation, won him many friends among men of
letters, and he was the recipient of many flattering honours from
them.
Laureate only five years, he was engaged in writing an ode
when a stroke of paralysis came swift and sure to end his busy,
useful life. Three days after death had claimed him, this last
ode was performed in the Royal Chapel amid the tears of all
present.
"THE PRINCE IN SABLE STEEL." Page 127.
SELECTIONS FROM WARTON.
ON HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY, JUNE 4, 1787.
The noblest bards of Albion's choir
Have struck of old this festal lyre.
Ere science, struggling oft in vain,
Had dar'd to break her Gothic chain,
Victorious Edward gave the vernal bough
Of Britain's bay to bloom on Chaucer's brow :
Fir'd with the gift, he chang'd to sounds sublime,
His Norman minstrelsy's discordant chime ;
In tones majestic hence he told
The banquet of Cambuscan bold ;
And oft he sung (howe'er the rhyme
Has moulder'd to the touch of time)
His martial master's Knightly board,
And Arthur's ancient rites restor'd :
The prince in sable steel that sternly frown'd,
And Gallia's captive king, and Cressy's wreath renown'd.
Won from the shepherd's simple meed,
The whisper's wild of Mulla's reed,
Sage Spenser wak'd his lofty lay
To grace Eliza's golden sway :
O'er the proud theme new lustre to diffuse,
He chose the gorgeous allegoric muse,
And call'd to life old Uther's elfin tale,
And rov'd through many a necromantic vale,
Portraying chiefs that knew to tame
The goblin's ire, the dragon's flame,
To pierce the dark enchanted hall,
Where virtue sate in lonely thrall.
From fabling Fancy's inmost store
A rich romantic robe he bore :
A veil with visionary trappings hung,
And o'er his virgin-queen the fairy texture flung.
i28 Gbomas TKHarton.
At length the matchless Dry den came,
To light the muses' clearer flame ;
To lofty numbers grace to lend,
And strength with melody to blend ;
To triumph in the bold career of song,
And roll tli' unwearied energy along,
Does the mean incense of promiscuous praise,
Does servile fear disgrace his regal bays ?
I spurn his panegyric strings,
His partial homage, tun'd to Kings !
Be mine, to catch his manlier chord,
That paints the impassion'd Persian lord,
By glory fir'd, to pity su'd,
Rous'd to revenge, by love subdu'd.
And still with transport new, the strains to trace
That chant the Theban pair, and Tancred's deadly vase.
Had these blest bards been call'd to pay
The vows of this auspicious day,
Each had confess'd a fairer throne,
A mightier sovereign than his own !
Chaucer had bade his hero-monarch yield
The martial fame of Cressy's well-fought field
To peaceful prowess, and the conquests calm,
That braid the sceptre with the patriot's palm.
His chaplets of fantastic bloom,
His colourings, warm from fiction's loom,
Spenser had cast in scorn away,
And deck'd with truth alone the lay :
All real here the bard had seen
The glories of his pictur'd queen !
The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here,
His lyre had flameless been, his tribute all sincere.
SELECTION FROM ODE ON HIS MAJESTY'S
BIRTHDAY, JUNE 4, 1788.
What native genius taught the Britons bold
To guard their sea-girt cliffs of old ?
'Twas Liberty ; she taught disdain
Of death, of Rome's imperial chain.
She bade the Druid harp to battle sound.
In tones prophetic, through the gloom profound
Of forest hoar, with holy foliage hung ;
From grove to grove the pealing prelude rung ;
Belinus call'd his painted tribes around
Gbomas 1KHarton. 129
And, rough with many a veteran scar,
Swept the pale legions with the scythed car,
While baffled Caesar fled, to gain
An easier triumph on Pharsalia's plain ;
And left the stubborn isle, to stand elate
Amidst a conquer'd world, in lone majestic state.
SELECTIONS FROM THE PLEASURES OF
MELANCHOLY.
Mother of Musings, contemplation sage,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff ; 'mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain,
And drifting hail descend ; or if the skies
Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,
Whence gazing steadfast on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct
Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds ; secure, self-blest.
There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low
Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man, conversing with the spheres !
O lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms
Congenial with my soul ; to cheerless shades,
To ruin's seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes
Of purple spring, where all the wanton train
Of smiles and graces seem to lead the dance
In sportive round, while from their hands they show'r
Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm ;
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu, green vales ! ye broider'd meads, adieu !
Beneath yon ruin'd Abbey's moss-grown piles
Oft let me sit at twilight hour of eve,
Where through some western window the pale moon
Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light ;
While sullen sacred silence reigns around,
Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r
Amid the moul'dring caverns dark and damp,
x 3 Gbomas Martom
On the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves
Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invests some wasted tow'r. Or let me tread
Its neighbouring walks of pines, where mus'd of old
The cloister'd brothers: through the gloomy void
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps
My soul in dread repose. But when the world
Is clad in midnight's raven-colour'd robe,
'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare
O'er the wan heaps ; while airy voices talk
Along the glimm'ring walls ; or ghostly shape
At distance seen, invites with beck'ing hand
My lonesome steps, through the far winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the solemn noon
Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch
I start : lo, all is motionless around !
Roars not the rushing wind ; the sons of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie ;
All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep.
then how fearful is it to reflect
That through the still globe's awful solitude,
No being wakes but me ! till stealing sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams of wanton folly born,
My senses lead through flow'ry paths of joy ;
But let the sacred genius of the night
Such mystic visions send, as Spenser saw
When through bewild'ring fancy's magic maze,
To the fell house of Busyrane, he led
Th' urishaken Britomart ; or Milton knew
When in abstracted thought he first conceived
All heav'n in tumult, and the seraphim
Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.
Let others love soft summer's ev'ning smiles,
As list'ning to the distant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the streaky west ;
1 choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then with the sullen shades of ev'ning close,
Where through the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam
The dying embers scatter, far remote
From mirth's mad shouts, that through the illumin'd roof
Resound with festive echo, let me sit,
Blest with the lowly crickets drowsy dirge.
Then let my thought contemplative explore
This fleeting state of things, the vain delights,
"let others love soft summer's ev'ning smiles,
as list'ning to the distant water-fall,
they mark the blushes of the streaky west:"
Page 130.
Gbomae barton. 13 1
The fruitless toils, that still our search elude,
As through the wilderness of life we rove.
This sober hour of silence will unmask
False folly's smile, that like the dazzling spells
Of wily Comus cheat th' unweeting eye
With blear illusion, and persuade to drink
That charmed cup, which reason's mintage fair
Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man.
Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught
Forget the poisonous dregs that lurk beneath.
OXFORD.
(From " The Triumph of Isis." Written in 174Q.)
Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime,
Ye towers that wear the mossy vest of time !
Ye massy piles of old munificence,
At once the pride of learning and defence;
Ye cloisters pale, that lengthening to the sight,
To contemplation, step by step, invite ;
Ye high-arch 'd walks, where oft the whispers clear
Of harps unseen have swept the poet's ear;
Ye temples dim, where pious Duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise ;
Lo ! your lov'd Isis, from the bordering vale,
With all a mother's fondness bids you hail !
Hail, Oxford, hail ! of all that's good and great;
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat ;
Nurse of each brave pursuit, each generous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame !
Like Greece in science and in liberty,
As Athens learn 'd, as Lacedemon free!
Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy gifted sons arise.
Tuning to nightly tale his British reeds,
Thy genuine bards immortal Chaucer leads :
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir,
And beams on all around celestial fire.
With graceful step see Addison advance,
The sweetest child of Attic elegance :
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Selden ope the rolls of ancient lore :
To all but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See Locke lead Reason, his majestic bride:
i3 2 Gbomas barton.
See Hammond pierce religion's golden mine,
And spread the treasur'd stores of truth divine.
All who to Albion gave the arts of peace
And best the labours plann'd of letter'd ease :
Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd ;
Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense improv'd ;
Who rang'd the powers of reasons, or refin'd,
All that adorn 'd or humanised the mind ;
Each priest of health, that mixed the balmy bowl,
To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul ;
All crowd around, and echoing to the sky
Hail, Oxford, hail ! with filial transport cry.
And see yon sapient train ! with liberal aim,
'Twas theirs new plans of liberty to frame ;
And on the Gothic gloom of slavish sway
To shed the dawn of intellectual day.
With mild debate each musing feature glows,
And well weigh 'd counsels mark their meaning brows.
" Lo ! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"
A Raleigh, Hamden, and a Somers shine.
These from thy source the bold contagion caught,
Their future sons the great example taught :
While in each youth th' hereditary flame
Still blazes, unextinguish'd, and the same !
Nor all the tasks of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage.
I see the sable-suited prince advance
Witli lilies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding France,
Edward. The muses in yon cloister'd shade,
Bound on his maiden thigh the martial blade :
Bade him the steel for British freedom draw,
And Oxford taught the deeds that Cressy saw.
And see, great father of the sacred band,
The patriot King before me seems to stand,
He by the bloom of this gay vale beguil'd
That cheer'd with lively green the shaggy wild,
Hither of yore, forlorn, forgotten maid,
The muse in prattling infancy convey'd ;
From vandal rage the helpless virgin bore,
And fixed her cradle on my friendly shore :
Soon grew the maid beneath his fostering hand,
Soon stream'd her blessings o'er the enlighten'd land.
Though simple was the dome, where first to dwell
She deign'd, and rude her early Saxon cell,
Lo ! now she holds her state in sculptur'd bowers,
And proudly lifts to heaven her hundred towers.
'Twas Alfred first with letters and with laws,
' FOR THEM THE MOON WITH CLOUDLESS RAY
MOUNTS, TO ILLUME THEIR HOMEWARD WAY." Page 133,
Gbomae TCHarton, *33
Adorn 'd, as he advanc'd, his country's cause:
He bade relent the Briton's stubborn soul,
And sooth'd to soft society's control
A rough untutor'd age.
SELECTIONS FROM THE HAMLET.
The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild,
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care, and guilty gain.
When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.
Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear,
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue ;
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds ;
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen the screaming jay,
Each native charm their steps explore
Of solitude's sequester'd store.
No riot mars the simple fare
That o'er a glimmering hearth they share.
For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way :
Their weary spirits to relieve,
The meadows incense breathe at eve.
Their humble porch with honey 'd flowers
The curling woodbine's shade embowers
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound ;
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime,
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar,
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.
I 34 Gbomae TKHarton.
RETIREMENT.
(Inscription in a Hermitage.)
Beneath this stony roof reclined,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind ;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave,
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstained with wine,
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount ;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed ;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings, bedropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state ?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot ?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray,
. And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?
TO SLEEP.
On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep !
Descend in all thy downy plumage drest ;
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep.
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.
'reluctant comes the timid spring." Page 135.
Gbomas barton. 135
O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,
And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand ;
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm !
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.
FROM EURIPIDES.
MUSIC ! why thy power employ
Only for the sons of joy ?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts ?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.
SELECTION FROM THE FIRST OF APRIL.
With dalliance rude young Zephyr woos
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boisterous boy the fair denies,
Or with a scornful smile complies.
Mindful of disaster past,
And shrinking at the northern blast, .
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning hoar, and evening chill ;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
The fresh turn'd soil with tender blades,
Thinly the sprouting barley shades ;
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge ;
Or to the distant eye displays
Weakly green its budding sprays.
The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green ;
From the gray moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring ;
The butterfly, gay-painted soon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon ;
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns, and flattering skies.
13 6 Gbomas TKHarton.
Fraught with a transient, frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark ;
But when gleams the sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery veil
Looks through the thin descending hail ;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
Mid the dim rainbow's scatter 'd hues.
Where in venerable rows
Widely waving oaks enclose
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call :
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.
SLEEP.
COME, gentle Sleep ! attend thy votary's prayer,
And though Death's image, to my couch repair;
How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie,
And without dying, oh, how sweet to die !
MONODY.
WRITTEN NEAR STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild,
The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge,
Their boughs entangling with th' embattled sedge ;
Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fring'd,
Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd ;
Soothe me with many a pensive pleasure mild.
But while I muse, that here the bard divine
Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd aisles enclose,
Where the tall windows rise in stately rows
Above th' embowering shade.
Here first, at fancy's fairy-circled shrine,
Of daisies pied his infant offering made ;
Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe ;
abomas TIMartom *37
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of some magic wand ;
An holy trance my charmed spirit wings,
And awful shapes of warriors and of kings
People thy busy mead,
Like spectres swarming to the wizard's hall ;
And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-covered by the purple pall.
Before me Pity seems to stand
A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore,
To see Misfortune rend in frantic mood
His robe, with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the visionary band,
And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood.
SELECTIONS FROM THE SONNETS.
ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODON.
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath the azure sky and golden sun,
When first my Muse to lisp her notes begun !
While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between ;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow marks the scene.
Sweet native stream ! those skies and sun so pure,
No more return to cheer my evening road !
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature ;
Nor with the muse's laurel unbestowed.
II.
WRITTEN AT WINSLADE, HAMPSHIRE.
WiNSLADE, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain
Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn,
Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn
Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain,
Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train ;
i3 8 Gbomas umarton.
Her fairest landscapes whence my muse has drawn,
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,
Too weak to try the buikin's stately strain ;
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,
Nor views invite, since he far distant strays,
With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays ;
In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
That still they can recall those happier days.
III.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON.
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,
Of painful pedantry, the poring child,
Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by time, and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled
On his lone hours ? Ingenious views engage
His thoughts, on themes unclassic falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Not rough nor barren are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.
IV.
WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle !
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore,
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,
T' entomb his Britains slain by Hengist's guile ;
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore;
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil,
To victory's idol vast, and unhewn shrine,
Rear'd the rude heap ; or, in thy hallow'd round,
Repose the Kings of Brutus' genuine line ;
Or here those kings in solemn state were crown 'd :
Studious to trace thy wondrous origine,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.
Gbomas lailarton* 139
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE.
From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
How to life's humbler scene can I depart ?
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours !
Vain the complaint : for fancy can impart
(To fate superior, and to fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall,
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the graces in their Attic pall,
Bid the green landslip's vernal beauty bloom ;
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.
VI.
ON SUMMER.
While summer suns o'er the gay prospect played,
Through Surrey's verdant scenes, where Epsom spreads
'Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads,
And Hascombe's hills, in towering groves array *d,
Rear'd its romantic steep, with mind serene
I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd ;
For now my breast with hopeless passion burn'd,
Wet with hoar mists appear'd the gaudy scene
Which late in careless indolence I pass'd ;
And autumn all around those hues had cast
Where past delight my recent grief might trace.
Sad change, that Nature a congenial gloom
Should wear, when most my cheerless mood to chase,
I wished her green attire and wonted bloom !
HENRY JAMES PYE.
Born in London in 1745. Made laureate in 1790. Died in 1813.
(Reign of George III.)
When Warton died, there were many suggestions from the
critics that the Laureateship be abolished. Edward Gibbon
said : " This is the best time for not filling up the office, when
the prince is a man of virtue, and the poet just departed was a
man of genius."
Byron said that Henry James Pye was a man eminently
respectable in everything but his poetry ; and his critics and
lampooners fret themselves over the puzzle why he was made
poet laureate. The Chronique Scandalense, seeking for a
solution, finds it in the fact that once Pye and George III. were
hunting together. The king tumbled and lost his wig. Pye
hastened to raise his sovereign from his undignified position,
but His Majesty, with ill-concealed anxiety, began to search in
the bog for his wig. *' Never mind your royal wig," said Pye
impulsively ; " I care more for the safety of your sacred Majesty's
person. I sincerely trust your Majesty is unhurt." This solici-
tude impressed the king to such an extent that when Warton
died, and a list of candidates for the Laureateship being pre-
sented to the king, he straightway recommended Pye.
Henry James Pye was an aristocrat, belonged to an ancient
family which had come over to England with the Conqueror,
and had afterwards been connected with royalty. One of his
ancestors was Auditor of the Exchequer in the reign of James I.
It was therefore Sir Robert Pye's duty to pay Ben Jonson his
annual grant, and it was to him that Jonson addressed his
famous epistle when the salary was in arrears. Sir Robert
Pye's son married the daughter of John Hampden.
It is not with his ancestors, however, but with the laureate
himself that we must concern ourselves. His childhood was a
happy one. Taught by a private tutor at home, he was studious
and precocious, read Homer at ten years of age, and delighted
in mental gymnastics such as in these days are unknown to
our children.
At seventeen he entered Magdalen College, Oxford, and at
twenty-one he left the university on account of the death of his
father. The estate was a large one, and he felt his responsi-
HENRY JAMES PYE.
Ibenrg James H>ge, 141
bility greatly. The father's debts amounted to over fifty thou-
sand pounds, but as these were not chargeable to the estate one
might suppose Pye would have quietly taken possession of his
inheritance and left the debts alone. But his honourable nature
prompted him to do far otherwise. He assumed the whole bur-
den of these debts. Other misfortunes came swiftly on the heels
of this one ; and Pye was at last forced to sell his paternal estate.
Some biographers have said that the estate was sold to meet
the heavyexpenses of Pye's own election to the House, but this is
not so. The whole action of the poet tends to raise him in the
estimation of all who can appreciate devotion to duty. Respect-
able in everything but his poetry, we must be sure to remember
that !
*' I would rather be thought a good Englishman than the
best poet or the greatest scholar that ever wrote," Pye once
said.
He had his wish. He was a man of culture and a scholar of
distinction, but the world does not consider him a great poet :
noble, sincere, a man of high principle an Englishman in the
truest and the highest sense he must be considered.
It is well to emphasise this fact about Pye's financial affairs,
as even the writer in the Atlantic Monthly articles attributed
Pye's appointment as laureate to his having spent a fortune in
-electioneering for the ministers of state. But he never had the
'pleasure of feeling he had a fortune to spend. It had gone into a
[bottomless abyss. He learned from his father's errors and misfor-
tunes many a lesson which helped him in his own life. By econ-
omy and thought he lived upon a small amount, and he even
maintained his household in comfort, sometimes in elegance.
A country magistrate, then elected a member for Berks, his
political services commanded respect. Then he afterwards
became Police Magistrate of London. He divided his time
ibetween his books, his parlimentary and judicial duties, and the
outdoor sports in which he took keen delight. His domestic
life was pure and happy, his wife a beautiful woman who was
devoted to him. His grace of manner, his real charm of char-
acter, won him many friends, both in his native county, where he
liked to spend much of his time, and in the society of London.
Even the endless squibs and burlesques Pye inspired on account
of his laureate odes did not really affect his reputation as an
industrious and cultured man of letters. One has but to look at
the list of his voluminous works to see how faithfully he laboured.
His translations of Aristotle's Poetics, of Homer, of Pindar,
show accurate scholarship and elegance of phrase ; his trans-
lation of the " Song of Harmodius and Aristogiton," and of
Burger's " Lenore " are fine and spirited ; his criticisms on
Shakespeare and others show insight and acumen. Pye's most
142 Ibenrg Samee fl>ge
notable book is the " Comments upon the Commentators oro
Shakespeare."
Garrick was at this time doing his utmost to popularise the
great dramatist ; the crusade begun by Nicholas Rowe in 1709
was bearing good fruit ; and Pye's own work was timely and of
value. Pye was devoted to the stage, and he tried his hand at
writing some plays, but they are wholly forgotten. For a com-
plete list of these we have to go to a foreign dictionary: Eng-
lish encyclopaedias ignore this industrious, conscientious worker.
Pye's most ambitious work was an epic poem on King Alfred,
but even he himself did not speak highly of his effort, and he
had no hope that it would live. Indeed, Pye was as modest as
Eusden had been egotistical. The contrast between them in
this respect is well illustrated in their portraits.
Many of Pye's minor poems show graceful fancy and have
considerable melody of versification and sparkle of style ; but
there is no originality of thought in them, no eloquent fervour,
no imaginative strength. They are rhetorical efforts merely.
His laureate odes are ardent and enthusiastic, even if they do
not soar very high. He shows in them an earnest patriotism ;
and earnestness of itself is a form of strength and power. But
Pye, with all his brilliancy of mind and his perseverance and
industry, had not the making of a true poet, and his work has
passed into oblivion. For twenty-three years he was poet
laureate, and during that time a change had come in English
poetry. The reaction against the artificialism of the age of Anne
had been growing more and more pronounced, and had cul-
minated in the mighty influence of Coleridge and Wordsworth.
But Henry James Pye gave up no traditions; he was conserv-
ative in his poetry as well as in his politics and his religion.
He wrote in obedience to the same models that had inspired
Tate, Eusden, and Cibber. But poets like them were hence-
forth to have no more a place in the annals of the Laureateship.
The office was to receive new honour, new dignity, from its
being held by poets like Southey, Wordsworth, and Tennyson.
Two or three years before his death- Pye was forced to live in
retirement on account of the severe attacks of gout which
afflicted him. His sufferings were so great that at the last he
gave up writing the odes which he had hitherto supplied with
conscientious care. At Pinner in Herts an end came to his
sufferings on August 13, 1813.
Two important changes in the Laureateship which took place
after the death of Pye deserve notice. For many years the
odes which the laureates had written on the royal birthdays
or great national anniversaries, were required odes nothing
would have excused their absence except that which excuses a
man playing whist from answering his partner's lead in trumps.
These odes were set to music by the court musician, and sung
at the state drawing rooms. When they were sung it did not
matter if the words were poor, nobody heard them. When
they were published, however, it became necessary that some
degree of poetic merit be found in them. When Pye let fall
his pen from a dying hand, it was determined to abolish these
odes at least to make them dependent solely on the convenience
or inspiration of the laureate. It is said that this change was
first suggested by Robert Southey. Anyway, when the laurel
was offered to Southey he was told he could write when and
how he pleased, and whatever he wrote should be read aloud,
not sung.
The other change consisted in commuting the tierce of wine,
which had first been granted to Ben Jonson, into an annual
grant of twenty-seven pounds, this amount to be added to the
original salary of one hundred pounds. The modern era of the
Laureateship had therefore commenced.*
* From the time that Ben Jonson, by his egotism and dogmatism, awakened the
ire of his contemporaries to the era of Southey and Wordsworth _there -had been a
steady stream of abuse and vituperation directed at the urrfortunate poets who had
worn the laurel wreath. The " Bon Gaultier Ballads," published when Southey
died, were but one of many burlesques. These clever verses began with :
" Who would not be the laureate bold,
With his butt of sherry to keep him merry,
And nothing to do but pocket his gold ? "
Competition for the vacant Laureateship takes place :
" He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead ! 'Twas thus the cry began,
And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel man ;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din."
Among these poets is Lord Lytton, who steps forward and says :
" And oh ! what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia's streams, "
But among the best of these hits at the poor sons of.Apollo are those levelled at
Robert Montgomery, who is made to say :
" I fear no rival for the vacant throne ;
No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own !
Let dark Macau lay chant his Roman lays.
Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays. . .
Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell,
Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell. . .
T care not, "
The famous " Bon Gaultier Ballads " end with :
" They led our Wordsworth to the Queen, she crowned him with the bays,
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter days ;
And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine
You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine! "
In view of the many unjust and contemptible things which have been said under
the thin veil of satire, is it any wonder that Wordsworth, whose reverent and
tender soul recoiled from such degradation of his calling, should have abandoned all
thoughts of a journalist's career because he had, he said, " come to a fixed resolu-
tion to steer clear of personal satire and devote himself entirely to literature?"
SELECTIONS FROM PYE.
ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1791.
When from the bosom of the mine
The magnet first to light was thrown,
Fair Commerce hailed the gift divine,
And smiling, claimed it for her own.
My bark (she said) this gem shall guide
Thro' paths of ocean yet untried,
While as my daring sons explore
Each rude inhospitable shore,
'Mid desert lands and ruthless skies,
New seats of industry shall rise,
And culture wide extend its genial reign
Free as the ambient gale, and boundless as the main.
II.
But tyranny soon learned to seize,
The art improving science taught,
The white sail courts the distant breeze,
With horror and destruction fraught ;
From the tall mast fell War unfurled
His banners to a new-found world ;
Oppression, armed with giant pride,
And bigot Fury by her side;
Dire Desolation bathed in blood,
Pale Avarice, and her harpy brood,
To each affrighted shore in thunder spoke,
And bowed the wretched race to slavery's iron yoke.
III.
Not such the gentler views that urge
Britannia's sons to dare the surge ;
Not such the gifts her Drake, her Raleigh bore
To the wild inmates of th' Atlantic shore,
f>enrj2 James pge. T 45
Teaching" each clreer wood's pathless scene
Tlie glories of their virgin queen.
Nor such her later chiefs who try,
Impell'd by soft humanity,
The boistrous wave, the rugged coast,
The burning zone, the polar frost,
That climes remote, and regions yet unknown,
May share a George's sway, and bless his patriot name.
IV.
Warm Fancy, kindling with delight,
Anticipates the lapse of age,
And as she throws her eagle's flight
O'er Time's yet undiscovered page,
Vast continents, now dark with shade,
She sees in verdure's robe arrayed,
Sees o'er each island's fertile steep
That frequent studs the southern deep,
His fleecy charge the shepherd lead,
The harvest wave, the vintage bleed :
See Commerce springs of guiltless wealth explore,
Where frowns the western world on Asia's neighbouring
shore.
v.
But lo ! across the black'ning skies,
What swarthy demon wings his flight?
At once the transient landscape flies,
The splendid vision sets in night.
And see Britannia's awful form,
With breast undaunted, brave the storm :
Awful, as when her angry tide
O'erwhelmed the wrecked Armada's pride.
Awful, as when the avenging blow
Suspending o'er a prostrate foe,
She snatched in vic'try's moment, prompt to save,
Iberia's sinking sons from Calpe's glowing wave.
VI.
Ere yet the tempest's mingled sound
Burst dreadful o'er the nations round,
What angel shape, in beaming radiance dight,
Pours through the severing clouds celestial light !
'Tis Peace before her seraph eye
The fiends of Devastation fly.
T 4<> Ibenrp James p\?e.
Auspicious, round our Monarch's brow
She twines her olive's sacred bough ;
This victory, she cries, is mine,
Not torn from war's terrific shrine;
Mine the pure trophies of the wise and good,
Unstained of woe, and undenTd with blood.
SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE KING'S
BIRTHDAY, 1792.
Heard ye the blast whose sullen roar
Burst dreadful from the angry skies ?
Saw ye against the craggy shore
The waves in wild contention rise ?
To welcome George's natal hour,
No vain display of empty power,
In flattery steep'd, no soothing lay
Shall strains of adulation pay ;
But Commerce rolling deep and wide
To Albion's shores her swelling tide,
But Themis' olive cinctur'd head,
And white rob'd Peace by Victory led,
Shall fill thy breast with virtuous pride,
Shall give him power to truth allied ;
Joys which alone a patriot King can prove,
A nation's strength his power, his pride a people's
love.
SELECTION FROM THE ODE FOR THE NEW
YEAR, 1797.
Genius of Albion, hear,
Grasp the strong shield, and shake the avenging spear.
By wreaths thy hardy sons of yore
From Gallia's crest victorious tore,
By Edward's lily-blazon'd shield ;
By Agincourt's high trophy'd field ;
By rash Iberia's naval pride,
Whelmed by Eliza's barks beneath the stormy tide ;
Call forth the warrior race again,
Breathing to ancient mood the soul-inspiring strain.
To arms ! your ensign straight display !
Now set the battle in array,
1benr James H>ge. T 47
The oracle for war declares,
Success depends upon our hearts and spears.
Britons, strike home! revenge your country's wrongs;
Fight, and record yourselves in Druid songs.
BIRTHDAY ODE FOR THE YEAR 1800.
God of our father's rise,
And through the thund'ring skies
Thy vengeance urge;
In awful justice red,
Be thy dread arrows sped,
But guard our Monarch's head,
God save great George.
Still on our Albion smile,
Still, o'er this favoured isle,
O, spread thy wing !
To make each blessing sure,
To make our fame endure,
To make our rights secure,
God save our King !
To the loud trumpet's throat,
To the shrill clarion's note,
Now jocund sing.
From every open foe,
From every traitor's blow,
Virtue defend his brow,
God guard our King.
SELECTION FROM NAUCRATIA, OR NAVAL
DOMINION.
Arm'd in the cause on Chalgrove's fatal plain,
Where sorrowing Freedom mourns her Hampden slain,
Say, shall the moralising bard presume,
From his proud hearse to tear one warlike plume,
Because a Cassar or a Cromwell wore
An impious wreath, wet with their country's gore ?
Columbus' eye, in transports of amaze,
The spacious region of delight surveys,
Charming with real scenes the raptur'd view,
Fairer than all his warmest wishes drew ,*
148 Ibenrg James fl>&
Isles in fair spring's eternal livery dight,
The fair savannah's space, the mountain's height ;
Forests of growth gigantic, that display 'd
O'er spacious continents impervious shade ;
Fields that, uncultur'd, harvests rich produce,
Spontaneous fruits that yield ambrosial juice ;
And rivers that their sea-broad currents rolled
Through groves of perfume, and o'er sands of gold.
SHOOTING.
When the last sun of August's fiery reign
Now bathes his radiant forehead in the main,
The panoply by sportive heroes worn
Is rang'd in order for the ensuing morn ;
Forth from the summer guard of bolt and lock
Comes the thick guetre, and the fustian frock.
With curious skill, the deathful tube is made,
Clean as the firelock of the spruce parade :
Yet let no polish of the sportsman's gun
Flash like the soldier's weapon to the sun,
Or the bright steel's refulgent glare presume,
To penetrate the peaceful forest's gloom ;
But let it take the brown's more sober hue,
Or the dark lustre of the enamell'd blue.
Let the close pouch the wadded tow contain,
The leaden pellets, and the nitrous grain ;
And wisely cautious, with preventive care,
Be the spare flint and ready turnscrew there ;
While the slung net is open to receive
Each prize the labours o"f the clay shall give.
FROM ALFRED.
{Book VI. Consequence of the Battle of Eddington.)
SOON as the morn, in rosy mantle dight,
Spread o'er the dewy Hills her orient light,
The victor monarch ranged his warrior train
In martial order on the embattled plain ;
Ready to front again the storm of fight,
Or urge the advantage and pursue the flight ;
But not the horizon's ample range could show
A trace, a vestige, of the vanquished foe.
