The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST, AT NIGHT, IN ST GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR

1 The castle clock had tolled midnight:With mattock and with spade,And silent, by the torches' light,His corse in earth we laid.2 The coffin bore his name, that thoseOf other years might know,When earth its secrets should disclose,Whose bones were laid below.3 "Peace to the dead" no children sung,Slow pacing up the nave, —No prayers were read, no knell was rung,As deep we dug his grave.4 We only heard the winter's wind,In many a sullen gust,As, o'er the open grave inclined,We murmured, "Dust to dust!"5 A moonbeam from the arch's heightStreamed, as we placed the stone;The long aisles started into light,And all the windows shone.6 We thought we saw the banners then,That shook along the walls,Whilst the sad shades of mailèd menWere gazing on the stalls.7 'Tis gone! again on tombs defacedSits darkness more profound;And only by the torch we tracedThe shadows on the ground.8 And now the chilling, freezing airWithout blew long and loud;Upon our knees we breathed one prayer,202Where he slept in his shroud.9 We laid the broken marble floor, —No name, no trace appears, —And when we closed the sounding door,We thought of him with tears.

ON SEEING PLANTS IN THE WINDOWS OF SETH WARD'S COLLEGE,

ENDOWED FOR WIDOWS OF CLERGYMEN, AT SALISBURYThere is but one stage more in life's long way,O widowed women! Sadly upon your pathHath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends,Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;And lonely age is yours, whose tears have fallenUpon a husband's grave, – with whom, long since,Amid the quietude of village scenes,We walked, and saw your little children growLike lovely plants beside you, or adornedYour lowly garden-plot with summer flowers;And heard the bells, upon the Sabbath morn,Chime to the village church, when he you lovedWalked by your side to prayer. These imagesOf days long passed, of love and village life,You never can forget; and many a plantGreen growing at the windows of your home,And one pale primrose, in small earthen vase,And bird-cage in the sunshine at the door,Remember you, though in a city pent,Of morning walks along the village lane,Of the lark singing through the vernal hail,Of swallows skimming o'er the garden pond, —Remember you of children and of friendsParted, and pleasant summers gone! 'Tis meetTo nurse such recollections, not with pain,But in submission to the will of Heaven;Thankful that here, as the calm eve of life,In pious privacy, steals on, one hearthOf charity is yours; and cold must beThat heart, which, of the changes of the worldUnmindful, could receive you but as guests,203Who had seen happier days!Yet one stage more,And your long rest will be with him you loved.Oh! pray to God that each may rest in hope!

MORLEY'S FAREWELL TO THE COTTAGE OF ISAAK WALTON

TO KENNAEngland, a long farewell! a long farewell,My country, to thy woods, and streams, and hills!Where I have heard in youth the Sabbath bell,For many a year now mute: affection fillsMine eyes with tears; yet resolute to wait,Whatever ills betide, whatever fate;Far from my native land, from sights of woe,From scaffolds drenched in generous blood, I go.204Sad, in a land of strangers, when I bendWith grief of heart, without a home or friend,And chiefly when with weary thoughts oppressed,I see the sun sink slowly in the west;Then, doubly feeling my forsaken lot,I shall remember, far away, this cotOf humble piety, and prayer, and peace,And thee, dear friend, till my heart's beatings cease.Warm from that heart I breathe one parting prayer:My good old friend, may God Almighty spare —Spare, for the sake of that poor child,205 thy life, —Long spare it for thy meek and duteous wife.Perhaps o'er them, when the hard storm blows loud,We both may be at rest and in our shroud;Or we may live to talk of these sad times,When virtue was reviled, and direst crimesFaith's awful name usurped. We may againHear heavenly truths in the time-hallowed fane,And the full chant. Oh! if that day arrive,And we, old friend, though bowed with age, survive,How happy, whilst our days on earth shall last,To pray and think of seasons that are past,Till on our various way the night shall close,And in one hallowed pile, at last, our bones repose.206

THE GRAVE OF BISHOP KEN

1 On yonder heap of earth forlorn,Where Ken his place of burial chose,Peacefully shine, O Sabbath morn!And, eve, with gentlest hush, repose.2 To him is reared no marble tomb,Within the dim cathedral fane;But some faint flowers, of summer bloom,And silent falls the wintry rain.3 No village monumental stoneRecords a verse, a date, a name —What boots it? when thy task is done,Christian, how vain the sound of fame!4 Oh! far more grateful to thy God,The voices of poor children rise,Who hasten o'er the dewy sod,"To pay their morning sacrifice."2075 And can we listen to their hymn,Heard, haply, when the evening knellSounds, where the village brow is dim,As if to bid the world farewell!6 Without a thought that from the dustThe morn shall wake the sleeping clay,And bid the faithful and the justUpspring to heaven's eternal day!

