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ENGLAND'S TRUST, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 LORD JOHN MANNERS. /S^7^Z::^^^t 
 
 // 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR J. G. F. & J. RIVINGTON, 
 
 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, 
 
 AND WATERLOO PLACE, PALL MALL. 
 
 ______ ■ 
 
 1841. 
 
LONDON : 
 GILBERT & RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, 
 
 ST. john's> square. 
 

 TO THE 
 
 HON. GEORGE PERCY SYDNEY SMYTHE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME, 
 
 PARVUM NON PARV^ PIGNUS AMICITI^, 
 
 MOST AFFECTIONATELY AND ADMIRINGLY 
 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 802311 
 
^v^ 
 
 CONTENTS. ^'j^- 
 
 ■ . ^ ^^ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 England's Trust. 1 1 
 
 II. The Carlist.— An Episode 7 
 
 III 14 
 
 IV 29 
 
 Notes to England's Trust * 43 
 
 Thoughts in Sickness 47 
 
 From the third Elegy of Ovid's Art of Love 52^ ': ^ 
 
 Stanzas 54Jji 
 
 A Night-Storm 56 
 
 Reserve in Friendship 60 'u^ 
 
 Windermere 61 -" ^T^ 
 
 Hope , 64 
 
 King Charles the Martyr 65 V^ 
 
 Leaving Cambridge. To G. S. S 66 
 
 The Old Year. Written in Neville's Court, Trinity College, 
 
 on New Year's Eve, 1838 67 
 
 The Request. To F. W. F 76 
 
 A Day-Dream 71 
 
 Lady! 'tis not 74 
 
 Childhood's Spring. To F. W. F 75 
 
 April's Lesson. To F. W. F 78 
 
 A Calm at Sea i 80 
 
 Whit- Tuesday 82 
 
 The Preacher I ;'. 84 
 
 
 \j^ -J^ ^^ 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Meeting. To G. S. S 86 
 
 Signs of the Times 89 
 
 ^^ViTo the Lord Lyttelton. November, 1840 90 
 
 ^.. "^ / Lord Derwentwater's War Song 91 
 
 jfc ^ William of Nassau 94 
 
 )->j^ ^ Christmas 95 
 
 ^^'Thorow." 98 
 
 -^W^'"A Vision 100 
 
 Easter 104 
 
 Note to Miscellaneous Poems 107 
 
 The Tuilleries' Gardens. June 9, 1839 109 
 
 St. Michael's Vault. [Bourdeaux.] 116 
 
 The Heights near St. Sebastian 117 
 
 TThe Oak of Guernica. September, 1834 119 
 
 Vittoria. The Night of the 19th of July, 1839 120 
 
 Carlos Quinto. Oiiate 121 
 
 The Outcast.. 122 
 
 . Farewell to Spain. August 3, 1839 124 
 
 X Tooth-ache in the French Pyrenees 128 
 
 The Park at Pau. August 23, 1839. To F. W. F 130 
 
 The Castle of St. Mary, at Luz 131 
 
 . -^Avignon. 5^- J^^^^fntr:^^ 132 
 
 ^' Geneva.....^ 135 
 
 J r«^A Field above Lausanne 137 
 
 %^Y Lucerne. The Lion of the 10th of August, 1791 140 
 
 X^r Florence by Night 141 
 
 ;^ >~^ Vallambrosa 142 
 
 ^v^^.- Rome 145 
 
 ^ The Monument of the Stuarts in St. Peter's 146 
 
 The Same 147 
 
 The Return to England. December 10, 1839 149 
 
 L'Envoi 150 
 
 Notes to Memorials of other Lands 153 
 
^nqlantf*^ ©tust 
 
 " In returning and rest shall ye be saved ; in quietness 
 and in confidence shall be your strength." — Isa. xxx. 15. 
 
I. 
 
 '^ In returning and rest shall ye be saved ; in quietnesi 
 and in confidence shall be your strength." — Isa. xxx. 15. 
 
 The sun is slowly sinking, and the day 
 In changeful tints fades opal-like away ; 
 The Earth melts into Heaven, and the breeze 
 Scarce hymns the vespers *mid the rustling trees. 
 While all illumined by the flood of light. 
 Wood, hill, and valley burst upon the sight ; 
 And many an inland cove and sheltered nook. 
 Sequestered dingle, and meandering brook, 
 That *scaped perchance the eye in mid-day's glare, 
 Now lie revealed in fairy colours there ; 
 And stem and black before my raptured eyes, 
 St. Alban's hallowed walls in light arise. 
 
 B 
 
2 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Ye holy towers ! that, bathed in glory, stand 
 Like Guardian Angels of this Christian land ; 
 From your old cloisters went in triumph forth 
 The voice that preached salvation to the North. 
 A thousand years since then, in strife and storm. 
 Have swept unheeded o'er your sacred form. 
 And now in varied tints the sunbeams fall. 
 On mouldering arch and desecrated wall ; 
 Till Faith restores the glories of your prime. 
 And hails ye victors of decay and time I 
 Oh ! who in such an hour but loves to soar 
 On Memory's wing to thoughts and dreams of 
 
 yore. 
 To hold sweet converse with the well-loved dead. 
 And on the lands in youth he trod, to tread ; 
 To feel old times return, and once again 
 Gay health and hope invigorate each vein ? 
 Sweet dreams, sweet thoughts ! and such are mine 
 
 the while 
 I gaze on yon old consecrated pile. 
 Ye holy towers ! the angels guard your walls 
 With blessed ward — those deathless seneschals ; 
 
Beneath your shade, in days of haste and toil, 
 'Mid struggHng factions, and through parties' broil. 
 When thoughtful men half-scared begin to view 
 In the fierce throes of changings ever-new, 
 'Mid hopes and fears in wild confusion hurled, ^ 
 Signs of the coming evening of the world ; — J 
 I love to snatch a contemplative hour 
 From vain pursuit of pleasure, fame, or power. 
 And from the ever- changing clouds of life. 
 Now bright in sunshine, and now dark in strife ; 
 Lured by the solemn quiet of this shrine. 
 Its sacred spells, and influence divine ; 
 Turn my tired gaze to some time-hallowed page ^ 
 That sadly tells us of a nobler age, ^ 
 
 When men of stalwart hearts and steadfast faith. 
 Shrunk from dishonour rather than from death ; 
 When to great minds obedience did not seem 
 A slave's condition, or a bigot's dream ; 
 When Mother- Church her richest stores displayed, ^ 
 And Sister- State on her behalf arrayed 
 The tempered majesty of sacred law. 
 And loved to reason, but at times could awe ; 
 B 2 
 
4 ENGLAND^S TRUST, 
 
 When kings were taught to feel the dreadful weight 
 Of power derived from One than kings more great. 
 And learned with reverence to wield the rod 
 They deemed entrusted to their hand by God. 
 
 Blest times ! thrice blest, tho' treason's rebel-horde 
 Brought to the block a Strafford and a Laud, 
 Whom pitying Time had spared, tho' long his own. 
 And stained with gore the violated throne. 
 Still are those times to me most justly dear, 
 Tho' gentle Pity drops th' admiring tear ; 
 Still do I love to learn from those who died 
 Rebellion's victims and their country's pride. 
 How to despise bold Reason's ceaseless 4in, 
 And reign omnipotent myself within. 
 Fast on the rock that has for agS stood 
 The tempest's howling, and the ocean's flood. 
 My faith in my dear Mother- Church I fix, 
 And scorn Religion's modern politics. 
 What, tho' no more her awful lightnings shine 
 To guide the wanderer to her sacred shrine ; 
 Tho' statesmen deem they may with safety spoil 
 Those courts that prove their fathers' holier toil ; 
 
While, sacrilege their path to future fame, 
 They glory in the deeds that stamp their shame, 
 Deep in that Church what treasures buried lie 
 Unseen, unlocked for, by the careless eye ! 
 How gleam in each old half- forgotten rite 
 The magic rays of Apostolic light ! 
 Oh I would her priests but dare to raise on high 
 Her glorious banner to the storm-rent sky. 
 Be bold to plead their Mother's holy cause. 
 Nor shrink from one least tittle of her laws. 
 Then might our England justly hope to be 
 What she was once — the faithful and the free : 
 Then might slie, with her meteor- flag unfurled. 
 Despise the threatenings of a banded world ! 
 
 What ! must wefn6w confess that all in vain 
 Have years of toil, reproach, unrest, and pain, 
 I Witnessed our ceaseless struggles to restore 
 Back to the Church her purity of yore ? 
 Must we confess that Peace and Oneness fled, 
 And Strife and Schism triumphed in their stead ; 
 When the lascivious tyrant for a whim 
 Bade Faith resume her long discarded trim, 
 
And in a moment's fit of heady rage 
 
 Burst the strong fetters of a fretful age ? 
 
 In truth, to see the countless sects that rend 
 
 Our once united isle from end to end. 
 
 To hear their jarring and discordant sounds, 
 
 To mark the blasphemy that scorns all bounds. 
 
 The hollow charity that fain would see 
 
 'Twixt truth and falsehood no diversity. 
 
 Well might stout hearts admit a craven fear. 
 
 And read in wrath God's judgment graven here. 
 
 And if e'en now one ray of hope appears. 
 
 Like maiden's smile all brightening through her tears, 
 
 s 'Tis that our sons may from experience know 
 
 --What bitter streams from modern fountains flow ; 
 
 ■ And turn their steps, e'er 'tis too late to turn, 
 
 ' To ancient Faith's yet unforgotten urn. 
 
II. 
 
 [the CARLIST. AN EPISODE.] 
 
 With these sad notes the burthen of my song, 
 Wearied of seeing right succumb to wrong, 
 I gladly left old England's shores to see 
 A loyal people struggling to be free, 
 And turned to where pale chivalry possessed 
 Her latest stronghold in the recreant West. 
 Not then had treason worked its baleful end ; 
 Each man we met was brother, comrade, friend ; 
 Each chief received with open heart and hand 
 The brother-pilgrims from Britannia's strand. 
 While Biscay's heights, and plains of rich Navarre, 
 Echoed with all the trumpet-tones of war. 
 
 Yes ! I have roamed among those mountains wild, 
 And listened to the song of freedom's child. 
 
8 England's trust. 
 
 Have marked the smile still struggling through the 
 
 tears. 
 That spoke of hope deferred for wearying years. 
 Have heard the matron's whispered prayer for 
 
 peace. 
 From six long years of war the glad release ; 
 Then watched the flashing of her kindling eye, 
 Proclaim that peace must come by victory. 
 No mean submission may her blessings bring — 
 ** Peace, if he triumph — but if not — the king !" 
 Have seen the peasant's desolated hearth, 
 That marks too well the fierce destroyer's path ; 
 Inhaled the smoke, that curling from the plain. 
 Told the poor husbandman his toils were vain ; 
 Then blushed to think that Britons held the brand, 
 And dealt destruction round a friendly land ; 
 And felt what never Briton felt before — 
 A pang of shame that such a name I bore. 
 There was a time when Spain rejoiced to hear 
 That name, to Spaniards then most justly dear, 
 When all her laurels were brought forth to be 
 Bound on the brows of those that set her free. 
 
ENGLAND S TRUST. 9 
 
 Then did a nation's voice her thanks proclaim. 
 
 And hail with rapture our Vittoria's name ! 
 
 But now how changed ! on fair Cantabria's shore 
 
 The shout of welcome is upraised no more ; 
 
 And in the sense of present wrongs forgot, 
 
 Our past good services avail us not. 
 
 'Tis but poor comfort to the hapless swain. 
 
 To know that they who devastate the plain 
 
 Are sons or brothers — nay, the very men 
 
 Who freed that plain from hated foemen then. 
 
 Shall he show mercy or submit, because 
 
 They talk to him of freedom and of laws. 
 
 Or by his smouldering homestead's lurid blaze. 
 
 Thank them for what they did in other days ? 
 
 Oh ! with what joy we rose e'er morning's dawn 
 Had dried the summer- dewdrops on the lawn. 
 And, our sole guard the lusty muleteer, 
 (Where all were friends, small cause had we for fear,) 
 Wended our way through Bilboa's fertile plain. 
 To where, entrenched upon his mountain-chain. 
 Dreaded Maroto, like a stag at bay. 
 Barred, the' o'ernumbered, the vain boaster's way. 
 
10 ENGLAND S TRUST. 
 
 Full well I marked that chieftain's haughty brow. 
 His eagle-eye, that forced the servile bow. 
 Which trembling satellites knew well t' accord 
 To him, their mighty, unforgiving lord ; 
 But little recked we that beneath his smile, 
 E'en then lurked coward treason's deadliest wile. 
 That one short month should hear his dastard name 
 Proverbed as emblem of disgrace and shame. 
 
 Turn we from him ; across Azanza's height 
 Lay the young victor of Larraga's fight. 
 Well might his noble mien and flashing eye. 
 His fair broad brow, and shape of symmetry, 
 Recal to Memory's eye the forms that gleam 
 "in knightly Spain's most dear, chivalric dream ; 
 Bright in his soul blazed honor's ancient flame. 
 And mournful glory smiles at Elio's name ! 
 
 Nor must my wandering Muse forget to sing 
 The modest virtues of that mountain -king. 
 If gentle courage, that could nerve a heart 
 By nature soft, to act so stern a part, 
 And dare the dangers of that long-fought fight. 
 Simply because he deemed it just and right ; 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 11 
 
 If strictest honour, scorning art and wile. 
 That shows a soul in which exists no guile ; 
 If holiest piety, on which in vain 
 Defeated malice strove to fix a stain ; 
 If winning courtesy, and kingly pride 
 (Ever in Bourbon's princely sons allied,) 
 May warm a generous heart, I then may say 
 With Biscay's grateful sons, " Viva el Rey !" 
 But all, alas ! was vain : not Elio's fire. 
 Nor his, the hero of Morella's ireS 
 Not all the gentler virtues of the king, 
 Nor her's — the partner of his sufiering , 
 Not old Eguia's faithful heart and head, 
 Nor e'en the memories of the slaughtered dead. 
 Could against homesprung treachery prevail ; 
 (That last resource when arms and courage fail ;) 
 So now, on sad Bergara's hateful field. 
 Compelled at last, but not to foes, to yield. 
 The world saw Carlos lay his falchion down. 
 Give up the struggle, and concede his crown. 
 