Now from the exulting host in triumph peal'd
The shouts of conquest shake the echoing field ;
'HER HEART A WARMER SENSE OF PITY FEEIS.
/>tiftf 140.
Ibenrg James t>ye. 149
While to the sheltering- convent's hallow'd walls
A softer voice the laurell'd hero calls,
Where, from the bloody scene of fight removed,
Trembling 'mid hope and fear for all she loved,
Elsitha prostrate on the earth implored
Blessings on Albion's arms and Albion's lord.
Sweet were the warrior's feelings when he press'd
His lovely consort to his beating breast ;
Sweet too, Elsitha, thine with conquest crown'd
To see the mighty chief in arms renown 'd,
Though loud the cheering shouts of conquest rise,
And war's triumphant clangour rends the skies,
Forego the scenes of public joy awhile,
To share the bliss of love's domestic smile.
Yet such, alas ! of human joy the state,
Some grief on Fortune's brightest hours must wait
Amid the victor laurel's greenest wreath,
Twines the funereal bough of pain and death.
Elsitha's eye among the conquering train
Seeks many a friend and near ally in vain.
Leofric, her brother's heir, whose ardent breast
Her influence mild and bland had oft repress'd,
Would Indignation's angry frown reprove,
Or warn him from the dangerous smiles of Love :
Leofric, who when the dawn awoke her fears,
Dried, with consoling voice, her gushing tears,
Mangled and lifeless from the combat borne,
Refutes at eve the promised hope of morn.
And, as her heart the painful image draws,
Of youthful Donald bleeding in her cause,
The royal warrior, beautiful and brave,
A timeless victim of the silent grave,
O'er her swol'n breast a softer sorrow steals,
Her heart a warmer sense of pity feels,
While tears, as pure as seraph eyes might shed,
Flow o'er his memory and embalm him dead.
Even Alfred, when his firmer looks survey
The field of fate in morning's sober ray,
Sees Victory's guerdon, though with safety fraught,
By blood of kindred heroes dearly bought.
Though myriads saved from slavery and death,
Their spirits waft to Heaven with grateful breath :
Yet chiefs of noble race and nobler worth,
Glory and grace of Albion's parent earth,
Extended pale and lifeless in his sight,
Check the tumultuous tide of full delight ;
And as the hymns of praise ascend the air,
x 5 Ibenrfc James fl>.
His bosom bows in penitence and prayer,
O'er the red sward Contrition's sorrows flow,
Though Freedom steel'd its edge and Justice sped the
blow.
But when he views along the tented field,
With trailing banner and inverted shield,
Young Donald borne by Scotia's weeping bands,
In deeper woe the generous hero stands.
" O, early lost," with faltering voice he cried,
11 In the fresh bloom of youth and glory's pride;
Dear, gallant friend ! while memory here remains,
While flows the tide of life through Alfred's veins,
Ne'er shall thy virtues from this breast depart,
Ne'er Donald's worth be blotted from this heart.
Yet the stern despot of the silent tomb,
Who spreads o'er youth and age an equal doom,
Shall here no empire boast his ruthless dart
That pierced with cruel point thy manly heart,
Snatch'd from his iron grasp by hovering Fame,
Graves in eternal characters thy name.
All who the radiance of thy morn have seen,
Shall augur what thy noon-tide ray had been
If Fate's decree had given thy rising sun
Its full career of glory to have run ;
But oft are Valour's fires, that early blaze,
Quench'd in the crimson cloud their ardours raise.
Ah, wretched Gregor ! how can words relate
To thy declining age thy Donald's fate?
For while of such a son the untimely doom
Drags thy gray hairs in sorrow to the tomb,
Each tale of praise that tries to soothe thy care,
But wounds thy heart and plants new horrors there.
On me, on England's cause, the curse shall fall,
On me the wretched sire shall frantic call ;
Who from his arms his soul's last solace led
On distant plains to mingle with the dead.
Then, O, my valiant friends, whose ears attest
Of Donald's dying voice the sad bequest,
With yours my dearest care shall be combined
To soothe the tempests of your monarch's mind ;
With you protect from War's, from Faction's rage,
The feeble remnant of his waning age.
As round our isle the azure billow roars,
From all the World dividing Britain's shores,
Within its fence be Britain's nations join'd
A world themselves, yet friends of human kind."
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
Born in Bristol, 1774. Made Laureate in 1813. Died in 1843.
(Reigns of George III., George IV., William IV., and Victoria.)
Southey's acknowledged power as a prose writer has
obscured his fame as a poet. Then he has suffered by com-
parison with his greater associates, Wordsworth and Coleridge.
But viewing his poetical work by itself, it will be found that it
has qualities which go far to justify his own delight and confi-
dence in it. The world is beginning not only to estimate
Southey as he deserves, but to realise that it needs him and his
work. The romantic revival of the present time will inevitably
make his warlike and spirited epics popular, and the charm
of his pure and healthful views of life will be found to be
irresistible. Poets have not inappropriately been termed a
waiting race. The man of genius obtains his rightful place
at last, even if it takes wearisome years. For fifty years or
more Southey has been as much underrated as Byron has
been overrated. These two extremes of view have been a liter-
ary disease which is not easily cured. But finally character
tells, and has its due effect upon the public. Without moral
strength and dignity in poetical work, the outgrowth of strength
and dignity of life, no work can be permanent, nor appeal to
humanity with abiding power.
The faults of Southey's poetry are obvious enough. He was
unfortunate, often, in his choice of subjects, which have little
human interest. He struck a new and original vein in his epics,
and they are full of picturesque beauty, have many thrilling situ-
ations, many magnificent thoughts, and strike with a tender and
powerful touch many chords of the most tragic feeling; and yet
they lack constructive skill, are too voluminous, and the intro-
duction of occasional peurilities mars their symmetry. Southey's
work is all unequal. Far-reaching thoughts which show imag-
inative grasp and true poetic passion, original and exquisite
forms of versification, go side by side with commonplace ideas
and a diction differing little from that of prose. Southey pleases
most by his descriptive powers, his splendour of imagery, his skill
in narrative; by his novel and musical versification, treating
blank verse even in a wholly original way, and by the sym-
pathetic tenderness and delicate humour he displays when
ig2 Robert Soutbeg.
he deals with pastoral scenes and with the humble joys and
sorrows of humble men and women.
His poetry was inevitably affected by his ardent historical
spirit, and it also mirrored the aspects of his age. Indeed,
many of his laureate poems were written in bondage to the
conservative and narrower phases of the time. We condemn
" The Vision of Judgment," and justly too, but some of Southey's
leaureate work ranks very high for its grandeur and range.
The best of his odes the one written during the " Negociations
for Peace in 1814," was inspired not only by his hatred of Napo-
leon, but by a most fervent patriotism. As an artistic work it
possesses the finest qualities fire and enthusiasm of invective
and exhortation.
But Southey's claim to immortality rests not alone upon his
best and most characteristic poems, but upon certain of his
prose works. The " History of Brazil " lives intact and in the
quotations and footnotes of others. The " Life of Wesley " is
a masterpiece in English biography. Dining once with the
Duchess of Kent, the poet was pleased when the Princess
Victoria thanked him for the pleasure she had received from
reading the " Life of Nelson." Even Byron said : " The ' Life of
Nelson ' is beautiful." Scattered through other biographies, like
that of Cowper, for instance, are criticisms of insight and judg-
ment written in a style, like all of Southey's prose, eloquent
and picturesque, idiomatic and clear. Then Southey's periodi-
cal writings show a mastery of his materials, a skilful adapta-
tion of them to the " different bearings of the subject," and a
freedom from that " miserable flippancy which some reviewers
mistake for wit." It is well to remember that Southey, who
did so much to make successful the Quarterly Review, pro-
tested against Gifford's unjust treatment of new writers, and
objected to the tone adopted by the Review on matters relating
to America. But he has himself been blamed for the very
abuses he sought to remove. It is well, also, to remember that
when Macaulay and Jeffrey said so many malicious things of
Southey, they were Edinburgh reviewers and he belonged to
the Quarterly.
Southey was the son of a Bristol merchant whose misfortunes
embittered and discouraged him. From his mother the poet
inherited his happy, buoyant temperament, and his delicate
sense of humour. His childhood was passed under the guidance
of a number of teachers, whose different modes of instruction,
instead of spoiling him, but tended to satisfy his restless, inquisi-
tive intellect. His holidays, passed with an eccentric aunt,
were miserable except when she took him to the theatre. He
had no companions, and he was restricted in every natural out-
let for his boyish fun. The child was sensitive to impressions.
IRobert Soutbeg. 153
enthusiastic and ardent, and early showed that love for poetry
which made him dwell in an ideal and glorious world. He was
fortunate, he says, in finding when very young his way into the
right path. Tasso and Ariosto, Chaucer and Spenser, and the
Elizabethans were his joy even at eight years of age. It is
not, therefore, surprising that later Southey should be famous
for his learning and his wide and varied reading in many
literatures.
The poet's days at Oxford were passed amid the unparalleled
enthusiasm and hope born of the important events then occur-
ring in France. The Revolution, which had such an influence
upon Wordsworth, also affected him. As Wordsworth wrote:
11 Jy i f was then to be alive ; but to be young was very Heaven."
Before Southey became a High Churchman and a Conser-
vative, he passed through many varied and exciting phases of
thought, which had a marked influence both upon his life and
on his art.
To this period belongs the composition of " Wat Tyler " and
"Joan of Arc," and the wild pantisocratic scheme of emigration
to America. But Southey 's common sense came to his rescue
and he went to Lisbon instead. Here he laid the foundation
of his profound knowledge of Portuguese language and litera-
ture, and his natural love for a literary life became intensified.
On his return he tried to get interested in law, and then medi-
cine, but could not. On account of his Unitarian views his con-
science decided against his taking orders, and his refusal dis-
pleased his friends, who soon left left him to his own resources.
Often he would walk the London streets dinnerless and cold.
His sufferings, instead of hardening him, made him always
beautfully tender and sympathetic for others. That in his
devotion to literature he attained such success speaks well for the
quality of his work. He was fortunate at first in having the
friendship of an old school-fellow, who gave him a small annuity,
then after a while some official appointments helped him out, but
there were many times when he was almost discouraged by the
odds against him. His dauntless spirit was at length rewarded
by success, but it only came after years of toil, and was only re-
tained by maintaining the same unwearied industry. To his
devotion to literature he sacrificed worldly advancement as well
as personal comfort, but he never sacrificed his friends. His
home first opened to receive his mother, whom he tenderly cared
for ; a younger brother was also under his watchful care ; then in
turn Coleridge and his family and many others were the recipients
of his delicate and gracious hospitality. In the very beginning of
his career he married for love, and he kept his love for his wife
i54 IRobert Soutbe^
and hers for him till the last sad close. In every relationship he
showed himself to be the noble, tender, and true man, the loyal
friend, the unselfish benefactor. To his brave life a few words
can do no justice. It must be studied in detail to feel the influ-
ence of its strength its compelling charm.
About 1804 Southey settled down at Greta Hall, near Keswick,
and henceforth his name will ever be associated with the beau-
tiful Lake Country. Occasional visits to London varied the
monotony of his life, and he met many eminent people ; but as
the years passed he became more and more wedded to his home
and to his books. Wordsworth complained to Crabb Robinson
that Southey away from his books seemed out of his element.
Southey 's writings would make up a good library. Forty-five
independent works, one hundred and twenty-six articles in the
Quarterly, and fifty-two in the Annual Review, are given as the
product of his pen ; besides, there are innumerable shorter pieces
and poems which he wrote. Had he written less, his work
would have been much better. But Southey had to be a bread-
winner by his pen, and transform his fiery, soaring Pegasus into
a steady-going beast of burden.
When Henry James Pye died the laurel was offered to Walter
Scott, but he declined. When Southey was proposed for the
honour, the Prince Regent observed that inasmuch as he had
written some good things in favour of the Spaniards, the office
should be given him. Southey wrote to a friend: " You will
admire the prince's reason ! "
Southey's political principles were now very different from
what they had been in the old Oxford days. He was now a
Conservative and a High Churchman. He had changed as
Wordsworth changed, because his hopes for republicanism had
not been realised. He found in old, ancient customs and tradi-
tion a surer resting-place ; the reaction was, however, extreme,
and the pendulum swung too far the other way.
Because of his somewhat restricted and narrow views, so
radically opposed to those of his ardent youth, many insults
were heaped upon the quiet student of Keswick. He was
called renegade, time-server, and turncoat. Copies of " Wat
Tyler " were sent him even his private life was attacked.
Sometimes Southey, by his dogmatism and critical spirit, made
the battle wage more hotly. When he attacked what he called
the Satanic School he got the worst of the fight. As Austin
and Ralph put it : " The quarrel with Byron was between the
petulant spleen of Byron and the outraged moral feelings of the
British public, speaking through Southey ; but unfortunately
Southey laid himself open to much of the sarcasm which by its
liveliness and force still excites a smile."
It is always to be regretted that in his anxiety to do his whole
IRobert Southed 155
duty, to fulfil all the obligations of his office, Southey should
have written " The Vision of Judgment." The error was also
partly due to a wish to strike out a new path in a somewhat
dreary field, to write something different from the tiresome odes
of his predecessors, to be original at the expense of good taste.
The poem was certainly enough to stir up Byron's ire. Yet
Byron was charmed with Southey, when they met once at
Holland House. " He is the best-looking bard 1 have seen for
some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders I would
almost have written his Sapphics. . . His appearance is epic.
His talents are of the first order. . . His prose is perfect. . .
In his poetry he has passages equal to anything." It is refresh-
ing to once more read this from Byron, to remove the impres-
sion of the preface to his " Vision of Judgment," and the
obnoxious lines in " Don Juan."
In 1820 Oxford honoured Southey with the degree of LL. D.
Then Sir Robert Peel offered him a baronetcy, but it was de-
clined. A generous pension soon after followed. He was
elected to the House, but declined to serve. Many other
tempting offers were made to him to emerge from his retire-
ment and mingle in the active affairs of the world, but he
resisted them all.
During these years, when so many unsought honours came to
Southey, his heart was overwhelmed by many heavy sorrows.
We read of his anguish when one of his daughters was ill ; how
he paced the garden in uncontrollable grief. From the loss of
several children of whom he was " foolishly fond," he never
fully recovered. The crowning sorrow of his life was the loss
of his wife's reason. "1 have been parted from my wife by
something worse than death," he wrote to a friend. " Forty
years has she been the life of my life, and I have left her this
day in a lunatic asylum. God, who has visited me with this
affliction, has given me strength to bear it. Mine is a strong-
heart. I will not say the last week has been the most trying of
my life, but the heart which could bear it, can bear anything."
When Edith Southey was recovered enough to be cared for
at home, it was the poet who assumed that care. " He was not
one to shrink from an obligation and devolve upon his daugh-
ters or dependents a task he deemed it his especial duty to
undertake."
His untiring devotion made her last days certainly less un-
happy. That he married Caroline Bowles is no proof that lie
had forgotten " Edith the Beloved." The second Mrs. Southey
had a melancholy task that of ministering to him in his last
days. The symptoms of change in him were slight at first, but
gradually his own mind gave way. The record of his last days
is too painful to even remember.
15 6 IRobert Soutbeg.
When the end came they buried him in the quiet churchyard
at Crosthwaite, in the vale of Keswick, "within the shadow of
the home he loved so well." And on his tomb is engraved
Wordsworth's beautiful tribute.
As this inscription is somewhat different from that published
among the other poems of Wordsworth, I give it as it was
copied for me by a friend who was visiting the places forever
sacred to the memory of both Southey and Wordsworth :
Ye vale and hills, whose beauty hither drew
The poet's steps and fixed him here, on you
His eyes have closed ! and ye, loved books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown
Adding immortal labours of his own
Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal
For the state's guidance or the Church's weal,
Or fancy, disciplined by studious art,
Informed his pen, cr wisdom of the heart,
Or judgments sanctioned in the patriot's mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw's top ; but he to Heaven was vowed
Through a life long and pure ; and Christian faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death.
There is a fine bust to Southey 's memory in the Poet's Corner
of the great Abbey, and seldom has England honoured a
worthier or a greater man.
SELECTIONS FROM SOUTHEY.
SELECTION FROM CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.
{For the Commencement of the Year 1814.)
In happy hour doth he receive
The Laurel, weed of famous bards of yore,
Which Dryclen and diviner Spenser wore,
In happy hour, and well may he rejoice,
Whose earliest task must be
To raise the exultant hymn for victory,
And join a nation's joy with harps and voice,
Pouring the strain of triumph on the wind,
Glory to God, his song, Deliverance for mankind !
Wake, lute and harp ! my soul, take up the strain !
Glory to God ! Deliverance for mankind !
Joy for all nations, joy ! But most for thee,
Who hast so nobly filled thy part assigned,
O England ! O my glorious native land !
For thou in evil days didst stand
Against leagued Europe all in arms arrayed,
Single and undismayed,
Thy hope in Heaven and in thine own right hand.
Now are thy virtuous efforts overpaid ;
Thy generous counsels now their guerdon find ;
Glory to God ! Deliverance for mankind !
SELECTIONS FROM ODE, WRITTEN DURING THE
NEGOCIATIONS WITH BUONAPARTE, IN JANU-
ARY, 1814.
Who counsels peace at this momentous hour,
Where God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd,
And to the injured power ?
Who counsels peace, when vengeance like a flood
Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd ;
When innocent blood
*57
i5 8 IRobert Soutbeg.
From the four corners of the world cries out
For justice upon one accursed head ;
When Freedom hath her holy banner spread
Over all nations, now in one just cause
United ; when with one sublime accord
Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd,
And Loyalty and Faith and Ancient Laws
Follow the avenging sword.
Woe, woe to England ! woe and endless shame,
If this heroic land,
False to her feelings and unspotted fame,
Hold out the olive to the Tyrant's hand !
Woe to the world, if Buonaparte's throne
Be suffer'd still to stand !
For by what names shall right and wrong be known,
What new and courtly phrases must we feign
For falsehood, murder, and all monstrous crimes,
If that perfidious Corsican maintain
Still his detested reign,
And France, who yearns even now to break her chain,
Beneath his iron rule be left to groan ?
No ! by the innumerable dead
Whose blood hath for his lust and power been shed,
Death only can for his foul deeds atone ;
That peace which Death and Judgment can bestow,
That peace be Buonaparte's, that alone !
O France ! beneath this fierce Barbarian's sway
Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times ;
Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way,
All loathsome, all unutterable crimes.
A curse is on thee, France ! from far and wide
It hath gone up to Heaven ; all lands have cried
For vengeance upon thy detested head;
All nations curse thee, France ! wheresoe'er
In peace or war thy banner hath been spread,
All forms of human woe have follow'd there :
The living and the dead
Cry out alike against thee ! They who bear,
Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke,
Join in the bitterness of secret prayer
The voice of that innumerable throng
Whose slaughtered spirits day and night invoke
The everlasting Judge of right and wrong,
How long, O Lord ! Holy and just, how long !
IRobert 5outbe. 159
One man hath been for ten long wretched years
The cause of all this blood and all these tears ;
One man in this most avveful point of time
Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime.
Wait not too long the event,
For now whole Europe comes against thee bent ;
His wiles and their own strength the nations know ;
Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent,
The people and the princes, with one mind,
From all parts move against the general foe :
One act of justice, one atoning blow,
One execrable head laid low,
Even yet, O France ! averts thy punishment :
Open thine eyes ! too long hast thou been blind ;
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind !
By those horrors which the night
Witness'd, when the torches' light
To the assembled murderers show'd
Where the blood of Conde flow'd ;
By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame ;
By murder'd Wright, an English name ;
By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom ;
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom ;
Oh ! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt,
The villain's own peculiar private guilt,
Open thine eyes ! too long hast thou been blind !
Take vengeance for thyself and for mankind !
SELECTIONS FROM FUNERAL SONG.
FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.
In its summer pride arrayed
Low our Tree of Hope is laid,
Low it lies ; in evil hour,
Visiting the bridal bower,
Death hath levell'd root and flower.
Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(That the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid :
Windsor, in thy sacred shade
Is the flower of Brunswick laid !
Henry, thou of sainted worth,
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave
160 IRobert Soutbe^.
Nativity and name, and grave ;
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for the immortal birth !
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited :
He, in spirit like a child,
Meek of heart and undefiled,
Patiently his crown resign 'd,
And fixed on Heaven his heavenly mind,
Blessing while he kiss'd the rod
His Redeemer and his God.
Now may he in realms of bliss
Greet a soul as pure as his.
Thou, Elizabeth, art here ;
Thou to whom all griefs were known ;
Who wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal daughter, fatal mother,
Rais'd to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation !
Woodville in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou may'st say,
Early death is happiness ;
And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest ;
A broken heart is here at rest.
Henry, too, hath here his part ;
At the gentle Seymour's side,
With his best beloved bride,
Cold and quiet here are laid
The ashes of that fiery heart.
Not with his tyrannic spirit
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit ;
No, by Fisher's hoary head,
By More, the learned and the good,
By Katherine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood,-
By the life so basely shed
Of the pride of Norfolk's line,
By the axe so often red,
By the fire with martyrs fed
Robert Soutbeg. 161
Hateful Henry, not with thee
May her happy spirit be !
And here lies one whose tragic name
A reverential thought may claim ;
That murder'd monarch, whom the grave,
Revealing its long secret, gave
Again to sight, that we might spy
His comely face and waking eye !
There, thrice fifty years, it lay,
Exempt from natural decay,
Enclosed and bright, as if to say,
A plague, of bloodier, baser birth,
Than that beneath whose rage he bled,
Was loose upon our guilty earth ;
Such awful warning from the dead,
Was given from that portentous eye ;
Then it closed eternally.
Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground ;
Even in your immortal spheres,
What fresh yearnings will ye feel,
When this earthly guest appears !
As she leaves in grief and tears ;
But to you will she reveal
Tidings of old England's weal;
Of a righteous war pursued,
Long, through evil and through good,
With unshaken fortitude ;
Of peace in battle twice achieved ;
Of her fiercest foe subdued,
And Europe from the yoke reliev'd,
Upon that Brabantine plain !
Such the proud, the virtuous story,
Such the great, the endless glory
Of her father's splendid reign !
He who wore the sable mail,
Might at this heroic tale,
Wish himself on earth again.
One who reverently for thee,
Rais'd the strain of bridal verse,
Flower of Brunswick ! mournfully
Lays a garland on thy herse.
162 IRobert Soutbeg*
SELECTIONS FROM ODE WRITTEN DURING THE
WAR WITH AMERICA, 1814.
When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay
The thunderbolt aside,
And, twining olives with her laurel crown,
Rest in the bower of peace ?
Not long may this unnatural strife endure
Beyond the Atlantic deep ;
Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,
And insolent in wrong,
Afflict with their misrule the indignant land
Where Washington hath left
His awful memory
A light for after-times !
Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny
In their own annals, by their countrymen,
For lasting shame shall they be written down.
Soon may the better genius there prevail!
Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay
The thunderbolt aside,
And, twining olives with her laurel crown,
Rest in the bower of peace.
Queen of the Seas ! enlarge thyself ;
Send thou thy swarms abroad !
For in the years to come,
Though centuries or millenniums intervene,
Where'er thy progeny,
Thy language, and thy spirit shall be found,
If on Ontario's shores,
Or late-explored Missouri's pastures wide,
Or in that Austral world long sought,
The many-isled Pacific, yea, where waves,
Now breaking over coral reefs, affright
The venturous mariner,
When islands shall have grown, and cities risen
In cocoa groves embowered,
Where'er thy language lives,
By whatsoever name the land be called,
That land is English still, and there
Thy influential spirit dwells and reigns.
Thrones fall and dynasties are changed,
Empires decay and sink
IRobert Soutbeg* *6?>
Beneath their own unwieldy weight ;
Dominion passeth like a cloud away :
The imperishable mind
Survives all meaner things.
When shall the dove go forth ? oh when
Shall Peace return among the sons of men ?
Hasten, benignant Heaven, the blessed day !
Justice must go before,
And Retribution must make plain the way;
Force must be crushed by force,
The power of Evil by the power of Good,
Ere Order bless the suffering world once more,
Or Peace return again.
Hold, then, right on in your auspicious course,
Ye princes, and ye people ! hold right on !
Your task not yet is done ;
Pursue the blow, ye know your foe,
Complete the happy work so well begun.
Hold on, and be your aim, with all your strength,
Loudly proclaimed and steadily pursued ;
So shall this fatal Tyranny at length
Before the arms of Freedom fall subdued.
Then, when the waters of the flood abate,
The dove her resting-place secure may find ;
And France, restored and shaking off her chain,
Shall join the avengers in the joyful strain,
Glory to God ! Deliverance for mankind !
THE SPANISH ARMADA.
Clear shone the morn, the gale was fair,
When from Coruna's crowded port,
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim,
The huge Armada passed.
To England's shores their streamers point,
To England's shores their sails are spread ;
They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land,
And Rome hath blest their arms,
Along the ocean's echoing verge,
Along the mountain range of rocks,
The clustering multitudes behold their pomp,
And raise the votive prayer.
i<H IRobert Soutbeg.
Commingling with the ocean's roar,
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise ;
And soon they trust to see the winged bark
That bears good tidings home.
The watch-tower now in distance sinks ;
And now Galicia's mountain rocks
Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie,
And now they fade away.
Each like some moving citadel,
On through the wave's they sail sublime;
And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs,
Behold the sea-girt land.
O fools ! to think that ever foe
Should triumph o'er that sea-girt land !
O fools ! to think that ever Britain's sons
Should wear the stranger's yoke !
For not in vain hath Nature reared
Around her coasts those silvery cliffs ;
For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves
To guard his favourite isle.
On come her gallant mariners !
What now avail Rome's boasted charms ?
Where are the Spaniard's vaunts of eagle wrath,
His hopes of conquest now ?
And hark ! the angry winds arise,
Old Ocean heaves his angry waves;
The winds and waves against the invaders fight,
To guard the sea-girt land.
REMEMBRANCE.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends ;
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends ;
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
IRobeit Soutbeg* 165
To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother's arms,
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms ?
Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours
Before his wish'd return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,
In thought he loves to roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh
The comforts of his home.
Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life
Torment the restless mind ;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find ?
Then is not Youth as Fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah no ! for hopes too long delay 'd
And feelings blasted or betray'd,
Its fabled bliss destroy ;
And youth remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.
Maturer Manhood now arrives,
And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of Youth
Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth ;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering with an envious sigh
The happy dreams of youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
With feeble steps and slow ;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old Experience learns too late
That all is vanity below.
166 IRobert Soutbeg.
Life's vain delusions are gone by ;
Its idle hopes are o'er;
Yet Age remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
Westbury, 1798.
RODERICK IN BATTLE.
(From " Roderick, The Last of The Goths .")
With that he fell upon the old man's neck ;
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
And soon rejoined the host. On, comrades, on !
Victory and Vengeance ! he exclaimed, and took
The lead on that good charger, he alone
Horsed for the onset. They, with one consent,
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
Victory and Vengeance ! and the hills and rocks
Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round.
Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat
Of battle, and returned the glad acclaim.
The astonished Mussulmans, on all sides charged,
Heard that tremendous cry; yet manfully
They stood, and everywhere, with gallant front,
Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
And knowing that no safety could be found
Save from their own right hands. No former day
Of all his long career had seen their chief
Approved so well ; nor had Witiza's sons
Ever before this hour achieved in fight
Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert
Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
And twice essayed beneath his horse's feet
To thrust him down. Twice did the prince evade
The shock, and twice upon his shield received
The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth !
Go meet thy death from any hand but mine !
He said, and turned aside. Fitliest from me !
Exclaimed a dreadful voice, as through the throng
Orelio forced his way : fitliest from me
Receive the rightful death too long withheld !
'Tis Roderick strikes the blow ! And as he spake.
M YET AGE REMEMBERS WITH A SIGH
THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE." Page 166.
IRobert Soutbeg, 167
Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove
The weapon, well bestowed. He in the seat
Tottered and fell. The avenger hastened on
In search of Ebba ; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing, and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth
Roderick the Goth ! his war-cry known so well.
THE CURSE.
(From " Kehama"')
I CHARM thy life,
From weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,
From the serpent's tooth,
And the beast of blood.
From sickness I charm thee,
And time shall not harm thee ;
But earth, which is mine,
Its fruits shall deny thee ;
And water shall bear me,
And know thee and flee thee ;
And the winds shall not touch thee
When they pass by thee,
And the dews shall not wet thee
When they fall nigh thee.
And thou shalt seek death,
To release thee in vain ;
Thou shalt live in thy pain,
While Kehama shall reign,
With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain.
And sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never,
And the curse shall be on thee
Forever and ever.
THE SWERGA.
(From " The Curse of ffe/iama.")
Then in the ship of heaven, Ereenia laid
The waking, wondering maid :
The ship of Heaven, instinct with thought displayed
Its living sail, and glides along the sky.
On either side, in wavy tide,
l6 8 IRobett Soutbeg.
The clouds of morn along its path divide ;
The winds, that swept in wild career on high,
Before its presence check their charmed force :
The winds, that loitering lagged along their course,
Around the living bark enamoured play,
Swell underneath the sail, and sing before its way.
The bark, in shape, was like the furrowed shell
Wherein the sea-nymphs to their parent-king,
On festal day, their duteous offerings bring.
Its hue ? Go, watch the last green light
Ere evening yields the western sky to night ;
Or fix upon the sun thy strenuous sight
Till thou hast reached its orb of chrysolite.
The sail, from end to end displayed,
Bent, like a rainbow, o'er the maid.
An angel's head, with visual eye,
Through trackless space, directs its chosen way ;
Nor aid of wing nor foot nor fin
Requires to voyage o'er the obedient sky.
Smooth as the swan, when not a breeze at even
Disturbs the surface of the silver stream,
Through air and sunshine sails the ship of Heaven
Recumbent there the maiden glides along
On her aerial way ;
How swift she feels not, though the swiftest wind
Had flagged in flight behind.
