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THE

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

ANIS'JE) RADCLIFFE,

AUTHORESS OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO^ &c.

COMPRISING

GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE, A ROMANCE;

St* 9Hban*ii attest a jnetrital Caltp

WITH VARIOUS POETICAL PIECES.

to WHICH is PREFIXED

A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHORESS,
WITH EXTRACTS FROM HER PRIVATE JOURNALS*

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. IV.

LONDON:
PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

BY R. BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1833.

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CONTENTS

OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

Page.
ST. ALBAN'S ABBEY, contikued ;
Cakto X. Among the Dead . . .1

Notes to St. Alban's Abbey . . .45

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Salifbury Plains — Stonefaenge .... 109
Shakspeare^s Cliff . . . .162

The Fisbers— Steephill . . . .170

In the New Forest . . . . 178

On a First View of the Group called "The Seven Mofon-

tains" .181

A Second View of the Seven Mountains . . 183

On ascending a Hill crowned with a Convent, near Bonn . 185
The Snow-Fiend . . . .192

An Ancient Beech-tree in the Park at Knole — The Wood-
land Nymph . : . . .196
Sea-Views—Midnight. . ■ . . .200
To the Swallow . . . .204
Forest Lawns . . . . .206
On the Rondeau " Just like Love is yoiider Rose*' . 209
December*s Eve, Abroad . . .211
December's Eve, at Home . . . . .213

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VI COJTTEHTS.

Page.
A Sea-View . . . .216

OnHayley'8«Lifeof Gowper" . . . . 220

Written in the Isle of Wight . . .221

Sonnet to the Lark . . . .231

On Lines by Lady Elizabeth Lee, in a Bower at St. Leo-
nard's Hill . . . .232

To the River Dore . . . .236

The Sea-mew . .240

To the Winds . . . .249

Moon£ght: ASoene. . . . .251

Smiles ....... 363

The Reed of Poesy • . .266

^DWT : a Poem, in Three Parts.

Part I. The Hazel Tree—A Summer Song of Faiiie . 269
II. The Fairie Court— A. Summer's Night in Wind-
sor Park 273

III. The Magic Mirrors— A Summer's Night in Wind-

sor Forest .. . 310

Scene on the Northern Shore of i

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CANTO X.

AMONG THE DEAD.

I.
With even step and shaded eye
Florence th^ tombs now passes by.
While near the choir Fitzharding drew^
Pausing^ he points out to her view
Where the three noble warriors lie.
With high and solemn obsequy
Of torches fixed and priestly ward.
And incense-doud and herald-guard.

II.
By the first bier he took his stand.
And looked on great Northumberland,
Kinsman of Hotspur — ^him, who died
Fighting against the new-grown pride
Of Bolingbroke, whose wiles and might
Usurped the second Richard's right ;

VPL. IV, B

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% 8T. ALBAN S ABBEY*

Kinsman of him^ who blazed the deed
Of Richard's death in Pomfret tower.
Defying the usurper V power.
And now had Hotspur's kinsman died>
Fighting on that usurper's side ;
Yet for a meek and blameless king.
To whom his unsought honours bring;,
The curse of his progenitor.
Disputed right and civil war.

III.
Dashing aside a soldier's tear,
Fitzharding reached the centre bier ;
Portcullis yet was watchful here.
He looked on his commander's face.
And thought within how short a space
He had himself obeyed his voice.

Soon as the battle-hour began.
Flattered and honoured, by his choice.

With post of danger in the van.
Then every limb with life was warm f
Now heavy death pressed all his form.
Its sullen gloom hung on his brow.
And tinged the half-dosed lid below>

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AMONG THE DEAD.

Dwelt in the hollow of his dieek^
And seemed^ with breathless sign^ to speak
Of more than human tongue may dare— -
Of the last pang^ that lingered there.

IV.

His dinted casque, that stood beside.
Told whence had rushed the fisital tide ;
Its high plume, that had waved so gay
Beneath St. Alban's tower this day.
Mantling like snowy swan, and danced
To every step his charger pranced ;
As jocund at the trumpet^s air.
And proud the pomps of war to share, —
Now broken, stained, and stiff with gore
Pell, as in horrors, bristled o'er.
The golden lions in his shield

Glared on his pulseless breast ;
And every sign, that rank revealed

And royal race professed.

Seemed but to mock his rest.
His honours now— the pausing eye.
The people's tear, the warrior's sigh;
B 2

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4 ST. ALB AN 8 ABBKT^

For these! alone his virtues tell : —
Grandson of John o' Gaunt, farewell t

Fitzharding^ with swift step, passed on
To the third bier, which stood alone ;
And here — oh here I lie pausing eye —
The sudden tear — ^the bursting sigh.

At once De Clifford own.
Oh loyal heart ! oh brave old man !
And hast thou closed thy mortal span.
With youthful fire, exhaustless zeal
For thy good king and country's weal f
And, scorning age and shadowy days.
Hast, with the eagle's dauntless gaze.
Still soared in Glory's keenest blaze.
And won a circlet of her rays ! —
Awhile Fitzharding bent his hesii.
In mindful stillness, o'er the dead —
Then turned upon his dreadful way.
To seek if thus his father lay :
While the deep thunder's mystic groan
Muttered, it seemed, prophetic moan !

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AMONG THIS BEAD.
TI.

With eager eye he sought aronnd^
Through the blade shades of this drear gronnd,
And^ while the lightning quivering throws
It's pale glance o'er each warrior's br^ws^
Catches each shape and look of death
Extended on the graves beneath.
How sudden rose each livid face
From forth the shadows of the place^

And^ sudden sunk^ was seen no more*-
The vision with the blue glimpse o'er !
And often to his anxious view
Thus rose some form in death he knew:
One who had close beside him fought^
While Richard's fiercest self he sought ;
Some who had near his father been^
When in the throng he last was seen^
And when from battle he in vain
Had sought to join his band again.

VII.

On a low 8tone> lit up by ray
Of single torch^ a body lay

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6 ST. ALBAN^S ABBXT.

In ringed mail ; with umbered gleam
Full on the face red flashes stream.
Fitzharding paused awhile^ and groaned.
Again his eye a comrade owned;
For whom high danger he had braved ;
Whose life, that day, he once had saved.
His iron van-brace now could show
The very dint of sabre blow.
Aimed at the life he then preserved^
Alas ! for speedy fate reserved.

VIII.

Where spread each graven brass, beyond.

Above, below, was death ;
Above, scarce cold, a warrior's hand,

A monk's lay hid beneath.
That had for ages mouldered there.
Since he had left his cell of care.
Such brass-sealed grave showed sculpture rude
Of monk, in kneeling attitude.
There lay the brave Sir Robert Vere,
Whose words yet smote Fitzharding's ear,
" Warwick breaks up the Barrier !'*

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AMONG THB DEAD. 7

With winged speed he urged his way.
Then plunged in thickest of the fray.

IX.

And here, among the loyal slain.

Behold ! Sir Richard Fortescue ;
There lay Sir William Chamberlain;

There, Sir Ralph Ferrers, brave and true;
With many a veteran knight and squire.
Whose breast had flamed with patriot fire ;
And humbler men, whose courage high
Had taught them for their prince to die.
Who now shall wait at the King^s gate.

For, here lies faithful Chanselar ?*
Who urge the steed to utmost speed,

. For Henry Hawlint sleepeth here ?
Of all the wide lands he has traced

Six feet for him remain ;
Of all the minutes of his haste

Not one to tell his pain !

• Richard Chanselar, porter to Henry VI.

f Henry Hawlih, a messenger of " our lady, Dame Mar.

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8 ST. ALBANIA ABBEY.

To Other tongue he leaves to say
Tiding of Alban's bloody fray;
To bear unto Queen Margaret's ears
The crowded tale of woes and fears —
Pressed into hours the fate of years !
His course^ his toUful bustle done.
Now lies he here — his inn is won.

And who shall to the dais brings
With marshalled state before the King^

And train of housshold squibbs.

And blaze of yeul-glough firbs.
The boar*s head, at that merry tide.
When royal halls are opened wide ^
Not he so mute on yonder grave ;

The King's chief Sewer he; —
Never again his chaunted stave

Shall join the minstrelsy I
Never again his jocund eye
ShaU glance where banners wave on high.
And where plumed knight smd ladies bright
Aire ranged around, in purple dight —

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AMONG THE DEAD.

Knights^ who no more in gallant state
Shall answer to the minstrel's call ;

Ladies^ whom war and cruel fate
Have banished from the lighted hall.

XI.

But who is he^ within the shade

Of Wulphstan's ancient altar laid ?

No funeral torch^ with lurid glare^

Burns o'er the iron warrior there ;

Nor watch-monk sits in piteous care.

But twilight rays from distant tomb

Just shape his outline through the gloom. —

Whence is the tremour Florence feels ?
Why does Fitzharding grasp her arm^
Silent and shaking ^vith alarm ? —

He fears dread truth that bier conceals.
In Tain he bends upon the face»
Yet seems his father's form to trace.
He signed the monk, attendant stilly

To hasten where yon glimmers lead^

For the lone torch, his fate to read.
Yet> while the monk obeyed his will,
*B 5

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10 ST. AI/BAN's abbey^

He feared lest sadden Hghtning'-glance
Might show his fsEither's countenance
Sunk ghastly in the helm and drear.
He turned him from such awful chanoe»
And dimly saw, beside the bier,
A form in silence resting near.
In other cares so wrapped'was he.
He guessed not now of treachery.

XII.

" Oh ! will these moments never fleet ?

Yet for this slow monk must I wait ?"
He made some hasty steps to meet

His lingering messenger of fate ;
And seized the torch, with desperate hand.
And took again his fearful stand.
The flame glanced o'er the golden crest ;
And there the leopard stood confessed !
The face ! — he turned him from the light.
Veiling his eyes from the dread sight.
To meet that altered look afraid.
Sudden, strong hands the torch invade.
And hold it forth upon the corpse.

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AUONG THE DEAD.

He turned to see what stranger's force
Had seized it. There^ with bending head^
A form looked on the warrior dead ;
And, as he viewed the corpse below^
The torch flashed full upon his brow.
And showed his quivering lip> his eye^
Fixed as by some dire phantasie.
Then^ all his fetther's look was known.
Reflecting terrors like his own
While that dead form he gazed upon^
And feared to find his slaughtered son !
The living voice beside him spoke !
The long-fixed spell at once was broke !

xiu.
But who may tell the feelings high
Rising from fear to ecstasy^
While sire and son each other pressed^
And each in other's grasp was blessed.
Their joy was as the Morning's smile.

With light of heaven upon its brow.
The sable wreaths of Night, the while.

Frowning upon the world below.

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12 ST. alban's abbey.

Till their dark bost^ in wide array^
Touched with the rising beams of day^
Rich tints of rose and gold displaT»
And form, as on the sun they wait>
The pomp and triumph of his state.

XIV.

Short triumph here. In doud of woe
Faded joy's high reflected glow— «
At D'Arcy's Earl was aimed the blow.
Fitzharding^ quick as glance of lights
The poniard wrenched^ with skilful might.

And laid its ruffian ma^er low.
He^ instant, knew the carle he viewed
Was one, who late his steps pursued.

And watched St. Scytha's shrine.
Not with Pitzharding was his strife ;
His aim was at Earl D'Arcy's life ;

But, led by knightly sign.
He traced the Baron on his way ;

The gilded spur upon his heel

Did shrouded warrior reveal, .
And marked him forth for prey.

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AMONG THE DEAB. 18

Bnt^ Vhen Fitzharding left his shades
Hastening to render Florence aidj
The cowl fell back^ that veiled his hce,
And his pursuer stayed his paocj
Till^ guided by strange sounds of joy ^
He came the father to destroy.

XV.

Short time had Florence to revive

From terror and dismay^
Support from tenderness derive^

Or tender tear repay ; ^«

Short time for speech had sire and son^
Ere the good monk^ her guide> came on«
He wdrmly urged their instant jSig|ht ;

For comrades of the fallen were nighi— -

Monks^ too^ who shelter would deny
When they might view this dismal sight.
He would a hidden passage show^
To serve as screen from menaced woe ;
Till day should send Duke Richard hence^
His march for London to commence^
And all his mpmidons of war^
GKiarding their captive King afar.

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14 ST. ALBAN^S ABBST.

XYl.

Briefly the Kni^ts their thanks repaid ;

And looked on him^ who bore their crest.
All lifeless on the marble laid, —

Briefly for him their grief expressed :
** Richard Fitzharding — ^kinsman dear I
On thee will fall the future tear,
When thought may pause upon thy bier !"
Swift on the southern aisle they went
By many a dim-seen monument ;
And tiached a little shaded door
That led the great west entrance o'er ;
Where gallery, that ran between
The crowning battlement, unseen.
Received them in its silent space.
Well knew the Earl this lonely place.
For, even here, at curfew hour.
He refuge sought from Richard's power ;
And here remained, till he in vain
Searched for his son among the slain.

. XVII.

Oh ! if by care and grief are told
The unseen steps of Time ;

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AUONO THS DEAD. 15

How many hours — nay days — ^had rolled^
Sinoe^ lingering in this secret hold>

He heard that curfew chime !
Since^ on the northern gallery

His restless steps had strayed^
Where he had viewed^ unconsciously.

His son in monkish shade.
Who there the vision of his face
Amid the shadows seemed to trace.
Now joy told forth the time so fast.
The present moment was the past.
Ere yet he marked it glide along.
Stealing the tale upon his tongue*
Full many an hour had D'Arcy passed.

Since o'er the Norman Shadb
He marked the sun its low beam cast.

And glow with angry red ;
Since he had heard St. Alban*s knell
Sound what had seemed his son's farewell ;
Since from safe nook he turned away.
To seek, where death and danger lay.

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16 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

XYIII.

Ere now withdrew the mcmk^ their guide.
He bade the warriors here abide
Till morning hour, when they might hear
Drums and the neigh of steeds draw near.
Then, soon as Richard's hosts were gone,
He would return, and lead their way
To chamber, where the Abbot lay.
While grateful words the Knights repay,
Florence could only with a tear
Thank the good priest for service dear.
Time had not yet been lent to tell
The acts, on which she fain would dwell :
The kindness, that restored her life
From grief and horroi's mingled strife.
Meekly he bowed his aged head.
And then on soundless foot he sped.
They heard him bar the gallery*door.
And soon, upon the paved floor.
Watched his dark shadow pass away.
Where the high-tombed warriors lay.

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AUQVa XHS DEAD. 17

XIX.

And now Fitzharding pressed to hear
From Florence all her tale of fear.
She told her sorrows^ from the hour
When first she watched St. Albau's tower ;
Of her dark path of dread and grief

Through forest shade; of pilgrim train j
And words exchanged ; of wounded chief.

She feared had been Fitzharding shun.
Told of her courser's sudden flight
Through ruffian-ttroops fresh from the flght.
His strength, his courage and his fipeed.
His dexterous course at utmost need;
Till, at St. Alban's warded gate.
Though courage, skill, nor strength abate.
They seized him as a prize of war,
And Florence for their prisoner.
But, ere they led her to dose ward.
Her proffered gold to one on guard
Aided her through the barrier,
(Enfolded in her pilgrim-shroud)
Among an anxious, hurrying crowd.

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18 ST. alban's abbky.

Seeking liieir friends within the town.
Words might not tell what she had known^
While> by the dying and the dead^
She passed to gain this Abbey's shade ;
Nor^ when she sunk^ beside the bier
Of warrior^ laid in chamber near.

'Twere vain to tell Fitzharding's pain^

While listening to the fearful strain ;

How oft he shuddered^ oft reproved^

And blamed her most^ when most he loved..

For courage rash^ for passage won^

And high exploits for his sake done.

Scarce might the Earl his wonder speak.

That one so gentle and so weak

The meed of heroes thus might claim :

But greater fear the less overcame.

Then Sire and Son to other tell

What each in yester fight befell;

Of nobles slain, and Mends that fedled

At utmost need, though horsed and mailed.

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AMONG THE DEAD. 19

Bat chief their indignation rose
'Grainst Wentworth — ^traitor to his king^
Whose standard basely did he fling

To ground^ and fled before his foes !

XXI.

Earl D'Arcy then the story told

Of many a fugitive he met^
Wounded and lom^ both young and old>

Seeking a home ere sun was set.
In a close wood near Alban's town>
Laid in a wretched cart^ alone^
Sore wounded Dorset^ he^ with pain,
Saw journeying to his domain —
Him must he never see again !
Stafford's brave Earl on litter borne.
Whose hand by fatal shaft was torn.
Already on his look was laid
Approaching Death's first warning shade.
His gallant father, too, was near.
Who to his tomb the scar would bear
Received this day for Lancaster ;
Through vizor closed the arrow sped.
That sent him from his steed as dead.

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20 ST. ALBAlf^S ABBEY.

And nearly had the life-blood quaffed :
Yet fatal was net deemed the shaft.
Ah ! deeply most the shaft of sorrow
Strike to his hearty when^ on the morrow^.
He o'er his only son shall standi
And feel the death-dew on his hand I

XXII.

As this sad image rose to yiew^

Earl D'Arcy^ as in sympathy.
Gazed on his son^ whose living hue

Awoke his grateful fervency.
A silent tear stood in hi3 eye.
As passed his offered thanks on high.
Well read the son his father's care ;
Rejoiced he in those thanks to share.
But hark ! a low and measured chime '
Speaks from the tower the Watch, of Prime,
Sounding due summons to the knights
For some high pomp of funeral rites.
O'er that west gallery might they bend
And trace nave, choir, from end to end.
The lofty vista, crowned with shade.
On pillars vast was reared.

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AMONG THB DSAD. 21

Where pointed arch^ in hr arcade^
Mixed with rude Saxon was displayed.
And double tiers above arrayed.

By superstition feared.
Broad rose the Norman arch on high,

That propped ^e central tower.
And forward led the wondering eye
O'er the choir roof's, bright canopy.

To the east -window's bower,
xxm.
How solemn swept before their sight

This Abbey's inner gloom,
Thwarted with gleams of streaming light

And shade from pier and tomb.
Flung by lone torch, or by the ray
Of tapers, sickening at the day.
For now, the thunder-clouds o'erpast.
May's crystal mom its dawning cast
On every window's untraced pane.
And touched it iiHth a cold, blue stain.
How peaceful dawned that living light
O'er dyes for ever set in night !

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22 ST. ALBAM^S ABBEY.

O'er eyes, that, but on yesterday.
Viewed distant years in long array.
And lovely gleams of shaded joy
Upon their evening landscape lie.

XXIV.

In solemn thought, while Sire and Son

Beheld the £Eite of friends below.
Their hearts a various feeling own,

That, saved from every mortal blow.
For them another morning rose.
And brought their wearied limbs repose !
Then Pity shed a tender tear
For many a warrior sleeping here.
And thus, at the first dawn of day.
Their duteous orisons they pay.
The grateful thoughts ascend on high.
Like May's first offerings, to the sky.
That sweet and still and full arise
'Mid silent dews and peaceful sighs ;
Even as the glad lark's soaring trill.
Heard, when the thunder's voice is still.
Rejoicing in the breath of May : —
But, oh ! that sweet and jocund lay

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AMONG THE DEAD. S3

Now yields to other sounds^ and dread —
To bell that mourns the slaughtered dead !

XXT.

But see 1 a sudden radiance stream^

From Alban's choir and shrined tomb ;
The sable yell withdrawn^ the beams^

Just kindlings break upon the gloom^
From torch and taper lifted there^
'Mid burnished gold and image fair.
While through the choir the shrine-lights spread.
Gleamed each tall column's branching head.

Circled with golden blazonry —
The shielded arms of abbots dead«
These shields, so small and dose, like gems
Enclasped the columns* clustered stems.

That rose in the ribbed^arch on high.
And spread, in ifim-like tracery.
Upon the choir's long canopy ;
Where visioned angels shed their light
Upon a vault of mimic night,
xxvi.
And now the long perspective line

Extending through those arches three.

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34 ST. ALB AN S ABBSY.

Of Stately grace, above the shrine,

St. Mary's Chapel they might see.
Distinct, yet stealing from the sight;
And high, beyond the altar there,
Her image, ^irined in flowers fiur.
Lessened a^Eir in softer light.
While, miniatured, before it glide
Her priests, who channt at morning-tide.
Again that bell, with solemn tongue,
Through vault and aisle and gallery rung ;
Till distant voices, drawing near.
Pell, deeply murmuring, on the ear..
This was the Requiem-mass of Prime,

The Requiem, sung with honours due.
Of torch and incense, dirge and diime.

When the whole convent, two and two.
And the Lord Abbot stately led.
In flowing vest, with mitred head —
'Twas the full mass few princes said.
When they repose among the dead.

xrvu.
'5?was then the aged Abbot came.
Obedient to the Monarch's claim.

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AMONG THB DEAD. StS

Beneath the cloister's westward ardi^

By the great porch^ he held his march^

With all the officers of state^

That on the Abbey's greatness wait.

Of humbler servants twenty-one.
Bearing before him each a torch.
Light the high-sweeping Norman porch

With dusky glare, like setting sun.

When yester battle-day was done.

Then paced his monks in double row.

Bearing their hundred tapers, slow.

That beamed upon each bannered saint

And pageant blazoned high and quaint.

The Abbot came with ready zeal.

Though called from short and needful rest.
And with pale age and grief oppressed.

To gire the Requiem's solemn seal

And passport to a quiet grave ;

And weep the tear due to the brave,
xxriii.

A tear ! does Glory claim a tear }

Weeps he upon a Hero's bier ?

VOL. IV. €

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96 ST. alban's abbey.

The maid, as in the tomb she hdeat;

The youth, once 'tranced in Fancy's shudes ;

The wedded pair, whose hearts are one.

Who lived each other's world alone ;

The infant, that had smiled so £air.

Like cherub, on its mother's care.;

The long-loved parent, sinking slow

Beneath the weight of winter's snow —

O'er these, when in the grave they lie.

May fell the tears from Pity's eye ;

But o'er the warrior's tomb should glance

The lightning of a poet's trance.

Cold was the reverend Father's mind.

By wisdom, or by age, refined

To simple truth, that scorns the prise.

For which the bard, the hero, dies —

A shade, a sound, a pageant gay,

A morning cloud of golden May, *

Glorious with beams of orient hue.

That, while they flatter — ^melt it too !

And, for such airy charm, he gives

The real world, in which he lives ;

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AlCOKG THE DEAD. 27

And, gazing on the lofty show.
Sinks in the closing tomb below ! —
And therefore fell the Abbot's tear
O'er Glory and a Hero's bier.

ZZIX.

While these Ifut rites, from Pity due.
The Abbot gare, yon still might view
In his raised eye, the noble mind
That suffered much, yet shone resigned :—
Calm and unbreathing was his look.
As though of all, save soul, forsook ;
And all his form and air conveyed
The aspect of some peaceM shade.
Contented tenant of a cell.
Who long had bade the world farewell.
StiU, as he moved, the verse was sung
For crowds of dead they passed among ;
And still the gliding tapers threw
A fleeting, gloomy, livid hue
On every fece, on every grave.
Ranged on each side the long wide nave,
c 2

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S8 8T. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

Though slaughtered men his pathway bounds
He shrunk not fr6m this dreadful ground.

zxx.
Now^ where around dead Somerset
High pomp of funeral- watch was met^
Where o'er his corpse twelve torches blazed^
Circle of lights by almsmen raised^
And choristers beyond attend ;
Iliere^ slow the Abbey-train ascend.

And, ranged in triple crescent-rows.
Step above step, the &thers bend.

While requiem and blessed repose
Are sung, with long-resounding breath.
For all in battle slain, beneath.
How high and full the organs swell.

And roll along the distant aisle.
Till, dying on the ear, they fell.

And every earthly thought beguile.
While finely stole the softened strain.

And stately moved the solemn march.
The Knights and Florence view with pain

The scene beneath the Norman arch.

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AMONG THE DEAD.

8ooa as the chaunted hymn was oW,
PaRTcuLLis^ on the steps before.
Cried out with lofty voice of dole,
*' Say for the soul — say for the soul
Of Somerset, high duke and prince.
And for each soul departed since
The onset of the battle-fray.
The wonted Requiem :— sing and say !"

It was an awful thrilling sight.
Beneath this Abbey's far-drawn flight.
To Tiew her dark-robed sons arranged.
In n^mory of those thus changed.
Now seen in death laid out below.
Even while the Requiem's tender wee
Did for each parted spirit flow.
And first was seen a mourner pace.
His mantle borne with stately grace.

His eyes veiled in his hood.
Bearing the princely offering-
Of Henry, his sad lord and king.

Where high the Abbot stood— *

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so ST. ALBAN^S ABBBY.

The sword of Somerset he bore :
A herald stalked^ with casque, before.
He stopped below the Abbot's feet>
With low-bowed head and gesture meet.
Each pious gift the Father took

With meekest grace and downward eye ;

And gave it to his Prior nigh^
Who held it, with a reverend look,.

At the bier's head on high.

XXZII.

A second mourner pacing grave.

Attended by a herald-band.
For the mass-penny offering gave

An offering for Northumberland.
No pomp appeared, when he bent down^

Of cushion^ or of carpeting ;
Such stately signs were given alone

To greet the Sovereign's offering.
Last, for De Clifford offering came ;
And when the herald called his name^
The Abbot, gazing on his bier,
(Jave bitter offering of a tear !

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AMONC THS DEAD.

And dignified the wamor^s grave.
With Virtue's tribute to tlie brave !
Nearer the aged Father drew.

Where the chief mourners wait.
And sprinkled there the drops held dae

To Somerset's sad state.
These valued rites diike be paid
To Percy's and De C^fford's shade.
And then, with supplicating eye.

Stretched forth his hands upon the air.
As if he would a blessing sigh

On all the dead and living there,
zxxni.
As sunk the service for the dead.
Deep sighs of grief and mournful dread.
Of pious gratitude and love.
In Florence' gentle bosom strove ;
While on his arm she bowed her head.
For whom her thankful tears were shed.
The Knights had watched the sad array.
Till now the rising beams of May

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92 8T. alban'b abbey.

Pilled even the torches' yellow flame ;

And on the vault high overhead.
And on the for perspective^ came

A purer lights a softer shade,
Hnrmonions, and of deep repose.
Sweet as the Requiem's dying close !
When^ sudden, on thiii calm profound
The war-trump sent its brazen sound.

XXXIT.

Fiercely^ though Heut without the wall.
They heard Duke Richard's trumpet call
The morning-watch, at rising sun.
Then other startling sounds begun.
Voices and drums and trampling hoofs.
In preparation of their way
To London with the King this day.
And thus, while, all beneath these roofs
Were hushed by hopes Religion lent.
The brazen shriek of War's fell brood
Even to the sepulchre pursued
The victims she had thither sent.

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AMONG THE DEAD. 33

Profiiniiig, with a mthless tongue.
The holy anthem scarcely sung.

Soon as the Reqniem was said.

The Abbot son^t the captive King ;
To mourn with him his warriors dead.

And his last sorrowing &rewell bring.
In contemplation deep, and grief.

Meek Henry watched alone.
Seeking his only sure relief

Before the Highest Throne^
Soon as the Sire drew near, and told

Names of th' unburied dead.
King Henry felt a withering cold

O'er all his senses spread :—
Scarce could he thank him for the rite
He had performed this dreadful night ;
Fqr pious courage, that pursued
And that the Victor had subdued.
So &r as grant of sepulchre
For those, who thanks could ne'er prefer—'
c 5

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S4 8T. alban's abbey.

He would have said^-^but utterance fiiiled
To speak for those he now bewaHed.

XXXVI.

Yet did he praise the fortitude

That Richard's cruel ebdins withstood^

And held the rights of sanctuary

For friends o'ercbme by misery.

Then for himself he thanked him last^

For hospitable duty past ;

For sympathies of look and tone

While he had been a captive guest ;
Such as the broken spirits own^

And treasure in the grateful breast.
He willed an Anniversary
Should of the fatal yesterday
Be held within this choir> for those>
Whose bodies here find just repose.
He had no treasures left to prove
How much this place deserved his love;
But with meek look he asked> and voice.

The Abbot would a gift receive.

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AMON& THE DEAD. 35

His only gift — he had no choice—

The offering would his heart relieve-*
Certain rich robes which once he wore,
Fit clothing these for him no more !
Haply such robes might now aspire
To Abbey-use ; — ^he would desire
Tliat> for his own sake^ there should be
A day of Anniversary^
To mark the memory of a friend —
The day when his poor life should end.
xxxvii.

The Abbot bent ; and bowed his head
To hide the tears that dimmed his eye ;

Faltered the words he would have said-*

Of reverence^ love^ and grief — and fled
In deep convnlaive sigh.

Oh ! had he viewed in future time

The vision of that ghastly crime

(Pointing the pathway to the tomb)

Which marked the day of Henry's doom>

His aged^heart at once had failed^ .

And he had died^ while he bewailed.

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36 8TrAI3AN^8 ABBEY.

Henry one moment o'er him hung.

With look more eloquent than tongue —
Brief moment of emotion sweet !
Ere the King raised him from his feet :

But hark ! in Abbey-oourt there rung
Flourish of trumpets, cheers of crowds
Shrill steeds and drums all roaring loud*

xxxviu.
The Abbot rose^ but trembled, too;
Yet calm his look of ashy hue.
He sighed, but spoke not. St^ps are heard ;

A page and knight approach the King ;

Message from Richard straight they brings
That all things wait the royal word
For London ; and the morning wore.
Faint smile of scorn the King's face bore
At mockery of his princely will.
While captive he to Richard still.
But the meek Henry was not born
To feel, or give, the sting of scorn ;
Soon did that smile in sadness fade.
Tinged soft with resignation's shade —

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AHONG Ttat DEAD. S7

The paleness of a weeping moon^
Which doads and vapours rest upon.

xxxm.
Again the trumpets bray ; again
Ring iron steps^ and shouts of men.
In armour cased, Duke Richard came ;
Proudly his warlike form he held.
And looked the Spirit of the field.
Yet for King Henry's royal name
Feigned reverence due. With gentle Uame
For lingering thus, he urged him hence.
While mingled o'er his countenance
A milder feeling with his pride —
A pity he had fain denied —
As he that look of goodness viewed.
Beaming in dignity subdued.

XL.

Following his steps came knight an4 lord.
And filled the royal chamber broad ;
Yet came not Warwick in the throngs
Smitten with consciousness of wrong.

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38 8T* ALBAV'S ABBEY.

There was in Henry's meekened look
A silent but a deep rebuke.
That smote his heart, and almost drew
His vast ambition from its view.
But, when that look was seen no more.
The pang it caused too soon was o'er,
And rashly his career he held
'Gkinst him in council and in field ;
And now was with the vanguard gone
To fix the triumph he had won.

XLI.

By the King's side, mourning his fate.

The aged Abbot stept.
Through chamber, passage, hall, and gate.
Where steeds and squires and lanoemen wait.
The Abbey's pomp, the Warrior's

Their full appointment kept.
When the last portal they had gained.
Close marshalled bands without were trained ;
Within, high state the Church maintained.
The Abbot paused, and from his brow
Dismissed the darker cloud of woe.

To bless his parting Lord ;

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AMONC THE DEAD. 39

With arms outstretched^ and look Marene>
Pity and reverence were seen

A farewell to afford.
And thus the hundred monks aroond

Bestowed their blessings on his head>
While none of all the crowd wat found.

Rude foes^ stem soldiers^ marshalled.
That did not say, or seem to say,
" Blessings attend thee on thy way !"

XLII.

The ferewell Benediction o'er,

Duke Richard willed such scene no more.

And instant signal made to part ;

He scorned, yet feared, each trait of heart.

A smile, a tear, in Henry's eye

Said more than words may e'er supply.

As from the portal slow he past

And turned a long look — and the last.

Loud blew the trumpets, as in scorn

Of those they left behind
Stretched pale upon these aisles forlorn ;

Loud blew they in the wind.

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40 ST. ALBAN^S ABBKY.

The fierce yet loelaacholy call»
Which died around eadi sable pall.
Formed but the warrior's wonted knell —
The solemn and the last fiirewell !

XLIII.

This fearful summons was the last

That shook the sainted Alban's shrine ;

While now the martial pageant past.
Arrayed in many a glittering line.

From his pale choir and frowning tower.

Sad witness of the battle hour.

And from that broad tower now was seen

Those bands of war, on May's first green.

In gleaming pomp and long array

Winding by meads and woods away ;

While Clement viewed them, who, with dread.

Had watched their fires on hill outspread ;

Had seen their white tents, dawning slow

On yester-moming's crimsoned brow ;

And thought how soon his shrines might fall

Beneath this poorly-battled wall.

He heard their trumpets in the gale

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AMONG TfitE HEAD. 41

Sink hiater ; as they seemed to wail
That Quiet did o'er War prevail.
He heard the tramp of measured tread.
The dattering hoofs, that forward sped ;
The numerous voice in sullen hum ;
And, last and lone, the hollow drum,
mi far its deadened beat decayed.

And fell iq>on the listening ear
Soft as the drop through leafy shade.

Then trembled into very air.
How still the following pause and sweet.
While yet the air-pulse seemed to beat I

XLIV*

Thus passed the warlike vision by ;

While Alban's turrets, peering high

Upon the gold and purpled sky.

Overlooked the way for many a. mile.

And, touched with May-beams, seemed to smile,

-—Smile on the flight of War's sad car^

That left them to their sleep in air ;

And left the monks of gentle deed.

