Class 1 Book_ LAYS OF ALMA, 5to o%r f «$♦ BY JULIA TILT, AUTHORESS OF "HISTORICAL BALLADS," ^ ARUNDEL CASTLE," " LAURA TALBOT," ETC. ETC LONDON: L. BOOTH, 307 REGENT STREET, 1856. LONDON : Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester S LIEUTENANT-GENERAL HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OE CAMBRIDGE, ©Ins $aak is, BY SPECIAL PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S MOST GRATEFUL AND MOST OBLIGED SERVANT, JULIA TILT, LIST OF- SUBSCRIBERS. Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Gloucester. Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge. His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge. £ Her Grace the Duchess of Norfolk Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford Her Grace the Duchess of Cleveland The Most Noble the Marchioness of Abercorn The Most Noble the Marchioness of Ely . . The Most Noble the Marchioness Dowager of Ely The Countess of Shaftesbury The Countess of Lanesborough The Countess of Harrowby . . The Countess of Clarendon . . The Countess of Darnley The Countess of Arundel and Surrey The Viscountess Palmerston The Viscountess Lovaine The Viscountess Canning Charlotte Lady Suffield The Baroness De Rothschild The Baroness North The Lady De Rothschild . . The Lady Wharncliffe The Lady Foley The Lady Adeliza Manners The Lady Henrietta Morant The Hon. Lady Middleton . . .. 11 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 y 1 .. 1 1 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 1 1 .. 1 1 .. 10 .. 10 ..2 2 .. 1 1 ..2 2 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. The Lady Anna Maria Cust The Lady Charlotte Sturt The Lady Susan Smith The Lady Eastlake . . The Hon. Charlotte Somerset Mrs. Montefiore Mrs. Maclachlan Mrs. Hunt Mrs. Charles Egerton Mrs. Cadbury Miss Whittingham . . Mrs. Hawtrey, Windsor Mrs. Mintorn, ditto Mrs. Girding, ditto Mrs. Frowd, ditto Mrs. Benjamin Ellam Mrs. Foster His Grace the Duke of Wellington The Most Noble the Marquis of Breadalbane Major-General the Earl of Cardigan The Earl of Zetland . . The Earl of Yarborough The Earl of Carnarvon The Lord Panmure . . The Lord Leigh The Viscount Burghersh Sir Charles Burrell . . Lieutenant- General Sir Adolphus Dalrympli Major-General Sir Edward Cust Sir William C. Ross Sir Thomas Troubridge Sir Charles Decimus Crossley Major-General Yorke Major-General Freeth General Kenale LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. £ s. The Hon. Colonel Gordon . . . 10 The Hon. Colonel North, M.P. . 1 1 Colonel Wilson . 10 Colonel Lindsay- . 10 Colonel Brownlow Knox . 1 1 Major Reynolds . 10 Captain Sayer . 10 The Hon. William Cowper . . . 10 The Right Hon. the Lord Mayor . . 1 1 Wilbraham Egerton, Esq. . . . 1 1 R. G. Hennell, Esq. . 10 C. Nicholson, Esq. . 10 J. Boyd, Esq. . 10 J. J. Welch, Esq 1 1 W. Buckmaster, Esq. . 10 Robert Addams, Esq. . 10 T. H. Crampton, Esq. . 1 1 E. Saunders, Esq. . . 10 T. Coath, Esq. . 10 J. Bradbury, jun. Esq . 1 1 F. Turner, Esq. . 1 1 F. Tyars, Esq. . 10 W. Williams, Esq. . . 10 C. Locock, Esq. M.D . 1 F. Bennoch, Esq. 10 E. Weston, Esq. . 10 J. Davies, Esq. . 10 B. W. Clegg, Esq. . . 10 J. Robins, Esq. . 10 E. Hunter, Esq. . 10 T. Clowes, Esq. . 1 1 G. Downing, Esq. . 10 J. Dann, Esq. . 10 W. L. Hanley, Esq. . 10 W. H. P. Sadgrove, Esq. . . . 10 J. R. Carr, Esq. . 10 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. T. Peil, Esq G. Blaylock, Esq. . . J. Rowbotham, Esq. J. J. Foot, Esq. W. Wilson, Esq. W. B. Grahame, Esq. G. Brooks, Esq. — Morgan, Esq. J. E. Evans, Esq. Dr. Lever E. Cock, Esq. T. S. Gainsford, Esq. R. S. Graham, Esq. . . J. R. Casey, Esq. W. H. Foley, Esq. . . J. Barnes, Esq. A. L. Bellinger, Esq. E. Moss, Esq. J. Bell, Esq T. H. Hills, Esq. . . W. Goodson, Esq. . . Farmer and Rogers . . F. Rolt, Esq. B. G. Babington, Esq. M.D W. Liddiard, Esq. . . J. Burgess, Esq. J. Batty, Esq. R. Quain, Esq. F. Davis, Esq. F. Bird, Esq. M.D. . . Dr. Laurie Erasmus Wilson, Esq. C. Law, Esq. W. Fergusson, Esq. . . W. C. Jay, Esq. F. Stocken, Esq. LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. £ s. G. N. Epps, Esq. . . .. 10 J. F. Fearon, Esq. . . . 10 W. 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Cocum, Esq. ditto T. Batcheldor, Esq. ditto The Rev. Mr. Canning ditto Lieut. C. Oakes, R.N. ditto J. Bedborough, Esq. ditto W. Hanson, Esq. ditto — Snowden, Esq. ditto R. Blunt, Esq. ditto C. Philips, Esq. ditto J. Ingram, Esq. Frogmore H. Darvill, Esq. Windsor T. A. Solly, Esq. ditto J. Johnson, Esq. ditto H. Ingalton, Esq. Eton T. W. Nason, Esq. ditto The Rev. G. O. Goodford, D Rev. E. Coleridge Rev. W. A. Carter . . Rev. F. E. Durnford Rev. J. E. Younge . . Rev. F. Vidal F. Schonested, Esq. Eton W. Birch, Esq. Eton College Rev. W. B. Marriot ditto Rev. A. G. Frewer ditto Rev. W. L. Hardisty ditto Rev. C. C. James ditto J. Hunt, Esq. D. Eton College ditto ditto ditto ditto ditto LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. £ s. W. Sabine, Esq. jun. .. 10 J. J. Ronaldson, Esq. .. 10 T. Lambert, Esq. .. 10 W. Bevan, Esq. 10 C. Landseer, Esq. .. 10 A. W. Hewlett, Esq. . 10 J. Hawke, Esq. . 10 E. Spooner, Esq. .. 10 W. Wentworth Davis, Esq.. . 10 T. E. Davis, Esq. . . . 10 J. P. Jones, Esq. . 10 S. 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Bryant, Esq. F. Gosset, Esq. J. A. L. Barnard, Esq. D. W. Dowling, Esq. J. Barber, Esq. J. Howell, Esq. W. Osborne, Esq. . . C. Thompson, Esq. . . G. F. Routledge, Esq. F. Devas, Esq. W. Greames, Esq. . . C. F. Huth, Esq. . . H. Caldecott, Esq. .. J. Brunton, Esq. LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. Xlll £ s. d. C. Wilson, Esq 10 D. Chapman, Esq., jun. .. ... .. ..220 William- L. Leaf, Esq 110 C. Leaf, Esq. 10 F. H. Leaf, Esq 10 S. Willoughby, Esq 10 D. Maclntyre, Esq. 10 J. Willcox, Esq. . . . . . . . . ..0100 R. Kynaston, Esq. . . . . . . . . . . 10 E. Caldecott, Esq. . . . . 10 R. Hocking, Esq. . . . . . . ! . ..0100 A. Caldecott, Esq. .. 10 J. Mair, Esq. .. 10 J. Powell, Esq., jun. 10 N. Hawtrey, Esq., jun. .. .. .. . . 10 S. Bevington, Esq . . . . ..0100 J. B. Balcombe, Esq. . . . . . . ..0100 F. Warner, Esq. . . 10 E. H. Browne, Esq. 10 H. Druitt, Esq. . . 10 G. A. Oxbourgh, Esq 10 J. Nelson, Esq . . . . 10 H. Dearsley, Esq 10 A. Schroder, Esq. .. .. 10 Ullman, Hirschhorn, & Co. 10 Albert Cohen, Esq . . . . 10 F. Ledger, Esq. .. .. 10 H. Poole, Esq. . . 10 G. Brown, Esq. . . 10 J. R. Maynard, Esq. 10 F. Russel, Esq 10 G. Mobbs, Esq 10 J. Wild, Esq. 10 J. A. Joseph, Esq. . . . . 10 W. Heriot, Esq 10 G. Hutchinson, Esq. .. .. .. o 10 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. J. Muggridge, Esq. . . F. W. Stein, Esq. . . W. Blacker, Esq. F. J. Hamel, Esq. . . J. O. Dowd, Esq. .. C. Sweating, Esq. E. Byrne, Esq. Dr. Pettigrew S. Lane, Esq. W. Arnold, Esq. W. King, Esq. J. Fenton, Esq. W. Groves, Esq. John Rogers, Esq. H. Thornton, Esq. . . J. Hickie, Esq. J. Dalton, Esq. F. B. Adams, Esq. . . F. Young, Esq. C. Penny, Esq. G. Batty, Esq. W. D. Starling, Esq. The Hon. Sophia Aylmer M. Henry, Esq. W. J. Hudson, Esq. C. Clarkson, Esq. J. Scurlock, Esq. — Thackeray, Esq. . . £ s. .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 10 .. 10 .. 10 10 10 .. 10 .. 10 .. 10 . . 10 .. 10 .. 10 . . 10 . . 10 .. 10 CONTENTS. f ap af gJma. Lines addressed to the Guards on their departure for Constantinople, February 22d, 1854 . . . . 1 Lines on hearing of the Battle of the Alma, Sept. 28th, 1854 3 The Light Cavalry Charge at Balaklava, Oct. 28th, 1854 4 Lines on the Death of Sir George Cathcart, who fell at Inkermann, Nov. 5th, 1854 . . . . . . . . 9 The Battle of Inkermann, Nov. 5th, 1854 . . . . 11 A Requiem on the Funeral of Field- Marshal Lord Raglan, written on its arrival at Bristol, July 25th, 1855 . . 15 The Fall of Sebastopol 17 The Night Attack of the Rocket-boats on Sweaborg . . 20 The Battle of the Alma 22 A Requiem for the Brave who fell at Inkermann, Nov. 5th, 1854 25 The Hospital at Scutari . . . . . . . . . . 27 Lines written Impromptu, on seeing Her Majesty Queen Victoria bestow the Crimean Medals . . . . 29 Lines on the Death of Arthur, Duke of Wellington, written Impromptu, Sept. 14th, 1852 . . . . 31 Lines written on Nov. 18th, 1852 . . . . . . 32 In Memory of Sir Robert Sale and his brave Companions in Arms, who fell at Sobraon and Aliwal . . . . 35 To Arthur, Duke of Wellington, on his rising to give " To the Memory of those that fell at Waterloo" . . 38 To Lord Viscount Gough . . . . . . . . 40 CONTENTS. Lines on the Banquet at Apsley House, in commemoration of the Battle of Waterloo Lines inspired by a View of the Monument to the Memory of Major Somerset, who fell gallantly fighting in the Battles of the Sutlej Lines addressed to the Ocean, whilst walking at Southsea On Poland To the Memory of my only Brother Napoleon To the Memory of my Father Chatsworth Lines to the Memory of Frederick Albert Loinsworth Lines on Wroxton Abbey Liberty Lines on the Domum Lines on the Death of Lord Melbourne 43 45 48 50 52 54 56 58 60 61 64 66 69 pstaral |«5 m\is §allafcj. Harold ; or, the Battle of Hastings 71 Arundel Castle . 