Motionless as a sleeping babe she lay,
And all serene in mind,
Feeling no fear ; for that ethereal air
With such new life and joyance filled her heart,
Fear could not enter there :
For sure she deemed her mortal part was o'er,
And she was sailing to the heavenly shore,
And that angelic form, who moved beside,
Was some good spirit sent to be her guide.
Through air and sunshine sails the ship of Heaven
Far, far beneath them lies
The gross and heavy atmosphere of earth ;
And, with the Swerga gales,
The maid of mortal birth
At every breath a new delight inhales.
And now towards its port the ship of Heaven,
Swift as a falling meteor, shapes its flight,
"recumbent there the maiden glides along
ON HER AERIAL WAY." Page 168.
TRobert Soutbeg. l6 9
Yet gently as the dews of night that gem,
And do not bend the harebell's slenderest stem.
" Daughter of Earth ! " Ereenia cried, " alight ;
This is thy place of rest, the Swerga, this;
Lo, here my bovver of bliss ! "
FROM KEHAMA.
O FORCE of faith ! O strength of virtuous will !
Behold him in his endless martyrdom,
Triumphant still !
The curse still burning in his heart and brain,
And yet doth he remain
Patient the while, and tranquil, and content !
The pious soul hath framed unto itself
A second nature, to exist in pain
As in its own allotted element.
Such strength the will reveal'd had given
This holy pair, such influxes of grace,
That to their solitary resting place
They brought the peace of Heaven.
Yea, all around was hallow'd ! Danger, fear,
Nor thought of evil ever entered here.
A charm was on the leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade ;
Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offer'd to her touch his speckled side :
Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head,
And eyes half-closed for pleasure, would he stand
Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.
FROM KEHAMA.
They sin who tell us Love can die :
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
Love is indestructible :
Its holy flame forever burneth ;
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest ;
It here is tried and purified,
J 7 IRobert Soutbeg.
And hatli in Heaven its perfect rest.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh ! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?
(Canto X.)
-Thou hast been called, O Sleep ! the friend
of woe ;
But His the happy that have called thee so.
(Canto XV.)
FROM THALABA.
How beautiful is night !
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven :
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night !
FROM MADOC.
Though in blue ocean seen
Blue, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.
THE SOURCE OF THE GANGES.
None hath seen its secret fountain ;
But on the top of Meru mountain,
Which rises o'er the hills of earth,
In light and clouds, it hath its mortal birth.
Earth seems that pinnacle to rear
Sublime above this worldly sphere.
Its cradle, and its altar, and its throne ;
IRobcrt Soutbeg. J7 1
And there the new-born river lies
Outspread beneath its native skies,
As if it there would love to dwell
Alone and unapproachable.
THE SEA.
How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky
The billows heave ! one glowing" green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst
Embraced in emerald glory.
IMPULSE.
And happy they who thus in faith obey
Their better nature: err sometimes they may,
And some sad thoughts lie heavy in the breast ;
Such as, by Hope deceived, are left behind ;
But like a shadow these will pass away
From the pure sunshine of the peaceful mind.
FREEDOM OF THE WILL.
Idly, rajah, dost thou reason thus
Of destiny ! for though all other things
Were subject to the starry influences,
And bowed submissive to thy tyranny,
The virtuous heart and resolute mind are free.
Thus, in their wisdom did the gods decree,
When they created man. Let come what will,
This is our rock of strength in every ill.
THE EBB-TIDE.
Slowly the flowing tide
Came in, old Avon !' Scarcely did mine eyes,
As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood side,
Perceive its gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars;
Yet little way they made, though labouring long
Between thy winding shores.
17 2 IRobert Soutbe^.
Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along ;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
So silent late the shallow current roars ;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon, I gaze and know
The lesson emblemed in thy varying way ;
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood
And slow to strength and power attained at last,
Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood,
They ebb to ruin fast.
Thus like thy flow appears
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage.
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age.
THE DEAD FRIEND.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Descend to contemplate
The form that once was dear :
The spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbbed in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp ;
The spirit is not there !
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave ;
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles
Now to the elements
Resolved, their uses done.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved ;
The spirit is not there.
IRobert Soutbeg. 173
Often together have we talked of death ;
How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were, with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of heaven !
O Edmund ! thou hast first begun the travel of
Eternity !
I !ook upon the stars,
And think that thou art there,
Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.
And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund ! we did not err !
Sure I have felt thy presence ! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,
Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure.
Edmund ! we did not err!
Our best affections here
They are not like the toys of infancy ;
The soul outgrows them not ;
We do not cast them off :
Oh, if it could be so,
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die !
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved ;
But in the lonely hour,
But in the evening walk,
Think that he companies thy solitude;
Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse ;
And, though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.
INSCRIPTION.
FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.
Enter this cavern, stranger ! Here, awhile
Respiring from the long and steep ascent,
Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too
Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun
Sheltered beneath this beetling vault of rock.
i74 IRobert 5outbe.
Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms,
The antique ivy spreads a canopy,
From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect
In autumn their last store. The muses love
This spot ; believe a poet who hath felt
Their visitation here. The tide below,
Rising or refluent, scarcely sends its sound
Of waters up ; and from the heights beyond,
Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways,
Varying before the wind its verdant hues,
The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel
How good, how lovely, Nature ! And when, hence
Returning to the city's crowded streets,
Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect
That man creates the evil he endures.
FROM THE ROSE.
Nay, Edith ! spare the rose : perhaps it lives,
And feels the noontide sun, and drinks refreshed
The dews of night. Let not thy gentle hand
Tear its life-strings asunder and destroy
The sense of being !
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
Sweet to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky ;
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark spars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noon-tide way.
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
^, EDITH ! SPARE THE ROSE '. " Page 174.
IRobert Soutbeg. i75
But oh ! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of Love,
That welcomes his return.
THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE
GAINED THEM.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried ;
The few locks which are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away ;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last ;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away ;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied ;
Let the cause thy attention engage ;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God !
And He hath not forgotten my age.
FROM THE DEVIL'S WALK.
He owned with a grin
That his favourite sin
Is pride that apes humility.
176 IRobert SoutbeE.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening ;
Old Kasper's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun ;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,
In playing there, had found ;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
11 Who fell in the great victory.
" I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about ;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out ;
For many thousand men," said he,
" Were slain in that great victory."
" Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries ;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes ;
" Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."
" It was the English," Kasper cried,
" Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out ;
But everybody said," quoth he,
" That 'twas a famous victory. m
" My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
Iftobert Soutbeg. *77
Tliey burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly ;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
" With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died :
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
" They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won ;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun ;
But things like that, you know must be
After a famous victory.
11 Great praise the Duke of Malbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! "
Said little Wilhelmine.
" Nay nay my little girl," quoth he,
" It was a famous victory.
" And everybody praised the duke,
Who this great fight did win."
" But what good came of it at last ? "
Quoth little Peterkin.
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he ;
" But 'twas a famous victory."
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
" I know not whether it be worth the reporting that there is in Cornwall, near
the parish of St. Neots, a Well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees,
withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the
water is this, that whether husband or wife come first, to drink thereof, they get
the mastery thereby." Fuller.
A Well there is in the west country,
And a clearer one was never seen ;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
*7 8 IRobert Soutbeg.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ;
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he ;
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by,
At the Well to fill his pail ;
On the Well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.
" Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger ? " quoth he ;
" For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.
" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been ?
For an if she have, I'll venture my hfe,
She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."
" I have left a good woman who never was here,"
The Stranger he made reply ;
" But that my draught should be the better for that,
I pray you answer me why."
" St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time
Drank of this crystal Well ;
And before the Angel summon 'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.
" If the Husband of this gifted Well
Shall drink before his Wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.
Irtobert Soutbeg. J 79
" But if the Wife should drink of it first
God help the Husband then ! "
The Stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.
" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ? "
He to the Cornish-man said :
But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger
spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.
" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my Wife in the porch ;
But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
{Described in Rhymes for the Nursery?)
" How does the Water
Come down at Lodore ? "
My little boy ask'd me
Thus, once on a time !
And moreover he task'd me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There came first one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store ;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing ;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.
From its sources which well
In the Tarn on the fell ;
l8 Robert Soutbeg*
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills ;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little Lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its deep descent.
The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing.
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound :
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
IRobevt SoutbeB. l8 i
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning ;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
Dividing and gliding and sliding
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
Robert Soutbeg.
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
An old writer mentions a curious tradition which may be worth quoting. *' By
east the Isle of May," says he, " twelve miles from all land in the German seas,
lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because
it is overflowed everie tide. It is reported, in old times, upon the saide rock there
was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by
the sea, given notice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or cl< eke was put
there and maintained by the Abbott of Aberbrothok, and being taken down by a
s<^a pirate, a yeare thereafter he perished upon the same rocke with ship and
&oodes, in the righteous Judgement of God." Stoddard's Remarks on Scotland.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be ;
Her sails from heaven received no motion ;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed the Bell on the Inchcape Rock ;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning Bell ;
And they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbott of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven w r as shining gay ;
All things were joyful on that day ;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green ;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
IRobert SoutbeE. 183
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float :
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go ;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound ;
The bubbles rose and burst around ;
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the
Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away ;
He scour'd the seas for many a day ;
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the Sun on high ;
The wind hath blown a gale all day ;
At evening it hath died away.
On deck the Rover takes his stand ;
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."
" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar ?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
" Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound ; the swell is strong,
Though the wind had fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,
" Oh, Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! "
*%4 IRobert Soutbe^.
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ;
He curs'd himself in his despair;
The waves rushed in on every side ;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear-
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY LIBRARY.
My days among the dead are pass'd ;
Around me I behold
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old.
My never failing friends are they
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe ;
, And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead ; with them
I live in long-past years ;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead ; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity :
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
EPITAPH.
This to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy ;
IRobert Soutbeg, 185
And after many a fight against the Moor
And Malabar, or that tierce cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain,
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon, his first thought
In safety was of her, who, when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long-look'd-for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For ere he came, the number of her days
Was full. O Reader, what a world were this,
How unendurable its weight, if they
Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again !
TO MARY WOLSTONECRAFT.
BRISTOL, 1795.
The lily cheek, the " purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,
Mary ! of these the poet sung, for these
Did woman triumph : turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause
Wielded the sword of freedom ; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude ;
No Corde, with self-sacrificing zeal,
Had glorified again the Avenger's name,
As erst when Caesar perished : happy, too,
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.
SELECTIONS FROM THE SONNETS.
I.
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray ;
And lovely to the musing poet's eye
Fades the soft radiance of departing day ;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway ;
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
186 IRobert Soutbeg.
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith ! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the cold converse of the indifferent throng
Too swiftly then toward the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness, ye speed along,
Whilst I, from all the world's dull cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burdened heart.
II.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gathered tempest ! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant ; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm !
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his thin raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as hope within him. I the while
Pause here in sadness, though the sunbeams smile
Cheerily around me. Ah, that thus my lot
Might be with peace and solitude assigned,
Where I might from some little quiet cot
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind.
III.
THOU sweet Lark ! who, in the heaven so high !
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully !
1 watch thee soaring with a deep delight,
And, when at last I turn my waking eye
That lags below thee in the infinite,
Still in my heart receive thy melody.
O thou sweet Lark ! that I had wings like thee !
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below ;
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that hold her here.
Thou lingerest, Spring ! still wintry is the scene ;
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear ;
Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green
"AS THUS 1 STAND BESIDE THE MURMURING STREAM.'
Page 187.
IRobert SoutbeB. I ^7
The elder yet its circling tufts put forth ;
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest,
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast
Oft darting out ; the blasts from the bleak north,
And from the keener blast, still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring! thou lingerest ; and it should be so :
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out !
Like man when most with smiles thy face is dressed,
'Tis to deceive ; and he who knows ye best,
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.
v.
As thus I stand beside the murmuring stream,
And watch its current, memory here portrays
Scenes faintly formed of half-forgotten days,
Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam
Dimly descried, but lonely. I have worn
Amid these haunts the heavy hours away
When childhood idled through the Sabbath day ;
Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ;
And, when the summer twilight darkened here,
Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn,
Have sighed, and shed in secret many a tear.
Dreamlike and indistinct those days appear,
As the faint sounds of this low brooklet borne
Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear.
SONNET TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.
Mild arch of promise ! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee ; for the day,
Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awhile,
Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain :
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace
Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, in 1770. Made Laureate in 1843. Died at
Rydal Mount in 1850.
(Reign of Victoria.)
IT is quite easy to point out, as many critics are fond of
doing, the limitations of Wordsworth's genius. He was often
trammelled by his theories ; his mind was somewhat rigid and
inflexible; he had no humour; he wrote often without inspira-
tion, hence is prolix and tedious ; his subject-matter is some-
times trivial or of such a philosophical nature as to lie outside
of the domain of true poetry, and when he wrote in this manner
his diction, too, differs little from that of prose. He is there-
fore one of the most unequal of poets. But judging Words-
worth by his best, his most characteristic work, it must be con-
ceded that he is the greatest poet of modern England with the
single exception of Goethe, the greatest poet of the modern,
world.
A high claim but it is made because Wordsworth not only
deals in so transcendently beautiful and original a manner with
the beauty and the glory of the outward world ; or treats with
such power certain primitive characteristics of humanity and
vindicates the dramatic interest which belongs to the person-
ality of man apart from all social or political conditions ; but
because he furnishes so much for the human spirit to rest on ;
he points to such deep springs of joy ; he appeals not only to
the heart and its affections, or to the imagination and the
artistic sense, but he has a direct influence upon the human
will ; having himself lived from a " great depth of being," he
creates high thinking, he stimulates the noblest impulses and
ministers with irresistible power to the health of the soul.
Wordsworth from the first believed in the sacredness of his
message to the world, that his mission was to reveal a " glory
very near but sealed to the many " ; and because he had this
new revelation of spiritual truth, his poetry has become a
priceless heritage for all future poets, and by its formative
influences has widened the range of poetry forever.
The supremacy of Wordsworth's poetry is assured because
it has that surest safeguard against oblivion: his teaching
has, as Lowell said, become a part of the air we breathe. His
poetry is as immortal as the heart of man !
188
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
TOlltam TOorDsvvortb. 189
The common idea of Wordsworth is that he is the high
priest of nature that having spent his life among hills and
lakes he has seized every phase of their scenery and painted it
in detail. But Wordsworth's distinctive originality does not
consist in his descriptive powers. Before him there had been
poets who loved nature and described with charm and power
the varied objects that make up her loveliness. Wordsworth
had an intense consciousness of the loveliness or the grandeur
of nature ; it came to him with the force, the magic, the
splendour of a new discovery. Vivid delight came to him not
only at the moment of perception, but long afterwards, for he
speaks of the dear remembrances of outward scenes, of the
tranquil restoration in those remembrances.
Wottiswo4i[(rSs indeed a minute observer of nature's mani-
fold and changing forms, and a describer of her individual
beauties. But he is more than this. He looks at a scene as a
whole, seeks the source of its mystery, of its charm or its
grandeur I his impassioned and meditative imagination pene-
trates to the very life, the soul of things. By this process he
not only gets a deeper sense of beauty, a perception of the
spiritual reality which lies back of all natural manifestations,
but, at the same time, the heart and mind of man are more
profoundly understood. Every beautiful appearance of the
sky or of the earth, possessing, as it does, a sentiment of its
own, which is not a creation of the observer's mood, but an
emanation from its own separate life, has a distinct influence
upon the mind of man. Wordsworth deals with this influence.
It is this treatment of nature and man in union which, more
than anything else, constitutes Wordsworth's claim to being
the prophet of a new revelation. He perceived an exquisite
adaptation of nature to the mind of man, and the mind of man
to the outward world. The joy which finds such frequent
mention in his verse comes from the " living presence " of
nature, which has an active power of her own distinct from
man coming in contact with the soul of man, which has the
power to perceive and feel. This reciprocal action is there-
fore the haunt and main region of Wordsworth's song.
Th4#he gives not only a sublime explanation of man's intel-
lect in its subtle relations to external things, but of man's
moral and spiritual affinities to the Soul of the world. To
treat nature and man as Wordsworth treats them, is, as De
Vere beautifully says, to see the Invisible. Without God the
beneficent ministry of nature would be but mockery; indeed,
without him nature could not be the " quickener of the finest
impulses of the soul." God and Immortality, as well as man
and nature, are the subjects of Wordsworth's impassioned and
majestic verse. He had a most glorious vision of spiritual
i9 TlMillfam IKIlorDswortb.
truth revealed to him, " a glory very near but sealed to the
many," and where he deals with this vision as he does in his
best and most characteristic poetry, his language has an inten-
sity, a majesty of style, a power, a mastery of touch, which is
unequalled among modern poets.
It was an outgrowth of Wordsworth's mode of viewing man
as moulded by the influences of nature, that when he came to
treat life concretely, deal with individual men and women, he
should choose just the characters he did. Wordsworth treats
life in the spirit of art, but still more with the earnestness of the
moralist. He treats it powerfully, profoundly, its passion, its
pathos, its tragedy, and he seeks in lowly places, among
solitary, pastoral scenes, for some of the highest examples of
heroism, of patience, of self-control, of unselfish love. The
democratic ideas Wordsworth cherished in his youth had a
marked influence upon the development of his genius. It is
the personal being, man as he is in himself, the primitive type,
that Wordsworth values. " Wordsworth's distinctive work,"
says Ruskin, " was a war with pomp and pretence, and a dis-
play of the majesty of simple feelings and humble hearts, to-
gether with high reflective truths in his analysis of the courses
of policies and ways of men ; without these his love of Nature
would have been comparatively worthless." Walter Pater
says : " A sort of biblical depth and solemnity hangs over this
strange, new, passionate, pastoral world, of which he first*
raised the image, and the reflection of which some of our best
modern fiction has caught from him."
By thus " redeeming from decay the visitations of the
divinity in man," and linking that divinity to every lovely mani-
festation of sea and sky and earth, and making of the material
a bridge to lead humanity up to the supreme, the spiritual
reality, Wordsworth has proved himself to be the great poet
that he is.
But our space is wholly inadequate to a discussion of the
peculiarties of Wordsworth's genius. His poetry must itself be
read over and over again.* A certain poem may not only be
enchanting or of interest irt itself, but it also forms a part of a
harmonious system. \ " The Prelude " and " The Recluse "
composed between the years 1799 and 1805, trace the growth
of his mind, how it had been moulded by the awe and
the love inspired by the majesty and the beauty^)f Nature's
sights and sounds; how thoughts of his high mission had
come to him in childhood, but had been obscured by the
failure of his political hopes, though afterwards restored and
strengthened by the influence of his beloved sister Dorothy ;
finally when he settled with her in the home at Grasmere, his
vague aspirations became crystallised into a deliberate and
TKHilliam llWorfcewortb. 19 1
conscious purpose. " Tinteni Abbey," written in 1798 and
published among the famous "Lyrical Ballads " (which also
contained " We are Seven "), was the first notable expression
of Wordsworth's spirituality of vision, of his perception of
nature's subtle relations to man and to Infinitude. This poem
" introduced into English poetry an element which it never had
before, and has never parted with since." The same imagi-
native grasp of relations and influences matfe the " Ode on
Immortality " so great a poem, " An Evening of Extraordinary
Splendour and Beauty," composed in 1818, is, perhaps, Words-
worth's last powerful expression of that peculiar " ethereal
gleam," that visionary light, which from childhood he had seen
resting upon all natural objects. For an understanding of the
essential features of Wordsworth's poetry a study of these three
poems is indispensable.*
Wordsworth's life extended over the long period of eighty
years. It was a life distinguished from first to last for its un-
flinching virtue, its unworklliness, its devotion to high ideals ;
for its tenderness for his sister, his wife, his children, and
friends ; for its earnest and thoughtful patriotism. To Words-
worth can well be applied his own famous lines on Milton :
41 Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart ;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea :
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay."
Because Wordsworth had to create the taste to judge
rightly the poetical work which was to mark an epoch in Eng-
lish poetry, he had to wait long for recognition and justice, and
while waiting with such serenity and patience, he had mean-
while to endure much ridicule from men even of ability. But
victory came at last, and the world came round to Words-
worth. The triumph at Oxford was the first tangible evidence
that what he had done for England was being felt at last.
Thirty years before, Southey had said in reference to Jeffrey's
boast that he would crush " The Excursion ": " He crush ' The
Excursion ' ? He might as well try to crush Mount Skiddaw."
* To our surprise Matthew Arnold did not include " An Evening of Extra-
ordinary Splendour and Beauty " in his famous book of Selections. In making our
selections from such a poet as Wordsworth, it is almost impossible to do him justice
in the space at our command. We are compelled to omit many of his finest
pastoral poems, and of the wonderful sonnets we can give only a few. In the
absence of the biographical details which are well-known to every student of
English poetry, we have given some stray poems under the title of " Self Portrai-
ture": have linked together the famous Lucy Poems ; those relating to Dorothy
and to Mrs. Wordsworth ; and have chosen lines from " The Prelude," " The
Kecluse," and " The Excursion," which are of great value in a study of the growth
of the poet's mind under the influences of nature's sights and sounds.
/
*9 2 TOUliam TOov&swortb.
Now, in 1843, when Southey died, Sir Robert Peel in a letter full
of tender and grateful feeling proffered to Wordsworth the
Laureateship of England. But this honour came to a man old
in years, whose spirit had been saddened by many sorrows.
He refused at first, but Peel and the Lord Chamberlain both
wrote again.
The victory of Wordsworth's poetry was not alone because
it was so great, so formative, so wide in range ; but because
the poet in it spoke to the world in his real voice, because he
was sincere, with that truth and that sincerity which belongs
to a strong nature, to a serious and lofty soul.
SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH.
THE POET LAUREATE.
{From " The Russian Fugitive. 1 ')
'TlS sung- in ancient minstrelsy
That Phoebus wont to wear
The leaves of any pleasant tree
Around his golden hair ;
'Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit
Of his imperious love,
At her own prayer transformed, took root,
A laurel in the grove.
Then did the Penitent adorn
His brow with laurel green ;
And mid his bright locks never shorn
No meaner leaf was seen ;
And poets sage, through every age,
About their temples wound
The bay ; and conquerors thanked the Gods,
With laurel chaplets crowned.
1830.
THE POET.
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven
Then to the measure of that heaven-born light,
Shine Poet, in thy place, and be content.
1832.
II.
A POET ! he hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
*94 raiMam TKlIorfcswortb.
Thy Art be nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold ?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold ;
And so the grandeur of the forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.
1842.
III.
The poet, gentle creature as he is
Hath, like the lover, his unruly times ;
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanageable thoughts.
The Prelude.
Prelude and Recluse composed 1 799-1 805.
SELF-PORTRAITURE.
{From " Poets Epitaph")
But who is he with modest looks
And clad in homely russet brown ?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide clew
Or fountain in a noonday grove ;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Or hill and valley, he has view'd ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
1799-
militant TClor&ewortb, 195
How pure his spirit in what vivid hues
His mind gives back the various forms of things,
Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude !
The Excursion. Book IX.
III.
For I would walk alone,
Under the quiet stars, and at that time
Have felt what e'er there is of power in sound
To breathe an elevated mood, by form
Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand
If the night blackened with a coming storm,
Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are
The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
Or make their dim abode in distant winds.
Thence did I drink the visionary power ;
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods
Of shadowy exultation.
The Prelude. Book II.
IV.
"THERE WAS A BOY."
There was a boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander ! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din ! And when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
List e fting, a ge?itle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountaiti torrents ; or the visible scene
*9 6 WitlUam TKllorfcswortb.
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.
1799-
PERSONAL TALK.
I AM not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours daily, weekly, in my sight ;
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire ;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
" Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe ;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."
Even be it so ; yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me !
Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies
More justly balanced ; partly at their feet,
And part far from them : sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave ; the meanest we can meet !
Wings have we ; and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood^
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good :
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
ITClUlfam TlGlorfcswortb. 197
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear ;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear
The gentle lady married to the Moor ;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought.
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares
The poets who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
1806.
POEMS RELATING TO WORDSWORTH'S MISSION,
THE GROWTH OF HIS MIND, THE SUBJECTS
OF HIS VERSE.
Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear :
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows
Like harmony in music ; there is a dark
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles
Discordant elements, makes them cling together
In one society. How strange, that all
The terrors, pains, and early miseries,
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part
And that a needful part, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when I
Am worthy of myself.
Wisdom and spirit of the universe !
Thou soul that art the eternity of thought !
198 timwfam TOortewortb.
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion ! not in vain.
By clay or starlight, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul :
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature ; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear, until we recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours, rolling down the valleys, made
A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods
At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine :
'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons ; happy time
It was indeed for all of us ; for me
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting, like an untired horse
That cares not for its home. All shod with steel,
We hissed along the polish'd ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud ;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tingled like iron ; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Ilfflflliam TKHortewortb* 199
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sidevvay, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the image of a star,
That gleamed upon the ice; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round !
Behind me did they stretch in solemn traii\,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
The Prelude. Book I.
II.
For the man,
Who, in this spirit, communes with the forms
Of Nature ; who, with understanding heart,
Both knows and loves such objects as excite
No morbid passions, no disquietude,
No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must feel
The joy of that pure principle of love
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose
But seek for objects of a kindred love
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy.
A holy tenderness pervades his frame.
His sanity of reason not impaired,
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear,
From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round
And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks ;
Until abhorrence and contempt are things
He only knows by name : and if he hear
From other mouths, the language which they speak,
He is compassionate : and has no thought,
No feeling, which can overcome his love.
And further ; by contemplating these forms
In the relations which they bear to man,
He shall discern, how, through the various means
Which silently they yield, are multiplied
The spiritual presences of absent things,
Convoked by knowledge ; and for his delight
Still ready to obey the gentle call.
200 IKMlliam Worfcswortb.
Trust me, that for the instructed, time will come
When they shall meet no object but may teach
Some acceptable lesson to their minds
Of human suffering, or of human joy.
So they shall learn, while all things speak of man,
Their duties from all forms ; and general laws,
And local accidents, shall tend alike
To rouse, to urge, and with the will confer
The ability to spread the blessings wide
Of true philanthropy. The light of love
Not failing, perseverance from their steps
Departing not, for them shall be confirmed
The glorious habit by which sense is made
Subservient still to moral purposes,
Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe
The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore
The burthen of existence. Science then
Shall be a precious visitant ; and then,
And only then, be worthy of her name.
For then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye,
Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang
Chained to its object in brute slavery ;
But taught with patient interest to watch
The processes of things, and serve the cause
Of order and distinctness, not for this
Shall it forget that its most noble use,
Its most illustrious province, must be found
In furnishing clear guidance, a support
Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power.
So build we up the Being that we are :
Thus deeply drinking in the soul of things,
We shall be wise perforce : and while inspired
By choice, and conscious that the Will is free;
Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled
By strict necessity, along the path
Of order and of good. Whate'er we see
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine,
Shall fix in calmer seats of moral strength
Earthly desires, and raise to loftier heights
Of love divine, our intellectual soul.
The Excursion. Book IV.
III.
Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills !
And Souls of lonely places I can I think
William WorDswortb, 2c
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
Such ministry, when ye, through many a year
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports,
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,
Impressed, upon all forms, the characters
Of danger or desire ; and thus did make
The surface of the universal earth,
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
Work like a sea ?
The Prelude. Book L
IV.
On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life,
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive
Fair trains of imagery before me rise,
Accompanied by feelings of delight
Pure,, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ;
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh
The good and evil of our mortal state.
To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come,
Whether from breath of outward circumstance,
Or from the Soul an impulse to herself
I would give utterance in numerous verse.
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love and Hope,
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ;
Of blessed consolations in distress ;
Of moral strength and intellectual Power ;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread ;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject there
To Conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all
I sing : " fit audience let me find through few ! "
. . . Not Chaos, not
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out
By help of dreams can breed such fear and awe
As fall upon us often when we look
Into our. Minds, into the Mind of Man
My haunt and the main region of my song.
Beauty a living Presence of the earth
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed
From earth's materials waits upon my steps ;
TKUxlliam IIMor&swortb*
Pitches her tents before me as I move,
An hourly neighbour. Paradise and groves
Elysian, Fortunate Fields like those of old
Sought in the Atlantic Main why should they be
A history only of departed things,
Or a mere fiction of what never was ?
For the discerning intellect of Man,
When wedded to this goodly universe
In love and holy passion, shall find these
A simple produce of the common day.
... I, long before the blissful hour arrives,
Would chant in lonely peace, the spousal verse
Of this great consummation : and by words
Which speak of nothing more than what we are,
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep
Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain
To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims
How exquisitely the individual Mind
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external World
Is fitted : and how exquisitely too
Theme this but little heard of among men
The external World is fitted to the Mind ;
And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be called) which they with blended might
Accomplish : this is our high argument.
Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft
Must turn elsewhere to travel near the tribes
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
Of maddening passions mutually inflamed ;
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves
Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of cities ; may these sounds
Have their authentic comment that, even these
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn !
Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspirest
The human Soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess
A metropolitan temple in the hearts
Of mighty Poets: upon me bestow
A gift of genuine insight ; that my song
With star-like virtue in its place may shine,
Shedding benignant influence, and secure,
Itself from all malevolent effect
Of those mutations that extend their sway
OJWlfam Timortewortb. 203
Throughout the nether sphere ! And if with this
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man
Contemplating ; and who, and what he was,
The transitory being that beheld *
This vision ; when and where, and how he lived ;
Be not this labour useless. If such theme
May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power,
Whose gracious favour is the primal source
Of all illumination, may my life
Express the image of a better time,
More wise desires, and simpler manners ; nurse
My heart in genuine freedom : all pure thoughts
Be with me ; so shall thy unfailing love
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end !
The Recluse.
v.
Here might I pause and bend in reverence
To Nature, and the power of human minds,
To men as they are men within themselves.
How oft high service is performed within
When all the external man is rude in show,
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,
But a mere mountain chapel, that protects
Its simple worshippers from sun and shower.
Of these, said I, shall be my song,
. . . My theme
No other than the very heart of man,
As found among the best of those who live
Not unexalted by religious faith,
Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few,
In Nature's presence : thence may I select
Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight ;
And miserable love, that is not pain
To hear of, for the glory that redounds
Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.
The Prelude. Book XIII.
VI.