 1 Raymon Cabrera, Count of Morella. 
 
12 
 
 Such were the tidings we were doomed to hear, 
 E'er one short month had closed its sad career ; 
 And e'er we landed on our native strand, 
 A low-born hireling ruled that hapless land. 
 Such are the fruits that Constitutions bring, 
 •*A tyrant-army, and a soldier-king ! 
 Alas ! for her^ who loved, if rumours tell 
 Their tale aright, not wisely, but too well. 
 Was it for this she left soft Naples' bay, 
 To rule a dotard, and his sceptre sway ? 
 Was it for this, 'midst Love's alluring charms, 
 She bore to listen to dread War's alarms. 
 And played for years that hard-learnt double part, 
 A queen in deed, a woman in her heart ? 
 Oh Retribution ! swift thine arrows fly. 
 As forked Hghtnings through the midnight sky : 
 Crushed by their weight, the guilty victor owns 
 Thy might triumphant against rebel thrones ! 
 
 But English hopes, and English fears, again 
 Glow in my bosom, and inspire my strain : 
 
 ^ The ex-queen regent Maria Christina. 
 
13 
 
 To fallen worth her grateful tribute paid. 
 
 To English themes returns the Aonian maid. 
 
 Albeit, alas ! to me do not belong 
 
 The sounding numbers of heroic song, 
 
 A plaintive, melancholy note is mine. 
 
 Such as was wont to float around the shrine 
 
 In days when faith, through ignorance, could hear 
 
 The voice divine, and own a Godhead near. 
 
III. 
 
 As some Spring-flower, that long beneath the earth 
 In patience bides the fated hour of birth. 
 Then, gently budding, lifts its tender head. 
 While, slowly opening, all its beauties spread ; 
 Called by the balmy breath of Spring, it owns 
 The call, and opens at its dulcet tones ; — 
 So now the purer faith of purer days 
 Peeps through the mould that hides the good old ways. 
 And struggling through this chilling age's gloom. 
 Gives fairest presage of a glorious bloom. 
 Limned by such hopes, each ancient trace appears 
 Mirrored distinctly in the glass of years ; 
 The frank simplicity, and words of truth ; 
 The reverence paid to age from modest youth ; 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 15 
 
 The hospitality that never knew a^ ^/ 
 
 A pilgrim-guest in vain for shelter sue ; fV I 
 
 The ready arm, that ne'er withheld the blow 
 
 When injured woman wept in silent woe ; 
 
 The gentle courtesy, that aye could tame 
 
 The fiercest courage of a heart of flame. 
 
 And bid the hero, in his lady's bower. 
 
 Forget his prowess 'neath her beauty's power ; 
 
 The lowly faith, that only cared to prove 
 
 Her deep intensity by deeds of love. 
 
 And scorned to leave enrolled to other days 
 
 Her children's names for ostentation's praise ; 
 
 The daily beadsman waiting for his bread. 
 
 Where good and bad were all, unquestioned, fed. 
 
 For then it was not to our rulers known 
 
 That God was mindful of the first alone ; 
 
 The monks still practised their dear Lord's command. 
 
 And rained their charity throughout the land. 
 
 Content to know that He who made them all. 
 
 Made his sun gleam alike on great and small. 
 
 And sent his rain, creation's dewy birth. 
 
 On just and unjust, to refresh the earth : 
 
16 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Then did each high hereditary lord 
 
 Sit at the head of his own princely board. 
 
 Where sate the stranger, and the menial crew. 
 
 Who owed him fealty and affection too ; 
 
 But if his wayward temper ill could brook 
 
 Or hasty answer, or irreverent look, — 
 
 If lust, or pride, or hatred moved his breast, 
 
 God's priest was there to do his lord's behest. 
 
 And haughtiest kings have stooped to kiss the rod 
 
 Wielded by some poor minister of God. 
 
 Each knew his place — king, peasant, peer, or priest- 
 
 The greatest owned connexion with the least ; 
 
 From rank to rank the generous feeling ran, 
 
 I And linked society as man to man. 
 
 "^ Gone are those days, and gone the ties that then 
 Bound peers and gentry to their fellow men. 
 
 ■^ Now, in their place, behold the modern slave, 
 
 "^ Doomed, from the very cradle to the grave. 
 To tread his lonely path of care and toil ; 
 Bound, in sad truth, and bowed down to the soil. 
 He dies, and leaves his sons their heritage — 
 
 V Work for their prime, the workhouse for their age. 
 
england'^s trust. 17 
 
 Such is the boon that Independence brings, ^ 
 That most deceitful of all tempting things. 
 Hail, Independence ! who can number all 
 The blessings rare that answer to thy call. 
 And by a stroke of thy enchanter's wand. 
 Enrich each peasant's hut throughout the land ? 
 Lured by thy light, the working classes own 
 No sickly love for Church, or State, or Throne : 
 Proud of his wit, and wise in his conceit, 
 Th' enlightened booby feels the generous heat ; 
 Disdains to own dependence on the great. 
 And learns to murmur at his low estate. f 
 
 But Justice bids the lash of blame to fall 
 On rich and poor, on great as well as small. 
 Oh ! would some noble dare again to raise 
 The feudal banner of forgotten days. 
 And live despising slander's harmless hate. 
 The potent ruler of his petty state ! 
 Then would the diflferent classes once again >/ 
 Feel the kind pressure of the social chain, ^ 
 And in their mutual wants and hopes confess 
 How close allied the little to the less. 
 
 c 
 
18 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Oh ! that the Church would bid the helpless know 
 In Her the sure reliever of their woe. 
 And vindicate the claim She erst possessed. 
 The care of all the lowly and oppressed ! (1) 
 
 On furthest ocean's heaving breast meanwhile 
 Ride the sea-castles of our merchant- isle. 
 From China's wall, to Lapland's snowy fields. 
 Each land her harvest to our reapers yields. 
 Wealth gilds our towns, and manufacture reigns 
 O'er what but now were nature's green domains. 
 Alas ! no massive tower, no gorgeous fane 
 Proclaims Religion's undisputed reign. 
 V Debased and low our modern churches lie. 
 
 Nor strike at once the wandering stranger's eye ; 
 
 To ease and comfort all our wealth is given, 
 
 " What we can spare we will devote to Heaven." 
 
 Far otherwise in happier days of old 
 
 Thought England's warrior-kings, and barons bold, 
 
 Then as each town or hamlet rose from earth, 
 
 The Church was there to consecrate its birth ; 
 
 And like a mother from her towers on high 
 
 Watched o'er her infant child with sleepless eye ! 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. !& 
 
 Go I stand in yon old Abbey's gloomy aisle 
 And mark the glories of that wondrous pile. 
 Gaze through the summer evening's solemn gloom 
 On muUioned arch, low crypt, and marble tomb. 
 The shattered window's melancholy pride 
 Through which the sunset's mitigated tide 
 Of light flows gently in ; the fretted oak 
 That felt the Puritan despoiler's stroke. 
 In days when each old lovely, holy thing 
 Fell with the fall of England's Church and King, — 
 And own the spirit of the ancient time 
 Borne on those bells' sad solemn evening chime ! 
 Then some new stuccoed chapel's order view. 
 The built-up altar, and the cushioned pew. 
 The midway galleries that just supply 
 The space required for slighted symmetry. 
 Whence high-born dames with fashionable airs 
 May hear the clergyman preach out the prayers. 
 And at their ease applaud his gentle style 
 At once so striking, and so soft the while. 
 And watch the beadle when the service's o'er 
 Turn out the loiterers, and lock the door. 
 c2 
 
20 England's trust. 
 
 Or if escaped the dangers of old age, 
 The wrath of bigots, and reforming rage, 
 The grey old Church still stands, and still invites 
 Her sons to join in solemn weekly rites, 
 Six days no worshipper may press the floor, 
 Sunday alone is given to the poor : 
 And yet, methinks, if they who early rise 
 Paid in the Church their morning sacrifice, 
 Few would regret that time as thrown away 
 When down the western sky declines the day ; 
 The sturdy labourer would not earn the less 
 For serving Him who hath the power to bless ; 
 The pale mechanic would not paler grow 
 For owning workmanship divine below. 
 
 Deign on rich Arno's vale to turn thine eyes. 
 And mark her sons industrious, strong, and wise. 
 Behold the vineyards telling of their toil, 
 The luscious olives, and the cultured soil ; 
 The lovely maiden shrinks not from her part. 
 But helps her father with her ready art ; 
 The jocund urchin adds his little aid. 
 And breaks the clods with huge paternal spade. 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 21 
 
 Plenty and peace their happy labours crown : 
 
 (Ah ! sight uncommon in our wealthiest town !) 
 
 Yet as each high and holy day comes round. 
 
 The poorest peasant in the Church is found. 
 
 Nor deigns to reckon up devotion's cost, 
 
 Nor deems the day unprofitably lost. 
 
 But now the summer day's long course is run, 
 
 Fair Florence glitters in the setting sun. 
 
 The vesper bells are hushed, the muttered prayer 
 
 Floats up to heaven on the evening air. 
 
 And now the merry dance, and gladsome lay 
 
 Winds up with mirth their Christian holyday. 
 
 Lo ! in the land where Tuscan Virgil sung, 
 
 O'er which old fame her brightest glory flung, 
 
 Land rich in old traditionary lore. 
 
 Still are her children what they were of yore ; 
 
 Still does the moralist delight to trace 
 
 Their gentle sternness, and their native grace. 
 
 And by fair Arno's banks does virtue hold 
 
 Her honoured court, as in the days of old. 
 
 Albeit a gentler spirit hovers o'er 
 
 Their temples' shrines, than hovered there of yore. 
 
22 
 
 And a far holier faith now triumphs there. 
 Seeking the One true God with praise and prayer. 
 
 What, though a purer polish grace the gem 
 Tliat shines refulgent in our diadem ? 
 What, tho' excess of faith commands them see, 
 Where we may not, a present Deity ? 
 Still are our hopes, our fears, our creeds the same. 
 Still do we triumph in our world-wide name ; 
 And each true Christian fondly hopes to see 
 The Holy Church once more at unity. 
 Meanwhile, perchance more happiness is there, 
 Tho' clouds of incense load the " tainted" air. 
 Than in some murky English street or lane, 
 "Where science turns man's energies to gain. 
 Go ! mark the squalid form, the narrow brow. 
 All fear, all hope concentrated in '* now ;" 
 The constant ceaseless round of stunning care. 
 That knows no motive save of fixed despair ; 
 And then midst poverty, toil, want, unrest. 
 Declare this nation 'bove its fellows blest ! 
 
 Yet grant 'tis all too sadly true, but whence 
 Shall spring again our peace and innocence ? 
 
ENGLAND S TRUST. 23 
 
 Where is the Master-spirit, that shall dare 
 Point out a mean, and say, " Behold it there ?" 
 Must our great towns in hideous ruins fall. 
 And sweep away wealth, industry, and all ? 
 Must the slow oxen drag the unconscious plough 
 O'er land, where countless houses stood but now, 
 While her gold tresses laughing Ceres waves 
 O'er buried cities, and their millions* graves ? 
 Say, patriot heart, is this thy sober plan, 
 To give back virtue and repose to man ? 
 No ! though without a murmur 1 could see 
 Our wealth diminish as our follies flee. 
 Though I could bear to view our crowded towns 
 Sink into hamlets, or unpeopled downs ; 
 Not ours the part ! By sad experience taught 
 To shun the ills our selfishness has wrought, 
 'Tis ours in uncomplaining faith to bend 
 Beneath the storms that God thinks fit to send. 
 And own the chastisement in mercy given. 
 For sins that cried aloud from earth to heaven. 
 Must we then hearken to the furious cry J 
 Of those who clamour for *' equality ?" 
 
24 
 
 Have not the people learnt how vain the trust 
 On props like that which crumble into dust ? 
 Are the gradations that have marked our race. 
 Since God first stamped His likeness on its face, 
 Gradations hallowed by a thousand ties. 
 Of faith and love, and holiest sympathies, 
 Seen in the Patriarch's rule, the Judge's sway. 
 When God himself was Israel's present stay. 
 Now in the old world's dotage to be cast 
 As weak pretences to the howling blast ? 
 No ! by the names inscribed in History's page. 
 Names that are England's noblest heritage, 
 Names that shall live for yet unnumbered years. 
 Shrined in our hearts with Crecy and Poictiers, 
 '^ Let wealth and commerce, laws and learning die. 
 But leave us still our old Nobility ! 
 
 " But," cries the warm and eager friend of man, 
 *' 'Tis vain our various wants and ills to scan. 
 Unless with dauntless hand and fearless eye 
 You straight can fix on some strong remedy ; 
 No more will gentle medicines soothe our pain. 
 Your long-tried lenitives are worse than vain. 
 
25 
 
 The time has come ; the fountains of the deep 
 No more in quiet confidence shall sleep ; 
 O'er the wide world hehold a spirit rise 
 To scare alike the thoughtless and the wise ; 
 And mark it, hour by hour, and day by day. 
 Removing all that would obstruct its way. 
 The time has come, and now prepare to take 
 Your part, and set your all upon the stake I" 
 Thus, in all ages, in all climes have cried. 
 The eager few whom friends and foes deride ; 
 But, if their prophecy does not come true. 
 They seldom fail their given work to do ; 
 Not all unheeded swells their startling tone. 
 And Truth discovers here and there her own. 
 In these our times, as in the days of old. 
 When Israel wandered from her Shepherd's fold. 
 And God's ambassador proclaimed His will, 
 That penitence and peace should save them still \ 
 So now one way remains, the beaten way. 
 Lighted by Faith's and Love's most cheering ray: 
 
 * Isaiah xxx. 15. 
 
26 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 O'er its rough stones have kings and peasants 
 
 trod, 
 Marking each step that brought them nearer God. 
 Martyrs, confessors, priests, and virgins throng. 
 And raise on high their loud victorious song ; 
 All climes, all ages, send their faithful bands. 
 And here are met brave pilgrims from all lands. 
 Turn we to this : all earthly props may fail ; 
 The stately mast may shiver in the gale ; 
 Thrones may be shaken, kingdoms melt away. 
 And haughtiest castles crumble to decay ; 
 But still the Church lives on, and still on high 
 Floats her blest banner in the thunder-sky. 
 While all things rock around, the Cross alone 
 Stands firm, nor heeds the tempest's giant moan ; 
 And blest that nation which in faith can dare. 
 Through weal or woe, place all her fortunes there. 
 \/Yes! through the Church must come the healing 
 
 power, 
 sjTo bind our wounds in this tumultuous hour ; 
 From her old courts and altar- steps must flow 
 The streams of grace that shall assuage our woe. 
 12 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 27 
 
 The State, alas ! enervate and effete. 
 