90 Eleanor of Castile . 101 The Leopard Knight . 105 Richard Coeur De Lion . 114 The Lady Godiva . 123 Joan of Arc . 137 Fair Rosamond . 142 Mary of Scotland . . 149 Satrrir pm Luther's Dream . 156 Hagar and Ishmael . 158 Jacob . 164 Judith . 172 LAYS OF ALMA, &c. LINES ADDEESSED TO THE GUAEDS ON THEIE DEPAETUEE FOE CONSTANTINOPLE, FEBEUAEY 22nd, 1854. Go, soldiers, go ! seek distant strands ; Go ! gain fresh fame in foreign lands ; England doth give the word to roam, But bids you to remember home. And should you mix in festive scenes, Where joy and bliss weave magic dreams, Oh, then, when loved, admired, and known, Still, soldiers, still, remember home. B LINES ADDRESSED TO THE GUARDS. And if upon the battle-field You must the sword of valour wield, Then may your country's prayers have power To guard you in that awful hour. Aye, unto God she '11 raise her breath, — To God, whose word is life and death, And pray, by all that's good and fair, To make your lives His guardian care. She'll pray too, by those heroes fled, By all those great and gallant dead. Whose names are writ in History's page, That yours may find a deathless age ; — That to the laurels gain'd before Full many a wreath be still in store, To mark you with undying fame, And add fresh lustre to your name. Thus England's prayers shall hover round, To guard her sons on hostile ground, And seek to bring back safe once more Each hero to his native shore. ON THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA. LINES ON HEARING- OF THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA, SEPTEMBER 28th, 1854. Ring, ring the joy -bells loud, Roll forth the booming gun : Our arms have gain'd the day, — The Alma's heights are won ! Light high the beacon -fires, From palace, hall, and cot, — A victory's gain'd, whose fame Shall never be forgot. Drive back the selfish tear, — Hush, hush the struggling sigh ; Our sons we will not mourn While British flags wave high. We '11 sing instead their deeds, As bright as feats of yore, And to wreaths already gain'd We '11 add one laurel more. ON THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE. For now the foe is quell'd, Despite his boastful pride ; The God who guards the right Was on the victor's side. Then ring the joy -bells loud, Shout forth the warning cry, — We'll hunt each tyrant down, And Tyranny shall die ! THE LIGHT CAVALEY CHABGE AT BALAKLAVA, OCTOBEE 28th, 1854. Dedicated, by special permission, to Major- General the Earl of Cardigan. The battle-ground was kept In still and solemn pride, When o'er the deadly plain A horseman bold did ride. He rode in fearful haste, To give a message high, To bid six hundred men, To conquer or to die. ON THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE. " See ye those guns that stand " Before ye on this plain ? " Ye have but now the choice " To conquer or be slain. " Those guns t' our foes belong, " Those guns ye take or perish ! " Then charge in England's name, — " The land we so much cherish ! " Thus Nolan spake, and waved His glitt'ring sword on high, But soon the cannon's roar Hath drown'd his dying sigh. But nought can still the shout That rings across the plain, — The shout of fell revenge For their loved comrades slain. And on they rush'd to death, Those brave six hundred men ; And, though mow'd down like grass, They turn'd not back again. 6 ON THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE. Though shot and shell fell fast, And blazed the lightning dire, Still onward, still they rode, And sought the deadly fire. Now here, now there, now lost, "Now girt around by foes, Oh, little cared that band So vict'ry crown'd its blows. Their gallant chief the while Did neither blench nor quail ;^ Cardigan ! for years to come Shall history tell the tale. The Roman, when he kept The far-famed bridge of yore, And fought with Roman pride To guard his native shore : The Curtius, when he dared The chasm's dark'ning way, Display'd not braver heart Than England's sons that day. ON THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE. And hark ! a ringing shout Proclaims their task is done, — Their deadly ride is o'er, Those noble hearts have won. The foe hath yielded up Those guns whose fatal fire Hath spread despair around, With carnage dark and dire. Alas ! those fatal guns, The cause of so much woe, That frown'd on all alike, And spared nor friend nor foe ; — Those guns are hush'd and still, Like tempest dying out, And nought is heard around But vict'ry's joyous shout. But the brave six hundred, Now that the fire is still, Cross'd they unscathed that plain And safely reach'd the hill ? ON THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE. Alas ! but few survived To tell the fearful tale, And vict'ry's cheer is drown'd In sorrow's weeping wail. Yes, through ages yet unborn Shall many tears be shed When hist'ry pens the tale, And mourns the gallant dead. Then those six hundred men Shall have their prowess told, And men shall cry aloud, Thus fought the brave of old ! ON THE DEATH OF SIR GEORGE CATHCART. LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR GEORGE CATH- CART, WHO FELL AT INKERMANN, NOVEMBER oth, 1854. It was a gladsome hour and day That saw the tyrant foe give way, And fly before our gallant men, Like autumn leaves shed o'er a glen; But oh ! alas ! our joyous cry Is mixed with bitter tear and sigh, And sadder still we mourn the blow That laid the noble Cathcart low. Oh ! say what demon wing'd the dart And plunged it in his dauntless heart ? What spirit, arm'd to work us ill, Had power that day to slay and kill ; And, jealous of our proud career, Found for our gallant chief a bier ? ******* And shall there ne'er again be peace, Shall War's dark carnage never cease ? 10 ON THE DEATH OF SIR GEORGE CATHCART. Yes ! for the muse, with mystic eye, Looks forward to futurity, And sees, with deep prophetic glance, The nations rise as from a trance, And, shaking off the rust of years, To ploughshares turn their deadly spears. She notes the year, the hour, the day, When tyrant pow'r shall lose its sway, — When Inkerm ami's ill-fated strand Shall bloom afresh like fairy land, When Cathcart's mound shall boast its flowers, When Cathcart's hill be crown'd with bowers, When War and all its woes have fled, And Peace triumphant reigns instead ! Still Cathcart ne'er shall be forgot, Nor those that shared his honour'd lot, No ! as each year comes slowly round, With fame each name shall still be crown'd ; While pitying friends shall drop a tear And sorrow o'er his sacred bier ; And men shall point and proudly tell, How Cathcart fought, how Cathcart fell. THE BATTLE OF TNKERMANN. 11 THE BATTLE OF INKEKMANN, NOVEMBEE 5th, 1854. Rose the cold sun and set again, O'er Inkerrnann's wild, deadly plain, Ere we the victory could gain, And know our pow'r. Many a noble heart was cold, Hush'd was many a spirit bold, Together friend and foe were roll'd, In that dread hour. Man sought his fellow man that morn, Breathing hot vengeance, hate, and scorn, And, with wildest passion torn, Rush'd to battle. O God ! it was a fearful sight, Meeting thus stern in deadly fight, Each bent to prove his cause was right, 'Mid thunder's rattle. 12 THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN. While trumpets sounded in advance, While each man tightly grasps his lance, While o'er their heads their banners dance, In bright array ; And cannon roll across the plain, And waving plumes are damp with rain, And sink the dying on the slain, On that dark day. But what reck'd they the strong and brave ? When charging on, the word they gave Was vict'ry or an honour'd grave To him who died. Then on they dash'd upon their foe, Dealing despair with every blow, Till soon in death they laid them low, Despite their pride. THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN. 13 Forgot was rank, forgot was all, Save to rush forth at glory's call, To nobly live, or bravely fall, In heaven to rise. While the youngest warrior there Flung youth's misgivings to the air, And did the utmost danger dare, To win the prize. Yes ! how they fought and won the day, Those who survive can proudly say, And tell how England bore away Her lofty name. And how her sons can bravely fight, And surely wield an arm of might, Whene'er the cause is just and right, Shall all proclaim. 