The hemisphere
Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance
May never tread ; but scarcely Spenser's self
Could have more tranquil visions in his youth,
Or could more bright appearances create
Of human forms.
The Prelude. Book VI.
204 William morfcewortb*
VII.
Thus from a very early age
My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn
To human kind, and to the good and ill
Of human life : Nature had led me on.
The Prelude. Book VIII.
VIII.
FIRST PERCEPTION OF WORDSWORTH'S MISSION.
... I had passed
The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth. . . Ere we
retired
The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky
Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse
And open field, through which the pathway wound,
And homeward led my steps. Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld, in front
The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth to till the fields.
. . To the brim
My heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
In thankful blessedness which yet survives.
The Prelude. Book I V.
IX.
What want we ? Have we not perpetual streams,
Warm woods and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,
And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,
And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
Of lordly birds, and unexpected sound
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
IKHilliam TKHorfcswortb. 2 5
Admonishing the man who walks below
Of solitude and silence in the sky ?
These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth
Have also these, but nowhere else is found,
Nowhere (or is it fancy ?) can be found
The one sensation that is here ; 'tis here,
Here as it found its way into my heart
In childhood, here as it abides by day,
By night, here only; or in chosen minds
That take it with them hence, where'er they go.
Tis, but I cannot name it 'tis the sense
Of majesty, and beauty, and repose,
A blended holiness of earth and sky,
Something that makes this individual spot,
A termination and a last retreat,
A centre, come from wheresoe'er you will,
A whole without dependence or defect,
Made for itself and happy in itself,
Perfect contentment, Unity entire.
The Recluse.
(I HAVE)
Sate among the woods
Alone upon some jutting eminence,
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude.
How shall I seek the origin? where find
Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt ?
Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw
Appeared like something in myself a dream,
A prospect in the mind.
Prelude. Book IL
Of that external scene which round me lay
Little, in this abstraction, did I see;
Remembered less; but I had inward hopes
And swellings of the spirit ; was rapt and soothed ;
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
How life pervades the undecaying mind ;
How the immortal soul with God-like power
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
2 6 TlUUlltam HWor&gwortb.
That time can lay upon her; how on earth,
Man, if he do but live within the light
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad
His being, armed with strength that cannot fail.
The Prelude. Book I V.
XI.
... (I) would speak
Of that interminable building reared
By observation of affinities
In objects where no brotherhood exists
To passive minds. . .
To inorganic natures were transferred
My own enjoyments ; or the power of truth
Coming in revelation, did converse
With things that really are; I, at this time,
Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.
Thus, while the days flew by, and years passed on,
From Nature and her overflowing soul
I had received so much, that all my thoughts
Were steeped in feeling ; I was only then
Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiments of Being spread
O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still ;
O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart.
The Prelude. Book II.
XII.
I FELT
What independent solaces were mine,
To mitigate the injurious sway of place
Or circumstance. . .
As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained,
I looked for universal things ; perused
The common countenance of earth and sky :
Earth nowhere unembellished by some trace
Of that first Paradise whence man was driven ;
And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed
By the proud name she bears the name of Heaven.
I called on both to teach me what they might ;
Or turning the mind in upon herself,
Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts,
. . . Felt
Incumbencies more awful, visitings
William IKflorDewortb. 207
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul,
That tolerates the indignities of Time,
And from the centre of Eternity
All finite motions overruling, lives
In glory immutable.
... I was mounting now
To such community with highest truth . . .
To every natural form, rock, fruits, or flower,
Even the loose stones that cover the high-way
I gave a moral life ; I saw them feel
Or linked them to some feeling : the great mass
Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all
That I beheld respired with inward meaning.
Add that vvhate'er of Terror or of Love
Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on
From transitory passion, unto this
I was as sensitive as waters are
To the sky's influence in a kindred mood
Of passion : was obedient as a lute
That waits upon the touches of the wind.
Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich
I had a world about me 'twas my own ;
I made it, for it only lived to me,
And to the God who sees into the heart.
The Prelude. Book III.
Call ye these appearances
Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth,
This sanctity of nature given to man
A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore
On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things ;
Whose truth is not a motion or a shape
Instinct with vital functions, but a block
Or waxen image which yourselves have made,
And ye adore !
The Prelude. Book VIII.
XIV.
Were I grossly destitute of all
Those human sentiments that make this earth
So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds
That dwell among the hills where I was born. . .
2 8 William TOorDewortb.
If in my youth I have been pure of heart,
If, mingling with the world, I am content
With my own modest pleasures, and have lived
With God and Nature communing
The gift is yours,
Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours,
Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature ! Thou hast fed
My lofty speculations ; and in thee
For this uneasy heart of ours, I find
A never-failing principle of joy
And purest passion.
The Prelude, Book II.
xv.
What we have loved,
Others will love, and we will teach them how ;
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of quality and fabric more divine.
The Prelude. Book XI V.
THE LUCY POEMS.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY.
Strange fits of passion have I known ;
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved was strong and gay,
And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye
All over the wide lea ;
My horse trudged on, and we drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
TDGUUiam TiXHovfcewortb. 209
And now we reached the orchard plot ;
And as we climbed the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon !
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof
He raised and never stopped ;
When down behind the cottage roof
At once the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head !
" O mercy ! " to myself I cried,
" If Lucy should be dead ! "
1799.
II.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love :
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye !
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me !
I799-
III.
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea ;
Nor, England ! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream !
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time ; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
TOllfam Mortewortb.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bovvers where Lucy played ;
And thine is too the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
1799.
IV.
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature sard, " A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take :
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
" Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse ; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
" She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That, wild with glee across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs :
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute, insensate things.
" The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
" The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her ; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
UllUltam TKaorfcewortb.
" And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell :
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake The work was done
How soon my Lucy's race was run !
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
1799-
v.
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ;
I had no human fears :
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks and stones and trees.
1799.
SOME POEMS RELATING TO
MRS. WORDSWORTH.
A FAREWELL.
COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802, BEFORE THE MARRIAGE OF
WORDSWORTH.
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell ! we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround.
railfam IKHorfcswortb.
Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone :
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Will prosper, though untended and alone.
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ;
Here are they in our sight we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell !
For two months now in vain we shall be sought ;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought ;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell !
Whom from the borders of the lake we brought,
And placed together, near our rocky well.
We go for one to whom ye will be dear ;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
A gentle maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered
With joyousness and with a thoughtful cheer
Will come to you, to you herself will wed,
And love the blessed life that we lead here.
Dear spot ! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known ;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.
And O most constant yet most fickle place,
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And sayest, when we forsake thee, " Let them go ! "
Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
And travel with the year at a soft pace.
INUlUam MorDswortb. 213
Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ;
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.
O happy garden ! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.
1802.
II.
'SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT."
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament.
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
2i4 TOIUam IKHorfcswortb,
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death ;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
1804.
III.
Thereafter came
One. . .
She came, no more a phantom to adorn
A moment, but an inmate of the heart,
And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined
To penetrate the lofty and the low ;
Even as one essence of pervading light
Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars.
The Prelude. Book XI V.
IV.
By her exulting outside look of youth
And placid under-countenance, first endeared ;
That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now
So near to us, that meek confiding heart,
So reverenced by us both.
The Prelude. Book VI.
O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore ;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more !
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day and cross the hour of rest ;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With " sober certainities " of love is blest.
If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear,
Tell that these words thy humbleness offend,
Cherish me still else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march, uphold me to the end.
TWUlUam TOorDswortb. 215
Peace settles where the intellect is meek,
And love is dutiful in thought and deed ;
Through thee communion with that love I seek;
The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the creed.
1824.
SOME POEMS RELATING TO DOROTHY
WORDSWORTH.
[See also <l Tinier n Abbey."]
CHOICE OF THE HOME AT GRASMERE.
Can the choice mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth
With all its unappropriated good
My own ; and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger Orphan of a home extinct,
The only daughter of my Parents dwells.
Stern was the face of Nature : we rejoiced
In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew
A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared
To question us. " Whence come ye, to what end ? "
They seemed to say. " What would ye," said the shower,
" Wild wanderers, whither through my dark domain ? "
The sunbeam said " Be happy." When this vale
We entered, bright and solemn was the sky
That faced us with a passionate welcoming,
And led us to our threshold.
The Recluse.
Mine eyes did ne'er
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts
But either She, who now I have, who now
Divides with me this loved abode, was there
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,
216 tKJUtlfam timorfcswortb*
Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship, a breath
Of fragrance independent of the wind.
The Recluse.
Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul !
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
Poured out for all the early tenderness
Which I from thee imbibed : and 'tis most true
That later seasons owed to thee no less.
For spite of thy sweet influence
... 1 too exclusively esteemed that love
And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down
This oversternness, but for thee, dear friend,
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe ;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars :
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests
And warble in its chambers. At a time
When Nature, destined to remain so long
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
Into a second place, pleased to become
A handmaid to a nobler than herself,
When every day brought with it some new sense
Of exquisite regard for common things,
And all the earth was budding with these gifts
Of more refined humanity, thy breath,
Dear Sister! was a kind of gentle Spring
That went before my steps.
The Prelude. Book XI V.
IV.
{From "The Sparrow's Nest")
THE blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy :
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ;
And humble cares, and delicate fears :
A heart the fountain of sweet tears ;
And love, and thought, and joy. 1801.
TOWiam TOor&swortb. 217
v.
I was blest
Between these sundry wanderings with a joy
Above all joys, that seemed another morn
Risen on midnoon ; blest with the presence, friend,
Of that sole sister, her who hath been long
Dear to thee also, thy true friend and mine,
Now after separation desolate
Restored to me such absence that she seemed
A gift then first bestowed.
. . . Side by side we looked forth
And gathered with one mind a rich reward
From the far stretching landscape, by the light
Of morning beautified, or purple eve. .
The Prelude. Book VI.
VI.
SUCH thralldom of the sense
Seems hard to shun. And yet I knew a maid,
A young enthusiast who escaped these bonds ; . . .
Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field,
Could they have known her, would have loved ;
methought
Her very presence such a sweetness breathed,
The flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills
And everything she looked on should have had
An intimation how she bore herself
Towards them and to all creatures, God delights
In such a being; for her common thoughts
Are piety, her life is gratitude.
The Prelude. Book XII
VII.
TO MY SISTER.
It is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
2i 8 William WorDswortb.
My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign ;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you ; and pray
Put on with speed your woodland dress ;
And bring no book ; for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar :
We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth :
It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason :
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey ;
We for the year to come will take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls :
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister ! come, I pray
With speed put on your woodland dress ;
And bring no book ; for this one day
We'll give to idleness. 179$.
VIII.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
Stay near me ; do not take thy flight !
A little longer stay in sight !
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Mtlliam TOortewortb,
Float near me ; do not yet depart !
Dead times revive in thee.
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art !
A solemn image to my heart
My father's fantily !
Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly !
1802.
IX.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly ! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless ! not frozen seas
More motionless ! and then
What joy awaits you when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again !
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers.
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary !
Come often to us; fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough !
We'll talk of sunshine and of song;
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
1802.
x.
NUTTING.
It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope
I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand : and turn'd my steps
Towards some far distant wood, a figure quaint,
Trick'd out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
William TlClorfcswortb,
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal dame
Motley accoutrement; of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and in truth,
More ragged than need Was ! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Un visited, where not a broken bough
Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene! A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet ; or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd ;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been bless'd
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons reappear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,
Lay round me, scatter'd like a flock of sheep
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and moss bower,
Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being; and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away
Exulting rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.
Then, dearest maiden ! move along these shades
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand
Touch for there is a spirit in the woods, 1799
TOHfam IWlor&svvortb.
LINES.
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON
REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE.
[" No poem of mine," says Wordsworth, lk was composed under circumstances
more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it after leaving Tintern,
afier crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the
evening, after a ramble of four or five days with my sister."]
Five years have pass'd ; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters ! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a soft inland murmur.* Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard tufts
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door : and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees !
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : feelings too
Of unremember'd pleasure : such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremember'd acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
* The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
TOUilUam Morfcswortb.
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight,
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul :
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
sylvan Wye ! thou vvand'rer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
1 came among these hills ; when like a roe,
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led : more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all. I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite ; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
TWUlHam llMorDswortb. 223
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from thu eye. That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor morn nor murmur ; other gifts
Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man :
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains ; and of all that we behold
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive ; well-pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me, here upon the banks
Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest friend,
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while
May 1 behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, clear sister ! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her : 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy ; for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
224 TKllilliam TKllorOswortb.
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee : and, in after years,
When these wild ecstacies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together ; and that I, so long
A worshipper of nature, hither came.
Unwearied in that service ; rather say
With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.
1798.
ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.
(From Recollections of Early Childhood).
I.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ;
4 THIS SWEET MAY MORNING." Page 225.
TKHilliam IWortewortb. 225
Turn vvheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose ;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But yet I know where'er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
III.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng;
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday.
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shep*
herd boy !
IV.
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all.
Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen
While the earth itself is adorning
This sweet May morning,
226 limwtam TOor&swortb,
And the children are culling *
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers, while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm !
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !
But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which 1 have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone ;
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat :
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?
Our birch is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar ;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From Godr who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy ;
The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
VI.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
William TOorfcswortb. 227
VII.
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pygmy size !
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes !
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ;
A wedding or a festival.
A mourning or a funeral,
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song ;
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part ;
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage "
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage ;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
VIII.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity ;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted forever by the eternal mind
Mighty prophet ! seer blest !
On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
22% William Morfcewortb.
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life !
IX.
O joy ! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction not, indeed,
For that which is most worthy to be blest ;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ;
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
t And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
TlXIlilltant IKflorDswortb. 229
Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song !
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound !
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which, having been, must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI.
And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet ;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
I 803- 1 806.
23 WUUfani Morfcswortb.
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDI-
NARY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY.
Had this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see
What is ? ah no, but what can be !
Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,
While choirs of fervent Angels sang
Their vespers in the grove ;
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,
Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now
From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,
Than doth this silent spectacle the gleam
The shadow and the peace supreme !
No sound is uttered, but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues,
Whatever it strikes, with gem-like hues !
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain side ;
And glistening antlers are descried ;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve !
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine !
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won ;
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread.
TKHilliam Tlfllorfcswortb, 231
And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
Climbing suffused with sunny air,
To stop no record hath told where !
And tempting Fancy to ascend,
And with immortal Spirits blend !
Wings at my shoulders seem to play ;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze
On those bright steps that heavenward raise
Their practicable way.
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye are bound !
And if some traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ;
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour !
Such hues from their celestial urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.
This glimpse of glory, why renewed ?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude ;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From Thee if I w 7 ould swerve ;
Oh ! let thy grace remind me of the light
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ;
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored ;
My soul, though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth !
'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ;
And Night approaches with her shades.
1818.
232 TOillfam tTClorfcswortb,
FROM THE EXCURSION.
i.
DESCRIPTION OF MIST OPENING IN THE HILLS.
With their freight homeward the shepherds moved
Through the dull mist, I following when a step,
A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapour, opened to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul !
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,
Far sinking into splendour without end !
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes and silver spires :
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright,
In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt
With battlements, that on their restless fronts
Bore stars illumination of all gems !
By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves
And mountain steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapours had receded, taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky !
Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight !
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf,
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,
Molten together, and composing thus,
Each lost in each, that marvellous array
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapp'd.
Right in the midst, where interspace appear'd
Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state
Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen
To implements of ordinary use,
But vast in size, in substance glorified ;
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld
William Tiaiorfcswortb. 233
In vision forms uncouth of mightiest power,
For admiration and mysterious awe.
This little vale, a dwelling-place of man,
Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible
I saw not, but I felt, that it was there.
That which I saw was the revealed abode
Of spirits in beatitude : my heart
Swelled in my breast. " I have been dead," I cried,
" And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ? "
Book II.
II.
THE SOUL'S PERCEPTION.
I HAVE seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of faith ; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things ;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitatio7i. Here you stand,
Adore and worship, when you know it not ;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought,
Devout above the meaning of your will.
Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn,
If false conclusions of the reasoning power
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages
Through which the ear converses with the heart.
Has not the soul, the being of your life,
Received a shock of awful consciousness,
In some calm season, when these lofty rocks
At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky
To rest upon their circumambient walls ;
A temple framing of dimensions vast,
And yet not too enormous for the sound
234 William Worfcewortb.
Of human anthems, choral song, or burst
Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify the Eternal ! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant
Her vespers Nature fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights
And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ;
The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams ; and often, at the hour
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice the solitary raven, flying
Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dome,
Unseen, perchance above all power of sight
An iron knell ! with echoes from afar,
Faint and still fainter as the cry, with which
The wanderer accompanies her flight
Through the calm region, fades upon the ear,
Diminishing by distance till it seemed
To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught again,
And yet again recovered !
Book IV.
III.
POWER OF THE SOUL.
Within the soul a faculty abides,
That with interpositions, which would hide
And darken, so can deal, that they become
Contingencies of pomp ;*and serve to exalt
Her native brightness. As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns like an unconsuming fire of light
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene. Like power abides
In man's celestial spirit.
Book IV.
TKHUUam TlMor&swortb. 235
STRAY LINES FROM THE EXCURSION.
The vision and the faculty divine,
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
Book I.
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
Book I.
The mighty orb of song,
The divine Milton.
Book I.
The good die first
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.
Book I.
This dull product of a scoffer's pen.
Book II.
Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop
Than when we soar.
Book III.
The intellectual power, through words and things
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way.
Book III.
The most difficult of tasks to keep
Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
Book IV.
Persuasion and belief
Had ripened into faith, and faith become
A passionate intuition.
Book IV.
These imaginative heights, that yield
Far-stretching views into Eternity.
Book IV.
Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man,
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth,
Show to his eye an image of the pangs
Which it hath witnessed, render back an echo
Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod.
Book VI.
2 3 6 *watlliam TKnor&swortb,
Deposited upon the silent shore
Of memory, images and precious thoughts
That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
Book VII.
A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows.
Book VII.
Not for these sad issues was man created ; but to obey
the law
Of life and hope and action.
Book IX.
The Being moves
In beauty through the world.
Book IX.
In what vivid hues
His mind gives back the various forms of things
Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude.
Book IX.
The primal duties shine aloft like stars ;
The charities that soothe and heal and bless
Are scattered at the feet of Man like flowers.
Book IX.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be ?
It is the generous spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright :
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care ;
Who, doomed to go in company with pain,
And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train !
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; -
, In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower ;
William TlGlorfcswortb. 237
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
By objects which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice ;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more ; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress ;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends ;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows :
Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means ; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire ;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ;
Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all ;
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a lover ; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired :
And, through the heat of conflict keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need :
He who, though thus endued as w r ith a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart : and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve ;
z& TlCUUiam TIMorDswortb.
More brave for this, that he hath much to love :
'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,
Or left unthought of in obscurity
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not
Plays, in the many games of life, that one,
Where what he most doth value must be won ;
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast :
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause :
This is the happy warrior ; this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.
1806.
ODE TO DUTY.
Stern daughter of the voice of God !
O Duty ! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe,
From vain temptations dost set free,
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad hearts, without reproach or blot,
Who do thy work and know it not :
Long may the kindly impulse last !
But thou, if they should totter, teach them to
stand fast !
rcawtam TlSHorfcewortb. 239
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed,
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide
Too blindly have reposed my trust ;
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray ;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought :
Me this unchartered freedom tires ;
I feel the weight of chance desires ;
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face ;
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh
and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power !
I call thee : I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour:
Oh ! let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
The confidence of reason give :
And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live !
1805.
240 rcnwiam Wortewortb.
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
[Suggested by a picture of Peele Castle in a storm, painted by Sir George Beau-
>nt.]
( Written after the death of Wordsworth's brother by drowning?)
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile !
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee,
I saw thee every day : and all the while
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day
Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away, or brings :
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's hand,
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam.
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the poet's dream ;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile
Amid a world how different from this !
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss :
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
Of peaceful years : a chronicle of heaven ;
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
The very sweetest had to thee been given.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife :
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such picture would I at that time have made ;
And seen the soul of truth in every part ;
A faith, a trust, that could not be betrayed.
militant TClor&ewortb. 241
So once it would have been 'tis so no more ;
I have submitted to a new control ;
A power is gone, which nothing" can restore ;
A deep distress hath humanised my soul.
Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea, and be what I have been :
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, friend ! who would have been
the friend,
If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,
This work of thine I blame not, but commend,
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
Oh, 'tis a passionate work ! yet wise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ;
That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear !
And this huge castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind !
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne !
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
1805.
LINES.
[Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one evening, after a stormy day, the
author having just read in a newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly
expected.]
Loud is the Vale! the voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams !
Of all her voices, one!
242 TOlUam TKHorfcewortb,
Loud is the Vale ! this inland depth
In peace is roaring like the sea :
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain depresst,
Importunate and heavy load !
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road ;
And many thousands now are sad
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss ;
And when the mighty pass away,
What is it more than this
That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return ?
Such ebb and flow must ever be ;
Then wherefore should we mourn ?
1806
SELECTIONS FROM THE SONNETS.
SCORN not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours ; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains alas, too few !
1827.
11.
Great men have been among us ; hands that penned
And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none:
The later Sydney, Marvel, Harington,
Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend,
These moralists could act and comprehend :
They knew how genuine glory was put on ;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour : what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change !
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road ;
But equally a want of books and men !
1802.
III.
It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed " with pomp of waters unwithstood "
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish, and to evil and to good
Be lost forever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old :
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
1802.
IV.
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
Fair star of evening, splendour of the West,
Star of my country ! on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as rnight seem, to sink
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the nations. Thou, I think,
Shouldst be my country's emblem ; and shouldst wink,
Bright star ! with laughter on her banners, drest
244 TKMllfam Timorfcewortb*
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England ; there it lies.
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory ! I, with many a fear
For my dear country, many heart-felt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
1802.
SEPTEMBER, 1802.
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters ; yet what power is there !
What mightiness for evil and for good !
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity,
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
Only, the Nations shall be great and free.
1802.
VI.
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, l8o2.
O FRIEND ! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
To think that now our life is only drest
For show : mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest :
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now, in nature or in book,
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry ; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more :
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
1802.
TIKUlliam TCHorOswortb, 245
VII.
LONDON, 1802.
Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men :
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ;
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
1802.
VIII.
England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean
Thy heart from its emasculating food ;
The truth should now be better understood :
Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been
But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day,
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
Aught good were destined, thou wouldst step between.
England 1 all nations in this charge agree ;
But worse, more ignorant in love or hate,
Far far more abject is thine Enemy :
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
Of thy offences be a heavy weight :
Oh, grief ! that earth's best hopes rest all with thee.
1803.
IX.
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF
SWITZERLAND.
Two voices are there ; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains, each a mighty voice :
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty !
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
246 tNUUfam IKHorbswortb*
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven
Thou from the Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ;
Then cleave, oh cleave to that which still is left ;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee !
1807.
X.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men !
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ;
Oh, miserable chieftain ! where and when
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow :
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee : thou hast great allies ;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
1802.
XI.
TO B. R. HAYDON.
HIGH is our calling, friend ! creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert
And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress.
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness :
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard !
1815.
William TlOor&swortb, 247
The world is too much with us : late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers :
Little we see in Nature that is ours ;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon !
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ;
For this, for everything we are out of tune ;
It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow its wreathed horn.
1806.
XIII.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.
Earth has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning : silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep !
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep
And all that mighty heart is lying still !
1802.
XIV.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen ! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder everlastingly.
248 *railfam Tlfflorfcswortb,
Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature therefore is not less divine :
Thou liest " in Abraham's bosom " all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
1802.
XV.
The shepherd, looking eastward, softly said
" Bright is thy veil, O moon, as thou art bright !"
Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread,
And penetrated all with tender light,
She cast away, and showed her fulgent head
Uncovered ; dazzling the beholder's sight
As if to vindicate her beauty's right,
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside,
Went floating from her, darkening as it went ;
And a huge mass, to bury or to hide,
Approached this glory of the firmament ;
Who meekly yields, and is obscured content
With one calm triumph of a modest pride.
1815.
XVI.
TO THE SUPREME BEING.
{From Michael Angelo.)
The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed :
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may,
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By whicli such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ;
T^he fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.
1804.
"the shepherd, looking eastward, softly said,
bright is thy veil.o moon, as thou art bright!' " Page24:S.
TOUUfam TOortewortb. 249
XVII.
MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse.
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
1833-
XVIII.
Where lies the land to which yon ship must go ?
Festively she puts forth in trim array ;
As vigorous as a lark at break of day.
Is she for tropic suns or polar snow ?
What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foe
She cares for ; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare
(From time to time, like pilgrims here and there
Crossing the waters), doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark !
1806.
XIX.
Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side.
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
25 William TWortewortb.
And others of your kind, ideal crew !
While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ?
1827.
XX.
TO SLEEP.
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky,
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth.
So do not let me wear to-night away.
Without thee, what is all the morning's wealth ?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !
1806.
XXI.
" I WATCH, AND LONG HAVE WATCHED."
I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret
Yon slowly sinking star immortal sire
(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire !
Blue ether still surrounds him yet and yet ;
But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his blight attire,
He burns transmuted to a dusky fire
Then pays submissively the appointed debt
To the flying moments, and is seen no more.
Angels and gods ! We struggle with our fate,
While health, power, glory, from their height decline,
Depressed ; and then extinguished ; and our state
In this, how different, lost Star, from thine,
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore !
1819.
William TOortewortb. 251
MUTABILITY.
FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
1821-22.
XXIII.
INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
Tax not the royal saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the architect who planned,
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed scholars only, this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence !
Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less or more.
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
XXIV.
THE SAME.
What awful perspective ! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
252 TKHflltam TOorfcswortb.
Martyr or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Inbue your prison bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming night!
But from the arms of silence list O ! list
The music bursteth into second life ;
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed
By sound or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy !
XXV.
THE SAME.
They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam :
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath
Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when She hath also seen her breast
Filled with mementoes, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.
1821-1822.
XXVI.
AFTER-THOUGHT.
I THOUGHT of thee, my partner and my guide,
As being passed away. Vain sympathies!
For backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide ;
Still glides the stream, and shall not cease to glide;
The form remains, the function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
W T e men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish. Be it so !
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live and act and serve the future hour ;
TKHWiam TCHorDswoctb. 253
And if, as towards the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent
dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know !
1820.
XXVII.
THE TROSSACHS.
There's not a nook within this solemn pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice-happy guest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay.
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !
1831.
XXVIII.
HIGHLAND HUT.
See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built cot,
Whose smoke, forth issuing whence and how it may,
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not,
And why shouldst thou ? If rightly trained and bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,
Undressed the pathway leading to the door.
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely poor !
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,
Meek, patient, kind, .and, were its trials fewer,
Belike less happy. Stand no more aloof !
183L
254 William TKflortewortb,
XXIX.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM
ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES.
A TROUBLE, not of clouds or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height.
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight ;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye mourners ! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope !
1831.
WRITTEN IN MARCH.
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF
BROTHER'S-WATER.
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun ;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising ;
There are forty feeding like one !
Like an army defeated.
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill ;
The ploughboy is whooping anon anon
militant TMorfcawortb, 255
There's joy in the mountains ;
There's life in the fountains ;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;
The rain is over and gone !
1802.
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran ;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played ;
Their thoughts I cannot measure ;
But the least motion that they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air ;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
From heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man ?
FROM ODE TO LYCORIS.
In youth we love the darksome lawn
Brushed by the owlet's wing ;
Then twilight is preferred to dawn,
And autumn to the spring.
2 5 6 TKMUfam MorDewortb*
Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.
Lycoris (if such name befit
Thee, thee my life's celestial sign ! )
When Nature marks the year's decline,
Be ours to welcome it ;
Pleased with the harvest hope that runs
Before the patli of milder suns ;
Pleased while the sylvan world displays
Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ;
Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell
Of the resplendent miracle.
But something whispers to my heart
That, as we downward tend,
Lycoris, life requires an art
To which our souls must bend ;
A skill to balance and supply ;
And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
As soon it must, a sense to sip
Or drink with no fastidious lip.
Then welcome, above all, the guest
Whose smiles diffused o'er land and sea,
Seem to recall the deity
Of youth into the breast :
May pensive autumn ne'er present
A claim to her disparagement !
While blossoms and the budding spray
Inspire us in our own decay,
Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,
Be hopeful spring the favourite of the soul !
1817.
YEW-TREES.
There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,
Not loath to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
militant morDswortb. 257
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary tree ! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ;
Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ;
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane. A pillared shade
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow ; there to celebrate.
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship ; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
1803.
AIREY FORCE VALLEY.
. . . Not a breath of air
Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees
Are steadfast as the rocks ; the brook itself,
Old as the hills that feed it from afar,
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
Where all things else are calm and motionless.
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,
But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the brow
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes
A soft eye-music of slow-moving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.
1842.
258 William TOorDswortb.
THE ECHO.
Yes ! yes ! it was the mountain echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound.
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent ;
Like her ordinary cry.
Like but, oh, how different !
Hears not also mortal life ?
Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife
Voices of two different natures ?
Have not we too ? Yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence ;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!
Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar
Listen, ponder, hold them dear ;
For of God, of God they are !
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE DOVE.
Nightingale ! thou surely art
A creature of a " fiery heart " ;
These notes of thine they pierce and pierce :
Tumultuous harmony and fierce !
Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine
A song in mockery, and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night,
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
1 heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day ;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze ;
He did not cease ; but cooed and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
1806.
TWlWfam Worfcswortb. 259
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending ;
Of serious faith, and inward glee ;
That was the song, the song for me !
1807.
TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe new-comer ! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice :
Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice ?
While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear !
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near !
1 hear thee babbling to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers ;
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring !
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing;
A voice, a mystery ;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to ; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till 1 do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed bird ! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place ;
That is fit home for thee !
1804.
260 TKHflliam IKHorDswortb.
TO A SKYLARK.
Up with me ! up with me, into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me, into the clouds !
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine ;
Lift me, guide me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky !
Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning ;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both !
Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is clone.
1805.
TO THE SKYLARK.
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky !
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still !
