Jt&A Strrf E LIBRIS H. G. DOGGETT, IN CATALOGUE DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Treasure %oom GIFT OF Glass of I913 POEMS, CHIEFLY OF EARLY AND LATE YEARS; THE BORDERERS, & ©ragefcg. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXLII. Tr."R- LONJDOH : KND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEKRIARS. CONTENTS. Prelude - -' - ...... i x GUILT AND SORROW ; or Incideuts upon Salisbury Plain 1 Sonnet. — Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 43 The Forsaken .-.-.---44 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live - - 45 Address to the Scholars of the Village School of — — &c. - 47 Lines on the expected Invasion. 1803- - - - 51 At the Grave of Burns - - - 52 Thoughts on the Banks of the Nith - - - 56 Elegiac Verses, in memory of John Wordsworth . - - 59 At Applethwaite, near Keswick - - - f - 63 EPISTLE TO SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. - 64 Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle 76 Airey-Force Valley - - - - - - - 78 A Night Thought 79 Farewell Lines - - - - -- --80 Love lies bleeding -- ----82 Companion to the Foregoing - - - - - - 83 91 ^ -*- u o O IV CONTENTS. FA0B Address to the Clouds 85 Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise - . - - 89 Maternal Grief - - - - - - - -91 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. Dedication -------95 Musings near Aquapendente - - - - - 97 Sonnet. — The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome - 1 13 At Rome - 114 " At Rome. Regrets - - - - 115 Continued - - - - - - 116 " Plea for the Historian - - - - 117 At Rome 118 " Near Rome, in sight of St. Peter's- - 119 At Albano 120 " Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove - 121 From the Alban Hills - - - - 122 " Near the Lake of Thrasymene - - 123 " Near the same Lake - - - - 124 The Cuckoo at Laverna - 125 Sonnet. — At the Convent of Camaldoli - - - 130 " Continued - - - - 131 " At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli 132 At Vallombrosa - - - - - --133 Sonnet. — At Florence - - - - - 136 " Before the Picture of the Baptist. Florence 137 CONTENTS. V PAGE MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY— Continued. Sonnet. — At Florence. From M. Angelo - - 138 " At Florence. From M. Angelo - - 139 Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines - 140 Sonnet. — At Bologna - - - - - 141 Continued - - - - --142 Concluded- ----- 143 InLombardy- - - - - 144 After leaving Italy - - - - 145 Continued - - - - - - 146 Notes » 147 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale (from Chaucer) - - 149 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. Suggested by the view of Lancaster Castle - - 166 Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law - - - 167 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die - - 168 Is Death, when evil against good has fought - - 1 69 Not to the object specially designed - - - 1 70 Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that frequent - 171 Before the world had past her time of youth - 172 Fit retribution, by the moral code - - - - 173 Though to give timely warning and deter - - 174 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine - 1 75 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide - 176 See the Condemned alone within his cell - - 177 Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound - 178 Apology - - 179 321533 VI CONTENTS. MM Composed by the Sea-shore - - - - - -180 The Norman Boy - 182 Sequel to the Norman Boy - - - - --185 Note to the Norman Boy - - - - - -191 Poor Robin 192 The Cuckoo-clock - - 194 The Wishing-gate destroyed - - - ... 197 The Widow on Windermere side ----- 200 Cenotaph --.----.. 203 Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale - 204 Troilus and Cresida (from Chaucer) - - - - - 206 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. A Poet 1 — He hath put his heart to school - - 215 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky - - 216 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken - - - 217 The Pilgrim Fathers 218 Continued - - 219 Concluded. — American Episcopacy - - - 220 On the Portrait of the Duke of Wellington - - 221 In allusion to various recent Histories, &c. - - 222 Continued 223 Concluded 224 Men of the Western world ! in Fate's dark book - 225 Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance - 226 To a Painter - 227 On the same subject 228 To a Redbreast - - • 229 Floating Island 230 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love ------ 231 Sonnet. — Blest Statesman He whose mind's unselfish will 232 " Composed on a May Morning (1838) - - 233 " Composed on the same Morning - - - - 234 " At Dover 235 To the Planet Venus (January, 1838) - - 236 " Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest - 237 " 'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain - - 238 " Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and speech 239 A Plea for Authors (May, 1838) - - - 240 Valedictory Sonnet (1838) - - - - 241 " Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake - 242 THE BORDERERS 243 Notes 399 PRELUDE. In desultory walk through orchard grounds, Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song To his own genial instincts ; and was heard ( Though not without some plaintive tones between) To utter, above showers of blossom swept From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm, Which the unsheltered traveller might receive . With thankful spirit. The descant, and the toind That seemed to play with it in love or scorn, Encouraged and endeared the strain of words That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book ! Charged with those lays, and others of like mood, PRELUDE. Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme, Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined With thy Forerunners that through many a year Ham faithfully prepared each other's way — Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled When and wherever, in this changeful world, Power hath been given to please for higher ends Than pleasure only ; gladdening to prepare For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine, Calming to raise ; and, by a sapient Art Diffused through all the mysteries of our Being, Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased To cast their shadows on our mother Earth Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace Which, though unsued for, fails not to descend With heavenly inspiration ; such the aim That Reason dictates ; and, as even the wish Has virtue in it, why should hope to me Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied ills Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers Of private life their natural pleasantness, A Voice devoted to the love whose seeds Are sown in every human breast, to beatify PRELUDE. Lodged within compass of the humblest sight, To cheerful intercourse with wood and field, And sympathy with man's substantial griefs — Will not be heard in vain ? And in those days When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide Among a People mournfully cast down, Or into anger roused by venal words In recklessness flung out to overturn The judgment, and divert the general heart From mutual good — some strain of thine, my Booh ! Caught at propitious intervals, may win Listeners who not unwillingly admit Kindly emotion tending to console And reconcile ; and both with young and old Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude For benefits that still survive, by faith In progress, under laws divine, maintained. Rydal Mount, March 26, 1842. ERRATUM. Page 83, six lines from the bottom, for \/' Preserved her beauty among summer leaves, GUILT AND SORROW: INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN. ADVERTISEMENT. Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of " The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here ; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced. During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in b2 4 ADVERTISEMENT. my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains. The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated. In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England. GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN. A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare ; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore ; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled : Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair ; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. GUILT AND SORROW. While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, " Here you will find a friend ! " The pendent grapes glittered above the door ; — On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high ; That inn he long had passed ; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. GUILT AND SORROW. No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear ; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near ; And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain ; No voice made answer, he could only hear "Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest ; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain ; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread ; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. GUILT AND SORROW. And be it so — for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared ; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told ; for, landing after labour hard, Three years endured in hope of just reward, He to an arm£d fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate ; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister ; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck ; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. GUILT AND SORROW. Vain hope ! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart ; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood ; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang ; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by ; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. 10 GUILT AND SORROW. It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain ; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain ; He fell, and without sense or motion lay ; But, when the trance was gone, rose and pursued his way. As one whose brain demoniac phrensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. GUILT AND SORROW. 11 Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek ; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak ; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound ; The weary eye — which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms — at length surveys "What seems an antique castle spreading wide ; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime : in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. 12 GUILT AND SORROW. Pile of Stone-henge ! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain ! Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme ; And, from its perilous shelter driven, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led ; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. GUILT AND SORROW. 13 No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome ; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom ; No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or broom ; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room ; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose ; The downs were visible — and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield : But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the " Dead House " of the plain. 14 GUILT AND SORROW. Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes begin to close ; When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed : The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her — spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind ; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers GUILT AND SORROW. 15 Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat ; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse : The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late-murdered corse. XXI. Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon^ sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound ; Recovering heart, like answer did she make ; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake ; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. 16 GUILT AND SORROW. But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought ; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its rage was spent : Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The "Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. " By Derwent's side my father dwelt — a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred ; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said : And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read ; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. GUILT AND SORROW, 17 A little croft we owned — a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time ! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied ; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime ; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing .and racing came to meet me at the water-side ! The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire ; His seat beneath the honied sycamore "Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ; When market-morning came, the neat attire "With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked ; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked ; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 18 GUILT AND SORROW. The suns of twenty summers danced along, — Too little marked how fast they rolled away : But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay : We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune would put on a kinder look ; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summer came ; — our final leave we took. It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made ! Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers : Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed ; — I could not pray : — through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer ours ! GUILT AND SORROW. 19 There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say : 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song "We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May ; When we began to tire of childish play, "We seemed still more and more to prize each other ; We talked of marriage and our marriage day ; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade : What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown ! What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed ! To him we turned : — we had no other aid : Like one revived, upon his neck I wept ; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief ; his faith he kept ; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. c2 20 GUILT AND SORROW. We lived in peace and comfort ; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast ; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal : Thrice happy ! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. 'Twas a hard change ; an evil time was come ; We had no hope, and no relief could gain : But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view ; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain : To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. GUILT AND SORROW. 21 There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure ; wished and wished — nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed — at last the land withdrew. But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue : We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. 22 GUILT AND SORROW. The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished — all in one remorseless year, Husband and children ! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute ; and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent ; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. GUILT AND SORROW. 23 " come," he cried, " come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked ; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw ; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew : The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope ; and the lark warbled near. They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote : The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat ; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. "While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. 24 GUILT AND SORROW. " Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main ; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet round me ship and ocean were ! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke ; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost ! GUILT AND SORROW. 25 Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world ; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me — farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found ; " Here will I dwell," said I, ** my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round ; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood." — To break my dream the vessel reached its bound ; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. 26 GUILT AND SORROW. No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung : Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. So passed a second day ; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort ; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall ; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl : Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. GUILT AND SORROW. 21 XLIV. Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain Of many things which never troubled me — Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return ; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed ; The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food — and rest, more welcome, more desired. 28 GUILT AND SORROW. Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door ; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure — The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted ; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. But ill they suited me — those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill : Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. GUILT AND SORROW. 29 What could I do, unaided and unblest ? My father ! gone was every friend of thine : And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help ; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit ; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine ; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields ; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used : But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. 30 GUILT AND SORROW. Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : Three years a wanderer now my course I bend — Oh ! tell me whither— for no earthly friend Have I." — She ceased, and weeping turned away ; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept ; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks — for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long- treasured smile, 'Twas not for him to speak — a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. GUILT AND SORROW. 31 Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam : Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent ; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale ; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast ; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. 32 GUILT AND SORROW. His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade ; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply "With bitter insult and revilings sad ; Asked him in scorn what business there he had ; What kind of plunder he was hunting now ; The gallows would one day of him be glad ; — Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth ; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw — there and upon that ground — Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found ; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. GUILT AND SORROW. 33 "Within himself he said — "What hearts have we ! The blessing this a father gives his child ! Yet happy thou, poor boy ! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill — fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke ; He kissed his son — so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. " Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece ; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace : Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase ?"- While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. 34 GUILT AND SORROW. Forthwith the pair passed on ; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene "Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green ; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between ; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale ; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale : It was a rustic inn ; — the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. GUILT AND SORROW. 35 Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part ; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell ! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there ; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played ; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth ; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. LXI. A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood ; Chequering the canvass roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved ; Bed under her lean body there was none. Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. d2 36 GUILT AND SORROW. The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, "Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way ; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. " A sad sight is here," She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed ; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife — " God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own ; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone !" GUILT AND SORROW. 37 So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear ; Then said — " I thank you all ; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear ; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. " Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey ; and within the wain They placed me — there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain : For I shall never see my father's door again 38 GOILT AND SORROW. " My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome ; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be ! Soon will this voice be dumb : Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. " A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed ; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread ; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie ; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed ; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I ; GUILT AND SORROW. 39 " For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood ; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And he had done the deed in the dark wood — Near his own home ! — but he was mild and good ; Never on earth was gentler creature seen ; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." Alas ! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought ; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive ; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried — " Do pity me ! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but forgive ! " 40 GUILT AND SORROW. To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay ; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay ; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, " Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face, — then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent ; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead ; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed ; And oft he groaned aloud, " O God, that I were dead ! GUILT AND SORROW. 41 The Soldier s Widow lingered in the cot ; And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms ; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared : " And from your doom," he added, " now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : " O welcome sentence which will end though late/' He said, " the pangs that to my conscience came " Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour ! is in thy name !' 42 GUILT AND SORROW. His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not : — no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought ; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. 1793-4. 43 SONNET. Though the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds and wheel around the mountain tops Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt, Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect The lingering dew — there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops, Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent Her simplest fancies ? Should that fear be thine, Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine, With brow in penitential sorrow bent ! 44 THE FORSAKEN. The peace which others seek they find ; The heaviest storms not longest last ; Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind An amnesty for what is past ; When will my sentence be reversed ? I only pray to know the worst ; And wish as if my heart would burst. weary struggle ! silent years Tell seemingly no doubtful tale ; And yet they leave it short, and fears And hopes are strong and will prevail. My calmest faith escapes not pain ; And, feeling that the hope is vain, 1 think that he will come again. 45 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain Recal the not unwilling Maid, Assist me to detain The lovely Fugitive : Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye. The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort Of contemplation, the calm port By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity. But if no wish be hers that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. Where all things are so fair, Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather ; And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 46 Shade upon the sunshine lying Faint and somewhat pensively ; And downward Image gaily vying With its upright living tree Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. Nor less the joy with many a glance Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest ; Or watch, with mutual teaching, The current as it plays In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Adown a rocky maze ; Or note (translucent summer s happiest chance !) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 47 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF . 1798. I come, ye little noisy Crew, Not long your pastime to prevent ; I heard the blessing which to you Our common Friend and Father sent. I kissed his cheek before he died ; And when his breath was fled, I raised, while kneeling by his side, His hand : — it dropped like lead : Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all That can be done, will never fall Like his till they are dead. By night or day blow foul or fair, Ne'er will the best of all your train Play with the locks of his white hair, Or stand between his knees again. 48 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS, ETC. Here did he sit confined for hours ; But he could see the woods and plains, Could hear the wind and mark the showers Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound He rests a prisoner of the ground. He loved the breathing air, He loved the sun, but if it rise Or set, to him where now he lies, Brings not a moment's care. Alas ! what idle words ; but take The Dirge which for our Master's sake And yours, love prompted me to make. The rhymes so homely in attire With learned ears may ill agree, But chanted by your Orphan Quire Will make a touching melody. DIRGE. Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone ; Thou Angler, by the silent flood ; And mourn when thou art all alone, Thou Woodman, in the distant wood ! ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS, ETC. 49 Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum ; And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy ! Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, As he before had sanctified Thy infancy with heavenly truth. Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, Bold Settlers on some foreign shore, Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, A sigh to him whom we deplore. For us who here in funeral strain With one accord our voices raise, Let sorrow overcharged with pain Be lost in thankfulness and praise. And when our hearts shall feel a sting From ill we meet or good we miss, May touches of his memory bring Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 50 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS, ETC. BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER. Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; But benefits, his gift, we trace — Expressed in every eye we meet Round this dear Yale, his native place. To stately Hall and Cottage rude Flowed from his life what still they hold, Light pleasures, every day renewed, And blessings half a century old. Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, Thy faults, where not already gone From memory, prolong their stay For charity's sweet sake alone. Such solace find we for our loss ; And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave. See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces the Fountain, &c. &c. in the 5th Vol. of the Author's Poems. 51 LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION. 1803. Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land Were with herself at strife, would take your stand, Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side, And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride — Come ye — who, not less zealous, might display Banners at enmity with regal sway, And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day, Think that a State would live in sounder health If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth — Ye too — whom no discreditable fear Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear, Uncertain what to choose and how to steer — And ye— who might mistake for sober sense And wise reserve the plea of indolence — Come ye — whate'er your creed — O waken all, Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call ; Resolving (this a free-born Nation can) To have one Soul, and perish to a man, Or save this honoured Land from every Lord But British reason and the British sword. e2 52 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803. I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold : As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead, So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid. And have I then thy bones so near, And thou forbidden to appear ? As if it were thyself that's here, I shrink with pain ; And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain. Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay With chastened feelings would I pay The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view. AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 53 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius " glinted " forth, Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems, Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams. The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now ? — Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, The prompt, the brave, Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave. Well might I mourn that He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, When, breaking forth as nature's own, It showed my youth How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth. Alas ! where'er the current tends, Regret pursues and with it blends, — Huge CrifTei's hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen,— Neighbours we were, and loving friends We might have been ; 54 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. True friends though diversely inclined ; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined, Through Nature's skill, May even by contraries be joined More closely still. The tear will start, and let it flow ; Thou " poor Inhabitant below," At this dread moment — even so — Might we together Have sate and talked where gowans blow, Or on wild heather. What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach ; of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast ! But why go on ? — Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, His grave grass-grown. There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) Lies gathered to his Father's side, Soul-moving sight ! Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight. AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 55 For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead, Harboured where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest ; And surely here it may be said That such are blest. And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He who halloweth the place Where Man is laid Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed ! Sighing I turned away ; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn, Chaunted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim. 56 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE. Too frail to keep the lofty vow- That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us how — "With holly spray, He faultered, drifted to and fro, And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long, Over the grave of Burns we hung In social grief — Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair, Let us beside this limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air. THOUGHTS. 57 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right His course was true, When Wisdom prospered in his sight And virtue grew. Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray, Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay. How oft inspired must he have' trod These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! There lurks his home ; in that Abode, With mirth elate, Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate. Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature, from what cause And by what rules She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools. 58 THOUGHTS. Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen ; He rules mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives ; Deep in the general heart of men His power survives. What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs, Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings ? Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever. But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live ?— The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive ! See Note at the end of the Volume. 59 ELEGIAC VERSES IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH, COMMANDER OP THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE EARL OP ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PEBISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, PEB. 6TH, 1805. Composed near the Mountain track, that leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes where it descends towards Patterdale. 1805. The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! That instant, startled by the shock, The Buzzard mounted from the rock Deliberate and slow : Lord of the air, he took his flight ; Oh ! could he on that woeful night Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, For one poor moment's space to Thee, And all who struggled with the Sea, When safety was so near. 60 ELEGIAC VERSES. Thus in the weakness of my heart I spoke (but let that pang be still) When rising from the rock at will, I saw the Bird depart. And let me calmly bless the Power That meets me in this unknown Flower, Affecting type of him I mourn ! With calmness suffer and believe, And grieve, and know that I must grieve, Not cheerless, though forlorn. Here did we stop ; and here looked round While each into himself descends, For that last thought of parting Friends That is not to be found. Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, Our home and his, his heart's delight, His quiet heart's selected home. But time before him melts away, And he hath feeling of a day Of blessedness to come. ELEGIAC VERSES. 6l Full soon in sorrow did I weep, Taught that the mutual hope was dust, In sorrow, but for higher trust, How miserably deep ! All Vanished in a single word, A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so it came, The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; He who had been our living John Was nothing but a name. That was indeed a parting ! oh, Glad am I, glad that it is past ; For there were some on whom it cast Unutterable woe. But they as well as I have gains ; — From many a humble source, to pains Like these, there comes a mild release Even here I feel it, even this Plant Is in its beauty ministrant To comfort and to peace. 62 ELEGIAC VERSES. He would have loved thy modest grace, Meek Flower ! To Him I would have said, " It grows upon its native bed Beside our Parting- place ; There, cleaving to the ground, it lies "With multitude of purple eyes, Spangling a cushion green like moss ; But we will see it, joyful tide ! Some day, to see it in its pride, The mountain will we cross." ■ — Brother and friend, if verse of mine Have power to make thy virtues known, Here let a monumental Stone Stand — sacred as a Shrine ; And to the few who pass this way, Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, Long as these mighty rocks endure, Oh do not Thou too fondly brood, Although deserving of all good, On any earthly hope, however pure ! The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnseus). See note at the end of the volume. See 2nd vol. of the Author's Poems, page 296, and 5th vol., pages 311 and 314, among Elegiac Pieces. 63 AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK. 1804. Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell ; On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell In neighbourhood with One to me most dear, That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling — a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured Beaumont ! still Even then we may perhaps in vain implore Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Whether this boon be granted us or not, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore. This biographical Sonnet, if so it may be called, together with the Epistle that follows, have been long suppressed from feelings of personal delicacy. 64 EPISTLE TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.— 1811. Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar; While, day by day, grim neighbour ! huge Black Comb Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, Unless, perchance rejecting in despite What on the Plain we have of warmth and light, In his own storms he hides himself from sight. Rough is the time ; and thoughts, that would be free From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee ; Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, EPISTLE. 65 Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, Like an unshifting weathercock which proves How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, Or stedfast Centinel that, evermore Darkening the window, ill defends the door Of this unfinished house — a Fortress bare, Where strength has been the Builder's only care ; Whose rugged walls may still for years demand The final polish of the Plasterer s hand. — This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, I — of whose touch the fiddle would complain, Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain, In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill, Tired of my books, a scanty company ! And tired of listening to the boisterous sea — Pace between door and window muttering rhyme, An old resource to cheat a froward time ! Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame ?) Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. — But if there be a Muse who, free to take Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake 66 EPISTLE. Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail Trips down the pathways of some winding dale ; Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores To fishers mending nets beside their doors ; Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, Or listens to its play among the boughs Above her head and so forgets her vows — If such a Visitant of Earth there be And she would deign this day to smile on me And aid my verse, content with local bounds Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell Without reserve to those whom we love well — Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current clear Will flow, and on a welcome page appear Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here. What shall I treat of ? News from Mona's Isle ? Such have we, but unvaried in its style ; No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence ; EPISTLE. 67 Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind Most restlessly alive when most confined. Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease The mighty tumults of the House of Keys ; The last years cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained : An eye of fancy only can I cast On that proud pageant now at hand or past, When full five hundred boats in trim array, With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay, And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer, For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair, Soon as the herring-shoaJs at distance shine Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine. Mona from our Abode is daily seen, But with a wilderness of waves between ; And by conjecture only can we speak Of aught transacted there in bay or creek ; No tidings reach us thence from town or field, Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield, And some we gather from the misty air, And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare. But these poetic mysteries I withhold ; For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, f2 68 EPISTLE. And should the colder fit with You be on, When You might read, my credit would be gone. Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests culled from the opening stage Of our migration. — Ere the welcome dawn Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, Thoughtfully freighted with a various store ; And long or ere the uprising of the Sun O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, A needful journey, under favouring skies, Through peopled Vales ; yet something in the guise Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell. Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide Up many a sharply-twining road and down, And over many a wide hill's craggy crown, Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook ? A blooming Lass — who in her better hand Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command EPISTLE. 69 When, yet a slender Girl, she often led, Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled * From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head. What could go wrong with such a Charioteer For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear, A Pair who smilingly sate side by side, Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide, Whose free embraces we were bound to seek, Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek ? Such hope did either Parent entertain Pacing behind along the silent lane. Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, For lo ! an uncouth melancholy sight — On a green bank a creature stood forlorn Just half protruded to the light of morn, Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn. The Figure called to mind a beast of prey Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay, And though no longer upon rapine bent Dim memory keeping of its old intent. We started, looked again with anxious eyes, And in that griesly object recognise * A local word for Sledge. 70 EPISTLE. The Curate's Dog — his long-tried friend, for they, As well we knew, together had grown grey. The Master died, his drooping servant's grief Found at the "Widow's feet some sad relief ; Until the Vale she quitted, and their door Was closed, to which she will return no more ; But first old Faithful to a neighbour's care Was given in charge ; nor lacked he dainty fare, And in the chimney nook was free to lie And doze, or, if his hour were come, to die. Yet still he lived in pining discontent, Sadness which no indulgence could prevent ; Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps ; Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, And of all visible motion destitute, So that the very heaving of his breath Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death. Long as we gazed upon the form and face, A mild domestic pity kept its place, Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue That haunted us in spite of what we knew. Even now I sometimes think of him as lost In second-sight appearances, or crost EPISTLE. 71 By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound, Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait In days of old romance at Archimago's gate. Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled, The choristers in every grove had stilled ; But we, we lacked not music of our own, For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, Her work and her work's partners she can cheer, The whole day long, and all days of the year. Thus gladdened from our own dear Yale we pass And soon approach Diana's looking-glass ! To Loughriggtarn, round clear and bright as heaven, Such name Italian fancy would have given, Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose That yet disturb not its concealed repose More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. Ah, Beaumont ! when an opening in the road Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, 72 EPISTLE. The encircling region vividly exprest Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest — Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield*, And the smooth green of many a pendent field, And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, A little daring would-be waterfall, One chimney smoking and its azure wreath, Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, With here and there a faint imperfect gleam Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam — What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep, When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems To render visible her own soft dreams, If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood, Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood, A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee Designed to rise in humble privacy, A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread, Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not, Nor ever was ; I sighed, and left the spot Unconscious of its own untoward lot, * A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland. EPISTLE. 73 And thought in silence, with regret too keen, Of unexperienced joys that might have been ; Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts, And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts. But time, irrevocable time, is flown, And let us utter thanks for blessings sown And reaped — what hath been, and what is, our own. Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, Startling us all, dispersed my reverie ; Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting. Whence the blithe hail ? behold a Peasant stand On high, a kerchief waving in her hand ! Not unexpectant that by early day Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, Before her cottage on the bright hill side She hath advanced with hope to be descried. Right gladly answering signals we displayed, Moving along a tract of morning shade, And vocal wishes sent of like good will To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill — Luminous region, fair as if the prime Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb ; 74 EPISTLE. Only the centre of the shining cot With door left open makes a gloomy spot, Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found Within the happiest breast on earthly ground. Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale ; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain — An area level as a Lake and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale ; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming wait. With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange, And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared : So down we sit, though not till each had cast Pleased looks around the delicate repast — EPISTLE. 75 Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest, With amber honey from the mountains breast; Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild Of children's industry, in hillocks piled ; Cakes/or the nonce, and butter fit to lie Upon a lordly dish ; frank hospitality Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride. Kind Hostess ! Handmaid also of the feast, If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, Dark but to every gentle feeling true, As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue. Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved By fortitude and patience, and the grace Of heaven in pity visiting the place. ' 76 EPISTLE. Not unadvisedly those secret springs I leave unsearched : enough that memory clings, Here as elsewhere, to notices that make Their own significance for hearts awake, To rural incidents, whose genial powers Filled with delight three summer morning hours. More could my pen report of grave or gay That through our gipsy travel cheered the way ; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, " Be done." Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet : — Farewell. UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION. Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest ; And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend For whom this simple Register was penned. EPISTLE. 77 Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes ; And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize, Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies. For — save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife Raised by remembrances of misused life, The light from past endeavours purely willed i And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled ; Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share The joys of the Departed — what so fair As blameless pleasure, not without some tears, Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years ? NOTE. Loughrigg Tarn, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diance as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty im- mediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called " The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there. It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described ; as his Taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardnesses which need not be particularised. 73 AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. — Not a breath of air , Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Are stedfast as the rocks ; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar, Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt ; But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow- waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts 79 A NIGHT THOUGHT. Lo ! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny ; Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly How bright her mien ! Far different we — a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue, Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours ere would make My spirit droop for drooping's sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, Bright ship of heaven ! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven. 80 FAREWELL LINES. " High bliss is only for a higher state," But, surely, if severe afflictions borne With patience merit the reward of peace, Peace ye deserve ; and may the solid good, Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof To you accorded, never be withdrawn, Nor for the world's best promises renounced. Most soothing was it for a welcome friend, Fresh from the crowded city, to behold That lonely union, privacy so deep, Such calm employments, such entire content. So, when the rain is over, the storm laid, A pair of herons oft-times have I seen, Upon a rocky islet, side by side, Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease ; FAREWELL LINES. And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen, Two glowworms in such nearness that they shared, As seemed, their soft self- satisfying light, Each with the other, on the dewy ground, "Where He that made them blesses their repose. When wandering among lakes and hills I note, Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired, And guarded in their tranquil state of life, Even, as your happy presence to ray mind Their union brought, will they repay the debt, And send a thankful spirit back to you, With hope that we, dear Friends ! shall meet again. 82 LOVE LIES BLEEDING. You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, From month to month, life passing not away : A flower how rich in sadness ! Even thus stoops, (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power) Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower ! ('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, Though by a slender thread,) So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air The gentlest breath of resignation drew ; While Yenus in a passion of despair Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 83 Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do ; But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower ! could share "With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. Never enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This Flower, that first appeared as summer's guest, .Preserved her beauty among summon leaves, And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom, One after one submitting to their doom, When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed ? g2 84 LOVE LIES BLEEDING. The old mythologists, more impress' d than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken youth or heart-sick maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding 35 ADDRESS TO THE CLOUDS. Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops Ascending from behind the motionless brow Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, O whither with such eagerness of speed ? What seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale Companions, fear ye to be left behind, Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field Contend ye with each other ? of the sea Children, thus post ye over vale and height To sink upon your mother's lap — and rest ? Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness Of a wide army pressing on to meet Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds Aerial, upon due migration bound To milder climes ; or rather do ye urge 86 ADDRESS TO THE CLOUDS. In caravan your hasty pilgrimage To pause at last on more aspiring heights Than these, and utter your devotion there With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant, And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, Be present at his setting ; or the pomp Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand Poising your splendors high above the heads Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ? Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness of speed ? Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, are fled, Buried together in yon gloomy mass That loads the middle heaven ; and clear and bright And vacant doth the region which they thronged Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting Down to the unapproachable abyss, Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose To vanish — fleet as days and months and years, Fleet as the generations of mankind, Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees, And see ! a bright precursor to a train Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock That sullenly refuses to partake ADDRESS TO THE CLOUDS. 87 Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life Invisible, the long procession moves Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, And in the bosom of the firmament O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, A type of her capacious self and all Her restless progeny. A humble walk Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, A little hoary line and faintly traced, Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both. I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts Admit no bondage and my words have wings. Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, To accompany the verse ? The mountain blast Shall be our hand of music ; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds And the wind loves them ; and the gentle gales — Which hy their aid re-clothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods, And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers — 88 ADDRESS TO THE CLOUDS. Love them ; and every idle breeze of air Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, As if some Protean art the change had wrought, In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings ! Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the Sun — Source inexhaustible of life and joy, And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse, A blazing intellectual deity — Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood Visions with all but beatific light Enriched — too transient were they not renewed From age to age, and did not, while we gaze In silent rapture, credulous desire, Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power To keep the treasure unimpaired. Yain thought ! Yet why repine, created as we are For joy and rest, albeit to find them only Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE. The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim The daring thought, forget the name ; This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air's rude billows is unknown ; Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they Through India's spicy regions wing their way, Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature ! I appeal to thee, Of all thy feathered progeny Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair ? 90 ON A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE. So richly decked in variegated down, Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown, Tints softly with each other blended, Hues doubtfully begun and ended ; Or intershooting, and to sight Lost and recovered, as the rays of light Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there ? Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life Began the pencil's strife, O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song ; But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew A juster judgment from a calmer view ; And, with a spirit freed from discontent, Thankfully took an effort that was meant Not with God's bounty, Nature's love, to vie, Or made with hope to please that inward eye Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, But to recal the truth by some faint trace Of power ethereal and celestial grace, That in the living Creature find on earth a place. 91 MATERNAL GRIEF. Departed Child ! I could forget thee once Though at my bosom nursed ; this woeful gain Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul Is present and perpetually abides A shadow, never, never to be displaced, By the returning substance, seen or touched, Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace. Absence and death how differ they ! and how Shall I admit that nothing can restore What one short sigh so easily removed ? — Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought, Assist me God their boundaries to know, O teach me calm submission to thy Will ! The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air That sanctifies its confines, and partook 92 MATERNAL GRIEF. Reflected beams of that celestial light To all the Little-ones on sinful earth Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed and cheered Those several qualities of heart and mind Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, And not hers only, their peculiar charms Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self And for its promises to future years, With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. Have you espied upon a dewy lawn A pair of Leverets each provoking each To a continuance of their fearless sport, Two separate Creatures in their several gifts Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all That Nature prompts them to display, their looks Their starts of motion and their fits of rest, An undistinguishable style appears And character of gladness, as if Spring Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit Of the rejoicing morning were their own. Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained And her twin Brother, had the parent seen, MATERNAL GRIEF. 39 Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, Death in a moment parted them, and left The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse Than desolate ; for oft-times from the sound Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child, He knew it not) and from his happiest looks, Did she extract the food of self-reproach, As one that lived ungrateful for the stay, By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, Now first acquainted with distress and grief, Shrunk from his Mothers presence, shunned with fear Her sad approach, and stole away to find, In his known haunts of joy where'er he might, A more congenial object. But, as time Softened her pangs and reconciled the child To what he saw, he gradually returned, Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks, And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed And cheered ; and now together breathe fresh air 94 MATERNAL GRIEF. In open fields ; and when the glare of day- Is gone, and twilight to the Mother s wish Befriends the observance, readily they join In walks whose boundary is the lost One's grave, "Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there Amusement, where the Mother does not miss Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite Of pious faith the vanities of grief ; For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits Transferred to regions upon which the clouds Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, Immortal as the love that gave it being. MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 1837. TO HENRY CRABBE ROBINSON. Companion ! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, To whose experience trusting, day by day Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, These records take, and happy should I be Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe Far more than any heart but mine can know. W. Wordsworth. Rydal Mount, Feb. 14th, 1842. The Tour of which the following Poems are very inadequate remembrances was shortened by report, too well founded, of the prevalence of Cholera at Naples. To make some amends for what was reluctantly left unseen in the South of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among the Apennines, and the principal Italian Lakes among the Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor of Venice, is there any notice in these Poems, chiefly because I have touched upon them elsewhere. See, in particular, " Descriptive Sketches," "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820," and a Sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian Republic. MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. April, 1837. Ye Apennines ! with all your fertile vales Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores Of either sea, an Islander by birth, A Mountaineer by habit, would resound Your praise, in meet accordance with your claims Bestowed by Nature, or from mans great deeds Inherited : — presumptuous thought ! — it fled Like vapour, like a towering cloud dissolved. Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness ;- Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, Lulling the leisure of that high perched town, Aquapendente, in her lofty site Its neighbour and its namesake — town, and flood Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm Bright sunbeams — the fresh verdure of this lawn 98 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon's verge, O'er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze, Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill With fractured summit, no indifferent sight To travellers, from such comforts as are thine, Bleak Radicofani ! escaped with joy — These are before me ; and the varied scene May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind Passive yet pleased. What ! with this Broom in flower Close at my side. She bids me fly to greet Her sisters, soon like her to be attired With golden blossoms opening at the feet Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting given, Given with a voice and by a look returned Of old companionship, Time counts not minutes Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, The local Genius hurries me aloft, Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds, With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyns top, There to alight upon crisp moss and range, Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, Of visual sovereignty — hills multitudinous, (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 99 Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains. And prospect right below of deep coves shaped By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain s trunk Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan Struggling for liberty, while undismayed The shepherd struggles with them. Onward thence And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell, And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign, Places forsaken now, but loving still The muses, as they loved them in the days Of the old minstrels and the border bards. — But here am I fast bound ; — and let it pass, The simple rapture ; — who that travels far To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share Or wish to share it ? — One there surely was, " The Wizard of the North," with anxious hope Brought to this genial climate, when disease Preyed upon body and mind — yet not the less Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words That spake of bards and minstrels ; and his spirit Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn's brow, Where once together, in his day of strength, We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free From sorrow, like the sky above our heads. 