THE LEGEND OF ST CECILIA AND THE ANGEL

'Twas when, O meekest eve! thy shadows dimWere slowly stealing round,With more impassioned soundDivine Cecilia sang her vesper hymn,And swelled the solemn chordIn hallelujahs to thy name, O Lord!And now I see her raiseRapt adoration's gaze,With lips just opening, and with humid eyesUplifted; whilst the strainNow sinks, now swells again;Now rising, seems to blend with heaven's own harmonies.But who is that, divinely fair,With more than mortal beauty in his mien;With eyes of heavenly hue and glistening hair,His white and ample wings half seen!O radiant and immortal guest!Why hast thou left thy seraph throng,On earth the triumph to attestOf Beauty, Piety, and Song!

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO BISHOP KEN. 208

1 Though his words might well deceive me,Though to earth abased I bend,Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,Thus on earth without a friend!2 I thought his vows were oaths in heaven,Nor dare I here my fault deny;For all my soul to him was given,God knows how true, how tenderly!3 Though wronged and desolate and dying,His pride, his coldness, I forgot,And fell upon his bosom, crying,Forsake me not – forsake me not!4 I left my father, and my mother,Whom I no more on earth may see,But I have found a father, brother,And more than every friend, in thee!5 Although his words might well deceive me,Though wronged, and desolate I lie,Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,Oh, teach me to repent and die!

ON AN ECLIPSE OF THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT

Up, up, into the vast extended space,Thou art ascending in thy majesty,Beautiful moon, the queen of the pale sky!But what is that which gathers on thy face,A dark mysterious shade, eclipsing, slow,The splendour of thy calm and steadfast light?It is the shadow of this world of woe,Of this vast moving world; portentous sight!As if we almost stood and saw more nearIts very action – almost heard it rollOn, in the swiftness of its dread career,As it hath rolled for ages! Hush, my soul!Listen! there is no sound; but we could hearThe murmur of its multitudes, who toilThrough their brief hour. The heart might well recoil;But this is ever sounding in His earWho made it, and who said, "Let there be light!"And we, the creatures of a mortal hour,'Mid hosts of worlds, are ever in his sight,Catching, as now, dim glimpses of his power.The time shall come when all this mighty sceneDarkness shall wrap, as it had never been.O Father of all worlds! be thou our guide,And lead us gently on, from youth to age,Through the dark valley of our pilgrimage;Enough if thus, bending to thy high will,We hold our Christian course through good or ill,And to the end with faith and hope abide.

TO LADY VALLETORT,

ON HEARING HER SING "GLORIA IN EXCELSIS," WITH THREE OTHER YOUNG LADIES, AT LACOCK ABBEY, OCTOBER 1831

Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneathWhose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death,Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays,Thy gentleness, thy grace, thy virtue praise!Be mine to breathe one prayer; when all rejoice,One parting prayer, still mindful of that voice,And musing on the sacred song which stole,Sweet as the spell of peace, upon the soul;In those same scenes, where once the chapel dimEchoed the cloistered sisters' vesper hymn: —Live long! live happy! tranquil through the strifeAnd the loud stir of this tumultuous life!Live long, live happy! and when many a dayHath passed in the heart's harmony away;When Eve's pale hand the gates of life shall close,And hush the landscape to its last repose;May sister seraphs meet with welcome song,And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?

ON SEEING A BUST OF R. B. SHERIDAN, FROM A CAST TAKEN AFTER DEATH. 209

Alas, poor Sheridan! when first we met,'Twas 'mid a smiling circle, and thine eye,That flashed with eloquent hilarityAnd playful fancy, I remember yetFreshly as yesterday. The gay and fair,The young and beautiful, – now in their graves —Surrounded us; while on the lucid waveOf Hampton's waters, to the morning airThe streamer softly played of our light boat,Which seemed as on a magic sea to float.I saw thee after in this crowd of life,Conflicting, but yet blandly, with its strife.As the still car of Time rolled on, thy cheekWore the same smile, yet with a trace more weak.Lone sorrow came as life declined, and care,And age, with slowly furrowing line, was there.I could have spared this fearful sight! Most strangeIs the eventful tale of mortal change,Inevitable; but death, brought so nigh,In form so tangible, harrows the eye.As all the past floats like a cloud away,Alas, poor Sheridan! I turn and say,Not without feelings which such sights impart,Sad, but instructive, to the Christian's heart!May 18, 1826.