14 THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN. For of many a battle won, 'Twixt Waterloo and Marathon, None yet have been more bravely done Than Inkermann. For there was courage true and tried, 'Gainst fearful odds on every side, And hist'ry long shall speak with pride Of Inkermann. And if upon that fatal shore, We've lost a friend our hearts deplore, The loved that we shall see no more, We '11 murmur not : For they have won a deathless grave ; And often England's tears shall lave The spot that holds her noble brave, And mourn their lot. ON THE FUNERAL OF LORD RAGLAN. 15 Yes ! year by year she'll watch her dead, And o'er their graves will lightly tread, And bid each nowret sweetly spread Her richest bloom. The laurestine, the lily fair, The blushing rose, shall be her care, To twine them in a chaplet rare Above their tomb, A KEQUIEM ON THE FUNEEAL OF FIELD -MAR- SHAL LORD RAGLAN, WRITTEN ON ITS ARRIVAL AT BRISTOL, JULY 25th, 1855. Hark ! the sad roll of muffled drums Sounds floating o'er the wave, And tells to all a soldier loved Is carried to the grave. Yes ! home from Alma's blood-stain'd strand They 've brought his cold remains, To give him in his native land A rest from earthly pains. 16 THE FUNERAL OF LORD RAGLAN. With weeping eyes, with solemn steps, With measured pace and slow, With arms reversed, with flags half-high, The tearful mourners go. They bear him to his fathers' halls, To his ancestral home ; To rest within their stately walls, Beneath their hallow'd dome. And who is this they're bearing home With sorrow so sincere ? For whom is all this pomp and woe ? Who rests upon that bier ? Alas, alas ! doth Echo cry, 'T is Raglan resting there : The man who hush'd the widows' sigh, Who blest the orphans' prayer. ■ In battle-field a soldier brave, In council calm and true ; A friend to rich and poor alike, — All, all, his loss will rue ; THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. 17 His mild commands, his even sway, Made him beloved of all ; And, oh ! his best reward is found In his tear-bedewed pall. They clothe the walls with sable black, Hang thousand lamps on high ; And on the spot he first drew breath, They bring him home to lie. While those he loved in early days, And friends in after years, Are there to honour his sad grave And shed their last fond tears. THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. And is thy day of sorrow come ? And are thy guns for ever dumb ? And thou no more hear beat of drum, Sebastopol ? 18 THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. Hath all thy vaunted strength so vast Sunk down beneath the tempest's blast ? And have thy glories fled at last, Sebastopol ? Aye ! tower after tower falls, Lowly cots and stately halls Lie crush'd within thy bafcter'd walls, Sebastopol ! For thund'ring on in mad career, With flashing eye, with blood-stain'd spear, The troops dash on with heartfelt cheer, Sebastopol ! And in they rush upon thy bowers, And ere the shade of evening lowers, Their banners float above thy towers, Sebastopol ! But though thy strength 's for ever fled, Will that give back our gallant dead, Whose blood 'gainst thee was nobly shed, Sebastopol ? THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. 19 For, what depths of sorrowing woe It has been our lot to know Ere thy proud stones were levell'd low, Sebastopol ! Cathcart's generous breast is cold, Shadforth rests beneath thy mould, All to gain thy stony hold, Sebastopol ! Still, still, we triumph in our prize, And our loud shouts shall rend the skies To think that thou no more shalt rise, Sebastopol ! But should there ever come the hour When Gaul and Saxon have the power To once again restore each tower, Sebastopol, 'T will be, I ween, another sway Thy children's children shall obey, When flags of freedom o'er thee play, Sebastopol. 20 THE NIGHT ATTACK OF THE THE NIGHT ATTACK OF THE SOCKET- BOATS ON SWEABOBG. Dedicated to Captain Henry Caldwell, C.B., of Her Majesty's Flag Ship the Wellington. The guns from Sweaborg's battlements Were scarcely hush'd to rest, When forth there went a gallant band On ocean's troubled breast. The planets each had calmly risen, The moon was at her height, When floated out the Rocket-boats On that still summer's night. And mann'd they were by noble hearts, By men of courage high, — Men who cared nought in that dread hour, Except to win or die. All day was heard the booming gun, The cannon's deaf 'ning roar, The flashing of the lightning's fire, On Sweaborg's fated shore. ROCKET-BOATS ON SWEABORG. 21 And burn'd their souls with ardent pride To share the coming fight, And long'd they for the solemn bell That toll'd the hour of night. For at that warning dark and dire Went they to win renown, To lay proud Sweaborg in the dust, And crush her glory down. And as the gun-boats floated on, Each man so bold and true Sent forth a shout that rent the air As came her towers in view. That shout the Heavens re-echoed back, 'Twas borne across the tide, 'T was carried on to Sweaborg's walls, Stern warning to their pride. Oh, fatal warning, fatal place, The signal shot was fired, And gallant hearts and gallant arms Fought all that night untired. 22 THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA. They fought till every tower was low, Till not a stone was left, Till e'en the strength of proudest hall Was of its glory reft. And when morn's rays burst forth at last, When rose the gladd'ning day, The blacken'd stones told well the tale Where shatter'd Sweaborg lay. THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA. Dedicated by special ■permission to Lieut.- General His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge. Streams of golden light were falling O'er Alma's verdant hills, Birds their mates were sweetly calling Beside the murm'ring rills, That flow'd where'er the eye could see In thoughtless mood, gay, glad, and free. THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA. 23 Ah ! little reck'd each joyous rill How soon from hearth and home Thousands of fellow-men to kill, Thousands of men would come, With blood and slaughter to deface The purity of nature's face. Lo ! still upon those hills so bright The Muscov's camp did lay, While sentinels upon the height Kept watch the livelong day, And strain'd their gaze, some trace in vain Of England's gallant ships to gain. 'Tis morn, — behold ! is that a speck That stains the silv'ry sea ? Why flies each man his side to deck With such a fearful glee ? Arm ! arm ! they cry, the foe appears, To add t' our fame of former years ! Thus boasted they at morning light, But not at ev'ning tide : At morn they stood a gallant sight, At eve they fled or died. 24 THE BATTLE OF THE ALMA. They 'd vow'd to conquer or to slay, A greater Power changed the day. For Right and Might stood side by side, And waved our flag on high, Which, as upon the blast it rose, Faint echoed back the sigh Of many a firm and steadfast heart That had most nobly done its part. They fought, and well upheld their name, Or found an honour'd grave ; And shall we not proclaim their fame, And welcome back the brave ? Aye, England stretches forth her arm To greet her sons safe back from harm. Aye ! fought they all a goodly fight, Or fell on battle-field, With stern resolve to guard the right, Or dear life's breath to yield ; 'Twas ever thus did Saxon race Treat fell injustice face to face. A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE, ETC. 25 The fall'n have found honour'd rest Upon the spot they fell, Their mem'ry hath a nation blest, And fame will guard it well, And point to the surviving band, All worthy of their native land. And Alma's battle was the first We fought on yonder shore, And oh ! that it may prove the last, We fervently implore ; For, win or lose, grief's all we gain For battles fought or cities ta'en. A REQUIEM FOE THE BRAVE WHO FELL AT INKERMANN, NOVEMBER 5th, 1854. Struck to the heart, upon the battle-field, Sad England's bravest heroes fell and died, Their spirits bold to death alone would yield, Mocking the foeman's rage and boastful pride. 26 A REQUIEM FOR THE BRAVE, ETC. They fell with triumph and with honour crown'd, With vict'ry's cheering note within their ear, With England's banners proudly floating round, Amid the clash of musket, sword, and spear. Oh ! what were their sad thoughts in that dread hour, When all things earthly faded fast around them ; Say, did they think on war or war's stern pow'r, Or the soft ties which once to earth had bound them? Or thought they of their comrades young and brave, Who fought with them, in battle side by side, But now, alas ! like foam on ocean's wave, Is cast adrift by winter's icy tide ? Yes ! they did think of all, and it was balm, For angels bright were watching from above, And whisper'd sweetly words of holy calm, As their freed souls they bore to realms of love. " Fear not," they said, " Britannia's grateful arm Shall shield from care and want each sacred tie ; Wife, sire, and child, they all are safe from harm, England their woes shall soothe, their tears shall dry. THE HOSPITAL AT SCUTARI. 