The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

LINES WRITTEN ON FONTHILL ABBEY

The mighty master waved his wand, and, lo!On the astonished eye the glorious showBurst like a vision! Spirit of the place!Has the Arabian wizard with his maceSmitten the barren downs, far onward spread,And bade the enchanted palace rise instead?Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend,High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend?And starting from the umbrageous avenueSpread the rich pile, magnificent to view?Enter! From the arched portal look again,Back on the lessening woods and distant plain!Ascend the steps! The high and fretted roofIs woven by some elfin hand aloof;Whilst from the painted windows' long arrayA mellow light is shed as not of day.How gorgeous all! Oh, never may the spellBe broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well!

EPITAPH ON BENJAMIN TREMLYN, AN OLD SOLDIER, BURIED IN BREMHILL CHURCHYARD AT THE AGE OF 92

A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown,Without a verse, and this recording stone.'Twas his in youth o'er distant lands to stray,Danger and death companions of his way.Here in his native village, drooping, ageClosed the lone evening of his pilgrimage.Speak of the past, of names of high renown,Or his brave comrades long to dust gone down,His eye with instant animation glowed,Though ninety winters on his head had snowed.His country, whilst he lived, a boon supplied,And faith her shield held o'er him when he died;Hope, Christian, that his spirit lives with God,And pluck the wild weeds from his lowly sod,Where, dust to dust, beside the chancel's shade,Till the last trumpet sounds, a brave man's bones are laid.

EPITAPH ON ROBERT SOUTHEY

Christian! for none who scorns that holy nameCan gaze with honest eyes on Southey's fame;Christian! bow down thy head in humble fear,And think what God-given powers lie silenced here:Wit, judgment, memory, patience unsubdued,Conception vast, and pious fortitude.Learning possessed no steeps, and truth no shore,Beyond his step to tread, his wing to soar;His was the historian's pen, the poet's lyre,The churchman's ardour, and the patriot's fire;While fireside charities, Heaven's gentlest dower,Lent genius all their warmth and all their power.O Church and State of England! thine was heIn living fame, thine be his memory!Thou saw'st him live, in faith expire,Go, bid thy sons to follow, and admire!

SONNET

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK."What pale and bleeding youth, whilst the fell blastHowls o'er the wreck, and fainter sinks the cryOf struggling wretches ere, o'erwhelmed, they die,Yet floats upborne upon the driving mast!O poor Arion! has thy sweetest strain,That charmed old ocean's wildest solitude,At this dread hour his waves' dark might subdued!Let sea-maids thy reclining head sustain,And wipe the blood and briny drops that soilThy features; give once more the wreathed shellTo ring with melody! Ah, fruitless toil!O'er thy devoted head the tempests swell,More loud relentless ocean claims his spoil:Peace! and may weeping sea-maids sing thy knell!

ON FIRST HEARING CARADORI SING

Spirit of beauty, and of heavenly song!No longer seek in vain, 'mid the loud throng,'Mid the discordant tumults of mankind,One spirit, gentle as thyself, to find.Oh! listen, and suspend thy upward wings,Listen – for, hark! 'tis Caradori sings;Hear, on the cadence of each thrilling note,Airs scarce of earth, and sounds seraphic float!See, in the radiant smile that lights her face;See, in that form, a more than magic grace;And say (repaid for every labour past)Beautiful spirit, thou art found at last!

SALISBURY CATHEDRAL

Here stood the city of the dead; look round —Dost thou not mark a visionary band,Druids and bards upon the summits stand,Of the majestic and time-hallowed mound?Hark! heard ye not at times the acclaiming wordOf harps, as when those bards, in white array,Hailed the ascending lord of light and day!Here, o'er the clouds, the first cathedral rose,Whose prelates now in yonder fane repose,Among the mighty of years passed away;For there her latest seat Religion chose,There still to heaven ascends the holy lay,And never may those shrines in dust and silence close!April 1834.