To blessed thanks from those they speed —

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42 ST.ALBA19^8 ABBEY.

Left the poor friend^ who watehed his lord

Wounded, unwitting of reward.

To see him to bis home restored —

The saintly Abbot left to dose

His gathered years in due repose —

The dead unto their honoured tombs ;

To peace these aisle's and transept's glooms !

XLV.

When Florence to her home returned
The aged servant she had mourned

Received her at her gate ;
And, pawing on the ground again.
Behold her steed, who prison-rein
Had snapped, and homeward fled amain.

And here did watchful wait ;
And onward to his mistress went.
With playing pace and neck low bent.
Once more beneath her peaceful bower.

Oh I how may words her feelings tell.
While now she viewed St. Alban's tower.
That, yesterday, even at this hour.
She watched beneath dark Terror's power ?

One other day had broke his spell !

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AMONG THE DEAD. 43

Farewell ! farewell ! thou Norman Shade !

The waning Moon slants o'er thy head ; ,

Thy humbler turrets^ seen below^

Uplift the darkly-silvered brow.

And point where the broad transepts sweep.

Measuring thy grandeur ; while they keep

In silent state thy watch of night.

Communing with each planet bright ;

And sad and reverendly they stand

Beneath thy look of high command.

Oh ! . Shade of ages lox^ gone past.

Though sunk their tumult like the blast.

Still steals its murmur on my ear ;

And, once again, before mine eye.

The long-forgotten scenes sweep by ;

Called from their trance, though hearsed in Time,

Bursting their shroud, thy forms appear.
With darkened step and front sublime.

Sadness, that weeps not — strength severe.
And still, in solemn ecstasy,
I hear Skfax thy Requiem die ;

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44 ST. alban's abbey.

Voices hannoniotts through thy roo£i aspire^
The high-souled orgBJi breathes a seraph's fire !
Peace be with all beneath thy presence laid :
Peace and fi&rewell !— fiEurewell, then Norman Shade !

END OF ST. ALBAN 8 ABBEY.

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NOTES.

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NOTES.

Bold U this Abbey* 8 front, and plain.'^-^yoh iii. p. 95.

Although the history of the Abbey^ in and near
which the scenes of this poem are laid^ has been
given in several well-known publications^ it wiU^
perhaps^ not be unacceptable to any reader to have
a few dates and other particulars respecting it^
brought to his recollection.

The Abbey was founded in the year 793, by Offa,
iiecond king of Mercia of that name ; whose power
was acknowledged in twenty-three provinces, or
districts, which are said to have been co-extensive
with the same number of the shires, into which
Alfred afterwards divided England. ,

The spot, on which St. Alban, the first English
martyr, suffered, is supposed to be that, on which
the Abbey-church stands; his bones having been
there found. The hill was then woody; and its

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name (HolmhorBt) would seem to imply also, that
it was once^ if not entirely in the midst of water> so
nearly surrounded by streams^ as to be considered
insular. Materials for the earlier parts of the Mo-
nastery and Church were found in the ruins of the
city^ which the Romans called Verulamium^ or Vero-
lamium^ from the British name for the stream^ which
still flows in the meads below. In many parts of
the exterior walls of the church Roman bricks may
be easily traced; and^ about twenty years since,
small fragments of these materials, readily known
by the fineness and bright redness of the baked
earth, were, not uncommonly, found in the meadow
on the south-western side of the Church, formerly
the site of the cloisters.

The Church exhibits the styles of architecture of
several ages, " from earliest Sftxon down to that of
the Tudor construction." Mr. Carter, in his " Plan
and Account of the North side of the Nave," allots
to the Thirteenth Century the first four divisions
(arches) from the West, which are of the Pointed
order; t^he next nine divisions (arches with three
sweeps^-mouldings) are of the Saxon order ; as are
the great piers and arches of the Tower, rising
nearly to the height of the Nave, — just above which
is the gallery, that runs all round the Tower ; then
follow, in perspective, the ^ye grand arches of the

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NOTES. 49

Choir and Saint's Chapel^ apparently of the fifteenth
century^ more pointed and lofty than the first four
arches. On the south side of the Nave^ the Pointed
order includes ten arches from west to east; the
style then becomes Saxon to the great east pillar of
the Tower^ which stands far in the Choir ; and then
follow ^ve arches of the Pointed order and of the
fifteenth century^ answering to those on the north
side.

That part, which Mr. Carter calls Saxon, the
previous " Observations" call Norman of the style
of Henry I. ; but there are several undisputed re-
mains of the Saxon edifice. The. eastern arches of
the Nave are round, with three mouldings; and
their pillars, massive and irregular, are of rubble-
work of Roman bricks, covered with Saxon plaster.
Other pillars, next in date, of the Nave, were
built by Abbot Paul, a Norman, the first abbot ap-
pmnted by William the Conqueror. In one of these
is a staircase, the door of which is now filled up,
communicating with the galleries all round. These
galleries thread the walls. The small arches in the
second story of the centre tower light a gallery of
communication to each side of that tower. Besides
the galleries here mentioned, was one, which ran
behind the open-work of the great screen from side
to side of the Choir. By a note in p. 399 of the

VOL. IV. D

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50 ST. ALBAH^S ABBEY.

Rev. Mr. Neweemb's ample History of tlie Abbey^
it appears, that this screen, wbieh has been by some
attribnted to WaUiogfcHrd, and by others to Whet*
hamstede, was probably designed by the former,
whose arms appear up<m it, and completed by the
latter. It cost 1100 marks, and is of the richest
Gothic style. A large curtain of crimson Telvet, or
of gold tissue, was sometimes suspended on it.

Whethamstede was abbot, on his re-election, at
the time of the first battle of St. Alban's. After
the battle, he be|^d of the Jhike of York the dead
bodies of the Duke of Somerset and others, for in«
torment : none havix^ dared to touch them, while
they were lying in the streets.

Of the high vaulted porch beneath* — ^p. 96.

This beautiful porch is of the style of the time of
Henry the Third. The ricUy-carved oaken doors
within, Mr. Crough says, are of the fifteenth cen-
tury.

Here forty abbaU have ruled and one. — p. 97«
Carter reckoned forty Abbots of St. Alban's;
Willis and Newcomb forty-one : — the latter estimate
includes the second presidency of Whethamstede!,
who was re-elected, after an interval of more than
twenty years, haying resigned in 1440.

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VOTES. 51

Freed from Petefe pence were *Aejr.— -p. 97-
Weaver says of this and the other priTikges of the
Abbe7>>^^' Befinre the Dissolution, such were tiie
privileges of this place, that the King could make
no secular officer over them, but by their owne am-
sent ; they were alone quite from paying that Apes*
tdical custome and rent, which was called Bom*
soot, or Peter*pettce ; whereas, neither King, Arch-
bishop, Bishop> Abbot, Prior, nor any one in the
kingdome, was freed from the payment thereo£
The Abbot also, (or Monke appointed Arckdeaoon
under him) had pontifieal jurisdiction over all the
pnesls and laymen, ef all the possessions belonging
to this Charch, so as he yielded subjection to no
Archbishop, Bishop, or Legate, save onely to the
Pope of Rome. This 'Abbot had the fourth place
amcmg the Abbots, whidi sate as Barons in the Par-
liament house. Howsoever, Pope Adnan the Fourth,
whose surname was Breake^esre, bem hereby at
Abbots-Langley, granted this indulgence to die Ab«
bots of this Monasterie : that, as St* Alban was dis-
tinedy knowne to be the first Martyr of the English
nation : so the Abbot of this Monasterie diould at
all times among otiier Abbots of Sngland, in degree
of digaitie, be reputed first and principall. The
Abbot and Cloveat of ihis house were aoquitted of

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B2 ST. ALBAK^S ABBEY.

all toll through England. They made Justices ad
audiendum et terminandum, within themselves ; and
no. other Justice could call them for any matter l>ut
of their libertie. They made Bayliffes and Coro-
ners; they had the execution and retume of all
writs^ the goods of all outlawes> with gaole and

gaole deliverie within themselves. This

Abbey was surrendered up by the Abbot and
Menkes there ; by delivering the Covent seale into
the hands of >T. Pope, D. Peter, Master Caven-
dish^ and other the King's visitors^ the fifth day of
December, 1539. It was valued; at a farre under
rate, to bee worth of yearely revenue, two thousand
five hundred and ten pounds, sixe shillings, penny*
halfpenny."

Kings and heroes here mere guests. — p. 98.

In the prosperous days of the Abbey, several
apartments were built exclusively for the use of
strangers. These adjoined the Cloisters. Beyond
them, in a separate range of buildings, were the
King's and Queen's apartments. Notwithstanding
this preparation for visitors and these indirect invi-
tations, it seems from Matthew Paris, that some of
the earlier Kings came too often, or, at least, with
too cumbrous suites. In still earlier times^ for the
purpose of lessening these visits, an expensive pur-

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^OTES. 53

chase had been made, of a temptation, which had too
frequently drawn the Courts into this neighbour-
hood. iElfric, the seventh Abbot, bought of the King,
probably Edgar, the great ^hpool ; "for," says Mr.
Newcomb, from M. Paris, '^ it was a fishery belong-
ing to the King, whose house, or palace, was that
now called Kingsbury; and this pool, by reason of its
▼idnity to the Abbey, and the pride of the royal
servants, had been hurtful and troublesome to the
religious body. iElfric, therefore, in order to prevent
the like inconvenience, cut a passage through the
head which banked up the waters, and, draining
them off, turned it all into dry land ; preserving only
a small pool for the use of the Abbey. And M.
Paris, who wrote about 1240, says, ' To this day are
to be seen the banks and shores of the great lake,
adjoining to the way which leads westward, and is
called Fishpool-street. The rest of the drained land
was turned into gardens."

It is one of the circumstances, which render the
town of St. Alban's so rich in antiquarian memorials
and localities, that Fiskpool Street still bears its an^
dent denomination, and is thus, at this day, a re-
cord of a transaction, which dates from the tenth
century. Whoever will take the trouble of going
upon the leads of the Abbey will also perceive in the
state, or shape, of the land adjoining the road from

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54 8T. 4LBAK^S ABBEY.

St. Alban 8 to Hatfirid^ some . symptoms of the
'« banks and shores/' iHuch Matthew Paris speaks
of as visible in his time. At leasts these symptoms
were perceiyable aboat twenty years since.

Bui now, nor dais, nor halU remain, — p. 88.

The dais, or deis, was the high table> which ran
athwart the upper end of haUs in palaces and noUe
BMinsionSy in some of which, and in cc^ege-halls, it
remains at this day. It was frequently raised so
highj that the approach to it was by two or three
suecessiYe flights of steps, at the top of eadi of
which the servants, bringing up dishes, were allowed
to wait while some appointed verse was sung.
Chaucer, describing the festivities of the Tartarian
King, Cambuscan, on his birth-day, says that the
King

'' In real veiitiinents rit on his deies.
With diademe, ful high in his paleis,
And holt his feste so solempne and so riche,
That, in this world, ne was ther none it Uche."

The Squire^s Tale.

Grawin Douglas, in his version of the ^neid, says
of Dido at the feast, " The Queene was set at deis."
What Matthew Paris says on this subject may be
rendered, " The Prior dining at the great table,
which is generally called dds :^ and again, ^' A cup

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NOT£S. 55

with a fool is not allowed in the Refectory, except
at the great table^ which we call deis" The word
oeears frequently in our older writers. It some^
times meant the cloth of state placed on the high
tables sometimes a canopy: Dr. Percy seems to
think the latter its origjinal meaning.

Spoke doom to all his vassal throng, — ^p. 101.

The civil privileges and power of the Abbey,
which were always great, were confirmed .and ext-
tended by a charter of Edward IV . in poor compen-
sation of the losses it sustained during the civil
wars* Tlus power was exercised in the towns of
Su Alban's, Watford and Bamet, which were the
towns of the Abbey, in the hundred of Cashio, and
in a considerable space round St. Alban's, called its
liberty^ That the Abbey lands extended anciently
li»r to the south appears from the punishment,
inflicted by William the Conqueror, whos in revenge
for the warlike resistance made to him by Abbot
Frederick, the Saxon, csUed Frederick the Bold,
despoiled the Abbey of til lands lining between
Bamet and London* Over the north gate of the
Abbey^ which led inta the grand court, was the
temporal prison for those judged by the Abbot ; a
building still uaed as the town gaoL It may, indeed,
be supposed to have been used by several of the

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56 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

Abbots^ as a place of punishment for the towns-
people, who frequently rose against the power of the
Abbey, and even besi^ed, during ten days together,
the great gate of the Convent in Holywell-street,
of which there are not now any remains. This was
in the time of Abbot Hugo de Evetsden, about the
year 1326. It was about six in the evening of
January 2l8t, that the townsmen, some on foot and
some on horse, began to assault the gate, not only
with great tumult, but by setting fire to it. The
fire does not appear, however, to have done much
damage. The Abbot had foreseen this outrage, and
had prepared for defence, by summoning to the
Convent 200 of his dependants, who, with courage,
long watchings and much fasting (for they were ill-
provided for a siege), kept the enemy at bay till the
King sent an order to the Sheriff, who read a pro-
clamation to the assailants, and dispersed them.
They urged, in their defence, that the Abbot had
acted in an arbitrary manner, relative to some privi-
leges, which, they thought, remained to them. To
prove this they appealed to Domesday-book. In re-
ply, the Abbot's council produced a grant, by which
Henry II. granted to the church of St. Alban's ''the
Vill of St. Alban, with every liberty, or privil^e
which borough ought to, have." Notwithstanding
this, the Abbot, by command of King Edward the

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NOTES. 57

Second^ and to procure tranquillity^ afterwards signed
a grant of privileges^ against which the Archdeacon
and all the monks protested. This grants however,
the^ afterwards signed, in awe of the King ; and it
probably continued in force till Edward VI. in-
corporated the town in the year 1553. Fw further
particulars see Newoomb's History of St. Alban's.

For here the Pilgrim's Lodge arose, — p. 108.

" Abbot G^firy de Gonham built a large and
noble hall, Avith a double roof, to entertain strangers
in, near which he built a fiidr bed-chamber," says
Willis. But Abbot John of Hertford did mwe ; he
raised chimneys, " He built a noble hall for the
use of strangers, adding many parlours, with an in-
ner chamber and a chimney, and a noble picture, and
an entry, and a small hall ; and a most noble entry,
with a porch, or gallery, and many fair bedcham-
bers, with their inner chambers and chimneys, to re-
ceive strangers honourably."— Willis's Mitred Abbies.

There the Scriptorium spread its gUxm.—^. 104.

Every great abbey had a room where the monks,
and sometimes other persons not members of the
community, copied and illuminated ancient manu-
scripts, and transcribed service-books for the choir.
In some abbeys one side of the great cloister was
D 5

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58 ST. ALBAH'S ABBST.

indoaed for a Scriptorium, u at Oloaeesler^ wh«e
the wholt soath side of the fine doister was so ap*
propriated. The monks learned and practised not
only the art of illuminating books* but sereral other
ornamental arts, by the ezerdae of whidi they deoo*
rated their diordies and eonrents. Th^poroeUin
tiles, for pavement of the high altar, were fre-
quently prepared by them, as were the fresco-paint-
ings on the walls of diapels and cloisters. Of their
performance were also the armorial bearings pen*
dlled on windows and tombs, with scroll work and
'' painted imagery," sudi as. Weaver says. Abbot
John of Whethamstede ** dressed up" tins his
Monastery of St. Alban withal. That nurnks nsade
their own gloves appears by a grant, whidi Charle-
magne delivered to those of St. Sithin, about the
year 7dO^ " of vnlimited right of hunting, for
making th«r own gloves and girdles of the Ajjoa of
the deer then killed, and covers for their bodcs.^
See Warton's History of English Poetry.— The Scrip-
torium of St. Alban's was built about the year lOdO,
by Abbot Paul, or Paulin, a Norman, who had many
vehunes tranacribed there, from copies lent by Arch-
bishop Lanfraac^ his countryman, whose influence
with William the Conqueror had saved this Abbey
from destruction. Warton says that more than
eighty books w«e transcribed at St. Alban's, by

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NOTES. SB

order of Whethamstcde, wko, hd idds, dUied about
1440; as erriHr into wiiidi he wm led bf Wearer^
trho was himself probabl j deeemd by the eircttnt-
siance of that abbot havii^ resigned his office
aboat that time, and hanag become a prilrate monk
of the aouTent; influenced^ perha^ps^ bf the storm
which he saw impendii^ over his £piend and patron>
Dnke Hnmphrej* €hi the death of his snceessor,
John Stoke^ Whethantsted^ was re^eleeted abbots
in the jear 1451 ; whidi rank he held till his death,
in 1464^ as is proved by a book in the library of the
Heralds' College^ mentioned by Willis^ and entitled
*' R^ist. Rob: Blakeney Capellan: Dom: Ram-
ridge." The fine fretted tomb^ «r rather shrine^ of
Abbot Ramridge> is near the altar on the right, and
opposite to that c^ Whethamstede ; the ram's head,
in alluaion' to his name, appearing amoi^ the orna-
ments of the oondces, as do wheatshestfs on the
plainer and less elegant altar-tomb of the latter ab^
hot, which he had constructed in his life-time, at an
expense, as n recorded, of more than seventy-^four
pounds.

B4mnd blessed Maiy in her bower,-*-^ 104

In a note to bis '' IVavels k the Holy Land," Dr.
Clflt^ke gires the foUowing interesti^ toplaiMition
sf the eastern of surrounding illummated pictures

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60 ST. ALBANY'S ABBEY.

of the Virgin and other sacred representations^ with
lilies and wreaths of flowers. These were chosen
not merely as embeUishments^ but as allusions to
the city^ the earthly residence of our Saviour ; the
word Nazareth signifying, in Hebrew^ a flower.
" Hence the cause, wherefore, in ancient paintings
used for illuminating missals, the rose and the lily,
separately or combined, accompany pictures of the
Virgin. In old engravings, particularly those of
Albert Durer, the Virgin is rarely represented unac-
companied by the lily.'* — vol. ii. p. 411. first edit.

Him, whose tmaU pencil thus enshrined. — p. 105.

Allan Strayder, an illuminator of this abbey,
painted, in the Golden Register here, portraits of
all the principal benefactors of the Abbey. He is
also himself mentioned as a benefactor, ^' for that
he forgave three shillings and fourpence of an old
debt, owing to him for colours." See Weaver's Fune-
ral Monuments. The art of painting on vellum was
of high antiquity in England. The most splendid
ornaments and delicately miniatured scenes from
scripture were painted on missals, and sometimes
portraits of the owner, or of the person, to whom he
designed to present the book. Translations from
the classics and chronicles were also, in later times,
thus ornamented. Duke Humphrey of Gloucester
presented to the library of the Divinity-school at

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NOTES. 61

Oxford^ several finely-illuminated MSS. and some
to this Abbey of St. Alban's. But the most ex-
quisite illuminators were the Florentines ; and the
most celebrated of these was GiuHo Clovio^ who thus
ornamented the '' Missal of Rafaelle/' now at Straw-
berry Hill. See Anecdotes of the Arts in Eng-
land.

ThtU stretched to learning a preserving hand.-^
p. 105.

This Abbey was the second in England in which
the press was used : — ^that of Westminster is well
known to have been the first. One of the earliest
works printed at St. Alban's was the book on hawk-
ing and huntings translated by Juliana Bemers^
prioress of the Nunnery of SopeweU, a neighbour-
ing cell of this abbey. She was a sister of Lord
Bemers, who fought in the first battle here. The
first book known to have been printed at St. Al-
ban'sj bears date 14S0; that of Juliana Bemers^
1486. But Caxton> who brought printing into Eng-
land, and who practised the art in the Abbey at
Westminster^ about the year 1471> had types much
superior to those used at St. Alban's. The cessation
of printing here is imputed to the power of Wolsey,
who had been Abbot of St. Alban's^ and who is said
to have expressed^ in a convocation in the Chapter-
house of St. Paul's^ his disapprobation of the press^.

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m ST. ALBAK 8 ABBEY.

and his fear of its effects upon the interests of the
Romish Church.

The Royal lodging's siaiefy pUe.*^i^ 106.

The Royal apartments were separated By a Imig
cknster^walk from the rest of the monastery. They
extended on the brow^ that overlooked the valley of
the Ver. In the plan of the Royal lodgings still extant
are specified the Queen's parlour and her chamber^
the Audience Chamber^ the King's parlour^ consider-
ably larger than the other rooms^ and the Refeeto-
ry^ The chief part of the monastery was betwe^i
this range of buildings and the Abbey-Church. See
in Newcomb's History, a plan of the Monastery,
as it existed in the time of Henry UI.

Kings seemed their Windsor's groves to view, — p. 106.

It has been often supposed that the Gothic aisle
was, at first, an imitation of a superb arenue of
trees, or, at least, that the ardiiteet of the edifice
had the idea of it suggested to him by the effect of
that fine arrangement of natural productions. Of
this theory the best illustration that can, perhaps,
be found in En^and, is afibrded by i^ avenue of
elms and limes, called King Charles's Walk, in the
Lower Park at Windsor. The trees are so planted
as to give a very striking representation of a Point-

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NOTB8. to

ed Gothic window^ witli its nmlUoiu and Gothic
tracery ; bnt the resemblance is not perfect till yon
IttYe adranced a consideniUe way down the linden
part of the avenue.

HU Lodge and CioUter of repose.^^-^. 108.

The Abbot's cloister lay within the angle of the
upper south aisle and the transept. There ap«
pears to hare been a private door of communication
between thia cl<»ster and that aisle> which probaUy
was the abbot's way to the dioir, when he did not
go in the procession of the menlcs, eo days of
festival. This door is opposite to one leading into
the chancd^ near the altar^ and close beside the
Abbot's seat in the choir ; a situation cocrei^nding
to that where the Bish^'s throne is now placed in
a Cathedral. Over tluit door i» an ancient painting
of skeletons ; memt, perhaps^ as a monitory record
to the lirmg abbot of his departed brethren laid in
theehoir.^

fle utt at the high daU, liieprineej alone^ — p. 110.

In Gongh's Briti^ Topography^ vol. i. p. 469^ is a
note eoDtainii^ some particulars of a very curious
y&pex in the hand-writb^ of Mr. Ashm<^^ respect-
ii^ seme customs of the AUbey of St. Alban's.
A Mr. Robert Shrimpten^ who had been mayor ef

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64 ST. alban's abbey.

the town four times> and who lived to the age of
103^ remembered the Abbey before the Dissolution ;
and would often discourse of the manners of the
monastery and of the ceremonies and grand proces-
sions. He related that '^ in the great hall was an
ascent of fifteen steps to the abbot's table^ to which
the monks brought up the service^ in plate^ staying
at every fifth step, which was a landing place, to
sing a short hymn. The abbot usually sat alone at
the middle of the table. When a nobleman, or am-
bassador, or stranger of eminent quality came thi-
ther, he sat, indeed, at the abbot's table, but it was
towards the lower end. After the monks had
waited awhile on the abbot, they sat down at two
other tables, placed at the other sides of che hall,
and had their service brought in by the novices,
who, when the monks had dined, sat down to their
own diimer. In the Abbey was a large room, having
beds set on each side, for the receiving strangers and
pilgrims, where they had lodging and diet for three
days, without question made from whence they
came." Mr. Nichols, in the 6th Volume of his
Literary Anecdotes, says " It was at one time
Mr. Oough's wish^ that his remains should be. placed
in the tomb of Whethamstede, abbot of St. Al-
ban's." This was an exquisite trait of an antiquary,
who published the most splendid work, that ever

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K0TE8. 65

appeared an the Sepulchral Monomexits of Great
Britain.

The raised platform^ supporting the high table^
which ran athwart the sides of great halls^ is suppo-
sed to have been of -eastern origin^ and to have been
ad<^ted in England about the time of the wars in
the Holy Land^ together with the small panelled
wainscot containing little cupboards, and the latticed
windows near the roof. The suspension of armorial
bearings and of instruments of the chace, on the
walls of such chambers, is also an Oriental custom.
In such a hall, it may be recollected. Dr. Clarke
was received at Turkmanle on his journey from the
plain of Troy. See Clarke's Travels, vol. ii. p. 125.

The Abbey's noble Seneschal.^^, 110.

Sir Richard Hastings, afterwards Lord Hastings,
was, in the time of Richard III. Seneschal of this
Abbey. His office included that of Hundredor, or
Judge of the Hundred Courts, with that of Steward
of the Abbey, who had the care of its estates. The
Abbot, when he received from Henry I. the original
grant (which Edward IV. renewed) of the hundred
of Cashio, received, in feet, privileges and authorities,
which invested him with a degree of royal power.
He appointed a Hundredor, or Seneschal, and
confirmed the office by patent under the Abbey

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66 .ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

seal. The Court of the Hundred was held in tk«t
great Oste of the Abbey^ which now remaiai.
There^ causes eren of life and death were decided
in after^times. The offioe of Equerry^ or Marshal^
of the Abbej^ was also granted by patent und^ its
seal.

There was the Prior* s dekgated sway. — p. 110.

This Abbey had a Prior and two Sub-Priors^ oiie
of the latter of whom> assisted by three monks^ was
appointed to serve only at the shrine of the Martyr
Amphibalus^ the friend and tutor of St. Alban.

Thomas whose figure in brass^ small, but fine

and still perfect, lies in the choir, though not over
his grave, was once a Sub-prior here.

But all in copes most costly and most gay, — ^p. 111.

In the time of Whethamstede many of the an-
cient rules of the monastery, which had been disused,
were revived ; among these is an order, ^^ that the
monks and (^dating person should be clothed* for
the greater solemnity, in the most costly and splen-
did garments," on great festivals. (Newcomb.)-^
There was also an order, directing that the younger
monks, who should proceed with wax-lights before
the Abbot, should walk upright and with regularity.

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K0TS8. 67

There every trencher he aeem^,^^, 113.
*' When the Marshall and the Sewer, with his dish,
had gone up the hall, and had made obeisance, on
approaching the dais, the Sewer bent beside the
Carver, who received and uncovered every dish as
it came, and, dipping a comet qf trencher bread
into each, gave it to the Sewer and to the bearar of
the dish to taste." Leland Coll.

With duejorm and good connleiiaAce.— -p. 114*
The Chaplain is directed to take up the Alm»-
Dish, with " a good countenance,** and deliver it to
the Almoner.

Marched the huge WaseaU-bowl the latt.-^i^ 115.

Matthew Paris says, that the Wassail-bowl, in
great monasteries, was placed on the abbot's table,
at the upper end of the Refectory, or eating-hall, to
be circulated among the community at his direction.
It was called the Foeulum Caritatis, and was filled
with wine, which, if sweetened and spiced, was
called Hypocras. Sometimes it contained the hum-
bler potion of Metheglin, or Mead. This Wassail*
bowl came only on extraordinary occasions. The
'* Forme of Cury" contains a list of the ingredients
of Hypocras.

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Here, mth proud grace, did fVohey stand. — ^p. 11(5.
Wolsey retained this Abbey after lie was made
archbishop of York and a cardinal.

When Give- Ale and the Dole were o'er, — ^p. 117-
Tlie Oiye-Ale^ so called, was ' distributed on
anniversaries, often with bread and other Dole for
the poor, for which purpose land had been left to the
church by the person whose birth-day, or Saint's
day, or burial-day, was to be commemorated. An-
myersaries were sometimes kept on the birth-day of
a donor, during his life-time, or on the Saint's day
of the church where it was appointed. The doles
of money and bread were distributed at some altar
in the church, or at the tomb of a deceased bene-
factor. The Give- Ale, being chiefly allotted to great
festivals, was usually distributed in the church -
porch, where the people assembled; who some-
times remained wassailing in the church-yard till
it became a scene of merriment and tumult. Some
of these anniversaries, as it is well known, gave rise
to Pairs, which were once most improperly held
in church-yards.

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KOTX«.

Here, too, the Minstrels* ckaunted song. — ^p..ll7«
Minstrels were not only received into monasteries^
and paid for their performances^ bnt the monks
sometimes wrote lays and ballads for them. War-
Utn, in his History of English Poetry^ mentions six
minstrels from Buckingham^ who were paid four
shillings by the treasurer of the priory of Bicester^
in Oxfordshire^ for singing a legend in the refec-
tory. It was customary for the regular minstrels
of the nobility to attend^ on festivals^ at the neigh-
bouring monasteries^ and to be well rewarded on
such occasions. Even when minstrels came in the
retinue of their lords^ they were paid by the monks
f<Hr their performances. Some great monasteries
maintained minstrels of their own. Jeffrey, the
harper^ in the reign of Henry 11,, received an
annuity from Hyde Abbey^ near Winchester ; and
the Abbies of Conway and Stratflur^ in Wales^
each maintained a bard, says Warton^ who adds^
that the Welsh monasteries^ in general, were the
grand repositories of the poetry of the British bards.
At the installation-feast of Abbot Ralp, of St. Au-
gustine's Monastery, in Canterbury, twenty shillings
were given to minstrels, who sang to their harps ;
while six thousand guests were entertained in and
about the hall of the monastery.

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70 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

WUh tales qf Ckwalrt^'s high «<ato.— p. II7.
The iKMDks were fond of tales of ^yalij and of
metrical romancesy with which their iflbraries
abounded; and scMnetunes they turned jMrose his-
tories into verse, to be sung by miiistrels; or^ if
moulded into a dramatic form^ to be repres^ted by
themselves. Even the story of Robin Hoed waa
not unfrequently exhibited to the pe^e on daya
of festivaL In an ancient church»account of
St. Helen's in Abingdon, is a charge of ^fateeik
pence for setting up " Robinhood's Bower»" and an*
other of one shilling fw '^ two dossin of molna
belles." But these iadeccHroos practices^ and others
still more blameable — ^the prctfane and even bur-
lesque representations, for instance, whieh were per^
mitted during the processions of the boy^bishop^*^
resulted from the Roman Catholic policy of inda%-
ing the people in every gratification, whidh, being
connected with the RcNuish authority^ n%iht atteeh
them to it.

Where the raised platform, near the Bay, — ^p. 120.

The projecting window whieh, when it occurred
over a portico, was called an oriel, was cftUed a
Bay window when it op^ied at an end of the Ihis,
in a hall, or state-chamber i and then the ^aoe

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190TES. 71

near it was called the Bay. But in this latter si-
tnation it was usnally mntb larger than in the
former. Whether its name aTMe ^m the shelter
it afiwded to the servants and fflde-boards^ or firom
the drctimstanoe of its haring that degree of extent
which in old buildings was called a i^y, let better
antiquaries determine. That the word OBoe meant
a certain portion of space in buildings^ and was uaed
as a term of measurement by builders^ may be seen
ki various old descriptions of houses^ which are
there not said to be of so many feet in extent^ but
of so many ba^.

'Mid roial glass and fretwork smaU. — ^p. 120.

" Royal glass ;" — ^painted windows are so called
in afucient poetry.

*^ In her oryall, where she was
.Closed with royall glas
Pulfylled yt was with ymagery.**

The old romance of The Squire of Jaw Degree.

In front, the velvet curtain, flung. — ^p. 120.
It was Abbot John of Whethamstede, who re-
laitted to Lord Hastis^ forty pounds of a desperate
debt for a very rich imd curious set of hangin g s^
used only on days of solemnity; and which had
adorned the great chamber of that nobleman's man-
sion^ near the monastery^ during the summer months
only.

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72 ST. alban's abbey.

Leisurely read the rare Lent Book,^^. 122.
Among the laws given by Archbishop Lanfranc,
in the year 1072^ to the monks of England^ is an
injunction that, at the beginning of Lent, the li-
brarian of each convent shall give to every member
of it a book to be read in the course of the year,
and returned at the following Lent, on pain of
humiliation before his superior, and supplication for
indulgence.*'See Warton.

In leonine, of Latin quaint. — ^p. 1^.

Pasquier (Recherches de la France, p. 596,)
traces the origin of rhymed Latin verse no farther
back than to Leoninus, or Leonius, once a monk of
St. Victor, (at Marseilles) who wrote in Paris,
during the reign of Louis VII, about the year 1154.
The fiashion of using this perversion of the true
rhythmus became such, about that time, that, says
Pasquier, those who poetised (poetisoient) in Latin,
thought their verses not praiseworthy unless they
were rhymed. But Warton clearly shows that the
practice should be dated much higher. He had
seen a poem of four hundred lines of rhyming Latin,
written in the time of Justinian II., in the year 707-
Some think that Pope Leo II, who made many
alterations in the chaunts of the church, was the
inventor of this sort of verse, about the year 1680.

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NOTES. 73

From sainted Oswyn's shrine and tomb.^^-p. 123.
St. Oswyn's altar stood in the nave, near St.
Cuthbert's screen.

Of the good Abbot Delamere.—p. 123.

Delamere^ a Norman, and Prior of Tynemouth,
was made Abbot of St. Alban's in the year 1349,
sncoeeding Abbot de Mentmore, who had died of
the plague, being the first of forty-eight members
of the house, who, in that year, died of the same
disease. He was a man of a more informed mind
and more el^ant taste than many of the abbots
(tf St. Alban's, if we may judge from the rules he
introduced into his convent, and the style of his
ornamental improvements there. A chantry-chapel,
boilt in memory of him, was in a recess of the
south transept ; but his figure, very finely engraved
on a plate of brass, ten feet long, lies over his
grave in the chancel, very near the altar-steps ; and
is, perhaps, the most beautiful, and perfect monu-
mental brass remaining in England.