27 "And though long dreary years must pass away, Ere once again the dear ones thou wilt meet them ; But when for Heaven they change this vale of tears, Thy loving souls shall be the first to greet them." THE HOSPITAL AT SCUTARI. Dedicated to Miss Nightingale. 'Tis midnight's hour, in yonder ward The wounded sick are lying, And rise from out each narrow bed The moanings of the dying. The young who left their fathers' halls An honour'd name to gain, Are tossing there, by fever worn, By agonising pain. The vet'ran who will never rise From off that lowly bed, Whose dying thoughts are sadly wrapt In visions dark and dread. 28 THE HOSPITAL AT SCUTARI. All, all, are lying sad and lone, No sound of footstep falls, No accents breathed save that of pain Within those darken'd walls. But hush ! what spirit softly steals, And glides along the room, And whispers words of holy calm To chase away the gloom ? Who kneels beside each dying man And gently bathes his face, Who wipes the death-damp from his brow With all a woman's grace ? Her form is fair to look upon, Her eye is heavenly bright, She looks like seraph sent on earth To do a deed of light. And bright thy deeds, oh ! holy maid, — Bright, too, be thy renown, If not on earth, in Heaven above, Thou'lt win a changeless crown. ON SEEING HER MAJESTY, ETC. 29 For tbou hast done God's holy will, Hast trod His chosen way, Hath left the homes of pomp and pride, The pleasures of the gay, — To stand beside the lowly bed, To soothe the dying soul, To lead the erring mortal home To his eternal goal. And when thine own last moment comes, And thou no more mayst rise, Thy fellow angels round shall stand To bear thee to the skies. LINES, WRITTEN IMPROMPTU, ON SEEING HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA BESTOW THE CRI- MEAN MEDALS. The staff is set, the flags are spread, Old England's pennon flies, The troops march on with solemn tread While joyous notes arise; 30 ON SEEING HER MAJESTY, ETC. They march in steady rank and file, Before the Queen of Britain's isle. For England's Queen is there to-day With all her nobles round, And stands beneath the banners gay That float upon the ground ; She stands with open heart and hands To bless and thank her noble bands. For back from yon Crimean shore Those gallant troops have come, And though their laurels droop with gore, Yet bravely have they won The medal that their liege bestows, As guerdon for their thousand woes. And see with what a graceful air, With what a feeling glance, She bends to speak to each one there, As slow the men advance ; She heeds not rank, nor pomp, nor fame, But showers her smiles on all the same. DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 31 And when the pleasing task was o'er And all the prizes given, Rang out from every soldier there, A shout that rose to heaven, While thousands echo'd back the cry, — Blest are the brave, they win or die. LINES ON THE DEATH OF ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON, WRITTEN IMPROMPTU SEPTEM- BER 14th, 1852. Hark ! the sad bell ! the Hero 's dead, His spirit unto Heaven has sped, England may mourn her Chieftain fled, And tell his deeds in story ; Whilst crowding round the eternal gate, With joy, his ancient comrades wait, To greet the Chief, whose word was fate, To realms of glory. He's gone ! the voice is hush'd and still, That bow'd e'en sovereigns to his will, And bade them all his laws fulfil, And gave them peace, 32 LINES WRITTEN ON NOVEMBER 18TH, 1852. He's gone ! the Phoenix of his age, In battle brave, in council sage, Whose nod controll'd a people's rage,* And bade it cease. He's gone ! Britannia weeps alone, And sadly echoes back the groan That rises both from cot and throne, In mournful measure. Weep not ! Britannia, look on high, Bid Britain's sons their tear-drops dry, Fame such as his will never die, 'T will live for ever. LINES WEITTEN ON NOVEMBEE 18th, 1852. Day broke in silence calm and deep, E'en nature seemed disposed to weep, And join the mourning hosts that stood, To see their Hero, brave and good, Borne to his rest, calm, still and lone, Amid one general sob and moan. * April 10th, 1848. LINES WRITTEN ON NOVEMBER 18TH, 1852. 33 Hark ! to the roll of muffled drums ; The solemn pageant slowly comes, Bearing with sad befitting grace, To his last peaceful resting-place, Him who Albion's battles won, Her noblest, best, and bravest son. Solemn and slow, with measured tread, Soldiers, bear the mighty dead, With arms reversed, with mournful wail, That sinks, then rises on the gale, Proclaiming in that heavy sound, At last his spirit peace hath found. On ! on ! they march, a glittering show, Deck'cl in their panoply of woe, Whilst he who led them on to glory Is now become the theme for story, And years shall pass, and pass in vain, Ere such a Chief be seen again. Behold, too, in yon mighty nave Are group'd the noble and the brave, D 34 LINES WRITTEN ON NOVEMBER 18TH, 1852. His comrades, who on battle-field Spurn'd the thought to fly or yield — Yet o'er their honoured Chieftain's bier Think it no shame to drop a tear. Such manly tribute, if he know That which is passing here below, — Such tribute to his worth would be More prized than hard- won Victory, Or jewell'd star, or glitt'ring crown, Or deathless title of renown. Then, Soldier, rest, for o'er thy bier Will drop a grateful Nation's tear ; And oh ! thy name shall nerve the blow That from our shores expels the foe, And Britain to that gloried name Will give its fullest meed of fame. IN MEMORY OF SIR ROBERT SALE. 35 IN MEMORY OF SIR ROBERT SALE AND HIS BRAVE COMPANIONS IN ARMS, WHO EELL AT SOBRAON AND ALIWAL. Shouts of glory are rending the sky, Which are wafted from Indus to here, But echo sends only a sigh, To hallow the warrior's bier ; For on Aliwal's dearly -bought field How many a brave heart has fell, How many bright prospects are seal'd, Or hush'd in a funeral knell. The veteran who rode forth at morn, With hope springing high in his breast, Reck'd not that at night he'd be borne, And laid in his last final rest — The young, who rush'd forth to the field, Impatient to conquer or die, Who cared not their spirit to yield, So they heard but the enemy fly — 36 IN MEMORY OF SIR ROBERT SALE. Have both found a glorious grave, For they fell with their swords in their hand, While the banners of victory wave, Like the leaves of their own native land. And Britannia weeps sad, o'er the chaplet she wove Of laurels the freshest and green, Intermix'd with the shamrock, the thistle and rose, The brightest that ever was seen. She wove it with care, for her favourite son ; * But he fell on the field in his glory, And nothing remains for the deeds he has done, But to tell of his valour in story : — Of the undying valour, that never would yield — Of the courage that never grew dim — Of the heart that was true in the camp or the field — Of the spirit untainted with sin. And oh ! if that spirit in regions above, Still yearns for the land of his birth ; It sees that Britannia forgets not her love, Nor ceases to honour his worth. * Sir Eobert Sale. W MEMORY OF SIR ROBERT SALE. 37 That the laurels she wove, with such pleasure and 'care, His perishing brows to enfold, Now serve as a crown to the monument fair, That is raised to the hero bold. 38 DRINK TO THE BRAVE. TO ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON, ON HIS RISING TO GIVE " TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE THAT FELL AT WATERLOO." This Poem is most respectfully dedicated to the most Fair, the Most Noble the Duchess of Wellington. Drink to the brave Who fell in the field ; To the undying valour That never would yield. Drink it in silence, With sorrowful mien, For their spirits are gazing From heaven unseen. The wild flowers bloom O'er the warrior's grave, Then silently drink To the souls of the brave ; Nobly they fought, And gallantly fell, Their glories and honours Are wreath'd like a spell. DRINK TO THE BRAVE. 39 When the hero of Waterloo Rises to pass, Solemn and sadly, The funeral glass — At that moment, in heaven, They echo again, " Long life to the hero Who drinks to the slain ! " 40 TO LOUD VISCOUNT GOUGH. TO LOED VISCOUNT GOUGH, ^Ijese Iftnes, WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS LORDSHIP'S SAFE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND, Are dedicated, by his Lordship's most obliged, most grateful Servant, the AUTHORESS. All hail to the vessel that brought back the brave, That has brought him safe back, o'er the perilous wave, And hail to thee, chieftain, no longer thou'lt roam, So with millions of others I welcome thee home ; For I honour thy virtues, thy spirit, and zeal, From the depths of my heart springs the joy that I feel, In being permitted, though simple my pen, To hail thee the noblest, the bravest of men. TO LORD VISCOUNT GOUGH. 