 Feels now no more that all-productive heat. 
 
 Which in her noontide prime she erst received. 
 
 Fresh from the Church, believing and believed. 
 
 Say, then, thou dearest of my boyhood's friends. 
 
 Whose name its sanction to my labours lends. 
 
 In whom, with rapture, we delight to trace 
 
 The noble bearing of thy glorious race. 
 
 Say, are the glowing dreams and visions high 
 
 That glance athwart this changeful sunset sky 
 
 Nought but the phantoms of a 'wilder'd brain. 
 
 That broods on aims fantastically vain ? 
 
 Must honour, faith, unhesitating zeal. 
 
 And all those hopes that soaring spirits feel. 
 
 Fade darkly by, and only leave behind 
 
 A gloomier prospect for th' awakened mind ? 
 
 Must all the sons of earth in this sad life, 
 
 With sorrows laden, and with dangers rife. 
 
 Hug their dull chains, and plod with equal pace 
 
 Their downward course in mean submission's race ? 
 
 No ! from yon tomb, where sainted ashes lie, (2) 
 
 A voice on evening's zephyr- wing sweeps by, 
 
28 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Bidding the heart in every mood be true. 
 
 To shun th' expedient, and the good pursue. 
 
 No ! let each earnest-minded man prepare 
 
 To make some duty his peculiar care. 
 
 Work out with humbleness of head and heart 
 
 His own unnoticed, yet important part, 
 
 And leave the rest to Faith, content to say, 
 
 ** My conscience prompts I have not lost to-day.' 
 
IV. 
 
 The mountain- stream in headlong torrent tears 
 Its way adown some channel worn by years ; 
 O'er all impediments behold it break, 
 Till lost at length in Windermere's blue lake ; 
 But cut a hundred little channels — lo ! 
 The streamlets trickle gradually slow : 
 Turned from their course by broken branch or stone, 
 They take some new direction not their own ; 
 And if at last the wished-for goal they reach, 
 How weak and trivial is the force of each ! n ' 
 
 Thus in the davs when men of fearless heart ^ . a iJ \ .^ 
 Dared to play some unhesitating part, v ""' "^\/J^ 
 
 Anselm, and Becket, Chicheley, Wolsey, Laud, ( . 
 
 By wealth untempted, and by power unawed, ' ''J^ 
 
30 England's trust. 
 
 Saw but one end, and durst pursue that straight. 
 
 Despising pleasure, and contemning fate. 
 
 Such were our prelates ! Say, thou king of 
 
 France, 
 Who gave the word to Henry to advance ? (3) 
 Who blessed his banner, and announced that Heaven 
 To his right hand the victory had given ? 
 And what serenity of mind was Laud's ! 
 (Which faith alone to deeds of faith accords,) 
 When after years of anger and of strife, 
 Even while the axe was gleaming for his life, 
 He could to God in thankfulness exclaim, 
 "If the Church stands not now, not mine the 
 
 blame!" (4) 
 This was his greatness, this, in horror's hour. 
 Nerved him with more than aged martyr's pow'r ; 
 That he throughout his wearying life had striven 
 For her, the unresisting bride of Heaven ; 
 Had nursed no dream, pursued no other end. 
 But forced all things, even life itself, to bend 
 To that ; so from his blood she quick uprose. 
 Like hero, strengthened by prolonged repose. 
 
31 
 
 Ask the old satirist of falling Rome 
 What was the curse that heralded her doom ; 
 What, but that singleness of mind was gone, 
 Which led great men to prosecute alone 
 One stalwart end ; that sunk in sad excess 
 Of arts, and riches, and their foolishness. 
 Her stern, self-training spirit now no more, 
 Her long bright years of glory too were o*er ; 
 And, her sons glittering in\their various parts. 
 She fell a victim to her thousand arts. 
 So now with us : oh ! could that hoary sage 
 Who mourned the sad luxuriance of his age 
 But see the annual increase of our laws. 
 As, year by year, its varying nostrum draws 
 The countless schemes that live their little day. 
 No dew-drops so quick vanishing as they. 
 How would his measured voice his grief proclaim. 
 And doom our littleness to lasting shame ! 
 
 Trace the connexion that is clearly seen 
 The natural parent and the State between. 
 And see how evenly, when men began 
 To slight the symbol, they unkinged the man. 
 
32 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Each year has loosened further still the ties 
 Between divine and human sympathies. 
 Till now, too liberal and enlightened grown, 
 We laugh at all commandment, save our own. 
 Seems it not strange to our perverted view. 
 To read the terms of awe, which sons thought due 
 To sires, and which those sires thought due, again. 
 To all above them in the social chain ! 
 Where now is that fond reverence, that spread 
 
 ^ A holy halo round a regal head, 
 
 ^ And showed the world a more than earthly thing — 
 
 /The Lord's anointed in a sceptred king ? 
 'Tis vain to praise, with giddy pride elate. 
 The nice adjustment of our balanced state ; 
 y^How Commons temper Nobles, and how they, 
 
 VIn their turn, check th' encroaching Monarch's sway, 
 
 ^/ While round all three the Church her tendrils twines, 
 \A.nd helps to render indistinct the lines. 
 
 ^ 'Tis vain to hope that such arrangements can 
 
 ^ Restrain the pent-up violence of man. 
 If by our selfishness we once destroy 
 The sole pure fountain of a nation's joy. 
 
33 
 
 And show the poor a yawning gulf between 
 The noble's castle and their village green ; 
 Vain, unless freed from those, her galling chains. 
 The Church her lost expansiveness regains. 
 And, unrestrained by mortmain's jealous laws. 
 May dare to advocate her own good cause ; 
 Unless in Her a power divine we own. 
 And worship humbly at her altar- throne. 
 
 Have not three centuries sufficed to show 
 What sad effects from regal rapine flow ? 
 Are we not now still suffering for the sin 
 Of him who brought dread confiscation in. 
 And durst, by God's sure vengeance undeterred. 
 To lavish on his courtiers' greedy herd 
 The wealth which ages had in meekness given, 
 To deck the forehead of the Bride of Heaven ? 
 Ah ! 'twas not Charity that bade him lay 
 A tyrant's grasp on his defenceless prey ; 
 No mock expediency that now prevails, , 
 To weigh Injustice in Imposture's scales. 
 Softened the fury of his lust, that blazed 
 Till e'en his panderers trembled as they gazed ! 
 
34 ENGLAND'S TRUST. 
 
 But from those courts that then in ruins fell 
 
 Are ne'er again the notes of praise to swell ? 
 
 Bound by his deeds, must we refuse to raise 
 
 Those shrines, the pride of England's happier days ? 
 
 Still may the Church no ministry award 
 
 To those, the tender sisters of her Lord, 
 
 But must poor woman ne'er the blessing know. 
 
 Of soothing pain, and ministering to woe ? 
 
 May she, when shrinking from the world's fierce heat. 
 
 Find in the forest- glade no blest retreat. 
 
 No house of mercy, where, the soother grown 
 
 Of others' pain, she may forget her own ? 
 
 Oh ! I have mourned, while standing in those halls 
 
 That hallow Brest's traditionary walls. 
 
 To think those gliding forms of purest white 
 
 In England's hospitals ne'er greet the sight. 
 
 And owned that England wants a jewel yet. 
 
 That sparkles in her neighbour's coronet. 
 
 Yes ! though destruction has with ruthless hand 
 
 Worked her wild willrhroughout that recreant land. 
 
 Though that high spirit, once her children's boast. 
 
 Seems, with the lilies of the Bourbons, lost. 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 35 
 
 Still do the Mercy- Sisters hover there, 
 
 And shed a fragrance on the tainted air. 
 
 Still, like the dove's, low gliding, sounds their tread 
 
 Around the wounded soldier's fevered bed. 
 
 Still to the sufferer is their presence given, 
 
 A most unearthly antitype of Heaven. 
 
 Oh ! that our Monarch would adjoin this gem 
 
 To those that glitter in her diadem, ^ 
 
 A 
 J 
 
 And, hearkening to Humanity's loud calls, ^ / 
 
 Restore the Sisters to their ruined halls ! 
 
 Place in the centre of our crowded marts. 
 Where scared Philanthropy in horror starts 
 Back from the sight of want and crime and woe, 
 (The hateful three, that aye together go,) 
 A staff of holy men, whose care should be, 
 Though bound themselves to set their brethren free. 
 And in the very deeps of fell despair 
 Whisper glad tidings to the deadened ear ; 
 Then would the voice of just reproach no more 
 Move England's heart to tremble to its core. 
 With thoughts of wealth that Tyrus ne'er possessed. 
 Heaped in this island of the distant West, 
 d2 
 
 i 
 
36 ENGLAND S TRUST. 
 
 Acquired by means scarce Babylon had owned 
 What time the earth beneath her empire groaned ; 
 Increased by ruin of unnumbered souls, 
 To gild the car of Folly as it rolls ! 
 
 Ah ! ever since that wild and sinful hour 
 When England bowed to Revolution's power. 
 As one by one her rights were swept away, 
 The Church has mourned our national decay 
 In Faith and Truth, and as each year rolled by 
 Still fainter grew the terrors of her eye ; 
 Till now of pristine pomp, and glory shorn. 
 Our holy Mother sits, and weeps forlorn. 
 Yet may we humbly trust, that not in vain 
 Has the wild tempest stirred the ruffled main. 
 That, of all earthly props and aids bereft. 
 Still to the Church her own keen sword is left ; 
 And as pure gold is proved by trying fire. 
 So through the clouds may She to Heaven aspire ! 
 Yes ! if the fierce assaults of open foes. 
 And well-meant injuries, and friendly blows, 
 But teach her sons to feel her heavenly birth, 
 And make them scorn the arm whose strength is earth, 
 12 
 
37 
 
 Then may we most confidingly endure 
 Our ills, albeit they punish while they cure, 
 And gather round our Mother's threatened weal, 
 With humble confidence, and holiest zeal. 
 
 Faint grows my Muse ; her too presumptuous flight 
 Reveals the glories to her dazzled sight; 
 Glories, that still await old England's isle, 
 Where ancient Faith and Virtue still shall smile. 
 Ay ! for amid the thousand forms of crime, 
 By wealth untainted, and unaged by time. 
 In many a hamlet yet uncursed by trade. 
 Bloom Faith and Love all brightly in the shade ; 
 (So tender flow'rets shun the noontide beams. 
 And love to nestle by secluded streams ;) 
 Still as of old, from greybeard sire to son. 
 Tradition's current noiselessly rolls on ; 
 Still has God's Priest the will and power to bless 
 With more than earth's mere mortal happiness ; 
 Still are his humble flock content to tread 
 With him the path that leads them to the dead. 
 Whose modest grave-stones speak to lowly Faith 
 Some of the mysteries that hallow Death. 
 
38 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 Simple are they. They never learned to scan 
 With haughty pride the wrongs or rights of man. 
 Nor deemed it wisdom to despise and hate 
 Whatever is noble, reverend, or great. 
 O'er them no lurid light has knowledge shed, 
 v/And Faith stands them in Education's stead ; 
 Albeit the sire, his daily labour done. 
 May tell some legend to his wondering son. 
 Recount perchance the hamlet's oft told tale. 
 How on All Hallow's eve in yonder dale, 
 A spectre lorn appears ; or how of old. 
 Those ruined halls held Barons brave and bold ; 
 And then, with shaking head and voice relate 
 Their good successors' melancholy fate ; 
 How for their Church and King they nobly stood, 
 And sealed their faith in battle with their blood. 
 When Sunday brings its welcome boon of rest. 
 In all the pomp of rustic splendour dressed. 
 Behold the humble train in meekness bend. 
 To catch the blessing of their pastor-friend. 
 And join with reverence in the heart-felt prayer. 
 That floats to Heaven upon the hallowed air. 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 39 
 
 Oh ! may the holy angels guard and bless 
 
 Their modest homes from modern restlessness : 
 
 May Mother- church attend each infant's birth. 
 
 Consign, life's struggle o'er, their dust to earth. 
 
 And keep, as witness to degenerate days, 
 
 Their choir to utter glory, thanks, and praise ! 
 
 Fair is the prospect ; and the heart that beats 
 
 With English blood, rejoices as it meets 
 
 In many a sheltered nook fresh proofs, that show 
 
 The growth of Truth is confident, though slow ; 
 
 And hearts that lately cast all hope away. 
 
 Begin to watch the dawning of a day. 
 
 Bright as the Easter- suns, when gaily sped 
 
 The welcome, " Christ is risen from the dead ! " 
 
 Fair as the morn that hailed with rapture's breeze 
 
 The barque that bore our monarch o'er the seas, 
 
 / 
 
 When Heaven, in mercy to a nation's moan, J 
 
 Restored the Stuart to his father's throne. ^ 
 
 Nor if abroad we turn our anxious gaze 
 
 Are wanting auguries of brighter days. 
 
 Albeit a fearful load of sin is ours. 
 
 Blood wrongly shed, wealth squandered, misused 
 
 powers, 
 
40 ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 And chill indifference, that bore to doom. 
 Each year, fresh thousands to their living tomb. 
 Snatched from their homes, and smiling English dells. 
 Their happy hamlets, with their Sunday-bells, 
 To desert lands, with no Church lights to guide 
 Their fainting footsteps on the mountain -side, 
 No priest to stamp the Cross on childhood's brow. 
 Or bless the holy matrimonial vow. 
 Receive their sorrows, or in dying hour 
 Calm the weak bosom with absolving power. 
 
 'Tis past, and England's ear the cry has heard. 
 That cry has England's inmost heart-blood stirred. 
 And now with all a mother's love she glows, 
 To bid her wanderers on the Church repose. 
 Behold the distant lands that own her sway. 
 Taught by the Church, her gentle rule obey ; 
 And mark the spirit that in by- gone days 
 Set the wide world in one religious blaze. 
 And poured the mailed might of this our land. 
 In holiest ardour on the Paynim strand. 
 O'er other lands, to those great men unknown. 
 Waft the loud cadence of their trumpet-tone. 
 
ENGLAND^S TRUST. 41 
 
 Till England shall, with justice, claim and keep 
 A holier name than Mistress of the Deep, 
 That name which Rome in youthful vigour bore. 
 While Faith repeated it from shore to shore : 
 Mother of Churches ! this thy glorious name. 
 Thy best prerogative, thy chiefest fame ! 
 