The gpodBukeHumphrey's mouldering form.'-'p.l23.

Tlie magnificent tomb, or rather shrine, of Duke
Humphrey, is still adorned with seventeen small
figures of kings in brass, each in his niche. Other

VOL. IV. E

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74 ST. alban's abbey.

statnes^ of a larger sice^ once stood on the opposite
side of the tomb. These were probably destroyed
by the republican soldiers^ whom Cromwell atro-
.dously quartered in the churchy and whose horses
stood in the aisles.

In a manuscript^ dated 1450^ is an account of
the cost of this tomb, and of the yearly expenses
for services performed there. '^The Abbot and
convent of the said monasterye have paid for
makyng the tumbe and sepulture of the said duke^
within the said monasterye^ above the sum of
433/. 6s. Sd." The Abbot and PHor, for attending
there on the day of his anniversary only^ received
a stipend of 10/. each. For their attendance on that
day also^ forty monks, priests, received yearly Ss, Sd.
each ; and one hundred and twenty-two monks,
not priests, 3if. 4d. each. Thirteen poor men, who
held torches round the shrine on that occasion, had
each 2^. 2d. Money was distributed to the poor in
the churches of St. Peter's and St. Michael's pa-
rishes. The yearly charge for torches and other
wax, burned occasionally, is 61. 13s. Ad. The lands,
left by Duke Humphrey to defray these charges,
were also to furnish sixty pounds yearly for the
kitchen of the abbey, '^ in relief of the grete decay
of livehode of the said monastery in the marches

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NOTES. 75

of Scotland^ which beforetime hath be appointed to
the said kechyn/' The priory of Tjnemouth^ among
other far-stretched lands^ belonged to the Abbey of
St. Alban's.

The image of a stately Queen^-^p. 124.

Margaret of Anjou was heavily suspected of hav-
ing conspired with Beaufort and Suffolk, in the
death of Duke Humphrey. It is too certain, that
her unprincipled and short-sighted policy led her
to violate the promise of pardon and life, made by
her husband to the Lord Bonvil and Sir Thomas
Kiriel; who, in reliance upon it, had remained
with him in his tent, after they had lost the battle,
and the other confederated lords had fled.

The sacred temple still endures. — ^p. 129.

When the abbey lands were seized, the monas-
tery of St. Alban's levelled with the ground and
the materials sold, the church would have shared
the same fate, had not the Corporation of the town
purchased it, for about 400/.

Glanced on the Abbey^knight beside. — ^p. 138.

This abbey had six Knights, to whom a certain
portion of the abbey-land was assigned, on condition
e2

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76 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

of their attendance^ at the abbey> in times of any
danger. They were also the body-guard of the
Abbot on journeys^ finding their own horses and
arms^ but travelling at the expense of the convent.
Abbot William of Trumpington first required the
attendance of these knights in travelling, during a
journey which he made, in the reign of Henry III.
to the priory of Tynemouth* At that time, this
was not merely a matter of pomp : — bands of rob-
bers then infested the highways, and lurked within
the numerous forests of the kingdom ; government
was so weakly administered that disorders of every
kind were committed. Military retinues became
general with all, who could support them, and the
necessity, after ceasing to be real, still operated
as a pretence, whenever ambition, or pride, chose to
employ it. The powerful nobles came to the king's
councils, with little armies of retainers ; Cardinal
Wolsey, when he last went from London to York,
travelled with a train of one hundred uid sixty horse.

Watched where the far^ff signals blaze. — p. 139.

The Greeks used torches for signals, and expressed
the approach of friends, or enemies, by the manner
in which they showed them, tossing them for an
enemy, and holding them still for friends. See the

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NOTES. 77

Archseologia^ vol. i. where iBschylus is referred to^
as tellings that torches were likewise made to ex-
press a more particular meaning— Clytemnestra
professing to have had the capture of Troy announ-
ced to her by lights^ exhibited^ according to the or-
ders of Agamemnon^ for her information^ at Mycenae ;
bat it seems^ that a commentator considers this as
a mere possibility^ to be accounted for only by the
supposition that the lights were displayed on
Mount Ida^ and seen ^m Mount Athos*

And Gorhambury's turrets pale. — ^p. 139.

llie manor of Oorhambury belonged to the Ab-
bey of St. Alban's^ being part of their lands at
Westwick. Abbot Geoffiry de Oorham^ who built
a hall there^ granted it probably as a leasehold to a
rdative of his own^ from whom it received it^s name
and to whom the grant was confirmed by a succeed-
ing Abbotj . also a relative. I{$iving been given by
Henry VIII. at the Dissolution^ to Sir Ralph Raw-
iett^ it was sold by him to the Lord Keeper Baoon^
from whom it descended to his celebrated son.

Of studded gates, that, in old fvars.-^'p. 142.
In wars> or^ at leasts violent contentions with the
townsmen. The massive studded gates pf the great

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78 ST. ALBAN^S ABB BY.

Oate-hauae^ whkh led into the iargebt ooiurt of tlie
Abbej^ may still be seen under diat noble archway ;
but the chief entrance to the monastery was from
Holywell-streetj nearly opposite to Sopewell-lane^
of which^ however^ there are not now any traces on
the spot^ houses having been built upcm its site.

Though, as thejf flashed Jrom JuUan*s ivoocl.— -"p. 154.

St. Julian's was a cell of the Abbey of St. Al-
bany as was likewise the Priory of Sopewell ; of
which latter house the Duchess of Clarence^ widow
of the brother of Henry V. had been prioress.

PortcuUis^bars in gold were there.^^j^, 161.

The gold portcallia was a device taken by the
first Duke of Somerset^ John de Beaufort^ in the
year 1448, from his ancestor, John of Gkinnt. Of
this devioe Henry VIL was aflterwards sufficiently
jealooa and ostentatious. Somerset's Poursuivant
was ealled PortcuUis*

Bjf roifal BanneT'kmghU a throng. — ^p. 162.

^' In the time of the fourth Edward, the allow->
ance in his court for a Knight Bannerett, with
twenty-four servants, was two hundred pounds
a year; for a Knight of the Household, with six-

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NOTES. 79

teen servants^ one hundred."— Royal Household
Book.

Of Edmund Westby, th' Hundredor.—^. 167-

Edmund Westby, the Hundredor of St. Alban's,
whose house^ in Peter-street^ the king made his
head-quarters during the battle. The royal stan-
dard was planted before this house, on the Green,
which was then called Ouselowe, and sometimes
Sandforth, in Peter-street.

And this was Lanaister's reply. -^-i^. 172.

Stowe (edit. 1583) gives the following as the
king's reply : —

^'I King Henry charge and commaunde, that
no manner person, oi what d^ree, estate, or con-
dition soever hee bee, abide not, but they avoide
the fielde, and not bee so bardie to make resistaunoe
against mee in mie owne realme. For I shall knowe
what traitour dare be so boulde to arise anie people
in mine owne Lmde, where through I am in great
disease and heavinesse: by that fedth I owe unto
St. £dwarde, and unto the Growne of Englande, I

shall destroie them, everie mother sonne

in example, to make all sidi traytours to beware for
to make anie rising of people within mine owne

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80 ST. ALBAK^S ABBEY.

lande> and so trayterously to abide their king and
govemour. And for a conclusion^ rather than thej
shall have anie lorde that here is with mee> at this
time^ I shall this daie> for their sake^ in this qoar-
rell myselfe live and die." p. 660;

Raising he treacherous onset-caU, — ^p. 174.

The first battle of St.'Alban's and the first of
that long series of battles between the houses of
York and Lancaster, which desolated so many fami-
lies, began between eleven and twelve at noon, on
Thursday the 22d of May, 1455. An epitaph, co-
pied by Weaver from a grave-stone in St. Peter's
Church, seems to settle the disputed date of this
battle. It is on Ralph Babworth, an Esquire of
Henry the Sixth's, and on his son, a Sewer to that
king, who both fell in this first battle ; and runs
thus, " the last day of their light was the twen-
tith two of May."

The Knight, mhofiew to RicharcTs »eerf.— p./ 180.
" He broke in on the garden-side, with a great cry
of ' A Warwick ! a Warwick,' shouted around him :
'Twas marvel to hear," says Stowe. This gar-
den-side, as it was called, ran along Sopewell-lane,
and seems to have been part of the ground be-
longing to the late Dowager Countess Spencer.

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MOTES. 81

Key's Fields on which Richard Duke of York en-
camped^ ran along the opposite side of the lane^
and spread beyond Holy well-street. A narrow slip
of it still hears the old name. In Sopewell-lane
Somerset was killed ; it was the barrier there> that
was defended by the old Lord De ClifTord. It was
thought to have been a great oversight in Somerset
not to have occupied that garden-ground with his
troops, since the enemy, by seizing it, placed the
barrier, as it were, between two fires ; the camp-
field of York being on one hand, and Warwick on
the other. Accordingly, when Warwick took pos-
session of it, he gained the barrier almost by the
same onset, and drove back the king's troops through
the narrow lane of Sopewell into the inner part of
the town, with dreadful slaughter. There it was
that De Clifibrd, Somerset, and several other persons
of rank fell. This ground of the battle is closely
overlooked from the tower of the Abbey.

Why meefst thou not the Ragged Staff— ]^ 181.

The Bear and Ragged Staff, the well-known
device of Richard Nevill, the great Earl of War-
wick, called the King-maker.

Great Warwick^s hardiness to prove.^-^, 187-
This potent lover and promoter of turmoil lies
interred in the choir of Tewkesbury Abbey. On
Ji5

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8i 8T. ALBAW'S ABBAT.

the voef of the fiae iiBQiiiiineiil>> ramd ofet lam by
his Coimteas^ is hk image »i armoor. Hi» besy«r
i» up ; and Ids face^ kas a spectre-look, that kanso^
nizes well with the gloom and the andent Atory of
this venerable pile. The simplicity of die person,
who showed the church about twenty years since,
and the effect of these cbciunstonees trpcm him,
were amusii^. Pointing to the figure, he said a
stair led to the platftom of the monum^it where It
was phu^, and that ''he had once been up at hhn,
and that he looked very ghastly.** This was said,
with a sort of shudder, by a man nearly six feet
high, with a bald head> and of a grare aspect.

But Buckingham's pak plume he knew. — p. 193.

The Duke of Buckingham's vizor was pierced by
an arrow, but the wound was not m<Hrtal. He was
slain afterwards in the battle of Northampton, in
the year 1459, fighting for King Hwiry, near his
tent. His body was interred in the Church of the
'Grey Friars in that towa.

But, ponder, on St. Peter's waif. — p. 194.

The slaughter was very great in this' street, the

breadth of which permitted a more general contest ;

and in which the Lancastrians made their last

stand. A great number of those^ who fell there.

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KOTX8. 88

were bnried in St Peter's dmrcb-yard. Stowe says
''it was stuffed full with their bodies."

Not thus shejkd, when second war.^i^. 196.

The battle of Bernard-heathy idiere Margaret
of Anjou was victorious over the Yorkists.

And wounded, bkeding, fainting, slow. — ^p. 197«
Henry was slightly wounded in the neek by an
arrow. He took refuge in a thatched cottage^ a
baker's^ where he was discovered and surrounded
by the Duke of York's party. The IHike^ with
several of the Yorkist chiefs^ soon aftar visited him
there^ with much appearance of sorrow for what
had passed and with a pretence^ that the battle
had been brought on by a misapprehension. They
even besou^t pardon of Henry on their knees^
and received it> with a stipulation^ that they
should immediately put an end to the slaughter.
This done^ the Duke conveyed the King to the
Abbey^ and placed him in sanctuary^ dose to the
Shrine of St. Alban^ whence he afterwards con<-
ducted him to the royal apartments of the mo-
nastery^ there to remain in Ms custody^ till the.
following day^ when he should be conducted to
London.

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84 8T« alban's abbey.

Lay Gloucester in his grave, — ^p. 208.
The stately tomb of Duke Humphrey forms' the
south side of the Saint's Chapel^ now the Presby-
tery, behind the altar. There formerly stood the
great shrine of the Martyr. The beautiful gallery,
once used by the monks, who watched the shrine>
nearly fiUs up the north side of the chapel; the
east end was occupied by the shrine and by three
tall, pointed arches, whose mouldings still ornament
the wall, that supports the east window above.
Athwart the western side stretches that lofty and
beautifully carved screen, which separates it from
the altar. On the pavement^ near the spot where
the shrine stood, is a trap-door, somewhat in the
shape of a lozenge, which opens upon the vault
under the monument of Duke Humphrey. The
clerk, or sexton, unlocks and lifts this door ; and,
from the high windows above, the light of this
world is let down at once, upon the open coffin and
the bones of persecuted Gloucester. When you
recover from the silent awe, into which this sudden
spectacle of mortality has thrown you, you observe
only a few large bones lying within the loose and
•curled lead, in which the body was found, inclosed
within a large oaken coffin. The vault is not deep,
and the coffin lies close at the foot of the five nar-

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Ko!r£6. 86

nm steips that descend into it; the light thus
danting in a strong line> £alls upon the head of the
ooffin where the bones are placed. The skull is not
there. After these awful reliques^ the stately mo-
nument above strikes you forcibly, as a vain and
melancholy pageant.

It was dose to this tomb of his uncle and faithful
friead, that Henry VI. himself a prisoner, took refuge
after the battle, with the consent of his conqueror ;
a battle, which had probably never been fought,
had Gloucester been alive to assist the councils of
his nephew. What must have been the feelings of
the venerable Abbot, while he stood beside the cap«
tive King and his Victor over the grave of the good
I>uke, once his fellow-student and patron, whose
troubles he had foreseen and shared, and whose vir-
tues he had honoured with the magnificence of a
t<Mnb worthy a crowned hea4* Gloucester had
been a great bene&ctor to the Abbey. The manor
of Pembroke in South Wales was among his be-
quests.

And from his memory threatened soon to sweep. — ^209.

Henry had already, from October 1453, to De-
cember in the following year, been afflicted with a
total loss of memory. He had been recovered only

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86 ST. alban's abbey.

•boat five months before the battle. A letter
pabllshed by Mr. Fenn^ in the first yolmne
of his Gollecti<m> signed Edmimd Clare and ad-
dressed to John Pasttm^ mentions the King's illness
and recorery^ and conveys some interesting traits ai
his character from an account given by himself.
His first act after his recovery was a command to
his Almoner^ to ride to Canterbury with his uSet-
ing. When the Queen came to him> she brought
the young Prince, his son, and he expressed much
joy and thankfulness, that he had been baptised,
and that he had been named Edward. Having
asked who were the sponsors, '* the Queen told him
and he was well apaid (content.) And she told
him that the Cardinal (John Kemp, Archbishop of
Canterbury) was dead ; and he said he knew never
thereof till that time ; and he said one of the wisest
lords in this land was dead. And my lord of Win-
diester (William of Wainfleet, Bishop of Winches-
ter) and my lord of St. John's (Robert Botill, Lord
Prior of St. John's of Jerusalem) were with him on
the morrow after Twelfth day, and he spake to
them as well as ever he did ; and when they came
out they wept for joy. And he saith he is in
charity with all the world, and so he would all
the lords were."

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»OTSs. 87

The following extract from a letter in the aanie
CoMeetions presents a oarioas picture of the times^
as well as of the aaxietj of the Yorkists to conceal
their real des^iw and to recorer the King's fiivonr.

''And, Sir, as teaehiag all nuuuier of new
tidings^ I know well ye are avarons (eagerly de-
sirous) ; truly the day of mijdng this letter there
were none new^ but sudi I heard of ye shall be
served withall.

^* As for the firsts the Bang, our Severe^ Lord
and all his true L<»rds stand in health of their
bodies, but not all at hearts-ease as we are.

^' Amongst other marvel, two days afore the wri-
ting of this letter there was a language between my
Lords of Warwick and Cromwell, a^ore the King;
insomuch as my Lord Cromwell would have excus-
ed himself of all the stirring or moving of the male
journey (battlie) of St. Alban's ; of the which excuse
making my Lord Warwick had knowledge, and in
haste was with the King, and swore by his oath,
that the Lord Cromwell spokie not truth, but that
he was the beginner of all that journey at St.
Alban's ; and so between my said two Lords of
Warwick and Cromwell there is at this day great
grudging, insomuch as my lord of Shrewsbury
hath lodged him at the Hospital of St. James (now
St. James's Palace) beside the Mews, by the Lord

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88 ST. alban's abbey.

Cramwell's desire, for his safeguard. And also all
my Lord of Warwick's men, my Lord of York's
men, and also my Lord of Salisbury's men, go with
harness, and in harness, with strange weapons ; and
have stuffed their Lord's barges full of weapons
daily unto Westminster.

'' And the day of making of this letter there was a
proclamation made in the chancery on the King's
behalf; that no man should bear weapon nor wear
harness defensible. Also the day before the making
of this letter there passed a Bill both by the King,
Lords, and Commons, putting Thorp, Joseph, and
my liord of Somerset in all the default ; by the which
bill all manner of actions that should grow to any
person, or persons, for any offences at that journey
done in any manner of wise, should be extinct and
void, affirming all things done there, well done ; and
nothing done there, never after this time to be spo-
ken of; to the which bill many a man grudged full
sore now it is passed.

'' Written at London, on Saint Margaret's Even,
in haste ; and after this is read and understood, I
pray you bum, or break (tear) it, for I am loth to
write any thing of any lord; but I must needs,
there is nothing else to write." The letter is signed
" Henry Windsor."

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MOTES. 89

Just cumbered with his crown of carc-^-'p^ 210.

Henry VI. was crowned by Archbishop Chichely,
at Westminster^ in the year 1429, being then not
quite eight years old. In the great pressure of the
crowd on that occasion, a priest and a woman were
trampled to death.

And royal lodge, a stately pUe. — ^p, 215.

The buildings called the Royal Lodging were se-
parated firom the rest of the monastery, by a range
of cloisters running nearly the whole length of the
church, but divided from it by the great square and
by all the principal buildings of the convent. The
Royal apartments were quietly and pleasantly situa-
ted near the southern edge of the hill, on which
the town stands, overlooking the valley of the Ver.

Audience tfhim they still call £t9}g.— p. 216.

In pursuance of the policy, which masqued the
views of Richard and which dictated the pretence
of fighting^br the King against his person and au-
tiiority, the Yorkists asserted, that a letter had been
despatched for the King, on the morning of the
battle, and intercepted by Somerset, who Tiever de-r
livered it to Henry. But they never produced the.
bearer of this letter. It appears, however, from the
letter of Henry Windsor, quoted in a former note.

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go ST. ALBAN*S ABBEY.

that a sincere dispute did exist between some of the
ddeh of the party^ as to their degrees of guilt in
bringing on the battle ; so that, if the proposal to
compnMnise was never really nukde, there probably
had beeuj at least> such a show of it as deceived
many«

The Earl of Warwick was made Constable of
Calais, either on the evening after the battle, or on
the morning following ; the Diike of York, Consta-
ble <tf England ; Lord Bourchier, Treasurer of Eng*
land.

It was hut harness, thrown aside. — p. 2i2.

'' The Earl of Wiltshire, Thomas Thorpe, Lord
Chief Banm of the Exchequer, and many others fled,
and cast away their harness in ditches and woods."
— Stowe.

•

There lay Earl Stafford, wounded sore^^-^. 246.

Humphrey Stafford, Earl of Stafford, son and
heir of the Duke of Buckingham, was wounded by
an arrow in the hand. He was conveyed away from
St. Alban's in a cart, as were several other wounded
nobles. He died of this wound a few days after*
wards.

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NOTBS. 91

Scarce word shall live, nor sign, to show^'^^. 255.
Very few oS the brasses remain^ that adorned and
identified the numerous grave-stones of abbots^
monks aiid knights^ who rest within the walls of
this Abbey^ in choir or chanoeL The indented
stone alone faintly shows the image^ where the re-
cording brass has once been. One of the largest
brasses was torn off, within memory, because it had
become unriveted at a comer, that turned up and
caught the shoes of passengers ! There is not any
memorial left at St. Alban's of Lord De Clifford, or
of any of the other nobles, who fell in the first
battle and who are elsewhere recorded to have been
buried here, in the Lady Chapel, or in the Nave.
See Weaver. The glaring white-wash, with which
the most venerable walls of this church are disguised,
has eflaced every memorial inscription — ^four only
excepted; one on Duke Humphrey; one on Sir
John Mandeville, the traveller; a third on the
Hermits entombed near the south wall ; and a fourth
recording that the Parliament, during the Plague

of , sat within this Nave. The whitewash,

seizing on what Cromwell's soldiers had suffered to
escape, has spread oblivion over every thing, and
has destroyed the finest effect of this* ancient edifice,
in the gloom, that once wrapt its vaults and pillared
ardies.

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9S ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

On bier and shield while soldiers bore. — p.

The Infirmary of the Abbey^ with the garden
bearing its name^ adjoined the south-west end of
the church, communicating with the doister, which
opened to the south aisle by the beautifully-carved
door, with a canopy of fretworked stone, which is
sdll seen there.

Some were in 'bossed and damasked steeL p. 259.

And showed a casque of steel and gold. — ^p. 270.

Hehnets were sometimes, at this period, stamped
with a scroll pattern, resembling that formerly used
for folding screens, and with which some chambers in
Holland are still hung instead of tapestry. A hel-
met, whidi still retains a few traces of the damask
pattern, stamped either on it, or on its leathern
cohering, is shown at St. Alban's, in St. Peter's
Church. The leather, however, is entirely gone. It
was dug within the walls of the ancient chancel, now
pulled down, and was found near the spot where
formerly the altar stood; a spot now part of the
church-yard, which is slightly penned round, like a
aheep-fold ! It is painful to see a place once dedi*
Gated to sacred purposes, once the site of a Christian
fldtar, preserved with so little reverence. It was
many years since, but within the memory of som^
iOld persons still living (between the years 1802 and

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KOT£S, 9S

1806) in the town> that tbis helmet was dug up. It
had been probably interred with one of the vietisw
of the first battle^ great numbers of whom were bU'-
ried at St. Peter's. That this helmet belonged to
a person of some distinction is certain^ from the si-
tuation^ in which it was found — near the altar. The
derk, who showed it, could give no information^ as to
any epitaph, or circumstance^ that might direct con-
jecture to the name of its late owner. Weaver^ who
mentions only such of the buried as had inscriptions
remaining in his time, notices only three, — Sir Ber-
tin Entwisel of Lancashire, and the elder and young-
er Bapthorp, whose fiill is thus recorded : —

*' Raph Bapthorpe, the father, and Raphe, the
Sonne, of Bapthorpe, in the East Riding of York-
shire ; which, for many descents, hath yielded both
name and reputation to that knightly familie ; fight-
ing in this towne under the banner of King Henry
the Sixth, lost their lives, and here lye buried to-
gether." Weaver then gives their epitaph, but does
not say in what part of the church they were buried.
The tomb of Sir Bertin, he tells us, was " under the
plase of the Lectorium in the quyre, whereas a me-
morial of hym ther yet remeyneth."

As far, therefore, as we depend upon Weaver for
instruction, we have no choice but to suppose, that
this curious and interesting helmet belonged to one

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94 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

of the fonner warriors. It is entire in all its parts
of head-piece^ vizor^ beaver^ and chin^ or neck-piece ;
and that it is of proved iron was sufficiently, though
somewhat irreverently, shown by several hard blows
from the vestry poker, designed to move the bea-
ver, which was held iaat by rusted rivets. This bea*
ver seemed never to have been intended to be raised
with the vizor, but could be lowered over the chin-
piece; from which it might, perhaps, be a little
lifted to unite with the vizor, when that was worn
down. On the edge of the hehnet is the very place
where the plume, or crest, had been fastened. This
most curious relique showed no symptom of decay,
or weakness, from time ; but, within, it exhibited a
very interesting proof that its owner had been in
more than one battle. On the right side of the head-
piece was the sign of a violent blow, from the full
effect of which it had saved its master for that time ;
the helmet, it was plain, had been repaired after
sustaining this blow, for the patch and its rivets are
distinctly visible on the inside, though, without, there
is no appearance of either. It had been lined with
green doth or baize, as some remains yet prove.
The vizor and beaver are of the same sturdy and
still tough iron as the head-pic^e and neck piece, on
which last the rivets, that once fastened it on to the
body-armour, are thickly set and entire. The old

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NOTES. 95

persons^ who remember this helmet in its earlier
state^ tell that it was covered with gilt leather^ of
which the stamped scroll lines seem to bear witness.
With this casque were shown slome large 1^-bones^
which were handled just as Shakspeare's gravedig«
ger turns about the skulls; — merriment upon the
passive bones of those> who have been ! — ^merriment
of that short superiority — that little " brief autho-
rity," some worse exercises of which " make the an-
gels weep !"

Darkling, a watch-monk doth abide. — p. 322.

There is still in the wall an oven-like arch, hold-
ing a small bench, where one of the watch-monks
sat, who guarded the shrine in the south transept.

Then onward, through the eastern arch. — ^p. 322.

This last arch^ which opened upon a painted win-
dow^ that once most beautifully terminated the long
vista of the south aisle, is now bricked up ; and all
beyond^ consisting of the ante-porch of the Lady
Chapel and the chapel itself, is entirely excluded
from the church. In this ante-porch were several
dedicated altars and fine stained windows, whose
fretwork is either filled up with bricks, that darken
the place, or^ being entirely deprived of glass, admits
the swallows, whose nests are in the trefoil tracery.

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96 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

The floor is unpavedj and obstructed by the inequa*
lities of the graves^ the summits of which are heaped
upon it. You shudder as you pass over this dark un-
even floor and that of the ante-chapel^ which sinks
so much towards the centre^ that it seems as if you
were stepping among and almost touching the bones
of the numerous dead buried there. It was in this
porch and in the adjoining chapel^ that the warriors^
kiUed in the first battle of St. Alban's, were mostly
buried ; not a single grave-stone now remains.

The chantry of St. Blaize pass hy, — p. 322.
Bishop Blaize had been an early benefactor to
this Abbey. His chantry was in the ante-chapel of
the Lady Chapel.

WhOyfrom the roof, shall on thee smile, — ^p.^323.

The portrait of Offa was painted on the roof of
the upper north aisle*

Where Michael and St. Patern bend. — p. 323.
An altar dedicated (accordii^ to the perversions
and superstitious modes of the Roman Cathol
ritual) to these saints^ stood in the transept^ bear-
ing their images^ which^ on the days of their several
festivals^ were carried in procession through the
town.

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NOTBS. 97

Ofhfiiest grace and beauty rare.— p. 324.
Three lofty^ pointed arches^ behind the Saint's
chapel and shrine^ and which once opened upon the
poreh and Lady-chapel> may still be traced npon the
wall. They resemble the three fine arches in Sa-
lisbury Cathedral^ in a similar situation^ opening
into St. Mary's ChapeL Before these of St.
Alban's were filled up, the perspective from the
western door of the nave must have been one of the
grandest in England. The effect must have been
heightened by the transverse lights, that fell from
the distant windows of the Ante-chapel, and by the
gradations of narrower and lower arches there,
withdrawing beyond the taH ones of the shrine.

Eastward FUzharding cast his eye. — p. 324*

At the south-east comer of St. Mary's Chapel is
the Oratory, which was allotted by the Abbey for
the observance of masses for the dead. It is now
called the Vestry ; but is closely locked up, during
the ordinary days of the week, although, as appears,
scarcely ever used, except on Sundays, when the
boys of a Sunday school there receive some useful
instruction.

Where. St. Amphihalus long slept » — ^p. 331.
The reliques of St. Amphibalus were so rever

VOL. IV. F

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98 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

by the monks of St. Alban% that^ in the year 1178^
they removed them hither ^ from Redboum^ the
burial-place of St. Amphibalus after his martyrdom.
Abbot Thomas Delamere^ in after-times^ enriched
his shrine, and decreed, that a Prior and three
monks should be appointed to the care of his remains,
with a yearly allowance of twenty pounds.

And wkeaten sheafs and roses spread. — p. 339.

The altar-screen, at St. Alban's, though one of
the finest in England, is not comparable to that at
Winchester for richness and beauty of workmanship.
The lightness of the latter gives it a resemblance
to fine lace. Not a statue remains to occupy the
highly ornamented large and small cells at St.
Alban's. This screen was begun in some of the
last years of Abbot Whethamstede, and finished
during the time of Abbot Wallingford. Both
abbots contributed' largely towards it from their
private fortunes. The arms oi Whethamstede are
carved over the left door of this fine screen.

Not thefi this beauteous screen appeared. — p. 340.

This very beautiful screen, which is said to have
been brought to St. Cuthbert's chapel, once near
the Abbot's cloister, is of the style of the fourteenth
century, and in fine preservation. It was, perhaps.

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NOTES. 99

of a more beautiful prc^rtion originally^ than the
great altar-screen^ though less stately. In few in-
stances can there be found a greater richness than
that of the spiry canopies of its fourteen largest
niches^ or a better lightness than that c£ the double
open-work parapet^ that runs along its summit.
Twenty smaller fretted tabemiicles extend in a line^
below the large ones, now all alike deprived of their
images. Two finely carved doors under pointed
arches apesa, on each side of the place where St.
Guthbert's altar stood^ into that part of the choir^
which is now called his Chapel. The irregularity
of its design was probably occasioned by a necessity
for adapting it to a situation^ for which it was not
originally intended.

And they to organs^ solemn ^fiow^^-p* 350.

Abbot Whethamstede gave a '^ set of organs" to
the choir^ which cost him above fifty pounds — a
large sum in those days. At present^ there is not
any organ in this venerable Abbey-church. A
single oboe^ played in the south transept^ where it
leads the singing of the boys of the Sunday school^
is the only instrument^ that now sounds within these
walls. This simple oboe, however, swells sweetly,
and even solemnly, al<mg the high roofs ; and some-
tzmea a little robin, perched out of sight, is heard to
F 2

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100 8T. alban's abbey.

aooompany it. The wild and solitary notes of tUs
little bird, breaking upon such a scene of ancient
story, wbere once tbe highest pomp of choral min-
strelsy filled every vault and gallery with prayer
and praise from beings, whose bones now rest below,
awaken ideas,- which cannot be described, but which
seem like reccdlections.

Of Richard* death in Pomfret ftwer.— voL iv. p. 2.
In the sixteenth volume of the Ardi8eok)gia, pp.
140, 141, 143, is a curious extract from a manu-
script copy of Hardyng's Chronicle, preserved in
the Harleian Collection in the British Museum,
which copy contains the letter of Defiance, sent by
the indignant lords to Henry the Fourth, immedi'-
ately before the battle of Shrewsbury.

Hardyng prefaces the letter by an explanation,
in which he says, " Truly I, the maker of this boke,
wase brought up fro twelve yere of age in sir
Henry Percy house to the bataill of Shrewsbury,
wher I wase with hym armed of xxv yere of age, as I
had been afore at Homyldon, Cokelawe, and at
divers rodes and feeldes with hym and knewe his
entent and hade it wretyn. Wherfore I have titled
in this booke that for trouth the cause why they
rose ayenst him may evermore be knowe."

Hardyng then says, that the cause was approved by

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NOTES. 101

several persons of rank^ who did not afterwards sup-
port it^ '* thoogh they wer bounde to hym be theire
lettres,and sealls^ which I saw and hade in kepynge
whiles I wase with hym^ and all theire quarell they
sent to kynge Henry in the felde^ writen under the
sealless of their three Arms (the Earls of Northum-
berland and Worcester and Sir Henry Percy) be
Thomas Knayton and Roger Salyayns quers of Sir
Henry Percy ; which quarell nowe followeth nexte
after."

The Defiance (which is too long for this note)
opens with an accusation^ made in very solemn
terms^ against Henry Duke of Lancaster^ that he>
after swearing to them at Doncaster to daim no-
thing in tiie kingdom but his inheritance and that of
his wife^ had imprisoned his and their King in the
Tower of London^ until> under fear of deaths he had
renounced all his rights in England^ France^ and
elsewhere; by colour of which resignation^ he had
crowned himself^ he and his accomplices having col-
lected^ at Westminster^ a crowd of the common peo^
pie to salute him with their vociferations ; — That,
at the same place (Doncaster) and time> he had
swom^ not to levy any tenths from the Clergy, or
fifteenths from the people, or any other taxes, with-
out the consent of the three estates of the king-
dom in Parliament— notwithstanding which he had

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lOS ST. ALBAK^S ABBEY.

levied many taxes by his own authority ;— That
although he had also swom^ at the same place and
tim^^ that King Rkhard should reign and enjoy his
full pren^atives^ during his life, he (Henry) had
imprisoned his sovereign in the castle of Pontefract^
and cansed him to perish by means homd to lekte
—by hunger^ thirst, and cold.

The letter contains some ^ther ehaiges ; and there
is a solemn eloqu^sce in seTeral parts of it, eadi
head of charge commencing with — We declare and
will prove; and each concluding with — Thef^fbre
are yeu perjured and £edse«

It must be admitted, however, that the letter
proves agaixist the writers themselves an intention
of assisting, or, at least, of permitting Bn^ingbroke
to ebtain by force an influence over the exercise of
the royal authority ; for why, otherwise, dMmld they
receive his promise not to levy tenths, or other
taxes, without the consent of the three estates.^
The quarrel seems to be anothar instance' of a truth,
which cannot be too often incfdeated, that tiieeon^
trivers of wnmg generally become curses to each
other, and have the evils they suffer aggrava,ted hy
the consciousness, that they proceed from causes
least apprehended by than«~the ingratitude, or
treachery of each other.