41 For thou hast restor'd, 'neath thy soldier-like sway, The spirit of chivalry, long pass'd away ; Thy victories were gain'd not by cunning or art, But by the proud valour that dwells in the heart. For, when on the field, with a courage undying, Thou heardst the glad sounds of the enemy flying, Though a soldier's delight swell'd thy heart in its pride, A tear stain'd thy cheek, for the brave that had died. Yes, Courage and Mercy are twins from their birth, Ordain'd to defend and protect us on earth — And blest is the man who can boast of the two, For, alas ! the proud union is found but in few. Then belov'd in the camp, and ador'd in the field, The chief of an army that never would yield, Long, long, mayst thou live to enjoy the renown That shall brighten thine age like an evergreen crown. And oh, do not forget, in this land of the free, That an Irishman's welcome is waiting for thee ; 42 TO LORD VISCOUNT GOUGH. A welcome so warm, so fond, and so true, That it well may repay all the ills you've gone through. Then, hero of Moultan, the shamrock shall twine And encircle the laurels with classic design — While Britannia the wreath shall triumphantly wave, And crown thee, her son, amid shouts of the brave. THE BATTLE OF "WATERLOO. 43 LINES ON THE BANQUET AT APSLEY HOUSE, IN COMMEMOEATION OE THE BATTLE OF WATEKLOO. Oh, glorious field of Waterloo, You rise to memory fresh and true, While banners o'er thee wave ; I'll sing thy bravest deeds in verse — Thy triumphs while I've breath rehearse, And crown the warriors' grave. When at their gallant chieftain's board The veteran heroes clasp their sword, And mourn the brave ones fled ; Raising the sparkling glass on high, They waft it, with a silent sigh, In memory of the dead. And justly is that tribute due To those who fell at Waterloo — 44 THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. Proud England's gallant sons, Who shouted " Victory or death ! " And fought until their failing breath Proclaim'd their race was run. Yes, Waterloo 's a glorious term, It makes our hearts with freedom burn, And bless the hallow'd ground That bought the olive branch of peace, And caused the fatal wars to cease In all the nations round. Then may that union last for ever : May no dark cloud have power to sever, Or throw its shade unseen — Britannia, may she proudly gaze, And wreathe her laurels with her bays, To crown our English Queen. Yes, let us crown her Queen of Peace, And pray the blessing ne'er may cease, But shine a glorious light ; We'll kneeling pray to God on high, To Him who ever hears our cry, To guide our wishes right. TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR SOMERSET. 45 LINES INSPIRED BY A VIEW OF THE MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR SOMERSET, WHO FELL GALLANTLY FIGHTING IN THE BATTLES OF THE SUTLEJ. Hero ! to thy honour'd shade How sweet a tribute here is paid, Paid to thy heroic name — To thy brave and spotless fame ; Paid by those who saw thee fall, Pierc'd with wounds at glory's call. When thou sank upon the plain, Never more to rise again — Shouting with thy dying breath, " Victory, or a glorious death ! " 46 TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR SOMERSET. If thought of home cross'd o'er thy brain. In that struggling hour of pain, Angels whisper'd o'er and o'er, That upon thy native shore A nation's tears should freely flow, To assuage the bitter woe That must wring thy parents' heart, From their cherish'd son to part, Over which a veil we draw, Like the sacrifice of yore, When the Grecian fathers' sighs Were shrouded thus from public eyes. Tears bedew thy early grave, Banners o'er thy tomb shall wave : Shades of heroes shall arise, To bless thy youthful obsequies — Whilst Honour of her favourite son Recounts the deeds that he has done ; And Freedom hallows with her name, The spot where he has earn'd his fame. Then, warrior, may you peaceful sleep, While o'er thy bier thy comrades weep, TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR SOMERSET. 47 And this tablet of to-day Shall stand when years have pass'd away, While each succeeding age shall tell How brave you fought- — how nobly fell. 48 LINES ADDRESSED TO THE OCEAN. LINES ADDKESSED TO THE OCEAN, WHILST WALKING AT SOUTHSEA. Dedicated to Lord Frederick Fitzclarence. Dear Ocean ! I've wandered by many a strand, Where the waters encircle my own native land, But never before, and perhaps ne'er again, Shall I view such a spot as this emerald plain. For here are combin'd, with a magical art, All the beauties that nature and taste can impart; And I doubt, if in threading the green island round, For proud recollections, their fellow are found. For the ground that I tread on is hallow'd in story, By the foot of the chieftain* who fell in his glory, * Nelson. LINES ADDEESSED TO THE OCEAN. 49 But who here breath'd adieu, ere he sail'd o'er the wave, To find in the arms of the Victory a grave. And again it was blest, in the annals of fame, For the Hero of Waterloo stood on the plain, Ere his conquering arm brought the war to a close, And gave unto Europe a lasting repose. And, Ocean, if souls are permitted to know, In the regions of bliss, what is passing below, Will not many look down on this charming parade, And note with delight the improvement that's made? For though the fair island* untouch' d doth remain, And the guns of Old England are pointed the same, This fair esplanade, in which all must delight, Will rise to their eyes like a vision of light. Then blest be the man who with patience and care Laid out the fair plan, and then brought it to bear ; And blest, doubly blest, be the goodness of heart, Who, with liberal zeal, could such pleasures impart. * Isle of Wight. 50 ON THE ANNEXATION OE CEACOW. Yes ! thousands shall thank him for what he has done, And say that the sire shines forth in the son : And while gratitude dwells in the hearts of the free, The name of Fitzclarence remember'd shall be. TO LORD DUDLEY STUART, THE ERIEND OE POLAND, ON THE ANNEXATION OF CRACOW TO THE AUSTRIAN DOMINIONS, Is, by his Lordship s permission, most gratefully Dedi- cated by the AUTHORESS. Poland, thy name is no more, Thy sorrows can never be heal'd ; Thy last sigh of freedom is o'er, And thy fate upon earth is now seal'd. For thy kingdom is parted away, Where a Stanislaus reign' d in his glory, And nations unborn, in long ages to come, Shall weep o'er thy desolate story. ON THE ANNEXATION OF CBACOW. 51 They shall tell how the kings of the earth Rose and stretch' d forth a merciless hand, And, trampling on honour and worth, Made slaves of both thee and thy land. For the patriot's arm was in vain, When oppos'd to the power of gold ; Their blood it might flow like the rain, Their sword might be steady and bold : But Russia and Austria combin'd, Rose like giants whom might had array' d ; They shiver' d the sword in the wind, And their life was the penalty paid. And Cracow, the last dying flame Of freedom, has burnt out at last ; And Poland, and liberty's name, Live now but as dreams of the past. But tremble, thou spoilers of earth, When God's final trumpet shall sound, And the archangel's fiat goes forth, To number the nations around — e 2 '2 TO THE HEMOEY OE MY BEOTHEE. Then Poland shall not be forgot, She shall rise like a phoenix from fire, And the sorrows that now are her lot, In the blood of her foes shall expire. For a terrible vengeance shall fall On those who have trampled her down ; Who, deaf to humanity's call, Despoil' d her of kingdom and crown. TO THE MEMORY OF MY ONLY BEOTHEE, WHO, TO THE ETEENAL SOEEOW OF HIS FAMILY, WAS OTFOETUNATELY DEOWNED, SEPTEMBEE 9, 1838. Oh ! snatch' d away when life was new, And hope was springing bright and true ; Oh! snatch' d away in earliest bloom, My brother sleeps within the tomb. Brief was his span of life below, But free alike from care or woe ; His joyous spirit, form'd for mirth, Soar'd far above this lower earth. TO THE MEMORY OF MT BROTHER. 