LOCKSWELL

Pure fount, that, welling from this wooded hill,Dost wander forth, as into life's wide vale,Thou to the traveller dost tell no taleOf other years; a lone, unnoticed rill,In thy forsaken track, unheard of men,Melting thy own sweet music through the glen.Time was when other sounds and songs arose;When o'er the pensive scene, at evening's close,The distant bell was heard; or the full chant,At morn, came sounding high and jubilant;Or, stealing on the wildered pilgrim's way,The moonlight "Miserere" died away,Like all things earthly.Stranger, mark the spot;No echoes of the chiding world intrude.The structure rose and vanished; solitudePossessed the woods again; old Time forgot,Passing to wider spoil, its place and name.Since then, even as the clouds of yesterday,Seven hundred years have well-nigh passed away;No wreck remains of all its early pride;Like its own orisons, its fame has died.But this pure fount, through rolling years the same,Yet lifts its small still voice, like penitence,Or lowly prayer. Then pass admonished hence,Happy, thrice happy, if, through good or ill,Christian, thy heart respond to this forsaken rill.

ON MOZART

Oh! still, as with a seraph's voice, prolongThe harmonies of that enchanting song,Till, listening, we might almost think we hear,Beyond this cloudy world, in the pure sphereOf light, acclaiming hosts the throne surrounding,The long hosannahs evermore resounding,Soft voices interposed in pure accord,Breathing a holier charm. Oh! every wordFalls like a drop of silver, as the strain,In winding sweetness, swells and sinks again.Sing ever thus, beguiling life's long way,As here, poor pilgrims of the earth, we stray;And, lady, when thy pilgrimage shall end,And late the shades of the long night descend,May sister seraphs welcome with a song,And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?

EPITAPH ON JOHN HARDING, IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL

Lay down thy pilgrim staff upon this heap,And till the morning of redemption sleep,Old wayfarer of earth! From youth to age,Long, but not weary, was thy pilgrimage,Thy Christian pilgrimage; for faith and prayerAlone enabled thee some griefs to bear.Lone, in old age, without a husband's aid,Thy wife shall pray beside thee to be laid;For more than a kind father didst thou proveTo fourteen children of her faithful love.May future fathers of the village traceThe same sure path to the same resting-place;And future sons, taught in their strength to save,Learn their first lesson from a poor man's grave!April 1835.

ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM LINLEY, ESQ., THE COMPOSER OF THE MUSIC OF "THE DUENNA," ETC

Poor Linley! I shall miss thee sadly, nowThou art not in the world; for few remainWho loved like thee the high and holy strainOf harmony's immortal master.ThouDidst honour him; and none I know, who live,Could even a shadow, a faint image give,With chord and voice, of those rich harmonies,Which, mingled in one mighty volume, rise,Glorious, from earth to heaven, so to expressChoral acclaim to Heaven's almightiness,As thou! Therefore, amid the world's deep roar,When the sweet visions of young Hope are fled,And many friends dispersed, and many dead,I grieve that I shall hear that voice no more.

INSCRIBED TO THE MARCHIONESS OF LANSDOWNE

Go to assemblies of the rich and gay,The blazing hall of grandeur, and the throngOf cities, and there listen to the songOf festive harmony; then pause, and say,Where is she found, who in her sphere might shine,Attracting all? Where is she found, whose placeAnd dignity the proudest court might grace?Go, where the desolate and dying pineOn their cold bed; open the cottage door;Ask of that aged pair, who feebly bendO'er their small evening fire, who is their friend;Ask of these children of the village poor;For this, at the great judgment, thou shalt findHeaven's mercy, Lady, merciful and kind.

HYMN FOR MUSIC, AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO

Perish! Almighty Justice cried,And struck the avenging blow,And Europe shouts from side to side,The tyrant is laid low!Said not his heart, More blood shall streamAround my sovereign throne?He wakes from dire ambition's dream,Pale, trembling, and alone.ARIA WITH CHORUSTriumph! the rescued nations cry,Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.Sad mother, weep no more thy children slain;The trumpets and the battle clangours cease:Uplift to heaven the loud, the grateful strain,And hail the dawn of Freedom and of Peace.CHORUSTriumph! the rescued nations cry,Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.ARIAFor joy returned, for peace restored,Lord of all worlds, to thee we raise,While Slaughter drops his weary sword,To thee the hymn of gratitude and praise.CHORUSTriumph! the rescued nations cry,Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