 The strain is o'er; the vision melts away 
 Like sun -set tints at close of summer day. 
 And the full heart, that glowed with rapture's fire. 
 Caught from the swelling notes of glory's choir. 
 Sinks with mistrust to view the tempest sweep 
 With thundering fury o'er the troubled deep ; 
 To watch the clouds that gleamed but now in light 
 Herald in blackest dress the on-coming night. 
 But Faith commands the steadfast eye to gaze 
 Beyond those clouds, and pierce the thickening haze ; 
 While bright-eyed Hope exhorts to view afar. 
 O'er worlds remote, the morning's glorious star. 
 And rings in faithful ears the promise high 
 That wipes the tears from sad Affliction's eye, 
 And bids the Church on Him, her Lord, depend — 
 " I will be with you, even to the end." 
 
^oU^ to dEnjjXantf'^ €vmU 
 
 (1) Page 18, line 4. 
 " The care of all the lowly and oppressed." 
 
 Is it not most true, that many of the worst evils from which 
 we are now suffering, have arisen from our ignorant contempt 
 or neglect of the rules of the Church ? What, for instance, 
 can be clearer, than that the following rubric makes provi- 
 sion for collecting the alms of the faithful every Simday, 
 whether there be a communion or no. 
 
 " Whilst these sentences are in reading, the deacons, 
 churchwardens, or other fit person appointed for that pur- 
 pose, shall receive the alms for the poor, and other devotions 
 of the people, in a decent bason, to be provided by the 
 parish for that purpose, and reverently bring it to the priest, 
 who shall humbly present and place it upon the holy table. 
 
 " And when there is a communion, the priest shall then 
 place upon the table so much bread and wine as he shall 
 think sufficient." 
 
 I confess, that it seems to me difficult to overstate the 
 benefits which would accrue to the moral as well as the phy- 
 sical well-being of the poor, from a recurrence to this wise 
 and Christian and primitive practice throughout the parishes 
 of England. 
 
44 NOTES TO ENGLAND^S TRUST* 
 
 (2) Page 27, line 23. 
 " No ! from yon tomb, where sainted ashes lie," 
 
 St. Alban, the protomartyr of England, was put to death on 
 the spot where his ashes now rest, about the year 290, during 
 the Dioclesian persecution, for concealing a priest from the 
 fury of the Romans. The following is the venerable Bede's 
 account of his martyrdom. 
 
 " Cumque ad mortem duceretur, pervenit ad fiumen quod 
 muro et harena ubi feriendus erat, meatu rapidissimo divide- 
 batur ; viditque ibinon parvam hominum multitudinem utrius- 
 que sexus, conditionis diversse, et setatis, quae sine dubio, divini- 
 tatis instinctu, ad obsequium beatissimi confessoris ac martyris 
 vocabatur, et ita fluminis ipsius occupabat pontem ut intra 
 vesperam transire vix posset. Denique cunctis pene egressis, 
 judex sine obsequio in civitate substiterat. Igitur sanctus 
 Albanus cui ardens inerat devotio mentis ad martyrium ocius 
 pervenire, accessit ad torrentera, et dirigens ad coelum oculos, 
 illico siccato alveo, vidit undam suis cessisse ac viam dedisse 
 vestigiis. Quod cum inter alios etiam ipse carnifex qui eum 
 percussurus erat, vidisset, festinavit ei ubi ad locum destina- 
 tum morti venerat occurrere : divino nimirum admonitus in- 
 stmctu,projectoque ense quem strictum tenuerat, pedibus ejus 
 advolvitur, multum desiderans ut cum martyre vel pro martyre 
 quem percutere jubebatur, ipse potius mereretur percuti. Dum 
 ergo is ex persecutor e factus esset collega veritatis et fidei, ac 
 jacente ferro esset inter carnifices justa cunctatio, montem 
 cum turbis reverentissimus Dei confessor ascendit ; qui oppor- 
 tune Isetus, gratia decentissima, quingentis fere passibus ab 
 harena situs est, variis herbarum floribus depictus, immo 
 usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repente arduum, nihil 
 
45 
 
 prseceps, nihil abruptum, quern lateribus longe lateque de- 
 ductum in modum sequoris natura complanat, dignum vide- 
 licet eum, pro insita sibi specie venustatis, jam olim reddens 
 
 qui beati martyris cruore dicaretur DecoUatus ita- 
 
 que martyr fortissimus ibidem accessit coronam vitse quam 
 repromisit Deus diligentibus se." 
 
 Hist. Eccl. Gent. Angl. lib. i. c. vii. 
 
 (3) Page 30, line 5. 
 
 " Who gave the word to Henry to advance ?" 
 
 King Henry. — May I, with right and conscience, make this 
 
 claim ? 
 Cant, — The sm upon my head, dread sovereign ! 
 For in the book of Numbers is it writ — 
 When the son dies, let the inheritance 
 Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord. 
 Stand for your own ; unwind your bloody flag ; 
 Look back unto your mighty ancestors : 
 Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb. 
 From whom you claim ; invoke his warlike spirit, 
 And your great uncle's, Edward the Black Prince." 
 
 King Henry V. Act 1. sc. 2. 
 
 (4) Page 30, line 14. 
 
 " If the Church stands not now, not mine the blame." 
 
 Every line of the writings of this great archbishop is preg- 
 nant with marks of that simple and fearless onwardness of 
 purpose which carried him forward, through good report and 
 through evil report, to the concluding scene and crowning 
 
46 NOTES TO ENGLAND^S TRUST. 
 
 glory of his eventful life — his martyrdom. The text refers 
 to the following remarkable entry in his diary : " March 6, 
 Sunday, 1635. William Juxon, lord bishop of London, made 
 lord high treasurer of England. No churchman had it since 
 Henry VI I. 's time. I pray God bless him to carry it so that 
 the Church may have honour, and the king and the state 
 service and contentment, by it. And now if the Church will 
 not hold up themselves under God, I can do no more." — Au- 
 tobiography of Archbishop Laud, p. 164. 
 
Miuellamou^ Po^m0« 
 
49 
 
 " My son, despise not thou the chastenmg of the Lord, nor 
 faint when thou art rebuked of him." — Heb. xii. 5. 
 
 I KNOW not how it is, but man ne'er sees 
 
 The glory of this world, its streams and trees. 
 
 Its thousand forms of beauty that delight 
 
 The soul, the sense, and captivate the sight, 
 
 So long as laughing health vouchsafes to stay, 
 
 And charm the traveller on his joyous way. 
 
 No ! man can ne'er appreciate this earth. 
 
 Which he has lived and joyed in from his birth, 
 
 Till pain or sickness from his sight removes 
 
 All that in health he valued not, yet loves. 
 
 Then, then it is he learns to feel the ties 
 
 Of earth, and all its sweetest sympathies ; 
 
 Then he begins to know how fair, how sweet 
 
 Were all those flowers that bloomed beneath his feet ; 
 
50 THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Then he confesses, that before, in vain. 
 The wild flowers flourished on the lowly plain ; 
 Then he remembers that the lark would sing, 
 Making the heavens with her music ring. 
 And he, ungrateful, never cared to hear 
 Those tuneful orisons at daybreak clear ; 
 While all the glories that enrich this earth, 
 - Crowd on his brain, and magnify its worth. 
 Till truant fancy quits the couch of pain. 
 To rove in health's gay fields and woods again ! 
 But when some pang his wandering sense recalls. 
 And chains the sufi*erer to his prison walls. 
 What to his anguish adds a sharper sting. 
 And plumes the feathers on afiliction's wing ? 
 What but the thought that in his hour of health. 
 He slighted these for glory, power, or wealth ? 
 And, oh, how trivial, when compared to these. 
 Seem all those pleasures which are said to please ! 
 
 At morn, when through the open lattice float 
 The hymns of praise from many a warbler's throat. 
 The sick man turns with pained and feverish start, 
 And groans in abject bitterness of heart. 
 
THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS. 51 
 
 Whence, say, ye vain ones, whence that soul- drawn 
 
 groan ? 
 Came it from anguish, or from pain alone ? 
 Think ye, reflection was not busy there. 
 Borne on the sunbeam, wafted by the air, 
 That speaks upbraiding, though its balmy voice 
 Whispers bright hopes, and bids his soul rejoice ? 
 So feel I now, and should gay health once more 
 Glow in my frame, as it has glowed of yore, 
 Oh ! may I prove my thankfulness, and show 
 I feel the glory of all things below ! 
 
 B 2 
 
52 
 
 Jf'vom tit tjirtr eit^p at ©bto'^ '^vt oi %oht. 
 
 Can I believe that there are Gods ? 
 
 My love has brokie her vow. 
 And yet her face so lovely once. 
 
 Is just as lovely now ! 
 
 While she was true, her long locks waved 
 
 All sportive in the air. 
 And now she's false, yet still I see 
 
 The same long waving hair. 
 
 Her lips were as the roses red. 
 
 When she was kind and true ; 
 And now she's false, and yet those lips 
 
 Wear the same glorious hue. 
 
 Her foot, a fairy might have owned, 
 
 Is still as neat and small ; 
 And she, the model of all grace. 
 
 Is just as fair and tall. 
 
FROM OVID. 53 
 
 Here eyes were as the moon's soft rays. 
 
 So mild, yet piercing bright ; 
 And still those eyes, though turned from me. 
 
 Pierce with as mild a light ! 
 
54 
 
 ^tan\H* 
 
 I CURSE thee not ! the struggle's past- 
 All tearless is mine eye ; 
 
 I only crave one look at last 
 Of kindness — e'er I die. 
 
 You offered me your all — your love. 
 
 My love I plighted you ; 
 You swore by that blue sky above. 
 
 And I believed you true. 
 
 For, oh ! I thought from that dear tongue. 
 
 There fell no words of guile ; 
 I stood enchanted while you sang, 
 
 I stood — and loved the while. 
 
STANZAS. 55 
 
 IV. 
 
 To me thy very name is dead. 
 
 As if I knew thee not. 
 The blow is struck — the bolt has sped, 
 
 And thou — thou art forgot ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Forgot ! ah ! no, in vain I strive 
 
 From memory to fly. 
 In constant sorrow I must live. 
 
 In constsmt sorrow die ! 
 
56 
 
 ^ 0i^U ^tovm. 
 
 I LOOKED into a placid lake ; 
 
 I looked upon its shore ; 
 I felt my thoughts a current take, 
 
 Thev never took before. 
 
 I thought of all the glorious things 
 Which on this earth are spread ; 
 
 I thought of peasants, and of kings. 
 That under it lie dead. 
 
 III. 
 
 I thought how vain a thing is man, 
 How vain his hopes and fears ; 
 
 And from my thoughtful eyes began 
 To drop slow-flowing tears. 
 
A NIGHT STORM. 57 
 
 IV. 
 I looked up to a mountain's crest. 
 
 No cloud was then thereon — 
 Unruffled was the lake's calm breast. 
 
 On which the moon-beams shone. 
 
 V. 
 
 I thought one little moment's space 
 
 Of high and holy things. 
 Of God's redeeming love and grace, 
 
 From which salvation springs. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And then — the clouds poured out their rain. 
 
 The waves uprose on high ; 
 I looked around, but looked in vain. 
 
 For dark was all the sky. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I thought of sinners' awful doom. 
 
 My flesh began to creep ; 
 I wished myself again at home, 
 
 I wished I were asleep. 
 
58 A NIGHT STORM. 
 
 VIII. 
 I gazed — the darkness knew no light — 
 
 I heard the waters roar. 
 But could not see the fearful sight 
 
 That I had seen before. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I sate me down, and thought, and prayed. 
 Till hope had well nigh flown ; 
 
 I saw my crimes and sins arrayed 
 Before me, one by one, 
 
 X. 
 
 Flash came the lightning's livid flame. 
 Loud rolled the thunder-peal. 
 
 Till quivered all my trembling frame. 
 And sense began to reel. 
 
 XI. 
 
 It ceased — and suddenly I saw 
 Again the mountain's crest : 
 
 Fear, wonder, love, and holy awe 
 Strove in my humbled breast. 
 
A NIGHT STORM. 59 
 
 I rose up from the steaming ground, 
 
 I rose, and walked away ; 
 I heard a solemn, soothing sound, 
 
 And calmed my soul to pray. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Since then full many storms I've seen 
 
 Stir up the raging sea. 
 But ne'er has night so dreadful been 
 
 As was that night to me. 
 
60 
 
 Dear friend, albeit I never feel so blest 
 As when in thy loved company, and though 
 For worlds I would not that delight forego, 
 Still do I always leave half unexpressed 
 Things which I longed and purported to say, 
 That fade before thee, vision-like, away. 
 Fain would I ever by my actions show 
 My ready will to do thy least behest. 
 And so, perchance, this strange reserve is best. 
 The fairest flowers all silently do grow. 
 And shall I strive by feeble words to pay 
 A life-long debt of love in one short day. 
 When words, full well I know, are all too weak. 
 The loyal affection of my heart to speak ? 
 
61 
 
 I. 
 
 I LITTLE thought, when first I came 
 
 These mighty hills among. 
 That wells of such high thoughts should spring 
 
 *Mongst them, as since have sprung. 
 
 II. 
 
 I little thought that yon blue lake. 
 
 So calm beneath my feet, 
 Should pledge me to a cause, from which 
 
 I never may retreat. 
 
 III. 
 
 Proud are the towers, and deep the woods 
 
 That gird my own dear home ; 
 Kind are the hearts of those I love ; 
 
 Then wherefore should I roam ? 
 
{ 
 
 2 WINDERMERE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Was it that I might bend o*er books. 
 
 And gain a scholar's name ? 
 By barren, soulless study strive 
 
 To toil my way to fame ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Not so ! I came prepared to feel 
 
 The might of nature's spell. 
 And deeply drink pure draughts of love 
 
 /From each old haunted well. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Surely there is a secret charm 
 
 In these mysterious rills. 
 Surely some spirit hovers yet 
 
 O'er these dark, solemn hills 1 
 
 VII. 
 
 Fain would I hope that all, which once 
 Was reckoned good and bright. 
 
 Has fled to these wild mountains' breast. 
 Hidden from vulgar sight. 
 