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NOTES. 108

Who to his tomb the scar mill hear, — ^p. 19.
Stowe (edit. 15fi2) says, ''And at that battle
were wounded lords of name. The King was shot in
the neck with an arrowe : Humfrey Duke of Buck-
ingham, and the Lord Sudley, in the visages with
anowes ; Humfirey Earle of Stafforde, in the right
hand, with an acrow; the Earle of D<v«et was so
sore hurt, that he might not go, but was £une to be
caried home in a cart ; and Sir John Wenlocke,
knight, in like wise hurt, and caried from thence
in a chair."

Certain rich robes, which once he wore. — ^p. 35.

On a subsequent occasion, when King Henry had
passed his Easter, at the Abbey, he gave, at his de-
parture, hip best robe, which he had worn only at
this festival, and which his treasurer, knowing it to
be the only one he had suitable for his appearance
on high ooremonies, re-purchased for fifty marks,
before he left the Abbey. This, sum the King,
however;, directed to be laid out in gold doth, of
gseat value, called crimesyqie thissue, and to be
made up in one cop^ a chasuble, and two tunics.
It was, in fiict, on this oocasifinA that he also begged
of the Abbot and monks one &your, — *^ that they
would appoint fOk anniversary tfi remember him

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104 ST. ALBAN^S ABBEY.

their benefactor; and that they would fix it by
the day of his death." This Obit was to be ob-
served "for ever." Little did he conjecture, when
he made this affecting request^ that the day from
which he would have it take effect, would be that
of his murder ; and that the '^ for ever'' of this
memorial would never commence, but the me-
mory of him be forbidden^ and his kingdom wrested
from his descendants* Even when it was won back
by a collateral branch of the Lancastrian line, it
does not appear, that this anniversary was ever re-
membered by his relative, though Henry the Se-
venth, by his will, appointed that an anniversary
should be observed for himself in this very Abbey ;
for which purpose he left an annual stipend of " an
hundreth shelyngs." This will, besides showing the
contrast between the characters of the two sove-
reigns, affords throughout one of the most striking
and humiliating combinations of worldly vanity
and of a superstitious perversion of Religion, which
the weakness and inconsistency of the human mind
ever exhibited ; and that too from a man of shrewd
perception and dextrous £eiculties, in temporary pur-
suits. Henry the Sixth, who would have been con-
tented with a simple Obit, shows more good sense, on
many occasions, if you closely observe his conduct.

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NOTES. 105

Henry the Seventh^ not indeed in this plaoe^ but at
Westminster carefully stipulates for every circum-
stance of the c^emonies^ that are to honour his
memory in the sepulchral palace^ which he endows
with rich revenues^ as if to console himself for the
loss of his earthly authority by a prospect of the
shadowy reign^ the pageant power^ that might exist
£or him, after death should have put a seal upon his
worldly passions. Even the vestments, which he
bequeaths " to the Abbots Prior^ and Convent*^ of
Westminster^ are to be thus ornamented— '^ the
whole suite of vestiments and coopes of clothe of
gold tissue, wrought with our badgieg of rede rase*
and portecuUey8, the which we of late> at our proper
costs and charges^ caused to be made and provided,
at Florence in Italic, that is to saie, the hoole vesti-
ments for the priest, the deacon^ and subdeaoon,
and twenty-nine Coopes of the same clothe and
work/' It is "curious to observe how carefully the
white rose is excluded, and how duly the port-
cullis, the Lancastrian badge descending to him
from John of Gaunt, appears in every thing. Hav-
ing directed that " an ymage of a King, representing
our owen person," shall be placed upon St. Ed-
mund's shrine ; he speaks of his crown as having been
obtained "with the victorie of our ennemey, at our
p 5

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106 ST. albak's abbey.

int lelde.** Then, witli kia nami mmiimem, he
" addi» we wqH tba^ ^nr aaid ymagebe above the kne
of tbe hight of thre fbto> aoe UMUt tike hide und
half the breete of our said yiaage may oUetlj
app^re above and o^er lihe said Giowne;md that
upon booth rides of the said taUe be a oonTe*
aient brode border, and the same to be graven and
written with large letfeers> blake enamdled, these
words. Rex Henricus Septunus."— Will of K. Hen.
7th.

BND OF N0TB8 ON ST. AI^BAN S ABBSY.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

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SALISBURY PLAINS.
STONEHENGE.

I.
Whose were the hands^ that upheaved these stones

Standings like spectres^ under the moon>

Steadfetst and solemn and strange and alone>
As raised by a Wizard— a king of bones !
And whose w^s the mind^ that willed them reign.

The wonder of ages, simply sublime?

The purpose is lost in the midnight of time ;
And shadowy guessings alone remain.

II.
Yet a tale is told of these vast plains.
Which thus the mysterious truth explains:
'Tis set forth in a secret legend old.
Whose leaves none living did e*er unfold.
Quaint is the measure, and hard to follow.
Yet sometimes it flies, like the drding swallow.

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110 SALISBURY PLAIKS.

in.
Near unto the western strand^
Lies a tract of sullen land>
Spreading 'neath the setting lights

Spreading, miles and miles around>

Which for ages still has frowned :
Be the sun all wintry white.

Or glowing in his summer ray.
Comes he with morning smile so bright.

Or sinks in evening peace away>
Yet still that land shows no delight !

lY.

There no forest leaves are seen.
Yellow com, nor meadow green.
Glancing casement, grey-mossed roof.
Rain and hail and tempest proof;
Nor, peering o'er that dreary groundi.
Is spied along the horizon's bound
The distant vane of village spire.
Nor far-off smoke ftom lone inn fire.
Where weary traveller might rest
With blazing hearth and browu ale blest.
Potent the long night to beguile.
While loud without raves the Ueak wind ;

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STOKEHBJIGE. HI

No: Us dark vay he tkere mast ahiveiuig 6nA;
No signs ol lest upon the vide w^steaioUe,

Y«

But the knd lies in grwnm «w«^

Of hills not loffcy^ vales Qoit deefu

Or endless plains where the traveUer fearq

No humaxi voice shall reach his ears ;

Where faintest peal of unknown bells

Never along the lone gale swells ;

Till^ folding Im floek^ sQxne shepb^d appeaji

And Saliabiixy steeple it's csrest uprear;

But that 's o'er iniles yet mauj to tell>
O'er many a hollow^ many a swell ;
And that shepherd seesit^ oowhere now there>
Like a Will o'-*the wiap in the evening air.
As his way winds over eacb hill and dell.
Where once the ban at the Wmrd fell !

vj.
Would you know why this country so desolate lies ?
Why no sound but the tempest's is heard, as it

Or the croak of the raven^ or bustard's eries ?
Why the com does not spring nor a cottage rise ?

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118, SALISBURY PLAINS.

WI17 no Tillage-Gliiirch is here to raise

The blest hymn of humble heart-felt praise.

Nor ring for the passing soul a knell^

Nor give to the dead a hallowed cell.

Nor in wedlock-bonds unite a pair.

Nor sound one merry peal through the air ?

All this and much more would you know ? And

why.
And how, Salisbury spire was built so high.
As &iries had meant it to prop the sky ?
Then listen and watch, and you soon shall hear
What never till now hath met mortal ear!

VII.

It was far, £ar back in the dusky time.
Before Church-bells had learnt to chime.
That a Sorcerer ruled these gloomy lands
Far as old Ocean's southern sands.
•He lived under oaks of a thousand years.
Where now not the root of an oak appears !
On each high bough a dark fiend dwelt.
Ready to go, when his name was spelt,
Down, down to the caves where the Earthquake

slept.
Or up to the clouds, where the whirlwind swept.

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STONEHENGE. 113

VIII.

The Sorcerer never knew joy, or peace.

For still with his power did pride increase.

He could ride on a wolf from the North to Souths

With a bridle of serpents held fast hj the mouth ;

And he minded no more the glare of his eyesi

That flashed about as the lightning flies.

Than the red darting tongue of the 8nake» that

coil'd
Round his bridling hand, and for liberty toil'd.
He could sail on the clouds from East to West,
He rested not, he ! nor let others rest ;
And' evil he wrought, wherever he went,
* For, he worked, with Hela's and Loke's consent.
^ The BRANCH of SPECTRES she gave for his wand.
And nine hundred imps were at his command !
He could call up a storm from the vast sea-wave.
And, when ships were wrecked, not a man would he

save!
He could call a thunder-bolt down from a cloud.
And wrap a whole town in a fiery shroud !

» b See the Notes at the oonclusion of this Poem.

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114 SALISBURY PLAINS.

IX.

He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead.

Through valleys of darkTiess, by snakes' eyes
shown.
And pass o'er the bridge, that to Hehi led.

Where afar off was heard the wolf Fenris' groan.
While it guarded her halls of pain and grief.

Where she nursed her children — Famine and Fear ;

He could follow a spectre, even here.
With the dauntless eye of a Wizard-chief.
He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,
Till it passed the halls of Hela the dread.
He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead.
Till it came where the northern lights flash red.
Then the ghost would vanish amid their glow.
But the Wizard's bold steps could no farthw go !
And whether those lights were weal« or woe.
The Sorcerer's self might never know.
All this and more he full offcen had done.
And changed to an ioe-ball the flaming Stin *

Now Odin had watched from his halls of light
This dark Wizard's fell and increasing might ;

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STOM£UBN«K. 115

And clearly he kiiew, that his craft he drew

' From the Witch af Death and the Evil Sprite/

Who> though chain'd in darkneaa, and hx below^

Sent his shadows on earthy to work it woe.

This Wizard had even defied his power^

For once^ in the dim and lonely ho«u%

When Odin had seen him riding the air^

And bid him with his bri^t glance forbear^

Great Odin's look he would not obey^

But went^ on his cloudy his evil way !

He had dared to U8urp> when invoking a stiMrm,

The likeness of Odin's shadowy £arm>

And^ when Odin sang his hmed song of Peace^

That hushes and bida the wild winds o^ase^*

While it died the sleepy woods amoBg>

And the moon-light vale had owned the song.

The Wizard called back the stormy gust>

O'er the spell^struck vale> and bade it burst !

c Hela. ^ lioke.

• Odin boasts of pOMeaslngsaoh a song. Had Milton Men
the boast of it in the Edda, when he wrote ?—
«« He, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,
Well knew to still the wild waves, when they roar,
And hnsh the waving woods.**

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116 SALISBUEY PLAINS.

The woods their murmuring branches tossed^
And the song— -the song of Peace — ^was lost —
Then Odin heard the groan of thrilling Fear
Ascend from all the region^ fieur and near.
And, as it slowly gained upon the skies.
He heard the solemn call of Pity rise !

XI.

Then Odin swore.
By the hour that is no more ! *
By the twilight hour to come !
By the darkness of the tomb !
By the flying warrior's doom !

Then Odin swore,
By the storm-light's lurid glare !
By the shape, that watches there !
By the battle's deadly field !
' By his terrible sword and snow-white shield.
The Sorcerer's might to his might should 3rield.

XII.

While Odin spoke, the clouds were furled.
And those beneath, as stories say,

f The shield of Odin was said to be white as snow.

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8TON£H£N6£. 117

Lost the mgfat

Of our earthly light,
And caught a glimpse above the world I
But the phantasma did not stay :
It passed in the growing gloom away !
And from that hour these stories date
The fiatefnl strife we now relate.

XIII.

N0W4 there was a Hermit, an ancient man.

Who oft lay deep in solenm trance.

Watching bright dreams of bliss advance ;
And marvellous things of him there ran ;
He had lived almost since the world began !
The people feared him, day and night.

And loved him, too, for they knew that he

Abhorred their wizard-enemy.
And wished and hoped to do them right.

He owned the spell of Minstrelsy !
And in the hour of deepest shade.
When he would seek his forest-glade,
(It was of grey oaks in a gloomy hoUow
Where never footsteps dared to follow,)

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118 SALISBURY PLAINS.

And called from his harp a oertam soond.

Pale shadows would stand in his {nvsenoe 'round !

How this could be known, without a spell,

I must briefly own I never oould tell.

— But, be that as it may—- on that note's swell.

Whether th^ sleeping were in halls of light.

Or followed the stars down the deeps of ni^t.

Or watched the wounded Warrior's mortal sigh.

Or after some ill-^tmng Sprite did fly.

On that note's swell they to the Hermit hie ;

And heed his questions, wait on his command ;

These were the Spirits white of Odin's band.

XIV.

Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,

And to him, at times, his fetvour lent ;
He was the first of the Druids here ;

And did all their laws and rites inrent.

Some stories say a Druid never bent
At Odin's shrine ; and oth^s may have told
The self-same tale, that here for truth I hold ;
He was the first of all the Druid race :

Owning the spell serene of Minstrelsy !

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STONEHEliOE. 119

But though he oft the Runic rhyme did traoe>

No wizard he!
No fiend he called^ no fiend he served.
And never had from justice swerved.
From mystic learning came his power.
His name was from his oaken-bower.
He was the fibst of all the Dbuid raob !

XV.

And Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,
And, when the solemn call for pity rose.
This goodly man to do his bidding chose,

A sage like whom was found not £ar or near :

Upon his head the s&ows of ages lay.
Hung o'er his glowing eyes and waving beard.

Touched every wrinkle with a paler grey.
And made him marvelled at, and shunned, and

feared;
Yet, with this awe, love, as I said, appeared.

XVI.

He was gone to his home of oak ;

Starlight 'twas and midnight nigh ;
Not one wistful word he spoke.

But his magic harp stnmg high ;

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120 SALISBURY FLAIKS

As he touched the calling strings
Hear it through the branches ring.

Till on lower clouds it broke.
Straight in his bower dim shapes were seen
By the fitfiil lights that rose within.
And reddened the dark boughs above.
And chequered all the shadowy grove.
And tinged his robe and his beard of snow,
And waked in his eyes their early glow !
While, as alternate rose and sunk the gleam.
The tree itself a bower or cave would seem !

XVII.

The Druid, wrapt in silence, lay ;

No need of words ; his thoughts were known ;

" Odin has heard his people's groan,"
Spoke a loud voice and passed away.
Another rose, of milder tone !
'' The mighty task is now thine own.
To free the land from wizard-guile ;

If thou hast wisdom to obey.
And courage to fiUfil the toil,

Odin, for ages, to thy sway

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8T0NEHBN6E. ISl

Gives each long plain and every sloping dell^
Now suffering by the sinful Sorcerer's spell."

XVIII.

A third voice spoke^ and jthns it said—

" Listen and watch I for thou must brave

The wily Wizard's inmost cave ;
And> while he sleeps^ around his head
Bind a charm^ that shall help thee draw
Each fang from his encnrmous jaw ;
There lies the force of all his spells.
Hundred and forty teeth are there
In triple rows ; his art they share.
Hundred and forty thou must draw^
From upper and £rom under jaw.
Quick must thou be ; ^, if the charm

Breaks and his bond of sleep is o'er.

Ere yet thy task is done, no power
Can save thee from his vengeful arm.
Thence from his. cave, at magic's hour.
Speed thou ; and close beneath his bower
Bury the fangs nine fathom deep.
Or ere thine eyelids dose in sleep :

VOL. !▼• G

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122 SALISBUKT PLAINS.

With them his guile for ever laid^
Thine ia the hni, which late he swayed.'^

zix.
The voice is passed, and once more stiUneas req^a:
The Druid's trance is o'er ; yet he retains

A wildered and a hazard look^
As pondering still the urgent word, .
And wonderotts call he just had heard.

And sure instruction £rom that call he took I
zz.
And from this hour he was not seen.

Neither on hill, nor yet in dale ;
By the brown heath, nor forest green.

Nor by the rills, where waters wail ;

By sun-light, nor by moonbeam pale.
But his shape was seen, by star-light sheen ;

Or so the carle dreamt, who thus told the tale !
zzi.
For many a ni^t and many a day.
Close within his bower he lay.
For many a day and many a night.
Hid £rom sight, and hid from light.
Trying the force of his mystic might ;

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STONBHENGE. 128

Working the chirm should shield him from harm.
When he in the Wizard's cave should be.
To set the wretched country free.

He owned *nm SPELL OF MiNSTBELaT.

xzii.
It boots not that I here should say
What arts the Druid did essay :
How with the misletoii he wrought.
That twined upon hk oldest oak,
{low midnight daw* he careful caught
From nightshade, nor the words he spoke.
When he mixed the charm with a moonbeam cold.
To form a web, that should fiE»t enfold
The Sorcerer's eyes — vast Warwolf the bold.

Nor boots it, that I here should say
The dangers and changes, that him befell
On his murky course to WarwolTs cell; —
For, circled safe with many a subtle charm.
Was his dark path along the forest- way ;
The lamp he bore sent forth its little ray.
And sometimes showed around strange shapes of harm
Oliding beneath the trees, now dose beside ;
o3

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124 SALISBURY IPLAIKS.

Now distant they would standi obscurely seen
Among the old oaks' deep-withdrawing green.

XXIII.

But the calm Druid touched th' according string
Of the small harp he bore^ with skill so true
That straight they left their shape and faithless
hue!
Then voices strange would in the tempest sing.
Calling along the wind^ now hmA, now low^
And now^ far off^ would into silence go :
Seeming the very fiends of wail and woe !
Again tb' enchimting chord the Druid woke^
(*Twas as the seraph Peace herself had spoke^)
And hushed to silence every wizard-foe.

XXIV.

The story could unfold much more>
That the daring wanderer bore.
O'er valley and rock and starless wood.
Ere at the Sorcerer's cave he stood.
There come, he paused ; for even he, I ween.
Confessed the secret horrors of the scene.
A place like this in all the spreading bound

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STON£HE2^GB. 126

Of these low plains can nowhere now be found.

And scarcely will it be, I fear^ believed
That beetling cliffs did ever rear the head
O'er lands as wavy now as ocean's bed.

But these huge rocks on rocks by might extinct were
heaved.

XXV.

It was where the high trees withdrew their boughs,
And let the midnight-moon behold the scene.

That hoary difis unlocked their marble jaws, '
And showed .amekndioly cave between.

With deadly nightshade hung and aconite.

And every plant and shrubs that worketh spite ;

Upon their shuddering leaves the moonlight fell

But left no silver tinges there to tdl

The winning power of simple Beauty's spell ;
Nor touched the rocks, that hung in air.
With glimpse of lustre, passing fedr ;

A dull and dismal tinge it shed.

Such as might gleam on buried dead !

And led^ as with a harbingering ray.

The Druid's steps, where the grim Wizard lay.

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1S6 SALISBURY PLAINS.

XXVI.

It led his steps ; bat he^ in silent thonghty
Stood long before th* expected cave ;
For he beheld what none could brave.

Who had not yet with magic weapon fimght ;

He stood, the unknown cave before ;

High shot the little flame he bore.

Then sunk as low, then spired again.

And gleamed throughout the WarwolTs den ;

It glanced on the harp at the Druid's breast ;

It brightened the folds of his gathered vest !

And chased the shade, that hung o'er his brow.

Bound with the sacred misletoe ;

It silvered the snow of his wavy beard.
It showed the strong lines of age and care.
But the lines of Virtue mingled there.

And wisdom benignant, yet stem, appeared.

XXVII.

Long before that cave he stood.

For, hovering near.

Dark shapes of fear
Among the nightshade seemed to brood.
And watchful eyes, between the leaver

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STOMSHSNGX. 187.

Now here, now there, portentous glare.
Direful to him, who fears andgrievesy
As meteors fl j
Through « troubled Aj^
When the autuma thunder-storm is near.

XXTIU.

And liirice he turned him to the east.

And sprinkled the juice of the misletoe ;
And thrice he turned him to the east.

And the flame he bore then changed it's glow ;
And thrice be tomed him to the east, •

And the flame he bore burned high, burned low.
Then a solemn straia ham his harp arose ;
'Moog the leaves the watching eyes 'gan dose ;
One by one, they were dosed in night.
Till sunk in sleep was the Wizard's might*
For, by his art, the Druid knew»
That Warwolf, though he lay unseen.
His deepest, darkest cave within.
Closed his eyes, when these eyes dosed.
And now in death-like swoon reposed.
And the Druid knew, that hitherto

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128 SALISBURY PLAINS.

The spell of Hifinstrelsy was trae

But the Druid kaew, that he must rue^

If the magic sound of his harping ceased

Ere his terrible task was fully done ;
For Warwolf would wake> and^ from spell released^

Call from their slumber the fiends it had won.
• xxix.

The Druid knew this ; and he knew moreo'er,
That^ the moment he ti^od in the Wizard's den.
Other fiends would spring from their sleep within^
To clamour and curse^ with a luMrible din.
If he left not his harp at the cave's door ;
If he left it there^ %nd the winds should deign
To call out it's sweet and magic strain.
The strain of his harp would with theirs contend ;
And if theirs were baffled, his toil would end ;
If their's should triumph, his life was o'er.
Yet he left his harp at the cavern door ;
But he traced a just drde where it hung,
And high in an oak's green branches swung.

As now the Druid took his way

In the untried cave, where the Wizard lay.

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STONEHBNOE. 129

Often he lingered and listened Qft>
Still the distant harp was swelling soft ;
And he paced up the cave^ without dismay^
Under scowling rocks^ between slia^y walls.
Where the gleam of his lamp^ as it faintly fEdls,
Shows a frowning face^ or a beckoning hand^
Or a gliding foot> or the glance of a wand.
Yet oft at a distance he sweetly hears
The joy of his liarp^ and he nothing fears.
Till he comes, where a light now flashed and fled.
Which darted, he knew^ frota the Wixard's bed.
There opened the Wall to a lofty hall>
And he viewed what must mortal heart appal. .

XXXI.

Outstretched and grim on his stony bed.

All ghastly-pale, like a giant dead.

With eyes half closed the Wizard lay.

His half-shut mouth his fangs display.

The skin of a dragon junscaled was his shroud ;

A rock was his bier ; his watcher was Fear,
And the winds were his mourners shrill and loud.

And the caverns groaned their echoes severe,
o 5

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130 SALISBUBr PLAINS.

At his couch's foot lay a wolf at length.
But hanaless in sleep was his sinewy strength,
'Twas the wolf he had ridden from north to south ;
All uncurled were the serpents, that bridled his

mouth.
And the black, clotted stains might yet be seen
Of his yesterday's prey the teeth between.

XXXII.

The Druid approached, with caution and dread ;

The Wizard was pale ; but, was he dead ?

Here waited the Druid his harp's sweet sound.

It's note was now dianged; like a deep-drawn sigh.

He heard it's faint swell, and he heard it die ;

Then knew he full well, that danger was nigh.

He often and stead&stly looked around :

No spectre appeared in the dim-seen bound .!

The Druid approached, with caution and dread ;

The Wizard was pale ; but, was he dead ?

As the Druid bent o'er that giant form.

While his lamp glared pale on the haggard brow.
And showed the huge teeth in a triple row.

He muttered the words, that will- still a storm.

That can struggle with Loke and aU his swarm.

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CTOKSUENGS. 131

ZZZIII.

The moaniixig winds o'er vast Warwdf were still;

No breath from the Wizard's pale lips bodes ill.

Yet could not the Druid those £uigs once view.

And know the task he was bidden to dob

Without feeling his rery heart-blood chiU.

He hung his lamp on a sharp rock near.

He bent again o'er vast WarwolTs bier.

And he touched one fang, with prudent fear.

XZXIV.

But, why does he start, and why does he stand
As though he saw Hela's shadowy hand ?
He has heard the shridk of his harp 9&u !
He has felt the glance of his evil star 1
And he hastens to fold his duirmed band

Round the cold damp brows of his foe.
But not all the strength of his magic might
CSan lift the head from its stony bed.

Or the strong bandage pass below.
To press the Wizard's forehead tight ;

So he laid it loosely on the brow.

Thea he took from the rock his fisdthful lamp.
And sprinkled the flame on the forehead damp.

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182 SALISBURY PLAINS.

Straight the head uprose^ and the lips unclosed^

And each of the terrible Hangs exposed.

And now he hastened to pass the band ;

He tied the knot with a shaking hand,

But tied it firm^ — ^he tied it fest.

That it might w^U and sure outlast

The stru^le of every mighty pang.

And then he seized one hideous fang>

And threw it on the ground !

No blood escaped the wound.

Hark, to the harp's now rising sound I

He knew the fiends were fighting round it.

But he knew that his charmed circle bound it*

XXXVI.

And when he had seized the second tooth.
He thought that he heard the Wizard sigh I

The third required the strength of youth.
But he won it, and the Wizard unclosed an eye f

Senseless and dim, at first, it showed.
But quickly a livid glare outspread, ,
Which changed to a light of enraged red.

And strongly as a furnace glowed.

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STONEHENGE. 133

But the glow died away in the livid ray ;
And, touciied by the spell, the eyelid fell.
Like a stomi-cloud over the setting day.

xxxvii.
At the ninth drawn fang^ the Wizard's hair

Rose up and began to twine and twist.
Like serpents, and like to serpents hissed I
Till it curled all on fire.
In many a spire.
And the bridle-snakes, that lay on the ground.
Began to stir, and to coil them around ;
And the wolf reared up his grisly head>

And fiercely bristled his watchfiil ears ;
His foamy jaws grinned close and red.
And a rolling fire in his eye appears.
As he looks back o'er the Wizard's bed.

xxxvni.
Id that the harp > or is it the wind.
Murmuring £rom the cave behind ?
It is the wind ! 'tis not the harp !
See ! Warwolf 's face grows long and sharp ;
About his mouth a grim smUe draws.
And the fiends know well his dire applause !

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184 SALIMUBT PLAINS.

The cfaanned band can scarcely bear

The 8tni|^;liBg of his writhing brow.
Watching that horrid strife^ the Druid stood^
His harp's tones answered to his fearful mood ;
Then he thought of the deeds of Balder good :
He muttered the Helper song of Odin ;
He fiau^ed to the frost, that has lire within ;
And thrice he bowed him o'er the bier>

Sprinkling the mystic misletoe.
Now WarwolTs fiendly smile is gone^

His brow is steadfast and severe ;

Slow fiEdls each hair to it's dark lair.
Quenched are the fire-snakes every one.
The wolf, half-raised on his worn daws.
Stands fixed as stone, with grinning jaws
And upward eyes, as watchful still
To do his Wizard's vengeful will ;
Hk bridle of serpents, coiled o'er his head.
Remains, and their tongues are yet living«red ;
But they dart no death, and no malice they shed ;
And their hisses have ceased; for their venom is
dead!

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STONEHENGS. 185

XXXIX.

Hark ! hark ! afar what feeble note
Begins, like dawn of day, to float ?
Hark ! it is the rejoicing string.

Sounding sweetly along the wind !
Never did mortal manic fling

Notes so cheering, notes so kind.
The Dniid hoped, yet feared and sighed.
And then again his task he plied.

XL.

Three times nine of the fangs he drew.
And the Wizard did not change his hue !
Three times three and three times nine.
And his lamp more dimly 'gan to shine.
When he tried the very last fang of all,

Warwolf lifted an arm on high ;

And fftintly waved the hand.

That held the Spbctrb»Wani>,
As though he would some evil Spirit call.

His arm he did but feebly ply«
Like one, who,_in an agitating dream,

Mimicks some action of his waking hour.
Pursuing still his often-baffled aim.

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136 SALISBUBY FLAIKfl.

And struggling with the wish, without the power^
To chase the phantoms, that all living seem !

The Spbctrb-Wand had lurked within
The dragonVmany-folded skin.

That was the Wizard's shroud.
Now, firmly grasping that dread wand.
Which ne*er disowned its master's hand.

He called on Hela loud !•—
But he called Hela ! once alone.

Low sunk the muttered spell ;
No fiends th'. imperfect summons own.

His lifted arm down felL
Now tried the Seer, but tried in vain.
The hateful SpBOTaE-WANB to gain ;

Which stiU vast Warwolfs fingers grasped.

As though his only hope they clasped.
Till every tendon seemed to strain.

XI.II.

The Druid tried to break the wand.

But, by its forceful charm secured.
And held, as if by iron hand,

The mighty struggle it endured.

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8TOK£H£K6£. 137

In the long strife the Druid turned.

And spoke again dread Hela's name ;
The Druid's lamp then fedntly burned.

Quivered again the failing flame.
He, by the signal undismayed.

Another daring e£fbrt made :

He tried again the last strong ^Eing :

The Wizard started at the pang.
But, though his lips 'moved at his will.
His wish they could not now fulfill.

The wolf, though standing fixed as stone.

Uttered one long and yelling groan ;
■ And his kindling eyes began to stream ;
*'X7ien sunk the Druid's lamp's last gleam !

XLIII.

Oh ! what is become of the harp's far sound ?
Sadder it mourns, and yet more weak ;
I hear it but faintly, faintly speak ;
And I see the Druid upon the ground
In speechless alarm.
Despairing his charm ; —
The last of his spells had the fiends now found ?

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188 SALISBUEY PLAINS.

ZLIY.

Whence is the light, that 'gins to wave P

'Tis not his lamp, it's beams are shorn.
Nor fire, nor flame, through all the cave

The Druid sees, aghast, fbrlom.
But look not on the Wizard's bier.
For, the red light is streaming there.

That threatens unknown ill;
Both, both his glaring ejes unclose !
The hall with lurid lightning glows ;

As if at WarwolTs will.
The harp, the harp ! where is it*s note ?
I hear no distant music float !
He tried to lift his head
From off his rocky bed.

But the charmed band was true and strong ;

Vast WarwolTs groans were loud and long,
And every mighty limb convulsive heaved.

Could I have told the horrors of his face.
The tale, too fearful, would not be believed.

Th' astonished Druid stood some little space ;
So hideous and so ghastly was the sight.
That e'en his firmness viewed it with aflright ;

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STONEHEN6E.

189

What then he thought may ne'er be told ;
But what his fate this story may unfold.

XLT.

Then lifting his eyes from off the bier>
A pallid shade confronts him near.
It surdy is the form of Fear !
It has her wild red look, her spectre-eye.
Her attitude, as in the act to fij ;
Her backward glance, her fece of livid hue.
Her quivering lip, dropping with coldest dew ;
Her breathless pause, as waiting to descry
The nameless, shapeless, harm, that must be nigh !
He waved the Branch of Spbctrbb o'er the bier ;
^Twas Hela's self — ^the mother of wan Fear !
The Druid knew her by that dreadful wand
And by the glimpses of her flitting band.

When he saw the berried misletoe,

ProifiGuied to conjure deeds of woe.
Fear was subdued, indignant ire arose.
The Druid-soul, disdainful of repose.
Knew not to tamper with his Order's foes.

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1^ 6ALISBUET PLAIK8.

XhYU

She waved it o'er the half-gone Wixard's head ;

A tremour crept upon his bloodless cheek ;
And see ! he turns upon his rocky bedj

He moves his lips^ that have not strength to speak.

She spoke : " Wake, Wanvolfc from thy trance ;

The phantoms of thy fate advance ;

Or wake not ; th' abject plain shall tell

The change^ that still awaits thy speU.^

The sun shall set^ the moon shall rise ;
Four and twenty hours shall go ;

TJie sun shall set^ the moon shall rise ;

Then each oak of the forest dies !

For thy bones shall have rule below."

ZLVII.

With shaded, eyes the Druid stood^

Wrapt in dismay and fearful thought ;
But now^ awaking from his mood^

The last of all his spells he wrought.
Three bands he tore from his night-woven vest^

And sprinkled the oil of his failing lamp.
The Wizard sunk on his bed in rest !

Thrice on the ground did the Prophetess stamp^

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STOlQBHEKaE. 141

And shook her streaming hair

In daemon-like despair.
And stretched athwart the bier her withering hand^
And^ shrieking^ waved three times the Spxctbjs-

Wand.

XLTIII.

At the first shriek^ dark spreading mists appear ;

And^ in the midst» a Spectre^ trembling Fear ;

A wreath of aspin qniyered round her hair.

More grisly pale than the Prophetess she ;

More wild and haggard face could never be«

At the next ahriek> distorted Pain,

With rolling eyes, that seemed to strain,

Started along th' affrighted ground.

With dreadful yell and fitful bound ;

Even dark Hela shuddered^ as he rose.

For Hela could not grant him short repose.

To the third shriek the Spectbb-Bbanoh waved

high.
A dim Shape oame more dread than Pain or Fear ;
Fell woe was in her eye^ but not one tear !
A poniard in her breast^ but not one sigh !

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142 SALISBURY PLAINS.

All ghastly washer fiace^ and yet a senile

Was wandering on, bat owned no thought^ the

while;
Unnoticed blood distilled from her loose hair !
She spoke not, wept not, looked not — 'twas Despair! .

XLIX.

Helft, as toudied by her cold hand.
Stood, when she saw these shadows rise

To the fialse summons of her waad>
Stood, like a wretch, who guilty dies.

'^ Ye come uncalled* Why are ye here ?*'

'' We wait around vast Warwolf s bier."

'* Ye come unwelcomed. Hence, away !"

But Hela saw, with dire dismay.

Her children would no more obey.

They gathered round the Wizard's bed,

De^air drooped mutely o'er his head,
. And Hela sunk, in mist^ down to the dead 1

Then the flame of the Druid's lamp returned.
And as dear as the morning-light it burned^
And the harp's triumphant sound
Lightly danced the cavern round.