53 Yes, he was Genius' favourite child, She stamp' d him with her impress wild, And, fearing earth might slight the prize, Translated him to ethereal skies. So when he sank beneath the wave, And ocean prov'd his early grave, While bending o'er his form in grief, His mother's heart refus'd relief. She knew not why her cherish' d son Was gather' d ere his race was run, Before his pure and noble soul Was sullied by the world's control : — She knew it not, she felt it not, She only felt her own sad lot, Till angels whisper' d peace and love, And told her of his joys above : — That having left this vale of woe, To dwell where flowers for ever blow, His kindred spirits came from high. To waft him to his native sky. 54 And there he reigns an angel bright, Enthron'd within those realms of light; And that blest thought shall dry the tear That flows through many a lengthen' d year. NAPOLEON. Say, shall I dip my pen in fire, To paint the hero I admire ? To paint the towering strength of soul, That bow' d the world to its control ; Or paint the free unfetter' d mind, That e'en a prison could not bind. Star of the earth, from whence thou sprung, Whose prowess dwells on every tongue ; Star of the mighty ! in whose grave Lies all that's valiant, great and brave ; A thousand years may pass in vain, Ere such a star shall shine again. When the lone Isle that gave thee birth, Saw thee the conqueror of the earth, And watch' d her son to conquest ride, Buoyant with hope, elate with pride ; NAPOLEON. From mountain side to forest glen, Thy name resounded back again. And shall those glories pass away, Like night before the coming day ? Shall name and lineage be forgot, The trophies of thy brilliant lot ? And e'en the coward dare to raise His puny voice to blast thy praise ? No ! 'tis a name that cannot die, Though time on rapid pinions fly ; Fame blew her trumpet far and near, To waft her favourite son's career ; From northern shore to torrid zone She made thy name and conquests known, And though on high it was ordain' d That thou should lose whate'er thou gain'd, And die a captive sad and lone, Bereft of kingdom and of throne, To show that fame, nor rank, nor power Avails man in his dying hour — They could not bring thy child to thee, To soothe its father's misery ; 56 TO THE MEMORY OF MT FATHER. They could not bring thy wife to stand Beside thy bed, to clasp thy hand, To bathe thy brow with woman's care, And catch each sigh and parting prayer. No ! none but strangers watch'd thy bed, And raised the requiem for the dead, And laid thee in the silent grave, Encircled by the sea-girt wave : As one lone isle had given thee birth, Another clasp'd thee in her earth. And there, until the final doom, Thou' might have rested in the tomb, Had not thy self-adopted land Sent forth her children in a band, To bring thee back to France again, And raise an altar to thy fame. TO THE MEMOBY OF MY FATHEE. Ie warm affections, if an honest heart, "Where truth and honour form'd an equal part- If upright dealings, purity of soul, Untouch' d, untainted by the world's control — TO THE MEMOET OE MT EATHER. 57 If these find favour in a Saviour's love, Then is thy spirit blest in realms above. If kindest speech, devoid of art or guile, Where none found fraud beneath thy open smile ; Less willing to accept than quick to lend, Who ne'er made money on a ruin'd friend, Nor spoil' d the widow or the orphan's share, But held them sacred as a prophet's prayer. Oh yes ! my father, when I strive to see, And grace my pages with a sketch of thee, How all thy simple virtues rise to view, And crowd my memory when I think of you — And thinking, try to paint them as they stand ; How sweet the task, how quick my willing hand. And though some mortal failings did efface The bright perfections which I love to trace, Yet weigh' d against the virtues of thy mind, They're like a feather balanced by the wind, That sports a moment in the azure air, But leaves no trace to mark its dwelling there. No trace remains — thy virtues bear the palm, And hover o'er my path, a sacred charm. CHATSWORTH. Proud of the honest name bequeath' d by thee, God grant me grace to keep it pure and free ; Unstain'd, untainted, may I live to rise, And meet thee joyful in the ethereal skies. CHATSWORTH. Chatsworth ! my pen can faintly tell The thousand charms that round thee dwell ; Thy waving woods, thy forests wide, Where murmuring cascades swell the tide Of many a bright and glittering stream That shine in heaven's reflected beam. And was it from a woman's hand, Thou rose to grace our English land ? With all thy proud and stately towers, Thy princely halls and lady's bowers, Thy fairy grots, thy gardens wide, Where Flora reigns in matchless pride. Yes, exile sweet from many a land, The flowers spring forth a blooming band, Transplanted from their native earth, They glory in their second birth, And shed their fragrance o'er the scene, As grateful for their bowers of green. CHATSWORTH. 59 And though my pen can fainter still, Trace him who both has power and will To spread thy glories, raise thy fame, And teach thee that thy brightest claim Lies in the feeling heart and hand That welcomes all throughout the land, — Yes, welcomes with a generous heart . The sons of genius and of art, And opens wide his gates to those Who from their talents nobly rose, To grace the land that proudly claims The birthright of their hallow' d names. Yes, Chatsworth ! that's the wizard spell, That makes thee more than pen can tell ; Though noble are thy stately towers, Though brilliant are thy matchless flowers, Though art and nature mingling sweet, Might make thy halls a magic seat — Without thy master's hand and heart, Chatsworth ! thy fame would soon depart. 60 TO THE MEMOET OE E. A. LOINSWOETH. LINES TO THE MEMORY OF FREDERICK ALBERT LOINSWORTH, LATE INSPECTOR GENERAL OF HER MAJESTY'S MEDICAL STAFF IN INDIA.* Oh sad was your fate, in a far distant land, To die ere the moment of meeting ; When all that you lov'd left their own native strand, Impatient to give you the greeting. Yes, far from the land of your birth, From all you held holy and dear, From the scenes that you cherish' d on earth, From the friends that could comfort and cheer. No wife of your bosom to pray, No children to soothe your last hour ; Your sun it went down in the day, Cut oiF in its glory and power. * The melancholy circumstance that gave rise to the fore- going lines originated in my uncle heing separated six years from his wife and family. They landed in India four weeks after his death. (XN" WB0XT01N- ABBEY. 61 Oh ! cruel the cold hand of death, Not to grant you a few weeks' delay, But to bear off your trembling breath, While yet they were winging their way. Yes ! winging their flight like a bird, They came to find nought but your grave ; To feel that their prayers were not heard, For they had not the power to save. Nor lengthen' d your life till they came^ Were it only to bless them and die ; Their journey would not have been vain, Could they but have receiv'd your last sigh. LINES WRITTEN ON ACCIDENTALLY VIEWING A SERIES OF PICTURES ILLUSTRATIVE OF WROXTON ABBEY. Wroxtois" ! in gazing on thy walls, In noting down thy stately halls, I feel inspir'd to seek the muse, Thy ancient glories to peruse ; And in each gabled roof and tower, Eke out the story of an hour ; 62 ON" WEOXTON ABBEY. And make the artist's magic skill Subservient to my power and will. I view, as with prophetic eye, Old scenes of grandeur gliding by ; When kings sought low, within thy shade, A shelter from the world's parade, And many a knight and baron bold Laid down their pride and earthly gold, To find within thy quiet arms A refuge from the world's alarms. And when thy holy tenants fled, Their sacred calling past and dead, Still, Wroxton ! thou threw wide thy gate To kings, but kings in sovereign state ; And saw, instead of monkish pride, Bright scenes of social joy abide ; Whilst silvery laugh from lady's bower, Broke lightly on the passing hour. But yet, hi spite of joy and glee, A hallow' d shade thou seem'st to me ; Each storied arch, each shadowy nook, Our modern fancies ill could brook, OS WEOXTON ABBEY. 63 As in thy halls of quaint design, Lov'd relics of the olden time, The genius of the ancient place Recounts the glories of her race. She tells of all that's gone before, She looks beyond, and prays for more — She notes the heir of all her pride, From morning's blush till evening tide : She watches with a guardian care, The boy so bright, so young, and fair, And calls on every saint above, To aid her in her task of love. And can, oh can she call in vain On heaven, to guard her charge from pain ? Oh no ! his parent's virtues rise, In grateful incense to the skies, And plead before the throne of Him, In whom was neither guile nor sin, To make this boy, of ceaseless prayer, Worthy his guardian angel's care. 64 LIBERTY, Oh Liberty ! oh glorious theme, The freeman's hope, the poet's dream, — How deep, how strong thy spell ! Say in what region of delight, What Eden hid from mortal sight, Dost thou delight to dwell ? For not upon this lower earth, Though many feel and own thy worth, Is found thy resting spot : We only catch thy shadows here, We've nought besides thy name to cheer Our solitary lot. And oft that sacred name is made, Ambition's schemes to shield and aid, The tyrant's last resource ; He calls thee in the freeman's name, Awakes thy soul by words of flame, Then puts thee down by force. The soldier on the battle field, The martyrs on the scaffold yield, 65 Their spirits pure and free ; They feel that death has lost its sting, Feel nought but triumph while they sing Their dying chaunts to thee. Yes ! Liberty, thou dost inspire A holy charm, a sacred fire, In every freeman's breast ; Oh ! may that spirit never die, May tyrants and their minions fly Before thy glittering crest. Then, Britons, though we cannot tell In what bright spot the saint may dwell, We'll pray her influence here ; And while upon our sea-girt isle She deigns to shed her radiant smile, What need have we to fear 1 Not foreign foes, it would be vain : For Albion's sons would tell them plain, That, when they cross' d the wave, There's not upon our native ground One spot of land that could be found, To yield them e'en a grave. E 66 THE CELEBKATION OE THE DOMTJM. No, from ourselves the fault will spring, If Discord flap her darkest wing, And Christian virtues cease ; For Liberty will never fly, While we uphold her altars high, In unity and peace. LINES COMPOSED ON THE CELEBRATION OF THE DOMUM AT WINCHESTER. Domum ! Domum ! Dulce Domum ! Memory long shall hold you dear ; Although other lands I roam in, Oft you'll steal upon mine ear. Whether I seek festal halls Or tread alone the forest glade ; Wheresoe'er my duty calls, From my heart you ne'er shall fade. For on Fancy's bank I'll draw, Bid her wave her wand around, And the glittering scene once more Soon my senses will surround. THE CELEBEATION OP THE DOMUAT. 