WINDERMERE. 63 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For, oh ! if still on earth there be 
 
 Traces of days gone by. 
 If meek- eyed Faith and Peace have not 
 
 Flown to the upper sky, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here have they found a resting-place. 
 
 And here they love to dwell. 
 Shedding a gentle influence o'er 
 
 Each mountain, stream, and dell. 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh ! may I never cease to own 
 
 Their holy, solemn sway. 
 May they as guardian angels cheer 
 
 My setting sun's last ray ! 
 
64 
 
 Surely it is no idle hope that cheers 
 
 My else desponding soul to soar 
 
 Into the dim futurity of years, 
 
 Exulting, though no longer as of yore, 
 
 Old England's heart is healthy at its core. 
 
 Yes ! mid the thickening gloom, and doubtfd fears. 
 
 When each fresh morn perplexing portents bears. 
 
 Mid earthquake murmurs and the tempest's roar, 
 
 England shall see a nobler spirit rise 
 
 To change for smiles her children's craven tears, 
 
 And kindle in their now lack-lustre eyes 
 
 The fires that gleamed when Cceur de Lion bore 
 
 The banner of the Cross from England's shore. 
 
 And saw it flaunt its own, its Eastern skies. 
 
65 
 
 Thou monarch-martyr ! fain would I 
 
 In meet expressions own 
 
 Thy boundless sovereignty, 
 
 Thou captive on a throne. 
 O'er my soul's pulses ; but in vain 
 
 The attempt, too grand, I make. 
 
 My feeble-hearted strain 
 
 Trembles to undertake 
 A theme so sacred, yet I feel 
 
 The memories of thy fate 
 
 Cut through my heart as steel. 
 
 Prompting to emulate 
 Thy high resolve and steadfast faith. 
 
 That knew not how to cower. 
 
 That triumphed over death. 
 
 And blessed thee in that hour 
 Of sin, and sorrow, and unhallowed power ! 
 
 f' 
 
66 
 
 TO G. s. s. 
 
 My heart's own brother ! thus at length hath passed 
 
 Life's freshest hour, and the delusion's o'er 
 
 That erst had hoped these joyous days would last, 
 
 Now gone for ever, to return no more. 
 
 And while my melancholy eyes I cast 
 
 On buds of hope since nipped by folly's blast, 
 
 And youth's fair promise blighted I deplore. 
 
 Still are there brightest spots, to which I bend. 
 
 With no reproachful thoughts, my earnest gaze : 
 
 Those spots, the hours that I did love to spend 
 
 With thee, or listening to thy frequent praise ; 
 
 Or when in solitude I dared to raise 
 
 My prayer to God, that He would blessings send 
 
 On thee and thine, my own high-hearted friend ! 
 
67 
 
 WRITTEN IN Neville's court, trinity college, 
 ON new year's eve, 1838. 
 
 " The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be ; and 
 that which is done, is that which shall be done." — Ecclesi- 
 astes i. 9. 
 
 Old year! thy race is well nigh run. 
 
 One short, quick hour, and thou hast fled 
 
 To the still mansions of the dead. 
 And with thee many a sin forgot, unwept. 
 
 And many an evil thought 
 Have sunk in darkness with thy setting sun. 
 
 To he in darkness kept. 
 Till years for aye shall be together brought 
 To witness all the deeds that in them have been 
 
 wrought ! 
 
 P 2 
 
68 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Old year ! one last half-hour is thine. 
 
 It fleeteth fast away. 
 And will not stay 
 
 For any prayer of mine. 
 
 The pale moon rides above, 
 
 And hushed is every sound. 
 
 As I pace my solemn round. 
 
 And think on heavenly love. 
 Fantastic towers around me rise 
 
 In the light that half conceals 
 
 The shapes that it reveals 
 
 To my meditative eyes. 
 
 Each pillar seems to say, 
 *' Thou art of to-day, 
 " And weepest for the year that now dies, 
 " But we have stood unmoved, and seen 
 
 *' Centuries glide by, 
 " And that which is, the same hath been, 
 " And shall be to eternity ! " 
 The shadows gather far and fast. 
 And chiller is the air ; 
 
THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Old year ! thy reign hath well nigh passed, 
 
 Oh, lowly be my prayer ! 
 'Tis past ! Old year, thou art no more. 
 
 But in thy grave art laid. 
 Thy minutes and thy days are o'er ; 
 
 So earthly visions fade ! 
 
70 
 
 TOF.W. F. 
 
 Dear friend ! thou askest me to sing our loves, 
 And sing them fain would I, but I do fear 
 To mar so soft a theme, a theme that moves 
 My heart unto its core. Oh ! friend most dear, 
 No light request is thine ; albeit, it proves 
 Thy gentleness and love, that do appear 
 When absent thus, and in soft looks when near. 
 Surely, if ever two fond hearts were twined 
 In a most holy, mystic knot, so now 
 Are ours : not common are the ties that bind 
 My soul to thine ; a dear apostle thou, 
 I a young Neophyte, that yearns to find 
 The sacred truth, and stamp upon his brow 
 The Cross, dread sign of his baptismal vow ! 
 
^ 
 
 I. 
 
 I WOULD that I had lived in days 
 When lived the brave and true. 
 
 Who meetly earned their meed of praise, 
 Daring great deeds to do. 
 
 II. 
 
 Their loyalty did not depend 
 
 On faction's veering breath. 
 Their constancy refused to bend 
 
 To perils or to death. 
 
 III. 
 A Lovelace, a Montrose, were then 
 
 Bright stars to light the way, 
 Ready with either sword or pen 
 
 To prove their monarch's sway. 
 
72 A DAY-DREAM. 
 
 Bright eyes did then full keenly glow 
 
 With loyalty's pure flame ; 
 Rebellion's curs were taught to know. 
 
 And fear a Stanley's name. 
 
 y.' 
 Oh ! be that name once more renowned, 
 
 That banner waved on high. 
 In English air once more let sound 
 
 A Stanley's battle-cry. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Full many an English sword would then 
 Leap from its scabbard's rest, 
 
 And thousands good of Englishmen 
 Press after Stanley's crest. 
 
 Away with doubt ! away with fear ! 
 
 Too long behind a cloud 
 Hath England's honour many a year 
 
 Been hid as in a shroud : 
 
A DAY-DREAM. 73 
 
 Villi 
 
 And cold and heartless men have swayed 
 
 The councils of the state ; 
 To bitter foes hath been betrayed 
 
 The Church's widest gate. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Descendant of a peerless queen, 
 
 Inheritor of fame. 
 Think on what is, and what hath been. 
 
 And vindicate thy name ! 
 
74 
 
 Hatf^! 'ti^ not 
 
 I. 
 Lady ! 'tis not that thine eye is bright, 
 
 'Tis not that thy face is fair, 
 'Tis not that thy step is free and light, 
 
 'Tis not for thy raven hair. 
 
 'Tis not that thy voice is low and sweet, 
 *Tis not for thy foot so small, 
 
 Tis not that thy lips are love's own seat ; 
 Tis for something worth them all. 
 
 Tis that thy soul is pure as the light. 
 
 It is that thy words all tell 
 The goodness with which thy heart is bright. 
 
 That now — ah, lady ! farewell ! 
 
75 
 
 TO F. W. F K 
 
 I. 
 
 Dear Faber, thank you for your lay, 
 That chaunts of early spring. 
 
 Of April gleams, and bright rain- drops. 
 And all the joys they bring. 
 
 II. 
 
 In truth, it is a merry time. 
 
 And I would fain repair 
 To Oxenford's time-hallowed town, 
 
 And play a measure there. 
 
 III. 
 
 A thousand are the childish thoughts 
 That come with the snow-drops. 
 
 And bud when all the sturdy oaks 
 Grow purple to their tops. 
 
 ^ Vide Faber's poems, p. 186. 
 
7Q CHILDHOOD^S SPRING. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Twas then in childhood's innocence 
 We roamed the woods among. 
 
 And joyed to see the tiny flowers 
 That forth to beauty sprung. 
 
 V. 
 
 We little cared for bulb or root 
 
 In all our childish glee. 
 Why should we care ? in honest truth. 
 
 No botanists were we. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thine April strain hath moved my heart 
 
 To overflow with joy, 
 And brought the tears into my eyes — 
 
 I am no more a boy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Faber ! to both of us most dear. 
 
 For ever be this season I 
 For we will muse on childhood's time. 
 
 And bid adieu to reason. 
 
childhood's spring. 77 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Snowdrops and wild anemonies 
 
 In clusters we will bring. 
 And heap up tender flowerets 
 
 " In honor of the Spring/*^ 
 
78 
 
 TO F. W. F. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dear Friend ! no more let bitter thoughts 
 
 Find vent in cruel words, 
 But let us take a lesson good. 
 
 From April's joyous birds. 
 
 I knew not that my words would pain, 
 
 I knew my love was true. 
 And thought to love my Fatherland, 
 
 Dear friend, was loving you I 
 
 III. 
 
 And so I spake hot words, and free, 
 
 Yet never loved the less. 
 Nor feared, lest my brave dreams should mar 
 
 Thy thoughtful loneliness. 
 
APRIL^S LESSON. 79 
 
 IV. 
 
 Those bitter words were all too keen, 
 
 Like winter's northern blast ; 
 But now has gentle April come. 
 
 And winter winds have passed. 
 
 V. 
 
 A sunbeam and a pearly shower 
 
 Come twinkling down to earth. 
 Together laughing in their tears, 
 
 And weeping in their mirth. 
 
 vt. 
 
 And so in future shall our joy 
 
 Be tempered by our fears ; 
 And so shall April- gleaming hopes 
 
 Smile brightly through our tears ! 
 
80 
 
 a Calm at ^ea. 
 
 A calm ! oh dreaded word at sea. 
 Fraught with sad memories to me ! 
 Destroyer of all peace and quiet, 
 Uprooter of the choicest diet. 
 What mortal stomach can resist 
 Thy swelling motion's cruel twist ? 
 He who fears nor seas, nor squalls. 
 Before thy might resistless falls ; 
 His head turns round, his stomach fails. 
 Before a calm he helpless quails ! 
 The sails flap idly 'gainst the mast. 
 The sluggish tide flows slowly past ; 
 The captain scans with wistful eye, 
 Th' horizon of the cloudless sky ; 
 In vain he looks, for all around 
 Is deadly still ; nor sight nor sound 
 Heralds a coming breeze ; the crew 
 Have nothing left for them to do 
 
A CALM AT SEA. 81 
 
 But mend their jackets, or to lie 
 Gazing on sea- weed floating by. 
 ^ Oh calmless calm ! the heaving " Clown '," 
 Reels like a drunkard up and down. 
 You cannot eat, you cannot drink. 
 You cannot talk, you cannot think. 
 You cannot stand, nor yet repose. 
 You cannot walk, you cannot dose ; 
 And, oh, what cuts me to the quick. 
 You cannot — no you can't — be sick. 
 
 7 The Duke of Portland's yacht, on which the author first 
 experienced the miseries of a calm. 
 
82 
 
 I. 
 
 The morn of a high festival ! 
 
 And in the olden time. 
 When men oheyed their Mother's call 
 
 And She was in her prime ; 
 
 II. 
 
 Christians in thousands would have been 
 
 All on their knees to-day. 
 And saints departed would have seen 
 
 Their living comrades pray. 
 
 III. 
 
 The stripling and the aged man. 
 
 The mother and the son. 
 The master and the artizan. 
 
 All joined this morn in one, — 
 
y 
 
 WHIT-TUESDAY. 83 
 
 IV. 
 
 In holy concert would have raised 
 
 Their Church-inspired voice. 
 And with the Church have upwards gazed, 
 
 Daring in her rejoice. 
 
 Y; 
 
 But in this Christian town this morn 
 
 Deserted was each shrine, 
 From whence in purer days were borne 
 
 Glad hymns, and sounds divine ; 
 
 VI. 
 
 While London's busy crowds swept by. 
 
 Each soul on self intent ; 
 On earth, and earthly things, each eye 
 
 Unalterably bent. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And yet it seemed as if the vows 
 
 Of those, the faithful few. 
 Might plead with Christ for his blest Spouse, 
 
 The Church — oppressed, yet true. 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 I. 
 Full strange to worldly men it seems 
 
 To hear thy speech of flame ; 
 To them thy hopes are idle dreams. 
 
 Existing but in name. 
 
 II. 
 
 How should they feel, as thou dost feel ? 
 
 Thy hopes how should they share ? 
 Earth's is the shrine at which they kneel. 
 
 To which they raise their prayer. 
 
 III. 
 
 The past to them a lifeless page 
 
 For ever must remain. 
 The wisdom of each by-gone age. 
 
 For them is stored in vain. 
 
THE PREACHER. 85 
 
 IV. 
 
 No glorious hope their life's dull sky 
 
 Checquers with sunlike ray ; 
 Nor vision fair, nor purpose high. 
 
 Brightens their cloudy day. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet faint not thou ! but nerve thy heart 
 
 To bear their senseless sneers. 
 And still thy tidings high impart. 
 
 E'en to unwilling ears. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What, tho' the great thy labours scorn. 
 
 And statesmen mock thine aim, 
 Tho' plumeless crest and banner torn 
 
 No victory proclaim, — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Again that banner raise on high. 
 
 Renew the doubtful fight ! 
 Tis not for thee to faint, nor fly — 
 
 And God will show the rio:ht ! 
 
86 
 
 TO Ct. s. s. 
 I. 
 
 How has my heart looked forward to this hour 
 When our right hands should meet again. 
 
 In loneliness, in sunshine and in shower, 
 In health, in joyousness, or pain. 
 
 In foreign lands, upon the homeless sea, 
 
 My thoughts were ever fixed, dear friend, on thee ! 
 
 Through the green vistas of profaned Versailles, 
 With thee, by Fancy led, I strayed : 
 
 In grey Notre Dame's time-hallowed aisle. 
 Thy soul was present, as I prayed : 
 
 Thy voice was wafted on the western breeze. 
 
 O'er the glad gardens of the Tuilleries. 
 
THE MEETING. 87 
 
 III. 
 
 And Biscay's heights, and plains of fair Navarre, 
 Wanted a charm which thou hadst given : 
 
 And tho' the blaze of that romantic war, 
 Lit up each spot with hues of Heaven, 
 
 My soul did long for the sweet sympathies 
 
 Of thy fond heart, and glory-beaming eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But most at Rome, while hanging o'er the tomb 
 
 Of those, the last of Stuart's line. 
 Shrouded from gazers by the evening's gloom. 
 