RETURN OF GEORGE III. TO WINDSOR CASTLE

Not that thy name, illustrious dome! recallsThe pomp of chivalry in bannered halls,The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sightsOf heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;Not that young Surrey there beguiled the hourWith "eyes upturned unto the maiden's tower;"Oh! not for these the muse officious bringsHer gratulations to the best of kings;But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn,Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn;That here among these gray primeval trees,He may inhale health's animating breeze;That these old oaks, which far their shadows cast,May soothe him while they whisper of the past;And when from that proud terrace he surveysSlow Thames devolving his majestic maze(Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seenWinding through lawns and woods, and pastures green),May he reflect upon the waves that roll,Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole;And own (ambition's proudest boast above)A king's best glory is his country's love.

ON MEETING SOME FRIENDS OF YOUTH AT CHELTENHAM, FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE WE PARTED AT OXFORD

"And wept to see the paths of life divide." —ShenstoneHere the companions of our careless prime,Whom fortune's various ways have severed long,Since that fair dawn when Hope her vernal songSang blithe, with features marked by stealing timeAt these restoring springs are met again!We, young adventurers on life's opening road,Set out together; to their last abodeSome have sunk silent, some a while remain,Some are dispersed; of many, growing oldIn life's obscurer bourne, no tale is told.Here, ere the shades of the long night descend,And all our wanderings in oblivion end,The parted meet once more, and pensive trace(Marked by that hand unseen, whose iron penWrites "mortal change" upon the fronts of men)The creeping furrows in each other's face.Where shall we meet again? Reflection sighs;Where? In the dust! Time rushing on replies:Then hail the hope that lights the pilgrim's way,Where there is neither change, nor darkness, nor decay!

THE LAY OF TALBOT, THE TROUBADOUR. 210

A LEGEND OF LACOCK ABBEYPART FIRST1 At Rouen Richard kept his state,Released from captive thrall;And girt with many a warrior guestHe feasted in the hall!2 The rich metheglin mantled high,The wine was berry red,When tidings came that Salisbury,His early friend, was dead;3 And that his sole surviving child,The heiress of his wealth,By crafty kinsmen and alliesWas borne away by stealth;4 Was borne away from Normandy,Where, secretly confined,She heard no voice of those she loved,But sighed to the north wind.5 Haply from some lone castle's towerOr solitary strand,Even now she gazes o'er the deep,That laves her father's land!6 King Richard cries, My minstrel knights,Who will the task achieve,To seek through France and NormandyThe orphan left to grieve?7 Young William Talbot then did speak,Betide me weal or woe,From Michael's castle211 through the landA pilgrim I will go.8 He clad him in his pilgrim weeds,With trusty staff in hand,And scallop shell, and took his way,A wanderer through the land.9 For two long years he journeyed on,A pilgrim, day by day,Through many a forest dark and drear,By many a castle gray.10 At length, when one clear morn of frostWas shining on the main,Forth issuing from a castle gateHe saw a female train!11 With lightsome step and waving hair,Before them ran a child,And gathering from the sands a shell,Ran back to them, and smiled.12 Himself unseen among the rocks,He saw her point her hand;And cry, I would go home, go home,To my poor father's land.13 The bell tolled from the turret gray,Cold freezing fell the dew,To the portcullis hastening backThe female train withdrew.14 Those turrets and the battlements,Time and the storm had beat,And sullenly the ocean tideCame rolling at his feet.15 Young Talbot cast away his staff,The harp is in his hand,A minstrel at the castle gate,A porter saw him stand.16 And who art thou, the porter cried,Young troubadour, now say,For welcome in the castle hallWill be to-night thy lay;17 For this the birthday is of one,Whose father now is cold;An English maiden, rich in fee,And this year twelve years old.18 I love, myself, now growing old,To hear the wild harp's sound:But whence, young harper, dost thou come,And whither art thou bound?19 Though I am young, the harper said,From Syria's sands I come,A minstrel warrior of the Cross,Now poor and wandering home.20 And I can tell of mighty deeds,By bold King Richard done,King Richard of "the Lion's heart,"Foes quail to look upon.21 Then lead me to the castle hall,And let the fire be bright,For never hall nor bower hath heardA lay like mine to-night.22 The windows gleam within the hall,The fire is blazing bright,And the young harper's hair and harpAre shining in the light.23 Fair dames and warriors clad in steelNow gather round to hear,And oft that little maiden's eyesAre glistening with a tear.24 For, when the minstrel sang of wars,At times, with softer sound,He touched the chords, as mourning thoseNow laid in the cold ground.25 He sang how brave King Richard pinedIn a dark tower immured,And of the long and weary nights,A captive, he endured.26 The faithful Blondel to his harpOne song began to sing;It ceased; the king takes up the strain;It is his lord and king!27 Of Sarum then, and Sarum's plain,That poor child heard him speak,When the first tear-drop in her eyeFell silent on her cheek.28 For, as the minstrel told his tale,The breathless orphan maidThought of the land where, in the grave,Her father's bones were laid.29 Hush, hush! the winds are piping loud,The midnight hour is sped,The hours of morn are stealing fast,Harper, to bed! to bed!PART SECOND1 The two long years had passed away,When castle Galliard rose,As built at once by elfin hands,And scorning time or foes.2122 It might be thought that Merlin's impsWere tasked to raise the wall,That unheard axes fell the woods,While unseen hammers fall.3 As hung by magic on a rock,The castle-keep looked downO'er rocks and rivers, and the smokeOf many a far off town.4 And now, young knights and minstrels gayObeyed their masters' call,And loud rejoicing held the feastIn the new raftered hall.5 His minstrels and his mailed peersWere seated at the board,And at his side the highest satWilliam of the Long Sword.6 This youthful knight, of princely birth,Was dazzling to behold,For his chain-mail from head to footAll glistened o'er with gold.7 His surcoat dyed with azure blueIn graceful foldings hung,And there the golden lions ramped,With bloody claws and tongue.8 With crimson belt around his waistHis sword was girded on;The hilt, a cross to kiss in death,Radiant with jewels shone.9 The names and banners of each knightIt were too long to tell;Here sat the brave Montgomery,There Bertrand and Rozell.10 Of Richard's unresisted swordA noble minstrel sung,Whilst to an hundred answering harpsThe blazing gallery rung.11 So all within was merriment —When, suddenly, a shout,As of some unexpected guest,Burst from the crowd without.12 Now not a sound, and scarce a breath,Through the long hall is heard,When, with a young maid by his side,A vizored knight appeared.13 Up the long hall they held their way,On to the royal seat;Then both together, hand in hand,Knelt at King Richard's feet.14 Talbot, a Talbot! rang the hallWith gratulation wild,Long live brave Talbot,213 and long liveEarl William's new found child!15 Amid a scene so new and strange,This poor maid could not speak;King Richard took her by the hand,And gently kissed her cheek;16 Then placed her, smiling through a tear,By his brave brother's side:Long live brave Longspe! rang the hall,Long live his future bride!17 To noble Richard, this fair child,His ward, was thus restored;Destined to be the future brideOf Him of the Long Sword.