TOlltam Timorfcswortb, 261
To the last point of vision, and beyond
Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain
Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain :
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ;
A privacy of glorious light is thine ;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam ;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home !
1826.
THE GREEN LINNET.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat !
And flowers and birds once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion !
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May,
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment ;
A life, a presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with anyone to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
a62 imiflUam llfllortewortb.
Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle in the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves,
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes ;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
1803.
TO THE DAISY.
In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy ;
But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly nature's love partake,
Of thee, sweet Daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee ;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy wight !
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane :
Pleased at his greeting thee again ;
Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at naught :
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
'THOU ART INDEED, BY MANY A CLAIlVi
the poet's darling." Page 263.
TKHtlliam IKIlorfcswortb* 263
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling :
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed, by many a claim,
The poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare ;
He need but look about, and there
Thou art ! a friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension ;
Some steady love ; some brief delight ;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy, wrong or right,
Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to thee should turn,
I drink, out of an humbler urn,
A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness :
And when, at dusk by dewsopprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
264 llWilliam Morfcewortb.
And all clay long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing :
An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how nor whence,
Nor whither going :
Child of the year ! that round dost run
Thy pleasant course, when day's begun,
As ready to salute the sun
As lark or leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to future men,
Than in old time : thou not in vain
Art nature's favourite.* 1802.
SO FAIR, SO SWEET.
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
Would that the little flowers were born to live
Conscious of half the pleasure that they give ;
That to this mountain daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked stone !
And what if hence a bold desire should mount
High as the Sun, that he could take account
Of all that issues from his glorious fount !
So might he ken how by his sovereign aid
These delicate companionships are made ;
And how he rules the pomp of light and shade ;
And where the Sister-power that shines by night
So privileged, what a countenance of delight
Would through the clouds break forth on human sight !
Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye
On earth, air, ocean or the starry sky,
Converse with Nature in pure sympathy ;
All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,
Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled,
Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 1845.
* See in Chaucer and the elder poets the honours formerly paid to this flower.
TIMtlltam TKHorfcewortb. 265
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.*
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies:
Let them live upon their praises ;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory ;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story ;
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding-of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout !
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower ; I'll make a stir
Like a sage astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself ;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know ;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude;
Never heed them ; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers ;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home :
Spring is coming thou art come !
* Common pilewort.
266 William TWor&swortb.
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit !
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane ; there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine !
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth ;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love !
1802.
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet :
February last, my heart
First at sight of thee was glad ;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine ! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.
Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking kerchief-pots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold !
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.
William TKHorfcswoctb. 26 7
Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me ;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ;
While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.
1802.
DAFFODILS.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils ;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced ; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company ;
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 1804.
268 William Worfcewortb,
SOME BALLADS, NARRATIVES, AND
PASTORALS.
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE.
Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates
and Honours of his Ancestors,
High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the song.
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long :
" From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last ;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming :
Both roses flourish, red and white :
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.
Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster !
Behold her how she smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array !
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall ;
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful lord,
A Clifford to his own restored !
" They came with banner, spear, and shield,
And it was proved in Bosworth field.
Not long the avenger was withstood
Earth helped him with the cry of blood :
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the land hath uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North :
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming ;
TOIlfam TKIlor&ewortb, 269
Our strong abodes and castles see
The glory of their royalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour
Though lonely, a deserted tower !
Knight, squire or yoeman, page or groom ;
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon though the sleep
Of years be on her ! she shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream ;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely tower :
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair house by Emont's side,
This day, distinguished without peer
To see her master and to cheer
Him, and his lady-mother dear!
" Oh ! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die !
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the mother and the. child.
Who will take them from the light?
Yonder is a man in sight
Yonder is a house but where ?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks ;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, mother mild,
Maid and mother undefiled,
Save a mother and her child !
" Now who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a shepherd-boy ?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be he who hither came
In secret, like a smothered flame ?
270 TKatllfam TKHorfcewortb*
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread !
God loves the child ; and God hath willed
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her babe did say :
* My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best ! '
" Alas ! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise !
Hear it, good man, old in days !
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young bird that is distrest ;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play,
When falcons were abroad for prey.
" A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear !
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,
A weak and cowardly untruth !
Our Clifford was a happy youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a flock from hill to hill :
His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien ;
Among the shepherd grooms no mate
Hath he, a child of strength and state !
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.
To his side the fallow deer
Came, and rested without fear ;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty ;
llXIlWiam IMorfcswortb. 271
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him ;
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality ;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight,
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing :
And into caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered ; and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be ;
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of might.
Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom ;
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book ;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls ;
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance
' Bear me to the heart of France '
Is the longing of the shield
Tell thy name, thou trembling field ;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory !
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored
Like a reappearing star,
Like a glory from afar,
First shall head the flock of war ! "
Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was
framed,
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
Love had he found in huts were poor men lie ;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
272 TOilliam TCiorfcewortb,
In him the savage virtue of the race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead :
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ;
The shepherd-lord was honoured more and more ;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
" The good Lord Clifford '" was the name he bore.
1807.
II.
HART-LEAP WELL.
[Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water about five miles from Richmond, in
Yorkshire. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is
preserved by the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following poem.]
The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ;
And now, as he approached a vassal's door,
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud.
" Another horse ! " that shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely gray:
Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall,
That, as they galloped, made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all ;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain ;
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain,
The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upraidings stern ;
But breath and eyesight fail : and one by one
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
TKflUHam Morfrsvvortb. 273
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.
The poor hart toils along the mountain side
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died ;
But now the knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy :
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the hart was lying stretched :
His nose half touched a spring beneath the hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath has fetched,
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot !)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent,) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes :
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
" I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour made for rural joy ;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
" A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for the fountain in the dell !
And they who do make mention of the same
From this day forth shall call it ' Hart-Leap Well.'
274 tXHilliam Morfcewortb.
" And, gallant stag ! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised ;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
" And in the summer-time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour :
And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
" Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
My mansion with its arbour shall endure :
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! "
Then home he went, and left the hart, stone dead,
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring,
Soon did the knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well ;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall,
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter journeyed with his paramour;
And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song,
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.
PART SECOND.
The moving accident is not my trade :
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts ;
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
TOWiam TOilorfcswortb. 275
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw, standing in a dell,
Three aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling- now the rein, my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ;
Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green ;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
*' Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow. Him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.
The shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
" A jolly place," said he, " in times of old !
But something ails it now ; the spot is curst.
" You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood
Some say that they are beeches, others elms
These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood,
The finest palace of a hundred realms !
" The arbour does its own condition tell ;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ;
But as to the great lodge ! you might as well
Hunt half a clay for a forgotten dream.
" There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
" Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sittting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy hart.
2 7<5 IDdiltiam TKlortewortb*
" What thoughts must through the creature's brain
have passed !
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
Are but three bounds ; and look, sir, at this last
O master ! it has been a cruel leap.
" For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his death-bed near the well.
" Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.
" In April here beneath the scented thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
" Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,
Till trees and stones and fountain, all are gone/'
" Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well ;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine :
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
" The Being that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
" The pleasure-house is dust behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom ;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
" She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known ;
But, at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.
TJCWliam TJClor&swortb. 277
" One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows and what conceals
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."
1800.
III.
POWER OF MUSIC.
An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old ;
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
His station is there ; and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud ;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ?
What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this !
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ;
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.
As the moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So he, where he stands, is a centre of light ;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
And the pale-visaged baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound prentice was passing in haste
What matter? he's caught and his time runs to waste.
The newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret ;
And the half-breathless lamplighter he's in the net !
The porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;
If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease ;
She sees the musician, 'tis all that she sees !
He stands, backed by the wall ; he abates not his din ;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in
From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there !
The one-pennied boy has his penny to spare.
2 7 8 William TWorDewortb.
blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight ;
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he !
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
Mark that cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour !
That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream :
They are deaf to your murmurs they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue !
1806.
IV.
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
There was a roaring in the wind all night ;
The rain came heavily, and fell in floods ;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright ;
The birds are singing in the distant woods ;
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters ;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors ;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ;
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth ;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
I was a traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy ;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar ;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy :
The pleasant season did my heart employ :
My old remembrances went from me wholly ;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
railfam llClor&swortb. 279
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low ;
To me that morning did it happen so ;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came ;
Dim sadness and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor
could name.
I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy child of earth am I ;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care ;
But there may come another day to me
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood ;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good ;
But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ?
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ;
Of him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain side :
By our own spirits are we deified ;
We poets in our youth begin in gladness ;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
When I, with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven,
I saw a man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs.
As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence,
So that it seems a thing endued with sense :
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ;
280 TOillfam m>r>swortb.
Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep in his extreme old age :
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coining together in life's pilgrimage ;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
Himself he propped, body, and pale face,
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood :
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call
And moveth altogether, if it move at all.
At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book :
And now a stranger's privilege I took ;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
A gentle answer did the old man make,
In courteous speech, which forth he slowly drew :
And him with further words I thus bespake,
" What occupation do you there pursue ?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ;
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.
He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor :
Employment hazardous and wearisome !
And he had many hardships to endure :
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.
raillam WorDswortb. 281
The old man still stood talking by my side ;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ;
And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream ;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.
My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills,
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
" How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? "
He with a smile did then his words repeat ;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
" Once I could meet with them on every side ;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old man's shape and speech all troubled me ;
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.
And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main ; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find
In that decrepit man so firm a mind.
" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure :
I'll think of the leech gatherer on the lonely moor ! "
1802.
v.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years ;
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
282 TKHUlfam Tldortewortb.
'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade :
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. -
1797.
VI.
WE ARE SEVEN.
A SIMPLE child
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death ?
I met a little cottage girl :
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad ;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;
Her beauty made me glad.
" Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be ? "
" How many ? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
" And where are they ? I pray you tell."
She answered, " Seven are we :
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
" Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother ;
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
'down which she so often has tripped with her pail.
Page 282.
Milliam TOortewortb, 283
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ? "
Then did the little maid reply,
" Seven boys and girls are we ;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
" You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
" Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied ;
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
" My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
" And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
" The first that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay.
Till God released her of her pain ;
And then she went away.
" So in the church-yard she was laid ;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played
My brother John and I.
" And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
284 TOilliam TlMor&swortb.
" How many are you, then," said I.
" If they two are in heaven ? "
Quick was the little maid's reply,
" O master ! we are seven."
" But they are dead ; those two are dead !
Their spirits are in heaven ! "
'Twas throwing words away : for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! "
1798.
VII.
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.
I HAVE a boy of five years old ;
His face is fair and fresh to see :
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran ;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm ;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm,
William TlGlorfcswortb. 285
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress !
And as we talked, I questioned him
In very idleness.
" Now, tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and took him by the arm,
" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea
Or here at Liswyn farm ? "
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, " At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."
" Now, little Edward, say why so :
My little Edward, tell me why ? "
" I cannot tell, I do not know."
44 Why, this is strange," said I ;
44 For here are woods, hills smooth and warm ;
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."
At this my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply ;
And three times to the child I said,
44 Why, Edward, tell me why ? "
His head he raised there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain,
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock ;
And thus to me he made reply :
44 At Kilve there was no weathercock ;
And that's the reason why."
O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
1798.
286 TOUlltam TOorDswortb.
VIII.
LUCY GRAY;
OR, SOLITUDE.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
" To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
" That, father ! will I gladly do :
'Tis scarcely afternoon
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."
At this the father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot band ;
He plied his work ; and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time :
She wandered up and down :
And many a hill did Lucy climb ;
But never reached the town.
TKHUltam TIMorfcswortb. 287
The wretched parents all that night,
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept and turning homeward, cried,
" In heaven we all shall meet ! "
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small ;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wal 1 ;
And then an open field they crossed :
The marks were still the same :
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks one by one.
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there was none !
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child:
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along
And never looks behind ;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
1799.
IX.
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
We walked along, while bright and red,
Uprose the morning sun ;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
" The will of God be done ! "
288 OWUlHam TKHorfcewortb*
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray ;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the streaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
" Our work," said I, " was well begun ;
Then from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought ? "
A second time did Matthew stop,
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply :
" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
" And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn.
Of this the very brother.
" With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale ;
And then she sang : she would have been
A very nightingale.
" Six feet in earth my Emma lay ;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.
"And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
TOlHam Wor&svvortb, 28 9
" A basket on her head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white ;
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight !
" No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free ;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
" There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine ;
I looked at her, and looked again,
And did not wish her mine."
Matthew is in his grave ; yet now,
Methinks I see him stand
As at that moment, with his bough
Of wilding in his hand.
I799-
THE FOUNTAIN.
A CONVERSATION.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true;
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat ;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old Border song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon ;
" Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made ! "
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee :
2 9 railfam TlWor&swortb.
" No check, no stay, this streamlet fears,
How merrily it goes !
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
" And here, on this delightful day
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.
" My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
" Thus fares it still in our decay ;
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
" The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
" With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife : they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free :
" But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
" If there be one who need bemoan,
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own %
It is the man of mirth.
" My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."
"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains;
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains ;
OflWfam laaorfcswortb. 291
"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee ! "
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
"'Alas ! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side,
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ;
And through the wood we went ;
And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
1799.
XI.
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
Where art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ?
Oh, find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest, and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ?
Seven years, alas ! to have received
No tidings of an only child ;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And be for evermore beguiled,
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss !
I catch at them and then I miss ;
Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold ;
Well born, well bred, I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold ;
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base ;
And never blush was on my face.
Ah ! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !
292 7KHtllfam TJGlorfcswortb.
He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Years to a mother bring distress,
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me ! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought ; and, being blind,
Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong :
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed." And that is true ;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh, do not dread thy mother's door !
Think not of me with grief and pain ;
I now can see with better eyes ;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ;
They mount how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us down by land and sea ;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den ;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts ; but none will force
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead ;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
TWUlltam TKHorfcswortb. 2 93
My apprehensions come in crowds ;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass.
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind,
And all the world appears unkind,
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief ;
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end :
I have no other earthly friend !
1804.
XII.
MICHAEL.
A PASTORAL POEM.
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But courage ! for around that boisterous brook,
The mountains have all opened out themselves
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen ; but they
Who journey hither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is, in truth, an utter solitude ;
Nor should I have made mention of this dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ;
And to that place a story appertains
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
294 militant XKHorDswortb.
Whom I already loved not, verily,
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts ;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name ;
An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen,
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes,
When others heeded not, he heard the south
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
" The winds are now devising work for me ! "
And, truly, at all times, the storm that drives
The traveller to a shelter summoned him
Up to the mountains : he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.
Fields where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air ; the hills which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps, which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
ISrauifam MorOswortb. 295
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain
Those fields, those hills (what could they less?), had laid
Strong hold on his affections ; were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.
His days had not been passed in singleness.
His helpmate was a comely matron, old
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house. Two wheels she had
Of antique form this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out-of-doors
The son and father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease ; unless when all
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside: perhaps to card
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
296 TOilliam TOorfcswortb.
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn, and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay, perhaps,
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year.
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake ;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the house itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.
Thus living on through such a length of years,
The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his helpmate ; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit which is in the blood of all
Than that a child more than all other gifts
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart's joy. For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.
William Wor&swortb. 297
And, in a later time, ere yet the boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love
Albeit of a stern, unbending mind
To have the young one in- his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old oak which near their door
Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scare them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when, by Heaven's good grace, the boy grew up
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the boy ; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help ;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his father hire of praise ;
Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform.
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the shepherd loved before
Were dearer now ? that from the boy there came
Feelings and emanations things which were
* Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.
298 TOUlHam TKllorfcswortb.
Light to the sun and music to the wind ;
And that the old man's heart seemed born again !
Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up ;
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year r
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, a man
Of an industrious life and ample means ;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim ;
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had gathered so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
" I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us ; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel : the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ;
WUllfam TWortewortb. 299
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
Another kinsman ; he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done ? Where everyone is poor,
What can be gained ? " At this the old man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy looking back into past times.
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy ; at the church-door
They made a gathering for him shillings, pence,
And half-pennies wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with peddler's wares ;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estate and moneys to the poor,
And, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old man was glad,
And thus resumed : " Well, Isabel ! this scheme,
These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough. I wish, indeed, that I
Were younger : but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night :
If he could go, the boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work ; for when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the two last nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ;
3 TKHfllfam TKHorfcswortb.
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That clay at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door: " Thou must not go :
We have no other child but thee to lose,
None to remember. Do not go away ;
For if thou leave thy father, he will die."
The youth made answer with a jocund voice ;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
With daylight Isabel resumed her work ;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in spring : at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the boy ;
To which requests were added that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said :
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a sheepfold ; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ;
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
And thus the old man spake to him : " My son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
William TKIlor&swortb. 301
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of. After thou
First earnest into the world as oft befalls
To new-born infants thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tone ;
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains ; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills,
As well as thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped his hand,
And said : " Nay, do not take it so ; I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good father. And herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' hands ; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together. Here they lived
As all their forefathers had done, and when,
At length their time was come, they were not loath
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.
But 'tis a long time to look back, my son,
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burdened when they came to me ;
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled. God blessed me in my work,
And till these three weeks past the land was free.
It looks as if it never could endure
Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go." At this the old man paused.
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
3 2 TOlHam Tlillorfcswortb,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed :
" This was a work for us ; and now, my son,
It is a work for me. But lay one stone
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, boy, be of good hope ; we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale. Do thou thy part ;
I will do mine. I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee.
Up to the heights and in among the storms
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was wont to do alone
Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, boy !
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes. It should be so. Yes, yes,
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave me, Luke ; thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love. When thou art gone,
What will be left to us ? But I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my son,
And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee. Amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well.
When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here a covenant
'Twill be between us. But whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with me to the grave."
The shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down
And, as his father had requested, laid
The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight
The old man's grief broke from him ; to his heart
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept;
And to the house together they returned.
Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell : with morrow's dawn the boy
Began his journey; and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face ;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
TCltlliam TKHortewortb, 33
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.
A good report did from their kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well-doing; and the boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were throughout
" The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on ; and once again
The shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now
Sometimes, when he could find a leisure hour,
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at thesheepfold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and, at length
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses : ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love ;
'Twill make a thing endurable which else
Would overset the brain or break the heart.
1 have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun,
And listened to the wind ; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land his small inheritance.
And to that hoilow dell from time to time
Did he repair to build the fold of which
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old man ; and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went
And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen,
Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this sheepfold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
34 IlKUlltam IKliorfcewortb.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband. At her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
The cottage which was named The Evening Star
Is gone ; the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood; yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
1800.
LAODAMIA.
[Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put
the subject into my thoughts.]
With sacrifice, before the rising morn
Vows have I made, by fruitless hope inspired ;
And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn,
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required;
Celestial pity I again implore ;
Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore ! "
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens and her eye expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows,
And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror ! what hath she perceived ? O joy !
What doth she look on whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence his corporeal mould ?
It is if sense deceive her not 'tis he !
And a God leads him winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear : " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamia, that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air :
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ;
Accept the gift ; behold him face to face ! "
William Worfcswortb. 35
Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed ;
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts but parts to reunite
And reassume his place before her sight.
" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone !
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice :
This is our palace, yonder is thy throne ;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bostowed
This precious boon, and blessed a sad abode."
" Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect : Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive,
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain ;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
" Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold :
A generous cause a victim did demand ;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief by Hector slain."
" Supreme of heroes bravest, noblest, best !
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were depressed
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ;
Thou found'st and I forgive thee here thou art
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
" But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave ;
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
" No spectre greets me, no vain shadow this :
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side !
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day a second time thy bride ! "
Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
3 6 tlflUIlfam llCiortswortb.
" This visage tells thee that my doom is past :
Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Those raptures duly Erebus disdains :
Calm pleasures there abide majestic pains.
" Be taught, O faithful consort, to control
Rebellious passion ; for the gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult of the soul ;
A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn "
" Ah, wherefore ? Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb
Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ?
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
And yson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
" The gods to us are merciful and they
Yet further may relent : for mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love though oft to agony distressed ;
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.
" But if thou goest, I follow " " Peace ! " he said-
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ;
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled :
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
Elysian beauty melancholy grace
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away no strife to heal
The past unsigned for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ;
Of all that is most beauteous imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ;
Climes which the sun, that sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
tlGUlliam IKflorfcewortb. 37
Yet tliere the soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue. " 111," said he,
"The end of man's existence I discerned,
Who from ignoble games and revelry
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;
" And while my youthful peers, before my eyes
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports, or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in council were detained ;
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
" The wished-for wind was given : I then revolved
The Oracle, upon the silent sea ;
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
" Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife;
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod these fountains flowers ;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
" But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
' Behold, they tremble ! haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die ? '
In soul I swept the indignity away :
Old frailties then recurred : but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
" And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In reason, in self-government too slow;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blessed reunion in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised ;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
" Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend
Seeking a higher object : Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned chiefly for that end :
For this the passion to excess was driven
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."
38 HHWHam timorfcswortb.
Aloud she shrieked for Hermes reappears !
Round the dear shade she would have clung 'tis vain :
The hours are past, too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain :
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,
She perished, and as for a wilful crime
By the just gods whom no weak pity moved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Apart from happy Ghosts that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due ;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone
As fondly he believes. Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died ;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight :
A constant interchange of growth and blight !
1814.
FROM MEMORIALS OF SCOTLAND.
STEPPING WESTWARD.
[While my fellow-traveller, my sister Dorothy, and I were walking hy the side
of Loch Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, we met, in one of the lone-
liest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us,
by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping westward ? "]
" What, you are stepping westward? " " Yea."
'Twould be a wildish destiny
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guest of Chance :
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on ?
HHUlKam Tlfflovfcswortb. 39
The dewy ground was dark and cold ;
Behind, all gloomy to behold ;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny.
I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound,
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake :
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy :
Its power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.
1803.
II.
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.
Sweet Highland girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower !
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head :
And these grey rocks; this household lawn ;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake ;
This little bay ; a quiet road,
That holds in shelter thy abode
In truth, together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream ;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep !
But O fair creature ! in the light
Of common say, so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart !
God shield thee to thy latest years !
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
3 IQ HUUlUam Mortewortb.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away :
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness ;
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer :
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred !
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ;
With no restraint but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech ;
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life !
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee, who art so beautiful ?
Oh, happy pleasure ! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell ;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess !
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality :
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea ; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee !
Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its gtace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had ; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes ;
Then, why should I be loath to stir?
Iimtlliam Tliaorfcswortb. 3 11
I feel this place was made for her ;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part :
For 1, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall ;
And thee, the spirit of them all !
1803.
III.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass !
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
Oh, listen ! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands :
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings ?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day ?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again ?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;
312 TNUIliam TOortewortb*
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
1803.
IV.
GLEN-ALMA1N ; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the " Narrow Glen " ;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one :
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war and violent death ;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last,
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent.
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled ;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet ;
But this is calm ; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the bard sleep here indeed ?
Or is it but a groundless creed ?
What matters it ? I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved ; and in this way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this dell :
It is not quiet, is not ease ;
But something deeper far than these ;
The separation that is here
Is of the grave ; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead :
And therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race !
Lies buried in this lonely place.
1803.
William IWorDswortb. 3 1 3
v.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
(For illustration see " My Sister's Journal.")
I shiver, spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold :
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.
And have I, then, thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear ?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain ;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
Off, weight nor press on weight ! Away
Dark thoughts ! they came, but not to stay ;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower whose modest worth
He sang, his genius " glinted " forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?
Full soon the aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
More deeply grieved, for he was gone
And showed my youth
How verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
3H William TIClorOswortb.
Alas ! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen :
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been ;
True friends though diversely inclined ;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow ;
Thou " poor inhabitant below,"
At this dread moment even so
Might we together
Have sat and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast !
But why go on ?
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a son, his joy and pride
(Not three weeks past the stripling died),
Lies gathered to his father's side,
Soul-moving sight !
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged or distrest ;
And surely here it may be said
That such are ble*st.
And oh for thee, by pitying grace
Checked ofttimes in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where man is laid
Receive thy spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed !
TNUUfam TDClorfcswortb. 3 Z 5
Sighing, I turned away ; but ere
Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By seraphim.
1803.
VI.
THOUGHTS.
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF
NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed " The Vision " tells us how
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid stream
Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight :
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet lay.
3 l6 William TKIlorfcswortb.
How oft inspired must he have trod
These path-ways, yon far-stretching road !
There lurks his home ; in that abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly pensive mood,
The rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that image overawes,
Before it humbly let us pause,
And ask of Nature from what cause
And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen :
He rules 'mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives ;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where heroes, sages, bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings ?
Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced forever.
But why to him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share-
With all that live ?
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive !
1803.
VII.
YARROW UNVISITED.
(See various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow;
:n particular the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning
" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! ")
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd ;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my " winsome Marrow,'*
" What'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."
" Let Yarrow io\k,frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ;
Each maiden to her dwelling !
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow !
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow !
" There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us ;
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ;
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow ;
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow ?
" What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn ;
My true love sigh'd for sorrow,
And look'd me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow !
" Oh ! green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing !
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
3*8 TlCUlltam Mortewortb.
O'er hilly path and open strath
We'll wander Scotland thorough ;
But though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them ; will not go
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown !
It must, or we shall rue it ;
We have a vision of our own :
Ah ! why should we undo it ?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow.
" If care witfi freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
Should we be loath to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy ;
Should life be dull and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow ! "
1803.
VIII.
YARROW VISITED.
And is this Yarrow ? this the stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd,
So faithfully, a waking dream ?
An image that hath perish 'd !
Oh, that some ministrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness !
IKlUUam Wortewortb* 3 l 9
Yet why? a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted,
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness:
Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes
All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here t' admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding;
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers ;
And pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy ;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
3 2 TKMlliam Worfcewortb.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature ;
And, rising from those lofty groves.
Behold a ruin hoary !
The shattered front of Newark's towers,
Renowned in border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in ;
For manhood to enjoy his strength ;
And age to wear away in !
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather !
And what if I enwreathed my own !
'Twere no offence to reason ;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ;
A ray of fancy still survives
Her sunshine plays upon thee !
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure ;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt and soon must vanish ;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thine genuine image, Yarrow !
Will dwell with me to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
1814.
TUillfam IKllortewortb. 3 21
IX.
YARROW REVISITED.
[The following stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and
other friends visiting the banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately
before his departure from Abbotsford for Naples.]
The gallant youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow,"
Was but an infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow ;
Once more, by Newark's castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border !
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough or falling ;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed,
The forest to embolden ;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the stream flowed on
In foamy agitation ;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation.
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
Brisk youth appeared, the morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly
Life's temperate noon, her sober eve,
Her night not melancholy ;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing ;
3 2 2 millfam TlWorDawortb*
If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons
For hope and calm enjoyment ;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded ;
And Care waylays their steps a sprite
Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes,
And leave thy Tweed andTiviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ;
May classic fancy, linking
With native fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking !
Oh ! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow age
With Strength, her venturous brother ;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory !
For thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her ;
TKHWiam WorSswortb. 3*3
Beheld what I feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer ?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us ?
Nor deem that localised romance
Plays false with our affections ;
Unsanctifies our tears made sport
For fanciful dejections :
Ah no ! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is our changeful life
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred ;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark entered ;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the " last minstrel " (not the last !)
Ere he his tale recounted.
Flow on forever, Yarrow stream !
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty ;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine !
1831.
324 TOUUfam llWorDswortb.
MEMORIES OF DEPARTED FRIENDS.
(From " Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg")
When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Has closed the shepherd-poet's eyes ;
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source ;
The rapt one, of the god-like forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ;
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother
From sunshine to the sunless land !
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
" Who next will drop and disappear ? '
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forthlooking
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.
TlXHiUiam TOortewortb. 3 2 5
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou, too, art gone before ; but why
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ?
1835.
MEMORIES OF CAMBRIDGE.
From my pillow, looking forth by light
Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold
The antechapel where the statue stood
Of Newton, with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind forever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
I could not print
Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps
Of generations of illustrious men,
Unmoved. I could not lightly pass
Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept,
Wake where they waked, range that enclosure old,
That garden of great intellects, undisturbed.
I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade ;
Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales
Of amorous passion. And that gentle bard
Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State
Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven
With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace,
I called him brother, Englishman and friend !
Yea, our blind poet, who in his later day,
Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth,
Darkness before, and danger's voice behind,^
I seemed to see him here
Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress
Bounding before me.
Prelude. Book III.
TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
SIX YEARS OLD.
O Thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought ;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
3 2 & William UGlorDswortb*
Thou faery voyager ! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream ;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
blessed vision ! happy child !
That art so exquistely wild,
1 think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality ;
And grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
Oh ! too industrious folly !
Oh ! vain and causeless melancholy !
Nature will either end thee quite ;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks,
What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow ?
Thou art a dewdrop, which the morn brings forth,
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks ;
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives ;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
1802.
EVENING VOLUNTARIES.
Calm is the fragrant air, and loath to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews.
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none ;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight !
The birds of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers. . .
milfam TlMorfcewortb. 327
A stream is heard, I see it not, but know
By its soft music whence the waters flow :
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more ;
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
With the next dipping of its slackened oar ;
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,
Might give to serious thoughts a moment's sway,
As a last token of man's toilsome day !
1832.
II.
ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND (EASTER
SUNDAY, APRIL 7), THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD
BIRTHDAY.
The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire.
Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,
Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams.
Look round of all the clouds not one is moving;
'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.
Silent and steadfast as the vaulted sky,
The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er
The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore ?
No ; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be !
Thou Power Supreme ! who, arming to rebuke
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain,
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice !
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere,
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear ;
Glad to expand ; and, for a season, free
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee !
1833.
328 TOilllam TOorDawortb.
Not in the lucid intervals of life
That come but as a curse to party strife ;
Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh
Of languor puts his rosy garland by ;
Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave
Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave
Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words,
Which practised talent readily affords,
Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ;
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move
With genuine rapture and with fervent love
The soul of Genius, if he dare to take
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ;
Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent
Of all the truly great and all the innocent.