100 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Years followed years, and when, upon the eve Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned, Or by another's sympathy was led, To this bright land, Hope was for him no friend, Knowledge no help ; Imagination shaped No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats, Survives for me, and cannot but survive The tone of voice which wedded borrowed words To sadness not their own, when, with faint smile Forced by intent to take from speech its edge, He said, " When I am there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow." Prophecy More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills, Her sparkling fountains, and her mouldering tombs ; And more than all, that Eminence which showed Her splendors, seen, not felt, the while he stood A few short steps (painful they were) apart From Tasso's Convent-haven, and retired grave. Peace to their Spirits ! why should Poesy Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover In gloom on wings with confidence outspread To move in sunshine ? — Utter thanks, my Soul ! Tempered with awe, and sweetened by compassion MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 101 For them who in the shades of sorrow dwell, That I — so near the term to human life Appointed by mans common heritage, Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that Deserve a thought) but little known to fame — Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest looks, Art's noblest relics, history's rich bequests, Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered The whole world's Darling — free to rove at will O'er high and low, and if requiring rest, Rest from enjoyment only. Thanks poured forth For what thus far hath blessed my wanderings, thanks Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe Where gladness seems a duty- — let me guard Those seeds of expectation which the fruit Already gathered in this favoured Land Enfolds within its core. The faith be mine, That He who guides and governs all, approves "When gratitude, though disciplined to look Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear a crown Of earthly hope put on with trembling hand ; Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden beams, Reflected through the mists of age, from hours Of innocent delight, remote or recent, 102 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Shoot but a little way — 'tis all they can — Into the doubtful future. Who would keep Power must resolve to cleave to it through life, Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown If one — while tossed, as was my lot to be, In a frail bark urged by two slender oars Over waves rough and deep, that, when they broke, Dashed their white foam against the palace walls Of Genoa the superb — should there be led To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, However humble in themselves, with thoughts Raised and sustained by memory of Him Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's strength And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his ship To lay a new world open. Nor less prized Be those impressions which incline the heart To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, Bend that way her desires. The dew, the storm — The dew whose moisture fell in gentle drops On the small hyssop destined to become, By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, A purifying instrument — the storm MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 103 That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top, And as it shook, enabling the blind roots Further to force their way, endowed its trunk With magnitude and strength fit to uphold The glorious temple — did alike proceed From the same gracious will, were both an offspring Of bounty infinite. Between Powers that aim Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive By conflict, and their opposites, that trust In lowliness — a mid- way tract there lies Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, and Old, From century on to century, must have known The emotion — nay, more fitly were it said — The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs, And through each window's open fret- work looked O'er the blank Area of sacred earth Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought 104 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. For its deliverance — a capacious field That to descendants of the dead it holds And to all living mute memento breathes, More touching far than aught which on the walls Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, Of the changed City's long-departed power, Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they are, Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. And, high above that length of cloistral roof, Peering in air and backed by azure sky, To kindred contemplations ministers The Baptistery's dome, and that which swells From the Cathedral pile ; and with the twain Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower. Not less remuneration waits on him Who having left the Cemetery stands In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall Admonished not without some sense of fear, Fear that soon vanishes before the sight Of splendor unextinguished, pomp unscathed, And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, And for itself, the assemblage, grand and fair To view, and for the mind's consenting eye MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 105 A type of age in man. upon its front Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence Of past exploits, nor fondly after more Struggling against the stream of destiny, But with its peaceful majesty content. — Oh what a spectacle at every turn The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned with moss, Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread ; Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short Of Desolation, and to Ruin s scythe Decay submits not. But where'er my steps Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care Those images of genial beauty, oft Too lovely to be pensive in themselves But by reflexion made so, which do best, And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths Life's cup when almost filled with years, like mine. — How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, Each ministering to each, didst thou appear Savona, Queen of territory fair As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its length Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance holds As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 106 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. That, while it wore for melancholy crest A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind The breath of air can be where earth had else Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near, Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest breeze Expanding ; and, along the smooth shore curved Into a natural port, a tideless sea, To that mild breeze with motion and with voice Softly responsive ; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow, Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth Or doth on time depend. While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona ! over all did brood A pure poetic Spirit — as the breeze, MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 1C7 Mild — as the verdure, fresh — the sunshine, bright, Thy gentle Chiabrera ! — not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship With all who want not skill to couple grief With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust., Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured ; — glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail Ye kindred local influences that still, If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, Await my steps when they the breezy height Shall range of philosophic Tusculum ; Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish To meet the shade of Horace by the side Of his Bandusian fount ; or I invoke His presence to point out the spot where once He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen 108 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires ; And all the immunities of rural life Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane. Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given, Nor asking more on that delicious Bay, Parthenope's Domain — Yirgilian haunt, Illustrated with never-dying verse, And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands Endeared. And who — if not a man as cold In heart as dull in brain — while pacing ground Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high minds Out of her early struggles well inspired To localize heroic acts — could look Upon the spots with undelighted eye, Though even to their last syllable the Lays And very names of those who gave them birth Have perished ? — Yerily, to her utmost depth, Imagination feels what Reason fears not To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, And others like in fame, created Powers With attributes from History derived, MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 109 By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, Through marvellous felicity of skill, With something more propitious to high aims Than either, pent within her separate sphere, Can oft with justice claim. And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height Christian Traditions ! at my Spirit's call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin, manifest Your glories mingled with the brightest hues Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, But never to be extinct while Earth endures. come, if undishonoured by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries ! — Open for my feet Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, mid your glooms convened For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, Even at this hour. And thou Mamertine prison, Into that vault receive me from whose depth 110 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine, A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys Grasped in his hand ; and lo ! with upright sword Prefiguring his own impendent doom, The Apostle of the Gentiles ; both prepared To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate Inflicted ; — blessed Men, for so to Heaven They follow their dear Lord ! Time flows — nor winds, Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how ; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out From that which is and actuates, by forms, Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, Unrectified, unguided, unsustained, By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. Ill Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. So with the internal mind it fares ; and so With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear Of vital principle's controlling law, To her pur-blind guide Expediency ; and so Suffers religious faith. Elate with view Of what is won, we overlook or scorn The best that should keep pace with it, and must, Else more and more the general mind will droop, Even as if bent on perishing. There lives No faculty within us which the Soul Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal demands, For dignity not placed beyond her reach, Zealous co-operation of all means Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. By gross Utilities enslaved we need More of ennobling impulse from the past, If to the future aught of good must come Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self applause, We covet as supreme. grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff From Knowledge ! — If the Muse, whom I have served 112 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. This day, be mistress of a single pearl Fit to be placed in that pure diadem ; Then, not in vain, under these chesnut boughs Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts Flowing of time and place, and paid to both Due homage ; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed Influence, at least among a scattered few, To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly ; as here to my repose hath been This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, the light And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, And all the varied landscape. Let us now Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome. , See note at the end of these Memorials. SONNETS. 113 THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME. I saw far off the dark top of a Pine Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie That bound it to its native earth — poised high 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there, Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, Supplanted the whole majesty of Eome (Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome *. * See note. 114 SONNETS. II. AT ROME. Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill ? Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still That name, a local Phantom proud to mock The Traveller's expectation ? — Could our Will Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done Thro' what men see and touch, — slaves wandering on, Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh ; Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, From that depression raised, to mount on high With stronger wing, more clearly to discern Eternal things; and, if need be, defy Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern. SONNETS. 115 III. AT ROME. REGRETS. IN ALLUSION TO NIEBUHR AND OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS. Those old credulities, to nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of History, stript naked as a rock 'Mid a dry desert ? What is it we hear ? The glory of Infant .Rome must disappear, Her morning splendors vanish, and their place Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face "With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow ; One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. 116 SONNETS. IV. CONTINUED. Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same Involved a history of no doubtful sense, History that proves by inward evidence From what a precious source of truth it came. Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame, But for coeval sympathy prepared To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim. None but a noble people could have loved Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style : Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved ; He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile Humanity, sang feats that well might call For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Hall. SONNETS. 117 PLEA. FOR THE HISTORIAN. Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth Has spared of sound and grave realities, Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries, Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, That might have drawn down Clio from the skies Her rights to claim, and vindicate the truth. Her faithful Servants while she walked with men Were they who, not unmindful of her Sire All-ruling Jove, whate'er their theme might be Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, And, at the Muse's will, invoked the lyre To animate, but not mislead, the pen *. * Quern virum lyra sumes celebrare Clio ! 118 SONNETS. VI. They — who have seen the noble Roman's scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garreted In his ancestral palace, where, from morn To night, the desecrated floors are worn By feet of purse-proud strangers ; they — who have read In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed, How patiently the weight of wrong is borne ; They — who have heard thy lettered sages treat Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat [ dream Of rival glory ; they — fallen Italy — Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee ! SONNETS. 119 NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER S. Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn ; O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon ; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn, Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the voice as from a mis-timed thing, Oft for a holy warning may it serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting, His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear. 120 SONNETS. VIII. AT ALBANO. Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist ; and, as the wind sobbed through Albano's dripping Ilex avenue, My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear Found casual vent. She said, " Be of good cheer ; Our yesterday's procession did not sue In vain ; the sky will change to sunny blue, Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear, But not in scorn : — the Matron's Faith may lack The heavenly sanction needed to ensure Its own fulfilment ; but her upward track Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure Of flowers the Virgin without fear may own, For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown. SONNETS. 121 IX. Near Anions stream, I spied a gentle Dove , Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing, While all things present told of joy and love. But restless Fancy left that olive grove To hail the exploratory Bird renewing Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing, On the great flood were spared to live and move. O bounteous Heaven ! signs true as dove and bough Brought to the ark are coming evermore, Even though men seek them not, but, while they plough This sea of life without a visible shore, Do neither promise ask nor grace implore In what alone is ours, the vouchsafed Now. J 22 SONNETS. FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME. Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown, For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, Ruin perceived for keener sympathies ; Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown ; Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. Yet why prolong this mournful strain ? — Fallen Power, Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke, And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High, On the third stage of thy great destiny. SONNETS. 123 XI. NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock, Checked not its rage ; unfelt the ground did rock, Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim. — Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame, Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, Save in this Rill that took from blood the name Which yet it bears, sweet stream ! as crystal pure. So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify Their spirit ; or, unless they for reproof Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground That gave them being, vanish to a sound. 124 SONNETS. XII. NEAR THE SAME LAKE. For action born, existing to be tried, Powers manifold we have that intervene To stir the heart that would too closely screen Her peace from images to pain allied. What wonder if at midnight, by the side Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene, The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen ; And singly thine, vanquished Chief! whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain : But who is He ? — the Conqueror. "Would he force His way to Rome ? Ah, no, — round hill and plain Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command, This spot — his shadowy death-cup in his hand. 125 THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. May 25th, 1837- List — 'twas the Cuckoo. — with what delight Heard I that voice ! and catch it now, though faint, Far off and faint, and melting into air, Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again ! Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, Although invisible as Echo's self, Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, For this unthought-of greeting ! While allured From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, We have pursued, through various lands, a long And pleasant course ; flower after flower has blown, Embellishing the ground that gave them birth With aspects novel to my sight ; but still Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, 126 THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. For old remembrance sake. And oft — where Spring Displayed her richest blossoms among files Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy — Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush Blending as in a common English grove Their love-songs ; but, where'er my feet might roam, Whate'er assemblages of new and old, Strange and familiar, might beguile the way, A gratulation from that vagrant Voice Was wanting ; — and most happily till now. For see, Laverna ! mark the far-famed Pile, High on the brink of that precipitous rock, Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, By a few Monks, a stern society, Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys. . Nay — though the hopes that drew, the fears that drove, St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide Among these sterile heights of Apennine, Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have ceased To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. 127 Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live ; His milder Genius (thanks to the good God That made us) over those severe restraints Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, Doth sometimes here predominate, and works By unsought means for gracious purposes ; For earth through heaven, for heaven, by changeful earth, Illustrated, and mutually endeared. Rapt though He were above the power of sense, Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart Of that once sinful Being overflowed On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, And every shape of creature they sustain, Divine affections ; and with beast and bird (Stilled from afar — such marvel story tells — By casual outbreak of his passionate words, And from their own pursuits in field or grove Drawn to his side by look or act of love Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) He wont to hold companionship so free, So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight, As to be likened in his Followers' minds To that which our first Parents, ere the fall From their high state darkened the Earth with fear, Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful bowers. 128 THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. Then question not that, 'mid the austere Band, Who breathe the air he breathed, tread where he trod, Some true Partakers of his loving spirit Do still survive, and, with those gentle hearts Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, Of a baptized imagination, prompt To catch from Nature's humblest monitors Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime. Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see, Upon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk, Seated alone, with forehead sky- ward raised, Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore Appended to his bosom, and lips closed By the joint pressure of his musing mood And habit of his vow. That ancient Man — Nor haply less the Brother whom I marked, As we approached the Convent gate, aloft Looking far forth from his aerial cell, A yourig Ascetic — Poet, Hero, Sage, He might have been, Lover belike he was — If they received into a conscious ear The notes whose first faint greeting startled me, Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. 129 My heart — may have been moved like me to think, Ah ! not like me who walk in the world's ways, On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One Crying amid the wilderness, and given, Now that their snows must melt, their herbs and flowers Revive, their obstinate winter pass away, That awful name to Thee, thee, simple Cuckoo, Wandering in solitude, and evermore Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies To carry thy glad tidings over heights Still loftier, and to climes more near the Pole. Yoice of the Desert, fare-thee-well ; sweet Bird ! If that substantial title please thee more, Farewell ! — but go thy way, no need hast thou Of a good wish sent after thee ; from bower To bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, Thee gentle breezes waft — or airs that meet Thy course and sport around thee softly fan — Till Night, descending upon hill and vale, Grants to thy mission a brief term of silence, And folds thy pinions up in blest repose. 130 SONNETS. XIII. AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI. Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, And seeking consolation from above ; Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left To paint this picture of his lady-love : Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve ? And 0, good brethren of the cowl, a thing So fair, to which with peril he must cling, Destroy in pity, or with care remove. That bloom — those eyes — can they assist to bind Thoughts that would stray from Heaven ? The dream must cease To be ; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live ; Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find How wide a space can part from inward peace The most profound repose his cell can give. SONNETS. 131 XTV. CONTINUED. The world forsaken, all its busy cares And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, All trust abandoned in the healing might Of virtuous action ; all that courage dares, Labour accomplishes, or patience bears — Those helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive How subtly works man's weakness, sighs may heave For such a One beset with cloistral snares. Father of Mercy ! rectify his view, If with his vows this object ill agree ; Shed over it thy grace, and so subdue Imperious passion in a heart set free ; That earthly love may to herself be true, Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee # . * See Note. K 2 132 SONNETS. XV. AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI. What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, By panting steers up to this convent gate ? How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes, Dare they confront the lean austerities Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies ? Strange contrast ! — verily the world of dreams, Where mingle, as for mockery combined, Things in their very essences at strife, Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes That everywhere, before the thoughtful mind, Meet on the solid ground of waking life. 133 AT VALLOMBROSA. Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades High over-arch 'd embower *. Paradise Lost. " Vallombrosa — I longed in thy shadiest wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor \" Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood, That lulled me asleep, bids me listen once more. Its murmur how soft ! as it falls down the steep, Near that Cell — yon sequestered Retreat high in air — Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep For converse with God, sought through study and prayer. * See for the two first lines, "Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass," vol. iv. p. 164, of the Author's Poems. 134 AT VALLOMBROSA. The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride, And its truth who shall doubt \ for his Spirit is here ; In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide, In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty austere ; In the flower -besprent meadows his genius we trace Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might confide, That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died. When with life lengthened out came a desolate time, And darkness and danger had compassed him round, With a thought he might flee to these haunts of his prime, And here once again a kind shelter be found. And let me believe that when nightly the Muse Would waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, Here also, on some favoured height, they would choose To wander, and drink inspiration at will. Vallombrosa ! of thee I first heard in the page Of that holiest of Bards ; and the name for my mind Had a musical charm, which the winter of age And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. And now, ye Miltonian shades ! under you I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, While your leaves I behold andthe brooks they will strew, And the realised vision is clasped to my heart. AT VALLOMBROSA. 135 Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense ; Unblamed — if the Soul be intent on the day When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence. For he and he only with wisdom is blest Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow, Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest, To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity flow. 136 SONNETS. XVI. AT FLORENCE. Under the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while, I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A throne, In just esteem, it rivals; though no style Be there of decoration to beguile The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown. As a true man, who long had served the lyre, I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. But in his breast the mighty Poet bore A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate down, And, for a moment, filled that empty Throne. SONNETS. 13, XVII. BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE. The Baptist might have been ordain d to cry- Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein His Father served Jehovah ; but how win Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy The obstinate pride and wanton revelry Of the Jerusalem below, her sin And folly, if they with united din Drown not at once mandate and prophecy ? Therefore the Yoice spake from the Desert, thence To her, as to her opposite in peace, Silence, and holiness, and innocence, To her and to all Lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, Make straight a highway for the Lord — repent ! 138 SONNETS. XVIII. AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the work that work accords So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. Thus, if from tw T o fair eyes mine cannot turn, I feel how in their presence doth abide Light which to God is both the way and guide ; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray That through the realms of glory shines for aye. SONNETS. 139 XIX. AT FLORENCE. FROM M. ANGELO. Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee ; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode. The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear ; Neither put forth that way thy arm severe ; Wash with thy blood my sins ; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 140 AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES. Ye trees ! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects ; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects j If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chaunting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide — How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair trees, your bounty run to waste ! And ye, wild Flowers ! that no one heeds, And ye — full often spurned as weeds — In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall — Do but more touchingly recal Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, And make the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn. SONNETS. 141 XX. AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE INSURRECTIONS. Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit Of sudden passion roused shall men attain True freedom where for ages they have lain Bound in a dark abominable pit, With life's best sinews more and more unknit. Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain May rise to break it : effort worse than vain For thee, great Italian nation, split Into those jarring fractions. — Let thy scope Be one fixed mind for all ; thy rights approve To thy own conscience gradually renewed ; Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope ; Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love. 142 SONNETS. XXI. CONTINUED. Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean On Patience coupled with such slow endeavour, That long-lived servitude must last for ever. Perish the grovelling few, who, prest between Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever Let us break forth in tempest now or never ! — What, is there then no space for golden mean And gradual progress ? — Twilight leads to day, And, even within the burning zones of earth, The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray ; The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth : Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods. SONNETS. 143 XXII, CONCLUDED. As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation Is to the Being of a mighty nation, Locked in our world's embrace through weal and woe ; Thought that should teach the zealot to forego Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, And seek through noiseless pains and moderation The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas ! with most, who weigh futurity Against time present, passion holds the scales : Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, And nations sink ; or, struggling to be free, Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea. 144 SONNETS. XXIII. IN LOMBARD!. See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry-leaves ! — most hard Appears Ms lot, to the small Worm's compared, For whom his toil with early day begins. Acknowledging no task-master, at will (As if her labour and her ease were twins) She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still, And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. So fare they — the Man serving as her Slave. Ere long their fates do each to each conform : Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend To bliss unbounded, glory without end. SONNETS. 145 XXIV. AFTER LEAVING ITALY. Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy ; how few, Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, Part from thee without pity dyed in shame : I could not — while from Venice we withdrew, Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view Within its depths, and to the shore we came Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw. Italia ! on the surface of thy spirit, (Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) Shall a few partial breezes only creep ? — Be its depths quickened ; what thou dost inherit Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil ; awake, Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep ! 