INSCRIPTIONS IN THE GARDENS OF BREMHILL RECTORY

ON A TREE COMMANDING A VIEW OF THE WHOLE EXTENT OF BOWOODWhen in thy sight another's vast domainSpreads its long line of woods, dost thou complain?Nay, rather thank the God that placed thy stateAbove the lowly, but beneath the great!And still His name with gratitude revere,Who blessed the Sabbath of thy leisure here.ON A RURAL SEATRest, stranger, in this decorated scene,That hangs its beds of flowers, its slopes so green;So from the walks of life the weeds remove,But fix thy better hopes on scenes above.ON THE FRONT OF A HERMITAGE, NEAR A DIALTo mark life's few and fleeting hoursI placed the dial 'midst the flowers,Which one by one came forth and died,Still withering by its ancient side.Mortals, let the sight impartIts pensive moral to thy heart!QUIETI ET MUSISBe thine Retirement's peaceful joys,And a life that makes no noise;Save when Fancy, musing long,Wakes her desultory song;Sounding to the vacant ear,Like the rill that murmurs near.THE END

1

This poem, published in 1829, was dedicated to Dr Henry Law, the Bishop of Bath and Wells.

2

Of blank verse of the kind to which I have alluded, I am tempted to give a specimen: —

"'Twas summer, and we sailed to Greenwich inA four-oared boat. The sun was shining, andThe scenes delightful; while we gazed onThe river winding, till we landed atThe Ship."

3

Baxter's "Saints' Rest."

4

The reader is referred to Dr Buckland's most interesting illustrations of these remains of a former world. The Bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.

5

The stupendous Cheddar Cliffs, in the neighbourhood.

6

Wookey, Antrum Ogonis.

7

Uphill church.

8

Flat and Steep Holms.

9

Mr Beard, of Banwell, called familiarly "the Professor," but in reality the guide.

10

Egyptian god of silence.

11

Halt of the French army at the sight of the ruins.

12

The Roman way passes immediately under Banwell.

13

The abbey was built by the descendants of Becket's murderers. Almost at the brink of the channel, being secured from it only by a narrow shelf of rocks called Swallow-clift, William de Courteneye, about 1210, founded a friary of Augustine monks at Worsprynge, or Woodspring, to the honour of the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Mary, and St Thomas à Becket. William de Courteneye was a descendant of William de Traci, and was nearly related to the three other murderers of à Becket, to whom this monastery was dedicated.

14

See the late Sir Charles Elton's pathetic description of the deaths of his two sons at Weston, whilst bathing in his sight; one lost in his endeavour to save his brother.

15

Called "The Wolves," from their peculiar sound.

16

Uphill.

17

Southey.

18

Three sisters.

19

Dr Henry Bowles, physician on the staff, buried at sea.

20

Charles Bowles, Esq. of Shaftesbury.

21

The author.

22

Young's "Night Thoughts."

23

Clock in the Cathedral.

24

Traditional name of the clock-image, seated in a chair, and striking the hours.

25

Vide the old ballad.

26

A book, called the "Villager's Verse Book," to excite the first feelings of religion, from common rural imagery, was written on purpose for these children.

27

See "Pilgrim's Progress."

28

See Rowland Hill's caricatures, entitled "Village Dialogues."

29

The text, which no Christian can misunderstand, "God is not willing," is turned, by elaborate Jesuitical sophistry, to "God is willing," by one "master in Israel." So that, in fact, the Almighty, saying No when he should have said Yes, did not know what he meant, till such a sophistical blasphemer set him right! To such length does an adherence to preconceived Calvinism lead the mind.

30

"And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." —St Paul.

31

Literally the expression of Hawker, the apostle of thousands and thousands. I speak of the obvious inference drawn from such expressions, and this daring denial of the very words of his Master: "Happy are ye, if ye do them!" —Christ. "But in vain," etc.

32

I fear many churches have more to answer for than tabernacles.

33

The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.

34

I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."

35

See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"

36

Cowper.

37

The English landlord has been held up to obloquy, as endeavouring to keep up the price of corn, for his own sordid interest; but rent never leads, it only follows, and the utmost a landlord can get for his capital is three per cent., whereas the lord of whirling wheels gains thirty per cent.

38

These lines were written at Stourhead.

39

The Bishop of Bath and Wells. Ken was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James. He had character, patronage, wealth, station, eminence: he resigned all, at the accession of King William, for the sake of that conscience which, in a former reign, sent him a prisoner to the Tower. He had no home in the world; but he found an asylum with the generous nobleman who had been his old schoolfellow at Winchester. Here, it is said, he brought with him his shroud, in which he was buried at Frome; and here he chiefly composed his four volumes of poems.

40

The Rev. Mr Skurray.

41

The seat of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.

42

Mrs Heneage, Compton House.

43

Mrs Methuen, of Corsham House.

44

For the "Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge," on which occasion a sermon was preached by the author.

