The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

PART FOURTH

WALK ABROAD – VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL – WRINGTON – "AULD ROBIN GRAY."

 
The shower is past – the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow, – such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.
No object on the wider sea-line meets
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship – the very ship I saw
In infancy, and in that very place,
Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old
Since she was first descried; and there she sits,
A solitary thing of the wide main —
As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on: —
To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!
Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice
Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way
Slow up the channel, after many years,
Returning from some distant clime, or lands,
Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes
Count every nearer surge that heaves around!
How many anxious hearts this moment beat
With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,
Intensely fixed upon these very hills,
Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on —
On – on – into the world of the vast sea,
There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,
Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,
Now fading into mist! So let her speed,
And we will pray she may return in joy,
When every storm is past! Such is this sea,
That shows one wandering ship! How different smile
The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,
Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine —
Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth —
Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,
And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade
Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore,
Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,⁷⁴ and chid
The tide, that came regardless to his feet,
A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike
Yon solitary sea, the summer shines,
There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,
Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,
And sails, at distance, beautifully swell
To the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,
Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look! —
Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht
That turns the wooded point, and silently
Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently —
And yet as if she said, as she went on,
Who does not gaze at me!
Yon winding sands
Were solitary once, as the wide sea.
Such I remember them! No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,
When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,
Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,
Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here
I could have no companion fit for him —
So whispered youthful vanity – for him
Whom Oxford⁷⁵ had distinguished, – can my heart
Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,
I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone
On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,
I listened to the tide's advancing roar,
When, for the old and booted fisherman,
Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze
Of sunrise, I beheld – or was it not
A momentary vision? – a fair form —
A female, following, with light, airy step,
The wave as it retreated, and again
Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,
As if in play; and she stood beautiful,
Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,
Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.
I looked that she would vanish! She had left,
Like me, just left the abode of discipline,
And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,
When the pale light first glanced along the wave,
To play with the wild ocean, like a child;
And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,
Ye votaries of German sentiment!) —
Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,
I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,
Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,
And left the scene to solitude. Once more
We met, and then we parted, in this world
To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone
The vision of a moment, on the sands,
Was never seen again! Now it has passed
Where all things are forgotten; but it shone
To me a sparkle of the morning sun,
That trembled on the light wave yesterday,
And perished there for ever!
Look around!
Above the winding reach of Severn stands,
With massy fragments of forsaken towers,
Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!
Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind
Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,
And deem it some old castle of romance;
And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,
Above the wave, fancy it was the form
Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,
Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieks
Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound – no sound
But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!
There is no bleeding apparition there —
No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!
Surrounded by the works of silent art,
And far, far more endearing, by a group
Of breathing children, their possessor lives;⁷⁶
And ill should I deserve the name of bard —
Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme
Without a prayer – an earnest, heartfelt prayer,
When one, whose smile I never saw but once,
Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms —
Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock —
A living and a lovely bride!⁷⁷
How proud,
Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,
With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,
Trailing in columns to the midday sun,
Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,
And the great stir of commerce, and the noise
Of passing and repassing wains, and cars,
And sledges, grating in their underpath,
And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts
And pennants from all nations of the earth,
Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,
Hill above hill; and every road below
Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high
On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene: —
How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,
Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,
Stands Redcliff's solemn fane, – how proudly girt
With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,
Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea —
Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,
That ancient city sits!
From out those trees,
Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!
How many woody glens and nooks of shade,
With transient sunshine, fill the interval,
As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,
Dark, or with fits of desultory light
Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,
Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe
Allures the lingering traveller to wind,
Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,
Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously
The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously
Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,
Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,
While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!
There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock
Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs
From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,
Seem as admonishing the nether woods
Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath
The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge
One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,
Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.
And who lives in that far-secluded cot?
Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,
Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge
She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,
Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound
Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!
Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy rings
Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,
Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,
By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled
The rocks, that stern in desolation frown,
Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,⁷⁸
Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite
More dismal makes its utter dreariness!
But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smiles
The seat of cultivated Addington:⁷⁹
And there, that beautiful but solemn church
Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend⁸⁰
Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt
Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends —
With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,
Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.
Is that a magic garden on the edge
Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;
While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke
(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),
Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens
With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,
That seems to say – England, with all thy crimes,
And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,
England, thou only art the poor man's home!
And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,
Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.
The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,
Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps
The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock
Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.
And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think
Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song —
Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too!⁸¹
He, in retirement's literary bower,
Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,
Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayer
For her, associate of his early fame,
Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,⁸²
Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,
In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,
Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,
Smiling at time!
But, hark! there comes a song,
Of Scotland's lakes and hills – Auld Robin Gray!
Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed words
More sadly soothing; but the melody,⁸³
Like some sweet melody of olden times,
A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.
Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once —
Sung by a maiden⁸⁴ of the south, whose look
(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,
Are sweeter than her song – no minstrel gray,
Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"
But would lay down his harp, and when the song
Was ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,
To thank that maiden, with a strain like this: —
Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"
Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"
I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,
And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.
 