But who is innocent ? By grace divine
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine,
Through good and evil thine, in just degree
Of rational and manly sympathy.
To all that earth from pensive heart is stealing,
And heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing,
Add every charm the universe can show
Through every change its aspects undergo
Care may be respited, but not repealed ;
No perfect cure grows on that bounded field.
Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace,
If He through whom alone our conflicts cease,
Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance,
Come not to speed the soul's deliverance ;
To the distempered intellect refuse
His gracious help, or give what w T e abuse.
1834.
DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS.
" Not to the earth confined,
Ascend to heaven."
Where will they stop, those breathing Powers,
The spirits of the new-born flowers ?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find ;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aerial harmonies ;
William TOor&swortb. 3 2 9
From humble violet, modest thyme,
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy :
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride
If like ambition be their guide.
Roused by this kindliest of May showers,
The spirit-quickener of the flowers,
That with moist virtue softly cleaves
The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The birds pour forth their souls in notes
Of rapture from a thousand throats
Here checked by too impetuous haste,
While there the music runs to waste,
With bounty more and more enlarged,
Till the whole air is overcharged ;
Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal,
And thirst for no inferior zeal,
Thou, who canst think as well as feel.
Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire !
So pleads the town's cathedral quire,
In strains that from their solemn height
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ;
While incense from the altar breathes
Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ;
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds
Around angelic forms, the still
Creation of the painter's skill,
That on the service wait concealed
One moment, and the next revealed.
Cast off your bonds, awake, arise,
' And for no transient ecstasies !
What else can mean the visual plea
Of still or moving imagery
The iterated summons loud,
Not wasted on the attendant crowd,
Nor wholly lost upon the throng
Hurrying the busy streets along ?
Alas ! the sanctities combined
By art to unsensualise the mind,
Decay and languish ; or, as creeds
And humours change, are spurned like weeds;
33 Timfllfam TlXllorfcewortb.
The priests are from their altars thrust ;
Temples are levelled with the dust ;
And solemn rites and awful forms
Founder amid fanatic storms.
Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude
Of seasons balancing their flight
On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door
Wide open for the scattered poor.
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies ;
And ground fresh-cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with a humbler vow ;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles,
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Eternal Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Divine monition Nature yields,
That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh Can give ;
That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart ;
So shall the seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve with hallowed rest.
INSCRIPTIONS.
[Supposed to be found in and near a hermit's cell.]
Hopes what are they ? Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass :
Or a spider's web adorning
In a straight and treacherous pass.
What are fears but voices airy ?
Whisperings where harm is not :
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot !
1832
TOtlliam TClorfcewortb. 33*
What is glory ? in the socket
See how dying tapers fare !
What is pride ? A whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.
What is friendship ? do not trust her,
Nor the vow which she has made ;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.
What is truth ? a staff rejected ;
Duty ? an unwelcome clog ;
Joy ? A moon by fits reflected
In a swamp or watery bog ;
Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the traveller's eye it shone :
He hath hailed it reappearing
And as quickly it is gone ;
Such is joy as quickly hidden,
Or misshapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.
What is youth ? a dancing billow,
(Winds behind, and rocks before !)
Age? a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.
What is peace ? When pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sight discover
That precedes the passing knell !
1818
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth and evanescent,
No one knows by what device ?
Such are thoughts A wind-swept meadow
Mimicking a troubled sea,
Such is life ; and death a shadow
From the rock eternity !
181S
33 2 milUam Wotbswottb.
Troubled long with warring notions,
Long impatient of thy rod,
I resign my soul's emotions,
Unto Thee, mysterious God !
What avails the kindly shelter
Yielded by this craggy rent,
If my spirit toss and welter,
On the waves of discontent ?
Parching Summer hath no warrant
To consume this crystal Well;
Rains, that make each rill a torrent,
Neither sully it nor swell.
Thus, dishonouring not her station,
Would my Life present to thee,
Gracious God, the poor oblation
Of divine tranquillity!
IV.
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn ;
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
To the confiding bark untrue ;
And, if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.
But Thou art true, incarnate Lord,
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die;
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify !
1818.
TWItlHam TKflorDswortb, 333
I bent before thy gracious throne,
And asked for peace on suppliant knee ;
And peace was given, nor peace alone,
But faith sublimed to ecstacy !
1818.
STRAY SELECTIONS.
TO A CHILD.
Small service is true service while it lasts !
Of humblest friends, bright creature, scorn not one,
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.
1834.
II.
" MY HEART LEAPS UP."
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began ;
So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die !
The child is father of the man ;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
1802.
III.
TO A YOUNG LADY
WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING
LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.
Dear child of Nature, let them rail !
There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold,
Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see.
Thy own delightful days, and be
A light to young and old,
334 limwiam Tiatortewortb*
There healthy as a shepherd-boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh,
A melancholy slave ;
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
1805.
IV.
FROM THE TABLES TURNED.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things :
We murder to dissect.
Enough of science and of art ;
Close up these barren leaves :
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
1798.
v.
FROM EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
- The eye, it cannot choose but see ;
We cannot bid the ear be still ;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
Nor less I deem that there are powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things forever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking ?
SWIFTLY TURN THE MURMURING WHEEL.
Page 335.
William TlXHorfcswortb* 335
Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone
And dream my time away.
1798.
VI.
TO LADY FLEMING.
Lives there a man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys ?
Who never caught a noontide dream
From murmur of a running stream ;
Could strip, for aught the prospects yields
To him, their verdure from the fields ;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the sun his setting shrouds.
A soul so pitiably forlorn
If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,
May turn indifference to pride ;
And still be not unblest, compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and Christian hope ;
Yea, strives for others to bedim
The glorious light too pure for him.
1823.
VII.
SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel !
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power ;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground :
Turn the swift wheel round and round !
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ;
Ply the pleasant labour, ply !
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.
33& TOlUam Morfcswortb,
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes ;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
1812.
VIII.
A NIGHT-PIECE.
The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon,
Which through that vale is indistinctly seen,
A dull contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards ; he looks up, the clouds are split
Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small,
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drives as she drives : how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not ! the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent ; still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the vision closes ; and the mind,
Not undisturb'd by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm.
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
1798.
IX.
THE MOON.
Yes, lovely moon ! if thou so mildly bright
Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite,
To fiercer mood the phrensy-stricken brain,
Let me a compensating faith maintain,
William Wor&swortb. 337
That there's a sensitive, a tender, part
Which thou canst touch in every human heart,
For healing and composure.
1835.
X.
THE ECHO.
(From "Lines to Johanna")
. . . Johanna laughed aloud. . .
The rock like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the lady's voice, and laughed again ;
That ancient woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern ; Hammer-scar
And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice, old Skiddaw blew
His speaking trumpet ; back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice ;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
1800.
STRAY LINES FROM DIFFERENT POEMS.
The sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
To Johanna*
Thou in the dear love of some one Friend
Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts
Will sometimes in the happiness of Love
Make the heart sink.
Inscription J or the Hermitage.
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
Consul or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of man, and live in hope.
Calais, 1802.
Oh ! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of.
Kilchum Castle.
33% William Wottexvottb.
The immortal mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it ; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
Those Words Were Uttered,
Though nature's dread protection fails
There is a bulwark in the soul.
And Is It Among Rude Untutored Dates.
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death : else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality ?
O'er the Wide Earth.
The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade ;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die.
The Fairest Hues.
I have risen, uplifted, on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.
The Fairest Hues.
Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour \
Not dull art thou as undiscerning night ;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions.
Ha it, Twitight.
Weak spirits are there who would ask
Upon the pressure of a painful thing,
The lion's sinews, or the eagle's wing.
Ode, 1816.
Fix thine eyes upon the sea
That absorbs time, space, and number,
Look thou to Eternity !
The Longest Day.
Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ;
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
While youth's roses are thy crown.
The Longest Day.
militant Morfcswortb, 339
Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Toward the mighty gulf of things,
And in the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings ;
Think if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.
The Longest Day,
The dew, the storm,
Did alike proceed
From the same gracious will, were both an offspring
Of bounty infinite.
Musings Near Aquapendente.
The cuckoo, wandering in solitude, and evermore
Foretelling and proclaiming, . . .
Voice of the desert, fare-thee-well, sweet bird.
The Cuckoo at Laverna,
For there are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.
Ruth,
Pure hopes of high intent.
Ruth,
The breezes their own languor lent ;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favoured bowers.
Ruth,
God who made the great book of the world.
The Brothers,
I almost received her heart into my own.
The Pet La7nb,
Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done.
Say, What is Honour?
And the realised vision is clasped to my heart.
At Vallambrosa.
34o TCUUfam TKHorfcswortb,
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.
Glad Sight.
Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng
Into thy heart ; and fancies, running wild
Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among,
Will make thee happy, happy as a child :
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers and song,
And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wronj*
The Cuckoo Clock.
For who what is shall measure by what seems
To be, or not to be,
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality ?
The Unremitting Voice.
Action is transitory, a step, a blow
The action of a muscle, this way or that.
The Borderers.
The child is father of the man.
My Heart Leaps Up.
Sweet childish clays, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
To a Butterfly.
A Briton, even in love, should be
A subject, not a slave !
Ere with Cold Beads of Midnight Dew.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved.
To
Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive.
Yes, Thou Art Fair.
Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair ?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?
Why Art Thou Silent.
William IKIlorfcswortb. 34i
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For naught but what thy happiness could spare.
Why Art Thou Silent.
Something between a hindrance and a help.
Michael.
But he is oft the wisest man
Who is not wise at all.
The Oak and the Broom.
A youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven.
Ruth.
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
Hart-leap Well.
A Primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him
And it was nothing more.
Peter Bell.
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart ; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky.
Peter Bell.
As if the man had fixed his face
In many a solitary place
Against the wind and open sky.
Peter Bell
Tutored for Eternity.
To Lady Fleming.
Then be assured
That least of all can aught that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin.
Old Cumberland Beggar.
Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers ;
The common-growth of Mother-earth
Suffices me her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.
Peter Bell.
342 Timillfam TKllortewortb,
Such delight I found
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
To Johanna.
Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky,
From all its spirit, moving imagery,
Intensely studied with a painter's eye,
A poet's heart.
Elegiac Musings.
The primal flight
Of the poetic ecstasy
Into the land of mystery.
Oft Have 1 Caught,
O Nightingale ! Who ever heard thy song
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong
That listening sense is pardonably cheated
Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted.
By the Side of Rydal Mere.
What are helps of time and place,
When Wisdom stands in need of Nature's grace ;
Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend
Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend.
Soft as a Cloud.
Plain living and high thinking are no more,
Sonnet. London , 1802.
Tears to human suffering are due :
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man.
Laodamia.
Soft is the music that would charm forever,
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
Sonnet.
How does the meadow-flower in its bloom unfold ?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom, bold.
Sonnet.
TKlWlfam TOorDewortb. 343
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive !
Thoughts on the Banks of Nit h.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.
The Venetian Republic.
The feather whence the pen
Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men,
Dropped from an angel's wing.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets.
The tender charm of poetry and love.
At Mosgiel.
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
The Tables Turned.
You would find
A tale in everything.
Simon Lee.
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning ;
Alas ! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.
Simon Lee.
Yet sometimes when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up,
He felt with spirit so profound.
Matthew.
Whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail ?
Force of Prayer.
But hushed be every thought that springs
From out the bitterness of things.
To Sir George Beaumont.
344 tKftftlfam tKHorbswortb.
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach.
The Cumberland Beggar.
One that would peep and botanise
Upon his mother's grave.
Poefs Epitaph.
STRAY BEAUTIES FROM THE PRELUDE.
Those recollected hours that have the charm
Of visionary things, those lovely forms
And sweet sensations that throw back our life,
And almost make remotest infancy
A visible scene, on which the sun is shining.
Book I.
Tell, how Wallace fought for Scotland ; lett the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country ; left the deeds
Of Wallace like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty.
Book I.
The fairest of all rivers, loved
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song
... and sent a voice
That flowed along my dreams.
Book I.
Blest the babe,
Nursed in his mother's arms, who sinks to sleep
Rocked on his mother's breast ; who with his soul
Drinks in the feelings of his mother's eye !
For him, in one dear presence, there exists
A virtue which irradiates and exalts
Objects through widest intercourse of sense,
No outcast he, bewildered and depressed :
Along his infant veins are interfused
The gravitation and the filial bond
Of nature that connect him with the world.
Is there a flower, to which he points with hand
Too weak to gather it, already love
Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for him
TOilliam Morfcewortb. 345
Hath beautified that flower ; already shades
Of pity cast from inward tenderness
Do fall around him upon aught that bears
Unsightly marks of violence or harm.
Book II.
Society made sweet as solitude
By silent unobtrusive sympathies,
And gentle agitations of the mind
From manifold distinctions, difference
Perceived in things, where to the unwatchful eye
No difference is, and hence from the same source
Sublimer joy.
Book II
When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign is solitude !
Book IV.
Thou also, Man, hast wrought
Things that aspire to unconquerable life.
Book V.
Oh ! why hath not the Mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own ?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail ?
Book V.
(Long)
Have I been now a sojourner on earth,
By sorrow not unsmitten ; yet for me
Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills,
Her dew is on the flowers.
Book VI.
I drew
A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense
Of permanent and universal sway
And paramount belief, there recognised
A type, for finite natures of the one
Supreme Existence, the surpassing Life,
Which, to the boundaries of space and time,
Of melancholy space and doleful time,
Superior and incapable of change,
Nor touched by welterings of passion is
And hath the name of, God. Book VI.
346 Timflliam TlMorDswortb.
Whether we be young or old,
Our destiny, our being's heart and home,
Is with infinitude, and only there ;
With hope it is, hope that can never die,
Effort and expectation and desire,
And something evermore about to be.
Book VI.
There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair,
No languor, no dejection, no dismay,
No absence scarcely can there be, for those
Who love as we do.
Book VI.
Things that are, are not,
As the mind answers to them, or the heart
Is prompt or slow, to feel.
Book VII.
The peace that comes with night ; the deep solemnity
Of nature's intermediate hours of rest,
When the great tide of human life stands still.
Book VIL
The face of every one
That passes by me is a mystery !
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed
By thoughts of what and whither, when and how,
Until the shapes before my eyes became
A second-sight procession, such as glides
Over still mountains or appears in dreams.
Book VIL
To him who looks
In steadiness, who hath among least things
An under-sense of greatest ; sees the parts
As parts, but with a feeling of the whole.
Book VII.
And so we all of us in some degree
Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led,
And howsoever ; were it otherwise,
And we found evil fast as we find good,
In our first years, or think that it is found,
How could the innocent heart bear up and live !
Book VIII.
William morfcswortb, 347
Man and his noble nature, as it is
The gift which God has placed within his power,
His blind desires and steady faculties
Capable of clear truth, the one to break
Bondage, the other to build liberty
On firm foundations. Book IX.
The tide retreats
But to return out of his hiding-place
In the great deep ; all things have second birth.
Book X.
Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men
Who to themselves are false.
Book X.
Man is only weak through his mistrust
And want of hope where evidence divine
Proclaims to him that hope should be most sure.
Book X.
A mind whose rest
Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint,
In circumspection and simplicity,
Falls rarely in entire discomfiture
Below its aim, or meets with, from without,
A treachery that foils it or defeats.
Book X.
If from the affliction somewhere do not grow
Honour which could not else have been, a faith,
An elevation, and a sanctity,
If new strength be not given nor old restored,
The blame is ours, not Nature's.
Book X.
There is
One great society alone on earth ;
The noble Living and the noble Dead.
Book XL
So feeling comes in aid
Of feeling, and diversity of strength
Attends us, if but once we have been strong.
Book XII.
Thou must give
Else never canst receive.
Book XII.
348 lixatiliam IWorDswortb,
SELECTION FROM THE ODE ON PRINCE ALBERT.
[Written after being appointed Laureate.]
Albert, in thy race we cherish
A Nation's strength that will not perish
While England's sceptred line
True to the King of Kings is found ;
Like that wise ancestor of thine
Who threw the Saxon shield o'er Luther's life
When first above the yells of bigot strife
The trumpet of the Living Word
Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound,
From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber heard.
What shield more sublime
E'er was blazoned or sung ?
And the Prince whom we greet
From its hero is sprung.
Resound, resound the strain
That hails him for our own !
Again, and yet again,
For the Church, the State, the Throne,
And that presence fair and bright,
Ever blest wherever seen,
Who deigns to grace our festal rite,
The pride of the islands, Victoria the Queen.
J847.
*U?RED TENNYSON.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, in 1809. Made Laureate in 1850. Died
in 1892.
(Reign of Victoria.)
It is in the works of men like Wordsworth and Tennyson
that the breadth, the sanctity, the power of genius are made
clearer to the race at large; it is in the lives of men like them
that humanity is lifted up, made stronger, made to grasp more
firmly the meaning of existence. Their influence is sanative,
gracious; they attune the soul to high and noble states of
feeling; they minister to the purest instincts. They are an
abiding blessing to the world.
Tennyson's life, like that of Wordsworth's, was a fine
refutation of that false theory of art, held, alas ! too often
by critics of otherwise trustworthy judgment, the theory
that the great poet " needs a license and an indulgence
not accorded to other men "; that the true poetic or
artistic temperament cannot exist with moral sanity ; and
therefore the poet need not be bound by the laws which are
the safeguards of the race at large. Tennyson had more
the artistic temperament than Wordsworth, but he was also
evenly poised, morally sane, "actively and securely virtuous."
" We needs must love the highest when we see it," he wrote in
one of his most perfect Idylls. He himself sought the highest,
found his pleasure and his duty in it, and in love for it lies the
secret of the power of his poetry, the secret of the beauty and
the dignity of his life. We need to make no excuses for Tenny-
son. He never " debased the sacred art of verse," like Byron,
nor condescended to actions at variance with his character, like
Shelley. He can be honoured for the moral influence of his life
as well as the matchless grace of his art.
Wordsworth wrote to Lady Beaumont in answer to her
solicitude in regard to the public reception of his poems : " Of
what moment is their present reception compared to what I
trust is their destiny ? To console the afflicted, to add sun-
shine to daylight by making the happy happier, to teach the
young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, arid to
feel, and therefore to become 7nore actively arid securely
virtuous, this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully
35 BlfreD Zennyeon.
perform, long after we, that is, all that is mortal of us, are
mouldered in our graves."
I have quoted this here rather than in the sketch of Words-
worth, because it is also so appropriate to* the influence of the
work of Tennyson. The striking and radical differences, as
well as the correspondences between his work and Words-
worth's, can only be understood by a sympathetic study of the
poetry of both. Their treatment of nature and the problems
of man's existence was quite different ; but they were alike in
their sincerity, in their intellectual grasp, in their devotion to
the inward life of the spirit. Tennyson was not the epoch-
maker that Wordsworth was, and he seldom approached Words-
worth when in his peculiar rapt, imaginative moods ; but then
he had few of Wordsworth's inequalities, and, unlike him,
chose only the inspired hours in which to write ; hence he pro-
duced poetry which in workmanship is well-nigh flawless. He
was one of the most perfect artists which the world has ever
seen;_
/ To define the quality of Tennyson's greatness would be to
find the essence of poetry itself. He loved beauty and sought
/it in all things found it not alone in nature, but in some of
/the most pathetic and tragic portions of human life. And in
/ his pursuit of beauty he found truth, for being a true disciple
of Keats, he felt beauty and truth to be one.
Tennyson's poetry, besides being an exponent of beauty and
a treasury of some of the sublimest truths which can console
and gladden and make vigorous the human heart, is ( also an
eloquent expression of the most characteristic features of the
thought of the nineteenth century, its scientific methods, its
doubts, its struggles of the spirit, its search for certainty, its
gropings after immortality, in fact, all the aspirations of
his age.
As Laureate, Tennyson wrote many official poems which
rank high for their lyric grace and earnest patriotism, the " Ode
on the Death of the Duke of Wellington," being perhaps the
finest. But these poems are not the most perfect manifesta-
tions of Tennyson's genius.
His work for over sixty years formed a most important part
of the music of life, of the wide-reaching thought, of the
i spiritual aspiration of two continents. For over sixty years
' he gave to England and to America his poetry of inimitable
; grace, of idyllic charm, of witchery, and of power; and then in
' the " fulness of years and of glory," he crossed the bar into the
sea of that mysterious and immortal life, of which he had given
, so sublime an exposition in " In Memoriam."
SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON.*
TO THE QUEEN.
Revered, beloved O you that hold
A nobler office upon earth
Than arms, or power of brain, or birth
Could give the warrior kings of old,
Victoria, since your Royal grace
To one of less desert allows
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that utter'd nothing base ;
And should your greatness, and the care
That yokes with empire, yield you time
To make demand of modern rhyme
If aught of ancient worth be there ;
Then while a sweeter music wakes,
And thro' wild March the throstle calls,
Where all about your palace walls
The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes
Take, Madam, this poor book of song;
For tho' the faults were thick as dust
In vacant chambers, I could trust
Your kindness. May you rule us long,
And leave us rulers of your blood
As noble till the latest day !
May children of our children say,
" She wrought her people lasting good ;
* These selections, arranged chronologically, not in classes, cannot do justice to
Tennyson's genius. Much which is representative, much which is of priceless
value and interest, can find, no place here. Enough, if what we have chosen will
stimulate the reader to study with sympathetic appreciation everything which this
great poet has written.
351
35 2 Blfrefc Genngsom
" Her court was pure ; her life serene ;
God gave her peace ; her land reposed ;
A thousand claims to reverence closed
in her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ;
" And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make
The bounds of freedom wider yet
" By shaping some august decree,
Which kept her throne unshaken still,
Broad-based upon her people's will ;
And compass'd by the inviolate sea."
THE POET.
1851.
The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above ;
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw thro' life and death ; thro' good and ill.
He saw thro' his own soul.
The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
Before him lay ; with echoing feet he threaded
The secretest walks of fame :
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame,
Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,
And of so fierce a flight,
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,
Filling with light
And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit :
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,
The fruitful wit
Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Where'er they fell, behold,
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,
Blfrefc Zennyeon. 353
And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling
The winged shafts of truth,
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
Of Hope and Youth.
So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,
Tho' one did fling the fire.
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams
Of high desire.
Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world
Like one great garden show'd,
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd,
Rare sunrise flow'd.
And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise
Her beautiful bold brow,
When rites and forms before his burning eyes
Melted like snow.
There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunn'd by those orient skies ;
But round about the circles of the globes
Of her keen eyes.
And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame
Wisdom, a name to shake
All evil dreams of power a sacred name.
And when she spake,
Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,
So was there meaning to her words. No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word
She shook the world.
POLAND.
How long, O God, shall men be ridden down,
And trampled under by the Inst and least
Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not ceased
To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth drown
The fields, and out of every smouldering town
354 Blfrefc {Tenngson.
Cries to Thee lest brute power be increased,
Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East
Transgress his ample bound to some new crown :
Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall these things be?
How long this icy-hearted Muscovite
Oppress the region ? " Us, O Just and Good,
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three ;
Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right
A matter to be wept with tears of blood.
FROM THE TWO VOICES.
A STILL small voice spake unto me,
" Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be ? "
Then to the still small voice I said :
" Let me not cast in endless shade
What is so wonderfully made."
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I SEE the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes ?
The slow wise smile that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curl'd,
Seem'd half-within and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world ?
In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cup-
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet
At his own jest gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,
His memory scarce can make me sad.
Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.
Blfrefc Genngson, 355
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.
Have I not found a happy earth ?
I least should breathe a thought of pain.
Would God renew me from my birth
I'd almost live my life again.
So sweet it seems with thee to walk,
And once again to woo thee mine
It seems in after-dinner talk
Across the walnuts and the wine
To be the long and listless boy
Late-left an orphan of the squire,
Where this old mansion mounted high
Looks down upon the village spire :
For even here, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long,
Each morn my sleep was broken thro'
By some wild skylark's matin song.
And oft I heard the tender dove
In firry woodlands making moan ;
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,
I had no motion of my own.
For scarce my life with fancy play'd
Before I dream 'd that pleasant dream
Still hither thither idly sway'd
Like those long mosses in the stream.
Or, from the bridge I leaned to hear
The milldam rushing down with noise,
And see the minnows everywhere
In crystal eddies glance and poise,
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung
Below the range of stepping stones,
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung
In masses thick with milky cones.
But, Alice, what an hour was that,
When after roving in the woods
(Twas April then), I came and sat
Below the chestnuts, when their buds
35 6 BlfreD Zennyson.
Were glistening to the breezy blue;
And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool.
A love-song I had somewhere read,
An echo from a measured strain,
Beat time to nothing in my head
From some odd corner of the brain,
It haunted me, the morning long,
With weary sameness in the rhymes,
The phantom of a silent song,
That went and came a thousand times c
Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood
I watch'd the little circles die ;
They past into the level flood,
And there a vision caught my eye;
The reflex of a beauteous form,
A glowing arm, a gleaming neck,
As when a sunbeam wavers warm
Within the dark and dimpled beck.
For you remember, you had set,
That morning, on the casement-edge
A long green box of mignonette,
And you were leaning from the ledge;
And when I raised my eyes, above
They met with two so full and bright
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love,
That these have never lost their light.
I loved, and love dispell'd the fear
That I should die an early death :
For love possess'd the atmosphere,
And fill'd the breast with purer breath,
My mother thought, What ails the boy?
For I was altered and began
To move about the house with joy,
And with the certain step of man.
I loved the brimming wave that swam
Thro' quiet meadows round the mill,
The sleepy pool above the dam,
The pool beneath it never still,
44 THE POOL BENEATH IT NEVER STILL." Page 356.
Blfrefc ZcMWveon. 357
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor,
The dark round of the dripping wheel,
The very air about the door
Made misty with the floating meal.
And oft in ramblings on the wold,
When April nights began to blow,
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold,
I saw the village lights below ;
I knew your taper far away,
And full at heart of trembling hope,
From off the wold I came, and lay
Upon the freshly-flower'd slope.
The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ;
And " By that lamp," I thought, " she sits ! "
The white chalk-quarry from the hill
Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits.
" Oh, that I were beside her now !
Oh, will she answer if I call ?
Oh, would she give me vow for vow,
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? "
Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ;
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within ;
Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind.
At last you rose and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across into the night,
And all the casement darken'd there.
But when at last I dared to speak,
The lanes, you know, were white with may,
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
Flush'd like the coming of the day;
And so it was half-sly, half-shy.
You would and would not, little one !
Although I pleaded tenderly,
And you and I were all alone.
And slowly was my mother brought
To yield consent to my desire :
She wished me happy, but she thought
I might have look'd a little higher;
35 8 BlfreD Genngson.
And I was young too young to wed ;
" Yet must I love her for your sake ;
Go fetch your Alice here," she said ;
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.
k
And down I went to fetch my bride :
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,
I knew you could not look but well ;
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears,
I kiss'd away before they fell.
I watch'd the little flutterings,
The doubt my mother would not see.
She spoke at large of many things,
And at the last she spoke of me ;
And turning look'd upon your face,
As near this door you sat apart,
And rose, and, with a silent grace
Approaching, press'd you heart to heart.
Ah, well but sing the foolish song
I gave you. Alice, on the day
When, arm in arm, we went along,
A pensive pair, and you were gay
With bridal flowers that I may seem,
As in the nights of old, to lie
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
While those full chestnuts whisper by.
It is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles at her ear,
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest.
And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
BlfreD CemtEeom 359
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells
True love interprets right alone.
His light upon the letter dwells,
For all the spirit is his own.
So if I waste words now, in truth
You must blame Love. His early rage
Had force to make me rhyme in youth
And makes me talk too much in age.
And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like my own life to me thou art,
Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart ;
So sing that other song I made,
Half anger'd with my happy lot,
The day, when in the chestnut shade
. I found the blue Forget-me-not.
Love that hath us in the net
Can he pass, and we forget ?
Many suns arise and set,
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debt.
Ever so.
Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret,
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love ? for we forget : .
Ah, no ! no 1
Look thro* mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine ;
My other dearer life in life,
Look thro' my very soul with thine !
Untouch'd with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes forever dwell !
They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.
3 6 BlfreD Gennyeon.
Yet tears they shed ; they had their part
Of sorrow : for when the time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart
Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness past again.
And left a want unknown before :
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more.
With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss.
The comfort, I have found in thee ;
But that God bless thee, dear who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind
With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find.
Arise, and let us wander forth,
To yon old mill across the wolds ;
For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below:
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
THE PALACE OF ART.
I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."
A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.
Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.
BlfreD Gennyeon. 3 6 *
And "While the world runs round and round," I said,
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."
To which my soul made answer readily:
" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide."
Four courts I made, East, West, and South, and North,
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain foam.
And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.
And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.
From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream 'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.
And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.
So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
And that sweet incense rise ? "
For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.
3 62 BlfreD Gennyeon.
Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.
Full of long sounding corridors it was,
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
Well-pleased, from room to room.
Full of gieat rooms and small the palace stood,
.All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.
For some were hung with arras green and blue,
Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff 'd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.
One seem'd all dark and red a tract of sand,
And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.
One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
Beneath the windy wall.
And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.
And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.
And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.
BlfreD ftennESom 3 6 3
And one, an English home gray twilight pour'd
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep all things in order stored,
A haunt of ancient Peace.
Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there
Not less than truth design'd.
Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
In tracts of pasture sunny warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.
Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound witli white roses, slept St. Cecily ;
An angel looked at her.
Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.
Or mythic Uther's deeply wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
And watch'd by weeping queens.
Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
Of wisdom and of law.
Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
A summer fann'd with spice.
Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd
The mild bull's golden horn.
3 6 4 BlfreO Genn6om
Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.
Nor these alone : but every legend fair
Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
Not less than life, design'd.
Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
Moved of themselves, with silver sound ;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
The royal dais round.
For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ;
And there the world-worn Dante grasped his song,
And somewhat grimly smiled.
And there the Ionian father of the rest ;
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.
Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.
Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought they will not fail.
The people here, a beast of burden slow,
Toil'd onward, pricked with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings ;
Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
Ail force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
And trusted any cure.
Blfrefc GemiBeon. 3 6 5
But over these she trod : and those great bells
Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
To sing her songs alohe.
And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame
Two godlike faces gazed below ;
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,
The first of those who know.