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STOKSHEKGS, 14S

And filled the ranlted roof^ on )agh.
With the loud song of trath and joy ;
Through every hollow rock it rang ;

The Echoes tell not all the notes^
For ne'er before had they heard snng

Such song as now around them floats.

LI.

At the first note, round Warwolfs bier>
The ghastly shadows disappear.
And a darh doud began to rise>
That wrapt him from the Druid's eyes.

Who gathered and counted the conquered iangs ;
Then, thankful, from the cave he hies.

To seek the lorn place, where the cymbal clangs
Of the Wizard's imp, as it watches his bower ;
There to bury the teeth, at the magic hour.

LIT.

From the mouth of the cave his harp he took.
And hung it near his grateful heart ;

The wires with answering rapture shook.
And hope and courage did impart.

But its cautious master, true

To the whde task he had to do.

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144 SALISBURY PLAINS.

Bent^ with tempered mind^ his way.
Whither the Sorcerer's bower lay.
Through the forest he heard oEax

The cymbal's hoarsely-danging jar.
Till he came to a widely-spreading plain.
Then ceased the Wizard's threatening strain ;

All was still as yon setting star.
But, for the bower he looked around in Tain,
Unless that giant-tree be his strange bower,
A ruin now like him, and 'reft of power.

LIU.

In the centre it stood — a withered oak ;
It's shadow was gone, and it's branches broke ;
It's mi^ty trunk, knotted all round and round.
And gnarled roots, o'erspreading the ground.
Were proofs of summers that on it had shone.
And honours of old from the tempests won.
In generations all past and gone.
And a scant foliage yet was seen.
Wreathing it's hoary brows with green ;
Like to a crown of victory.
On some old Warrior's forehead grey.

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So reverend was it's look^ it seemed to speak
Of times long buried^ that had passed it by
And left it there thus desolate to sigh

To the wild winter-winds^ in murmurs weak ;
A spectre of the woods^ shadeless and pale>
A form of vanished agesj whose dark tale
It onoe beheld^ and seemed by fits to wail.

LIV.

Here came the Druid^ with firm^ silent tread.
To bury deep the fangs of Warwolf dread.
Now> by the waning Moon's red, slanting ray.
By her long, gloomy shadows on the way,
^Two circles round about the oak he traced.
And, as with measured step and slow he paced.
And Runic words of secret import drew.
The mighty lines wider and wider grew.
As watery circles o^er a lake increase ;
At length they rested, where he bade them cease.
Watching the minutes of the downward moon.
He walked th' enchanted Celtic circles duly o'er ;
Dropping, at every bidden step, a fang.

VOL. IV, H

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146 SALISBITBY PLAINS.

One fieuig to every step lie gave, no more.
Meanwhile bis harp, unsmote, with strange notes
rang!

The vast circumference he paced not soon ;
One hundred and forty minute-steps past.
Ere was paced the widest cirde and last ;

And the pde moon, behind the forest-shade.
Sunk with a small and smaller curve of light ;

O'er the wood-tops he watched her last glow hde.
Till every lingering ray was lost in night.

The hour is won ! — the spell is done !

The Druid to rest in his bower is gone !

LV.

Now LiSTSN AND WATCH, and you shall see
What passed around that old oak-tree.
The marvdlous story must now be told
Of the ban's last force of Warwolf bold.
When next the midnight-moon was seen.
The Druid returned to the forest green ;
That forest green on yester-night.
Now mourned in all its leaves a blight !
And now were its branches shattered and bare ;
Nor tree, nor bough, did the Sorcerer uparC;;

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8T0KEHEN6E. 147

Dire was the hour when he waked from hia swoon !

O'er all the region^ hi and nigh.

Far as the Druid cast his eye,
(Under the glimpses of the low-hung moon)

The lands all black and desolate lie !
But whither the Wizard his-self was fled.
And whether still living in trance, or dead,
(^ what was become of his horrid den.
Were matters not reached by the Druid's ken.
Nor diff, nor rock, was e'er seen from that hour.
On wilds, that had owned the Sorcerer's power ;
Not an oak, or green bank, on hill or dale.
That once waved in Summer's and Winter's gale.

LVI.

The Druid pressed on through the lifeless wood.
Till he reached the plain, where the old oak stood.
Now listen and watch, and you shall see
What was done around that warrior tree.
Scarce could the Druid now believe.
That phantoms did not his eyes deceive.

As he looked o'er this desert land.

Far as his vision could command.
. h2

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148 8ALI8BUBY PLAINS.

Is it the lights that mocks his sight ?

Or 8hadows> that now the low moon throws ?

What dark and mighty shapes are those^

Standing like daemons of the night }
Nearer and nearer the Seer now goes.
Taller and taller the figures arose !
Astonished he saw, on the plain around.
In the circles he traced on the teeth-sown ground,
A hundred and forty figures stand>
A lofty and motionless giant-band !
He paused in the midst, and calmly viewed
Their strange array and their sullen mood.
High wonder filled his mind, as this he saw.
And wonder still €md reverential awe.
From age to age, have filled the gazer's mind.
With sweet yet melancholy dread combined.
Stonehenge is the name of the place this day.
But what more it means no man may say.

LYII.

Who, that beholds these solid masses rude.
Could guess they ever were with life endued ?

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8TONEHSXGB. 149

And jet, receive the marvel tbatl tell.

These mighty masses held the Wizard's spell !

They were his buried fangs^ and upward sprang

By nerve of magic, which they yet retained,

IXlating to enormous size and shape.

While fipom their prison-grave they strove t' escape.

But here their effort ceased, and, wildly flung.

They in their mighty shapes have since remained.

Their effort, but not yet their power, has ceased.

For, aei the ages of the world increased.

Still with the charm of wonder they have bound

Whoever stepped in their enchanted ring»
And when the learned held the truth was found.

The daily aad the nightly thought^

So long pursued, so dosely caught.
Has proved a feather dropped from Fancy's wing !
And thus have two thousand ages rolled^
But the truth till now was never told !

Unsuspected it lay.

Closely hid from the day,

mi some smatterer bold
Should the secrets of Druid lore unfold.

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150 SALISBUBT FLAIXS.

iiTin.
The Hermit^ by the wondroos yiaon won>

Felt not the shuddering earth, nor beard the gale
O'er the far wilderness oome sweeping on.

With gathering strength and wildly sweeping ydl.
Till, like some fiendly voice it burst around.
And gradual died along the hollow ground.
Then he knew it the Wizard's Uast ;
It was his fiercest and his last.
And came for vengeance on the Druid's head ;
But with his fieaigs his evil power was fled.
And, when rung out the harp's rejoicing swell.
The Druid knew that all was once more welL
Then to his bowery home his steps he turned^
And slept the sleep by conscious virtue earned.
His fortitude the Wizard's spell had braved;
His patient wisdom a wide land had saved !

From forth that day began the Druid sway

O'er all this widely stretching plain.
And hamlets few that on their border lay.

Still did the Druids long remain

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ST0NBHEN6B. 151

In the lone desert^ £ai from vulgar eye>
'Wrapt in high thon^t and soleinn mystery.
The circle of the Wisard's &ng8> 'tis said.

Was their great temple^ where> on certain days^
In triumph for the tyrant-diemon fled.

They gathered from the country far aiound.
And sang, with nameless rites, their mystic lays.

Here on this rescued memorable ground.

And thus they ruled, for age succeeding age.
There is one later record, which doth spell.

But in what scroll, or rhyme, or numbered page.
Or letter black, or white, I cannot teU^*

There is one record, could it now be found.

Doth spell the words which, spoken on that ground.
By the wan light of the setting moon.
When night is for past her highest noon— •
Words, that make sight so strong and fine.

As will the Druids' shadowy figures show.

When in their long and stately march they go.
Around and roimd that mighty line.

Where yet the Wizard's fangs uprear

Their monstrous shapes upon the air.

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152 SALISBUEY PLAINS.

And^ as they glide those'shapes between,

A beam-toucbed harp does sometiines shine.
Or golden fillet's glance is seen ;
While long devolving robes of snow.
Wave on the wind, and round their footsteps flow.
And then are heard the wild, fantastic strains,
Whidi Druid-charm has left to dignify these plaixis.

LXI.

Such was the scene, and such are the sounds.
Linked with the history of these grounds!
Nay, 'tis said that, at this very hour.
Without aid ham any words of power.
If mortal has courage to go alone
To that remote circle and count each stone.
When the midnight-moon doth silently reign
Over the pathless and desolate plain.
Gliding forms may eVn yet be viewed.
Of lofty port and solemn mood.
Performing rites ill understood

By people of this latter day !

How this may be I cannot say ;
For nobody of these days can be found
To venture alone to that distant ground.

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STONEHENGE. 153

VSThen the xnidnight moon walks over the knd^
With slow^ Bonndless step and beckoning wand.
And oold shadows following her command.

LXII.

Bat, not for kindly sprites alcme.

Is now that haunted region known.

Since the antique Seers are gone.

Tis said that, sometimes, even there

Fiendish sprites will ride on the air !

To lone shepherd their forms appear.

Their forms in the tempest's first gloom he finds ;

And this is the cause that the hurrying winds
Sweep so swiftly, and moan so loud.
As o'er those haunted downs they crowd.

On the traste's edge they gather and brood;

Then, meeting the wiQd fiend's fiercest mood.

They scud o'er the desert, through ckmds, through
rain.

Like ship, with her storm-sail set, on the main.

While the Druids lived, these evil bands

Kept fior aloof from the guarded lands.

But, when the last died, the Sorcerer's ban

Guned part of the force, with which it began.
H 5

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154 SALISBUBT PLAI2I8.

And this is the cause why com will not springs
Nor abird of summer will xeet his wing»
Nor vo^ the cottager here build his home«
Nor hospitable mansion ^iread its dome ;

Why the plain noTer hears nwrry peal^

Announcing bene&ctor's weal.

Nor e'en lone bell in village tower

Knells the iireTOcable hour ;
Why the dead find not h^re a hallowed grave^
Why the bush will not bud^ nor tall tree wave.
And why Sslisbury steeple was built so high
As though £adries had reared it to jHrop the sky !
For the mischievous sprites they once came so nigh, .

They threatened all the country rounds

Castles and woods^ and meadow-groundj
That kindly peer o'er the edge of the plain>
Like a sunny shore o'er a stormy main ;
Nay^ they came so near to Salisbury town^
The people within feared the walls would down.

JLXIV.

Then they built a tower^ as by charmed hands^
So grand, yet so simple, its airy form !

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STOKBHENGB. 155

To guard tlie good town firom all fiendish bands^

And avert the dreaded pilileas storm.
And they fenced the tower with pinnacles li^t»

And they traced fine open-work all around ;
It is, at this day^ a beautiful si^t !
And they piled on the tower a spire so high>

That it looked o'& all the Sorcerer's ground,
And almost it vanished into the sky.
So lofty a steeple the world cannot show ;

Nor^ drawn on the air with the truth of a line,

A form so majestic^ so gracefully fine ;
Nor a tower more richly adorned below.

Where £retted {»miacles attend.

The spire's first ascent to defend>
And catch the bright purple of evening's glow.
While, sinking in shadows, the long roofs go.
This spire, viewed by the dawn's blue light,
Or rising darkly on the night.
As with tall black line to measure the sphere.
While stars beside it more glorious appear.
Has so holy a look, not of earth it seems.
But some vision unknown save in Fancy^ dreams*

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156 SALISBURY PLAINS.

Now this good spire thus higli they made.

All the land to watdb and ward.

That the ill sprites, whene'er they strayed.
To their confines might be awed.
It could see on the wide horizon's bound
Each shade, good or bad, as it walked its round.
Whether a fairy or fiend.
Whether a foe or a friend.
It could see the procession move along

With glittering harps, in robes of white ;
It could hear the responsive far-borne Bong
Faintly swell o'er the wide-stretched plain.
Then sink, till all was still again.

And sleeping in the dear moonlight.
So this beautiful spire did watch and wake, '
And guarded the land for Innocence' sake.

LXVI.

And, at this very day,

liet but the fiE^lest ray.
Or gleam, of moonshine chance to £eJI
Over this steeple so slenderly talU

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STONEHENGE. 15T

O but glimmer upon the trembling vane ;
Though the 'nighted traveller on the plain,
While he perceives it fj&intly shine^

Peering over upland downs afar, —

Though he hails it for the morning-star^
Yet all too well the warning sign
Know the bands of the Wizard's line !
Soon as they spy its watching eye^

Whether by moonlight^ or by mom^
Sullen they sigh« and shrink and By,

Where sun, or moonbeam, never warn.
So this beautiful spire does watch and wake.
And still guards the land for Innocence' sake.

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168 SALI8BUEY PLAIK8.

NOTES.

ForheworkedwUhLoke's and mtkHM» consent*-^
p. 113-

In the £dda> or system of Runic mythok^>
Loke was an evil sprite^ or evil principle. The
sixteenth fable of the £dda says of him : '^ As to
hi8 body^ Loke is handsome and very well made>
but his soul is evil, light, and inconstant. He sur-
passes all beings in that science, which is called
cunning and perfidy.. Many a time hath he ex-
posed the gods to .very great perils, and hath often
extricated them again by his artifices. His wife is
called Siguna. He hath had by her Nare, and some
other children. By the giantess Angerbode, or
messenger of ill, he hath likewise had three chil-
dren: one is the Wolf Fenris, the second is the
great serpent of Midgard, and the third is Hela, or
Death."

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STOKSHRHOB, 159

Of this Hela, the same fable says*-'* H«r haU k
Obibf ; Faminb is her table ; Hunobb> her knife ;
BbJjAy, her valet ; Slackness, her maid ; Psbci-
PiciBf her gate ; Faiktnbss, her porch ; Sickmbss
and Pain, her bed ; and her tent (or perhaps, her
curtaiDs) CUB8IN0 and HowhiVQ. The one half of
her body ia blue ; the other half oovered with akin,
and of the oolonr of human flesh. She hath a
dreadful, terrifying look, and by this alone it were
easy to know her."

The Branch of Spectres. — -p. 113.

The miseltoe. The twenty-eighth fiftble, which
describes the death of Balder the Good, says, " that
the gods, together with Balder himself , once fell to
diverting themselves in their grand assembly ; and
Balder stood as a mark, at which they threw, some
of them darts and some stones, while others struck
at him with a sword. But, whatever they could do,
none of them could hurt him ; which was considered
as a great honour to Balder. At length, Loke, who
heard this, having possessed himself of the mw^f/!^n
(the miseltoe), repaired to the assembly of the
Gods. There he found Hodsb standing apart by
himself, without partaking of the sport, because he
was blind. Loke came to him and asked him, why

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160 SALISBURY PLAINS.

he did not throw something at Balder, as well as
the rest ? ' Because I am blind/ replied the other>
* and have nothing to throw with.' ' Gome then,* says
Loke, * do like the rest, show honour to Balder by
tossing this little trifle at him; and I will di-
rect your hand towards the place where he stands.'
Then Hoder took the miseltoe, and Loke guiding
his hand, he darted it at Balder; who, pierced
through and through, fell down devoid of life ; and
surely never was seen, either among Grods or men,
a crime moro shocking and atrocibus than this.
Balder being dead, the Gods were all silent and
spiritless; not daring to avenge his death, out of
respect to the sacred place in which it happened."

In a note upon the subject of the miseltoe, M.
Mallet says, " This plant, particularly such of it as
grew upon the oak, hath been the object of venera-
ti<m, not among the Grauls only (as has been often
advanced without just grounds) but also among all
the Celtic nations of Europe. The people of Hoi-
st^, and the neighbouring countri^, call it at this
day marentaken, or the ' Branch of Spectres ;' —
doubtless 'on account of its magical virtues. In some
places of Upper Germany, the people observe the
same custom which is practised in many provinces
of France : — ^young persons go, at the beginning
of the year, and strike the doors and windows of

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STOKEHENGE. 161

houses^ crying^ ^ Guthil/ which signifies miseltoe.
{See Keysler^ Antiq. Sept. p. 304. and seq.) Ideas
of the same kind prevailed among the ancient in-
habitants of Italy. Apuleins hath preserred some
▼erses of the ancient poet Lfislius^ in which misel-
toe is mentioned as one of the ingredients which
will convert a man into a magician. (ApuL Apolog.
Prior.)" Mallet's Northern Antiquities, vol. ii.
p. 139. 143.

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SHAKSPEARFS CLIFF.

HbbSj all along the high sea-diff^

Oh> how sweet it is to go !
When Summer lures the light-winged daft

Over the calm expanse below^—

And tints, with shades of sleepy blue>

Misty ocean's curving shores ;
And with a bright and gleaming hue,

Dover's high embattled towers.

How sweet to watch the blue base steal
Over the whiteness of yon sail ;

O'er yon jfoir difh, and now conceal
Boulogne's walls and turrets pale !

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shaxspxabb's cliff. 168

Oh ! go not near that dizzy brinks
Where the moBsed hawthorn hangs its root^

To look how low the sharp crags sui]k«
Before the tide they overshoot.

Nor listen for their hollow sound —
Thou canst not hear the surges mourn^

Nor see how high the billows bound
Among the caves their rage has worn.

Yet^ yet forbear ! thou canst not spring.
Like fay^ from off this summit high.

And perch upon the out-stretched wing
Of the sea-mew passing byj

And safely with her skirt the clouds ;

Or, sweeping downward to the tide.
Frolic amid the seaman's shrouds.

Or on a bounding billow ride.

Ah ! no ; all this I cannot do ;
Yet I will dare the mountain's height.

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164 8Haksp£abe's cliff.

Seas and shores and skies to view^
And cease but with the dim day-light.

For fearful-sweet it is to stand

On some tall point 'tween earth and heav^n^
And view^ fiar round, the two worlds blende

And the vast deep by wild winds riven.

And fearful-sweet it is to peep

Upon the yellow strands below.
When on their oars the fishers sleep.

And calmer seas their limits know.

And bending o'er this jutting ridge.
To look adown the steep rock's sides.

From crag to crag, from ledge to ledge,
Down which the samphire-gatherer glides.

Perhaps the blue-bell nods its head.
Or poppy trembles o'er the brink.

Or there the wild-briar roses shed
Their tender leaves of fading pink.

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SHAKSPSABS'S CLIFF. 165

Oh fearfttl-sweet it is, through air
To watch their scattered leaves descend^

Or mark some pensile sea-weed dare
Over the perilous top to bend>

And^ joyous in its liberty.

Wave all its playful tresses wide^
Mocking the death, that waits for me.

If I but step one foot aside.

Yet I con hear the solemn surge

Sounding long murmurs on the coast ;

And the hoarse waves each other urge.
And voices mingling now, then lost.

The children bf the clifis I hear.

Free as the waves, as daring too ;
They dimb the rocky ledges there.

To pluck sea-flowers of humble hue.

Their calling voices seem to chime ;
Their choral laughs rise far beneath ;

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166 SHAKSPEABB^S CLtTt.

While, who the dizziest point can dimb.
Throws gaUy down the gathered wreath.

I see their little upward hands^
Outspread to catch the felling flowers,

While> watching these, the little bands
Sing welcomes to the painted showers.

And others scramble up the rocks.
To share the pride of him, who, throned

On jutting crag, at danger mocks.
King of the cliffs and regions round.

Clinging with hands and feet and knee.
How few that envied height attain !

Not half-way up those urchins, see.
Yet ply their perilous toil in vain.

Fearless their hero sports in air,

A rival almost of the crows.
And weaves fresh-gathered blossoms there.

To bind upon his victor-brows.

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SHAKSPEABX^S CLIFF. 167

The broad sea-myrtle glossy bright^
Mixed with the poppy's scarlet bell^

And wall-flowers> dipt in golden lights
Twine in his sea-cliff coronal.

The breeze has stolen his pageant-crown;

He leans to mark how low it hUs ;
Oh> bend not thou ! lest^ headlong down^

Thou paint'st with death these fifdr sea-walls !

Now^ o'er the sky's concave I glance^

Now o'er the azure deep below,
Now on the long-drawn shores of France>

And now on England's coast I go>

To where old Beachy's beaked head.

High peering in the utmost West^
Bids the observant seaman dread>

Lest he approach his guarded rest.

What fairy hand hangs loose that sail
In graceful fold of sunny light ?

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166 SHAKSPEAEE^S CLlFf.

Beneath what tiny figures more^

Traced darkly on the wave's blue light ?

It id the patient fisher's sloop^
Watching upon the azure calm ;

They are his wiet sea-boys^ that 8toop>
And haul the net with bending arm.

But on this aouthem coast is seen^
From Purbeck hills to Dover piers^

No foam-tipt wave So clearly green^
No rock so dark as Hastings rears.

How grand is that indented bay^
That sweeps to Romney's sea-beat wall^

Whose marshes slowly stretch away>
And slope into some green hill small.

Now North and East I bend my sight
To where the flats of Flanders spread ;

And now where Calais difis are bright^
Made brighter by the sunset red.

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shakspea&e's cliff. 169

Shows not this towering point so high

To him^ who in mid-channel sails ;
For the slant light from western sky

Ne'er (m its awful front prevails.

But mark ! on this cliff Shakspeare stood^
And waved around him Prosper's wand^

When straight from forth the mighty flood
The Tempest *' rose, at his command !"

VOL. IV.

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THE FISHERS.

STEEPHILL.

Behold tliis rocky bay ! On either hand

Clifia dark and fhmtie rise and stretch away
I

To yon bold promontories^ East and We8t>
Hanging amid the clouds ; that shut out all^
Saye seas and skies and sails dim-moving on
Th' horizon's edge^ and the rough boat> that skirts.
With slow and wary course^ this ruinous strand.
Far 'mong the waves^ are shown gigantic limbs
Of these stem shores^ whose out-post Terror is.
Whose eyes look down on desolation, pain.
Shipwreck and death. Yet, half way up the rocks.
And scarce beyond the salt Spray's reach, when

storms
Of winter beat, perched where the sea*mew rests

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8TEKPHILL. 171

In sun-beam^ a low fisher's cabin peeps

From its green sheltering nook. Wild mountainous

shrubs
Hang beetling o'er it^ and such flowers as grow
On rocky ledges, brought hy the unseen
Air, messengers from off some fertile hill
Or dale, or haply from fax forest's side ;
The scarlet poppy and the blue corn-flower.
The wild roee and the purple bells, that chime
In th' evening breeze to the poor woodlark's notes.
Full to the South, the fisher's cottage peeps.
And overlooks how many lonely leagues
Of ocean, sleeping in its summer haze
Of downy blue, or green, or purple, shades.
Charming the heart to musing and sweet peace !
How solemn, when our autumn's moon goes down.
And walks in silence on the farthest waves,
(Then sinks, leaving brief radiance in the air,)
To measure out a few short moments here.
By the sad, dying glow !

But sweet, O then, most sweet I when the clear
dawn

I 2

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172 THE FISHEES.

Of Jane breaks tm, and blesses tbe borison.
In holy stillness it dispeb the shades
Of nighty appearing like the work sublime
Of G^oodness^ — a meek emblem of the Just
And Living God ! Bending our heads with awe
And grateful adoration^ we exclaim —
'* Father op Light ! Thou art our Father too ;
We are Thy creatures; and these glorious beams
Attest, that in Thy goooness we are made
. For bliss eternal."

There stands the fisher's hut, and close beside,

A mountain-stream winds round the mossed pkt-

form.
Singing wild lullaby to the wailing surge>
As 'mid resisting brakes and massy crags.
It seeks a passage to the shore below.
There, hauled above the reach of flowing tides
And the high-bounding spray, the sea-boat rests.
Huge, sturdy, heavy, almost roimd, and formed
For labour and hard strife with the rough sea ;
About the fisher's cot, from crag to crag.

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8TEBPHILL. 173

His nets hang round in many a graceful sweep^
'Midst his long lines and treacherous baits and hooks.
Beside his door^ the aged fisher weaves
New meshes for his sons^ and sends, at times,
A look far o'er the ocean, where the beam
O' the west falls brightest, for the adventurers.
Who yester-mom went forth, and aU night long
Watched patient on the waters, and all day
Have hauled the net, or laboured at the oar.
More fearful roves his eye, as sinks the sun, ^

While sad he marks September's stormy cloud
Fire all the West, and tip with crimson hues.
Though less resplendent, ev'n the nearer waves
While the broad flush tinges his silver locks
And his brown visage and his garments blue.
Anxious, he throws aside th' unfinished web.
And climbs the higher crag, and thence afor.
Turning the western cape, he sees the glance
Of oars withdrawing, and the square sail set
And swelling to the breeze. With struggling toil
The poor bark seeks its home, ere night and tempest
Meet on the billows. While she thus, scarce known,

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174 THE FI8HBR8.

Alternate rides the ridge and then is lost
Below the shelving wave> widely they steer
Athwart the dangerous surge^ though not that way •
Lies their dear home ; bat well they know where lurk
The rocks unseen^ and where the currents flow.
Suddenly drops the sail^ and now again
This way they bend^ while> as they ply once more
The oars> just heard^ and turn, with scrupulous eyes^
To view their narrow course, a iaxat ray shows
Xheir sun-burnt features and their ragged locks.
Beneath the sea-worn hat. Nearer now they move.
And now scarce lift the oar, so cautiously
They creep along the strand, and wind their way
Among its half-seen rocks.

Stays the old fisher on the high crag now ?
No ; yonder down the steep path slow he steps.
And his wave-faring children hails afiar.
Meanwhile upon the beach, patient and cold.
Stands the poor horse, with drooping head and eyes
Half-shut, and panniers all too wide and deep>
Waiting the cargo, that his master, tired

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StiSEPHILL. 175

And sauntering on the water's edge^ shall bring :
Then must he bear it up high difis and hills.
To the far vale, where lies some peopled town.
Now slowly grounds the skiff, and the glad fishers.
Mounting the beadi, the bended grapple cast.
" What luck ? what luck ? my boys !'* " Good luck,

my father !"
And forth they pour the treasure of the main.
With many a scaly form unshapely, strange I
The dog-fish monstrous, with his high, round back.
And look yoradous. Oh I ill-named is he.
After man's careful, tender, fEuthful friend !
The spotted Seston,* dragon-like, with wings
And jaws terrific ; and the giant skate.
Then dark-mailed forms,t that die in torture wild.
Unfitted, therefore, for the feast of man.
To whom abundant guiltless food is given.
And last, a shape, the fairy of the ware.
Clad in transparent tints of silver comes.]:

* So caUed by the fishermen. t Lobsters.

fWhitmgB.

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176 THE FISHEES.

But see where the last gleam of the day's sun^
Far from behind that western promontory.
Slants 'thwart the deep curve of this shaded bay.
Tinges yon headland of the eastern shore.
And goes in stillness down on the fair waves.
Seeming to say, " Children of Time, ferewell I
Your course draws nearer to Eternity j
Even thus must fade your glory in this world : —
But sure as dark shades of the night lead on
To morning, the sun-set of earthly life
Leads to the dawn of an eternal day :-— '
Think of that dawn !"

Now doth the aged fisher mutely watch.
While his stout sons fling o*er their shoulders broad
Deep osier baskets hung with pebbles round ;
Then, wrapt in his blue mantle, stalks away.
Beneath the dark cliffs beetling o'er the sea.
To those low rocks, that strcftch, point after point.
Far out amid the tide, crowned with black moss.
There, in the waves, safe from rapacious force.
And from the eye of plunderer dose concealed.
He leaves his treasure, for to-morrow's care ;

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STEEPHILL. 177

Then hies he homeward. There^ amidst the friends
He lovesj reposes. All last nighty he watched
Upon the rocking main ; the arching sky
His sole^ cold roof; the stars his only guides
Through the vast shadow of the lonely deep !
This nighty how calm his dream^ how sweet his

sleep>
In the safe shelter of his cahin small^
With his glad family round him hush'd in peace !

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IN THE NEW FOREST.

Wandereb r if thy path bend o'er these lawns
And forest-lands^ stay thy rejoicing steps—
Though they would fain bound with yon iawns and

hinds
Down the green slope^ and skim the level turf
To other slopes^ and other pluming groves>—
Stay thy intemperate spirit^ and mark well
Each beauty of the scene> and the strong lights
And stormy sunshine^ that Ml o'er these shades !
Pause thou awhile> that^ in some future hour^
When the long sunless storm of winter broods.
And thou sitt'st lonely by thy evening hearth.
In melancholy twilight, listening
The far-off tempest, — then sweet Memory
May come, and with her mirror cheer thy mind.

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IN THE NEW F0RE8T. 179

On whose bright surface lovelier scenes shall live
Than any shrined within Italian climes ;
And every graceful form and shaded hue^
As now it liveSj again shall smile before thee :
For England^ beauteous England^ scarce can boasts
Through her green vales and plains and wavy hills^
Another landscape of such sylvan grace.

'Twas surely here^ that Shakspeare dreamt of fiays^
And in these shades Titania held her courts
And bade her'tiny bands in starlight revel.
Those tufts of oak, that crown the swelling lawn.
Those were her shady haUs at high moon-tide ;
And yon light ash her summer-night pavilion.
Lighted by dew-drops and the flickering blaze.
That glances from the high electric north.
Where'er the groves retire and meadows rise.
There were her carpets spread, of various tints
From turf and amorous lichen^ all combined
With soft flowers and transparent azure-beUs,
On whose pure skin their purple veins appear.
And over all these hues a veil is thrown
Of silvery dew, oft lighted by the moon.

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180 IN THE HEW FOREST.

Temper thy joyous spirit^ wanderer !
And 'gainst the mntry hour^ when thorns alone
Hold forth their henries^ coll sweet summer-buds.
Then shall the deep gloom vanish^ the storm sink !
The balmy air of woods shall soothe thy sense.
And their broad leaves thy landscape canopy.
E'en in December's melandioly day !

And now bound with those fiiwns down the green

slope,
Skim the smooth turf to other hills and groves.
In the fiill joy of sunshine and new hopes.

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ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE GROUP

CALLED THE

SEVEN MOUNTAINS;

IN THB APPROACH TO COLOGNE FROM XANTBN.

When first I saw ye^ Mountains^ the broad sun
In cloudy grandeur sunk^ and showed^ far off,
A solemn yision of imperfect shapes
Crowding the southward sky and stalking on
And pointing us ''the way that we should go."
Dark thunder-mists dwelt on ye ; and your forms.
Obscurely towering> stood before the eye.
Like some strange thing portentous and unknown.
I watched the coming storm. The sulphurous gloom
Clung sullenly round me^ and a dull tinge
Began to redden through these mournful shades.
A low imperfect murmur o'er ye rolled.

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182 - THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.

Doubtfol^ I listened. On the breathless cakn
Again I heard it— -then^ ye Mountains yast>
Amid the tenfold darkness ye withdrew^
And vanished quite> save that your high tops

smoked.
And from your douds the arro^ lightnings bursty
While peals resistless shook the trembling world ! —

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A SECOND VIEW OF
THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.

Mountains ! ^hen next I saw ye it was Noon,
And Summer o'er your distant steeps had flung
Her veil of misty light : your rock-woods hung

Just green and buddings though in pride of Jone>

And pale your many-spiring tops appeared.
While, here and there, soft tints of silver grey
Marked where some jutting diff received the ray ;

Or long-lived precipice its brow upreared.

Beyond your tapering pinnacles, a show
Of other giant-forms more dimly frowned.
Hinting the wonders of that unknown ground.

And of deep wizard- vales, unseen below.

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184 THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.

Thus^ o'er the long and level plains ye rose
Abrupt and awfiil^ when my raptured eye
Beheld ye. Mute I gazed ! 'Twas then a sigh

Alone could speak the soul's most full repose ;

For of a grander world ye seemed the dawn^
Rising beyond where Time's tired wing can go^

Asy bending o'er the green Rhine's liquid lawn^
Ye watched the ages of the world below.

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• ON ASCENDING A HILL CROWNED WITH

A CONVENT.

NEAR BONN.

Up the mossed steeps of this round hill we climbed^

Tracking amid close woods our doubtful way ;
When, high above, the lonely vesper chimed

On the still hour of the declining day.
We paused to listen, and to taste awhile

The pure air scented with the bruised herb ;
And catch the distant landscape's parting smile.

Ere the light breeze the shadowy boughs disturbed.
" Oh verdant foliage ! in your dancing play.

Hide not those soft blue lines, that northward
swell.

And of far mountain-regions faintly tell !
Wrap not in your high shades those turrets grey.

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186 ON ASCENDING A UILL

Tliat rear tbemselves above the Rhine's broad floods
Where the slow bark, with wide, out-stretched

wings.
Her lengthening shadow o'er the waters flings."

Onward we pass amid the closing wood.

Till, once again emerging from the night.
O'er a near ridge of darkest pine we spy
The peaks of eastward mountains, peering high ;

Touched with gay colours and with sunshine bright.
They draw dear lines on the transparent sky.

And lift their many-tinctured forms of light !

With weary step a convent's porch we found.

What music met us on that holy ground.

Swelling the song of peace and praise to Him,

Who dad with glory 'all the prospect round !
Our full hearts echoed back the grateful hymn.

A turret's utmost height at length we gain,
And stand as on a point above the world.
Viewing the heaven's vast canopy unfurled.
And the great circle's widdy-spreading line
Sink low, and softly into light decline.