6/ Fairy forms with star-light eyes, Hearts that never dreamt of care, Like bands of wandering fays will rise, Or spirits from the upper air. And St. Mary's stately towers Shall glad once more my inner sight, Whilst music soft as summer showers Shall back recall the Domum night. Yet, though a strain that tells of pleasure, It, alas ! speaks more of woe, For the heart that fram'd the measure Felt the bitterest grief below.* Ye, who revel in the bliss That a parent's love bestows, Ye, who've felt affection's kiss, Ye can never guess his woes. * The origin of the celebrated Dulce Domum, of "Winchester School, is wrapped in mystery. Tradition, however, asserts it to have been composed by a boy, who, being an orphan, and left alone during the long vacations, took it so to heart, that he cut the words upon some trees he had planted during his solitary hours, and then hung himself. J? 2 68 THE CELEBRATION OE THE DOMUM. For no parents watch' d his coming, No fond mother blest his sight, No reward for days of learning, None to praise when all was right. Three long dreary years he stood, Watch' d each joyous soul depart, Then, in melancholy mood, Strove to hush his breaking heart. But the struggle was in vain, Mortal strength gave way before it, And a death-like sense of pain Struck the unlov'd boy that bore it. Sadly to his haunts slow stealing, Where his lonesome hours Avere pass'd, He compos' d those lines of feeling, Lines whose glory long shall last. Yes, the lone, neglected boy Imag'd joys he never felt, Painted love without alloy, Love that might a stoic melt — Love, the purest that is known, Such a love as angels feel, ON THE DEATH OF VISCOUNT MELEOT7BNE. 69 When around the Father's throne - Hymns of glory softly steal. And if still his heart rejoices O'er those strains so fond and true, May he bless the youthful voices That each year his praise renew. LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU ON HEAPING OF THE DEATH OF VISCOUNT MELBOURNE. Toll the sad bell, raise requiems o'er the bier, And let the nation drop its grateful tear ; The statesman's fled, his bright career is o'er, And crowds proclaim that Melbourne is no more ! But yet, if learning and a taste refined, If every virtue that adorns the mind, Could have a power to wrest from death its sting, Or turn the shaft whilst quivering in the sling, Thou, surely thou, the good, the pure in heart, Had st not fell victim to his iron dart ; Nor we, thy native land, been doomed to cry, Sad was the hour that saw the good man die* 70 ON THE DEATH OF VISCOTTET MELEOTTKNE. Yes, Melbourne, yes ! thy generous deeds inspire My soul with ardour and my pen with fire ; I fain would paint, with more than human skill, Thine honest zeal, the soul-inspiring will Which taught thee, at the helm, with grace to guide The British ark with glory down the tide, And shed a lustre nought but worth can claim, A lustre that shall gild thy well-earned fame. In halls of grandeur, in the simplest cot, The patriot's name shall never be forgot; So long as Liberty asserts her right, And blest Reform is hallow' d in our sight ! Thus wast thou honour' d in thy public life, Thy mild behests kept England free from strife ; Thus doth Britannia mourn thy spirit fled, And twine her laurels for thy sacred head, Whilst I, the humblest of her votaries, try To waft thy glories e'en beyond the sky. HISTORICAL BALLADS. HAROLD; OE, THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. PAET THE FIRST. THE OPENING-. A nobler pen than Bulwer's* sure, Could not set forth the fame Of him who for his country died, And left a glorious name. That noble work inspired in me An emulative fire ; I fain, tho' humbly, would set forth The virtues I admire. * (Sir Lytton Bulwer's Harold.) The reading of this splen- did work inspired my simple pen. 7 2 ' HAEOLD ; OE, For Harold* was the pride and boast Of many a noble band ; And minstrels of his deeds did sing, Throughout the English land. For royal blood flow'd through his veins, And spurr'd him on to fame ; The Saxon and the Dane alike Heap'd blessings on his name. Aye, blessings on his noble head, And on his fearless heart ; Harold the Just the lustre gain'd, That glorious deeds impart. And yet he was so calm and mild, So gentle, yet so brave ; His meanest ceorl would not have fear'd A boon from him to crave. Yes, boon from out that warrior's hand, Whom fate foretold as king, * Harold was the second son of Earl Godwin ; he entered London with his father and five brothers in the month of May, 1052. THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 73 Whene'er the meek and lowly prince* To heaven had taken wing, Who now sat on the English throne, And sigh'd o'er cross and bead — A king but in his outward garb, A saint in every deed. Thus Harold reign' d in every heart, And waited but the word, To be by one united voice To England's throne preferr'd. And right good cause had they to give Proud Godwin's son the crown ; His counsels sage, his valour bright, Kept war and carnage down. When Gryffthsf led his rebel band, And scared the border side, 'Twas Harold's arm alone had power To quench the Welchman's pride. He led his troops through brake and brier, He forded lake and stream, * Edward, snrnamed the Confessor, f Gryffths, King of Camby. HAEOLD ; OE, In morning's ray and evening's light His battle-axe did gleam. He spar'd not valour to surprise The lion in his lair, That lion-king whose cruel heart Nor sex nor age did spare. Yet still, when hunted to the last, And pinch'd by hunger's throes, When Cambria's king in anger view'd His friends become his foes — When treason lurk'd on every side, And famine hover' d near — Then Harold with a generous heart Bade Gryffths cease to fear. And tho' the offer was in vain, And stern the warrior died, It proved the truth of Harolds heart, A truth that none belied. THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 75 PAET THE SECOND. habold's LOYE. Thus Harold's star of glory rose, And brighter grew his fame ; While each succeeding year did add Fresh honours to his name. But honours are but empty words Compar'd with woman's love, That love which gives to man below The joys of heaven above. For Harold's hearth was cold and sad, The stately tree was bare, No gentle bride had been preferr'd The warrior's home to share. Yet none could say his heart was cold, Or Saxon maidens shy ; Ah no ! for Harold's fame had caus'd The fairest many a sigh. Proud Mercia's daughter (Ayldith fair) Wept sore within her bower, To think his stony heart could beat, Unconscious of her power. 