THE ARK: A POEM FOR MUSIC

MICHAEL, ARCHANGELHigh on Imaus' solitary van,Which overlooked the kingdoms of the world,With stature more majestic, his stern browIn the clear light, the thunder at his feet;In his right hand the flaming sword that wavedO'er Eden's gate; and in his left the trump,That on the day of doom shall sound and wakeEarth's myriads, starting from the wormy grave,The great archangel stood: and, hark, his voice!AIRIt comes, it comes, o'er cities, temples, towers;O'er mountain heights I see the deluge sweep;Heard ye from earth the cry at that last hour?Heard ye the tossing of the desert deep?How dismal is its roar!I heard the sound of multitudes no more.Great Lord of heaven and earth, thy voice is fate;Thou canst destroy, as first thou didst create!He stood and sounded the archangel's trump;And now a choir of seraphim drew near,By Raphael led: in sad and solemn strains,They raised their supplication to Heaven's throne.CHORUSO Thou whose mighty voice, "Let there be light!"Dread Chaos heard, when the great sun from nightBurst forth, and demon shadows fled away,And the green earth sprang beautiful to day!Oh! merciful in judgment, hear our prayer;Behold the world which Thou hast made so fair,And man the mourner, man the sinner, spare.GABRIEL (RECITATIVE)Oh! what a change have sin and sorrow made!In the beginning, God created heavenAnd earth; and man, amid the works of God,Majestic stood, his noblest creature, formedIn God's own image; and his fair abodeWas visited by seraph shapes of light,And sin and death were not.TRIOMourn, mourn, ye bowersOf paradise, ye pleasant hills and woods!Mourn; for the dreadful voice hath passed that shrunkYour streams, and withered all your blooming flowers.And thou, created in God's image, man!Go forth into the nether world; "for dustThou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."RECITATIVESo, led by Sin and Death, and his pale troop,Impatient came, and all this goodly scene,As at the withering of a demon's curse, was blasted.Then they two went forth, from whomTheir children sorrow and sin and death derived:They two went forth into the forlorn world,Heart-struck, but not despairing.From that hourDeath's shadow walks on earth, a hideous form,Saddening the very sun; and giant crimesHave multiplied, till to the throne of God,And the serene air of untroubled bliss,The noise of violence, and the cries of blood,Have from the ground ascended.Therefore GodMe hath commissioned to uplift the trumpOf doom, and sweep this world of sin away!