146 SONNETS. XXV. CONTINUED. As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words ; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, And divine Art, that fast to memory clung — Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight How beautiful ! how worthy to be sung In strains of rapture, or subdued delight ! I feign not ; witness that unwelcome shock That followed the first sound of German speech, Caught the far- win ding barrier Alps among. In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock Parting ; the casual word had power to reach My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong. NOTES. Page 100. Line 10. " Although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow." These words were quoted to me from " Yarrow Unvisited," by Sir Walter Scott when 1 visited him at Abbotsford, a day or two before his departure for Italy : and the affecting condition in which he was when he looked upon Rome from the Janicular Mount, was reported to me by a lady who had the honour of conducting him thither. Page 113. Line 1. Within a couple of hours of my arrival at Rome, I saw from Monte Pincio, the Pine tree as described in the sonnet ; and, while expressing admiration at the beauty of its appearance, I was told by an acquaintance of my fellow-traveller, who happened to join us at the moment, that a price had been paid for it by the late Sir G. Beaumont, upon condition that the proprietor should not act upon his known intention of cutting it down. Page 130. Line 1. Camaldoli. This famous sanctuary was the original establishment of Saint Romualdo, (or Rumwald, as our ancestors saxonised the name) in the 11th century, the ground (campo) being given by a Count Maldo. The Camaldolensi, however, have spread wide as a branch of Benedictines, and may therefore be classed among the gentlemen l2 148 NOTES. of the monastic orders. The society comprehends two orders, monks and hermits ; symbolised by their arms, two doves drinking out of the same cup. The monastery in which the monks here reside, is beautifully situated, but a large unattractive edifice, not unlike a factory. The hermitage is placed in a loftier and wilder region of the forest. It comprehends between 20 and 30 distinct residences, each including for its single hermit an inclosed piece of ground and three very small apartments. There are days of in- dulgence when the hermit may quit his cell, and when old age arrives, he descends from the mountain and takes his abode among the monks. My companion had in the year 1831, fallen in with the monk, the subject of these two Sonnets, who showed him his abode among the hermits. It is from him that I received these particulars. He was then about 40 years of age, but his appearance was that of an older man. He had been a painter by profession, but on taking orders changed his name from Santi to Raffaello, perhaps with an unconscious reference as well to the great Sanzio d' Urbino as to the archangel. He assured my friend that he had been 13 years in the hermitage and had never known melancholy or ennui. In the little recess for study and prayer, there was a small collection of books. " I read only," said he, " books of asceticism and mystical theology." On being asked the names of the most famous Italian mystics, he enumerated Scaramelli, San Giovanni della croce, San Dionysia Areopagitica, and with peculiar emphasis Ricardo di San Vittori. The works of Saint Theresa are among ascetics in high repute, but she was a Spaniard. These names may interest some of my readers. We heard that Raffaello was then living in the convent ; my friend sought in vain to renew his acquaintance with him. It was probably a day of seclusion. The reader will perceive that these sonnets were supposed to be written when he was a young man. 149 CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. (FROM CHAUCER.) The God of Love — ah, benedicite ! How mighty and how great a Lord is he ! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. if. Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick, — bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 150 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. in. To tell his might my wit may not suffice ; Foolish men he can make them out of wise ; — For he may do all that he will devise ; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. IV. In brief, the whole of what he will, he may ; Against him dare not any wight say nay ; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. V. For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring — whether To joy, or be it to some mourning ; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their rememberance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing ; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 151 And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home ; Sick are they all for lack of their desire ; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. Viiu In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, — How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep ; And also 'tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed ; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 152 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. And then I thought anon as it was day^ I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May. XII. And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side ; Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over ; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white ; and nothing else was seen. XIV. There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night ; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 153 XV. Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained ; Some with their notes another manner feigned ; And some did sing all out with the full throat. They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. XVII. Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony ; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 154 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. XIX. And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I ? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. XX. And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing thorough all the green wood wide. XXI. Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stay'd a little while too long ; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song ; Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. XXII. But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 155 XXIII. The Nightingale thus in ray hearing spake : — Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here ; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. XXIV. What ! quoth she then, what is 't that ails thee now ? It seems to me I sing as well as thou ; For mine 's a song that is both true and plain, — Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. XXV. All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry : — Thou say'st Osee, Osee, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be ? XXVI. Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not what it is ? Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 156 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. XXVII. And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead ; For who is loth the God of Love to obeyj Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! XXVIII. Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die ; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent ifc neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. XXIX. For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive ; Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share ; What need is there against the truth to strive ? XXX. What ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood ; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 157 For thereof comes all goodness and all worth ; All gentiless and honour thence come forth ; Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; XXXII. And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. XXXIII. And that the very truth it is which I Now say — in such belief I'll live and die ; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply. XXXIV. Good Nightingale ! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere ; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis ; And Love in old folk a great dotage is ; Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. 158 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE, xxxv. For thereof come all contraries to gladness ; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. XXXVI. Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair ; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. XXXVII, And, therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are ; Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I, XXXVIII. Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen ! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold ; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 159 xxxix. For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth ; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. XL. Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will ; — For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. XLI. With such a master would I never be* ; For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals ; "Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, Alas ! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn, — And with that word, she into tears burst out. * From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44 and 45, which are necessary to complete the sense. 160 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. XLIII. Alas, alas ! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services ; Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. XLIV. And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast ; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. XLV. And as he flew, the Cuckoo ever and aye, Kept crying, " Farewell ! — farewell, Popinjay ! " As if in scornful mockery of me ; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. XLV I. Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me ; and now, Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. l6l XL VII. Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me ; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid. XL VIII. And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw ; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. XLIX. Yea, hath it ? use, quoth she, this medicine ; This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry ; And then did she begin this song full high, ' Beshrew all them that are in love untrue.' 162 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend ; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me ; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore ; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. LIII. Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place ; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale. LIV. The Cuckoo — 'tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight ; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide". THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 163 LV. Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave ; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are — all here together brought ; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not ; And therefore we a Parliament will have. And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record ; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given ; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber- window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. LV1II. She thanked them ; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook ; And there she sate and sung — upon that tree — " For term of life Love shall have hold of me " — So loudly, that I with that song awoke. M 2 164 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady ? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give ; For of all good she is the best alive. Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; For of all good she is the best alive. Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and stedfastness, And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking proof to me would give ; For of all good she is the best alive. THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 165 Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined ! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort give ! Since of all good, you are the best alive. EXPLICIT. 166 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. IN SERIES. SUGGESTED BY THE VIEW OF LANCASTER CASTLE (ON THE ROAD FROM THE SOUTH). I. This Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair Of sea and land, with yon grey towers that still Rise up as if to lord it over air — Might soothe in human breasts the sense of ill, Or charm it out of memory ; yea, might fill The heart with joy and gratitude to God For all his bounties upon man bestowed : "Why bears it then the name of " Weeping Hill " ? Thousands, as toward yon old Lancastrian Towers, A prison s crown, along this way they past For lingering durance or quick death with shame, From this bare eminence thereon have cast Their first look — blinded as tears fell in showers Shed on their chains ; and hence that doleful name. ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 167 II. Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law For worst offenders : though the heart will heave With indignation, deeply moved we grieve, In after thought, for Him who stood in awe Neither of God nor man, and only saw, Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned On proud temptations, till the victim groaned Under the steel his hand had dared to draw. But O, restrain compassion, if its course, As oft befals, prevent or turn aside Judgments and aims and acts whose higher source Is sympathy with the unforewarned, who died Blameless, with them that shuddered o'er his grave, And all who from the law firm safety crave. 168 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. III. The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die Who had betrayed their country. The stern word Afforded (may it through all time afford) A theme for praise and admiration high. Upon the surface of humanity He rested not ; its depths his mind explored ; He felt ; but his parental bosom's lord Was Duty, — Duty calmed his agony. And some, we know, when they by wilful act A single human life have wrongly taken, Pass sentence on themselves, confess the fact. And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken Kneel at the feet of Justice, and, for faith Broken with all mankind, solicit death. ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 169 IV. Is Death, when evil against good has fought "With such fell mastery that a man may dare By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare ? Is Death, for one to that condition brought, For him, or any one, the thing that ought To be most dreaded ? Lawgivers, beware, Lest, capital pains remitting till ye spare The murderer, ye, by sanction to that thought Seemingly given, debase the general mind ; Tempt the vague will tried standards to disown, Nor only palpable restraints unbind, But upon Honour's head disturb the crown, Whose absolute rule permits not to withstand In the weak love of life his least command. 170 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. v. Not to the object specially designed, Howe'er momentous in itself it be, Good to promote or curb depravity, Is the wise Legislator's view confined. His Spirit, when most severe, is oft most kind ; As all Authority in earth depends On Love and Fear, their several powers he blends, Copying with awe the one Paternal mind. Uncaught by processes in show humane, He feels how far the act would derogate From even the humblest functions of the State ; If she, self-shorn of Majesty, ordain That never more shall hang upon her breath The last alternative of Life or Death. ON THE PUNISHMENT OP DEATH. l7l VI. Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that frequent The bad Mans restless walk, and haunt his bed — Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent In act, as hovering Angels when they spread Their wings to guard the unconscious Innocent — Slow be the Statutes of the land to share A laxity that could not but impair Your power to punish crime, and so prevent. And ye, Beliefs ! coiled serpent-like about The adage on all tongues, " Murder will out," How shall your ancient warnings work for good In the full might they hitherto have shown, If for deliberate shedder of man's blood Survive not Judgment that requires his own ? 172 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. VII. Before the world had past her time of youth While polity and discipline were weak, The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, Came forth — a light, though but as of day -break, Strong as could then be borne. A Master meek Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule, Patience his law, long-suffering his school, And love the end, which all through peace must seek. But lamentably do they err who strain His mandates, given rash impulse to controul And keep vindictive thirstings from the soul, So far that, if consistent in their scheme, They must forbid the State to inflict a pain, Making of social order a mere dream. ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 173 VIII. Fit retribution, by the moral code Determined, lies beyond the State's embrace, Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case She plants well-measured terrors in the road Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and broad, And, the main fear once doomed to banishment Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event, Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode Crime might lie better hid. And, should the change Take from the horror due to a foul deed, Pursuit and evidence so far must fail, And, guilt escaping, passion then might plead In angry spirits for her old free range, And the " wild justice of revenge " prevail. 174 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. IX. Though to give timely warning and deter Is one great aim of penalty, extend Thy mental vision further and ascend Far higher, else full surely thou shalt err. "What is a State ? The wise behold in her A creature born of time, that keeps one eye Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, To which her judgments reverently defer. Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice the State Endues her conscience with external life And being, to preclude or quell the strife Of individual will, to elevate The grovelling mind, the erring to recal, And fortify the moral sense of all. ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 175 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine Of an immortal spirit, is a gift So sacred, so informed with light divine, That no tribunal, though most wise to sift Deed and intent, should turn the Being adrift Into that world where penitential tear May not avail, nor prayer have for God's ear A voice — that world whose veil no hand can lift For earthly sight. " Eternity and Time " They urge, " have interwoven claims and rights Not to be jeopardised through foulest crime : The sentence rule by mercy's heaven-born lights.' Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. 176 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. XI. Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart Out of his own humanity, and part With every hope that mutual cares provide ; And, should a less unnatural doom confide In life-long exile on a savage coast, Soon the relapsing penitent may boast Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride. Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pure, Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands, Leaving the final issue in His hands Whose goodness knows no change, whose love is sure, Who sees, foresees ; who cannot judge amiss, And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss. ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 1T7 XII. See the Condemned alone within his cell And prostrate at some moment when remorse Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force, Assaults the pride she strove in vain to quell. Then mark him, him who could so long rebel, The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent Before the Altar, where the Sacrament Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell Tears of salvation. Welcome death ! while Heaven Does in this change exceedingly rejoice ; While yet the solemn heed the State hath given Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast On old temptations, might for ever blast. 178 ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. XIII. CONCLUSION. Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat In death ; though Listeners shudder all around, They know the dread requital's source profound ; Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — (Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound ; The social rights of man breathe purer air ; Religion deepens her preventive care ; Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod, But leave it thence to drop for lack of use, Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God ! ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH, 179 XIV. APOLOGY. The formal World relaxes her cold chain For One who speaks in numbers ; ampler scope His utterance finds ; and, conscious of the gain, Imagination works with bolder hope The cause of grateful reason to sustain ; And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats Against all barriers which his labour meets In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. Enough ; — before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day. 1840. n 2 180 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE. What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ; How baffled projects on the spirit prey, And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, The sailor knows ; he best whose lot is cast On the relentless sea that holds him fast On chance dependent, and the fickle star Of power, through long and melancholy war. O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores, Daily to think on old familiar doors, Hearths loved in childhood and ancestral floors ; Or, tossed about along a waste of foam, To ruminate on that delightful home Which with the dear Betrothed was to come ; Or came and was, and is, yet meets the eye Never but in the world of memory ; Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change, COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE. 181 And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. Hail to the virtues which that perilous life Extracts from Nature's elemental strife ; And welcome glory won in battles fought As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. But to each gallant Captain and his crew A less imperious sympathy is due, , Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play On the mute sea in this unruffled bay ; Such as will promptly flow from every breast, Where good men, disappointed in the quest Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest ; Or having known the splendours of success, Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 182 THE NORMAN BOY. High on abroad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy, Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Nor- man Boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot, but from an English Dame, Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that seques- tered child Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the dreary Wild. His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, THE NORMAN BOY. 183 "Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where, of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made. A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice, To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide, The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide. 184 THE NORMAN BOY. That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. Here, Lady ! might I cease ; but nay, let us be- fore we part With this dear holy Shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, That unto him, where'er shalllie his life's appointed way, The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay. 185 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power, And gladdened all things ; but, as chanced, within that very hour, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky, And, for the Subject of my Yerse, I heaved a pensive sigh. Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared, For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared ; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer. The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with articu- late call, Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; 186 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. His lips were moving ; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace, "With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness ! — "What wonder if the sight, Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night ? It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms, And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay, By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. I whispered, " Yet a little while, dear Child ! thou art my own, To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. "What shall it be? a mirthful throng, or that ho]y place and calm St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame ? " St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? or choose what else would please thee most Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast !" SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. 187 " My Mother," said the Boy, " was born near to a blessed Tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me!" On wings, from broad and steadfast poise let loose by this reply, For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did we fly; O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's fresh verdure drest ; The wings they did not flag ; the Child, though grave, was not deprest. But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak, For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands For twofold hallowing — Nature's care, and work of human hands ? Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round and round The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that wound Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. 188 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. I lighted — opened with soft touch a grated iron door, Past softly, leading in the Boy ; and, while from roof to floor From floor to roof all round bis^eyes the wondering creature cast, Pleasureonpleasurecrowdedin,eachlivelier than the last. For, deftly framed within the trunk, a sanctuary showed, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude ; And swift as lightning went the time, ere speech I thus renewed : " Hither the Afllicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say, And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix; "What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on this pave- ment dropt ! " Poor Shepherd of the naked Do wn, a favoured lot is thine, Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine ; From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release, Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace. SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. 189 " Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise, Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days ; And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree ; " Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome ; He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral rites, Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely prayer, delights. ' ' God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill ; They please him best who labour most to do in peace his will : So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven." The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look, Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream — recorded in this book, 190 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind, As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind. And though the dream, to thee, poor Boy ! to thee from whom it flowed, Was nothing, nor e'er can be aught, 'twas bounteously bestowed, If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, their fancies feed. 191 NOTE TO THE NORMAN BOY. " Among ancient Trees there are few, I believe, at least in France, so worthy of attention as an Oak which may be seen in the ' Pays de Caux,' about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, and in the burial-ground of Allonville. " The height of this Tree does not answer to its girth ; the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a complete cone ; and the inside of this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its height. "Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. The hand of Man, however, has endeavoured to impress upon it a character still more interesting, by adding a religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally inspires. " The lower part of its hollow trunk has been transformed into a Chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, carefully wainscotted and paved, and an open iron gate guards the humble Sanctuary. " Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round the body of the Tree. At certain seasons of the year divine service is per- formed in this Chapel. " The summit has been broken off many years, but there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is surmounted with an iron Cross, that rises in a picturesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an ancient Hermitage above the surrounding Wood. " Over the entrance to the Chapel an Inscription appears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbe du Detroit, Curate of Allonville in the year 1696 ; and over a door is another, dedicating it ■ To Our Lady of Peace.' " Vide 14 No. Saturday Magazine. 192 POOR ROBIN*. Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March- winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless, but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny'day ! And, as his tuft of leaves he spreads, content With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, Mixed with the green some shine, not lacking power To rival summers brightest scarlet flower ; And flowers they well might seem to passers-by If looked at only with a careless eye ; Flowers — or a richer produce (did it suit The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. But, while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his want or wealth a thought ? * The small wild Geranium, known by that name. POOR ROBIN. 193 Is the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? Or does it suit our humour to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colours whether they deceive or no ? — Nay, we would simply praise the free good- will With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ; Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow : Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, And such as lift their foreheads overprized, Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy This child of Nature's own humility, What recompense is kept in store or left For all that seem neglected or bereft ; With what nice care equivalents are given, How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven. March, 1840. 194 THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, And if to lure the truant back be well, Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke, That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour ; Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock^ For service hung behind thy chamber door ; And in due time the soft spontaneous shock, The double note, as if with living power, Will to composure lead — or make thee blithe as bird in bower. List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo ! — oft though tempests howl, Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare, How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl, Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air ; THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. 195 I speak with knowledge, — by that Yoice beguiled, Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng Into thy heart ; and fancies, running wild Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among, Will make thee happy, happy as a child ; Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song, And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong. And know — that, even for him who shuns the day And nightly tosses on a bed of pain ; Whose joys, from all but memory swept away, Must come unhoped for, if they come again ; Know — that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme, The mimic notes, striking upon his ear In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, Could from sad regions send him to a dear Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam, To mock the wandering Yoice beside some haunted stream . O bounty without measure ! while the grace Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs, Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace A mazy course along familiar things, o2 196 THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come, Streaming from founts above the starry sky, With angels when their own untroubled home They leave, and speed on nightly embassy To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom ? Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance try, And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh. 197 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. See " The Wishing-Gate," Vol. II. page 200, of the Author's Poems. 'Tis gone — with old beliet and dream That round it clung, and tempting scheme Released from fear and doubt ; And the bright landscape too must lie, By this blank wall, from every eye, Relentlessly shut out. Bear witness ye who seldom passed That opening — but a look ye cast Upon the lake below, What spirit-stirring power it gained From faith which here was entertained, Though reason might say no. Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs Of history, glory claps her wings, Fame sheds the exulting tear ; Yet earth is wide, and many a nook Unheard of is, like this, a book For modest meanings dear. 198 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. It was in sooth a happy thought That grafted, on so fair a spot, So confident a token Of coming good ; — the charm is fled ; Indulgent centuries spun a thread, Which one harsh day has broken. Alas ! for him who gave the word ; Could he no sympathy afford, Derived from earth or heaven, To hearts so oft by hope betrayed ; Their very wishes wanted aid Which here was freely given ? Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, Will now so readily be found A balm of expectation ? Anxious for far-off children, where Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air . Of home-felt consolation ? And not unfelt will prove the loss 'Mid trivial care and petty cross And each day's shallow grief; Though the most easily beguiled Were oft among the first that smiled At their own fond belief. THE WISHING- GATE DESTROYED. 199 If still the reckless change we mourn, A reconciling thought may turn To harm that might lurk here, Ere judgment prompted from within Fit aims, with courage to begin, And strength to persevere. Not Fortune's slave is man : our state Enjoins, while firm resolves await On wishes just and wise, That strenuous action follow both, And life be one perpetual growth Of heaven- ward enterprise. So taught, so trained, we boldly face All accidents of time and place ; Whatever props may fail, Trust in that sovereign law can spread New glory o'er the mountain's head, Fresh beauty through the vale. That truth informing mind and heart, The simplest cottager may part, Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee The voice of grateful memory Shall bid a kind farewell ! See Note at the end of this Volume. 200 THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE. How beautiful, when up a lofty height Honour ascends among the humblest poor, And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the door Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite She wasted no complaint, but strove to make A just repayment, both for conscience-sake And that herself and hers should stand upright In the world's eye. Her work when daylight failed Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed With some, the noble creature never slept ; But, one by one, the hand of death assailed Her children from her inmost heart bewept. THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE. 201 The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried Son Before her eyes, last child of many gone — His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! His very feet bright as the dazzling snow Which they are touching ; yea far brighter, even As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven, Surpasses aught these elements can show. Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour Whate'er befel she could not grieve or pine ; But the Transfigured, in and out of season, Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power Over material forms that mastered reason. Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine ! But why that prayer ? as if to her could come No good but by the way that leads to bliss Through Death, — so judging we should judge amiss. Since reason failed want is her threatened doom, Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom : 202 THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE. Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss The air or laugh upon a precipice ; No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb She smiles as if a martyr s crown were won : Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving trees With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees The Mother hails in her descending Son An Angel, and in earthly ecstacies Her own angelic glory seems begun. 203 CENOTAPH. In affectionate remembrance of Frances Fermor, whose remains are de- posited in the church of Claines, near Worcester, this stone is erected by her sister, Dame Margaret, wife of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling not less than the love of a brother for the deceased, commends this memorial to the care of his heirs and successors in the possession of this place. By vain affections unenthralled, Though resolute when duty called To meet the world's broad eye, Pure as the holiest cloistered nun That ever feared the tempting sun, Did Fermor live and die. This Tablet, hallowed by her name, One heart-relieving tear may claim ; But if the pensive gloom Of fond regret be still thy choice, Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice Of Jesus from her tomb ! "I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LTFE. 204 EPITAPH IN THE CHAPEL- YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND. By playful smiles, (alas, too oft A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft And gentle nature, and a free Yet modest hand of charity, Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared To young and old ; and how revered Had been that pious spirit, a tide Of humble mourners testified, When, after pains dispensed to prove The measure of God's chastening love, Here, brought from far, his corse found rest,- Fulfilment of his own request ; — Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he Planted with such fond hope the tree ; Less for the love of stream and rock, Dear as they were, than that his Flock, EPITAPH, 205 When they no more their Pastor's voice Could hear to guide them in their choice Through good and evil, help might have Admonished, from his silent grave, Of righteousness, of sins forgiven, For peace on earth and bliss in heaven. 206 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. EXTRACT FROM CHAUCER. Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida ; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least ! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went ; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 20" Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold ; - For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace ; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus, — Palace desolate ! house of houses, once so richly dight ! Palace empty and disconsolate ! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light ; O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought'st to fail and I to die ; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. O, of all houses once the crowned boast ! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss ; ring of which the ruby now is lost, cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss : Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors ; but I dare not for this rout ; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out ! 208 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold ; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue. Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive- wise. And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid's laugh ; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully ; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray ! And there so graciously did me behold, That hers unto the death my heart I hold. TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 209 And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound ; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried, "When I the process have in memory, How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history ; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will ? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked thine ire, Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief ; Now mercy, Lord ! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief ; And live and die I will in thy belief ; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. 210 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was ; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas ! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. would the blissful God now for his joy, 1 might her see again coming to Troy ! And up to yonder hill was I her guide ; Alas, and there I took of her my leave ; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave ; — And hither home I came when it was eve ; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 211 And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont ; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness ? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die : And thus a day or two drove wearily ; As ye have heard ; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might ; And made a fitting song, of words but few, Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light ; And when he was removed from all men s sight, With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. p2 212 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. O star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail ; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old ; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold ; And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said ; I wis, when thou art horn d anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, That cause is of my torment and my sorrow ; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above thy sphere ; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 213 The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be — for he thought so ; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go ; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phaeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father's car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see ; And ever thus he to himself would talk : — Lo ! yonder is my own bright Lady free ; Or yonder is it that the tents must be ; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore ; I prove it thus ; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain ; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain ? 214 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. A- weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night ; And ever at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart more light ; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. 215 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. A Poet /—He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality. 216 SONNETS. The most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendor, shall we covet storms, And wish the Lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high ? Behold, already they forget to shine, Dissolve — and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come wbencesoe'er it may, Peace let us seek, — to stedfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours. SONNETS. , 217 III. Feel for the wrongs to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies ; And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den, Whether conducted to the spot by sighs And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes In silence and the awful Modesties Of sorrow ; — feel for all, as brother Men ! — Feel for the Poor, — but not to still your qualms By formal charity or dole of alms ; Learn to be just, just through impartial law ; Far as ye may, erect and equalize ; And what ye cannot reach by statute, draw Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice ! 218 SONNETS. IV. ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN AMERICA. I. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay ; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend ; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified ; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for Sinners died. SONNETS. 219 V. II. CONTINUED. From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown ; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred, In worship neither raised nor limited Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant shore, For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace. — Fathers ! your Virtues, such the power of grace, \ Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move. 220 SONNETS. VI. III. CONCLUDED. — AMERICAN EPISCOPACY. Patriots informed with Apostolic light "Were they, who, when their Country had been freed, Bowing with reverence to the ancient creed, Fixed on the frame of England's Church their sight, And strove in filial love to reunite What force had severed. Thence they fetched the seed Of Christian unity, and won a meed Of praise from Heaven. To Thee, saintly White, Patriarch of a wide-spreading family, Remotest lands and unborn times shall turn, Whether they would restore or build — to Thee, As one who rightly taught how zeal should burn, As one who drew from out Faith's holiest urn The purest stream of patient Energy. SONNETS. 221 VII. ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON. By Art's bold privilege "Warrior and War-horse stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck ; Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck ; But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check Is given to triumph and all human pride ! Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence ! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven ; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, 'mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest ! 222 SONNETS. VIII. IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HISTORIES AND NOTICES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Portentous change when History can appear As the cool Advocate of foul device ; Reckless audacity extol, and jeer At consciences perplexed with scruples nice ! They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneer Born of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater ; Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. Hath it not long been said the wrath of Man Works not the righteousness of God ? Oh bend, Bend, ye Perverse ! to judgments from on High, Laws that lay under Heaven's perpetual ban All principles of action that transcend The sacred limits of humanity. SONNETS. 223 IX. CONTINUED. "Who ponders National events shall find An awful balancing of loss and gain, Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined, And proud deliverance issuing out of pain And direful throes ; as if the All-ruling Mind, With whose perfection it consists to ordain Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane, Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind By laws immutable. But woe for him Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours, And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim And Will, whose office, by divine command, Is to control and check disordered Powers ? 224 SONNETS. X. CONCLUDED. Long favoured England ! be not thou misled By monstrous theories of alien growth, Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red "With thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed Fail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, Or wan despair — the ghost of false hope fled Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth, My Country ! if such warning be held dear, Then shall a Veteran s heart be thrilled with joy, One who would gather from eternal truth, For time and season, rules that work to cheer — Not scourge, to save the People — not destroy. SONNETS 225 XI. Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent ? Think ye your British Ancestors forsook Their native Land, for outrage provident ; From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook To give, in their Descendants, freer vent And wider range to passions turbulent, To mutual tyranny a deadlier look ? Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's breath, Dive through the stormy surface of the flood To the great current flowing underneath ; Explore the countless springs of silent good ; So shall the truth be better understood, And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith. 226 SONNETS. XII. Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance ; But not the less — nay more — that countenance, "While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life \ By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. — Would she were now as when she hoped to pass At God's appointed hour to them who tread Heaven s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content, Well pleased, her foot should print earth's common grass, Lived thankful for day's light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent. SONNETS. 22/ XIII. TO A PATNTER. All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed ; But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, Who, yielding not to changes Time has made, By the habitual light of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art The visual powers of Nature satisfy, Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. q2 228 SONNETS. XIV. ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Though I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes ; 0, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past. 229 TO A REDBREAST— (IN SICKNESS). Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy The promise in thy song ; A charm, that thought can not destroy, Doth to thy strain belong, Methinks that in my dying hour Thy song would still be dear, And with a more than earthly power My passing Spirit cheer. Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting Spring. S. H. 230 FLOATING ISLAND. These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, &c. pub- lished heretofore along with my Poems. Those to a Redbreast are by a deceased female Relative. Harmonious Powers with Nature work On sky, earth, river, lake and sea ; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, All in one duteous task agree. Once did I see a slip of earth (By throbbing waves long undermined) Loosed from its hold ; how, no one knew, But all might see it float, obedient to the wind ; Might see it, from the mossy shore Dissevered, float upon the Lake, Float with its crest of trees adorned On which the warbling birds their pastime take. Food, shelter, safety, there they find ; There berries ripen, flowerets bloom ; There insects live their lives, and die ; A peopled world it is ; in size a tiny room. FLOATING ISLAND. 231 And thus through many seasons' space This little Island may survive ; But Nature, though we mark her not, Will take away, may cease to give. Perchance when you are wandering forth Upon some vacant sunny day, Without an object, hope, or fear, Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away ; Buried beneath the glittering Lake, Its place no longer to be found ; Yet the lost fragments shall remain To fertilize some other ground. D. W. The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, Glories of evening, as ye there are seen With but a span of sky between — Speak one of you, my doubts remove, Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen ? 232 SONNETS. XV* The following Sonnets, with the exception of the last, have been published before, but chiefly in a comparatively small Edition of the Author's Poems : they are reprinted here to place them within reach of those who possess Editions where they are wanting. Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts : whose eye Sees that, apart from Magnanimity, Wisdom exists not ; nor the humbler skill Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill With patient care. What though assaults run high, They daunt not him who holds his ministry, Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil Its duties ; — prompt to move, but firm to wait, — Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found ; That, for the functions of an ancient State — Strong by her charters, free because imbound, Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound. SONNETS. 233 XVI. COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. If with old love of you, dear Hills ! I share New love of many a rival image brought From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought : Nor art thou wronged, sweet May ! when I compare Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair, So rich to me in favours. For my lot Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air Mingling with thy soft breath ! That morning too, Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming Amid the sunny, shadowy, Colyseum ; Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue, For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring, Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum. 234 SONNETS. XVII. COMPOSED ON THE SAME MORNING. Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach ? they meet the coming tide ; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; Or gambol — each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ; Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? SONNETS. 235 XVIII. AT DOVER. From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase Of wonder, long I watched this sea-side Town, Under the white cliff's battlemented crown, Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace : The streets, the quays, are thronged — but why disown Their natural voices ? whence this strange release From social noise — silence elsewhere unknown? — A Spirit whispered, " Let all wonder cease ; Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set free Thy sense from pressure of life's common din ; As the dread voice that speaks from out the sea Of God's eternal Word, the Yoice of Time Deadens — the shocks of tumult, shrieks of crime, The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin." 236 SONNETS. XIX. TO THE PLANET VENUS, Upon its Approximation (as an Evening Star) to the Earth, January 1838. What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the nearer Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew dearer Night after night ? True is it Nature hides Her treasures less and less. — Man now presides In power, where once he trembled in his weakness ; Knowledge advances with gigantic strides ; But are we aught enriched in love and meekness ? Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure and wise More than in humbler times graced human story ; That makes our hearts more apt to sympathise With heaven, our souls more fit for future glory, When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? SONNETS. 237 XX. Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped afire-side Prisoner's chain, Exulting "Warbler ! eased a fretted brain, And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold Bird ! and front the blast, That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. Rydai, Mount, 1838. 238 SONNETS. XXI. Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm — but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude ! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain ? Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush attune His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane ? Rise, tardy Sun ! and let the Songster prove (The balance trembling between night and morn No longer) with what ecstacy upborne He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness. SONNETS. 239 XXII. Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and speech ! Yet — though dread Powers, that work in mystery, spin Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To Her from heights that Reason may not win. Like Children, She is privileged to hold Divine communion ; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them — in Her our sins and sorrows past. 240 SONNETS. XXIII. A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. Failing impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, Equity is lame ; And social justice, stript of reverence For natural rights, a mockery and a shame ; Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, If, guarding grossest things from common claim Now and for ever, She, to works that came From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence. " What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, For Books ! " Yes, heartless Ones, or be it proved That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and loved Like others, with like temporal hopes to die ; No public harm that Genius from her course Be turned; and streams of truth dried up, even at their source ! SONNETS. 241 XXIV. VALEDICTORY SONNET. Closing the Volume of Sonnets published in 1833. Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn from spots Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered knots), Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; Both to allure the casual Loiterer, And that, so placed, my Nurslings may requite Studious regard with opportune delight, Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart, Reader, farewell ! My last words let them be — If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart ; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee ! 242 SONNETS. XXV. Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon A poor old Dame will bless them for the boon : Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness ; far other strife Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's sake. Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief? Pains which the World inflicts can she requite ? Not for an interval however brief; The silent thoughts that search for stedfast light, Love from on high, and Duty in her might, And Faith — these only yield secure relief. March 8th, 1842. THE BORDERERS. & Cragetrg. (Composed 1795-6.) r2 DRAMATIS PERSONS. Of the Band of Borderers. Marmaduke. Oswald. Wallace. Lacy. Lennox. J Herbert. Wilfred, Servant to Marma- duke. Host. Forester. Eldred, a Peasant. Peasant, Pilgrims, &c. Idonea. Female Beggar. Eleanor, Wife to Eldred. Scene, Borders of England and Scotland. Time, the Reign of Henry III. Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy. February 28, 1842. THE BORDERERS ACT I. Scene, road in a Wood. Wallace and Lacy, lacy. The Troop will be impatient ; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. — Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service. WALLACE. Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, 246 THE BORDERERS. [act i. From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. LACY. True ; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain. WALLACE. I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him — then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine ? LACY. Where he despised alike Mahommedan and Christian. But enough ; Let us begone — the Band may else be foiled. [Exeunt. Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred. WILFRED. Be cautious, my dear Master ! MARMADUKE. I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. ACT x.] THE BORDERERS. 247 WILFRED. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is MARMADUKE. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile ; but what of him ? WILFRED. You know that you have saved his life. MARMADUKE. I know it. WILFRED. And that he hates you ! — Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. MARMADUKE. Fy ! no more of it. WILFRED. Dear Master ! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this Oswald — Yourself, you do not love him. MARMADUKE. I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience 248 THE BORDERERS. [act i. Has given him power to teach : and then for courage And enterprise — what perils hath he shunned ? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome ? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest. WILFRED. Oh, Sir ! MARMADUKE. Peace, my good "Wilfred ; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. WILFRED. May He whose eye is over all protect you ! \_Exit. Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand). OSWALD. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. marmaduke (looking at them). The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade : Which is your favorite, Oswald ? OSWALD. That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — £ Looking forward. act i.] THE BORDERERS. 249 Not yet in sight ! — We'll saunter here awhile ; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. mabmaduke (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald ; 'Tis a strange letter this ! — You saw her write it ? OSWALD. And saw the tears with which she blotted it. MARMADUKE. And nothing less would satisfy him ? OSWALD. No less ; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind ; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent — he calls us " Outlaws ;" And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. 250 THE BORDERERS. [act MARMADTJKE. Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. OSWALD. Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yefc was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. MARMADUKE. This day will suffice OSWALD. But if the blind Man's tale To end her wrongs. Should yet be true ? MARMADUKE. Would it were possible ! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus ? OSWALD. Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before : in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised ; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail act I.] THE BORDERERS. 251 To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon ; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed : 'tis much The Arch-impostor MARMADUKE. Treat him gently, Oswald ; Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together ; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken. Two Travellers ! OSWALD. See, they come, MARMADUKE (point s). The female is Idonea. 252 THE BORDERERS. [act i. OSWALD. And leading Herbert. 3IARMADUKE. We must let them pass — This thicket will conceal us. \_Tliey step aside. Enter Idonea, leading Herbert Hind. ID ONE A. Dear Father, you sigh deeply ; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled. HERBERT. Nay, You are too fearful ; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. IDONEA. That dismal Moor — In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it : but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape ! — I thought the Convent never would appear ; It seemed to move away from us : and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine ; for the air » ACT l] the BORDERERS. 253 "Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods — A miniature ; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it : within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father, — That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling 't away from you : you make no use Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There — indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank. \_He sits down. Herbert (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. IDONEA. Do not reproach me : I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request ; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, 254 THE BORDERERS. [act i. Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away : Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give. HERBERT. Nay, be composed : Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate — my grave, And thee, my Child ! IDONEA. Believe me, honored Sire ! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause : you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature HERBERT. I comprehend thee — I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins ; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit act i.] THE BORDERERS. 255 I feel my strength returning. — The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury ; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone ? IDONEA. Is he not strong ? Is he not valiant ? HERBERT. Am I then so soon Forgotten ? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind ? My dear, my only, Child ; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — This Marmaduke TDONEA. O could you hear his voice : Alas ! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness : and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 256 THE BORDERERS. [act HERBERT. Unhappy Woman ! IDONEA. Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak ; but think not I forget — Dear Father ! how could I forget and live — You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. HERBERT. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice ; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms ; She saw my blasted face — a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. IDONEA. Nay, Father, stop not ; let me hear it all. HERBERT. Dear Daughter ! precious relic of that time — For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, act i.] THE BORDERERS. 257 That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to B-ossland, — there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home — and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell. — For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both. Oh, could you hear his voice ! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. 258 THE BORDERERS. [act i. Enter a Peasant. PEASANT. Good morrow, Strangers ! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you ! IDONEA. My Companion Hath need of rest ; the sight of Hut or Hostel "Would be most welcome. PEASANT. Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs ; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel— shall I support you ? HERBERT. I thank you ; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you. PEASANT. God speed you both. [Exit Peasant. HERBERT. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed — 'Tis but for a few days — a thought has struck me. act i.] THE BORDERERS. 259 IDONEA. That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so ; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached. \_Exit Herbert supported by Idonea. He-enter Marmaduke and Oswald. MARMADUKE. This instant will we stop him OSWALD. Be not hasty, For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, He tempted me to think the Story true ; 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared the genuine colour of his soul — Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death. marmaduke. I have been much deceived. OSWALD. But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions ! — death — There must be truth in this. s2 260 THE BORDERERS. [act i. MARMADUKE. Truth in his story ! He must have felt it then, known what it was, And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty. OSWALD. Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity ! I 'd wager on his life for twenty years. MARMADUKE. We will not waste an hour in such a cause. OSWALD. Why, this is noble ! shake her off at once. MARMADUKE. Her virtues are his instruments. — A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child — w T hat ! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 'Tis but a word and then OSWALD. Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion ? act I.] THE BORDERERS, 261 Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear — you have had enemies. MARMADUKE. Enemies ! — of his own coinage. OSWALD. That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield ? Perhaps he looks elsewhere. — I am perplexed, MARMADUKE. What hast thou heard or seen ? No — no — the thing stands clear of mystery ; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear ; — for a plain reason ; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you ; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain : It cannot be MARMADUKE. What cannot be ? OSWALD. Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child THE BORDERERS. [act i. MARMADUKE. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! OSWALD. Heaven forbid ! — There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — It struck me at the time — yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed, MARMADUKE. What is your meaning ? OSWALD. Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest. MARMADUKE. Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door — It could not be. OSWALD. And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, act i.] THE BORDERERS. 263 And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me. MARMADUKE. No — it cannot be — I dare not trust myself with such a thought — Yet whence this strange aversion ? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures — - — OSWALD. If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully. \_Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald. Scene, the door of the Hostel. Herbert, Idonea, and Host. Herbert (seated). As I am dear to you, remember, Child ! This last request. idonea. You know me, Sire ; farewell ! 264 THE BORDERERS. [act i. HERBERT. And are you going then ? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part, — I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest, — and now I will not play the sluggard. IDONEA. Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host. Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands ; poor Leader, [Looking at the Dog, We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befal thee ! — Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host ! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well. HOST. Fear not, I will obey you ; — but One so young, And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady ! — I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir ?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. act i.] THE BORDERERS. 265 1D0NEA. You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am "When you are by my side. HERBERT. Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears. IDONEA. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back — protect him, Saints — farewell ! {Exit Idonea. HOST. Tis never drought with us — St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort : Pity the Maiden did not wait a while ; She could not, Sir, have failed of company. HERBERT. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. host (calling). Holla! 266 THE BORDERERS. [act HERBERT. No, no, the business must be done. — What means this riotous noise ? HOST. The villagers Are flocking in — a wedding festival — That's all — God save you, Sir. Enter Oswald. OSWALD. Ha ! as I live, The Baron Herbert. HOST. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! OSWALD. So far into your journey ! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you ? HERBERT. "Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir ? OSWALD. I do not see Idonea. HERBERT. Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither ? ACT I.] THE BORDERERS. 267 OSWALD. A slight affair, That will be soon despatched. HERBERT. Did Marmaduke Receive that letter ? OSWALD. Be at peace. — The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him. HERBERT. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times ! — That noise ! — would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle : I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great "With Henry, our good King ; — the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter — he 's a dangerous Man. — That noise ! — 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me, — the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back. OSWALD. You are most lucky ; 268 THE BORDERERS. [act i. I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion — here he comes ; our journey [Enter Marmaduke. Lies on your way ; accept us as your Guides. HERBERT. Alas ! I creep so slowly. OSWALD. Never fear ; We'll not complain of that. HERBERT. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour ? OSWALD. Most willingly ! — Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us ; "Well stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. [Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit Marmaduke. Enter Villagers. Oswald {to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have prepared a most apt Instrument — The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground ; she hath a tongue well skilled, ACT l] THE BORDERERS. 269 By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires. [Exit Oswald. Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them. host (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish. Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel — Mar- maduke and Oswald entering. MARMADUKE. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves : When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how. OSWALD. To-day will clear up all. — You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side : it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, 270 THE BORDERERS. [ ACT Sm Who soon grew weary of her ; but, alas ! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work : She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut ; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years ; and no one ever heard her voice ; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one — She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring ; they say it is knee-deep Ha ! what is here ? \_A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep — a Child in her arms. BEGGAR. Oh ! Gentlemen, I thank you ; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature. — My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him ; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once : act i.J THE BORDERERS. 27l When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die. H ARM A DUKE. We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip ; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money. BEGGAR. The Saints reward you For this good deed ! — Well, Sirs, this passed away ; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head : But here he is, [kissing the Chilcf\ it must have been a dream. OSWALD. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover. BEGGAR. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary- worn.— You gentlefolk have got 272 THE BORDERERS. [act Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am. — But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me — wind and rain Beat hard upon my head — and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky : At which I half accused the God in Heaven. — You must forgive me. OSWALD. Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint — no matter — this good day Has made amends. BEGGAR. Thanks to you both ; but, O sir ! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. MARMADUKE. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady ! Do you tell fortunes ? BEGGAR. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one — it cuts me to the heart — ACT i.] THE BORDERERS. 2? 3 Well ! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it : This they can do, and look upon my face — But you, Sir, should be kinder. MARMADUKE. Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch ! BEGGAR. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now — but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I'th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better ! — Charity ! If you can melt a rock, he is your man ; But I'll be even with him — here again Have I been waiting for him. OSWALD. Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you ? BEGGAR. Mark you me ; I'll point him out ; — a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose ; a little dog, 274 THE BORDERERS. [act Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb ; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit. MARMADUKE. As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other ! BEGGAR. 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age — yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven. OSWALD. But why so violent Against this venerable Man ? BEGGAR. I'll tell you : He has the very hardest heart on earth ; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. MARMADUKE. But to your story. act i.] THE BORDERERS. 275 BEGGAR. I was saying, Sir — Well ! — he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity : But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I — I'll out with it ; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst ; and so I left him. OSWALD. I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door. BEGGAR. Ay ; and if truth were known I have good business there. OSWALD. I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry: BEGGAR. Angry ! well he might ; And long as I can stir I'll dog him. — Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes T 2 276 THE BORDERERS. [act i. The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now. — That good old Lady- Has left a power of riches ; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half. OSWALD. "What's this ? — I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent. BEGGAR. And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. OSWALD. How say you ? in disguise ? — MARMADUKE. But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter ? BEGGAR. Daughter! truly — But how 's the day ? — I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have you seen him ? [Offers to go. MARMADUKE. I must have more of this ; — you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert ? ACT l] THE BORDERERS. 277 BEGGAR. You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir ! MARMADUKE. No trifling, Woman ! — OSWALD. You are as safe as in a sanctuary ; Speak. MARMADUKE. Speak ! BEGGAR. He is a most hard-hearted Man. MARMADUKE. Your life is at my mercy. BEGGAR. Do not harm me, And I will tell you all ! — You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor. OSWALD. Speak out. BEGGAR. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. OSWALD. Nay, but speak out ! 278 THE BORDERERS. [act BEGGAR. He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both ; and so, I parted with the Child. MARMADUKB. With whom you parted ? BEGGAR. Idonea, as he calls her ; but the Girl Is mine. MARMADUKE. Yours, Woman ! are you Herbert's wife ? BEGGAR. Wife, Sir ! his wife — not I ; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred ! He has been two years in his grave. MARMADUKE. Enough. OSWALD. We've solved the riddle — Miscreant ! MARMADUKE. Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return ; be sure you shall have justice. act i.] THE BORDERERS. 279 OSWALD. A lucky woman ! — go, you have done good service. \_Aside. marmaduke (to himself). Eternal praises on the power that saved her ! — Oswald (gives her money). Here's for your little Boy — and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather. BEGGAR. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me. — These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors ; But I'll be back with my best speed : for you — God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. [Exit Beggar. MARMADUKE (to himself). The cruel Viper ! — Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee. OSWALD. I am thunderstruck. MARMADUKE. Where is she — holla ! \_Calling to the Beggar, who returns ; he looks at her stedfastly. 280 THE BORDERERS. [act You are Idonea's Mother? — Nay, be not terrified — it does me good To look upon you. Oswald (interrupting}. In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it ? BEGGAR. Nay, I dare not speak ; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more. OSWALD. Lord Clifford ? BEGGAR. What can I do ? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. OSWALD. Lord Clifford — did you see him talk with Herbert ? BEGGAR. Yes, to my sorrow — under the great oak At Herbert's door — and when he stood beside The blind Man — at the silent Girl he looked With such a look — it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it. THE BORDERERS. 281 Enough ! you may depart. marmaduke (to himself). Father ! — to God himself we cannot give A holier name ; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me ; these strange discoveries- Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love — involve, I feel, my ruin. END OF FIRST ACT. THE BORDERERS. [act ii. ACT II. Scene. A Chamber in the Hostel — Oswald alone, rising from a Table on which he had been writing. They chose him for their Chief ! — what covert part He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred ; both are flown : That either e'er existed is my shame : 'Twas a dull spark — a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. — These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of the north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, They think it is to feed them. I have left him To solitary meditation ; — now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind. And he is mine for ever — here he comes. act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 283 Enter Marmaduke. MARMADUKE. These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks ! OSWALD. Who is it ? MARMADUKE. I have seen her. OSWALD. Oh ! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness. MARMADUKE. I met a peasant near the spot ; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls. OSWALD. I too have seen her ; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard : The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, Her lips for ever moving. 284 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. MARMADUKE. At her door Rooted I stood ; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. / OSWALD. But the pretended Father MARMADUKE. Earthly law Measures not crimes like his. OSWALD. We rank not, happily, With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare "While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence ; she loves him . MARMADUKE. Yes, loves him ; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold. What must be done ? OSWALD. Tis most perplexing : act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 285 MARMADUKE. We will conduct her hither ; These walls shall witness it — from first to last He shall reveal himself. OSWALD. Happy are we, Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. MARMADTJKE. Let us begone and bring her hither ;— here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me. OSWALD. You will be firm : but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause, Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Upon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a Band Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 236 THE BORDERERS. [act Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Your generous qualities have won due praise, But vigorous Spirits look for something more Than Youth's spontaneous products ; and to-day You will not disappoint them ; and hereafter MARMADUKE. You are wasting words ; hear me then, once for all You are a Man — and therefore, if compassion, Which to our kind is natural as life, Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, Even as I do ; but I should loathe the light, If I could think one weak or partial feeling OSWALD. You will forgive me MARMADUKE. If I ever knew ACT „.] THE BORDERERS. 287 My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 'Tis at this moment. — Oswald, I have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow ; — there is something Which looks like a transition in my soul, And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. OSWALD. Stoop for a moment ; 'tis an act of justice ; And where' s the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office ? The deed is done — if you will have it so — Here where we stand — that tribe of vulgar wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in — the villains seize us MARMADUKE. Seize ! OSWALD. Yes, they — Men who are little given to sift and weigh — Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. MARMADUKE. The cloud will soon disperse— farewell— but stay, Thou wilt relate the story. 288 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. OSWALD. Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness ? MARMADUKE. I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee. OSWALD. When I'm dishonored ! MARMADUKE. I would preserve thee. How may this be done ? OSWALD. By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom, And very superstition of the place, Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock Father's guilt. ACT n .] THE BORDERERS. 289 Enter Host conducting Herbert. HOST. The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure. oswald (to Host). We are ready — (to Herbert) Sir ! I hope you are refreshed. — I have just written A notice for your Daughter, that she may know What is become of you. — You'll sit down and sign it ; 'Twill glad her heart to see her Father's signature. \_Gives the letter he had written. HERBERT. Thanks for your care. [_Sits down and writes. Exit Host. oswald (aside to marmaduke). Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name. [^Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — then writes — exa- mines the letter eagerly. MARMADUKE. I cannot leave this paper. \_He puts it up, agitated. 290 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. Oswald (aside). Dastard ! Come. [Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and supports him — Marmaduke tremblingly beckons Oswald to take his place. marmaduke (as he quits Herbert). There is a palsy in his limbs — he shakes. [_Exeunt Oswald and Herbert — Marmaduke following. Scene changes to a Wood — a Group of Pilgrims and Idonea with them. FIRST PILGRIM. A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw. SECOND PILGRIM. The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. AN OLD PILGRIM. This news ! It made my heart leap up with joy. IDONEA. I scarcely can believe it. act II.] THE BORDERERS. 291 OLD PILGRIM. Myself, I heard The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I returned From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast : He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy ; but grieved He was that One so young should pass his youth In such sad service ; and he parted with him. We joined our tales of wretchedness together, And begged our daily bread from door to door. I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! For once you loved me. IDONEA. You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you. OLD PILGRIM. It seems but yesterday u2 292 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, In a deep w T ood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in. IDONEA. And I was with you ? OLD PILGRIM. If indeed 'twas you — But you were then a tottering Little -one — We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker : I struck my flint, and built up a small fire "With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods ; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth And we were comforted, and talked of comfort ; But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads The thunder rolled in peals that would have made A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. O Lady, you have need to love your Father. His voice — methinks I hear it now, his voice When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, He said to me, that he had seen his Child, A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 293 Revealed by lustre brought with it from Heaven ; And it was you, dear Lady ! idonea. God be praised. That I have been his comforter till now ! And will be so through every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires. — Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. Scene, the Area of a half-ruined Castle — on one side the entrance to a dungeon — Oswald and Marmaduke pacing backwards and forwards. MARMADUKE. 'Tis a wild night. OSWALD. I 'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire. marmaduke. The wind blows keen ; My hands are numb. 294 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. OSWALD. Ha ! ha ! 'tis nipping cold. [Blowing his fingers. I long for news of our brave Comrades ; Lacy Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. MARMADUKE. I think I see a second range of Towers ; This Castle has another Area — come, Let us examine it. OSWALD. 'Tis a bitter night ; I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, "Who at full speed swept by us where the wood Roared in the tempest, was within an ace Of sending to his grave our precious Charge : That would have been a vile mischance. MARMADUKE. It would. OSWALD. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded. MARMADUKE. Most cruelly. OSWALD. As up the steep we clomb, act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 295 I saw a distant fire in the north-east ; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening. [Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon. MARMADUKE. When, upon the plank, I had led him o'er the torrent, his voice blessed me : You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks With deafening noise, — the benediction fell Back on himself ; but changed into a curse. OSWALD. As well indeed it might. MARMADUKE. And this you deem The fittest place ? Oswald (aside). He is growing pitiful. marmaduke {listening). What an odd moaning that is ! — OSWALD. Mighty odd The wind should pipe a little, while we stand 296 THE BORDERERS. [act 11. Cooling our heels in this way ! — I'll begin And count the stars. marmaduke (still listening). That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us — he must have perished ; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks — that he Would trouble us ; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies. OSWALD. How ? MARMADUKE. The old blind Man, When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung, Listening in vain. OSWALD. He has a tender heart ! ^Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon. MARMADUKE. How now, what mean you ? A C T "•] THE BORDERERS. 297 OSWALD. Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, Three good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this. MARMADUKE. Stop, stop. OSWALD. Perhaps, You'd better like we should descend together, And lie down by his side — what say you to it ? Three of us — we should keep each other warm : I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us ; further I'll not engage ; Come, come, for manhood's sake ! MARMADUKE. These drowsy shiverings, This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, What do they mean ? were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble : Why do I tremble now ? — Is not the depth f this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought ? 298 THE BORDERERS. [act And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again — my breast Concentres all the terrors of the Universe : I look at him and tremble like a child. OSWALD. Is it possible MARMADUKE. One thing you noticed not : Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder ; But there's a Providence for them who walk In helplessness, when innocence is with them. At this audacious blasphemy, I thought The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. OSWALD. Why are you not the man you were that moment ? \_He draws Marmaduke to the dunge MARMADUKE. You say he was asleep, — look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald ! [Leans upon Oswald act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 299 OSWALD. This is some sudden seizure ! MARMADUKE. A most strange faintness, — will you hunt me out A draught of water ? i OSWALD. Nay, to see you thus | Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try To gain the torrent's brink. [Exit Oswald. marmaduke (after a pause). It seems an age Since that Man left me. — No, I am not lost. Herbert {at the mouth of the dungeon). Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night. MARMADUKE. 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place. HERBERT. I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. MARMADUKE. >A minute past, he went to fetch a draught 300 THE BORDERERS. [act Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage. HERBERT. How good it was in you To stay behind ! — Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed. MARMADUKE. No wonder ; this is a place That well may put some fears into your heart. HERBERT. Why so ? a roofless rock had been a comfort, Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were ; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me ! — My Girl will weep When she is told of it. Is very dear to you. MARMADUKE. This Daughter of yours HERBERT. Oh ! but you are young ; Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child. act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 301 MARMADUKE. Thank you, old Man, for this ! [_Aside. HERBERT. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man ; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers ; May you in age be blest with such a daughter !— When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my Heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast — but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly. MAKMADUKE. Do not fear ; Your words are precious to my ears ; go on. HERBERT. You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you jSent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start — where are we ? MARMADUKE. Oh, there is no danger ; The cold blast struck me. . 302 THE BORDERERS. [act HERBERT. 'Twas a foolish question. MARMADUKE. But when you were an Outcast ? — Heaven is just ; Your piety would not miss its due reward ; The little Orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not. HERBERT. I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To the wide world I bore her, in my arms ; her looks won pity ; She was my Raven in the wilderness, And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her MARMADUKE. Yes. HERBERT. More than ever Parent loved a Child ? MARMADUKE. Yes, yes. HERBERT. I will not murmur, merciful God ! I will not murmur ; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, jict n .] THE BORDERERS. 303 And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. Enter Oswald. OSWALD. Herbert ! — confusion! {aside.) Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn. A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night. HERBERT. Ha ! Oswald ! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice. OSWALD. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless ; and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You 'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate. {To Marmaduke aside). He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained ? But soft ! — how came he forth ? The Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour ? 304 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. MARMADUKE. I believe You have guessed right. HERBERT. The trees renew their murmur : Come, let us house together. [^Oswald conducts him to the dungeon. Oswald (returns). Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature, And smothered all that's man in me ? — away ! — \_Looking towards the dungeon. This Man 's the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege ; It now becomes my duty to resume it. MARMADUKE. Touch not a finger OSWALD. What then must be done ? MARMADUKE. Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed. ACT „.] THE BORDERERS. 305 OSWALD. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence ; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right ; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples. MARMADUKE. Weak ! I am weak — there does my torment lie, Feeding itself. OSWALD. Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. MARMADUKE. And never heard a sound so terrible. OSWALD. Perchance you think so now ? MARMADUKE. I cannot do it : Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, "When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. OSWALD. Justice — is there not thunder in the word ? 306 THE BORDERERS. [ AC T n. Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse ; and shall this Parricide — Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature Whom he to more than filial love and duty- Hath falsely trained— shall he fulfil his purpose ? But you are fallen. MARMADUKE. Fallen should I be indeed — Murder — perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike the blow — Away ! away ! [_Flings away his sword. OSWALD. Nay, I have done with you : We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his Barony, And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters, And most despise the men who best can teach us : Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave : Clifford is brave ; and that old Man Is brave. \_Taking Marmaduke's sword and giving it to him. ACT ii.] THE BORDERERS. 307 To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim — haply to this desolate house. MARMADUKB {advancing to the dungeon). It must be ended ! — OSWALD. Softly ; do not rouse him ; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. [Marmaduke descends to the dungeon. Oswald (alone). The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me ; I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. The look With which he gave the boon — I see it now! The same that tempted me to loathe the gift. — For this old venerable Grey-beard — faith 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face Which doth play tricks with them that look on it : 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts — that counte- nance — His staff — his figure — Murder ! — what, of whom ? We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women Sigh at the deed ? Hew down a withered tree, And none look grave but dotards. He may live x 2 308 THE BORDERERS. [act ir. To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, Young as he is, diverted wish and hope From the unpretending ground we mortals tread ; — Then shatter the delusion, break it up And set him free. What follows ? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world Do never dream of. I have been what he — This Boy — when he comes forth with bloody hands — Might envy, and am now, — but he shall know What I am now — \_ Goes and listens at the dungeon. Praying or parleying ? — tut ! Is he not eyeless ? He has been half-dead These fifteen years Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Com- jianions. Oswald {turning abruptly). Ha ! speak — what Thing art thou? {Recognises her). Heavens ! my good Friend ! [_To her. BEGGAR. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — Oswald {to her companions). Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [ T/ieg retire affrighted. act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 309 BEGGAR. Indeed we meant no harm ; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle — / repent me. \_ Oswald goes to the dungeon — listens — returns to the Beggar. OSWALD. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant — keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. BEGGAR. I do repent me, Sir ; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir Begone ! beggar (going). There is some wicked deed in hand : \_Aside. "Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. \_Exit Beggar. Marmaduke re-enters from the OSWALD. It is all over then ; — your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is. 310 THE BORDERERS. [act n. MARMADUKE. Why came you down ? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, w T hy did you give no answer ? Feared you to waken him ? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place ! OSWALD. Tut ! let them gabble till the day of doom. MARMADUKE. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man s dog were pulling at it. OSWALD. But after that ? MARMADUKE. The features of Idonea Lurked in his face OSWALD. Psha ! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph ? ACT n .] THE BORDERERS. 311 MARMADUKE. Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep OSWALD. A pretty feat of Fancy ! MARMADUKE. Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers. OSWALD. Is he alive ? MARMADUKE. What mean you ? who alive ? OSWALD. Herbert ! since you will have it, Baron Herbert ; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he living ? MARMADUKE. The old Man in that dungeon is alive. OSWALD. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed : brave Men, they all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity ! Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 312 THE BORDERERS. [act ir. MARMADUKE. Twas dark — dark as the grave ; yet did I see, Saw him — his face turned toward me ; and I tell thee Idonea's filial countenance was there To baffle me — it put me to my prayers. Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, Beheld a star twinkling above my head, And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhausted. Oswald (to himself). Now may I perish if this turn do more Than make me change my course. (To Marmaduke). Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken ; I recal them : I feel my error ; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing. MARMADUKE. Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt. OSWALD. "We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There is guilt in this, Else could so strong a mind have ever known These trepidations ? Plain it is that Heaven act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 313 Has marked out this foul "Wretch as one whose crimes Must never come before a mortal judgment- seat, Or be chastised by mortal instruments. MARMADUKE. A thought that's worth a thousand worlds ! \_Goes towards the dungeon. OSWALD. I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. MARMADUKE. Think not of that ! 