 My sighs did yearn to melt with thine. 
 For there was no one who could grieve with me, 
 The lonely mourner from beyond the sea. 
 
 V. 
 
 So do I cherish half-formed hopes, that e'er 
 Our boyish spirit, with our boyish years, 
 
 Hath fled, we two together may repair. 
 To mingle at that tomb our tears. 
 
 And pray together to the Lord in heaven, ^ / 
 
 That our dear country's sin may be forgiven. 
 
88 THE MEETING. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But now no more — to press thy hand, and read 
 The love that lights up thy blue eyes, 
 
 And bid thee " welcome" is the happy meed 
 Of him, who fondly prophesies 
 
 The time when thy most glorious name shall blaze 
 
 With clear undying light in nobler days. 
 
 Jan. 1840. 
 
89 
 
 ^ignjS oi tit CimejS- 
 
 Methinks an earnest-minded man may see, 
 
 In these our days of restlessness and strife. 
 
 Portents with which our English air was rife 
 
 What time religion and philosophy 
 
 Cut off a sainted monarch's blameless life. 
 
 The sick and fierce affection to be free 
 
 From all restraints of Church and monarchy ; 
 
 The haughty confidence of power, that springs 
 
 From out dull years of cold indifference. 
 
 And weighs and counts the cost of holiest things. 
 
 Asking the use of prelates and of kings. 
 
 And views high mysteries with eye of sense, — 
 
 Warn us that England once again may hear 
 
 The shouts of Roundhead and of Cavalier. 
 
90 
 
 Co tie Eortf Egttelton, 
 
 November, 1840. 
 
 You have not gained the prize for which you strove. 
 Young heir of gentle glory ! yet to thee 
 Defeat like this is noblest victory. 
 Whence came that fiery impulse, that could move 
 Calm, thoughtful men, from vain ambition free. 
 To leave whatever was object of their love. 
 And rank thy cause all other things above ? 
 Nay ! 'twas not partial friendship that did see 
 (For partial friendship oftentimes is blind) 
 Thy many virtues with an eye too kind ; 
 But ancient faith and honour bade us fight 
 Thy sacred fight, and now we triumph find 
 E'en in defeat, since thus with darkness dight 
 The day spring dawns to fill the world with light. 
 
91 
 
 I. 
 
 Once more raise the banner, once more let it float 
 O'er Northumberland's valleys, from Dilston's old 
 
 moat. 
 Once more let the hall of my forefathers ring 
 With " Welcome back heartily ! joy to our King ! " 
 
 Too long have we suflfered our monarch to roam. 
 In exile, deprived of his crown and his home ; 
 Too long have our broad- swords been rusting away ; 
 Look well to their polish, we'll try them to-day ! 
 
 III. 
 
 For the King he has come ; let the spear be in rest. 
 Be burnished the armour, and bright be the crest. 
 
92 LORD DERWENTWATER S WAR SONG. 
 
 Tho' in number but few, not unknown are the names 
 Of the gentry of England who strike for King James. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let cravens stand neuter ; we need not their aid 
 To conquer those rebels their weakness has made ; 
 We ask no assistance, no force save our own, 
 When fighting for England, the Church, and the 
 Throne. 
 
 Then shake out the banner ; in letters of gold. 
 Proud " tandem triumphans," our motto behold ! 
 Oh ! blest be our arms, and successful the fight 
 That is fought for old England, King James, and his 
 right I 
 
 VI. 
 
 By the shades of our fathers who fought for their 
 
 king. 
 By the evils rebellion and heresy bring, 
 By our freedom invaded, our altars overthrown, 
 We will place our true king on his forefathers' throne ! 
 
LORD DERWENTWATER S WAR SONG. 93 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then, true hearts of England, I bid ye stand forth 
 From the east and the west, from the south and the* 
 
 north ; 
 Over hill and through valley be echoed the cry, 
 " For King James and his rights we will conquer or 
 
 die!" 
 
94 
 
 WiilUam of ^ajs^sau. 
 
 " Calm as an under-current," that beneath 
 
 The green and slimy waters of some dyke 
 
 In chill, dank Holland glides (oh ! how unlike 
 
 A sparkling English river, whose pure breath 
 
 Sends health and gladness over vale and heath,) 
 
 Came cold Dutch William, half afraid to strike 
 
 An open blow, in patricidal strife. 
 
 Against the gentle father of his wife ; 
 
 So with insinuations worse than death 
 
 He worked upon credulity, and dared. 
 
 By filial love and piety unscared. 
 
 The mighty lie, wherewith base tongues were rife. 
 
 Against thy royal truth and spotless fame. 
 
 Thou gentlest bearer of the Virgin's name ! 
 
95 
 
 I. 
 
 Old Christmas comes about again. 
 
 The blessed day draws near. 
 Albeit our faith and love do wax 
 
 More faint and cold each year. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! but it was a goodly sound. 
 
 In th' unenlightened days. 
 To hear our fathers raise their song 
 
 Of simple-hearted praise. 
 
 III. 
 Oh ! but it was a goodly sight. 
 The rough-built hall to see, 
 Glancing with high-born dames and men. 
 And hinds of low degree. 
 12 
 
96 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To holy Church's dearest sons. 
 The humble and the poor. 
 
 To all who came, the seneschal 
 Threw open wide the door. 
 
 V. 
 
 With morris dance, and carol-song. 
 And quaint old mystery. 
 
 Memorials of a holy- day 
 Were mingled in their glee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Red berries bright, and holly green. 
 Proclaimed o'er hall and bower 
 
 That holy Church ruled all the land 
 With undisputed power. 
 
 0*er wrekin wide, from side to side. 
 From grey -beard, maid, and boy. 
 
 Loud rang the notes, swift flowed the tide 
 Of unrestrained joy. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 97 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And now, of all our customs rare, 
 
 And good old English ways. 
 This one, of keeping Christmas-time, 
 
 Alone has reached our days. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Still, tho' our hearty glee has gone, 
 
 Tho' faith and love be cold. 
 Still do we welcome Christmas-tide 
 
 As fondly as of old. 
 
 X. 
 
 Still round the old paternal hearth 
 
 Do loving faces meet. 
 And brothers parted through the year 
 
 Do brothers kindly greet. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh ! may we aye, whate'er betide. 
 
 In Christian joy and mirth. 
 Sing welcome to the blessed day 
 
 That gave our Saviour birth ! 
 
 R 
 
I. 
 
 Rise up, young knight, and stamp that word 
 
 Upon thine inmost heart ; 
 Rise up, young knight, and sternly gird 
 
 Thyself to act thy part ! 
 
 II. 
 
 True, he who blazoned on his shield 
 
 Those letters six of flame. 
 Met not his death on tented field. 
 
 But died a death of shame. 
 
 III. 
 True, that the sapling yields and bends. 
 
 And shuns the tempest's stroke. 
 That furiously breaks and rends 
 
 The uncompliant oak. 
 
 ^ " Thorow and thorow." — Archbishop Laud to Lord 
 Strafford. Vide Strafford's Life, p. 315. 
 
IV. 
 
 True, that in days of wrath and strife 
 
 The stalwart arm may fail ; 
 True, that with death the clouds are rife 
 
 That 'thwart the horizon sail. 
 
 V. 
 
 But he whose soul is nerved to bear 
 
 All perils, small and great. 
 Can with undaunted courage dare 
 
 The unknown storms of fate. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And he who, 'hove each earthly thing, 
 Doth seek, with purpose high. 
 
 To do the bidding of his king, 
 Need never fear to die. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So aye be ** thorow" on thy heart 
 
 Graven in scroll of flame. 
 And dauntless act thy destined part. 
 
 Then, welcome death or fame ! 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 I. 
 A VISION from Dream-land came mito me. 
 And I dreamed I was sailing all under the sea ; 
 And the mermaids so lustrous were chaunting around 
 Their red coral rocks, deep, deep under ground. 
 
 II. 
 
 Their chaunt was now high, and now low died away. 
 Like the boom of the billows at close of the day. 
 As they sang of the wars of the kings of the sea, 
 Or lamented the death of the brave and the free. 
 
 III. 
 From the day that first saw man roam over the wave 
 To that hour which was bearing some wretch to his 
 
 grave, 
 Each sea-hero was hymned, and each sea-fight was 
 
 sung. 
 While the wrecks and the rocks with the melody rung. 
 
A VISION. 101 
 
 IV. 
 
 All the pride of old Sidon, the grandeur of Tyre, 
 Waked in soft plaintive numbers the voice of the lyre, 
 As all that remained of their glory was seen 
 By the wrecks of old argosies rotting and green. 
 
 V. 
 
 There were goblets all mildewed, and ore from the 
 
 mine. 
 And purple, and gems that had brightened no shrine, 
 All the pomp of the world, all the prey of the grave 
 Lay stored in those sunless retreats of the wave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 From Rome and from Carthage, from Greece and 
 
 from Ind, 
 With treasures unnumbered the caverns were lined. 
 Rich Arabia's frankincense, and gold of Peru, 
 From nations now perished, and worlds they ne*er 
 
 knew. 
 
 VII. 
 
 All unmoving I listened for hours, while the song 
 In cadences varied went flowing along ; 
 
102 A VISION. 
 
 Till at last of a country more mighty than Rome, 
 In loud anger it spoke, and pronounced its sad doom. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "^ *' Since o'er all our dominions, o'er ocean's vast 
 
 breast. 
 From the North and the South, from the East and 
 
 the West, 
 All the trade of the world by thy ships is conveyed. 
 And submission by all to thy standard is paid ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Since thy merchants are richer than kings wont 
 
 to be 
 In the days thou commenced to bear sway o'er the 
 
 sea, 
 And the wealth of all nations is heaped in thy stores. 
 While we guard from all foemen thy wave-beaten 
 
 shores ; 
 
 X. 
 
 " And yet, all unmindful of that which hath been. 
 And unmindful of all thou hast heard and hast seen. 
 
A VISION. 103 
 
 Thou hast dared to forget thy high trust and thy 
 
 fame, 
 In most godless emprizes, we vengeance proclaim. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Ay ! because thou hast slighted the voice of the 
 
 Lord, 
 Destruction for thee and thy children is stored." 
 I started — for 'twas of old England they spoke — 
 " Shew us mercy, good Lord," I sighed forth — and 
 
 awoke. 
 
104 
 
 I. 
 
 The tiny flowers that cowered beneath 
 
 The Winter's angry wind. 
 Called by young Spring's refreshing breath, 
 
 To life their entrance find. 
 
 II. 
 
 The tender blades spring up again, 
 
 To bless the hungry earth ; 
 While modest suns, and genial rain. 
 
 Watch fondly o'er their birth. 
 
 III. 
 
 All gentle things that move above 
 
 The freshly budding ground. 
 The pledges sure of parent's love, 
 
 At Easter-tide are found. 
 
EASTER. 105 
 
 IV. 
 As bursts the flower from wintry bands 
 
 To sweetness and to bloom. 
 So the Redeemer of all lands 
 
 Burst from His riven tomb. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thus does all Nature speak a voice 
 
 That all who run may hear. 
 And bids the Christian's heart rejoice 
 
 Beside his Saviour's bier. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thus the Church doth raise each year 
 
 Her high triumphant song. 
 Whose notes her faithful sons may cheer 
 
 All the bright summer long. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The trees that spread abroad their leaves 
 
 Beneath the suns of June, 
 The red ripe corn that stands in sheaves 
 
 Beneath the harvest-moon. 
 
106 EASTER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The warblings of the feathered race, 
 The glowing garden's pride, — 
 
 Are but fulfilments of the grace 
 Shed fresh at Easter-tide. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So grant us. Lord, Thy freshening dew. 
 Our drooping hearts to raise. 
 
 And still Thine Easter grace renew 
 Throughout our length of days. 
 
 X. 
 
 So may our Spring's fresh promise speak 
 Our Summer's brightening bloom, 
 
 Until in Autumn's fall we seek 
 An Easter- conquered tomb ! 
 
107 
 
 0ott to H&i^ttllsinton^ ^otm^. 
 
 Page 94. 
 
 WILLIAM OF NASSAU. 
 
 Calm as an under-current, strong to draw 
 
 Million of waves into itself, and run 
 
 From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
 
 And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau, 
 
 (By constant impulse of religious awe 
 
 Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
 
 With the wide world's commotions) from its end 
 
 Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
 
 Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope ? 
 
 The hero comes to liberate, not defy ; 
 
 And, while he marches on with righteous hope, 
 
 Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
 
 The vacillating bondman of the pope 
 
 Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast eye. 
 
 Ecclesiastical Sonnets, viii. 
 
 So sings Mr. Wordsworth, but I confess that, to my mind, 
 there are in English history few more uninviting characters 
 than William of Nassau ; cold, calculating, regardless of the 
 means by which his end was to be accomplished, devoid of 
 natural affection, and unmoved by those generous sentiments 
 which used to be regarded among Englishmen, — he has yet 
 
108 NOTE TO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 been held up to succeeding generations as a hero worthy to 
 be worshipped ; and the *^ glorious, pious, and immortal me- 
 mory" has been frantically honoured by men who would 
 scorn themselves, were they to have made use of the means, 
 for however worthy a purpose, by which he gained his crown. 
 What respect is the memory of that nephew and son-in-law 
 entitled to, who, in his declaration to the English people, 
 could thus speak deliberately and falsely of his uncle and 
 father-in-law. " That there were great and violent presump- 
 tions, inducing his highness to believe, that those evil counsel- 
 lors, in order to the gaining the more time for the efifecting of 
 their ill designs, had published, ' That the queen had brought 
 forth a son,' though there had appeared in the manner, 
 wherein the birth was managed, so many just and visible 
 grounds of suspicion, that not only he himself, but all the 
 good subjects of the kingdom did vehemently suspect, that 
 the pretended Prince of Wales was not bom of the queen ?" 
 Echard's Hist, of England, p. 898. 
 I am glad to think, for the sake of English honour, that we 
 are beginning to set up worthier idols in our hearts than this 
 Dutch conqueror, whom political rancour and religious in- 
 tolerance combined to dignify as a patriotic deliverer. 
 
illemottal0 of ot^n ilanlr^* 
 
TO THE 
 
 MARQUIS OF GRANBY, 
 
 THESE 
 
 SLIGHT MEMORIALS OF MANY HAPPY DAYS, 
 
 SPENT TOGETHER IN FOREIGN LANDS, 
 
 ARE DEDICATED, , 
 
 BY HIS AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
113 
 
 June 9, 1839. 
 