And all those names, that in their motion were
Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
In diverse raiment strange:
Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
Rivers of melodies.
No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ;
Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
Lord of the senses five ;
Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
And let the world have peace or wars,
'Tis one to me." She when young night divine
Crown'd dying day with stars,
Making sweet close of his delicious toils
Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
In hallow'd moons of gems,
To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried,
" I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal rich, and wide,
Be flatter'cl to the height.
3 66 BlfreD Zennveon.
" O all things fair to sate my various eyes !
shapes and hues that please me well !
silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whflm I dwell !
" O God-like isolation which art mine,
1 can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
That range on yonder plain.
" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
And drives them to the deep."
Then of the moral instinct would she prate,
And of the rising of the dead,
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate ;
And at the last she said :
*' I take possession of man's mind and deed.
I care not what the sects may brawl,
1 sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all."
Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne.
And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years
She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
Struck thro' with pangs of hell.
Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
Plagued her with sore despair.
When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight,
The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite
The kingdom of her thought.
Blfrefc aenngson. 367
Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself ; again, from out that mood
Laughter at her self-scorn.
"What ! is not this my place of strength ? " she said.
" My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
Since my first memory ? "
But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes : and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
And horrible nightmares.
And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
That stood against the wall.
A spot of dull stagnation, without light
Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
Making for one sure goal.
A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,
Left on the shore ; that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
Their moon-led waters white.
A star that with the choral starry dance
Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
Roll'd round by one fix'd law.
Back on herself her serpent pride had curled.
" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
" No voice breaks through the stillness of this world :
One deep, deep silence all ! "
She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering scd,
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
Lost to her place and name ;
3 68 BlfrcD Gennveon.
And death and life she hated equally,
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere.
Remaining utterly confused with fears,
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime :
Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.
As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
Moan of an unknown sea :
And knows not if it be thunder or a sound
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have found
A new land, but I die."
She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within.
There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin
And save me lest I die ? "
So when four years were wholly finished,
She threw her royal robes away.
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
" Where I may mourn and pray.
" Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
So lightly, beautifully built :
Perchance I may return with others there
When I have purged my guilt."
THE LOTOS-EATERS.
" COURAGE ! he said, and pointed toward the land,
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land,
In which it seemed always afternoon. ,
AH round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Blfrefc {Tenngscm. 369
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams ! some like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush 'd : and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West : thro* mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale :
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave : but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; "
And all at once they sang, " Our island home
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam."
37 BlfreD Zennyson.
FROM LINES TO J. S.
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us : but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
This is the curse of time. Alas,
In grief I am not all unlearn'd ;
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ;
One went, who never hath return'd.
FROM LOVE THOU THY LAND.
Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but tranfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.
True love tum'd round on fixed poles,
Love, that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends
Thy brothers and immortal souls.
LOVE AND DUTY.
Of love that never found his earthly close,
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ?
Or all the same as if he had not been ?
Not so. Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law
System and empire? Sin itself be found
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ?
And only he, this wonder, dead, become
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life,
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself ?
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days,
The long mechanic pacings to and fro,
The set gray life, and apathetic end.
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ?
Blfiefc XLcnnyeon. 37 1
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
Will some one say, Then why not ill for good ?
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man
My work shall answer, since I knew the right
And did it ; for a man is not as God,
But then most Godlike being most a man.
So let me think 'tis well for thee and me,
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine,
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me,
When eyes, love-languid thro' half tears, would dwell
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full tuned, hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom (deep-desired relief !)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd
Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul !
For Love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love
O this world's curse, beloved, but hated came
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, " Who is this ? behold thy bride,"
She push'd me from thee.
If the sense is hard
To alien ears, I did not speak to these
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me :
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well.
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,
And all good things from evil, brought the night
In which we sat together and alone,
And to the want, that hollow 'd all the heart,
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears
As flow but once a life.
The trance gave way
To those caresses, when a hundred times
37 2 Blfrefc {Tennyson.
In that last kiss, which never was the last,
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ;
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung
Love-charm 'd to listen : all the wheels of Time
Spun round in station, but the end had come.
O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush
Upon their dissolution, we two rose,
There closing like an individual life
In one wild cry of passion and of pain,
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death,
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it,
And bade adieu forever.
Live yet live
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all
Life needs for life is possible to will
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold,
If not to be forgotten not at once
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams,
O might it come like one that looks content,
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth,
And point thee forward to a distant light,
Or seem to lift a burden from thy heart
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd,
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown
Full quire, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack,
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.
ULYSSES.*
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
* It is said that because Tennyson had written this poem so perfect, so beauti-
ful, so compact and rich in thought and expression, that the laurel was bestowed
upon him.
Blfrefc Zennyeon. 373
I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink
Life to the lees : all times 1 have enjoy 'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known ; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met ;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use !
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains : but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to mae mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail :
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought and thought with
me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old ;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ;
Death closes all : but something ere the end,
374 Blfrefc Zennyecm.
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks ;
The long day wanes ; the slow moon climbs : the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down :
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
LOCKSLEY HALL.
COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn :
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle
horn.
'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ;
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ;
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed :
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.
Blfrefc ftennESon. 375
In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest :
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish 'd clove ;
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of
love.
Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so
young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.
And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."
On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.
And she turn'd her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of
sighs-
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes
Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me
wrong ; "
Saying, " Dost thou- love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved
thee long."
Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing
hands ;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords
with might ;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of
sight.
Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the
Spring.
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more !
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore !
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue !
37 6 Blfrefc Genngson.
Is it well to wish thee happy ? having known me to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine !
Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is rine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee
down.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel
force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed
with wine.
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brajn is overwrought :
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter
thought.
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand !
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth !
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule !
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten^l forehead of the fool !
Well 'tis well that I should bluster! Hadst thou less un-
worthy proved
Would to God for had I loved thee more than ever wife was
loved.
Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter
fruit ?
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root.
Never, tho' my mournful summers to such length of years should
come
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery
home.
2llfre& CentiESOiu 377
Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ?
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ?
I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move :
Such a one I do remember, whom to look at was to love.
Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ?
No she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore.
Comfort ? comfort scorn 'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.
Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to
proof,
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and
fall.
Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken
sleep,
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt
weep.
Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom
years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ;
And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again.
Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry.
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry.
Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest.
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.
O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due,
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two.
O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's
heart.
" They were dangerous guides the feelings she herself was not
exempt
Truly, she herself had suffer'd "Perish in thy self-contempt !
37 8 BlfreD Zennyson.
Overlive it lower yet be happy ! wherefore should I care?
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.
What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like
these ?
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ?
I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with
sound.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels,
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.
Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-
Age!
Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;
Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would
yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,
And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ;
And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men :
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something
new :
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they
shall do :
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be,
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ;
Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastl)
dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ;
BlfreD aenngsom 379
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing
warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-
storm ;
Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were
furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in
awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.
So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry,
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced
eye;
Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint :
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to
point :
Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher.
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.
Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the
suns.
What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ?
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the
shore,
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and lie bears a laden
breast,
Full of sad experience, moving towards the stillness of his rest.
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn,
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn :
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.
3 8 Bitted Gennyeon.
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure,
woman's pain
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower
brain :
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with
mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine
Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some
retreat
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ;
Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ;
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.
Or to burst all links of habit there to wander far away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.
Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.
Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from
the crag ;
Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited
tree
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.
There methinks would be enjoyment more than is this march
of mind,
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake
mankind.
There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and
breathing-space :
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run,
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;
Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the
brooks,
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books
Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are
wild,
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.
BlfreD Genngeon* 3 Sl
I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains !
Mated with a squalid savage what to me were sun or clime ?
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time
I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in
Ajalon !
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward, let us
range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of
change.
Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day :
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun:
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh
the Sun.
O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.
Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall !
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree
fall.
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and
holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.
ST. AGNES' EVE.
Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon :
My breath to heaven like vapour goes
May my soul follow soon !
The shadows of the convent towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord :
3 82 BlfreD Zennyson.
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground ;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round ;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee ;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors ;
The flashes come and go ;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strovvs her lights below,
And deepens on and up ! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide
A light upon the shining sea
The Bridegroom with his bride !
SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE,
A FRAGMENT.
Like souls that balance joy and pain,
With tears and smiles from heaven again
The maiden Spring upon the plain
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.
In crystal vapour everywhere,
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,
And far, in forest deeps unseen,
The topmost elm tree gather'd green
From draughts of balmy air.
BlfrcD Zennveon. 3%3
Sometimes the linnet piped his song ;
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong :
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong :
By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut buds began
To spread into the perfect fan,
Above the teeming ground.
Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.
She seem'd a part of joyous Spring :
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before,
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore,
Closed in a golden ring.
Now on some twisted ivy net,
Now by some tinkling rivulet,
In mosses mixt with violet
Her cream-white mule his pastern set :
And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains
Than she whose elfin prancer springs
By night to eery warblings,
When all the glimmering moorland rings
With jingling bridle-reins.
As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid :
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.
THE EAGLE.
FRAGMENT.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands ;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
384 Btfrefc {reunion.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ;
He watches from his mountain walls;
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
"COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD."
Come not when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ;
But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime,
I care no longer, being all unblest :
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie ;
Go by, go by.
"MOVE EASTWARD."
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset waning slow :
From fringes of the faded eve,
Oh, happy planet, eastward go ;
Till over thy dark shoulder glow
Thy silver sister-world, and rise
To glass herself in dewy eyes
That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne,
Dip forward under starry light,
And move me to my marriage-morn,
And round again to happy night.
" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK."
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
ON THY COLD GRAY STONES, SEA ! " PdgC 384.
BlfreD Zennyeon. 3 8 5
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play !
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
SELECTION FROM THE PRINCESS.
" Blame not thyself too much," I said, " nor blame
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ;
These were the rough ways of the world till now.
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink
Together dwarfed or godlike, bond or free ;
For she that out of Lethe scales with man
The shining steps of nature, shares with man
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,
How shall men grow ? but work no more alone !
Our place is much : as far as in us lies
We two will serve them both in aiding her
Will clear away the parasitic forms
That seem to keep her up but drag her down
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all
Within her let her make herself her own
To give or keep, to live and learn and be
All that not harms distinctive womanhood.
For woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse : could we make her as the man,
Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference.
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ;
The man be more of woman, she of man ;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ;
3 86 BlfreD GemiBSon.
She mental breadth, nor fail in child ward care,
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ;
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music unto noble words ;
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers,
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be,
Self-reverent each and reverencing each,
Distinct in individualities,
But like each other ev'n as those who love.
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men :
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm :
Then springs the crowning race of humankind.
May these things be ! "
Sighing she spoke " I fear
They will not."
" Dear, but let us type them now
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils
Defect in each, and always thought in thought,
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow,
The single pure and perfect animal,
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one full stroke,
Life."
And again sighing she spoke : " A dream
That once was mine ! what woman taught you this ? "
" Alone," I said, " from earlier than I know,
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world,
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self,
Or pines in sad experience worse than death,
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime :
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother ! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
BlfreD Zennveon. 3 8 7
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay."
"But I,"
Said Ida, tremulously, "so all unlike
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words ;
This mother is your model. I have heard
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ;
You cannot love me."
" Nay but thee," I said,
" From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes,
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods
That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now,
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee,
Indeed I love : the new day comes, the light
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults
Lived over: lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead,
My haunting sense of hollow shows ; the change,
This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear,
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine,
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world ;
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ;
In that fine air I tremble, all the past
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me,
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride,
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so thro' those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come,
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one :
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself :
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me."
SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS.
I.
As through the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out 1 know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.
3 88 BlfreD Gennyeon.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears !
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.
II.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea !,
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me ;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon ;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
III.
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story :
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Blfrefc TLennyson. 3 8 9
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge ;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken 'd birds
To dying ears, when to dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others ; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.
39 BlfreD Genngson.
O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.
Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ?
O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown :
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.
O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.
VI.
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands ;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands :
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee ;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
VII.
Home they brought her warrior dead :
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry :
All her maidens, watching, said,
" She must weep or she will die."
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe ;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face ;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
BlfreD XLetmyeon. 39 1
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee
Like summer tempest came her tears
" Sweet my child, I live for thee."
VIII.
Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee ?
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more : what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye :
Yet P O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd :
I strove against the stream and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ;
Ask me no more.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF
WELLINGTON.
Bury the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation.
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.
30 2 Blfvefc Gennyeon.
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow,
As tits an universal woe.
Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.
IV.
Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the Past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
Oh, friends, our chief state-oracle is mute ;
Mourn for the man of long enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,
Whole in himself, a common good.
Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O, good gray head which all men knew,
O, voice from which their omens all men drew,
O, iron nerve to true occasion true,
O, fallen at length that tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew!
Such was he, whom we deplore.
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.
The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more.
v.
All is over and done :
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll'd.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
, Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest forever
BlfreD ttenngdotn 393
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd ;
-And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds ;
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be toll'd ;
And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ;
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd
Thro' the dome of the golden cross,
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;
He knew their voices of old,
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's ear lias heard them boom
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ;
When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame ;
With these deep voices our dead captain taught
The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
Oh, civic muse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.
VI.
Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,
With banner and with music, with soldier and with
priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ?
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,
The greatest sailor since our world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes ;
For this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea ;
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee ;
394 Blfrefr Gennyeon.
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights.
Nor ever lost an English gun ;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labour'd rampart lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines.
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamour of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings;
And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ;
A day of onsets of despair !
Dash'd on every rocky square.
Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ;
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ;
Thro' the long-tormented air
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,
And clown we swept and charged and overthrew.
So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo !
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taint of craven guile,
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall,
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all,
Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine !
mtxeb GenttEson. 395
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,
A people 's voice,
The proof and echo of all human fame,
A people's voice, when they rejoice
At civic revel and pomp and game,
Attest their great commander's claim
With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,
Eternal honour to his name.
VII.
A people's voice ! we are a people yet.
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget,
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ;
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers,
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours.
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ;
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
And save the one true seed of freedom sown ;
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne.
That sober freedom out of which there springs
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ;
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.
But wink no more in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your hosts ;
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lower
For ever silent ; even if they broke
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ;
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow
Thro' either babbling world of high and low;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life ;
Who never spoke against a foe ;
39 6 BlfreD Genngson.
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the right ;
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named'
Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.
VIII.
Lo, the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow'd by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands
Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.
Yea, let all good things await
Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the state.
Not once or twice in our rough island story,
The path of duty was the way to glory ;
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory;
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands.
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won
His path upward, and prevail'd,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God Himself is moon and sun.
Such was he : his work is done,
But while the races of mankind endure,
Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure :
Till in all lands and thro' all human story
The path of duty be the way to glory :
And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame
For many and many an age proclaim
At civic revel and pomp and game
BlfreD GennBSon. 397
And when the long-illumined cities flame,
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,
With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,
Eternal honour to his name.
IX.
Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not see :
Peace, it is a day of pain
For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung :
O peace, it is a day of pain
For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
Ours the pain, be his the gain !
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere,
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane :
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul ?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:
The dark cloud moves, and there are sobs and tears:
The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ;
He is gone who seemed so great,
39 8 Blfrefc Xlennyeon.
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM.
1852.
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ?
Is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that which he seems?
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ?
Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ;
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel " I am I ? "
Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy doom,
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom.
Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can
meet
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
God is law, say the wise : O Soul, and let us rejoice,
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice,
Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool :
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ;
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot
see ;
But if we could see and hear, this Vision were it not He?
BltreD GennEson. 399
"FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL."
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies :
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM.
A. H. HALLAM.
OBIT MDCCCXXXIII.
STRONG Son of God, immortal Love
Whom we, that have not seen thy face, *
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove ;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade,
Thou madest Life in man and brute ;
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust :
Thou madest man, he knows not why ;
He thinks he was not made to die ;
And thou hast made him : thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou :
Our wills are ours, we know not how ;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be :
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith : we cannot know :
For knowledge is of things we see ;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness : let it grow.
400 Bltrefc Zcnnveon.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell ;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight ;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear ;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ;
What seemed my worth since I began ;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth :
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match ?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears ?
IV.
To Sleep I give my powers away ;
My will is bondsman to the dark ;
I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say :
Blfrefc Gennveon. 4i
heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire,
" What is it makes me beat so low? "
Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost !
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darken'd eyes:
With morning wakes the will, and cries,
" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."
V.
1 sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies ;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
One writes, that " Other friends remain,"
That " Loss is common to the race,"
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more :
Too common ! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son ;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.
4 2 BlfrcD aenngson.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor, while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud,
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well ;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something thought;
Expecting still his advent home ;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, " here to-day,"
Or " here to-morrow will he come."
O somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love I
For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest ;
And thinking " this will please him best,"
She takes a riband or a rose ;
For he will see them on to-night ;
And with the thought her colour burns ;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right ;
And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford.
Or kill'd in falling from his horse.
O what to her shall be the end ?
And what to me remains of good ?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me no second friend.
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street.
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
Btfreb ftenngson. 403
A hand that can be clasp'd no more,
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here ; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
VIII.
A happy lover who has come
To look on her that loves him well,
Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell,
And learns her gone and far from home ;
He saddens, all the magic light
Dies off at once from bower and hall,
And all the place is dark, and all
The chambers emptied of delight :
So find I every pleasant spot
In which we two were wont to meet,
The field, the chamber, and the street,
For all is dark where thou art not.
Yet as that other, wandering there
In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind,
Which once she foster'd up with care,
So seems it in my deep regret.
my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy
Which little cared for fades not yet.
But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,
1 go to plant it on his tomb,
That if it can it there may bloom,
Or dying, there at least may die.
IX.
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains.
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
44 Blfre& ZennvBon.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain ; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor bright
As our pure love, thro' early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above ;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love ;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widow'd race be run ;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
x.
I hear the noise about thy keel ;
I hear the bell struck in the night ;
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,
And travell'd men from foreign lands ;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.
So bring him : we have idle dreams :
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies : O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God ;
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine ;
And hands so often clas'd in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.
Blfrefc ftenngsom 405
XI.
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground :
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold :
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main :
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
XIX.
The Danube to the Severn gave
The darken'd heart that beat no more;
They laid him by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.
There twice a day the Severn fills ;
The salt sea-water passes by,
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills.
The Wye is hush'd nor moved along
And hush'd my deepest grief of all,
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song.
46 BlfreD XLenttyson.
The tide flows down, the wave again
Is vocal in its wooded walls ;
My deeper anguish also falls,
And I can speak a little then.
XXIV.
And was the day of my delight
As pure and perfect as I say?
The very source and fount of Day
Is dash'd with wandering isles of night.
If all was good and fair we met,
This earth had been the Paradise
It never look'd to human eyes
Since our first sun arose and set.
And is it that the haze of grief
Makes former gladness loom so great ?
To lowness of the present state,
That sets the past in this relief?
Or that the past will always win
A glory from its being far ;
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein ?
My own dim life should teach me this,
That life shall live for evermore,
Else earth is darkness at the core,
And dust and ashes all that is ;
This round of green, this orb of flame,
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks
In some wild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.
What then were God to such as I ?
'Twere hardly worth my while to choose
Of things all mortal, or to use
A little patience ere I die ;
BlfreD Genngsoiu 407
'Twere best at once to sink to peace,
Like birds the charming serpent draws,
To drop head foremost in the jaws
Of vacant darkness and to cease.
Could we forget the widow'd hour
And look on Spirits breathed away,
As on a maiden in the day
When first she wears her orange-flower \
When crown'd with blessing she doth rise
To take her latest leave of home,
And hopes and light regrets that come
Make April of her tender eyes ;
And doubtful joys the father move,
And tears are on the mother's face,
As parting with a long embrace
She enters other realms of love ;
Her office there to rear, to teach,
Becoming as is meet and fit
A link among the days, to knit
The generations each with each ;
And doubtless, unto thee is given
A life that bears immortal fruit
In such great offices as suit
The full grown energies of heaven.
Ay me, the difference I discern !
How often shall her old fireside
Be cheered with tidings of the bride,
How often she herself return,
And tell them all they would have told,
And bring her babe, and make her boast,
Till even those that miss'd her most,
Shall count new things as dear as old:
But thou and I have shaken hands,
Till growing winters lay me low ;
My paths are in the fields I know.
And thine in undiscover'd lands.
48 Blfrefc {Tennyson.
LI.
Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side ?
Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread ?
Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame,
See with clear eye some hidden shame
And I be lessen'd in his love ?
I wrong the grave with fears untrue ;
Shall love be blamed for want of faith ?
There must be wisdom with great Death :
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'.
Be near us when we climb or fall:
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
With larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all.
LIV.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ;
That nothing walks with aimless feet ;
That no one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete ,
That not a worm is cloven in vain ;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last far off at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring,
2Ufre& Henngson. 49
So runs my dream : but what am I ?
An infant crying in the night :
An infant crying for the light :
And with no language but a cry.
LV.
The wish, that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul ?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams ?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life ;
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
LXII.
Tho' if an eye that's downward cast
Could make thee somewhat blench or fail,
Then be my love an idle tale,
And fading legend of the past ;
And thou as one that once declined,
When he was little more than boy,
On some unworthy heart with joy,
But lives to wed an equal mind ;
4i BlfreD Zennyson.
And breathes a novel world, the while
His other passion wholly dies,
Or in the light of deeper eyes
Is matter for a flying smile.
Dost thou look back on what hath been,
As some divinely gifted man,
Whose life in low estate began
And on a simple village green ;
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star ;
Who makes by force his merit known
And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne ;
And moving up from high to higher,
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire ;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
When all his active powers are still,
A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,
While yet beside its vocal springs
He play'd at counsellors and kings,
With one that was his earliest mate ;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands:
" Does my old friend remember me ? "
XCIV.
How pure at heart and sound in head,
With what divine affections bold
Should be the man whose thought would hold
An hour's communion with the dead.
Blfrefc Gennyeon. 4 11
In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all.
They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,
The conscience as a sea at rest:
But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates,
And hear the household jar within.
XCVI.
You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.
I know not : one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true :
Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
CVIII.
I will not shut me from my kind,
And, lest I stiffen into stone,
I will not eat my heart alone,
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind :
What profit lies in barren faith,
And vacant yearning, tho' with might
To scale the heaven's highest height,
Or dive below the wells of Death ?
What find I in the highest place,
But mine own phantom chanting hymns?
And on the depths of death there swims
The reflex of a human face.
4i2 mtveb Zennyson.
I'll rather take what fruit may be
Of sorrow under human skies :
'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise,
Whatever wisdom sleeps with thee.
CXIII.
'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ;
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee
Which not alone had guided me,
But served the seasons that may rise ;
For can I doubt, who knew the keen
In intellect, with force and skill
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil
I doubt not what thou wouldst have been :
A life in civic action warm,
A soul on highest mission sent,
A potent voice of Parliament,
A pillar steadfast in the storm,
Should licensed boldness gather force,
Becoming, when the time has birth,
A lever to uplift the earth
And roll it in another course,
With thousand shocks that come and go,
With agonies, with energies,
With overthrowings, and with cries,
And undulations to and fro.
CXIV.
Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall rail
Against her beauty ? May she mix
With men and prosper ! Who shall fix
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail.
But on her forehead sits a fire:
She sets her forward countenance
And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting all things to desire.
Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain
She cannot fight the fear of death,
What is she, cut from love and faith,
But some wild Pallas from the brain
Bltrefc Zennyeon. 413
Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race
For power. Let her know her place ;
She is the second, not the first.
A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain ; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With Wisdom, like the younger child :
For she is earthly of the mind,
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
O, friend, who earnest to thy goal
So early, leaving me behind,
I would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour
In reverence and in charity.
cxv.
Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter clown the vale,
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea ;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood ; that live their lives
From land to land ; and in my breast
Spring wakens too ; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
4H BlfreD GeniiEson.
CXVI.
Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime ?
Not all : the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret : the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone ;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine :
Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead ;
Less yearning for the friendship fled
Than some strong bond which is to be.
CXXIV.
That which we dare invoke to bless :
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest doubt ;
He, They, One, All ; within, without;
The Power in darkness whom we guess ;
I found him not in world or sun,
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ;
Nor thro' the questions men may try,
The petty cobwebs we have spun:
If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep,
I heard a voice " believe no more "
And heard an ever breaking shore
That tumbled in the Godless deep ;
A warmth within the breast would melt
The freezing reason's colder part,
And like a man in wrath the heart
Stood up and answer'd " I have felt."
No, like a child in doubt and fear:
But that blind clamour made me wise;
Then was I as a child that cries,
But, crying, knows his father near;
2UfreD Gennyeon. 4 X 5
And what I am beheld again
What is, and no man understands;
And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro' nature, moulding men.
CXXXI.
O living will that shalt endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,
That we may lift from out of dust
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer'd years
To one that with us works, and trust,
With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
And all we flow from, soul in soul.
STRAY LINES FROM IN MEMORIAM.
And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit's inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not, reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows ?
I hold it true, what e'er befall,
I feel it when I sorrow most ;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine.
God's finger touch'd him, and he slept.
There no shade can last
In that deep dawn behind the tomb
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
The eternal landscape of the past.
4i 6 Blfrefc Genngson.
The glory of the sum of things
Will flash along the chords and go.
And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime
Rewaken with the dawning soul.
Yet in these ears, till hearing dies,
One set slow bell will seem to toll
The passing of the sweetest soul
That ever look'd with human eyes.
And move thee on to noble ends.
What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age ? It rests with God.
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.
But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends.
Can clouds of nature stain
The starry clearness of the free ?
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me
Some painless sympathy with pain?
And lightly does the whisper fall ;
'Tis hard for thee to fathom this ;
I triumph in conclusive bliss,
And that serene result of all.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought
With human hands the creed of creeds
In loveliness of perfect deeds,
More strong than all poetic thought.
"a voice by the cedar tree
IN THE MEADOW UNDER THE HALL ! "Page *t\.
BlfreD Genngson. 4*7
That friend of mine who lives in God,
That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event
To which the whole creation moves.
SELECTIONS FROM MAUD.
We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her
flower ;
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a
game
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ?
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour;
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's
shame ;
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth,
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran,
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race.
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth,
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man :
He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too base?
The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain,
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor;
The passionate heart of the poet is whiiTd into folly and vice.
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ;
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice.
For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil.
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them
about ?
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide.
Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail?
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ?
/ have not made the world, and He that made it will guide.
A voice by the cedar tree,
In the meadow under the Hall !
She is singing an air that is known to me,
A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song like a trumpet's call !
4 l8 Blfrefc Genngson.
Singing alone in the morning of life,
In the happy morning of life and of May,
Singing of men that in battle array,
Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green,
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean.
And myself so languid and base.
Silence, beautiful voice,
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.
Still ! I will hear you no more,
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.
Whom but Maud should I meet
Last night, when the sunset burn'd
On the blossom'd gable-ends
At the head of the village street,
Whom but Maud should I meet ?
And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet
She made me divine amends
For a courtesy not return 'd.
And thus a delicate spark
Of glowing and growing light
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark
Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams,
Ready to burst in a colour'd flame ;
Till at last, when the morning came
In a cloud, it faded, and seems
But an ashen-gray delight.
Blfrefc Genn6on, 419
Birds in the high Hall-garden
When twilight was falling,
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,
They were crying and calling.
Where was Maud ? in our wood
And I, who else, was with her,
Gathering woodland lilies,
Myriads blow together.
Birds in our wood sang
Ringing thro' the valleys,
Maud is here, here, here
In among the lilies.
I kiss'd her slender hand,
She took the kiss sedately ;
Maud is not seventeen,
But she is tall and stately.
I to cry out on pride
Who have won her favour !
Maud were sure of Heaven
If lowliness could save her.
1 know the way she went
Home with her maiden posy,
For her feet have touch'd the meadows
And left the daisies rosy.
Birds in the high Hall-garden
Were crying and calling to her,
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud,
One is come to woo her.
Look, a horse at the door,
And little King Charley snarling.
Go back, my lord, across the moor,
You are not her darling.
Go not, happy day,
From the shining fields,
Go not, happy day,
Till the maiden yields.
Rosy is the West,
Rosy is the South,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth.
420 mtxet) ZennyBon.
When the happy Yes
Falters from her lips,
Pass and blush the news
Over glowing ships ;
Over blowing seas,
Over seas at rest,
Pass the happy news,
Blush it thro' the West ;
Till the red man dance
By his red cedar tree,
And the red man's babe
Leap, beyond the sea.
Blush, from West to East,
Blush from East to West,
Till the West is East,
Blush it thro' the West.
Rosy is the West,
Rosy is the South,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend.
There is none like her, none.
And never yet so warmly ran my blood
And sweetly, on and on
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for-end,
Full to the banks, close on the promised good.
I.
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
II.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
Blfrefc Zennvson. 4 21
in.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon ;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune ;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
IV.
I said to the lily, " There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day ;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
v.
I said to the rose, " The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine ?
But mine, but mine," so I svvare to the rose,
" For ever and ever, mine."
VI.
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall ;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all ;
VII.
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
422 Blfrefc Zennveon.
VIII.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree :
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
IX.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one ;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
X.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate ;
The red rose cries. " She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; "
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; "
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet ;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed ;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead ;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
XI.
O that 'twere possible
After long grief and pain
To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again !
Blfrefc aenngeon. 423
When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places
By the home that gave me birth,
We stood tranced in long embraces
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on earth.
A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee ;
Ah Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be.
SELECTIONS FROM IDYLLS OF THE KING.
1.
DEDICATION.
These to His memory since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my own ideal knight,
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king ;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it ;
Who loved one only and who clave to her "
Her over all whose realms to their last isle,
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone :
We know him now : all narrow jealousies
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction or to that ;
Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
424 Blfrefc GemtBeom
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot : for where is he,
Who dares foreshadow for an only son
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his?
Or how should England dreaming of his sons
Hope more for these than some inheritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her kings to be,
Laborious for her people and her poor
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
Of letters, dear to Science, clear to Art,
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good.
Break not, O woman 's-heart, but still endure ;
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
Remembering all the beauty of that star
Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
One light together, but has past and leaves
The Crown a lonely splendour.
II.
SONGS FROM GARETH AND LYNETTE.
" ' O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.'
" ' O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.'