'tis over — we are safe. OSWALD (as if to himself yet speaking aloud). The truth is hideous, but how stifle it ? [Turning to Marmaduke. Give me your sword — nay, here are stones and fragments, The least of which would beat out a man's brains ; Or you might drive your head against that wall. No ! this is not the place to hear the tale : It should be told you pinioned in your bed, Or on some vast and solitary plain Blown to you from a trumpet. MARMADUKE. Why talk thus ? Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast 314 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. I care not : fear I have none, and cannot fear [The sound of a horn is heard. That horn again — Tis some one of our Troop ; What do they here ? Listen ! OSWALD. What ! dogged like thieves ! Enter Wallace and Lacy, &c. LACY. You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us. Oswald (looking at Wallace). That subtle Grey-beard — I'd rather see my father's ghost. LACY (to MARMADUKE). My Captain, We come by order of the Band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Baron's League, and sent abroad His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies As, in these long commotions, have been seized. His Power is this way tending. It befits us act II.] THE BORDERERS. 315 To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent. MARMADUKE. Lacy ! we look But at the surfaces of things ; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness ; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought : The deeper malady is better hid ; The world is poisoned at the heart. LACY. What mean you ? WALLACE {whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon Oswald). Ay, what is it you mean ? ' MARMADUKE. Harkee, my Friends ; — [Appearing gay. Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father 316 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. LACY. Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him. MARMADUKE (going OTl). And should he make the Child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not LACY. Troth, 'tis hard — But in a world like ours- MARMADUKE {changing his tone). This self-same Man — Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of Father — could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When he should give her up, a Woman grown, To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution LACY. The whole visible world Contains not such a Monster ! act ii.] THE BORDERERS. 317 MARMADUKE. For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them ; Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice, And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim Both soul and body WALLACE. 'Tis too horrible ; Oswald, what say you to it ? LACY. Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens. MARMADUKE. But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. WALLACE (with an appearance of mistrust). But how, what say you, Oswald ? LACY (at the same moment). Stab him, were it Before the Altar. 318 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. MARMADUKE. What, if lie were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind LACY. Blind, say you ? OSWALD (coming forward^). Are we Men, Or own we baby Spirits ? Genuine courage Is not an accidental quality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant's strength ; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm — She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, And craft of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence — do they protect The infant lamb ? and shall the infirmities, Which have enabled this enormous Culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary To cover him from punishment ? Shame ! — Justice, Admitting no resistance, bends alike act ir.J THE BORDERERS. 319 The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. — We recognise in this old Man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice. LACY. By heaven, his words are reason ! OSWALD. Yes, my Friends, His countenance is meek and venerable ; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers ! — I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it ! — Poor Victim ! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee ; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. LACY. Idonea ! WALLACE. How ! what ? your Idonea ? £To Marmaduke. MARMADUKE. Mine ; But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford ; He is the Man to whom the Maiden — pure, As beautiful, and gentle and benign, 320 THE BORDERERS. [act ii. And in her ample heart loving even me — Was to be yielded up. LACY. Now, by the head Of my own child, this Man must die ; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs ! — ■ MARMADUKE (to LACY). I love the Father in thee. You know me, Friends ; I have a heart to feel, And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions. LACY. We will have ample justice. Who are we, Friends ? Do we not live on ground Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind. Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open — here, Where Reason has an eye that she can use, And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp He shall be led, and there, the Country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall Nature be avenged. act n.] THE BORDERERS. 321 OSWALD. 'Tis nobly thought ; His death will be a monument for ages. MARMADUKE (to LACY). I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed ; and for the rest It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide : Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared. WALLACE. We will obey you. (Aside). But softly ! we must look a little nearer. MARMADUKE. Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause. END OF SECOND ACT. THE BORDERERS. [act hi. ACT III. Scene, the door of the Hostel, a group 0/ Pilgrims as before Idonea and the Host among them. Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent As I have told you : He left us yesterday With two Companions ; one of them, as seemed, His most familiar Friend. (Going). There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten. idonea (to Host). Farewell ! HOST. Gentle Pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. \_Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. act m.] THE BORDERERS. 323 Scene, a desolate Moor. Oswald {alone). Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, to the Camp. Oh, Wisdom ! a most wise resolve ! and then, That half a word should blow it to the winds ! This last device must end my work. — Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief — as thus — Two columns, one for passion, one for proof ; Each rises as the other falls : and first, Passion a unit and against us — proof — Nay, we must travel in another path, Or we're stuck fast for ever ; — passion, then, Shall be a unit/or us; proof — no, passion ! We'll not insult thy majesty by time, Person, and place — the where, the when, the how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. A whipping to the Moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing : for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, Y 2 324 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface ; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, He talks of a transition in his Soul, And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind ? — These are strange sights — the mind of man, upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle ; In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I stop ? No. — Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, And something shall be done which Memory May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work. Enter Marmaduke, from behind. Oswald (turning to meet him). But listen, for my peace MARMADUKE. Why, I believe you. OSWALD. But hear the proofs marmaduke. Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then act in.] THE BORDERERS. 325 Be larger than the peas — prove this — 'twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise ! OSWALD. Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the Villains — every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, " It is agreed on. The blind Man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is," continued the detested Slave, " She is right willing— strange if she were not ! — They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man ; But, faith, to see him in. his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, There's witchery int. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True/' continued he, " When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not less the welcome to my Lord for that) And said, ' My Father he will have it so/ " M ARM A DUKE. I am your hearer. 326 THE BORDERERS. [act ih. OSWALD. This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration ; and they said, With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, That they should share the banquet with their Lord And his new Favorite. MARMADUKE. Misery ! — OSWALD. I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news, And therefore chose this solitary Moor, Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us. MARMADUKE. Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things w r ere shadows — yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless, A cr in.] THE BORDERERS. 32/ Or but the mutual mockeries of body, Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh Fool ! To let a creed, built in the heart of things, Dissolve before a twinkling atom ! — Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends ; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects ; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. OSWALD. You take it as it merits MARMADUKE. One a King, General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground With carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own, But that they cannot stand up of themselves ; Another sits 1 th' sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift ; 328 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. But have they not a world of common ground To occupy — both fools, or wise alike, Each in his way ? OSWALD. Troth, I begin to think so. MARMADUKE. Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy : I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, And send it with a fillip to its grave. OSWALD. Nay, you leave me behind. MARMADUKE. That such a One, So pious in demeanour ! in his look So saintly and so pure ! Hark'ee, my Friend, I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable. OSWALD. In faith, a pleasant scheme ; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use. — But first, how wash our hands of this old Man ? ACT in.] THE BORDERERS. 329 MARMADUKE. Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path ; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. OSWALD. You know we left him sitting — see him yonder. MARMADUKE. Ha! ha!— OSWALD. As 'twill be but a moment's work, I will stroll on ; you follow when 'tis done. Scene changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance — Herbert is discovered seated on a stone. HERBERT. A sound of laughter, too ! — 'tis well — I feared, The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush ! — 'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas ! 'tis cold — I shiver in the sunshine — What can this mean ? There is a psalm that speaks 330 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. Of God's parental mercies — with Idonea I used to sing it. — Listen ! — what foot is there ? Enter Marmaduke. marmaduke {aside — looking at Herbert). And I have loved this Man ! and she hath loved him ! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford ! And there it ends ; — if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore, Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! [Looking round. A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill ! {To Herbert). Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage ? Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre ? HERBERT. How glad I am to hear your voice ! I know not "Wherein I have offended you ; — last night I found in you the kindest of Protectors ; This morning, when I spoke of weariness, You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own ; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark "Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, ACT in.] THE BORDERERS. 331 And I, no coward in my better days, Was almost terrified. MAKMADUKE. That's excellent ! — So, you bethought you of the many ways In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all Nature up against him — pshaw ! — HERBERT. For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight ? No traveller, peasant, herdsman ? MARMADUKE. Not a soul : Here is a tree, ragged and bent and bare, I That turns its goatVbeard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind ; ! This have we, but no other company : Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fathoms underground. HERBERT. '' Where is our common Friend ? MARMADUKE. A ghost, methinks — ' The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance — 332 THE BORDERERS. [ 4C T I Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. HERBERT. Lost Man ! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation MARMADUKE. A bold word from you ! HERBERT. Restore him, Heaven ! MARMADUKE. The desperate "Wretch ! — A Flower, Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now They have snapped her from th§ stem — Poh ! let her Hi Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — ay, there, Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you knew The worm was in her HERBERT. Mercy ! Sir, what mean you i MARMADUKE. You have a Daughter ! HERBERT. Oh that she were here ! — * CT in.] THE BORDERERS. 333 She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, And if I have in aught offended you, Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us, marmaduke {aside). I do believe he weeps — I could weep too — There is a vein of her voice that runs through his : Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth From the first moment that I loved the Maid ; lAnd for his sake I loved her more : these tears — {[ did not think that aught was left in me Of what I have been — yes, I thank thee, Heaven ! One happy thought has passed across my mind. It may not be — I am cut off from man ; No more shall I be man — no more shall I Bave human feelings ! — (To Herbert) — Now, for a little more About your Daughter ! HERBERT. Troops of armed men, Met in the roads, would bless us ; little children, Rushing along in the full tide of play, Stood silent as we passed them ! I have heard The boisterous carman, in the miry road, Oheck his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts. 334 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. MARMADUKE. And whither were you going ? HERBERT. Learn, young Man, To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, "Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. MARMADUKE. Now, this is as it should be ! HERBERT. I am weak ! — My Daughter does not know how weak I am ; And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, By the good God, our common Father, doomed ! — But I had once a spirit and an arm MARMADUKE. Now, for a word about your Barony : I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to — what's your title — eh ? your claims Were undisputed ! HERBERT. Like a mendicant, "Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone : — 4UT ni.] THE BORDERERS. 335 I murmured — but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came ; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe — While in my lap I held my little Babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief — I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called ; It said, " I will be with thee." A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, And said, with tears, that he would be our guide : I had a better guide — that innocent Babe — Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, From cold, from hunger, penury, and death ; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more And higher far than lies within earth's bounds : Therefore I bless her : when I think of Man, I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, I bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 336 THE BORDERERS. [act lit. MARMADUKE. The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays ! "With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff. — Innocent ! — If he were innocent — then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. ( Turning aside). I have read In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge : the Accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste ? Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him — here — All-seeing God I Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, I will commit him to this final Ordeal ! — He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to him And was his guide ; if once, why not again, And in this desert ? If never — then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart, And what are a few throes of bodily suffering AGT m .] THE BORDERERS. 337 If they can waken one pang of remorse ? [_Goes up to Herbert. Old Man ! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, - It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my hand to save thee from perdition ; Thou wilt have time to breathe and think HERBERT. Oh, Mercy ! MA RM A DUKE. I know the need that all men have of mercy, And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment. HERBERT. My Child, my blessed Child ! MARMADUKE. No more of that ; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent ; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. [_He pauses and looks at Herbert s staff. Ha ! what is here ! and carved by her own hand ! \_~Reads upon the staff* " I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fail !" Yes, be it so ; — repent and be forgiven — God and that staff are now thy only guides. \_He leaves Herbert on the Moor. 338 THE BORDERERS. [act hi Scene, an eminence, a Beacon on the summit. Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c. &c. SEVERAL OF THE BAND (confusedly) . But patience ! ONE OF THE BAND. Curses on that Traitor, Oswald ! — Our Captain made a prey to foul device ! — lennox (to Wallace). His Tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, Knowing what otherwise we know too well, That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now ; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy, if you Deny me your support. LACY. We have been fooled — But for the motive ? WALLACE. Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy ! act in.] THE BORDERERS. 339 I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. I know him well ; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being ; where he cannot govern, He will destroy. LACY. To have been trapped like moles ! — Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives : There is no crime from which this Man would shrink ; He recks not human law ; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face. LENNOX. Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own. WALLACE. I have seen traces of it. LENNOX. Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas ; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 'Twas a strange answer that he made ; he said, " I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven." 340 THE BORDERERS. [act m. LACY. He is no madman. WALLACE. A most subtle doctor Were that man, who could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men No heart that loves them, none that they can love, Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined Beings. ONE OF THE BAND. What if he mean to offer up our Captain An expiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends ! WALLACE. Now, if the event Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here. LACY. What need of swearing ! ONE OP THE BAND. Let us away ! act in.] THE BORDERERS. 341 ANOTHER. Away! A THIRD. Hark ! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale. LACY. Stay you behind ; and when the sun is down, Light up this beacon. ONE OF THE BAND. You shall be obeyed. \They go out together. Scene, the Wood on the edge of the Moor. marmaduke {alone). Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, Yet calm. — I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. Enter Oswald. OSWALD. Ha ! my dear Captain. 342 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. MAR3IADUKE. A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed. OSWALD. Alone, I see ; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now I feel that you will justify. MARMADUKE. I had fears, From which I have freed myself — but 'tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part. OSWALD. Nay, then — I am mistaken. There's a weakness About you still ; you talk of solitude — I am your friend. MARMADUKE. What need of this assurance At any time ? and why given now ? OSWALD. Because You are now in truth my Master ; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach ; — and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. act m.] THE BORDERERS. 343 MARMADUKE. Wherefore press this on me ? OSWALD. Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance, How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny That lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world's masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age : You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise ; the immediate law, From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent Intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path ; Your faculties should grow with the demand ; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. MARMADUKE. I would be left alone. Oswald (exultingly). I know your motives ! 34i THE BORDERERS. [act I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, With a hard-hearted ignorance ; your struggles I witness'd, and now hail your victory. MARMADUKE. Spare me awhile that greeting. OSWALD. It may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How 'twill burn down the taller ; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — The Eagle lives in Solitude ! MARMADUKE. Even so, The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone. OSWALD. Now would you ? and for ever ? — My young Friend, act in.] THE BORDERERS. 345 As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we must have, willing or no ; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, Are still forthcoming ; some which, though they bear 111 names, can render no ill services, In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world, And opposites thus melt into each other. MARMADUKE. Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved With such a weight upon his wings as now; But they will soon be lightened. OSWALD. Ay, look up — Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise ; Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can sufier greatly. MARMADUKE. Yery true. 346 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. OSWALD. Action is transitory — a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 'Tis done, and in the after vacancy "We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. MARMADUKE. Truth— and I feel it. OSWALD. What ! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart ; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. — I see I have disturbed you. MARMADUKE. By no means. OSWALD. Compassion ! — pity ! — pride can do without them ; And what if you should never know them more ! — He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, act in.] THE BORDERERS. 347 Finds ease because another feels it too. If e'er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end — to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. — Nay, you are pale. MARMADUKE. It may be so. OSWALD. Remorse — It cannot live with thought ; think on, think on, And it will die. What ! in this universe, Where the least things controul the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world , What ! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. MARMADUKE. Now, whither are you wandering ? That a man So used to suit his language to the time, Should thus so widely differ from himself — It is most strange. OSWALD. Murder ! — what's in the word ! — I have no cases by me ready made 348 THE BORDERERS. [act hi. To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp ! — A shallow project ; — you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation Banished from human intercourse, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him : our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man ; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation ? — This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. MARMADUKE. My Office is fulfilled — the Man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things. OSWALD. Dead! MARMADUKE. I have borne my burthen to its destined end. OSWALD. This instant we'll return to our Companions — Oh how I long to see their faces again ! act in.] THE BORDERERS. 349 Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims who continue their journey. idonea {after some time). "What, Marmaduke ! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! {To Marmaduke). On will we to my Father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought ; Well go together, and, such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours. OSWALD. I interrupt you ? IDONEA. Think not so. MARMADUKE. Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment ! IDONEA. Forgive me. — Oswald knows it all — he knows, Each word of that unhappy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart. OSWALD. Twas even so. 350 THE BORDERERS. LACT III. MARMADUKE. I have much to say, but for whose ear ? — not thine. IDONEA. Ill can I bear that look — Plead for me, Oswald ! You are my Father's Friend. {To Marmaduke). Alas, you know not, And never can you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter ? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age \_Hides her face. MARMADUKE. Patience — Heaven grant me patience ! — She weeps, she weeps — my brain shall burn for hours Ere / can shed a tear. IDONEA. I was a woman ; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my Father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me ; — if erring, Oh let me be forgiven ! act in.] THE BORDERERS. 35] MARMADUKE. I do forgive thee. IDONEA. But take me to your arms — this breast, alas ! It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it. marmaduke ( exultingly) . She is innocent. [_He embraces her. Oswald (aside). Were I a Moralist, I should make wondrous revolution here ; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth — \_Addressing them. I see I interrupt you ; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke ; Follow me to the Hostel. \_Exit Oswald. IDONEA. Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My Father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors ; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength, Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart ; His good works will be balm and life to him. 352 THE BORDERERS. [\r. MAR3IADUKE. This is most strange ! — I know not what it was, But there was something which most plainly said, That thou wert innocent. IDONEA. How innocent ! — Oh heavens ! you've been deceived. MARMADUKE. Thou art a Woman, To bring perdition on the universe. IDONEA. Already I've been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately. I see you love me still, The labours of my hand are still your joy ; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended Herbert's scrip. MARMADUKE. Mercy of Heaven ! [Sinks. IDONEA. What ails you ! [Distractedly. act in.] THE BORDERERS. 353 MARMADUKE. The scrip that held his food, and I forgot To give it back again ? ID ONE A. What mean your words ? MARMADUKE. I know not what I said — all may be well. IDONEA. That smile hath life in it ! MARMADUKE. This road is perilous ; I will attend you to a Hut that stands Near the wood's edge — rest there to-night, I pray you : For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, But will return to you by break of day. END OF THIRD ACT. 354 THE BORDERERS. [act ACT IV. Scene, A desolate prospect — a ridge of rocks — a Chapel on the summit of one — Moon behind the rocks — night stormy — irregular sound of a bell — Herbert enters exhausted. • HERBERT. That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. Oh that I had but strength to reach the place ! My Child — my child — dark — dark — I faint — this wind — These stifling blasts — God help me ! Enter Eldred. ELDRED. Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man's head, act IV. 1 THE BORDERERS. 355 Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard. Ha ! what sound is that ? Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises — and that weary bell ! Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night Is ringing it — 'twould stop a Saint in prayer, And that — what is it ? never was sound so like A human groan. Ha ! what is here ? Poor Man — Murdered ! alas ! speak — speak, I am your friend : No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart — (Kneels to him). I pray you speak ! What has befallen you ? Herbert (feebly). A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger I must die. ELDRED. Nay, think not so : come, let me raise you up : [Raises him. This is a dismal place — well — that is well — I was too fearful — take me for your guide And your support— my hut is not far off. [Draws him gently off the stage. 355 THE BORDERERS. [act i Scene, a room in the Hostel — Marmadtjke and Oswald. marmadtjke. But for Idonea ! — I have cause to think That she is innocent. OSWALD. Leave that thought awhile, As one of those beliefs which in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. This day's event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story ; you must hear it, And without further preface. — In my youth, Except for that abatement which is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue — as you are now. You've heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our Captain Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell ; We lay becalmed week after week, until act iv. J THE BORDERERS. 357 The water of the vessel was exhausted ; I felt a double fever in my veins, Yet rage suppressed itself; — to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride ; — for many days, On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted By man and nature ; — if a breeze had blown, It might have found its way into my heart, And I had been — no matter — do you mark me ? MARMADDKE. Quick — to the point — if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory: OSWALD. Patience, hear me further One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare ; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man, Nor any living thing whose lot of life Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the Captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one : There I reproached him with his treachery. 358 THE BORDERERS. [act iv. Imperious at all times, his temper rose ; He struck me ; and that instant had I killed him, And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades Rushed in between us : then did I insist (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive ! — we did so. MARMADUKE. And he was famished ? OSWALD. Naked was the spot ; Methinks I see it now — how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield ; And in that miserable place we left him, Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive, Or mourn him dead. MARMADUKE. A man by men cast off, Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor dying, But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy ; and — even so — He was forsaken ? OSWALD. There is a power in sounds : act iv.] THE BORDERERS. 359 The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water MARMADUKE. You returned Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? OSWALD. Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us. MARMADUKE. "We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain ! OSWALD. Twas an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, "Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished ; but the calm, The same dead calm, continued many days. MARMADUKE. But his own crime had brought on him this doom, His wickedness prepared it ; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. OSWALD. The man was famished, and was innocent ! J 360 THE BORDERERS. [ ACT 1V . * MARMADUKE. Impossible ! OSWALD. The man had never wronged me. MARMADUKE. Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked — these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are baffled. OSWALD. I had been deceived. MARMADUKE. And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard of? OSWALD. I had been betrayed. MARMADUKE. And he found no deliverance ! OSWALD. The Crew Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage : when we landed, The tale was spread abroad ; my power at once act iv.] THE BORDERERS. 36 1 Shrunk from me ; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes — All vanished. I gave way — do you attend ! MARMABUKE. The Crew deceived you ? OSWALD. Nay, command yourself. MARMADUKE. It is a dismal night — how the wind howls ! OSWALD. I hid my head within a Convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me — 1 was o'erthrown, But not destroyed. MARMADUKE. The proofs — you ought to have seen The guilt — have touched it — felt it at your heart — As I have done. OSWALD. A fresh tide of Crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat : three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood ; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way ; And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon 362 THE BORDERERS. [act iv. And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me — I was comforted ; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good — I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. \_Marking Marmaduke's countenance. Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy ; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested — without meat or drink Have I lived many days — my sleep was bound To purposes of reason — not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give. MARMADUKE. wretched Human-kind ! — Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors ? act iv.] THE BORDERERS, 363 Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria : oft I left the Camp, When all that multitude of hearts was still, And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams ; Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea : In these my lonely wanderings I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being ; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. — So much for my remorse ! BIARMADUKE. Unhappy Man ! When from these forms I turned to contemplate The World's opinions and her usages, I seemed a Being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity, Whose natural element was freedom 364 THE BORDERERS. [act MARMADUKE. Stop— I may not, cannot, follow thee. OSWALD. You must. I had been nourished by the sickly food Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy ; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show, We must become obnoxious to its hate, Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. MARMADUKE. I pity, can forgive, you ; but those wretches — That monstrous perfidy ! OSWALD. Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found ACT 1V .] THE BORDERERS. 365 Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me — 'twas in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, And in that dream had left my native land, One of Love's simple bondsmen — the soft chain Was off for ever ; and the men, from whom -This liberation came, you would destroy : Join me in thanks for their blind services. MARMADUKE. »Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot. — You have betrayed me — I have done — I am content — I know that he is guiltless — That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man ! And I had heart for this, because thou loved'st Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — Together [ Turning to Oswald. We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both. OSWALD. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant ; Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 366 THE BORDERERS. [act v In slavery ; all is slavery ; we receive Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come ; We need an inward sting to goad us on. MARMADUKE. Have you betrayed me ? Speak to that. OSWALD. The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off. — Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self ; I would have made us equal once again, But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business ; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live : Now you are suffering — for the future day, 'Tis his who will command it. — Think of my story — Herbert is innocent. marmaduke (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) . You do but echo My own wild words ? act iv.] THE BORDERERS. 367 OSWALD. Young Man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest ; Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert is innocent. MARMADUKE. What fiend could prompt This action ? Innocent ! — oh, breaking heart ! — Alive or dead, I'll find him. [_Exit. OSWALD. Alive — perdition ! {Exit. Scene, the inside of a poor Cottage. Eleanor and Idonea seated. IDONEA. The storm beats hard — Mercy for poor or rich, Whose heads are shelterless in such a night ! A VOICE WITHOUT. Holla ! to bed, good Folks, within ! ELEANOR. O save us ! 368 THE BORDERERS. [act iv. 1DONEA. What can this mean ? ELEANOR. Alas, for my poor husband !— We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow ; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights : Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassaillers [The voices die away in the distance. Returning from their Feast — my heart beats so — A noise at midnight does so frighten me. IDONEA. Hush ! [Listening. ELEANOR. They are gone. On such a night, my husband, Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence So dealt with him. IDONEA. I have a noble Friend First among youths of knightly breeding, One Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again ! [Listening. act iv.] THE BORDERERS. 369 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart ; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he'll never be The man he was. IDONEA. I will retire ; — good night ! [_She goes within. Enter Eldred, {hides a bundle.) ELDRED. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ? — there are stains in that frock which must be washed out. ELEANOR. What has befallen you ? ELDRED. I am belated, and you must know the cause — {speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy Man. ELEANOR. Oh ! we are undone for ever. ELDRED. Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it. 370 THE BORDERERS. [ AC T it. ELEANOR. Where, where is he ? ELDRED. I have done him no harm, but it will be forgiven me ; it would not have been so once. ELEANOR. You have not buried, anything ? You are no richer than when you left me ? ELDRED. Be at peace ; I am innocent, ELEANOR. Then God be thanked — \_A short pause ; she falls upon his neck. ELDRED. To-night I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the ground — a sad spectacle : I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him. eleanor (as if ready to run). Where is he ? You were not able to bring him all the way with you ; let us return, I can help you. []Eldred shakes his head. ELDRED. He did not seem to wish for life : as I was strug- gling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains ACT lv *l THE BORDERERS. 371 of blood upon my clothes — he waved his hand, as if it were all useless ; and I let him sink again to the ground. ELEANOR. Oh that I had been by your side ! ELDRED. I tell you his hands and his body were cold — how could I disturb his last moments ? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep. ELEANOR. But, for the stains of blood — ELDRED. He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut ; but I think his malady was cold and hunger. ELEANOR. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble. ELDRED. Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour ? I come home, and this is my comfort ! ELEANOR. But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease? BB 2 372 THE BORDERERS. [act iv. I thought he grasped my hand while he was mutter- ing something about his Child — his Daughter — (starting as if he heard a noise). What is that ? ELEANOR. Eldred, you are a father. ELDRED. God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake. ELEANOR. But you prayed by him ? You waited the hour of his release ? ELDRED. The night was wasting fast ; I have no friend ; I am spited by the world — his wound terrified me — if I had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms! 1 am sure I heard something breathing — and this chair ! ELEANOR. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes — no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. act iv.] THE BORDERERS. 373 ELDRED. Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon ? ELEANOR. And you left him alive ? ELDRED. Alive ! — the damps of death were upon him — he could not have survived an hour. ELEANOR. In the cold, cold night. eldred (in a -savage tone). Ay, and his head was bare ; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You will never rest till I am brought to a felon's end. ELEANOR. Is there nothing to be done ? cannot we go to the Convent ? ELDRED. Ay, and say at once that I murdered him ! ELEANOR. Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the "Waste ; let us take heart ; this Man may be rich ; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us. ELDRED. 'Tis all in vain. 374 THE BORDERERS. [act it. ELEANOR. But let us make the attempt. This old Man may- have a wife, and he may have children — let us return to the spot ; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him. ELDRED. He will never open them more ; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind. idonea {rushing out). It is, it is, my Father — ELDRED. We are betrayed (looking at Idonea). ELEANOR. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! (turning to Idonea.) idonea (sinking down). Oh ! lift me up and carry me to the place. You are safe ; the whole world shall not harm you. ELEANOR. This Lady is his Daughter. eldred (moved). I'll lead you to the spot. idonea (springing up). Alive ! — you heard him breathe ? quick, quick [Exeunt. END OF FOURTH ACT. act v.] THE BORDERERS. 375 ACT V. Scene, A wood on the edge of the Waste. Enter Oswald and a Forester. FORESTER. He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, And down into the bottom cast his eye, That fastened there, as it would check the current. OSWALD. He listened too ; did you not say he listened ? FORESTER. As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights. OSWALD. But did he utter nothing? FORESTER. See him there ! Marmaduke appearing. 376 THE BORDERERS. [act t. MARMADUKE. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters ; That is no substance which ye settle on ! FORESTER. His senses play him false ; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save himself from falling ! — Some terrible phantom I believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. QMarmaduke disappears. OSWALD. The game is up ! — forester. If it be needful, Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him. OSWALD. No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business — 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, Who has a trick of straying from his keepers ; We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. [_Exit Forester. If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks act v.] THE BORDERERS. 377 Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; The goal is reached. My Master shall become A shadow of myself — made by myself. Scene, the edge of the Moor. Marmaduke and Eldred enter from opposite sides, marmaduke, raising his eyes and perceiving eldred. In any corner of this savage Waste, Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man ? ELDRED. I heard MARMADUKE. You heard him, where ? when heard him ? ELDRED. As you know, The first hours of last night were rough with storm : I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; Returning late, I heard a moaning sound ; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged Man, and such as you describe. 378 THE BORDERERS. [act MARMADUKE. You heard ! — he called you to him ? Of all men The best and kindest ! — but where is he ? guide me, That I may see him. ELDRED. On a ridge of rocks A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now : The bell is left, which no one dares remove ; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice, To climb up to the spot whence the sound came ; But he had failed through weakness. From his han His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise. MARMADUKE. Well, well, he lives, And all is safe : what said he ? ELDRED. But few words : He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, act v.] THE BORDERERS. 379 Who, so he feared, would never see him more ; And of a Stranger to him, One by whom He had been sore misused ; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled — Perhaps you are his son ? .MARMADUKE. The All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living Child. — But whither did you carry him ? ELDRED. He was torn, His head was bruised, and there was blood about him — MARMADUKE. That was no work of mine. ELDRED. Nor was it mine. MARMADUKE. But had he strength to walk I I could have borne him A thousand miles. ELDRED. I am in poverty, And know how busy are the tongues of men ; My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one 380 THE BORDERERS. [act Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light ; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him. MABMADUKE. I believe that there are phantoms, That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress — and thou art one of them ! But things substantial have so pressed on me ELDRED. My wife and children came into my mind. MARMADUKE. Oh Monster ! Monster! there are three of us, And we shall howl together. \_After a pause and in a feeble voice. I am deserted At my worst need , my crimes have in a net Pointing to Eldred] Entangled this poor man. — Where was it ? where ? \_Dragging him along. ELDRED. Tis needless ; spare your violence. His Daughter— MARMADUKE. Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge : This old Man had a Daughter. act v.] THE BORDERERS. 381 To the spot I hurried back with her. — O save me, Sir, From such a journey ! there was a black tree, A single tree ; she thought it was her Father. — Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now — Nay ; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it — As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot ; — the Daughter clapped her hands, And then I heard a shriek so terrible [Marmaduke shrinks back. The startled bird quivered upon the wing. MARMADUKE. Dead, dead ! — eldred (after a pause). A dismal matter, Sir, for me, And seems the like for you ; if 'tis your wish, I'll lead you to his Daughter ; but 'twere best That she should be prepared ; I'll go before. MARMADUKE. There will be need of preparation, QEldred goes off. 382 THE BORDERERS. [ ACT v . eleanor {enters). Master ! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you ? marmaduke {taking her arm). Woman, I've lent my body to the service Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was. ELEANOR. Oh, why have I to do with things like these ? \Exeunt. Scene changes to the door of Eldred's cottage — Idonea I — enter Eldred. ELDRED. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness ; so indeed he told me, And you remember such was my report : From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst. IDONEA. My Father is dead ; Why dost thou come to me with words like these ? act V.J THE BORDERERS. 383 ELDRED. A wicked Man should answer for his crimes. IDONEA. Thou seest me what I am. ELDRED. It was most heinous, And doth call out for vengeance. IDONEA. Do not add, , I prithee, to the harm thou'st done already. ELDRED. Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him. IDONEA. I have nothing To do with others ; help me to my Father — [She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor — throws herself upon his neck, and after some time, In joy I met thee, but a few hours past ; 384 THE BORDERERS. [act t| And thus we meet again ; one human stay- Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. MARMADURE. In such a wilderness — to see no thing, No, not the pitying moon ! 1D0NEA. And perish so. MARMADUKE. Without a dog to moan for him. IDONEA. Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. MARMADUKE. Tranquil — why not ? IDONEA. Oh, peace ! MARMADUKE. He is at peace ; His body is at rest : there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man : It took effect — and yet I baffled it, In some depree. act v.] THE BORDERERS. 385 IDONEA. Between us stood, I thought, A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it ? — Beloved Marmaduke ! MARMADUKE. Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The w ? ounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude : all things but man, All die in solitude. [Moving towards the cottage door. Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it ! — Alas, the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. ELDRED. Lady ! You will do well ; {she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this Stranger : if, upon his entering, The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. 386 THE BORDERERS. [act v. ELEANOR. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! marmaduke (both returning). The dead have but one face, (to himself) And such a Man — so meek and unoffending — Helpless and harmless as a babe : a Man, By obvious signal to the world's protection, Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — IDONEA. Oh, had you seen him living ! — MARMADUKE. I (so filled "With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains : Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea ! I have the proofs ! — / IDONEA. miserable Father ! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind ; Nor to this moment, have I ever wished Evil to any living thing ; but hear me, act v.] THE BORDERERS. 387 Hear me, ye Heavens ! — {kneeling) — may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder : let him live And move in terror ot the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees, If e'er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head ; And let him, when he would lie down at night, Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow! MABMADUKE. My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee. idonea {leaning on mabmaduke). Left to the mercy of that savage Man ! How could he call upon his Child! — Friend ! {Turns to Marmaduke.) My faithful true and only Comforter. MARMADUKE. Ay, come to me and weep. {He kisses her.) {To Eldred) Yes, Varlet, look, The devils at such sights do clap their hands [[Eldred retires alarmed. c c2 388 THE BORDERERS. [act v. IDONEA. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale ; Hast thou pursued the monster? MARMADUKE. I have found him. — Oh ! would that thou hadst perished in the flames ! IDONEA. Here art thou, then can I be desolate ?— MARMADUKE. There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty ; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. IDONEA. Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven ; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine For closer care ; — here, is no malady. \_Taking his arm. MARMADUKE. There, is a malady — (Striking his heart and forehead) And here, and here, A mortal malady. — I am accurst : act v.] THE BORDERERS. 389 All nature curses me, and in my heart Thy curse is fixed ; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. I am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, Thy Father perished. 1D0NEA. Perished — by what mischance ? MARMADUKE. Beloved ! — if I dared, so would I call thee — Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. \IIe gives her a letter. idonea {reads). 41 Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judg- ment has befallen the man who calls himself your father ; he is now with me, as his signature will shew : abstain from conjecture till you see me. " Herbert. " Marmaduke." The writing Oswald's ; the signature my Father's : 390 THE BORDERERS. [act v. (Looks steadily at the paper) And here is yours, — or do my eyes deceive me ? You have then seen my Father ? MARMADUKE. He has leaned Upon this arm. IDONEA. You led him towards the Convent ? MARMADUKE. That Convent was Stone- Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection. IDONEA. Miserable Woman, Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence, With the disastrous issue of last night, Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee ! MARMADUKE. Oswald IDONEA. Name him not. act v.] THE BORDERERS. 391 Enter female Beggar. BEGGAR. And he is dead ! — that Moor — how shall I cross it ? By night, by day, never shall I be able To travel half a mile alone. — Good Lady! Forgive me ! — Saints forgive me. Had I thought It would have come to this ! — IDONEA. "What brings you hither ? speak ! beggar (pointing to marmaduke). This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens ! I told him Such tales of your dead Father !— God is my j udge, I thought there was no harm : but that bad Man, He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy ! I said I know not what — oh pity me — I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter — Pity me, I am haunted ; — thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind ; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice. IDONEA (tO MARMADUKE). Was it my Father ? — no, no, no, for he Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. 392 THE BORDERERS. [ ACT v . — But hear me. For one question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him ? MARMADUKE. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process : Proof after proof was pressed upon me ; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee ; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks, His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve : Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea ! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal Of the bleak Waste — left him — and so he died ! — [Idonea sinks senseless ; Beggar, Eleanor, fyc, crowd rounds and hear her off. Why may we speak these things, and do no more ; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, And words that tell these things be heard in vain ? She is not dead. Why ! — if I loved this Woman, I would take care she never woke again ; But she will wake, and she will weep for me, act v.] THE BORDERERS. 393 And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor fool, Will waste her curses on another name. \_He walks about distractedly. Enter Oswald. Oswald (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. \_To Marmaduks. The starts and sallies of our last encounter Were natural enough ; but that, I trust, Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind — Delivered heart and head ! Let us to Palestine ; This is a paltry field for enterprise. MARMADUKE. Ay, what shall we encounter next ? This issue — 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crowned with the impotence of death ! — Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient, {ironically). Start not ! — Here is another face hard by; Come, let us take a peep at both together, And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, 394 THE BORDERERS. [act v. Resound the praise of your morality — Of this too much. [Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage — stops short at the door. Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs : but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been ; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought, A deed that I would shrink from ; — but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine : Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us — The wider space the better — we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy, An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices — several of the band enter - rush upon Oswald and seize him. act v.] THE BORDERERS. 395 ONE OF THEM. I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell — OSWALD. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant Hag ! — this comes Of having left a thing like her alive ! \_Aside. SEVERAL VOICES. Despatch him ! OSWALD. If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish ! \_Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke. WALLACE. Tis done ! (stabs him.) ANOTHER OF THE BAND. The ruthless Traitor ! MARMADUKE. A rash deed ! — With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud. wilfred (approaching marmaduke). O my poor Master ! 396 THE BORDERERS. [act v. MARMADUKE. Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here ? [Turning to Wallace. Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms ! Raise on that dreary Waste a monument That may record my story: nor let words — Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself — be there withheld from Her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By One who would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her In all things worthier of that noble birth, Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve Of restoration : with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray — sustain her SEVERAL OP THE BAND Captain ! MARMADUKE. No more of that ; in silence hear my doom : A hermitage has furnished fit relief act v.] THE BORDERERS. 397 To some offenders ; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. They had their choice : a wanderer must I go, The Spectre of thnt innocent Man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak ; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest : but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on — A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life — till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die. 1795-6. END OF FIFTH ACT. NOTES. Page 9. Last line. From a short MS. poem read to me when an undei -graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young. Page 58. The following is extracted from the journal of my fellow-tra- veller, to which, as persons acquainted with my poems will know, I have been obliged on other occasions : — "Dumfries, August 1803. " On our way to the church-yard where Burns is buried, we were accompanied by a bookseller, who showed us the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of bis life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situ- ation ; the front whitewashed ; dirty about the doors, as most Scotch houses are ; flowering plants in the window. Went to visit his grave ; he lies in a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot ; but a hundred guineas have been collected to be expended upon some sort of monument. ' There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, ' lies Mr. — (I have forgotten the name) — a remarkably clever man ; he was an attorney, and scarcely ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest as you see. 1 We looked 400 NOTES. at Burns's grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own poefs epitaph : — ' Is there a man, &c. " The churchyard is full of grave-stones and expensive monu- ments, in all sorts of fantastic shapes — ohelisk-wise, pillar-wise, &c. When our guide had left us we turned again to Burns's grave, and afterwards went to his house, wishing to inquire after Mrs. Burns, who was gone to spend some time by the sea-shore with her children. We spoke to the maid-servant at the door, who invited us forwaid, and we sate down in the parlour. The walls were coloured with a blue wash ; on one side of the fire was a mahogany desk ; opposite the window a clock, which Burns men- tions in one of his letters having received as a present. The house was cleanly and neat in the inside, the stairs of stone scoured white, the kitchen on the right side of the passage, the parlour on the left. In the room above the parlour the poet died, and his son very lately, in the same room. The servant told us she had lived four years with Mrs. Burns, who was now in great sorrow for the death of Wallace. She said that Mrs. B.'s youngest son was now at Christ's Hospital. We were glad to leave Dumfries, where we could think of little but poor Burns, and his moving about on that unpoetic ground. In our road to Brownhill, the next stage, we passed Ellisland, at a little distance on our right — his farm-house. Our pleasure in looking round would have been still greater, if the road had led us nearer the spot. ****** " I cannot take leave of this country which we passed through to-day, without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland mountains within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connexion which this neighbourhood has with ours, when he makes Skiddawsay, — ' Scruffel, from the sky That Annandale doth crown, with a most amorous eye Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim, Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threaten him.' NOTES. 401 " These lines came to my brother's memory, as well as the Cumberland saying, — c If Slciddaw hath a cap, Scruffell wots well of that.' " We talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, indulg- ing ourselves in the fancy that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes." Page 62. Moss Campion (Silene Acaulis.) This most beautiful plant is scarce in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it in its native bed was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since sought for it in vain. Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against carrying off inconsiderately rare and beautiful plants. This has often been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they grew. Page 107. ' His sepulchral verse.'' If any English reader should be desirous of knowing how far I am justified in thus describing the epitaphs of Chiabrera, he will find translated specimens of them in the 5th volume of my poems. 402 NOTES. Page 112. It would be ungenerous not to advert to the religious movement that, since the composition of these verses in 1837, has made itself felt, more or less strongly, throughout the English Church ; — a movement that takes, for its first principle, a devout deference to the voice of Christian antiquity. It is not my office to pass judg- ment on questions of theological detail ; hut my own repugnance to the spirit and system of Romanism has been so repeatedly and, I trust, feelingly expressed, that I shall not be suspected of a leaning that way, if I do not join in the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in the heat of controversy, against the learned and pious men to whose labours I allude. I speak apart from controversy ; but, with strong faith in the moral temper which would elevate the present by doing reverence to the past, I would draw cheerful auguries for the English Church from this movement, as likely to restore among us a tone of piety more earnest and real, than that produced by the mere formalities of the understanding, refusing, in a degree, which I cannot but lament, that its own temper and judgment shall be controlled by those of antiquity. Page 132. " What aim had they the pair of Monks ? " In justice to the Benedictines of Camaldoli, by whom strangers are so hospitably entertained, I feel obliged to notice, that I saw among them no other figures at all resembling, in size and com- plexion, the two Monks described in this Sonnet. What was their office, or the motive which brought them to this place of mortifi- cation, which they could not have approached without being car- ried in this or some other way, a feeling of delicacy prevented me from inquiring. An account has before been given of the hermi- tage they were about to enter. It was visited by us towards the end of the month of May ; yet snow was lying thick under the pine- trees, within a few yards of the gate. NOTES. 403 Page 133. " At Vallombrosa." The name of Milton is pleasingly connected with Vallom- hrosa in many ways. The pride with which the Monk, without any previous question from me, pointed out his residence, I shall not readily forget. It may he proper here to defend the Poet from a charge which has heen Drought against him, in respect to the pas- sage in Paradise Lost, where this place is mentioned. It is said, that he has erred in speaking of the trees there heing deciduous, whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault-finders are themselves mistaken ; the natural woods of the region of Vallomhrosa are deciduous, and spread to a great extent ; those near the convent are, indeed, mostly pines ; hut they are avenues of trees planted within a few steps of each other, and thus composing large tracts of wood ; plots of which are periodically cut down. The appear- ance of those narrow avenues, upon steep slopes open to the sky, on account of the height which the trees attain hy being forced to grow upwards, is often very impressive. My guide, a boy of about fourteen years old, pointed this out to me in several places. Page 197. " The Wishing-gate." " In the Vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway lead- ing to Ambleside, is a gate which, time out of mind, has been called the ' Wishing-gate.' " — Notice prefixed to a Poem, page 200, 2nd Vol. of my Poems. Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening where it hung walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time after I found, with much delight, my old favourite unmolested. 404 NOTES. Page 220. " Pilgrim Fathers." This and the two following Sonnets are intended to take their place in the Ecclesiastical Series which the reader may find in the fourth volume of my Poems. American episcopacy, in union with the church in England, strictly belongs to the general subject ; and I here make my acknowledgments to my American friends, Bishop Doane, and Mr. Henry Reed of Philadelphia, for having sug- gested to me the propriety of adverting to it, and pointed out the virtues and intellectual qualities of Bishop White, which so emi- nently fitted him for the great work he undertook. Bishop White was consecrated at Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787, by Archbishop Moore ; and before his long life was closed, twenty-six bishops had been consecrated in America by himself. For his character and opinions, see his own numerous Works, and a " Sermon in commemoration of him, by George Washington Doane, Bishop of New Jersey.'" Page 225. " Men of the Western World." These lines were written several years ago, when reports pre- vailed of cruelties committed in many parts of America, by men making a law of their own passions. A far more formidable, as being a more deliberate mischief, has appeared among those States which have lately broken faith with the public creditor in a manner so infamous. I cannot, however, but look at both evils under a similar relation to inherent good, and hope that the time is not distant when our brethren of the West will wipe off this slain from their name and nation. « NOTES. 405 Page 243. "The Borderers.'''' This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795 — 6. It lay nearly from that time till ■within -the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without heing men- tioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS.,I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written,- and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the com- position of the characters ; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of " The Borderers " was composed. iondok : hradbory and evans, printers, whitepriars. JUST PUBLISHED. i. In six volumes, price 30s. cloth. THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. A NEW EDITION. II. In one volume, price 6s. cloth. THE SONNETS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. in. Price 6s. cloth. THE EXCURSION. A POEM. By William Wordsworth. IV. Price 3s. 6d. cloth, gilt edges. YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. By William Wordsworth. DRAMATIC LIBRARY. i. THE WORKS OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. WITH AN INTRODUCTION, By George Darley. In Two Volumes, 8vo, with Portraits and Vignettes, price 40*. cloth. ii. THE WORKS OF BEN JONSON. WITH A MEMOIR, By Barry Cornwall. In One Volume, 8vo, with Portrait and AHgnette, price 24s. cloth. m. 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