WRITTEN AFTER THE CONSECRATION OF THE NEW CHURCH AT KINGSWOOD

When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen,Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken,Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,When thousands listened to the prelate214 there,Who called on God, with consecrating prayer; —I saw a village-maid, almost a child,Even as a light-haired cherub, undefiledFrom earth's rank fume, with innocent look, her eyeMeekly uplifted to the throne on high,Join in the full choir's solemn harmony.Oh, then, how many boding thoughts arose,Lest, long ere varied life's uncertain close,Those looks of modesty, that open truthLighting the forehead of ingenuous youth —Lest these, as slowly steal maturing years,Should fade, and grief succeed, and dimming tears;Then should the cheek be blanched with early care,Sin mark its first and furrowing traces there,With touch corroding mar the altered mien,And leave a canker where the rose had been;Then the sweet child, whose smiles can now impartJoy overpowering to a mother's heart,Might bring down, when not anxious love could save,That mother's few gray hairs with sorrow to the grave!But, hark! the preacher's voice, his accents bland,Behold his kindled look, his lifted hand;What holy fervour wakes at his command!He speaks of faith, of mercy from above,Of heavenly hope, of a Redeemer's love!Hence every thought, but that which shows fair youthAdvancing in the paths of peace and truth!Which shows thy light, O pure religion! shed,Like a faint glory, on a daughter's head,Who shall each parent's love, through life, repay,And add a transport to their dying day!I saw an old man, on his staff reclined,Who seemed to every human change resigned: —He, with white locks, and long-descending beard,A patriarch of other years appeared:And thine, O aged, solitary man!Was life's enchanted way, when life began,The sunshine on each mountain, and the strainOf some sweet melody, in every plain;Thine was illusive fortune's transient gleam,And young love's broken, but delicious dream;Those mocking visions of thy youth are flown,And thou dost bend on death's dark brink aloneThe light associates of thy vernal day,Where are they? Blown, like the sere leaves, away;And thou dost seem a trunk, on whose bare headThe gray moss of uncounted days is spread!I know thee not, old man! yet traits like these,Upon thy time-worn features fancy sees.Another, or another year, for thee,Haply, "the silver cord shall loosed be!"Then listen, whilst warm eloquence portraysThat "better country" to thy anxious gaze,Who art a weary, way-worn "pilgrim here,"And soon from life's vain masque to disappear.O aged man! lift up thine eyes – beholdWhat brighter views of distant light unfold;What though the loss of strength thou dost deplore,Or broken loves, or friends that are no more?What though gay youth no more his song renews,And summer-light dies, like the rainbow hues?The Christian hails the ray that cheers the gloom,And throws its heavenly halo round the tomb.Who bade the grave its mouldering vault unclose?"Christ – Christ who died; yea, rather, Christ who rose!"Hope lifts from earth her tear-illumined eye,She sees, dispersed, the world's last tempest fly;Sees death, arrested 'mid his havoc vast,Lord, at thy feet his broken weapons cast!In circles, far retiring from the sight,Till, undistinguished, they are lost in light,Admiring seraphim suspend their wings,Whilst, hark! the eternal empyrean rings,Hosannah, Lord of lords, and King of kings!Such thoughts arose, when from the crowded faneI saw retire the mute, assembled train;Their images beguiled my homeward way,Which high o'er Lansdowne's lonely summit lay.There seemed a music in the evening gale,And looking back on the long-spreading vale,Methought a blessing waited on the hour,As the last light from heaven shone on the distant tower.

ON THE DEATH OF DR BURGESS, THE LATE BISHOP OF SALISBURY

Sainted old man, for more than eighty years,Thee – tranquilly and stilly-creeping – age,Led to the confines of the sepulchre,And thy last day on earth – but "Father – Lord —Which art in heaven" – how pure a faith, and heartUnmoved, amid the changes of this life,And tumult of the world, – and oh! what hope, —What love and constancy of the calm mind,And tears to misery from the inmost heartFlowing – at times, a brief sweet smile and voiceHow bland, and studies, various and profound,Of learned languages – but, ever first,That learning which the oracles of GodUnfolds, even to the close of life's long dayThy course accompanies!But, thou, farewell,And live – this mortal veil removed – in bliss;Live with the saints in light, whom Christ had loved.But pardon us, left in this vale of tears,For one last tear upon thy cold remains —Pardon, beloved and venerated shade!