 
"I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,⁸⁵
Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;
Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,
And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.
The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,
For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;
The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,
Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.
 

PART FIFTH

LANG SYNE – VISION OF THE DELUGE – CONCLUSION

 
The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long ago
It died away – died, and was heard no more!
And where those hills that skirt the level vale,
On to the left, the prospect intercept,
I would not, could not look, were they removed;
I would not, could not look, lest I should see
The sunshine on that spot of all the world,
Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazed
Long since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,
Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,
Farewell – farewell, for ever!
How sincere,
How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?
Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,
And I look back, and almost seem to hear
The music of the days when we were young,
Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,
Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere —
How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,
Was my fond heart's first love!
The summer eve
Shone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,
Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,
Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,
Borne from those scenes for ever, while with song
The sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.
So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,
Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,
And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,
Save such as poets dream of – love and hope.
At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwined
Lay withering, for the dream had been too sweet
For human life; yet never, though his love,
All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;
Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,
To drown even the remembrance that he lived —
Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,
Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,
Died on his desultory lyre.
No more!
Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,
That long has passed away! Uplift the eyes
To Him who sits above the water flood, —
To Him who was, and is, and is to come!
Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,
And marking here the record of earth's doom,
Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound —
The sound of the great flood, the peopled earth
Covering and surging in its solitude!
Let us forget the passing hour, the stir
Of this tumultuous scene of human things,
And bid imagination lift the veil
Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!
The vision of the deluge! Hark – a trump!
It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern
He stands, whilst the awakening thunder rolls
Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands
Upon Imaus' height!
No voice is heard
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!
He sounds again his trumpet; and the clouds
Come deepening o'er the world!
Why art thou pale?
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of the Almighty passed
O'er the abodes of man, and hushed at once
The song, the shout, the cries of violence,
The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse
Of blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,
And mocks the deeper thunder!
Hark! a voice —
Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earth
Answers, from north to south, from east to west —
Perish! The fountains of the mighty deep
Are broken up; the rushing rains descend,
Like night – deep night; while, momentary seen,
Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,
Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,
Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind —
Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared —
Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!
Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell
Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,
And then a loud voice answers – Victory!
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Ride on: – the ark, majestic and alone
On the wide waste of the careering deep,
Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!
The ark, from its terrific voyage, rests
On Ararat. The raven is sent forth, —
Send out the dove, and as her wings far off
Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,
Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song: —
 
 
Go, beautiful and gentle dove;
But whither wilt thou go?
For though the clouds ride high above,
How sad and waste is all below!
 
 
The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast
Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a night
When she was listening to the hollow wind,
She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;
Or when it murmured in her hand, forgot
The long, loud tumult of the storm without.
She kisses it, and at her father's word,
Bids it go forth.
 
 
The dove flies on! In lonely flight
She flies from dawn till dark;
And now, amid the gloom of night,
Comes weary to the ark.
Oh! let me in, she seems to say,
For long and lone hath been my way!
Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,
And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!
 
 
So the bird flew to her who cherished it.
She sent it forth again out of the ark; —
Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!
An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,
And kissed its wings again, and smilingly
Dropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,
Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:
Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,
Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell: —
 
 
Go, beautiful and gentle dove,
And greet the morning ray;
For, lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm have passed away.
No longer, drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!
 