45

A book, just published, with this title, "The Duke of Marlborough is rector of Overton, near Marlborough."

46

Rev. Charles Hoyle, Vicar of Overton, near Marlborough.

47

"Killarney," a poem.

48

Sonnets.

49

"Exodus," a poem.

50

Large coloured prints, in most cottages.

51

The letter said to be written by our Saviour to King Agbarus is seen in many cottages.

52

Tib, the cat.

53

The notes of the cuckoo are the only notes, among birds, exactly according to musical scale. The notes are the fifth, and major third, of the diatonic scale.

54

The "whip-poor-will" is a bird so called in America, from his uttering those distinct sounds, at intervals, among the various wild harmonies of the forest. See Bertram's Travels in America.

55

In Cornwall, and in other countries remote from the metropolis, it is a popular belief, that they who are to die in the course of the year appear, on the eve of Midsummer, before the church porch. See an exquisite dramatic sketch on this subject, called "The Eve of St Mark," in Blackwood.

56

Madern-stone, a Druidical monument in the village of Madern, to which the country people often resort, to learn their future destinies.

57

Such is the custom in Cornwall.

58

Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.

59

Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis.

60

Erica multiflora, common in this part of Cornwall.

61

The rhythm of this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."

62

The bay of St Ives.

63

Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.

64

Revel is a country fair.

65

It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.

66

The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages: —

"May his days be few.""Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.""Let there be none to extend mercy.""Let their name be blotted out,because he slayed even thebroken in heart."

67

The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids. —Polwhele.

68

Bay of St Michael's Mount.

69

The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."

70

Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.

71

Sudden storms are very common in this bay.

72

A wild flower of the most beautiful blue, adorning profusely, in spring, the green banks of lanes and hedgerows.

73

Called Chickell, in Cornwall, the wheat-ear. This should have been mentioned before, where the small well is spoken of in the garden-plot: —

"From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill."

74

Alluding to the well-known story.

75

Having gained the University prize the first year.

76

J. P. Miles, Esq., whose fine collection of paintings, at his magnificent seat, Leigh Court, is well known.

77

Married, whilst these pages were in the press, to a son of my early friend.

78

A wild, desolate, and craggy vale, so called most appropriately, and forming a contrast to the open downs of Fayland, and the picturesque beauties of Brockley.

79

Langford Court, the seat of the late Right Hon. Hely Addington.

80

The Rev. Thomas Wickham, Rector of Yatton.

81

Langhorne, the poet, Rector of Blagdon.

82

Mrs Hannah More, of Barley-Wood, near Wrington, since dead.

83

The Rector of Wrington, Mr Leaves, was the composer of the popular melody; but there is an old Scotch tune, to which the words were originally adapted. By melody, I mean the music to the words.

84

Miss Stephens, now the Countess Dowager of Essex.

85

"She looked in my face, till my heart was like to break." —Auld Robin Gray. Nothing can exceed the pathos with which Miss Stephens sings these words.

86

This song, set to music by the author, was originally written for an oratorio.

87

Banwell church is eminently beautiful, as are all the churches in Somersetshire. Dr Randolph has lately added improvements to the altar-piece.

88

See the picture in Stodhard's Travels.

89

Vide Drake's History of York, and Turner's History of England.

90

Part of the abbey remains; but there is no trace of the tomb, which was of gray marble. That portion of the edifice is entirely destroyed.

91

The river Lea, near which the abbey called Waltham Holy Cross was founded.

92

There is a quaint epitaph in Speed, describing him as having been buried in a convent at Lewes. I have so far adhered to historical tradition, as to represent him under the character and in the habit of a religious order. The abbey founded by his father seemed more appropriate than a convent or cell at Lewes. The wife of Harold is not introduced at the funeral, as she had fled to a convent.

93

Altered from the real name for the sake of euphony. I have also taken the liberty of representing the "religious" at Waltham Abbey as monks, although they were in fact canons.

94

Spurnhead, at the entrance to the Humber.

95

Fratres Helenæ.

96

This town and castle have vanished, but the name has often been recorded in English history.

97

A comet appeared at the time of Harold's coronation.

98

Hardrada of Norway had invaded England a short time before the arrival of William. Harold defeated him with immense slaughter in the north, and was called from thence to a more desperate and fatal struggle.

99

One family only was saved in the massacre of the Normans at York.

100

Harold's banner had the device of an armed knight.

101

Robert of Normandy.

102

William Rufus, called the Red King.