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CROWNED WITH A CONVSNT. 187

There^ in hx distance, on the western plain>
Thy spires, Cologne, gleamed to the setting ray :
Thy useless ramparts and thy turrets grey
Hinted where still the oowled dty lay.
Oh melancholy walls ! unlike the view.
That the sweet poet of Vaudusa drew.
When, wreathed with flowers, thy maidens fail ad-
vance.
With choral songs and steps of airy dance.
And to the Rhine's fleet wave,* on summer's eve.
Their blooming garlands and their sorrows give.

* Petrardi notioes this ceremony in one of his letters.
^« The sun was declining : and scarcely was 1 alighted, when
these unknown friends brought me to the bank of the Bhine,
to amuse me with a spectacle which is exhibited every year,
on the same day, and on the same place. They conducted
me to a little hill, from whence 1 could discover all that
passed along the river. An innumerable company of women
covered its banks : their air, their faces, their dress struck

me In the midst of the vast crowd this sight

had drawn together, 1 was surprised to find neither tumult
nor confusion $ a great joy appeared without licentiousness.
How pleasant was it to behold these women ; their heads
crowned with flowers, their sleeves tucked up above their
elbows, with a sprightly air advancing to wash their hands
and arms in the river. They pronounced something in their
language, which appeared pleasing, but I did not understand

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188 ON ASCENDING A HILL

How changed the scene ! Now paler forma appear^
Wriqyt in black garments and with brow severe;
And« as with shaded eyes they stalk along,
Reoeive poor homage from the passing throng.
Oh melancholy walls ! always, as now.
Be seen at distance on the landscape's brow !

That stretching landscape various shades o'erspread.
Of yellow com and bowery vineyards green ;

There the brown orchard reared its tufted head.
And there the Rhine's long-winding light was
seen.

With castles crowned was its rocky shore.

And £etmed for dismal tales in early lore.

Northward, the far Westphalian lands withdrew,

line above line, in level tints of blue ;

While to the West, where forest hills extend,

it. Happily, 1 found an interpreter at hand ; I desired one
.who oame with me to explain to me this ceremony. He told
me it was an ancient opinion spread among tlie people, and
particularly the women, that this lustration was necessary to
remove all the calamities with which human beings are direat-
ened in the course of the year ; and, when this was done,
they had nothing to fear till the following year, at which
time the ceremony must be renewed."

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CSOWN£D WITH A CONyKNT. 189

The long perspective lifts a pomp of shade^
Mellowed with evening lights^ where sweetly blend

Convents and spires^ as if for peace-marks made.
Such were the scenes^ that from the falling sun,
(When he his bright and blessed course had run)
Threw their long shadows, mourners of past day.
And then in stillness slept beneath his ray.
But other scenes a holier homage paid.
Where, eastward, pointing up the heavenly way.
Above the thunder's doud and doud of Time,
Those everlasting mountains stand sublime.
And to the sun's Cbbator lift the head !
Steadfast upon the Rhine's tumultuous shore.
Ye listened. Mountains, to the distant roar.
The battle-shout of nations now no more.
Ye viewed the suns of centuries go down.

And smiled, as now, beneath their farewell beam ;
. Ye saw the thunder-storms of ages gleam.
The elemental and the human frown.
And heard afietr. the mingled strife pass by
Into the silence of Eternity !
Unchanged amid the ever-changing scene,
Aa in the world's first dawn, ye still appear.

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190 OK ASCENDING. A HILL

With beauty bright^ majestic^ young, serene.

Clothed in the colours of the various year.
While ndnbow-oolours indistinctly lay
On the lone summits, till, in slow decay.
They seemed like fseur-hung clouds on Evening's pall.

Just purpled with a melancholy ray ;
While dark we saw the mountain-shadows fidl.

And steal the* valleys and the woods away !
Then all in paleness came the twilight-star.

And, pensive, seemed to bend upon the West ;
As though she watched th' expiring sun a^u*.

And bade, with tearful smile, his spirit rest !
Oh ! then how sweetly and how solemn rose

The requiem-strains, that, in the parting hour.

Beneath the sacred roof responses pour ;
While all without was hushed in deep repose.
The air's soft breathings scarce were heard to die.

Save when among the braided vines it crept.
And waked the quivering tendril with its sigh.

Thus earth and air their hour of slumber kept !

All but the stars ! Slumbering too long in light.
They now through shade their opening eyes reveal.

In trembling glances, to their empress— >Night,
Keeping high watch till forth the Morning steal.

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CROWNED WITH A CONVENT. . 191

From adverse darkness. Self-supported, great.
Ye, tranquil 'mid the louring storms of fate.
Rise, like the honest mind, in the dread hour.
When stem Adversity tries Virtue's power : —
Thus ye, distinguished through the fearful gloom,
A steadfEist strength' and brighter mien assume.
Thus, 'mid the changing lights, that life pervade.

May we, like you, assailing clouds dispel —
Grateful in simshine — steadfsust in the shade !

Farewell ! ye awful QionitoTs, farewell !

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THE SNOW-FIEND.

Hark ! to the Snow-Fiend's voice afieu'
That shrieks upon the troubled air !
Him by that shrilly call I know-
Though yet unseen^ unfelt below —
And by the mist of liyid grey.
That steals upon his onward way.
He from the ice-peaks of the North
In sounding majesty comes forth ;
Dark amidst the wondrous lights
That streams o'er all the northern night.
A wan rime through the airy waste
Marks where unseen his car has past ;
And veils the spectre-shapes, his train.
That wait upon his vengeful reign.

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THE SNOW-FIEND. .198

Disease and Want and shuddering Fear
Banger and Woe and Death are there.
Aroand his head for ever raves
A whirlwind cold of misty waves.
Bat oft, the parting surge between,
His visage, keen and white, is seen ;
His savage eye and paly glare
B^ieath a helm of ice appear ;
A snowy plume' waves o'er the crest.
And wings of snow his form invest.
Aloft he bears a frozen wand ;
The ice-bolt trembles in his hand ;
And ever, when on sea he rides>
An iceberg for his throne provides. '
As, fierce, he drives his distant way.
Agents remote his call obey.
From half-known Greenland's snow-piled shore
To Newfoundltod and Labrador ;
Oer solid seas, where nought is scanned
To mark a difference from land.
And sound itself does but explain
The desolatioa of his reign ;
VOL. IV. E .

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194 THE SNOW-FIEND.

The mouiing querulous and deep^

And the wild howl's infuriate sweep

Where'er he mores^ some note of wee

Proclaims the presence of the foe ;

While he, relentless, round him flings

The white shower from his flaky wings.

Hark ! 'tis his vmce : — I shun his call.

And shuddering seek the blasingliall.

1 speak of mirth ; O ! raise the song !

Hear not the fiends, that round him throng !

Of curtained rooms and firesides tell,

Bid Fancy work her genial spell,

That wraps in marvel and delight

December's long tempestuous night ;

Makes courtly groups in summer borers

Dance through pale Winter's midnight hours ;

And July's ere its rich glow shed

On the hoar wreath, that binds his head;

Or knights on strange adventure bent.

Or ladies into thraldom sent ;

Whatever gaiety ideal

Can substitute for troubles real.

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THE SNOW-FIEND. 195

Then let the stonns of Winter sing^
And his sad veil the Snow-Fiend flings
Though wailing lays are in the wind^
They reach not then the 'tranced mind ;
Nor murky form^ nor dismal sound
May pass the high^ enchanted hound !

K 2

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ANCIENT BEECH-TREE.

IN THE PARK^ AT KNOLE.

THE WOODLAND NYMPH.

Down in yon glade^ that points to the red West,
O'erhung with andept groves, whose shadows £bJ1
So darkly on the ground, that the green moss
Is hardly known beneath them ;•— in yon glade.
Just where the trees irregularly part
In long perspective, and an evening scene
Of sylvan grandeur glimmers, stands a beech.
Like some gigantic sentinel, advanced
On watch to guard the pass to sacred haunts.
Approach, and let thy nobler mind prevail ;
And, as thine eye measures its form, its large
Grey limbs upstretching in, the air, among

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THE WOODLAND NYMPH. 197

The pendent, rich/ luxuriant foliage.
Over the silvery rind, moss-mottled, showing
Like gleams of light 'mid their green shadows ; if
Grace and grandeur ever touched thine heart, adore
And weep— weep tears of deep delist, and tears
Of gratitude, that thou canst weep such tears !

If thou would'st see in full magnificence
This canopy, most surely the domain
Of some lone Dryad, — come when Evening casts
Her yellow light, and gives its lower shades
Theai most luxuriant tinge ; speak not, but watch
And thou It see haply at this dewy hour
Hie Nymph of this deep shade 'rise £rom her sleep.
The scared hind, bounding athwart the glades.
Springs not so lightly, nor so graceful turns.
When, listening to the step, that startles her.
She bends her slender neck and branched head
And shows her dark eyes, bright and innocent.

Ok, Nymph of graces, playful as these boughs.
When gentle airs play o'er them, thee I know.

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198 AW AUCIEUT BEECH-TBKE.

And hare, at ere^ beheld thy dance of joy
In the proud shade^ that shields thee from the stonn.
And guards thy alnmben from the summer rain.
Thy noon-tide slambersj too> I have beheld.
And the high canopy of boughs bespread.
When, laid in peace upon the twilight moss.
Where the green shadows deep and coolest fall.
Thy feiry court watched round thee— court of Elves,
That dwell unseen within the hollow leaves
Or inmost foliage, rodced by summer sighs.
These have I seen around thy mossy couch.
Fanning thy slumber with long leaves of lilies.
Scattering the white bells in thy twisted hair.
And binding each dark lock with wreaths of flowers.
Thy footsteps trod the tender hyacinth.
Blue and transparent as the light of Mom,
The dark-eyed violet, that weeps perfume.
The wild-rose tinted with the Dawn's first blush.
And sparkling with the tears and smiles she shed.
When, scattered from her hand, it fell to earth.

This ancient beech, this sylvan wonder, triumphs

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THE WOODLAND KYMPH. 199

Over the oak^ whose spreading pomp has crowned

him
King o' the woods ; but his magnificence
Is rude and heavy,— while this lonely beech.
With all its wealth of green, transparent shadows,
(A graceful hill of leaves in the blue air,)
Still must be hailed the hero of the forest !

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SEA-VIEWS.

MIDNIGHT.

Cabollino sweetly to the midniglit gale
Above the strife of waves^ his voice is heard—
The sea-boy's voice, who, on some top-sail yard^
Bows with the mast, and hangs amid the clouds.
Or sweeps the salt foam from the billow^s ridge.
And mocks its fury. Far around he sees.
Beneath the night-gloom, ocean's wondrous fires
Flashing from surge to surge — a boding light.
That seems the spirit of the troubled realm.
Palely it gleams, though bright, now near, now dis-
tant.
Shapeless, though visible — though threatening,

mute:
Still, sweet he carols on the dizzy cap.

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MIDNIGHT. ^1

Anon, he hears the storm-bird's slender cry^

And scarcely marks her flitting round and round

And sheltering in the shrouds. Qh, fearful bird !

Herald of warring winds ! he heeds thee not ;

Nor yet those hollow sounds from strand unseen ;

Nor e'en those sullen lights among the clouds^

Whose hue they show more livid ; for^ behold !

Like to a star^ which in th' horizon dawns.

There gle^m those guiding^ ever watchful fires^

Placed on some low peninsula's long line^

Or on some promontory's pointed horn^

And spied far on the solitary wares

By the poor mariner, who, rocked upon

His dark and billowy cradle, thinks of home.

His little cabin, sheltered by the cliffy

His blazing hearth, bright through the casement seen.

And all the dear-loved faces shining round ;

And knows the smiles x>f welcome ambi^shed there.

Still cheerly sings the watch-boy ; down he goes
Through gasping seas ; now driving down the gulph.
Now rising light in air ; while nearer roll
K 5

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902 SEA-VIEWS.

The thunders of the shove^ rererbed from cares

Surge-worn^ and cliffs high arching o*er the tide.

But now the plunging lead is heard, and now

The sullen vdoe of one below calls out

The sounded fathoms ; then the master bids

His last sail fiurl ; for well-known sands are nigfa.

And louder sweeps the gale. At last^ he nearf

Those friendly beacon fires^ the level line

Of distance changes for the rugged shores^

Whose tops the horizontal twilight mark ;

Soon they rise up more bold» solemn, distinct ;

And wide unfolds the hospitable bay.

On whose deep margin spreads the wished-for port.

With Jfioaj dim lamps quivering in the blast.

No joyiyi shout hails th' approaching crew ;

For Sleep has waved his potent wand on high !

The lonely pier receives them ; on they steer

For quiet depth, and gradually steal

Into the silent harbour— silent save

The drowsy rippliag of the fieunt sea-tide.

Or when the watch-dog, on some neighbouring deck.

His honest vigil ^arks, as strangers pass.

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MIDNIGHT. SOS

And now each heart beats joyfully^ as drops

The ready anchor ; busy footsteps sound ;

Loud swells the mingled voice; the narrow plank

Is hoisted and extends a tottering bridge^

That bears them to the quay ; there^ bounding light

Once more they press the firm earth, and once mott

Each to his long-left home in safety goes.

Dark is the way and silent ; yet awhile

And an s^wakening roice shall call up hope.

And all the poor man's wealth, the wealth of heart !

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TO THE SWALLOW.

O HAPPT bird ! thy gay return I hail ;

For now I see young Springs with all her train
Of sports and joys, home on the western gale.

And hear afar her sweetly warbling strain.

Once more the opening clouds shall now disclose
The heaven's blue vault — the sun's all-cheering
ray;

The vales, once more, in tender green repose.
The violet ^vake beneath the breath of May.

O happy bird ! how playful and how light
Thy circling pinions skim the upward air ;

Exulting^ gay and playful in thy flight.
Companion of the Summer season fair J

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TO THE SWALLOW. 205

Yet, while I welcome thee, and wiah thee long,
I sigh to think that ere the Autumn £Etde,

Thou 'It seek, in other climes, a vernal song.
More gentle gales and renovated shade.

Ev'n now I see thee on the light clouds soar.
And melt in distant aether from my view ;

As laughing Summer, to the western shore.
Over the seas Biscayan you pursue.

Thy policy to us, ah ! dost thou lend ?
Flies thus, with gay prosperity — ^the friend ?

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FOREST LAWNS.

Oh, forest lawns !— Oh, lawns of tender green.

That spread in sunshine, crowned with copsy groves.

Or, winding in deep glades, reti^re among

The shades of ages, my glad steps receive !

Qh! let me, with your fawns, bound o'er these

slopes.
Fresh with the dew, that melts apace before
The morning ray, leaving long level lines
Of hoary silver, *mid the various hues
Of lichen, turf and mead-flower. Let me seek.
With tempered pace and reverential thought.
Your far-seen solitudes and deepest gloom.
And often note the monarch of the woods
In pious wonder. Oh, ye stem-browed oaks.

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FOREST LAWKS. ^ 207

That raiie your giant arms on all the scene^
How like your parent Druids ye appear i
Lonely^ serere and in your grandeur dark>
Y6ur fearful shades^ like superstitious nighty
Fall on the awe-struck spirit ! — — . —
Steadfast ye stand, and ever silent, save
Unto the potent, unknown winds, that shake
Your grey tops, when a voice of plaint is heard.
The traveller, listening this, at even-tide.
Thinks 'tis the voice of one departed hence.
Prophet of evil, warning him of death !
Then to his fancj lours, with deeper gloom.
The cloud, which sheds a pale and ghastly light
Upon the woods. He pauses oft, and back
Through the long forest-glades marks the last gleam
The sun has left, far in the lonely West ;
While shapes uncertain seem to glide athwart
The twilight vista, and approach his path ;
The hollow murmur swells upon his ear !
And> shuddering then, he takes his onward way.

How oft, ye Druid oaks !

Your voice has sounded, in a distant age.

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208 FO&EST LAWNS.

To him« who hears no more ; and now it speaks
In the same tone to him^ who then was ]
The passing traveller of the living hour !
Thus« ever and anon, it sounds the knell
Of fleeting, swift morta^ty !

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ON THE

RONDEAU,

^* JUST LIKE LOTE 18 TOKDSa EOSE.**

No^ ah ! no ; not just like lore.
Is yon gay and conscious rose ;
All its flaunting leaves disclose

Sun-ahine joy— «nd fearless prove;

Not like love !

But yonder little violet-flower^
That^ folded in its purple veil^
And trembling to the lightest gale^

Weeps beneath that shadowing bower^

Is just like love !

Though filled with dew its closing eyes.
Though bends its slender stem in air^
It breathes perfume and blossoms fair.

It feeds on tears^ and lives on sighs/

Just like love !

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»0

" JUST LIKE LOVE.***

And ahould a sum-beam Idas its leaf^
How bright the dew-drops would appear !
Like beams of hope upon a tear.

Like light of smiles through parting grief !

And just like love !

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DECEMBER'S EVE,
ABROAD.

AwvuL is Winter's setting sun^
When^ from beneath a sullen cloudy

lie eyes his dreary course now run^
And shrinks within his lurid shroud —

Leaving to Twilight^s cold^ grey sky
Yon Minster's dark and lonely tower^

That seems to shun the searching eye,
And vanish with the parting hour.

Dim is the long roof's sloping line^
Whose airy pinnacles I trace.

Point over point, and o'er the shrine
And eastern window's gothic grace.

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212 December's eve.

While load the winds^ in chorus cleur,
Swdl» or in sinking murmuTS griere^

The Ministers of Night I hear
In requiem o*er December's Eve.

Wide o'er the plains and distant wolds
I see her pall of darkness flow ;

And all around^ in mighty folds^

Her winding sheet of new-fallen snow.

Farewdl ]>eoember's dismal night !

Appalled I hear thy shrieking breath ;
And view> a^^iast, by glimmering lights

Thy visage^ terrible in death !
Farewell December's dismal night !

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DECEMBER'S EVE,
AT HOME.

Welcomb December's cheerful nighty

When the taper-lights appear ;
When the piled hearth blazes bright.

And those we lore are circled there !

And, on the soft mg basking lies^

Outstretched at ease, the spotted friend.

With glowing coat and half-shut eyes.
Where watchfulness and slumber blend.

Welcome December's cheerful hour.
When books, with converse sweet combined.

And music's many<^ified power
Exalt, or soothe th' awakened mind.

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S14 December's eve.

Then> let the snow-wind shriek aloud>
And menace oft the guarded sash^

And all his diapason crowds
As o'er the frame his white wings dash.

He sings of darkness and of 8torm>
Of icy cold, and lonely ways ;

But, gay the room, the hearth more warm.
And brighter is the ttq»er's blase.

Then, let the merry tale go round.
And airy songs the hours deceive ;

And let our heart-felt laughs resound.
In welcome to December's Eye !

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A SBA-VIEW.

A Brbbzb is springing up. Mark yon grey cloudy
That from th* horizon piles it's Alpy steeps
Upon the sky ; there the fierce tempest rides.
Our vessel owns the gale^ and all her sails
Are full ; the broad and slanted deck cuts with i

edge
The foaming wayes^ that roll almost within it^
And often bow their curling tops^ as if
In homage. Not so the onward billows ;
For while^ with steady force, the vexing prow
Flings wide the groaning waters, high rise they.
Darting their dragon-headed vengeance : now
Baffled they burst on either side with rage.
And dash their spray in the hard seaman's face.

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S16 A SEA-VIEV.

The gale is risiiig : and the roaghening wa^es
Show darker shades of green^ with^ here and there^
Far ont, white foamy tops^ that rise and fiedl
Incessant. Storm-lights> issuing firom the douds^
Mark distances upon the mighty deep;
There, in one glieam, a white sail scuds along —
Farther, those vessels seem to hang in shade ;
And, &rther still, on the last edge of ocean.
Where falls a paler, mistier sun-light.
See where some port-town peeps above the tide,
Wiili its long, level ramparts, turret-crowned ;
There a broad tower and there a slender spire
Stand high upon the light, while all between.
Of intermingled roo&, embattled gates.
Quays, ancient halls and smoking chimneys, — sunk
Low, and all blended in one common mass.
Are undiscerned so far. There, all is calm;
The waters slumber ; the anchored keels repose ;

And not a top-mast trembles ;

While here the chafing billows mount the deck
Dash through the sturdy shrouds, and with their
foam

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A S£A-yi£W. 217

Baffet the braced sail. Toward that p^rt

Our vessel steers^ which frcnn the seas and winds

May soon recdve us. — — —

But ah I while yet we gaze, the visicm &des !

The high-piled ramparts^ overtopped with turrets^

Vanish in shade before the searching eye,

Which nought but waves and sky can trace o'er all

The lone horizon f So on Calabria's shore.

Where the old Reggio spreads its walls

Beside the sea, the fairy's wand, at eve^

Is lifted — and behold ! far on the waters.

Another landscape rise !* Wood-mantled steeps

And shadowy mountains soar, and turrets from

Some promontory's point hang o'er the vale.

Where sleeps among its palms the hamlet low.

Hid from the bustling, ostentatious world.

Deep in the bosom of this silent scene.

Ah ! beauteous work of Fairie ! that can paint

* This phenomenon is noticed in Swinbume*s Travels in
the Two Sicilies. The people of Reggio attribute it, all na-
tural as it is, to the fairy Morgana, and run with shouts to
the shore, to witness her wonders.

VOL. IV. Is

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218 A SEA-VIEW.

Unreal visions to th' admiring eye^

Charming it with distinct^ though faithless forms.

The magic sceptre dropt^ behold* they vanish !

A desert world of water 's only there !

• • • • ' •

And thus th* enchantress on the daily path
Of Youth attends^ known only by her power
Unseen^ and conjures up Hope^ Joy and Bliss>
To dance in the fresh bowers of fadeless spring.
At Reason's touch the airy dream dissolves ;
We gaze, and wonder at such wild delusion.
Yet weep its loss, and court its forms again.
Hail, beauteous scenes of Fairie, Fancy's world !
Where Truth, so cold and colourless, comes not.
Or £ax away in lonely grandeur stands.
Like the great snowy Alps, whose cloudy shapes
And aspect stem (deforming the horizon).
Make the still landscape, spread below, appear
More green, more gay, more cheering to our view.
Hail, beauteous scenes of Fairie, Fancy's world !
And now, as if the spell had worked again.
The stormy shade far distant floats away.

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A SEA-VIEW. 219

Again the spired city shines in lights
Peering beyond the waves^ here shadowed yet
By the lingering storm. The pier outstretches
Its arm to meet us^ and the light-house shows
Its column^ and we see the lanthom high^
Suspended o'er the margin of the tide>
The star of the night- wandering mariner.
Hail> cheering port^ first vision of the land^
Vision^ but not illulsion, hail again !

L 2

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HAYLEY^S LIFE OF COWPER.

Oh speak no more of Fiction's painted woes !

Her laboured scenes are colourless and cold ;
Her high-wrought sorrows are but dull repose.

Beside the tale that simple Truth has told.

O'er the sad Poet dead shall Pity weep>
Weep tears of anguish, such as mothers shed

O'er the poor infiemt, when its paling lip

Moves with a last faint smile ; when droops the
head.

And the imploring eyes look up once more
To her, whose fondness can no aid dispense !

'Tis well there is a Higher World, where soar
The accepted hopes of suffering Innocence !

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WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Oh ! for a cottage on the shady brow

Of this green Island^ where the Channd flows

With less tumultuous wave^ and sends abroad

The many sails of England to the world.

And beareth to his home the mariner.

Who shouts to view the light blue hills, that dawn

0*er Wight's gay plains; and soon he spies the

woods.
That shade its shores, and brighter tints of corn
And pastoral slopes and all their ** green delights/'
Advancing gently, 'mid the sleepy tide.
Soon he marks some long-left object clear,
A lofty watch-tower, or some village church.
Or the white parsonage peeping through the trees.
To which, when last beheld, he sighed farewell

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2*2 WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

With throbbing grief. — ^These now he hails with joj,
As he steers onward to the well-known shore.

Oh ! for a cottage on the breezy cliffy
That points the crescent of thy harbour, Cowes !
And bears the raptured glance o*er seas and shores —
A boundless prospect, tinted all around
With summer shades of soft ethereal blue ! —
O'er the wide waters rise the ^-famed downs
Of Sussex ; while thy forests, Hampshire, vast.
Spread their dark line, for many a winding mile.
By the blue waves, till, fedling, the sight rests
Where yon dim hill-tops overlook the main.
There Purbeck's summits rise, while broader hills.
Marking their grey lines on the forest shade.
Lead back the eye to where Southampton's vale
Pours forth th' abundant wave, and spreads itai

lawns.
Its jutting slopes, with villas gaily crowned.
Its sheltered cots, the rough wood's shade, whence

peers
The village fetne 'mid the high foliage : —

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WEITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 223

Southampton's vale^ where lurks the twilight glade.

Whose ancient oaks their branches stretch austere.

And half conceal that Abbey's fretted arch.

As if to guard from eye and hand profane

The mouldering stones, whose pious founder once

Dropped them, green acorns, in this hallowed ground.

To shelter and adorn the sainted walls»

Whose long-forgotten sons niused 'neath their shade.

Blest thoughts of sure Eternity ; and now

Leave here all that was mortal of themselves.

Oh ! reverence this ground ; for it is holy.

Sacred to pious thought ; for worldly grace

By the high-gifted poet often praised.

Here winged steps have passed, and brightest

thoughts.
Creative as the sun-beam, have up-flown.
Here pensive Ghray some sad sweet moments passed.
And breathed a spell that saved these falling walls ;
There walks that solemn vision*, telling his beads ;
Where 'neath the leafy gloom, the Poet's glance

* ^' In the bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes)
lie the ruins of Nettley Abbey; there may be richer and
greater houses, but the abbot is content with his situation.

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324 WEITTKN IN THE ISLE OP WIGHT.

Espied him ! Still athwart yon vista dark
Shoots the white sail ; still in the sun the wares
Glitter, as when Gray's musing abbot viewed them.
Measuring the moments with his pangs. Oh ! pause
Awhile, and shed a melancholy tear
To the departed shade of him, who sung
** The paths of glory lead but to the grave :"
Weep o'er the memory of that wondrous Bard,
That master of the song, whose fiill-toned harp
Called round him loftiest themes of Fantasy,
Whose voice, rolling on the midnight thunder.
Waked sublimest awe ; or played in cadence.
While the Graces danced ; or, still oftener, mourned
O'er mortal doom and life's brief vanities.
While early youth and all the train of joy
Would leave their sports, listening the strain that

Them woo the languishments of Melancholy.

See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under tho
shade of those old trees that bend into a half drde about it,
he is walking slowly, and bidding his beads for the souls of
his benefoctors, interred in that venerable pile, that lies be-
neath him." Letter of Mr. Gray to Mr. Nichols, Nov. 19,
1764.-jy[88on*s Life of Gray, p. 381.

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WBITTEN IN THS ISLE OF WIGHT. S25

Farewell ! thou mighly master^ who, with high
Disdain of rulgar tame, *^ knew thine own worth
And reverenced the lyre^" and kept thy still
Footstep furaway from the thronged path and
Vanity's dull round. Farewell I thou doff *st
Thy mortal weeds, and the same strain sublime^
That moralised th' unstoried lives and deaths
Of villagers, is oft repeated o'er thy grave.
With Mtering voice, by those, who walk thy path
From Eton's shades to Stoke, and view the scene
That filled thy youthful eye and charmed thy mind —
Where, years i^, thy '^ careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain." — — —

#
Now let us leave the vale, thus dedicate
To memory, sweet and melandioly.
And trace the landscape o'er yon chalky ridge
To Portsdown, Welding in its concave all
That tract of greyer land, that banks the sea.
On the low point extends the busy port.
Its forts and ramparts rising o'er the main.
And wide o'erlooking all its anchored fleets.
L 5

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226 WBITTEK IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Oh ! far the magic pencil of Loname 1

To give the soft perspeddve; where the waves

Fade to thin air in tints of mildest blue^

And the dark masts and oobweb-shrouds and lines

Of spiry shipping trace themselves in light.

Midway the sails of various vessels swells

Gliding their silent course ; here the swift- winged

Slant cutter skims the sea ; and there the skiffs

Low on the mighty waters^ shows a speck^

Invisible, but that its tiny sail

Catches the sunbeam, and> wondrous ! tells that

Human life dwells in the moving atom

Amidst the waters. While we gaze, each wave

Threatens to whelm it ; and the shores appear

Too distant for its small and feeble wing ;

Yet on it goes in safety, and displays

Regular purpose, well-considered rules.

And skill, which guides its weakness through the

strength
Of waves, o'er pathless distance, to the sheltering

port.

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WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 327

Oh ! that the old Spirit of Song
Would sound his harp from this high aery brow^
And bid its sweet tones languish^ till the Nymphs^
That dwell beneath its waves^ wake at the strain^
And send up answering music^ now scarce heard^
Now lost^ now heard again with wondering doubts
Till, rising 8low> a clearer chorus swells
In the soft gale^ and makes its voice its own :
Then^ the full sounds float over woods and rocks ;
And then^ descending on the wave^ retire^
Die with the 'plaining of the distant tide.
And leave a blessed peace o'er all the soul.

Raise such a strain, O Nymphs ! whose spell may

A sweeter grace on all the eye beholds.
That the fine vision of these seas and shores
May paint their living colours on the mind.
With charm so forceful, as Time cannot fade.
Then Memory with their own truth shall give
The blue shades of the main, under these dark
And waving boughs upon the steep ; the mast

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WBITTEIC IH THE ISLK OF WIGHT.

Now seen^ or lost^ in the smootli bay^ as choose
The danciiig leaves ; the grey fort on the strand^
Its low, round tower o'ercanopied with elms^
The pacing sentinel, beneath their gloom.
Safe from the noon-day sun. Then would she paint
The slopes, that swell beside thy harbour, Cowes>
With pasture gay and oft with groves embrowned.
That amid veiling leaves, half show the villa.
Gay mimic of a cottage, or the trim crest
Of some proud castle, falsely old. Thy town
Would still be seen to climb the craggy bank ;
Thy vale, withdrawing from the sunny bay.
Would wind beneath these green hills' shade, where

droops
The sail becalmed, that on Medina's tide
Bears the full freight to Newport. Memory then
Would give these nearer scenes of gentle beauty.
Those spreading waters and the dim-seen coast.
Fading into the sky. Then, gentle Nymphs,
Borne feur upon the winds, my song might tell
Of your sweet haunts, perchance in Indian seas —
Of them, who dance before the rising sun.
With songs of joyance breathing spicy gales.

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WBITT£V IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Methinks^ I hear their fieir-off notes complain :
'^ Oh I ne'er yet tripp'd we on the yellow sands.
That Fame says base the diffs of English land ;
Never yet danced we on those heights, that send
Airs from their mantling woods ; never yet trod
The ridges of her stormy waves, nor watched
The tender azure melt into the green.
Then deepen to the purple's changing shades.
Beneath the sleepy indolence of noon.
For such delights we 'U leave our splendid dime.
Our groves of cassia and our coral bowers.
Our diamond-beaming caves and golden beds,
'Broidered with rubies, with transparent pearl.
And emeralds, that steal the sea-wave's hue.
And shells of rainbow-tint, hiry pavilions :
All but our tortoise cars ; they shall bear us
0*er. many a curling surge and chasm deep.
Farther than where the blended sea and sky
Hide from our sight the cooler, better oceans.
That way seek we those temperate islands, now
Wearing green Neptune's livery, crowned with oak.
And terraced with bright cliffs ; such Oberon,

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280 WEITTEH IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

The faiiy^ told of^ to win oar music.

'Twas a charmfiil mooii«time> and he perched hini

In a purple shelly he called his mantle.

And basked him in the pure light, and then asked

A lullaby to soothe hiis care, for he

Was sad and weary, and had, all the day.

Toiled on a north-beam ; and now Titania,

For whom he sought, had left the spicy steeps

Of India, on a bat's wing, at twilight.

We asked a story of the northern dime

To pay our melody, and I remember

It told of castles moving on the waves.

Of a soft emerald throne upon an isle.

Beyond the feJling sun, and other wonders.

That we, all night, could well have listened him.

But that he craved our pity and our song.

On that we breathed a soul into our shells.

And charmed him into slumber !"

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SONNET
TO THE LARK.

SwKBT lark ! I hear thy thrilling note on high.

The note of rapture, that thy bosom pours
To Spring*s fresh gales, green plains and azure sky,

As o'er the mountains steal Morn's blushing hours.
With silent step they come and meekened grace.

In twilight's veil half-hid from mortal view.
Wafting rich fragrance through the crystal space.

O'er groves and valleys shedding April dew.
Gray bird ! now all the woods in silence sleep.

How sweet thy music comes upon the air.
And dies at distance, as, up heaven's blue steep.

Thou, lessening, soar'st to meet Aurora's star !
Oh ! bird of hope and joy, thou point'st the way

That I would go— high o'er life's cloudy day !

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ON RBADINO THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES^
WRITTEN BY THE LATE LADY ELIZABETH LES^
SISTER OF EARL HARCOURT^ IN A BOWER CALLED
BY HER NAME^ AT ST. LEONARD'S HILL^ THE
SEAT OF THE EARL> IN WINDSOR FOREST; A
SEAT WHICH STRANGERS ARE SOMETIMES PER-
MITTED TO VIEW.

^' Tiiis peaceful shade — ^this green-roofed bower,
O&EAT Maker ! all are full of Thee ;
Thine is the bloom, that decks the flower.
And Thine the fruit, that bends the tree.

As much Creative Goodness charms
In these low shrubs, that humbly creep,

As in the oak, whose giant-arms
W&ve o'er the high romantic steep.