 
Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,
Thy welcome sad will be,
When thou shalt hear no voice of love,
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell;
Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,
Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!⁸⁶
 
 
And never more she saw it; for the earth
Was dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,
Again the great Archangel stands; the light
Of the moist rainbow glitters on his hair —
He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose arch
Spans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,
The ascending dove is for a moment seen,
The last rain falls – falls, gently and unheard.
Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up! —
Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,
Behold a cross! – and round about the cross,
Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,
Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,
Lift their acclaiming voice – Glory to thee,
Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,
Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnify
Thy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,
For the great dragon is cast down, and hell
Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!
Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,
And all the visionary pomp is past!
I only see a few sheep on the edge
Of this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,
Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.
Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,
And Banwell Church;⁸⁷ and farewell to the shores
Where, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,
Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-cave
I leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breeze
That wanders from that sea, whose sound I heard
So many years ago.
Yet, whilst the light
Steals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,
I turn a parting look, and lift to Heaven
A parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus, —
With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,
Her mitred brow tempered with lenity
And apostolic mildness – in her mien
No dark defeature, beautiful as mild,
And gentle as the smile of charity, —
Thus on the Rock of Ages may uplift
Her brow majestic, pointing to the spires
That grace her village glens, or solemn fanes
In cities, calm above the stir and smoke,
And listening to deep harmonies that swell
From all her temples!
So may she adorn —
Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure —
This happy land, till time shall be no more!
And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,
Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touched
By time, to show a grace, but no decay,
Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,
The traveller beholds, crowning the vale
Of Avalon, with all its towers in light;
So, England, may thy gray cathedrals lift
Their front in heaven's pure light, and ever boast
Such prelate-lords – bland, but yet dignified —
Pious, paternal, and beloved, as he
Who prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!
And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rock
That Church is founded, though the storm without
May howl around its battlements, preserve
Its spirit, and still pour into the hearts
Of all, who there confess thy holy name,
Peace, that, through evil or through good report,
They may hold on their blameless way!
For me,
Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,
Hung on my early hopes, that cloud is passed, —
Is passed, but not forgotten, – and the light
Is calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,
Soon to be ended. I may wake no more
The melody of song on earth; but Thee,
Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,
Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no song
Of mine, from youth to age, has left a stain
I would blot out; and grateful for the good
Thy providence, through many years, has lent,
Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high will
Dismiss me, – blessed if, when that hour shall come,
My life may plead, far better than my song.
 

THE GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON; OR, THE LEGEND OF THE CURFEW

INTRODUCTION

The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public.

The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.⁸⁸ His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.

When the battle was gained, he knew not on what course to determine: instead of marching to London, he retired towards Dover. When he was met by the Kentish men, with green boughs, the quaint historian says, "He was daunted." These and many other incidental circumstances may occur to the reader.

In representing him, therefore, as under the control of superstitious impressions, I trust I have not transgressed, at least, poetical verisimilitude. An earthquake actually happened about the period at which the poem commences, followed by storms and inundations. Of these facts I have availed myself.

I fear the poem will be thought less interesting, from having nothing of love in it, except, in accordance with the received ideas of the gentleness of Atheling's character, I have made him not insensible to one of my imaginary females; and have, therefore, to mark his character, made him advert to the pastoral scenes of Scotland, where he had been a resident. There is a similarity between my "Monk," and "The Missionary," but their offices and the scenes are entirely different, and some degree of resemblance was unavoidable in characters of the same description.

Filial affection, love of our country, bravery, sternness (inflexible, except under religions fears); the loftier feelings of a desolate female, under want and affliction, with something of the wild prophetical cast; religious submission, and deep acquiescence in the will of God; – these passions are brought into action, around one centre, if I may use the word, The Grave of the last Saxon.

That Harold's sons landed with a large fleet from Denmark, and were joined by an immense confederate army, in the third year of William's reign, is a well-known historical fact. That York was taken by the confederate army, and that all the Normans, except Sir William Malet, and his family, were killed, is also matter of record.⁸⁹ That afterwards, the blow against William failing, the whole country, from the Humber to Tyne, from the east to the west, was depopulated by sword and famine, are facts which are also to be found in all historians.

Some slight anachronisms may I hope, be pardoned – if anachronisms they are – such as the year in which the Tower was built, etc.

The plan of the Poem will be found, I trust, simple and coherent, the characters sufficiently marked and contrasted, and the whole conducive, however deficient in other respects, to the excitement of virtuous sympathy, and subservient to that which alone can give dignity to poetry – the cause of moral and religious truth.