 I. 
 
 There is full oft a season, and a scene. 
 When mute the poet's voice remains ; 
 
 When for high thoughts his words are all too mean, 
 And feeble sound his loftiest strains. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thus, in these still-loved gardens, though profaned 
 
 By proud rebellion now they seem. 
 Where kingly Bourbons, as of yore they reigned. 
 
 Still reign in loyal fancy's dream. 
 
 III. 
 
 While sinks behind yon fountain's silvery spray 
 
 The early summer's setting sun, 
 I fain would sing some heart-inspiring lay. 
 
 Yet pause, and leave the task undone. 
 
114 THE TUILLERIES^ GARDENS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Those broad-leaved chesnuts, whose refreshing shade 
 
 Allures the loiterer to yon seat. 
 And many a noble, long- extending glade. 
 
 Impervious to the noon-tide heat, 
 
 V. 
 
 Now crowded with the gayest of the gay. 
 
 The busy idlers of an hour. 
 Might claim the tribute poets love to pay 
 
 To stately walk and shady bower. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But something bids me to forbear, nor sing 
 
 Among sedition's grinning bands : 
 The palace of a throne -usurping king. 
 
 No song from English lips demands. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Over that palace floats, as if in scorn. 
 
 The flag of anarchy and war ; 
 That flag, which erst in triumph wildly borne. 
 
 Waved o'er the conquering Despot's car. 
 
THE TUILLERIES^ GARDENS. ll5 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Why floats it there ? It speaks of jealous fear 
 
 For power obtained by guiltiest art. 
 Alas ! the robe that upstart monarchs wear, 
 
 Too often hides a care-racked heart ! 
 
 i2 
 
116 
 
 [bourdeaux.] 
 
 I STOOD among the dead, and all around 
 Where ghastly corpses, that for years had braved 
 The might of Time ; the charnel-house was paved 
 With crumbling bones ; a hollow, stilly sound 
 Came from the bodies, as the heedless guide 
 Touched with unhallowed hand the heartless side. 
 Or moved the pliant arm : long years encaved 
 They had been waiting, like some patient bride. 
 The coming of their Lord : but chance unbound 
 The portals of their tombs, and prying eyes 
 Now scan the features, still with passions rife, 
 That speak in death of what they were in life. 
 Nor reck the gazers, that these forms shall rise 
 At the last day, and soar into the skies. 
 
117 
 
 C5e ^tig^W near ^t ^th^^iim. 
 
 Mid fern-clad hills, where flocks at pleasure roam. 
 And crags dark brooding o'er the flood. 
 
 Has sturdy loyalty her latest home. 
 
 Red with her slaughtered children's blood. 
 
 II. 
 
 Behold yon height, that towers above the main. 
 
 That dale so fair beneath our feet I 
 Why at the sight do mingling joy and pain 
 
 Within my breast contending meet ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Twas here our meteor-flag to victory borne, 
 Spoke hope and freedom to the land ; 
 
 Wliile Spain rejoicing, hailed th' auspicious morn, 
 That beamed upon the well- won strand. 
 
118 HEIGHTS OF ST. SEBASTIAN. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Swift years rolled by : that meteor-flag again 
 Waved gaily from yon castled steep. 
 
 Bidding the bravest and the best of Spain 
 For ruined hearth and altar weep. 
 
 v. 
 
 Oh, England ! if the flood of matrons' tears, 
 
 May wash away a nation's guilt, 
 If want, and woe, and misery, and fears. 
 
 Atone for blood unjustly spilt ; — 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then in thy gloomy future we may see 
 Good from a thousand forms of ill : 
 
 Then may thy mourning sons have hope for thee ; 
 No longer great — but England still. 
 
119 
 
 C5t (©afe oi (ffiuetnua \ 
 
 September 1834. 
 
 Here, at Guernica, comrades, are we met 
 To swear 'gainst treason fell, undying war. 
 Till our loved prince, upon his lordly car 
 Be victor borne, and on his brows be set 
 The crown of Spain, and Biscay's coronet. 
 What I are our hallowed rights so little worth. 
 That we should tamely yield them ? If ye are 
 Such as your sires, Biscayans, used to be. 
 Go ! follow glory's brightly-beaming star ; 
 And e'er its leaves this sacred tree puts forth 
 Madrid shall tremble at th' indignant North ; 
 While loved and honoured by the brave and free. 
 Your royal leader shall be owned afar. 
 Lord of Biscay, and sovereign of Navarre ! 
 
120 
 
 Wltiovm \ 
 
 The Night of the 19th July, 1839. 
 
 These are thy sons, oh Freedom ! this the deed 
 
 Of Spaniards eager to redeem their land 
 
 From the stern grasp of despotism's hand. 
 
 And succour mercy in her hour of need ! 
 
 These are thy arms — the midnight torch and brand 
 
 That on thy side unanswerably plead. 
 
 Yes ! by his blazing homestead's lurid light. 
 
 The trembling peasant must be taught to know 
 
 That Freedom ranks him as her deadliest foe. 
 
 Oh ! for the horrors of this cursed night. 
 
 Which in the flames of smouldering hamlets glow ; 
 
 Arise ! thou God of vengeance, in thy might. 
 
 To help the poor and friendless to their right. 
 
 And lay th' oppressor and the robber low I 
 
121 
 
 Carlos (Siuinto. 
 
 ONATE. 
 
 High-hearted monarch ! on thy mountain throne. 
 
 Begirt with loyal hearts and ready hands. 
 
 Long time hast thou withstood the leaguering hands 
 
 Of mightiest nations, and hast proudly shewn 
 
 To an admiring world, that he who stands 
 
 On a just cause, full well can guard his own. 
 
 Tis a most nohle lesson, and the prayer 
 
 Of many a youthful heart ascends on high. 
 
 That, hovering o'er thy mountain lair. 
 
 Celestial guardians may he ever nigh, 
 
 (Most nigh, when thou appearest most alone,) 
 
 To whisper hope, and chase away despair. 
 
 So shalt thou proud rebellion still defy, 
 
 Till on thy brow is bound the wreath of victory ! 
 
122 
 
 I. 
 
 Before the shrine of some blest saint. 
 While loud the organ peals, 
 
 In unsuspecting faith and love 
 Each Spanish maiden kneels. 
 
 Three Sundays now have passed since we 
 
 On Spanish land first trod ; 
 And never have I dared to seek 
 
 The presence of my God. 
 
 My fainting soul, in solitude 
 
 Seeks for relief in vain : 
 Blue hills, and glorious bright green things. 
 
 Do but augment my pain. 
 
THE OUTCAST. 123 
 
 IV. 
 
 I seem, 'midst sights and sounds of prayer. 
 
 That o'er these mountains swell. 
 To be — it is a fearful thought — 
 
 An outward infidel. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh Thou ! who out of stony rocks 
 
 Canst make the waters flow. 
 And in the desert wilderness 
 
 Cause flowerets to blow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Do Thou, in this* perplexing land. 
 
 Accept my erring prayer ; 
 Albeit it rises unto Thee 
 
 From out th' unhallowed air. 
 
124 
 
 dfaretoeXI to ^pam. 
 
 August 3rd, 1839. 
 
 I. 
 
 I CANNOT roam these hills among, 
 Nor thread these forests wild, 
 
 Nor hear the shrill untutored song 
 Of freedom's mountain child, 
 
 And then restrain within my breast 
 The thoughts that therein burn. 
 
 Nor lull the rising fire to rest 
 In studied unconcern. 
 
 III. 
 
 And now that I am soon no more 
 
 To hear those stirring notes. 
 And cease to feel my spirit soar 
 As past the music floats ; 
 
FAREWELL TO SPAIN. 125 
 
 IV. 
 
 I cannot leave a land so dear 
 
 Without a parting strain ; 
 Nor check the free, unbidden tear, 
 
 That weeps *' farewell" to Spain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Farewell, ye scenes where honour dwells. 
 
 And valour brightly gleams, 
 Midst wooded crags, and rocky dells. 
 
 And silver-glancing streams. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tis here that Fancy loves to muse. 
 
 As sunset's latest dye 
 Tinges with all its fairest hues 
 
 The summer's evening sky. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis here that Memory fain would give 
 
 A present to the past. 
 And bid again the hero live. 
 
 Whose fame for aye shall last. 
 
126 FAREWELL TO SPAIN. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yes ! while unconquered yet, and free 
 Ye wage your glorious war, 
 
 Zumalacarregui shall be 
 Your brightest leading star. 
 
 His spirit still shall nerve the arm. 
 And prompt the counsel bold, 
 
 'Mid perils near, and dread alarm. 
 And disappointment cold. 
 
 X. 
 
 And ye, brave warriors, may your cause 
 Right soon triumphant prove ! 
 
 May ye possess your ancient laws. 
 And monarch whom ye love ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 So to all future times shall ye 
 Your famous names bequeath. 
 
 Names of the loyal and the free. 
 Triumphant over death I 
 
FAREWELL TO SPAIN. 127 
 
 XII. 
 
 Farewell, loved scenes, tho' fond regret 
 
 And sympathy rebel : 
 Albeit I fain would linger yet, 
 
 I may not : — Fare ye well ! 
 
128 
 
 ai CootJ^atJe in tit dTtencJ ^pxmtt^, 
 I. 
 
 Fair was the morn, and fresh the breeze, 
 
 And blue the distant hills : 
 Full sweetly waved the bright green trees 
 
 That overhung the rills. 
 
 II. 
 
 No war was raging in the land, 
 No orphans mourned their sires ; 
 
 Destruction found no ruthless hand 
 To scatter wide her fires. 
 
 III. 
 
 Across our path no signs of woe 
 
 Or misery appeared ; 
 The song of waters murmuring low, 
 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
A TOOTH-ACHE^ &C. 129 
 
 IV. 
 
 And yet, because one thrill of pain 
 My shrinking frame shot through, 
 
 Nature, her richest stores in vain 
 Expanded to my view. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, man of feeble, fainting heart ! 
 
 Hast thou a living soul ? 
 Then learn to act a Christian's part. 
 
 Nor own such base control. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Know, that each evil meekly borne. 
 
 Becomes a blessing straight : 
 Full many a bramble, prick, and thorn. 
 
 Encompass heaven's gate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thou in fear and pain must tread 
 
 The path that saints have trod. 
 If thou would' st join the holy dead 
 
 Before the throne of God. 
 
130 
 
 August 23d, 1839. 
 To F. W. F. 
 
 'Mid the most smiling scenes of smiling France, 
 
 Where, in the hazy distance, bluely rise 
 
 The Pyrenees, and melt into the skies ; 
 
 "While o'er this fair rich prospect in a trance 
 
 I gaze, my wandering soul to England flies, 
 
 And her loved lakes, o'er which the shadows dance 
 
 Like gloomy fairies when their monarch dies. 
 
 This time last year ! and we were roving then 
 On Loughrigg's brow, or up St. John's wild glen ; 
 Friends of an hour, and thou gav'st utterance 
 To words which cold and worldly-hearted men 
 Might deem too full of wrath ; and yet perchance 
 The hour may come, and come unlooked for, when 
 Things shall prove true that scared thy prophet'^ 
 ken. 
 
131 
 
 Cfte CajStU oi Bt &iuvp, at %n\. 
 
 Here stood our English Edward ; from this tower 
 He gazed on yonder mountains, that defied 
 His further progress, and contemned his power. 
 Mountains on mountains ! Lo, on every side, 
 Tliey rear their cloud-capped heads, yet seem to 
 
 cower 
 Beneath the angry elements ; oh ! pride 
 And pomp of chivalry, this is no hour. 
 While the loud thunder-peals around me boom. 
 And the bright lightnings flash from out the gloom, 
 For ye I the conflicts of the heavens deride 
 The puny strife of man, and sound the doom 
 Of time, and time's past glories, that have died 
 Like him, who erst in youthful victory's bloom. 
 Stood victor here, then sunk into the tomb. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 I. 
 
 I OVERLOOKED the rushiiig Rhone, 
 
 I overlooked its plain ; 
 The sun was setting on the earth. 
 
 Setting to rise again. 
 
 II. 
 
 But where I stood, a sun had set 
 In darkness and in gloom ; 
 
 Had set for aye with every hope. 
 In winter's chilhng tomb. 
 
 The last of England's rightful kings 
 Found here a foreign home. 
 
 Condemned by treachery and fraud. 
 From England's shores to roam. 
 
AVIGNON. 133 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes ! Avignon, your stately walls, 
 
 And rock-encradled towers. 
 Received our royal exile then. 
 
 While kingly pomp was yours. 
 
 V. 
 
 That exile's race has ceased to be, 
 
 Their name has passed away. 
 Or lives but in some by-gone dream. 
 
 Or fond chivalric lay. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And ye, where kings and pontiffs trode 
 
 In all the pride of state, 
 
 Where thronged the learned and the wise, 
 
 The valiant and the great ; 
 / 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now pass their careless hours away. 
 
 With idle jest and song. 
 Heedless of those who went before, 
 
 A rude unmannered throng \ 
 
 ^ The once magnificent palace of the popes is now con- 
 verted into an infantry barrack. 
 
134 AVIGNON. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A Bourbon then could tamely see 
 A Stuart lose his throne ; 
 
 And now, behold that Bourbon's heir, 
 A suppliant for his own ! 
 
135 
 
 I. 
 Fair, oh Geneva ! is thy deep blue lake, 
 
 0*er which, infrequent white sails gaily dance, 
 And glorious are the tints its waters take. 
 
 From the departing sun's last lingering glance. 
 
 II. 
 
 Who would not wish to dwell with thee awhile. 
 With soul unscathed, and heart all fancy-free ; 
 
 Joy in the dimples of thy summer smile, 
 And own thee bluer than the bluest sea ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Bright are thy banks with freshest foliage green. 
 That softly sweep to yonder fir-clad hills. 
 
 Beyond whose crests are mighty mountains seen. 
 Hoary with snow, and ever-gushing rills. 
 
136 GENEVA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The very air that sweeps along thy waves. 
 Breathes inspiration from poetic springs ; 
 
 The Muses haunt thy sweetly scented caves, 
 And each old rock with strains harmonic rings. 
 
 V. 
 