The bower, the shade, retired, serene,

The grateful heart may most affect ;
Here, Odd in every leaf is seen.

And man has leisure to reflect !

"And I TOO was once of Arcadia."

From this high lawn^ beneath the varied green
Of grove and bower^ dark oak and blossomed
shade^ i

How brightly spreads the vale ! how grand the scene
Of forest woods and towers^ that lift the head

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AT ST. LEONAKD^S HILL. S33

Majestic from the strife of ages past !

And seem to view^ with melancholy smile.
The gloom of thought by solemn Pity cast

On the worldj fleeting to its rest ; — the while

The fleeting world, all various and gay.

Sports in those villas and those hamlets free,

Where stretching tints of ripened harvest play
Among dark woods and meads of Arcady.

There Spires of Peace arise, and straw-roofed farm
By village green, from 'mid it's antient grove

Sends the high curling smoke, renowned charm
Of those, who watch how lights and shadows rove.

Embattled Windsor, throned upon the vale.

Beneath these boughs displays its bannered state ;

And learned Eton, o'er its willows pale.

Looks stem and sad, as mourning Henry's feite.

On this high lawn, where Nature's wealth we view.
All is instinct with life and fine delight !

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234 LINES WRITTEN IN A BOWER

Trees of all sliades^ the flowers of every hue^
Shrubs breathing joy* and blooming on the sight.

Here bliss may dwells and never^ never die !

Vain thought ! in that low bower there seems a
voice.
Breathed, soft as summer winds o'er waters sigh,

'' I once, like you, coidd in this scene rejoice.

This was my bower of bliss ! Approach and read V
It sunk, that solemn sound, and died on air.

Within the cell I passed with reverend dread.
And found the angel-spirit still was there.

Still in " that green-roofed bower," that "peaceful
shade,"

Whose changeful prospect seems for ever new.
The pomp of forests stf etching till they fade.

And sleep in softness on the distant blue. —

* The delicious fragrance of the mangolia, which flou-
ridies in great abundance before the colonnade, fills the
breakfast-room, and scents all the upper part of the lawn.
Its bushes are wide and high, its egg-flowers large, and its
foliage broad and glossy, like a bay-leaf.

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AT ST. LEONARDOS HILL. 235

Still in that fine repose — that once-loved bower.
Breathe thoughts of heavenly mind, that speak
of God !

And tell a heart, which, grateful, owned His power
In every leaf, that paints the humble sod.

Fast fell my tears, as flowed with her's my thought.
The living feeling with the voice of Death !

The glowing joy by Nature's beauty wrought
With proof how transient is even rapture's breatli.

Here in this shade she sat ! fast fell my tears ;

When my sad mind a hushing music won ;
Again mild accents seemed to soothe my fears.

And murmur, *' Grieve not that her race is run !

The pious heart, the comprehensive mind,

Th^e were of Heaven, and are to Heaven re-
turned !"
It was a seraph's voice upon the wind ;

I heard her song of joy ; I heard ! nor longer
mourned.

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TO THE RIVEtt DOVE.

Oh ! Btteam beloved by tbose^
- With Fancy who repose.
And court her dreams 'mid scenes sublimely wild.

Lulled by the summer-breeze.

Among the drowsy trees ^
Of thy high steeps, and by thy murmurs mild^

My lonely footsteps guide.

Where thy blue waters glide>
Fringed with the Alpine shrub and willow light ;

'Mid rocks and mountains rude,
.Here hung with shaggy wood.
And there upreared in points of frantic height.

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TO THE RIV£1l DOVE. S87

Beneath their awful gloom^

Oh ! blue-eyed Nymph, resume
The mystic spell, that wakes the poet's sonl !

While all thy caves around

In lonely murmur sound.
And feeble thunders o'er these summits rolL

O shift the wizard scene

To banks of pastoral green
When mellow sun-set lights up all thy vales ;

And shows each turf-bom flower.

That, sparkling from the shower.
Its recent fragrance on the air exhales.

When Evening's distant hues

Their silent grace diffuse
In sleepy azure o'er the mountain's head ;

Or dawn in purple faint.

As nearer cliffs they paint.
Then lead me *mid thy slopes and woodland shade.

Nor would I wander hi.
When Twilight lends her star.

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TO THE RIVEE DOVE.

And o'er thy scenes her doubtful shades repose ;

Nor when the Moon's first light

Steals on each bowery height^
Like the winged music o'er the folded rose.

Then^ on thy winding shore^

The fays and elves, once more.
Trip in gay ringlets to the reed's light note ;

Some launch the acorn's ring,

Their sail — Papilio's wing.
Thus shipped, in chace of moon-beams, gay they
float.

But, at the midnight hour,

I woo thy thrilling power.
While silent moves the glow-worm's light along.

And o'er the dim hill-tops

The gloomy red moon drops.
And in the grave of darkness leaves thee long.

Even then thy waves I hear, ^
And own a nameless fear.
As, 'mid the stillness, the night winds do swell.

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TO THE RIVEB DOVE. ^9

Or (faint from distance) hark

To the lone watch-dog's bark !

Answering a melancholy far sheep bell.

O! Nymph fain would I trace

Thy sweet awakening grace.
When summer dawn first breaks upon thy stream ;

And see thee braid thy hair ;

And keep thee ever there^
Like thought recovered from an antique dream !

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THE SEA-MEW.

FoBTH £rom her clifis sublime the sea-mew goes
To meet the storm^ rejoicing ! To the woods
She gives herself; and^ borne above the peaks
Of highest head-lands^ wheels among the clouds^
And hears Death's voice in thunder roll aronndj
While the waves far below, driven on the shore^
Foaming with pride and rage^ make hollow moan.
Now, tossed aloqg the gale from doud to doud.
She turns her silver wings touched by the beam.
That through a night of vapours darts its long.
Level line ; and, vanishing 'mid the gloom.
Enters the secret region of the storm ;
But soon again appearing, forth she moves
Out from the mount'nous shapes of other douds,

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THE 8EA-liEW. 841

And^ sweeping down them^ hastens to new joys.
It was the wailing of the deep she heard !
No fears repel her : when the tumult swells,
Ev'n as the spirit-stirring trumpet glads
The neighing war-horse, is the sound to her.
O'er the waves hovering, while they lash the rocks.
And lift, as though to reach her, their chafed tops,
Dashing the salt foam o'er her downy wings.
Higher she mounts, and from her feathers shakes
The shower, triumphant. As they sink, she sinks.
And with her long plumes sweeps them in their fall.
As if in mockery ; then, as they retreat.
She dances o'er them, and with her shrill note
Dares them^ as io^ scorn.

It is not thus she meets their summer smiles ;
Then, skimming low along the level tide.
She dips the last point of her orescent wings.
At measured intervals, with playful grace.
And rises, as retreating to her home.
High on yo^n 'pending rock, but poised awhile
In air, as though enamoured of the scene,

VOL. IV. M

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S4S XHX 8EA*HEW.

She di0p8« at onoej and settles on tbe aea.

On the green wav^> transparent then Ae zides^

And breathes their freshness, trims her plumage.

white;
And^ listening to the mnrmnr of the surge.
Doth let them bearher wfaeresoe'er they will

Oh ! bird bdovedcf him, who, absent l<nig

From his dear native laaid> espies thee ere

The mountain tops o'er the hx waters rise.

And hails thee as the harbinger of home 1

Thou bear'st to him atwekome on.thjr wings.

His white ssiil o'er th' horizon thou hftst seen

And hailed it, with thy oft-repeated cry.

Announcing England. " England is near !" he cries.

And every seaman'a heart an edio beatS/

And '^ England — ^Enghmd !" sounds along the deck.

Mounts to the shrouds, and'.fiads- an* answering

Yoice,
Ey'n at the top-mast heed, where, posted long.
The ^' look out" sailor clinjgs, and with keen eye.
By long experience finely judging nude.

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THS SEA/*MEW. ^43

Reads tlie dim ebanuAen of air»f«ikd ali<»*et* -
O happy bird ! whom Nature's changing ^eaies
Can ever please ; who mount* st upon the wind
Of Winter and amid the grandeur soar'st
Of tempests^ or sinkest to the peaceful deep>
And float'st with sunskiiie on the summer calm i
O happy bird ! lend me thy pinions now.
Thy joys are mine^ and I^ like thee^ would skim
Along the pleasant curve of the salt bays^
Where the blue seas do now serenely sleep ;
Or^ ^h^i they waken to the Evening breeze.
And every crisping wave reflects her tints
Of rose and amber^ — like thee> too, would I
Over the mouths of the sea-rivers float.
Or watch, majestic, on the tranquil tide.
The proud ships fbllow one another down.
And spread themselves upon the. mighty main.
Freighted for- shores that shall not dawn on sight.
Till a new Sky uplift its burning arch.
And half l^e globe be traversed. Then to him^
The home-bound seaman, should my. joyous flight
Once more the rounding river point, — to him
M 2

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S44 THE SEA-HEW.

Who oomes, perchance, from coasts of darkness,

where
Orim Ruin, from his throne of hideous rocks,
O'ercanopied with pine, or giant larch.
Scowls on the mariner, and Terror wild
Looks through the parting gloom with ghastly eje.
Listens to woods, that groan beneath the storm.
And starts to see the river-cedar &11«

How sweet to him, who from such strands returns.
How sweet to glide along his homeward stream
By well-known meads and woods and village cots.
That lie in peace around the ivied spire
And ancient parsonage, where the small, £tesi\

stream
Gives a safe haven to the humbler barks
At anchor, just as last he viewed the scene.
And soft as then upon the sur£M:e lies
The sunshine, and as sweet the landscape
Smiles, as on that day he sadly bade fiEU*ewell
Ta those he loved. Just so it smiles, and yet
How many other days and months have fled»

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THB SfiA-MEW. S45

What shores remote his steps have wandered o*er^
What scenes of various life unfolded strange.
Since that dim yesterday ! The present scene
Unchanged, though fresh, appears the only truth.
And all the interval a dream I May those
He loves still live, as lives the landscape now ;
And may to-morrow's sun light the thin clouds
Of doubt with rainbow-hues of hope and joy !

Bird ! I would hover with thee o'er the deck.
Till a new tide with thronging ships should tremble ;
Then, frightened at their strife, with thee I 'd fly
To the free waters and the boundless skies.
And drink the light of heaven and living airs ;
Then with thee haunt the seas and sounding shores.
And dwell upon the mountain's beaked top.
Where nought should come but thou and the wild

winds.
There would I listen, sheltered in our cell.
The tempest's voice, while midnight wraps the world.
But, if a moon-beam pierced the clouds, and shed
Its sudden gleam upon the foaming waves.

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246 THE SEA-MEW.

Tottdung with pale Hgbt eaeh shforpline of diff>
Whose head towered darkly^ w)uch.no eje could

trace>-^
Then downward I would wheel amid the storm^
And watchj with antired:gaze, the embattled surges
Pouring in deep array> line efter line^
And hear their measured war-note sound along
The groaning, coast, whereat the winds above
Answer the summons, and each secret cave,
Untrod by footsteps, and each pjrecipice.
That oft had on the upeonsciojos fi^r frowned.
And every hollow bay aad utmost cape
Sighs forth a fear for the pocn: mariner.
He, meanwhile; hears the sound o'er waters wide ;
Lashed to the mast, he hears, and thinks of home.

O bird ! lend me thy wings,^
That swifter than the blast I may out- fly
Danger, and from yon port, the life^boat, call*
And see! e'en now the.guardian.bar^ rjdes o^er
The mount^obillow^, ^i^d^o^nds thi;oug^^ chasms
Where lurks Destruction eagfS): .for his prey>
With eyes of flashing fire and foamy jaws.

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THS SEA-MEW. 247

He» by straifge storm-lights diown, uplifts his head,
And^ from the summit of each rising wave^
Darts a grim glance upon the daring crew.
And sinks the way their little boat must go !
But she^ with blessings armed, best shield !. as if

ImmOTtaly surmounts the abyss, and rides

The watery ridge upon her pliant oars.
Which conquer the. wild, raging eleme^t
And that dark demon, with jEmgelic pow^.
Wave after wave, he suUenly retreats^.
With oft repeated n^naoe^ apd beholds
The poor fisherman, with all his fellows.
Borne from his grasp in triumph to the sl^re—
There Hope stands watchful,. and ho*. call is heard
Wafted on wishes of the crowd. Hark ! hark !
Is that her voice rejoicing ? 'Tis her song
Swells high upon the gale, and 'tis her smile.
That gladdens the thick darkness. Thbt are

SAVED.

Bird of the winds and waves and lonely shores.
Of loftiest promontories — and clouds.

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248 THE SBA-HBW.

And tempests— -Bird of the sun^^beam^ that seeks
Thee through the storm^ and glitters on thy wings !
Bird of the sun-beam and the azure calm^
Of the green diff, hung with gay summer plants,
Who lov'st to sit in stillness on the bought
That leans far o'er the sea, and hearest there
The chasing surges and the hushing sounds.
That €oat around thee, when tall shadows tremble*.
And the rock-weeds stream lightly on the breeze.
O bird of joy ! what wanderer of air
Can vie with thee in grandeur of delights.
Whose home is on the predpioe, whose sport
Is on the waves ? O happy, happy bird !
Lend me thy wings, and let thy joys be mine !

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TO THE WINDS.

Spibit ! who dwellest in th^ secret clouds.
Unseen, unknown, yet heatd o'er all the world !
Who reign'st in storms and darkness half the year.
Yet sometimes lov'st, in Summer's season bright.
To breathe soft music through her azure dome :
Oft heard art thou amongst the high tree-tops.
In mournful and so sweet a melody.
As though some Angel, touched with human grief.
Soothed the sad mind. Oh, viewless, viewless

wind!
I love thy potent voice, whether in storms
It gives to thunder clouds their impulse dread.
Swells the Spring airs, or sighs in Autumn's groves,
H 6

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250 TO THS WINDS.

Mourning the dying leaf. Whate'er the note^
Thy power entrances^ wins me from h>w oares.
And bears me towards Ood> who bids you breathe^
And bids the morning of a higher world
Dawn on my hopes.

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MOONLIGHT.

A SCENE.

On the bright margin of Italians shore^
Beneath the glance of summer-noon we stray^

And, indolently happy^ ask no more

Than cooling airs^ that o'er the ocean play ;

And watch the bark^ that, on the busy strand.
Washed by the sparkling tide, awaits the gale.

Till, high among the shrouds, the sailor-band
Gallantly shout, and raise the swelling sail.

On the broad deck a various group recline.
Touched with the moonlight, yet half-hid in shade.

Who, silent, watch the bark the coast resign.
The Pharos lessen, and the mountains ^de.

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S62 MOOVLIGHT.

We, indolently happy, ask alone

The wandering airs, which o'er the ocean stray.
To bring some sad Venetian sonnet's tone.

From that lone vessel floating hi away !

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SMILES.

It was a smile — a fleeting smile^

Like a fiedht gleam through Autumn's shade>
That softly^ sweetly, did beguile.

As it around her dimples played.

What are smiles, and whence their sway ?

Smiles that, o'er the features stealing.
To the gazer's heart convey

All the Varied world of feeling.

What are smiles ?
Do they dwell in Beauty's eye ?

No ! nor on her playing cheek,
Nor on her wavy lip— though ni^

Seems the glancing charm they seek.

Where do they dwell ?

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254 sMix.Es.

Where ? — Their home is in the mind ;

Smiles are light — ^the light of soul !
Light of many tints combined^

And of strong and sure control.

Smiles are light.
There 's a smile — ^the smile of Joy^

Bright as glance of May's fresh mom;
And one, that gleams but to destroy^ —

'Tis the lightning smile of Scorn. .

There is a smile of glow-worm hue.
That glimmers not near scenes of Folly,

Pale and strange and trazfsient too, —
The smile of awful Melancholy.

Like to the sad and silvery showers.

Falling in an April sun.
Is the smile, that Hty pours

O'er the deed, that Fate has done.

Dear is Friendship's meeting look.
As moonlight on a sleeping vale.

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SMILES. S55

Soothing those the sun forsook —
So does that o'er Care prevail.

But who the first pure tint has seen^
That trembles on the edge of Morning,

When summer's veil is so serene^
Hiding half and half adorning }

They, who this have seen^ may know>
What the smile that 's here intended ;

They^ who do to Laura go^

See that smile with beauty blended.

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THE REED OF POESY,

Oh ! flweet reed, oome liither !

"Nev&c from tbee will I part ;
For oft, like sun-shine weather.

Thy music has cheered my heart :

Oh ! sweet reed, oome hither.
Many a forest-green monntain

In leafless November I Ve seen ;
Many a daisy-rimmed fountain

In frozen December has been ;

Many on April bower.

And many a valley of May
Bright with sunbeam and flower,

I 've seen on a Winter's day.

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BEisb OF POESY. ^Y

Oft, in the depth of December,

When the night-blast shrieked alond.

And sadly bade me remember.

That Death was abroad in his shroUd ;

Thy weloomest note light sounding

Has flattered my fears to rest ;
My lone, lone hearth surrounding

With many a &iry gnest»

And many a scene of wonder.

Rising from forth the dark nightj,
In veil thrown but half a8under>

Has thrilled me with dread delight.

How oft, in some measureless chamber,

I have seen the traveller wait.
Through the dull night of December,

All fearfdl of some sad fate.

And I Ve heard that voice so hollow
Break once on his startled ear ;

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9SS ftE£D OF FOXSY.

And seen him how sadl j follow^
And dunly disappear.

And, when the grey doubtful moniing

Has gleamed pale over the waste,
I Ve viewed him all safe returning.

And smiling at danger past.

So oeme, sweet reed, come hither !

I never from thee will part ;
For oft, like sunshine weather.

Thy music has cheered my heart.

Oh ! sweet reed, come hither !

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EDWY.

A POEM, IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.
THE HAZEL TREK.

A 8UMMBR 80N0 OF FAJRIE.

Lightly green with springing buds>
The hazel twines her fairy bowers>

In yon dell o'erhung with woods^
Where the brook its music pours.

O'er the margin of the stream
Peeps the yellow marygold>

And lilies^ where the waters gleam^
Bend their heads so fair and cold.

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260 EDWY.

Know ye why the Elfin-band
Watch beneath the hazel-bough ?

'Tis to guard its Magic Wand
And its blossoms^ as they blow.

Thbsb, gathered at the mid-day honr^
To mortal eyes their haunts betray ;

That has the strange enchanting power
To call up a prophetic Fay.

Be she down among the rills^
In some wild-wood dingle hid ;

Or ^t^n^ Ti g on the moonlight hills-
She must speedy as she is bid.

Or sleep she on the mossy bed^
Under the blossom-breathing lime.

That sheds sweet freshness over head —
The freshness of the morning prime;

Or stray she with old Thames serene
Through osier-tufts and lofty groves.

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THE HAZEL TEES. 961

By royal towers> or cottaged green^
Still must she leave what best she love^-«

Leave the thatched cot^ where finest spreads*
The turf^ 'mid every choicest flower^

And the far-branching chestnut sheds
Over the wave its greenest shower.

Where, silver-streak'd, that polished wave
Glides by with lingering, sweet farewell.

While stately swans their proud necks lave^
And seem to feel some fairy spell.

Then marvel not that Elfins fair

Guard the thin wand and hazel bloom ;

Since these can all their haunts lay bare, ,
By hidden stream, or forest gloom.

— Near Windsor's shades there dwelt a youth.
Who fast was bound in Cupid's chain ;

• Tke PrinoesB Elizabeth's late cottage at Old Windsor.

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268 EDwy.

But how to tiy lib kdy's truth
By mortd means he sought in vain.

He to a chamber ^m withdrew.

Where serpent's skin and head of toad

Hinted of themes he must pursue.
Ere secret would to him be showed.

It was a chamber mt^cal.

Where light in partial gleams appeieured.
And showed strange shapes upon the wall.

By his own mystic learning reared.

Thence to the hazel-copse he went.
When the sun was flaming high ;

And there the twining branches rent ;
For then no Fay was watching nigh.

Fast asleep in closed flowers.
And all unheard, and all unseen,

IVho, that walked these noontide bowers,
Gould guess that any Elres had been >^—

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THE HAZBI. TREE. 263

Next^ to the fd^est-Lills lie hied^

To pull the wild thyme's budding bloom^

Fresh from some haunted dingle's side ;
For, it must blow where Fairies come.

Just such a dingle still is seen.

Hanging upon the Park's high brow.

Deep buried in the shadowy green.
Where tall o'erarching beeches grow.

Here oft the Fairies revel keep.

To bless the Castle's moonlight hours,

And peep, as winds these branches sweep^
At Windsor diadem'd with towers.

Grass, that crowns a Fairie's throne,

Marygolds— her canopy.
Lilies, for her cradle known^

These he gatiiered,^ three and three.

Well prepared with hazel-leares,.
Thus the wondrous charm distill.

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S64 KDWY.

Which, laid on an eye, that grieves.
Shows eadi sprite pf grove, or rill.

" Three hazel-wands peel smooth and white,
Jost a twelvemonth old — no more :

Thrice on each wand the full name write
Of the Fay you would implore.

'' Then in earth these wands consign ;

In earth, that elfin footsteps tread.
Extract them with well-muttered line.

Unheard of man— by man unread.

^^ Next, to the North your visage turn.
Invoke her name, with thrice told three.

Be she by forest, mead, or bourne.
Her on your magic glass you '11 see."

With shaking hand he peeled the wand ;

Then would he trace her name, I wot ;
Edwy the Love-Fay would command ;

But Edwy had her name forgot.

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THE HAZEL TEEK.

Foil of great flaws td aught but love

Is the memory' of a lover;
Now he must watch where Fairies rove.

Or this name he '11 ne'er recover.

Back o'er the sunny hiUs he goes

To his green home in Windsor .shades.

To draw the charm, that shall expose
The Elfin-Court, when day-light fades.

Down by good Clewer's winding mead.
And where the silver currents glide,

A plume of elms lifts high it's head.
And casts it's shadow on the tide.

All dark and still the feathery grove
Sleeps in the streamy light below ;

The streamy light with placid love
And hushing murmur seems to flow.

There Elves, 'twas said, in ringlets went.
When chimes sang midnight to the land,

VOL. IV. N

965

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266 EDWY.

If then^ on Windflor's batdement,
Tip-toe the fall-orbed Moon should gtand.

Duly distilled the flowery diarm>

Thither Edway must repair.
And, that no check the spell might harm.

Ere the sun-set he was there.

The golden tints of Evening lie
Upon the smoothly-flowing stream.

Tint the old walls and turrets high.
And lower on the wood-tops gleam.

And, slanting o'er the willowed vale.
The blessed Henry's &ne enshrined.

It's fretted windows, turrets pale.
And pinnacles far ranged behind.

And now the soothing hour is come.
The star-light hour, when all is still.

Save the fu-distant village hum.

And the lone watch-bark from the hill ;

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THE HAZEL TEEE. 267

And wheels which^ £ar-ofF traveUing,

Pass unseen in bowery lane^
Like to the sea-tide murmuring^

Now loud and lost^ then loud again.

He laid the charm upon his eyes.
And looked with desperate courage round ;

Alas ! no tripping phantoms rise
On the shadowy^ Fairie ground.

Patience is a lover's duty !

Here^ counting every distant chime>
He exalts his lady's beauty^

In quaint, or, pity-moving rhime*

Till, in the East, a shadowy light.

Rising behind the Castle-walls,
Gives the dim turrets to his sight.

And in mute watch his spirit thralls.

As slow the unseen Moon ascends.
More darkly drawn the towers appear,
N 2

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Till eyerj doobtM mass expands,
And liyes upon the radiant air ;

Then^ peers she o'er the broad Keep's height,
A spreading curve of light serene ;

And> fiaithfal to her loved Midnight^

There> reigns it's pale and pensive Qneen.

And touches^ with her silver ray^

Terrace and woody steep below
The river's willow-sheltered bay>

And waters quivering as they flow.

Where'er th' Enchantress points her wand.
Forth from the deep of darkness crowd

Pale glimmering shapes^ and silent stand
As waked from Death's unfolding shroud.

The landscape livedo clear spread the lawn,
The groves^their shadowy tops unfurled.

And airy hills in prospect dawn.
Like vision of another world.

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THE HAZEL TREE. 5269

The chimes sang midnight ; Edwy shook^
While by the grove of elm lie 6tood>

And cast a sly and wistful look
Around the turf and o'er the flood.

That wrinkled flood, all silver bright.

No sail of Furie pinnace showed^
Nor, 'neatk the still elm's bowery night,

A glimpse of elfln-pageant glowed.

St. George*s chimes, with fidter sweety
Like infants, tried their task to say ;

But, waked from midnight's slumber meet,
Th' imperfect accents died away.

And soft they sunk to sleep again.

Ere the slow song was duly dosed.
As seeming feebly to complain

Of broken rest, e'en while they dozed.

But Fairies met not Edwy's eye ;
For, here, alas ! no more they rove ;

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870 KDWY.

Some archills of tlie College mgh
Had sorely scared them fi-om the grore ;

Such as the forest-keepers here
^lare followed, helter-skelter, round

Hills, woods and dales, for tracking deer ;
Till fond Thames bore the wights to ground ';

To Eton ground', where, safe from law.
And praising oft the helping tide.

They peeped. Well hid in grass, and saw
The foresters on t'other side !

Such as the May-pole^ oft has watched
Doff gown and mount the coach on high ;

Such as the tayem-£nner snatched.
The bottle drank and ate the pie.

In fifteen minutes and away !
And, if an oxen-herd they met.

* A Maypole fomerfy stood on die €hiseai^ hetove the
gates of the Long Walk at Windsor, where pranks of this
sort have often been played.

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THE HAZBL TREE. 271

Sprang on their homs^ in. latagjbing play>
Then gravely joined the 8chool-room set*

Oh ! those were happy times^ I ween.
The light of Morning o'er the sky —

That touches all the varied scene
With life-full gleams of hope and joy;

The angered fidries, ia vevange.

Still, the tale goes, '' their tyrants flout ;"

Plunge them in scrapes and misehief strange,
Then leare them to a flogging-bout !

But oft good Robin pronres their friend.

And lays his bandage on the eyes
Of the grave Heads, who mildly blend

Remembrance with severe surmise.

And now, in more removed ground.
Up in the high Park's ancient shade.

On the grey forest's lonely bound.
These fairies dance in secret glade ;

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272 EDWY-

Where oaks Plantagenet still frown^
Great Edward's tree e'en each appears,

A warlike niiii> gaunt and ione^
The spectre of five hundred years.

Nursed by long centuries gone by.

Reared in the storms, that wrecked their kii^s>
Oh ! could they give the Past a sigh.

And speak the tale of vanished things.

The peopled scenes they hare beheld.

In long succession, varied guise.
More wonders here had stood revealed^

Than aught^ that Fairie dream supplies.

Thus Edwy, with a face of ru^.

Returned home for future feat ;
Thus he, who does adventure woo.

Must sometimes disappointment meet*

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PART II.
THE FAIRIE COURT.

A BUKHBII'S NIGHT llf WINDSOR PARK.

Kdwy, in his lonely chamber.

Plying still his magic lore.
Watched, when all was hushed in slumber^

The dead planetary hour.

Two crystal planes, three inches square.
Steeped in the blood of milk-white fowl.

With careful skill he did prepare,
'Gkdnst next should hoot the midnight owl.

One would reveal the summoned Fay,

^Vho, by her-divining art
Should on the second plane display

Scenes to grieve, or ch^er, his heart.
n6

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274 sowT.

Thus endowed to oonjnre tune.
He would fidn hate cq aju re d sleep^

Bat the god of loren, wary,
Hoven not o'er eyes that weep.

Sad and lestleM all the momiag.
Sad and restleas all the noon.

Counting every chime of warning
Through the longest day of June :

Thos he lingered, thus he wandered,
Round about his lady's hall^

Till his hopes were nearly foundered —
Till a rival spoke his fall.

In ^Jl oriel he saw her.

Chatting, smiling* blooming gay ;
Doating, maddening, he bewailed her.

Doubting his first doubts this day.

Breathing lilacs after showers.
Beading with the silver drbps.

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THE FA1RIB COUET. 275

Greenest leaires and purple flowery
Wayiag where the goldfiJteh hops.

And scattering round the scented dew.

And sparkling on the sunny air.
Not half so fresh aa Aura glow.

Not half so graeefuir—h^lf so fair.

Too soon she vanished from his eyes,

And Evening summoned him afeur.
Then to the high-browed Park he hies ;

There, must he meet the twilight-star.

With magic mirrors, haflel wand.
Eyelids touched with clearing spell.

He sou^t the Court of Fairie land.
Hidden in their distant dell.

Through the shaded walks so wide.

That climb about the southern hill,
Edwy passed wit^ rapid stride.

Nor saw one Elf— thou^ all was still.

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276 EDWY-

With toil he gained the airy brow^
Andy panting^ paused to breathe awhile.

And throw a lingering look below
O'er the still landseape's parting smile.

Crowning the long vista's shade,
O'ertopped with turrets, tezxaoed high,.

Windsor all its pomp displayed.
Beneath the glowing western sky.

Beyond, the low, blue hills repose^
Along the hr horiion's bound.

How soft the hues the forest throws.
Its leafy darkness shedding round i

Those hills their stretching woods display
In faint shade, through the azure veil.

While, sweetly bright, the setting ray
Bids many a spire once more-*^fiBu»welI.

And ferewell to the banner proud.
That o'er the broad Keep floats on air>

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THE FAISTE COUBT. 277

Prodaiming, as with triynpet loud^
It's rojral lord reposes there.

Pale and more pale the scene retires^
And Windsor's state has vanished now.

Save one dim tower, that boldly spires
To meet the star on twilight's brow.

There stood he tranced, till, in the air.

Warbled music passed along;
So softly sweet, so finely dear !

This was sure a Fairie song.

For, now no woodlark waked to sing ;

Every little eye was closed ;
On slender foot, with drooping wing.

In it's home each bird reposed.

Save one, and, where he winged his way.
Pleased, Edwy heard his strain advance.

On his smooth neck a Fairie lay.
Or rather did a Fairie dance.

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5(78 EDWT.

A yeil of gossamer she wore^

All spangled round with primmose dew ;
A star-beam for a wand she bore^

Which flbe from Venns slyly drew.

This little bird on drdidg pinions
Wantoned oyer BA-wfs head^

Then to its shady, loved dominiums.
With its Fairie lady sped.

The while his Fairie lady trills
" To the beech- woods follow me.

Up the lawns and o'er the hills.
To the high woods follow me."

In tiny echoes " Follow me"
All the hills and glades prolong ;

From every bush and hollow tree
Seemed to rise the choral song.

And Edwy, round each hollow tree.
Spied the motley Elves at play ;

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THE FAIKIE COURT. 279

While> thick as emmets^ '' Follow me,*"
They sang again^ and passed away.

O'er greenest lawns, through proudest groves.

He pursued his feathered guide.
O'er scenes, that silent Moonlight loves.

To the long lake's* mossy side.

The little bird flew o'er the lake ;

£dwy round the turf-banks went.
Close where-the silver currents break.

And lower oaks their branches bent.

The stream is there with rocks inlaid ;

He tripped o'er these, and reached the road.
That, broad and turfy 'neath the shade.

Leads to the pleasantest abode.

• The Virginia Master in Windsor Great Park. TheAu-
tfator ^ms 90 fivfiiently in the acenes aUud^d to, between the
• years laiO and 1614, that the ideas, whieb this and the pre-
ceding and succeeding pieoes show, may b^ uMy dated from
that period.— Ed.

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280 EDWT.

Green above green^ of every hue.
The bordering trees in vista bend/

Shrubs lay their low leaves on the dew,
And pine and larch on light ascend.

Galleries of verdure ! all is green.
Here lawn and bending boughs below ;

Above 'tis stately shade ; the scene
Seems made for glancing, Fairie show.

But, closer bowered, their noonday haunt

Rests in a hollow, beechen dell ;
It's marge no human hand could plant,

It's shadows seem to breathe a spell.

Now, would you view the Fairies' scene.
Where twilight-dances print the lawn.

Where it spreads out in softest green.
To gaps, whence distant landscapes dawn,

* The beautiful lodge at Sandpit Gate opening irom the
Weitem ride of the Great Park. The soenery about this it
of exceeding beauty and sweet repoie.

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THE FAIBIE COURT. 281

Hie to the western forest-gate ;

There Claudian beauty melts around ;
There Elfin-turrets keep their state.

And tell, at once, 'tis Fairie ground.

Or, at that later Evening-hour ;

When the turf gladdens with the dew.
That almost darkens Windsor's tower.

And gives near hills a distant blue.

And oh ! if Silence could be seen,^
Thus would she look, so meek, so pale.

The image of this very scene.
When Evening glances on the vale.

Now Edwy reached the wood-walks wild,*
That open from the watery glade,

* The beautiful turf-walks, that branch from the Virginia
Water, exhibit, perhaps, every known variety of pine and fir
on their long, sweeping borders. Their stately forms and the
variety of their tints, intermixed, at intervals, with lofty oak
and beech, and so closely bowered below with flowering shrubir,
that scarcely a spot of earth is visible beneath them, make
these broad, green alleys as delightful, when dosdy viewed,
as they are otherwise graoefial from their general aspect.

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288 BBWT.

Wbere sweet vale-lilies, mleCs ndld.
And primrose tufts the grass inlaid. ^

Climbing the spiky blades and gt^m.
Gathering dews, were Elves a million.