" ' O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
O birds that warble as the day goes by,
Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me/
" ' O morning star that smilest in the blue,
O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled on me.'
44 * O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
O rainbow with three colours after rain,
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled on me.' "
BlfreD Zennveon. 425
SELECTION FROM ENID AND GERAINT.
Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
His charger trampling many a prickly star
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous.
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern ;
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers ;
And high above a piece of turret stair,
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
Claspt the gray walls with hairy fibred arms,
And suck'd the joining of the stones and look'd
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.
And while he waited in the castle court,
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall,
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
That sings so delicately clear, and make
Conjecture of the plumage and the form ;
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ;
And made him like a man abroad at morn
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend,
Or it may be the labour of his hands,
To think or say, " there is the nightingale,"
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
" Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me."
It chanced the song that Enid sang was one
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang :
" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ;
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
426 Blfrefc Gennyson.
" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
" Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ;
For man is man and master of his fate.
" Turn turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate."
" Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,"
Said Yniol ; " Enter quickly." Entering then,
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
The dusky rafter's many-cobweb'd Hall,
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade ;
And near her, like a blossom vermeil white,
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,
" Here by God's rood is the one maid for me."
IV.
STRAY LINES FROM ENID AND GERAINT.
O purblind race of miserable men,
How many among us at this very hour
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
By taking true for false, or false for true ;
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach
That other, where we see as we are seen !
" Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild,
But keep a touch of sweet civility
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness."
" Because I knew my deeds were known,
I found, instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,
Such fine reserve and noble reticence
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace of tenderest
courtesy."
mtxet> GemtESom 4 2 7
And never yet, since high in Paradise
O'er the four rivers the first roses flew ;
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart and
felt him hers again :
She did not weep,
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
Before the useful trouble of the rain.
v.
SONG FROM MERLIN AND VIVIEN.
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers :
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.
The little rift within the lover's lute
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit,
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
It is not worth the keeping : let it go :
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.
VI.
SONG FROM LANCELOT AND ELAINE.
And in those days she made a little song,
And call'd her song, " The song of Love and Death.
And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing.
" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain ;
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain :
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
" Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be;
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.
428 BlfreD GennESon.
" Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
" I fain would follow love, if that could be ;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me ;
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die."
VII.
STRAY LINES FROM LANCELOT AND
ELAINE.
His honour rooted in dishonour stood.
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
Never yet was noble man but made ignoble talk.
He makes no friend who never made a foe.
Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings.
VIII.
SONGS FROM THE LAST TOURNAMENT.
" ' Free love free field we love but while we may :
The woods are hush'd, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away ;
New leaf, new life the days of frost are o'er :
New life, new love to suit the newest day :
New loves are sweet as those that went before :
Free love free field we love but while we may.'
" Ay, ay, O ay the winds that bend the brier !
A star in heaven, a star within the mere !
Ay, ay, O ay a star was my desire,
And one was far apart, and one was near :
Ay, ay, O ay the winds that bow the grass !
And one was water and one star was fire,
And one will ever shine and one will pass.
Ay, ay, O ay the winds that move the mere."
IX.
SONG FROM GUINEVERE.
" Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and chill !
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now.
BlfreD Genngsom 4 2 9
" No light had we : for that we do repent ;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter now.
" No light : so late : and dark and chill the night !
O let us in, that we may find the light !
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now.
11 Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet ?
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet !
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now."
x.
THE FAREWELL OF ARTHUR.
{From " Guinevere.")
But when the Queen immersed in such a trance,
And moving through the past unconsciously,
Came to that point where first she saw the King
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold,
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him,
" Not like my Lancelot" while she brooded thus
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again,
There rode an armed warrior to the doors.
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran,
Then on a sudden a cry, " the King." She sat
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell,
And grovell'd with her face against the floor ;
There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair
She made her face a darkness from the King ;
And in the darkness heard his armed feet
Pause by her : then came silence, then a voice,
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's
Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed, the King's.
" Liest thou here so low, the child of one
I honour'd, happy, dead before thy shame?
Well is it that no child is born of thee.
The children born of thee are sword and fire,
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts
43 BlfreD Cenngsom
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea ;
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm,
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,
Have everywhere about this land of Christ
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.
And knowest thou now from whence I come from him.
From waging bitter war with him : and he,
That did not shun to smite me in worse way,
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,^
He spared to lift his hand against the King
Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ;
And many more, and all his kith and kin
Clave to him, and abode in his own land.
And many more when Modred raised revolt,
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.
And of this remnant will I leave a part,
True men who love me still, for whom I live,
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd.
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death.
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom.
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,
That I the King should greatly care to live ;
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.
Bear with me for the last time while 1 show,
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd.
For when the Roman left us, and their law
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways
Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed
Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong.
But I was first of all the kings who drew
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
The realms together under me, their Head,
In that fair order of my Table Round,
A glorious company, the flower of men,
To serve as model for the mighty world,
And be the fair beginning of a time.
I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
To reverence the King, as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
Bltrefc Genngson, 43 J
And worship her by years of noble deeds,
Until they won her; for indeed I knew
Of no more subtle master under heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
Not only to keep down the base in man,
But teach high thought, and amiable words
And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
And all this throve until I wedded thee,
Believing, ' lo mine helpmate, one to feel
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.'
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ;
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ;
Then others, following these my mightiest knights,
And drawing foul ensample from fair names,
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite
Of all my heart had destined did obtain,
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong.
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,
To sit once more within his lonely hall,
And miss the wonted number of my knights,
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds
As in the golden days before thy sin.
For which of us, who might be left, could speak
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk
Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,
And I should evermore be vext with thee
In hanging robe or vacant ornament
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy lord,
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.
I am not made of so sljght elements.
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.
I hold that man the worst of public foes
Who either for his own or children's sake,
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house :
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd
Her station, taken everywhere for pure,
She like a new disease, unknown to men,
Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.
43 2 Blfrefc Genngson.
Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns !
Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart
Than thou reseated in thy place of light,
The mockery of my people, and their bane."
He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.
Far off a solitary trumpet blew,
Then waiting by the doors the war horse neigh 'd
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again :
" Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes,
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
To see thee, laying there thy golden head,
My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law,
The doom of treason and the flaming death,
(When first I learned thee hidden here) is past,
The pang which while I weigh'd thy heart with one
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,
Made my tears burn is also past in part.
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I,
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest.
But how to take last leave of all I loved ?
golden hair, with which I used to play
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form,
And beauty such as never woman wore,
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee
1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,
But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the King's.
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh,
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and mine own flesh,
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries
1 I loathe thee : ' yet not less, O Guinevere,
For I was ever virgin save for thee,
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.
Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
Hereafter in that world where all are pure
We two may meet before high God, and thou
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know
I am thine husband not a smaller soul,
BlfreD ftenuESon. 433
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow :
They summon me their King to lead mine hosts
Far down to that great battle in the west,
Where I must strike against the man they call
My sister's son no kin of mine, who leagues
With lords of the White House, heathen, and knights
Traitors and strike him dead, and meet myself
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.
And thou remaining here wilt learn the event ;
But hither shall I never come again,
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more,
Farewell ! "
TO ALFRED TENNYSON.
MY GRANDSON.
Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine,
Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine,
Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine,
O little blossom, O mine, and mine of mine,
Glorious poet who never has writ a line,
Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thine.
May'st thou never be wrong'd by the name that is mine.
RIZPAH.
17.
I.
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea
And Willy's voice in the wind, " O mother, come out to me."
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot
go?
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at
the snow.
II.
We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the
town.
The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the
down,
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of
the chain,
And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched
with the rain.
434 Blfrefc Cenngson.
in.
Any thing fallen again ? nay what was there left to fall ?
I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, I have
hidden them all.
What am I saying ? and what are you? do you come as a spy ?
Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the tree falls so must it
lie.
IV.
Who let her in ? how long has she been ? you what have you
heard ?
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a word.
O to pray with me yes a lady none of their spies
But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken
my eyes.
v.
Ah you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the
night,
The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the
fright ?
I have done it, while you were asleep you were only made for
the day.
I have gathered my baby together and now you may go your
way.
VI.
Nay for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife.
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life.
I kissed my boy in the prison, before he went out to die.
" They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me
a lie.
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a
child
" The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; he was always so
wild
And idle and couldn't be idle my Willy he never could
rest.
The king should have made him a soldier, he would have been
one of his best.
VII.
But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let
him be good ;
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that
he would ;
mttet) Zennyeon. 435
And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was
done
He flung it among his fellows I'll none of it, said my son.
VIII.
I came into the court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told
. them my tale,
God's own truth but they kill'd him, they kill'd him for rob-
bing the mail.
They hang'd him in chains for a show we had always borne
a good name
To be hang'd for a thief and then put away isn't that
enough shame ?
Dust to dust low down let us hide ! but they set him so
high
That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.
God'll pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the
air,
But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him and hang'd
him there.
IX.
And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-
bye ;
They had fastened the door of his cell. " O mother ! " I heard
him cry.
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say,
And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.
Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was
dead,
They seized me and shut me up : they fasten'd me down on
my bed.
" Mother, O mother ! " he call'd in the dark to me year after
year
They beat me for that, they beat me you know that I couldn't
but hear ;
And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still
They let me abroad again but the creatures had worked their
will.
XI.
Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left
I stole them all from the lawyers and you, will you call it a
theft?-
43 6 Blfrefc {reunion.
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had
laughed and had cried
Theirs ? O no ! they are mine not theirs they had moved in
my side.
XII.
Do you think I was scared by the bones ? I kiss'd 'em, I buried
'em all
I can't dig deep, I am old in the night by the churchyard
wall,
My Willy'Il rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment'll
sound,
But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.
XIII.
They would scratch him up they would hang him again on
the cursed tree.
Sin ? O yes we are sinners, I know let all that be,
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good-will toward
men
" Full of compassion and mercy,, the Lord " let me hear it
again ;
" Full of compassion and mercy long suffering." Yes, O yes!
For the lawyer is born but to murder the Saviour lives but to
bless.
Hell never put on the black cap except for the worst of the
worst,
And the first may be last I have heard it in church and the
last may be first.
Suffering O long-suffering yes, as the Lord must know,
Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and
the snow.
XIV.
Heard, have you ? what? they have told you he never repented
his sin.
How do they know it? are they his mother ? axzyou of his kin ?
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs
began ?
The wind that'll wail like a child, and the sea that'll moan
like a man ?
Election, Election, and Reprobation it's all very well.
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.
BlfreD TLennyecm. 437
For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look'd into
my care,
And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know
not where.
XVI.
And if he be lost but to save my soul, that is all your desire :
Do you think I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire ?
I have been with God in the dark go, go, you may leave me
alone
You never have borne a child you are just as hard as a stone.
XVII.
Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean to be kind,
But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the
wind
The snow and sky so bright he used but to call in the dark,
And he calls to me now from the church and not from the
gibbet for hark !
Nay you can hear it yourself it is coming shaking the
walls
Willy the moon's in a cloud Good-night. I am going.
He calls.
DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE.
Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which lived
True life, live on and if the fatal kiss,
Born of true life and love, divorce thee not
From earthly love and life if what we call
The spirit flash not all at once from out
This shadow into Substance then perhaps
The mellow'd murmur of the people's praise
From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm,
Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light,
Ascends to thee ; and this March morn that sees
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal-orange bloom
Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave,
And thine Imperial mother smile again,
May send one ray to thee ! and who can tell
Thou England's England-loving daughter thou
Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag
Borne on thy coffin where is he can swear
43 8 BIfret) XLennyeon.
But that some broken gleam from our poor earth
May touch thee, while remembering thee, I lay
At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds
Of England, and her banner in the East?
DE PROFUNDIS.
THE TWO GREETINGS.
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Where all that was to be in all that was
Whirl'd for a million seons thro' the vast
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Thro' all this changing world of changeless law,
And every phase of ever-heightening life,
And nine long months of antenatal gloom,
With this last moon, this crescent her dark orb
Touch'd with earth's light thou comest, darling boy;
Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ;
Whose face and form are hers and mine in one,
Indissolubly married like our love ;
Live and be happy in thyself, and serve
This mortal race thy kin so well, that men
May bless thee as we bless thee ; O young life,
Breaking with laughter from the dark; and may
The fated channel where thy motion lives
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy course
Along the years of haste and random youth
Unshatter'd, then full-current thro' full man,
And last in kindly curves, with gentlest fall,
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power,
To that last deep where we and thou are still.
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
From that great deep before our world begins
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he will
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
From that true world within the world we see,
Whereof our world is but the bounding shore
Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep,
With this ninth moon that sends the hidden sun
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy.
BlfreD Cenngson. 439
For in the world, which is not ours, They said
" Let us make man " and that which should be man,
From that one light no man can look upon,
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and moons
And all the shadows. O dear Spirit, half-lost
In thine own shadow and this fleshy sign
That thou art thou who wailest being born
And banish'd into mystery, and the pain
Of this divisible-indivisible world
Among the numerable-innumerable
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite space
In finite-infinite time our mortal veil
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite One,
Who made thee unconceivably thyself
Out of His whole World-self and all in all
Live thou, and of the grain and husk, the grape
And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart
From death to death thro' life and life, and find
Nearer and ever nearer Him, who wrought
Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite,
But this main miracle, that thou art thou,
With power on thine own, act and on the world.
SONGS FROM THE ANCIENT SAGE.
How far thro' all the bloom and brake
That nightingale is heard !
What power but the bird's could make
This music in the bird ?
How summer-bright are yonder skies,
And earth as fair in hue !
And yet what sign of aught that lies
Behind the green and blue ?
But man to-day is fancy's fool
As man hath ever been.
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule
Were never heard or seen.
What Power but the Years that make
And break the vase of clay,
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake
The bloom that fades away ?
44 Blfrefc CenttESon.
What rulers but the Days and Hours
That cancel weal with woe,
And wind the front of youth with flowers,
And cap our age with snow ?
But vain the tears for darken'd years
As laughter over wine,
And vain the laughter as the tears,
O brother, mine or thine.
For all that laugh, and all that weep
And all that breathe are one
Slight ripple on the boundless deep,
That moves and all is gone !
Yet wine and laughter friends ! and set
The lamp's delight, and call
For golden music, and forget
The darkness of the pall ?
The years that make the stripling wise
Undo their work again,
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes,
The last and least of men ;
Who clings to earth, and once would dare
Hell-heat or Arctic cold,
And now one breath of cooler air
Would loose him from his hold ;
His winter chills him to the root,
He withers marrow and mind ;
The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit
Is jutting thro' the rind ;
The tiger spasms tear his chest,
The palsy wags his head :
The wife, the sons, who love him best
Would fain that he were dead ;
The griefs by which he once was wrung
Were never worth the while,
The shaft of scorn that once had stung
But wakes a dotard smile.
Bit ret) ftennEson. 441
SELECTIONS FROM LOCKSLEY HALL.
SIXTY YEARS AFTER.
Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy-
tracts ;
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,
Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlew's
call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.
So your happy suit was blasted she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken boyish babble this boy-love of yours with
mine.
I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past ;
Babble, babble ; our old England may go down in babble at
last.
" Curse him ! " curse your fellow-victim ? call him dotard in
your rage ?
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's
age.
Jilted for a wealthier ! wealthier ? yet perhaps she was not
wise ;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet
eyes.
In the hall there hangs a painting Amy's arms about my
neck
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck.
In my life there was a picture, she that clasped my neck had
flown ;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.
Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, earthier make.
Amy lov'd me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child ;
But your Judith but your worldling she had never driven me
wild.
442 BlfreD Genngsom
She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden
ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn in spring.
She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows " till death shall part us " ; she the would-be
widow wife.
She the worldling born of worldlings father, mother be
content,
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in
descent.
Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.
Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his
pride ;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he
died.
Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.
There again 1 stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in
prayer,
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locks-
ley there,
All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled,
Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the
child.
Dead and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble
brow.
Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate
tears,
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawn-
ing years :
Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away.
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.
Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel-
stones,
All his virtues I forgive them black in white above his
bones.
BlfrcD GennBeom 443
Gone the comrade of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe,
Some through age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth
will go.
Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence
ran,
She with all the charms of woman, she with all the breadth of
man,
Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith ; yet so lowly-sweet,
Woman to the inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet,
Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind,
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my
kind.
Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the
coast,
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost.
Gone one sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea ;
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me.
Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone,
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own.
Gone for ever ! Ever ? No for since our dying race began,
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man.
France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all
men's good ;
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with
blood.
Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun
Crown'd with sunlight over darkness from the still unrisen .
sun.
On this day and at this hour,
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley
tower,
444 Blfrefc GennESon,
Here we met, our latest meeting Amy sixty years ago
She and I the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow,
Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her
now
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-death-
less vow. . .
Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the
grass !
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight,and the sun himself will pass.
Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded
gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall to-morrow you, you come so
late.
Wreck'd your train or all but wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ?
a vicious boy !
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you
Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the
Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime ?
There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied
feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the
street.
There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily
bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.
There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted
floor,
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor.
Nay, your pardon, cry your " forward," yours are hope and
youth, but I
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,
Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the
night ;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.
BlfreD GenitBSon. 445
Light the fading- gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the
dawn ?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam with-
drawn.
Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.
Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-
best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest ?
Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will
swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming
curve.
Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold
their own,
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.
Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic
Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion youthful jealousy is a liar.
Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the madness from your
brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in
vain.
Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower
school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
Yonder lies our young sea village Art and Grace are less
and less :
Science grows and Beauty dwindles roofs of slated hicl-
eousness !
There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley
shield,
Till the peasant cow shall butt the " Lion passant " from his
field.
Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing
hence,
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense !
446 Blfrefc aenngeon.
Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled !
All I loved are vanish 'd voices, all my steps are on the dead.'
All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears,
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years.
In this Hostel I remember I repent it o'er his grave
Like a clown by chance he met me I refused the hand he
gave.
From that casement where the trailer mantles all the moulder-
ing bricks
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six
While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving
showers
Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower among the
flowers.
Here to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel
bell !
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, " I have loved thee
well."
Then a peal that shakes the portal one has come to claim his
bride,
Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and started
from my side
Silent echoes ! You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day,
Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the
way,
Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother
men,
Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and
drain'd the fen.
Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it
cannot be?
Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such
as he.
Ere she gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the
game :
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor
name.
Blfrefc Gennyson. 447
Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers
of 111,
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will,
Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine.
Follow Light, and do the Right for man can half control his
doom
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.
Forward, let the stormy moment fly, and mingle with the Past.
I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at
the last.
Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall ;
Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of Locksley
Hall.
DUET FROM BECKET.
First Voice : Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine
overhead ?
Second Voice : No ; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the
cliffs of the land.
First Voice : Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the
deep from the strand,
One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering
red ?
Second Voice : Love that is born of the deep coming up with
. the sun from the sea.
First Voice : Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the
life shall have fled ?
Second Voice : Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up
a life from the dead.
First Voice : Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us
be, let us be.
Second Voice : Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in
it he, it is he,
Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from
the sea.
448 mtteb Genngsom
MARJORY'S SONG FROM BECKET.
Babble in bower
Under the rose !
Bee mustn't buzz,
Whoop but he knows.
Kiss me, little one,
Nobody near !
Grasshopper, grasshopper,
Whoop you can hear.
Kiss in the bower,
Tit on the tree !
Bird mustn't tell,
Whoop he can see.
ROSAMUND'S SONG FROM BECKET.
Rainbow, stay,
Gleam upon gloom,
Bright as my dream,
Rainbow, stay !
But it passes away,
Gloom upon gleam,
Dark as my doom
O rainbow, stay.
SONGS FROM THE PROMISE OF MAY.
The tower lay still in the low sunlight,
The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate,
The maid to her dairy came in from the cow,
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night,
The blossom had open'd on every bough ;
O joy for the promise of May, of May,
O joy for the promise of May.
'^ m ^mp0^mm::^':-
*- : ^:y
1 FAIR SPRING SLIDES HITHER O'ER THE SOU THERN SEA..
Page 449.
Blfrefc Genn6on. 449
ii.
O happy lark, that warblest high
Above thy lowly nest,
O brook, that brawlest merrily by
Thro' fields that once were blest,
O tower spiring to the sky,
O graves in daisies drest,
O Love and Life, how weary am I,
And how I long for rest !
THE PROGRESS OF SPRING.
The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea,
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold
That trembles not to kisses of the bee :
Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves
The spear of ice has wept itself away,
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves
O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.
She comes ! The loosen'd rivulets run ;
The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair ;
Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,
Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare
To breaths of balmier air ;
II.
Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her,
About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays,
Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker,
The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze,
While round her brows a woodland culver flits,
Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks,
And in her open palm a halcyon sits
Patient the secret splendour of the brooks.
Come Spring ! She comes on waste and wood,
On farm and field : but enter also here,
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood,
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere,
Lodge with me all the year !
45 BlfreD Genngson.
in.
Once more a downy drift against the brakes,
Self-darken'd in the sky, descending slow !
But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes
Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow.
These will thine eyes not brook in forest-paths,
On their perpetual pine, nor round the beech ;
They fuse themselves to little spicy baths,
Solved in the tender blushes of the peach ;
They lose themselves and die
On that new life that gems the hawthorn line ;
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by,
And out once more in varnish'd glory shine -
Thy stars of celandine.
IV.
She floats across the hamlet. Heaven lours,
But in the tearful splendour of her smiles
I see the slowly-thickening chestnut towers
Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles.
Now past her feet the swallow circling flies,
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand ;
Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes,
I hear a charm of song thro' all the land.
Come, Spring ! She comes, and Earth is glad
To roll her North below thy deepening dome,
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad,
And these low bushes dip their twigs in foam,
Make all true hearths thy home.
v.
Across my garden ! and the thicket stirs,
The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets,
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs,
The starling claps his tiny castanets.
Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove,
And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew,
The kingcup fills her footprint, and above
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue.
Hail ample presence of a Queen,
Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay,
Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green,
Flies back in fragrant breezes to display
A tunic white as May !
Bit reD XLennveon. 45 T
She whispers, " From the South I bring you balm,
For on a tropic mountain was I born,
While some dark dweller by the coco-palm
Watch'd my far meadow zoned with airy morn;
From under rose a muffled moan of floods ;
I sat beneath a solitude of snow ;
There no one came, the turf was fresh, the woods
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales below.
I saw beyond their silent tops
The steaming marshes of the scarlet cranes,
The slant seas leaning on the mangrove copse,
And summer basking in the sultry plains
About a land of canes ;
VII.
" Then from my vapour-girdle soaring forth
I scaled the buoyant highway of the birds,
And drank the dews and drizzle of the North,
That I might mix with men, and hear their words
On pathway'd plains ; for while my hand exults
Within the bloodless heart of lowly flowers
To work old laws of Love to fresh results,
Thro' manifold effect of simple powers
I too would teach the man
Beyond the darker hour to see the bright,
That his fresh life may close as it began,
The still-fulfilling promise of a light
Narrowing the bounds of night."
VIII.
So wed thee with my soul, that I may mark
The coming year's great good and varied ills,
And new developments, whatever spark
Be struck from out the clash of warring wills ;
Or whether, since our nature cannot rest,
The smoke of war's volcano burst again
From hoary deeps that belt the changeful West,
Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of men ;
Or should those fail, that hold the helm,
While the long day of knowledge grows and warms,
And in the heart of this most ancient realm
A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms
Sounding " To arms ! to arms ! "
45 2 BltreD GenrtEsom
IX.
A simpler, saner lesson might he learn
Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Spring.
Thy leaves possess the season in their turn,
And in their time thy warblers rise on wing.
How surely glidest thou from March to May,
And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind,
Thy scope of operation, day by day,
Larger and fuller, like the human mind !
Thy warmths from bud to bud
Accomplish that blind model in the seed,
And men have hopes, which race the restless blood
That after many changes may succeed
Life, which is Life indeed.
MERLIN AND THE GLEAM.
young Mariner,
You from the haven
Under the sea-cliff,
You that are watching
The gray Magician
With eyes of wonder,
1 am Merlin,
And / am dying,
/am Merlin
Who follow The Gleam.
II.
Mighty the Wizard
Who found me at sunrise
Sleeping, and woke me
And learn 'd me Magic!
Great the Master,
And sweet the Magic,
When over the valley,
In early summers,
Over the mountain,
On human faces,
And all around me,
Moving to melody,
Floated The Gleam.
BlfreD Genngson. 453
in.
Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it,
A barbarous people,
Blind to the magic,
And deaf to the melody,
Snarl'd at and cursed me.
A demon vext me,
The light retreated,
The landskip darken'd,
The melody deaden 'd,
The Master whisper'd
44 Follow The Gleam,"
IV.
Then to the melody,
Over a wilderness
Gliding, and glancing at
Elf of the woodland,
Gnome of the cavern,
Griffin and Giant,
And dancing of fairies
In desolate hollows,
And wraiths of the mountain,
And rolling of dragons
By warble of water,
Or cataract music
Of falling torrents,
Flitted The Gleam.
v.
Down from the mountain
And over the level,
And streaming and shining on
Silent river,
Silvery willow,
Pasture and ploughland,
Innocent maidens,
Garrulous children,
Homestead and harvest,
Reaper and gleaner,
And rough-ruddy faces
Of lowly labour,
Slided The Gleam
454 Bltrefc GemtE6on.
VI.
Then, with a melody
Stronger and statelier,
Led me at length
To the city and palace
Of Arthur the king ;
Touch 'd at the golden
Cross of the churches,
Flash'd on the Tournament,
Flicker'd and bicker'd
From helmet to helmet,
And last on the forehead
Of Arthur the blameless
Rested The Gleam.
VII.
Clouds and darkness
Closed upon Camelot ;
Arthur had vanish'd
I knew not whither,
The king who loved me,
And cannot die ;
For out of the darkness
Silent and slowly
The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry
glimmer
On icy fallow
And faded forest,
Drew to the valley
Named of the shadow,
And slowly brightening
Out of the glimmer,
And slowly moving again to a melody
Yearningly tender,
Fell on the shadow,
No longer a shadow,
But clothed with The Gleam.
VIII.
And broader and brighter
The Gleam flying onward,
Wed to the melody,
Sang thro' the world ;
And slower and fainter,
Old and weary,
Blfre> aenngson. 455
But eager to follow,
I saw, whenever
In passing it glanced upon
Hamlet or city,
That under the Crosses
The dead man's garden,
The mortal hillock,
Would break into blossom ;
And so to the land's
Last limit I came
And can no longer,
But die rejoicing,
For thro' the Magic
Of Him the Mighty,
Who taught me in childhood,
There on the border
Of boundless Ocean,
And all but in Heaven
Hovers The Gleam.
IX.
Not of the sunlight/
Not of the moonlight,
Not of the starlight !
O young Mariner,
Down to the haven,
Call your companions,
Launch your vessel,
And crowd your canvas,
And, ere it vanishes
Over the margin,
After it, follow it,
Follow The Gleam.
PARNASSUS.
Exegi monumentum . . .
Quod non . . .
Possit diruere . . .
. . . innumerabilis
Annorum series et fuga temporum. Horace.
I.
What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred fountain ?
Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the
mountain,
And over the flight of the Ages ! O Goddesses, help me up
thither !
45 6 Blfret) Genngeon.
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of Cassar, but mine would not
wither.
Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it,
And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from
the summit,
Sounding for ever and ever thro' Earth and her listening
nations,
And mixt with the great Sphere-music of stars and of constel-
lations.
What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain,
Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain ?
On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and
heightening ;
Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted by more than lightning!
Look, in their deep double shadow the crown 'd ones all disap-
pearing !
Sing like a bird and be happy, nor hope for a deathless hearing!
" Sounding for ever and ever? " pass on ! the sight confuses
These are Astronomy and Geology, terrible Muses !
HI.
If the lips were touch'd with fire from off a pure Pierian altar,
Tho' their music here be mortal need the singer greatly care?
Other songs for other worlds ! the fire within him would not
falter ;
Let the golden Iliad vanish, Homer here is Homer there.
FAR FAR-AWAY.
(FOR MUSIC.)
What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew
As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue,
Far far away ?
What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells
Far far away.
What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy,
Far far away ?
2Ufrefc Cenngsom 457
A whisper from his dawn of life ? a breath
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death
Far far away ?
Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates of Birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,
Far far away ?
What charm in words, a charm no words could give ?
O dying words, can Music make you live
Far far away ?
BEAUTIFUL CITY.
Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,
O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal
humanity,
How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution
Roll'd again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity !
rl
THE ROSES ON THE TERRACE.
ROSE, on this terrace fifty years ago,
When I was in my June, you in your May,
Two words, " My Rose," set all your face aglow,
And now that I am white, and you are gray,
That blush of fifty years ago, my dear,
Blooms in the Past, but close to me to-day
As this red rose, which on our terrace here
Glows in the blue of fifty miles away.
TO ONE WHO RAN DOWN THE ENGLISH.
You make our faults too gross, and thence maintain
Our darker future. May your fears be vain !
At times the small black fly upon the pane
May seem the black ox of the distant plain.
THE SNOWDROP.
Many, many welcomes
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
45 8 BlfreO GennE6om
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes
February fair-maid !
THE THROSTLE.
" Summer is coming, summer is coming.
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"
Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it as gladly.
" New, new, new, new ! " Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly ?
" Love again, song again, nest again, young again, 1
Never a prophet so crazy !
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See, there is hardly a daisy.
" Here again, here, here, here, happy year ! "
O warble unchidden, unbidden !
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
And all the winters are hidden.
THE OAK.
Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold ;
Summer-rich
Then ; and then
Autumn-changed,
Soberer-hued
Gold again.
.*#/<
\
" COMING IN THE COLD TIME
PROPHET OF THE GAY TIME." Page 458.
BlfreD Genngson. 459
All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.
IN MEMORIAM.
W. G. WARD.
Farewell, whose like on earth I shall not find,
Whose Faith and Work were bells of full accord,
My friend, the most unworldly of mankind,
Most generous of all Ultramontanes, Ward,
How subtle at tierce and quart of mind with mind,
How loyal in the following of thy Lord !
CROSSING THE BAR.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me !
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark !
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark ;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
THE END.
U DAY USE
RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED
LOAN DEPT.
This book is due on the last date stamped below, or
on the date to which renewed.
Renewed books are subject to immediate recall.
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