 They, who high raised above the vulgar throng. 
 Made thee, their dwelling, consecrate to fame ; 
 
 Still in undying thoughts, and heavenly song, 
 live, and thy echoes iterate each name. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet art thou still foul heresy's fair home ; 
 
 Still are thy waters tainted with that stain ; 
 Still dost thou rival in thine errors, Rome, 
 
 And still assert thine all-unhallowed reign. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Farewell, Geneva, though the glowing sky 
 May hardly match with thine empyrean hue ; 
 
 That sea, o'er which no living bird may fly. 
 Teems not with sadder memories than you. 
 
137 
 
 r. 
 
 And can it be 'midst scenes so wondrous fair. 
 
 So beautiful, so sweetly blending. 
 Contrasted beauties in a concert rare. 
 
 Beginning nowhere, nowhere ending ; 
 
 II. 
 Where hill and dell, and sky and forest glade. 
 
 And water blue and mountain hoary. 
 By day and night, in sunshine and in shade, 
 
 Gleam forth in nature's chief est glory ; 
 
 IH. 
 
 Where water's flow, and far-off tinkling bell, 
 Soft breeze " that still, small voice** of heaven. 
 
 And all the myriad harmonies that swell 
 Creation's song of praise at even. 
 
135 A FIELD ABOVE LAUSANNE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Proclaim that unity here loves to dwell 
 
 As in her fairest, richest palace. 
 Whence she would fain by some resistless spell, 
 
 Banish all doubt, and strife, and malice ; — 
 
 V. 
 
 That man such sights and sounds divine should mar 
 By faithless discontent and changing ; 
 
 Nor fear the music of these chords to jar 
 By endless, earthly re-arranging ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet so it is. No unity is here. 
 
 Where all is uncontrolled distraction : 
 
 Within that fair old town their fronts uprear 
 The temples of each jarring faction. 
 
 VII. 
 
 No more, as in the happier days of old. 
 
 The Church, albeit not all unerring, 
 Contains the nations in her unrent fold. 
 
 No soul by fears and doubts deterring. 
 
A FIELD ABOVE LAUSANNE. 139 
 
 VIII. 
 So do I raise my prayer to Him, whose power 
 
 In harmony these glories blended, 
 That He would deign in this entroubled hour. 
 
 To bid His people's strife be ended. 
 
140 
 
 %uttvnt. 
 
 The Lion of the 10th of August, 1791. 
 
 All glory be to those heroic Swiss ! 
 
 Those, who, when hearts were failing, sternly stood 
 
 By their strange sovereign, and gave their blood 
 
 In vain for him, who happy was in this, 
 
 (If he, who was misfortune's plaything, could 
 
 Be happy called,) that thus they nobly proved 
 
 How he was honoured by the braved, and loved. 
 
 Son of St. Louis ! not less great and good ! 
 
 These were thy martyr-heralds ; these removed, 
 
 With their own lives, all obstacles that barred 
 
 Thy way to Heaven. Lo ! this is their reward : 
 
 In their own land of mountain, lake, and wood. 
 
 Has grateful valour to all time declared — 
 
 *' Such is the meed for loyal hearts prepared." 
 
141 
 
 Magical Florence ! midnight's solemn hour 
 
 Beholds thee put on loveliness anew. 
 
 At mom how fair wert thou ! but every hue 
 
 Is fairer now : each dimly-frowning tower. 
 
 Each dark old statue, and each still grey wall, 
 
 Marshalled in dreamy, fairy-like review. 
 
 Unto the gazer's heart more loudly call. 
 
 And tell how great was once thy might and power. 
 
 In my clear footsteps' echoes is the sound 
 
 Of ages. All beneath, above, around. 
 
 Is still enchantment ; nought disturbs the spell 
 
 That time has traced upon this magic ground. 
 
 Save when from yon old tower the deep-toned bell 
 
 Of a departed hour rings out the iron knell. 
 
142 
 
 I. 
 
 Dim is the eye that never sees 
 
 A spirit in the pathless wood ; 
 Dull is the ear that in the breeze 
 
 No magic hears, nor in the flood : 
 Oh ! let not such ascend the hill, 
 Where holiest superstition still 
 
 Retains her ancient sway. 
 To me a cross all rudely made 
 Beneath the giant pine-tree's shade, 
 
 Most solemn words can say. 
 T cannot form my lips to sneer 
 At rites or abstinence severe, 
 Nor laugh at deeds of saintly men. 
 Who, far in some sequestered glen. 
 From noise, and sin, and wrath, and strife. 
 
 Passed a hermit's holy life. 
 To me the cave in which they slept. 
 The rock on which they sternly kept 
 
VALLAMBROSA. 143 
 
 Their vigils, has a power t' impart 
 
 Softened feelings to my heart. 
 Go, man of pride, philosopher, 
 Who trust to reason not to err. 
 Go ! and view with scornful eye. 
 These monuments of piety ; 
 But leave me to my musings still. 
 On Vallambrosa's forest-hill ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Bright green lawns with wild flowers gay, 
 Songsters warbling on each spray ; 
 While above the gloomy pines 
 Rise like guardians of the spot, 
 And below the burdened vines 
 Shadow many a humble cot ; 
 Chapels perched on airy steep. 
 Sacred caves in legends blest, 
 Crosses hid in thickets deep. 
 Relics of some sainted guest. 
 All proclaim religion dwells 
 In Vallambrosa's pine-clad dells. 
 
144 VALLAMBROSA. 
 
 Here blest content, and peace of mind. 
 
 Cause each reverend face to smile. 
 And virtue here delights to find 
 
 Israelites that know no guile. 
 In this most gay and thoughtless land 
 Behold a meek unworldly band, 
 With ceaseless prayer and sacrifice, 
 And incense wreathing to the skies, 
 
 Doth intercession make. 
 And who shall say no blessings spring 
 To nobles, people, church, and king, 
 
 For these poor churchmen's sake ? 
 
145 
 
 Hard-hearted Rome ! a grievous sin is thine, 
 
 In that thou hast not e'en as yet suppressed 
 
 Thy cruel mandate, under which we pine 
 
 In foreign lands, and oflferest no rest 
 
 To souls world-wearied, way-worn, and oppressed. 
 
 In purer days, in one unbroken line. 
 
 The Church's children, like the seamless vest 
 
 Of Him, her Master, bound by ties divine. 
 
 By prayer, and vigil, fast, and sacrament. 
 
 Stood firm, and knew nor heresy nor rent. 
 
 And now, how weary is this heart of mine. 
 
 Because thou wilt not do thy Lord's behest. 
 
 But still on worldly pomp and rule art bent, 
 
 Albeit thine eye is dim, the daylight well nigh spent. 
 
146 
 
 '^ Ilegise stirpis Stuartiae postremis." 
 
 My country, wherefore in this wondrous pile 
 Gaze I with saddened brow and tearful eye 
 On signs of thee and thy past history, 
 Which should in foreign lands my soul beguile 
 With glorious thoughts of thee, my mother-isle ? 
 Far from thy shores, dishonoured England, lie 
 These mournful relics, that too sadly prove 
 Thy want of faith, and cold disloyalty. 
 Thou hast them not : so gentle spirits rove 
 To this cold tomb, o*er which fond Memory flings. 
 With all an orphaned widow's hopeless love. 
 Her heart with those beneath, her hopes above. 
 Bright rays of glory, while Religion sings 
 Her requiem o'er our latest rightful kings. 
 
147 
 
 \ 
 
 I. 
 
 Weep, angels of my country, weep, 
 Ye guard no common shrine ; 
 
 Your vigils o'er the last ye keep 
 Of Stuart's royal line. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spell that bound us to our kings 
 
 Is riven, and men now say. 
 That he but idly dreams, who clings 
 ^ To what has passed away. 
 
 III. 
 
 ^ It may be so ; but I will yet 
 \ All dreamingly love on ; 
 
 Love with a lover's fond regret. 
 That will not say, *' Begone !" 
 L 2 
 
148 MONUMENT OF THE STUARTS. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Weep, angels of my country, weep, 
 
 Within that portal gate 
 Our monarchs, in their dreamless sleep. 
 
 Their Monarch's coming wait. 
 
149 
 
 €it Meturn to ffinjjiantr. 
 
 December 10th, 1839. 
 
 Tw4s on a sacred morn of May, that yet 
 
 Makes England's heart to beat with youthful joy, 
 
 Morn bright with Stuart memories ^ a boy 
 
 I left her shores, and now my foot I set 
 
 On this loved strand with somewhat of regret, 
 
 To feel the fairy chains of boyhood's thrall 
 
 From off my now care-burthened shoulders fall. 
 
 And falling, many a dream of hope destroy. 
 
 Oh ! may these lays have striven not all in vain. 
 
 To paint those scenes my heart can ne'er forget ; 
 
 And in glad years to come, may they again 
 
 To thee, dear partner of my tour, recall 
 
 The merrie days of sunshine and of rain. 
 
 We passed in Switzerland, gay France, and Spain ! 
 
 1 The 29th of May. 
 
150 
 
 %'enhou 
 
 The weary traveller, in some mountain land, 
 Seeking again the soil that gave him birth. 
 When evening shades steal darkly o'er the earth. 
 Turns doubtful to those beacon-towers, that stand 
 Frowning defiance from their throne of pride. 
 And with a trembling heart and shaking hand 
 Knocks for admittance. Thus the poet sues 
 Favour for lays, mistrustful of their worth, 
 And dreads to hear his lowly suit denied 
 By thee, oh Reader ! who must now decide. 
 Whether his truant and inconstant Muse 
 Has skilled to bring before thine eyes the hues. 
 Wherewith to him the Past's brave things seemed 
 
 dyed. 
 While sailing down the Present's heartless tide. 
 12 
 
l'envoi. 151 
 
 II. 
 
 If so — no longer let the minstrel wait 
 In the chill air of doubt, suspense, and fear. 
 But bid him to the fire within draw near. 
 And open wide thy touched heart's portal- gate. 
 Oh ! if thou kindly deign* st his strains to hear. 
 And, soothed to gentleness, wilt drop a tear 
 O'er dreams now flown, and old heroic days. 
 When lived and died the valiant and the great, 
 "Who scorned deceit, and would not bend to fate ; 
 Then will perchance some word of courteous praise. 
 The guerdon sole to minstrel spirits dear. 
 Fall like sweet music on his grateful ear : 
 And thus with hearty humbleness he prays 
 A kind reception for his youthful lays. 
 
 Belvoir Castle. 
 The Feast of St. PhiUp and St. James, 1841. 
 
^oU^ to i&tmovisiU Oi ot^tv %antf^. 
 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 Page 119. 
 
 In the month of September, 1834, Charles V. was pro- 
 claimed king of Spain and Lord of Biscay, and swore to 
 maintain the rights and fueros of the Biscayans, under the 
 oak of Guernica. For a most interesting account of the 
 Biscayan constitution, I would refer the reader to Lord 
 Carnarvon's able work on " Portugal, Gallicia, and the 
 Basque Provinces ;" from which it appears, that on the death 
 of Tello, Lord of Biscay in 1371, Don Juan of Castile, then 
 heir to that kingdom, was acknowledged by the Biscayans as 
 their lawful lord, and on his subsequent accession to the 
 crown of Castile, the union of Castile and Biscay took place. 
 On his death, his son and successor, Henry III., repaired to 
 Guernica in the year 1393, and under its oak swore to observe 
 their fueros. In 1457, King Henry IV., under the sacred 
 tree, took the usual oaths ; but fatally for him, he afterwards 
 ventured to infringe their fueros, and the Basques, in spite of 
 his Castilian army and French mediation, transferred their 
 allegiance to his famous sister, the Princess Isabella, who in 
 1483, in the church of Guernica, under the tree of Guernica, 
 and in every large town of Biscay, Guipuzcoa, and Alava, 
 swore to maintain their rights ; and it has remained for Eng- 
 
154 NOTES TO MEMORIALS 
 
 land, who boasts of her freedom, to aid, in the 19th century, 
 the unprincipled councillors of the young and helpless name- 
 sake of that great princess, in subverting the liberties, and 
 disregarding the rights of the undegenerate descendants of 
 those bold Biscayans, who in 1470 reminded their faithless 
 lord, that "The Basques are the representatives of the 
 Iberian nation. For Spanish freedom they lavished their 
 blood against Carthage, against the Romans, and against the 
 Goths. They restored Spain by expelling the Moors, who 
 had conquered it from the barbarians. The struggles of the 
 Basques against the Caliphs of the West lasted for more 
 than six centuries. The little country of Castile scarcely 
 existed, when our nation, dwelling in the Pyrenean mountains, 
 counted many centuries of glory and enterprise !" 
 
 May we not, in 1841, address the Oak of Guernica in the 
 same mournful strain as Mr. Wordsworth did in 1810, 
 " Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
 Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
 (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine 
 Heard from the depths of its aerial bower. 
 How can'st thou flourish at this blighting hour ?" 
 
 Vol. iii. p. 229. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE 19th OF JULY. 
 
 Page 120. 
 
 On the 19th of July, 1839, we stood on the heath, that at a 
 few miles' distance overlooks Vittoria and its plain, which was 
 then literally red with the ripe harvest. The town was gar- 
 risoned by 3,000 Christines, and the low mud outpost near 
 which we rested, marked the limits of the ground held by the 
 
OF OTHER LANDS. 155 
 
 Carlists in that direction. We dined on the heath, and 
 having visited the famous old castle of Guevara, returned the 
 same evening to On ate, in which town Don Carlos had then 
 his head-quarters. On that very night a large body of men 
 sallied out from Vittoria, and burnt the harvest of thirteen 
 villages in the plain. It ought to be borne in mind, that the 
 wretched sufferers could not be ranked as Carlists, for the 
 Carlists did not occupy their territory, and were too weak in 
 numbers (their whole force in Alava did not, I believe, ex- 
 ceed 3,000 men) to do more than defend their own lines ; 
 they suffered from the gratuitous barbarity of those friends of 
 freedom, the allies of our liberal government. Neither was this 
 a solitary instance of wanton cruelty ; it was the system then 
 deliberately pursued by Espartero, Diego Leon, and the other 
 Christino generals, and afforded Maroto an opportunity and 
 an excuse for opening a communication with Lord John Hay, 
 for the purpose, as he averred to his betrayed sovereign, of 
 inducing the British government to withdraw their support 
 from allies so unworthy of it. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 GILBERT & RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, 
 
 ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. 
 
 Pi 
 
LOAN DEPT. 
 
 APR 2 8 1969 
 
 
 (J6057sl0)476--iA-32 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 Berkeley 
 
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