Diamond drops and crystal gems.

To fringe their Fairie Queen's pavilion.

And see what flaming lights appear I

Flashed through the foliage arching high ;

What silver horn winds, sweet and dear,
As breathing from the lips of Joy !

Sudden the elves, on flower and blade.
Forsake their task, and, with a bound.

Touch the green turf, and down the glade
Take hands and trip a welcome round.

But Edwy hears no more the strain ^

Of his fleeting, tiny lady.
And watches for her bird, in vain.

To lead him through the alleys shady.

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THE FAISIHI COUBT. SM

By him an elfiu-oourier speeds

On grasshopper his forest-ways ; .
Bmshing the hnmble cowslip heads.

While each its trembling homage pays.

And nezt« a winged beetle came^

Sounding deep his herald-horn.
The &dry sovereign to proclaim.

And evil sprites away to warn.

There, whisked an Indian lanthom-fly
Quick flashing forth it's emerald sheen ;

Dancing low and dancing high.
In many a ring of fiery green.

Then came a creeping^ stilly breeze.

That made the crisped waters live.
That shivered all the sleeping trees.

And bade the leaver their essence give.

But see, the birds on every bough
Awake and stretch their ruffled wings ;

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284 EDwy.

And o'er the dewy turf below

His starry glance the glow«worm flings;

And the whole woodbank's flowery couch"
Is sprinkled now with glimmering bands^

Waiting their tiny Queen's approach^
Her guards and lights to Fairie lands.

Agaiuj that horn of Joy breathes fine>
Again^ the moonlight-light waters shake ;

Where'er the foaming tips combine.
Rises a fairy of the lake.

Half veiled within the sparkling strife.
His inexperienced eyes scarce see

The pale forms changing into life.
Till all is glowing pageantry.

True to their sovereign's summons they^
Upon the lake's enchanted shore.

Await her presence proud and gay.
Where rides the fleet to waft her o'er.

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THE FATBIE COURT. S85

And now a spicy^ rare perfmne,

SacH as breathes from Indian dells^
Fills all the high-wood's leafy dome>

And the fine Fairie presence tells.

And faint aerial strains are heard.
As through the rich, festooning ways>

The Queen in moonlit-pomp appeared.
Amongst ten thousand dancing Fays.

By gold and purple butterflies

Her rose-leaved car was drawn in air ;

Above, two birds of Paradise

Arch o'er her head their plumage rare.

While, hr around her, dancing beams,
That with bright rainbow colours glow.

Strike on the gloom in transient gleams.
And all her elfin-escort show.

All in the busy air around *

Pert eyes and little wings are seen.

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S86 Bpwy.

And voices whisper^ feathers sounds
Attendant on their elfin-queen.

A robe of silvery snow she wore.
Frosted with magic art so true.

That the hot breath of Midsummer
Could never change it into dew.

And> wafted by her happy bird,
A courtier-fury oft proclaims,

" Now let the mirthful song be heard ;
Our lady queen a welcome claims."

The little bird too 'gan to sing, ■
And then the fsdry tried her voice ;

As gaily as the airs of Spring
Did that poor little bird rejoice.

The measure changed, a languid call.
Sweet with sorrow, thrice it sounded.

Concluding in a dyiag fall.

Softer than e'er fountain rounded.

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THE VAIVLIE COUBT. S87

'* O Nightingale ! it was thy song

Sent through the woods that dying dose ;

I know thee now ; the note prolong ;
Oh ! speak again those tender woes 1"

Under the bonghs/the elfin- train

Mutely listened to the measure ;
But, when he trilled his joy again.

They beat the ground in antic pleasure.

** O bird of feeling, various, sweet !

Thee and thy guardian-Mend I hail ;
I KNOW Thbb now, and gladly greet

The Love-Fay and her nightingale.

All fly before the elfin-queen.

Toward the lake's high-crowned head.

Near where the forest-oaks begin
A reverential gloom to spread.

With thousand sparks the woodbank swarms :
Her glow-worm knights, in long array.

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288 EDvrr.

Marshalled by Fire-fly — King at Anns^
Guard her and light her on her way.

Where'er they move^ the drowsy flowers

Unclose their leafy curtains fax ;
And Fays^ asleep within their bowers^

Leap forth, and dance before her car ;

Dance to that crystal lake's green side,
.That winds through fir-crowned lawns and woods.

Whose beeches old,, in giant pride.

Fling their broad shadows on the floods.

And oft they wantoned with the surge.

That, flowing near the Fairie court.
It's silver line on line did urge.

As if to tempt and share their sport ;

As if to woo the elfin-queen.

To float upon its moonlight breast ;
Pleased to unfold each margent scene.

And bear her to her bower of rest.

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THE FAIBUt COUBT. 989

The smile^ tliat played «pon it's &cef

She seemed by magic lore to read ;
And^ with a kind and sportive grace.

She bade her tiny sailors speed.

A fleet of pleasure->bo6t8 lay there.

Such vessels as befit a sprite ;
The water-lilies schooners were.

Leaf after leaf out^spreading white*

■«

There skiffs, fresh gathered from the~Hiiie :

There acorn-barges broad and deep.;
So safe, that, e'en in tempest-time.

An Elf npon his oars might sleep.

And in his Hbabt of Omk could gp.
His tiny Dbeadnought, singing gay,

Spite of the winds and rocks below.
Round every fairy cliff ai^d.bay.

Sweet wherries of long lavender.
Blossoms of every shape and stain,

VOL. IV, o

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290 EDWY.

From blue-bell yadita to bird-pepper^
Attended for tbe oonrtier-train.

But their bright Queen more proudly sailed
In a pearl-shell ship of the line :

By water mouse-ear was she veiled^
And she was fanned with eglantine.

Her canopy, bedropped with gold.
Had floated on the Indian tide ;

A lotos-leaf, with ample fold.

Swelled for her sail, in snowy pride.

The cordage was of silver thread
Spun of fine bark of ashen tree ;

The mast of sandal wood ; the head
A living dolphin seemed to be.

Her green knights watched upon the shrouds.
Or ranged them hx along the prow ;

Stood round their Queen, in radiant crowds.
Or gleamed far on the wave below.

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THE FAIRIE COUBT. S91

And otlien, ranked as on a oone>

Stage above stage^ of towery height.
Moved on the Iflke around her throne^

Proad, floating pyramids of light.

Above them all, then might yon spy.

In busy care, high o'er the mast.
Their king-at-arms. Sir Lanthom-fly,

Ordering the pageant, as it past ;

And, glancing down the moonlight ajr.
He checked the lily-schooner's way ;

And, whisking here and whisking there.
Recalled each blossom-sail astray.

Then, self-triumphant, in the van.

In airy circles pleased he danced;
Yet, while he led the revel on.

Back, £o(t his Queen's applauses ^anced.

And thus in gliding state she went
O'er the long windings of the wave,
o 2

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29S . XDWY.

Where many a watchful eye was beftt>
From hollow oak and 8e<3et cave.

The screech-owl and the snake were dieic^

The boding raven^ cruel kite.
That fill the timid hsart with aute.

And love to prowl in moonkas n%ht.

But chief on the old Forest's bound,
Where the still waters sink away.

Such evil agents walk their round.
Or lurk within the oaka so grey.

Bewildered in the wild-^wood glades,
Edwy oft lost the long lake's side ;

Till, thrbugh some deep groioB'a opening
He saw the spkndiii vislea glide*

Low glaneed the silver oars along,

Quick came the spires of glow-worm light.

That round their Queen's tall gaUey thro^.
Shooting long beams aslant tiie ni^ ;

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THE FAIBIB COUBT. 5^98

These^ trembling througK the branches' dome.
Touching each leaf with transient joy.

Now seen, now lost, from gloom to gloom.
Showed like the stars, when clouds fleet by.

Then, over banks and und^ woods,

Edwy pursued the pageant^s way ;
Till, having reached the smiling floods.

The frolick shores his hopes betray.

For, winding baek, his course tiiey
Leaving him on some jutting steep,

'Mid the lone waters, while a£ax
The inmost bay the Fairies sweep.

And thus through wilds and woods he toiled.
Lured by sluvt glimpse of that bright train.

Which through the distant shadows smiled.
As if in mockery of his pain«

Till, once again, he heard remote
That gentle bird, ^thful to lovers;

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894 BDWY.

Andy following tlie high-warbled note^
Again the Fairie fleet disoovera :

Just as it touched the fiurther shore^
To land the Qneen those groves among ;

When still was every little oar^
And .evesj white sail breathless hung.

No sound was heard but Music's voice.
Roused by the motley elfin-band>

Who play in moonshine, and rejoice
In choral welcomes o'er the strand.

The groves, that hovered o'er the brink.
The polished lake more dark returns ;

And each bright star, in emerald twink.
Beneath the wave more ke^ily bums.

And there, the rival of their beams.

Reflected by the glass below,
A shooting-star Sir Fire»fly seems.

While marshaUing the Fairie show.

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THE FAIRIX COUBT. 295

Each shroud and sail of Fairie bark^

Each glittering oar and image fair.
Within that mirror^ blue and darlc,

Lay^ like a picture^ pencilled £ur.

But when Sir Fire-fly's knights moved on.
And their green torches mutely raised.

Then all the Fairie's splendour shone.
And shores and woods and waters blazed.

Thus, ranged in vista-lines of ligiht.

Moving beneath the leafy gloom.
Where forest-oaks spread deepest night.

They guard her to her sylvan home.

Under an ancient beech, that high
Out-hung it's spray, her dreams of night

Were veiled from every curious eye.
Save when with magic virtue bright.

It's mighty boughs a circle filled ;
Like necromantic guard it stood ;

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906 XBWY.

It's air severe the wanderer chiUed,
It's frown and liaughtj attitude.

Soon as that beechen shade she reached^
Rustled its every leaf for joy ;

Then gracefully her ^and she stretched^
And lighted all its leaves on higii.

Yet flame of torch> or lamp, was none.
Nor any glittering sparkle there ;

It seemed as if the setting sun
Tinged the rich, spray with rosy sihr.

Her bower through many chambers ranged^
And each a different purpose showed ;

This, oft with mystic shadows changed ;
That, for the dance, or' banquet, glowed.

Beyond them all, he^ cell of rest
In verdant shade and silence lay ;

Save, when the ring-»dove in her nesti
Sung all her gentle cares away :

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THE FAIBIS COUET. 9^7

And sleepy leaves^ scarce moTed in aiir.

Or only swayed by breezes fleet.
With the lake's murmuring falls afar.

Made melody most sad and sweet.

Lime-blossoms strewed the mossy floor.
And breathed a dewy fragrance roond.

Inviting her to slumbers pure.
While freshnesff seemed to bless the ground.

Yet here, sometimes, this Queen of dreams
Would weave such seeming forms of fate.

As, sent upon the still moonbeams.
Oft by the midnight sleeper wait.

Hid in her cool bower might she view

The noontide lake and sunny lawns;
The slow sail on the waters blue.

And, through the brakes, the fleeting fietwns ;

And watch them on the watery brim.
Bending to sip the dainty wave,
o 6

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tSB SBWT.

Then starting at the form ao iliin.
The ahadoiwed crystal tmly gave.

Unseen^ she traced eadi step that itnred.

Rejoichig on that maigent green ;
Or sooght the hills and grores beloved.

That crown with pleasant shade the scene.

Bdwy Jiad joined the Fairie's train,
Jnst as she readied her leafy dome.

While full arose the chond strain
Of welcome to her beechen home.

Her glow-worm knights, wide round the beedi.
In glimmering circles take their stand ;

Adder, nor bird of boding speedi.
Nor step unbleat may pass that band.

In front, high on the beechen spray.
Like Hesper, on the eastern dawn.

Sir Fire-fly spreads his watchful ray
O'er dell obscure and distant lawn.

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THE FAIRIB COUET. S99

No shape^ among the shadows there,
Gould glide iuiseeii> nor move, where frowned

That beech's wizard brows in air.
And shrink not fronl the mystic ground.

Save Edwy, with his magic spell ; —

Invisible and fearless, he
Might pass e'en to the Fairie^s cell.

Unknown—but of one enemy.

She tripped into her vestibule.
Arched high with rose and ^lantine.

Breathing a fragrance light and cool.
And bright with dew-drops, crystalline.

Here many a bell, that, in the day.

Had hung its fainting head awry,
Now waked for h^ in beauty gay.

And breathed for her its perfumed sigh.

Her pavilion next she entered ;
Clear the glassy columns shone;

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800 KDvrr.

To the turf steps Edwy venturcdi
And beheld her on her throne*

Under an ebon arch reclining^
With brilliant drops all thickly hung,

Where Mimosa's leaves were twining^
ffhe listened^ while the Love-Fay sung.

The thousand dew-drops hanging there
And in the swelling dome^ on high.

Trembled with radiance keen and iaxr.
Poured from her' living diamond's eye.

Splendour and Joy around her moved.
And winning smiles beamed in her face,

And every virtue most beloved
Gkive to her air a tender grace.

On the ruby-pavement stealing.
Circling Elves their homage gave>

Then, in quaint moriscoes reeling.
They dance, and diry garlands wave.

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THE FATBIC COUKT. 301

The silver-triangle^ the lute^

The tambonrine, with tiny \ielh,
Mix with the softly-breathing flute ;

The mellow horn more distant swells.

A quaint and various group arriyed :

One^ fliting on a bat's wing came,
No orchard^ where he haunted, thrived ;

Malignant Elfant was his name.

One^ upon a field-mouse gliding,

Oft the traveller appalled,
Wondrously his steps misguidii^ ;

Sly Elf6na she was called.

A thirds upon a squirrel springing.

Never rested^ night, or day ;
Into some droll mischief bringing

Solemn heads^ as weU as gay.

On butterfly next sailed a Fairie ;
She soothes fine ladies in their vapour^

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S02 XDwy.

Who of nmbanging good are weary.
And we^, because they've nought to weep for.

Winged liy an owl, there came an elf.
Who loTed to haunt the study-table,

Wherf, fiill of grave, iiaportant self,
Tho wisest head he would disable.

A|i4 make it Pro-and-Gon and fight

On subjects lofty as the steeple ;
Or tempt some Witling to endite

Long dreams, about the elfin-people I

And now, the Fairie Queen demanded
Whether her elves the tasks had done.

That, at sun-set, she had commanded ;
And now she called them one by one.

She called them, but they came not all ;

Again, the magic horn was wound.
Then thronging sprites obeyed the call ;

But still some truants wild were found.

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THS FAIEIE COUBT. 903

Yet was this blast so distant beards
That elves, on Windsor's battlement.

Mounted the moonbeams at it's word.
And o'er the Long Walk gaily went ;

Nor stayed upon the tnfts to dance
Of the bnMu)> bowery way, that swept.

With utmost pomjK beneath their glance^
Tbougb there the ydlow moonlight slept ;

Though many a bird they lored was hid

In silent rest, beneath the leaves^
Which, if awaked and gently bid.

Would sing the song that care deceives—

Yet, had they surely waked them, too.

And danced a morrice on the trees.
Had not the bom complainixig blew.

Like coming of a tempest breeze.

But e'en the Fairie's summons failed.
Yielding awhile to Beauty's spell.

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804 KDWT.

Wben I'nndaor's pRNidett graves ikef haikd,
Growning its wiUest, deepert delL

They paused a moment on that broW,
Under the shading oaks they strayed.

To spy, beneath the branches low>
The moonlight-towers, beyond their shade.

Beyond that shade in peace they lay.
Gates, turrets, battlements aloft.

Just silvered by the distant ray.
That 'neath the dark boughs glimmered oft.

It seemed some vision of the air.

By magic raised in forest lone.
That held entranced some lady fair.

Till nodding towers her knight should own.

The horn again ! but not like breese
Before some gentle summer shower.

But rushing through th' afiiighted trees.
E'en with an angry whirlwind's power.

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THE FAIRIB COURT. 305

The moonlight-castle sinks and fades^

Beneath the tossing boughs ahr ;
And fear the truant elyes invades ;

And swift they mount their beamy car.

No banquet in the bower for them ;

No tripping strains their steps invite ;
The Fairie sovereign will condemn

Their disobedience and their slight.

'^ Hence," she cries, " a vision weave

For the couch of that false lover.
Who coi^d a trusting heart deceive ;

Hence, and o'er^his slumber hover.

" Dance before him, like a shade ;

Trace upon his sleeping eye
Image of that mournful maid.

Whom he won, and left to die ;

" In my cell of shadows look

You will there the semb^ce see.

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306 . . £DWY.

Of the damsel he forsook
All from idle yanity.

** Touch his heart with jealousy.

Shape a dream to rouse despair ;
Th«ii to the sad maiden flee,

An^ expel her siUy care*

" So, when the streaky dawn doth wake.
Each shall rise, with changed intent ;

Each shall the other's fortune take.
He, despair — ^and she, content.

" If these dreams ye shadow well.

Return, before the lark is up,
Or the chime of matin bell ;

Dance the morfice ; sip the cup.

« Now farewell."

Scarce had she spoke, when all the liower

As in a twilight shadow lay ;
The dewy lamp on every flower

QuiTered first, then died away.

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THE FAIBIE COURT. SOT

Her magic diamond warned the Queen

(V step unhallowed passing near;
It paled its ray to trembling green.

And shrunk with sympathetic fear.

Then hastily the Queen exclaimed^
** Some mortal footsteps press the ground f

For Edwy, when the Elves she named.
Had nearer drawn to catch the sound.

Just then the little Nightingale,

In pity of the lover's pain.
Sung from Mimosa's shadowy veil

His softest, sweetest, saddest tale.

Whidb well he knew, his Queen would win

From aught ungracious, or severe.
With charmed^ attentive, brow serene.

She smiled, and, dashing off a tear.

On Eda called, the Iiq^ve Fay, thrice.
Some tale of mortal truth to tell : —

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SOS SDwr.

Her name did Edwy't keart reioke;
For, that Faj's name eiNiiiKlefeea Ub spcU !

Then straight, the bower began to Acm
Returning light ; and, through each bud.

From faintness freed to living glovr.
Girded the bright transparait blood*

Now what of chaatiawnent befell
This vagrant awain, for his intrusion.

Village-tradition does not tell.
Or tells with most profound o o n f uaion.

But this most gossips do relate.

That, though he was not held in durance.
He gained no knowledge of his fate.

And nothing got by his assurance.

Unless it be, that he did see
What seldom had been seen before,

A Fairie Court, in starlight sport.
With pleasure squadrons and on shore.

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THB FAIBIE COURT. 309

But haply^ on some other day.
We may learn more of his manoeuvres.

And tlien we shall not fail to say.
What came of Anza and her lovers.

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PART III.
THE MAGIC MIRRORS.

▲ SUIEXBK NIGHT IN WINDSOR VOmSST.

EowT fonook the Fairie Court,

And to fbrest-glades withdrew.
Where never yet had elfin-sport

Cheered the melancholy view.

Upon the hazel-wands he writes
Edafs name, with ** thrioe and three/'

Then bories them, with bidden rites.
Underneath a forest-tree.

It was an oak, whose trunk within
A foul and watching spirit lay.

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THE MAGIC MIRBOBS. Sll

Whose night-shrieks in the tempest-din>
Filled the trayeller with dismay :

It was an oak^ whose sinewy boughs
Threw a dark horror o'er the ground ;

Whoser high, gaunt top and warrior-brows
With the storms of ages frowned.

Its trunk was never touched with light.
So wide and deep the branching shade

Of leaves, that, on a starry night,
A gleam, like break of morning, shed.

But the brook, stealing from the brake.

Showed a glimpse of brighter ray.
When on it's dewy banks did take

Will-o'-the Wisp his mystic way.

Round the high roots our Edwy drew.

With muttered charm, a magic line ;
And in the circle heart's ease threw.

And briony and eglantine ;

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SIS SOWT.

Then sweets and pmmB, ibree and iliree«
Jess'mine Uossems^ violet bndj

The deadly nightshade's tresses grey.
And the pale Monk's gloomy hoild*

Next, the buried wands he .faisod>
And '' Eda! Bda! £da r eaUed;

Thrice upon the West he gazed^
When, hark ! a shriek his breast appaUod.

It was the spirit of the oak.

Who, startled by the Love-Fay's name,
His dark and secret home forsook.

He fled, in hastOj whene'er she came.

A tongae from Windsor's distant tower
Tolled Twelve aloQg the silent wood.

When, lo ! the planet of the hour
Quivered upon the trembling flood.

Cheered by the monitory sight.
Then £dwy forth his mirrors drew.

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THE MAOIC MIEB0B8* 313

And by that star's infonniiig light,
Upheld them to his searching view.

Again he called on Eda's name

Mildly and meekly to appear.
And round the crystals rolled a flame ;

While unknown murmurs met his ear.

See !— o*er the mirrors mists arise^
And strange and fearfiol shadows throng ;

Frowning fi&oes> glaring eyes
Look and threat and glance along.

These gone> a tiny form there bounds^

Flitting along the magic glass ;
Which^ in an instant^ her surrounds

With leaves of Love in Idleness.

She seems reclining in a bower^
As the green leaves around her spread.

The motley-yellow> purple flower
fiends in a top^-knot o'er her head.

VOL. IV. p

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814 KDWT.

As round this cage of wreaths she hies.
Forth from her wand a lustre pale

Dawns o'er her blue and frolic eyes^
And silvers all her dewy veil^

Touches the rose upon her cheeky
The dimple^ that her quaint lip owns^

The smile^ that now begins to breaks

Through clouds of wild^ capricious frowns.

While Edwy gazed^ a little strain
Of sweet complaint did feebly swells

When, hovering round her leafy chain.
Behold ! her ^Euthful Nightingale !

He perched upon the true-knot there.
And tried to break, with slender bill.

Her prison-wreath, so flowery fair;
But the leaves mocked his puny skill.

Too late, she owns the forceful spell
The little purple blossom throws.

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THE MAGIC MIBBOBS. 315

Fixed, as a painting, she most tell
Mildly and meekly all she knows !

'* Fairy £da ! show to me

Aura, as sHe 's now employed." —
" On the other glass you '11 see ;"

With pretty lisp the Fay replied.

He looked ; the colours ^Euntly dawn.

And living forms begin to glow :
Aura, full-dressed in laoe and lawn.

Blooms in a ball-room with a beau.

And, dancing with a Grace's air^
And with the eyes of Venus smiling,

Edwy beheld her, with despair.
His hated rival's ^eart beguiling.

To atoms he had almost dashed

The mirror, and so lost the spell.
But warning lights around him flashed,

Checked his hand, and all was well,
p 2

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8t6 EDWT-

*' Who is tills Fop, so light and vain ?"—
Qoicklfj the magic scene is changed

To rivers, woods, a wide domain.
With fidooners on the banks ranged.

All at their head his rival pranced
In velvet cap, with feathers gay.

And proudlj o'er the sward advanced.
While men and steeds their lord obey.

'' O tell me, Eda— loves she him ?

Can she her promise old forget ?" —
A flame curled round the mirror's rim ;

The crystal darkened into jet.

And in long moonlight prospect rose
Windsor-vTerrace, flanked with towers ;

How soft the lights and shades repose
Among the low Park's lawns and bowers !

Oh ! what an arch the heavens throw
Upon the vast horizon round !

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THE MAGIC MIBBOES. 817

The stars ! how numberless they glow
Down to the landscape's dim-seen bound !

Some battlements are left in night ;

Others almost appear to shine
Of yonder tower^ whose stately height

Draws on the sky a tall Uack line^

That measures^ on the azure void.
Billions of miles^ while worlds unknown^

Distant howe'er, glow> side by side»
Upon it's shadowy profile shown.

Down on the terrace, men appear.

Gliding along the stately wall.
With arms enfolding the tall spear —

How still their measured footsteps fall !

Voices are heard round that vast shade.

Although no talkers meet the sight ;
But, beyond, where moonbeams spread.

Figures steal upon the light.

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818 EDWY.

'Twfts Aora^ witk a lady-frkad-^
'Twas Aimr^ with this lorer new !

Ah ! does she to his suit attend ?
The distance baAed Edwy's view.

*' Eda! Eda ! why toment me
With obscure aBftibigi»ms truth ?

Thou to show my fote wast sent me.
Say> will she wed this fopling-youth ?'^

Behold ! the terrace fades away !

And a tap'stried room succeeds ;
Her sire^ with age and wisdom grey^

'Mid lawyer, settlements and deed

Again^ the charmed picture dianged :
A gothic porch^ with silk idl hung ;

There beaux and ladies fair are ranged^
While humbler gaaers round them throng.

There a happy riral waited
With his friends^ in trim array :

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THE MAGIC MIBS0B8. 319

'' Aura ! what makes thee bekted ?
Aura ! why this long delay P"

Again^ the mirrors were in danger.

From our thoughtless Edwy's rage ;
But a fairie checked his anger — ^

Would she might his grief assuage !

Next, dimly on the crystal steals

A diamber in her father's home ;
There, Aura, weeping, pleads and kneels !

The father, frowning, quits the room.

Again the changeful glass receives
The porch — and £dwy, doth he tremhle.

As smiling Aura there he sees ?

And whom doth the bridegroom resemble ?

It is — himself! — He 's joyous, frantic.
As the glass showed his happy shape ;

But as he sprung, with gesture antic.
It fell, and let the fuiie 'scape !

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320 BBwr.

Without due homage let her fly !

Straight, unknown roioes from the ground
Wildly exclaimed, '' O fie ! fie ! fie !"

And *' Fie ! fie ! fie V the echoes sound.

Unhomaged he had let her fly !

From the old oak an owlet hooted;
And thence a louder ''Fie ! fie ! fie V

To the spot poor Edwy rooted.

But, soon recovered, through the woods.
Hopeful and light, away he sprung :

The moon peeped through their leafy hoods.
And o'er the path her chequers flung.

To the forest's-edge he hied.

Where the Beech's giant-form
Had, for age on age, defied.

With his lion-fiuigs the storm :

Where the Lime, with spotted bark-
Spots, that old moss on silver weaves.

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THE MAGIC MIRBOA89

Hung her spray on branches dark
Among the light transparent leaves.

And fragrant blo68oms> forming bowers.
That cast^ at noon^ a twilight green>

Where 'twas most sweet to watch the hours
Change the highly-tinctured scene.

Tha silvery Aspin quivered nigh^
The spiry Pine in darkness rose»

The Ash^ all airy grace^ on high
Waved her lightly-feathered boughs.

And there the mighty Chesnut reared
His massy verdure, deepenii^ night ;

Wliose pale flowers through the dark appeared
Like gleams of April's coldest light.

Und^ the low boughs Edwy went.

Shade, after shade, in dose array,
A sadder tint to midnight lent ;

And thoughtless Edwy lost his- way.
p 5

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sat EDwy.

Sow, far beyoad the long-^rawn ^o«bi^
Where a hint, misty moonlight fell^

He watched a lonely figure roam^
And loud he made the echoes swell.

His call was heard^ the stranger turned^
And paused a moment ; but^ in vain^

Our Edwy would his way have learned^
For^ not a word in answer came.

The vision fled — ^but soon a cry^
Loud^ though fiir-offj alarmed his ear ;

And a footstep passed him by ;
Which he followed last and near.

Till a groan of sad afiright

Almost killed him^ with dismay,;

And to his undoubting sight
There a man expiring lay.

As^ horror-fixed^ awhile he stood^
A doud overspread it's darkening veil ;

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THE MAGIC MIBRORS.

It suited well His fearful mood ;
It hid that dreadful visage pale.

Now, mark^ where yonder high elms crowds
What red lights gleam and pass along !

What funeral torches^, dirges loud 1
A bier and mourners round it throng.

Down th' avenue of pines they go :j
All sad and chaunting their despair^

Then wind they on in pomp of woe ;
Then fade and vanish into air !

For^ yonder^ o'er the eastern hiU^

Morning's crystal tint is seen^
Edgii^ the darkness^ solemn stilly

And glimmering o'er the sleeping scene.

O best of light ! O light of soul !

O blessed Dawn^ to thee we owe
The humbled thought«-our mind's best dole^

The bliss of praise — ^Devotion's glow.

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324 EDWY-

O blessed Dawn ! meite sweet to me
Thy gradual hues^ tliy influence fine

O'er flying darkness, than the ray

And glorious pomp, that doth enshrine

The cope of heaven^ when the Sun
Comes laughing from the joyous East,

And bids th' expressive shadows run
To tell his coming to the West.

At thy first tint the happy lark
Awakes, and trills his note of joy ;

And feebler, warbling murmurs, hark !
Break from the woodlands— rise^ and die.

At thy first tint, O blelssed light I

Th' observant Elves and spectres fled.

And that misguiding, watching sprite
Home to her oaken dungeon sped ;

Elfena then, the misbhief-fay.

Who with an urchin had combined

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THE MAGIC MIRRORS. 3S6

To 'wilder Edwy thus astray;

Now in a Monk's-hood is confined.

No dying man was there— no moan^

There were no red-lights^ near the elms^

No funeral torches^ dirge's moan^

No sable band^ whom grief o'erwhelms.

Still, doubtful of his homeward^way,

Our hero watched the rise of dawn.
Over a beech-tree's airy spray.

That trembles on the Park's high lawn.

And soon the glorious Sun was spied.
And Windsor,*in her pomp of groves.

Rose up in battlemented pride.

Queen of the vale, that Old Thames loves —

From where the far-seen western hill

In smiling slumber seems to lie.
Upon the azure vault so still

As listening heaven's harmony.

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3S6 BDWY.

To wliere> beneath the eastern nj.
With swelling dome and spires aloft^

Vast London's lengthened city lay.
All miniatured, distinct and soft —

To where, up<m the northern edge.
Learned Harrow points h«r vane.

And Stanmore lifts it's heathy ridge.
Sloping to the cultured plain.

Which, purpled with the morning's glow.
To boundless tints of azure fades.

While humbler spires and hamlets show
Their sun-lights o'er the woody shades ;

And gleaming Thames along the vale,
'Midst willowy meads, his waters led.

While, here and there, a feeble sail
Was to the scarce-felt breeze outspread.

The willowy meads and lawns rejoice ;
And every heath, and warbling wood ;

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THE MAGIC ICIBBOBS.

The fragrant sir, with whispering voice^
The golden clouds, the brightened flood.

All laugh and sing beneath the morn.
The dancii^ lamb, the springing deer ;

The wild bee with his humming horn.
And, loud and long. Sir Chanticleer.

Soon as his joyous ckrion calls.
Answering notes strike up and swell

From rafter dark and loop-holed walls.
Where sleep and silence seoned to dwell.

Surprising with their clamour dear
The passing herdsman and his hound ;

Thus, fiar and near. Sir Chanticleer
Rouses up all the country round.

£dwy so roused, who long had stood
Over this scene of morning beauty.

Forgetting every other good.
And lost to each forgotten duty.

527

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WtB XDWY.

Now, bounding lightly down the hills
And throogh the high overarching grorei.

Hied to his home, where Eda wills
He aoon shall wed the nymph he love* ;

And grateful for the boon she grants.
He now reeolves, that, never more.

His spell shall shock her quiet haonts ;
And quite abjures the magic lore.

But,— never let impatient wight.
When he presumes to woo a fiedrie.

Destroy his glass, — or rouse her spite.
But civil be— and very wary.

Thus all was well.

As watchmen tell,.
Of fairie sports in Windsor glades.

Save that too long

A siunmer-song
Once lingered in those witching shades*

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SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE
OF SICILY.

Here^ from the Castle's terraced site>

I view, once more, the varied scene

Ctf hamlets, woods, and pa8t9re8 green.
And vales far stretching from the sight
Beneath the tints of coming night ;

And there is misty ocean seen.

With glancing oars and waves serene.
And stealing sail of shifting light.
Now, let me hear the shepherd's lay.

As on some bank he sits alone ;

That oaten reed, of tender tone.
He lovea, at setting sun, to play.
It speaks in Joy's delightful glee ;

Then Pity's strains its breath obey—
Or Love's soft voice it seems to be —

And steals at last the soul iEiway !

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SSO SCENE TM SICILY.

And now, the village bells Bhi

Their melancholy music sound
Mournfully o'er the waters rounds

Till Twilight sends her trembling star.
Oft shall my pensive heart attend^

As swell the notes along the breese^
And weep anew the buried friend^

In tears^ that sadly^ sofUy please ;
And^ when pale moonlight tips the trees^

On the dark Castle's tower ascends^
Throws o'er it's walls a silvery gleam^

And in one soft confusion blends
Forest and mountain, plain and stream,

I list the drowsy sounds, that cretep
On night's still air, to soothe the soul ;

The hollow moan of Ocean's roll.
The bleat and bell of wandering sheep.

The distant watch-dog's feeble hark.
The voice of herdsman pacing home

Along the leafy labyrinth dark.
And sounds, that from the Castle come

Of closing door, that sullen fidls.

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SCENE IN SICILY. 331

And murmurs^ through the chambers high
Of half-sung strains from ancient halls^

That through the long, long galleries die.

And now the taper's flame I spy-
In antique casement, glinmiering pale ;

And now 'tis vanished from my eye.
And all but gloom and silence fail.

Once more, I stand in pensive mood.
And gaze on forms, that Truth delude ;

And still, 'mid Fancy's fliitting scene,
I catch the streaming cottage-light.

Twinkling the restless leave8->between.
And Ocean's flood, in moonbeams bright.

FINIS.

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PRINTED BY I. AND R. BBNTLEY, DoRBET-iJTREET.

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