76 HAEOLD; OK, She little guess' d the chains that love Had woven round his soul, Or that his heart no longer own'd His undisguised control. She only mark'd the Saxon Thane Engag'd in war and strife — No whispering breeze betray' d to her The secret of his life — That every throb within his pulse Beat but for one alone, For whose dear sake he glory earn'd, For whom he wish'd a throne ; But whom religion's fatal ties* To join with him denied, And by its sternest ban forbade To take her for his bride. Yet Edithf was the fairest flower, The loveliest of his kin, * Githa, the mother of Harold, was cousin to Hilda, the grandmother of Edith, hy which link Harold and Edith came within the bounds of affinity prohibited hy the church.. f Edith's marvellous beauty gained her the epithet of Edith the Fair. THE "BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 77 The best-belov'd of all his race, Untouch'd, unstain'd by sin. His earthly Fylgia born to be, She hover' d by his side, His guardian angel, pure and free, To quell his earthly pride. If thoughts of stern ambition rose, They vanish 3 d in her sight — Her gentle nature seem'd to lead His haughty soul aright. The god-child of that sainted queen Who thought a cloister' d shade The brightest and the holiest home To fit a Christian maid. But Edith had been fondly rear'd To be her kinsman's wife, While every feeling of his heart Was bound up in her life. Yet fate, whom none can turn aside, O'erpower'd their rising sun, $.n d stern decreed his chosen bride To be a cloister'd nun. 78 HAROLD; OR, And time, who works his ceaseless round, Despite the good or bad, Saw Harold mount the English throne, And every heart be glad. PAET THE SECOND. THE PARTING. The shades of eve had slowly wrapt Each battlement and tower, As Harold stood by Edith's side, And mourn' d their parting hour. He listen' d to each faltering word, Each agonizing sigh, That burst, as vainly she essay' d To speak her purpose high. " Go, Harold, go ! I bid thee go, Nor think on me again ; Within a cloister's holy shade, I'll hush this bosom's pain. " Then go ! ere I repent the deed, And love asserts its sway — Go, and may glory crown thy steps, And valour lead the way." THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 79 She paused ! but oh the words fell cold And chill upon his ear — The counsel that could bid them part Was fraught with doubt and fear. " It cannot be/' he madly cried, " I cannot leave thee here ; Edith, I part not with thy love, Till stretch' d upon my bier. " That love which in the darkest hour, Has been my joy and pride, To shield which, from the church's power, I would have gladly died. "Then what is glory — what is fame — Say what are crowns, but care, If you, my Edith, best belov'd, Are not with me to share ? "You bid me go where honour points, Where fame and valour lead ; You bid me, as your last request, For England's glory bleed. , " Now, Edith, hear my solemn vow, I swear it by yon cross, 80 HAROLD; OR, I'll give up glory, fame and crown, But not survive thy loss." She laid her hand upon his arm, And made the sacred sign, Upon her face a holy calm Breath' d forth in every line. And when she spoke, her words were low, But, oh ! distinct and clear ; All earthly passion sure was fled, And thus she bade him hear. " You speak of earthly love, and say Your love continues still ; Then, Harold, show that love to me, By bending to my will. " I bid thee live for England's good, For England's good alone, I bid thee draw thy sword of might, And well defend the throne. " And I within my cloistered shade Will pray to God above, To watch o'er thee in battle field, And shield thee with His love. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS, 81 €t But should thy fortunes darkly frown, And unseen ills betide, Then, Harold, in thine hour of need, Thou'lt find me by thy side." She left him to his bright career, To live for fame alone ; She left him only for a time, To meet in worlds unknown. She cloth' d her beauty in the garb Of poverty and peace, And knelt before the shrine of Him Who bids our sorrows cease. And he, yes he, obey'd her word, And earn'd a deathless fame ; But soon his star of glory fell, And left him but the name. THE LAST PAB.T. THE BATTLE. 'Twas evening : and the summer's sun Went down across a plain, Where many a soldier watch' d the rays He ne'er might see again. 82 HAEOLD; OB, Two mighty armies waited but The rising of the same, To settle by the force of arms A long-disputed claim. The Saxon king had claim'd the throne, In right of England's voice — The Norman Duke put forth the plea That he was Edward's choice. Each urg'd his claim with stern resolve, Each threw his gauntlet down, Each buckl'd T on his sword of might, To win a brave renown. But woe betide the Saxon chiefs ; They'll be a conquer'd band, If William plants his iron foot In conquest o'er the land. Yet still they sang and feasted, Nor dreamt, of pain and care, While through the night till morning's light The Normans knelt in prayer. Then on came Harold's army, The noblest of the brave : THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 83 On ! on they came with dauntless cry, Their household hearths to save. And steadily the Norman came, With courage quite as high, To win a crown or earn a grave — To conquer or to die. But what was human valour, And what was human pride, Unless the God of battles Espous'd the victor's side? The armies met ! The torrent's rush, That swells the mountain's tide, Ne'er swept with more resistless force, Than each chieftain in his pride. If Harold, with his dauntless arm, Wax'd victor for an hour, Duke William with his mighty strength Drove all before his power, Till Saxon chiefs bestrew' d the ground Like leaves in autumn strown ; The young, the noble and the brave, Scarce breath' d a parting groan. g2 84 HAROLD ; OE, Yet still they fought untiringly, And still they fought in vain ; They fought until they saw their king Stretch' d dead upon the plain. Then a cry of mighty anguish Ascended on the gale ; It swept across each barren hill, It fill'd each verdant vale. It found an echo in the heart Of every Saxon born — The highest chief, the lowest ceorl, In bitterness did mourn. But oh ! their grief was useless, For on the Normans came, Elate with pride, to think their arms Had won undying fame. That day decided England's fate ; Her darkest star prevail' d, Her guardian angel sigh'd farewell, When Harold's valour fail'd. The Church proclaim' d Duke William's arms Upheld by heaven's grace, THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. »D They crown' d him on the battle field, The first of all his race. And never from that hour to this, Have we been truly free ; From Norman rule sprang all the woes Our land was doom'd to see. But all throughout that fearful day, One beating heart was there,* And watch'd each wave of Harold's plume, In agoniz'd despair. One ear had caught the cries of joy, But ah ! they sooth' d her not, The dark forebodings of her heart Foretold his bitter lot. She pass'd the time in solemn prayer, 'Till night came slowly down, Then, lighted by her pious guide, She sought the battle ground. Her angel form, her saintly garb, Struck many a dying eye, * It is confidently asserted that Edith left her monastery, and watched the fate of the battle at night. She, with the aid of the monks, sought Harold's body, and having found it breathed her last sigh beside him. HAEOLD ; OE, As earnest of the holy band That waited them on high. She hush'd her griefs to soothe their woes, Until there met her sight The form of him who all through life Had made existence bright. She utter' d not a single word, But calmly kiss'd his brow : No power on earth, no power above Could part the lovers now. It needed but one struggling sigh, One heaving of the breath : Though fate had parted them in life, They met again in death. THE EAEEWELL. Beneath a mound of softest green, Where nought of pomp or rank was seen, Was Saxon Harold laid ; And by his side, in close embrace, Laid Edith, loveliest of her race, Far from the cloister' d shade. THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS. 87 She had been parted while in life, From him she lov'd, by care and strife ; Now death had given release ; And calmly slept they, side by side, Unconscious of the cares of pride, That once disturb' d their peace. No mitred bishop now had power To part them for one single hour, By ban or stern decree. Their griefs were fled, their sorrows gone, Their souls had sought a brighter morn, Where all was pure and free. And faithful tears bedew' d their bier, Tears shed by those who held them dear, And hung upon their life ; And as they laid the mighty low, They breath' d a curse upon the foe Who first began the strife. They curs' d the Norman in his hall, They wish'd him an inglorious pall, Defeat upon the field ; They pray'd until the latest hour HAEOLD ; OR, Their curse might cling, and by its power Distress and discord yield. And sure those prayers were heard on high, Where none can weep and none can sigh, Or plead or pray in vain ; For William's court in after-years Presented scenes of grief and tears, Of agony and pain. His children used their swords in strife, And aim'd them at each other's life ; His people were in arms ; The Saxon lords, to work them ill, Urged on his son's rebellious will, And life lost all its charms. And when at last death hover' d near, And call'd upon him not to fear, But quit this world for heaven, He fain was forc'd to sadly own, That not the splendour of a throne Had peace or comfort given. That Harold in his dying hour Was blest beyond the fragile power THE BATTLE OP HASTINGS. That mortals can bestow ; For he had gain'd a heavenly throne, Where sin and sorrow are unknown, Beyond the reach of woe. DIBGE OE THE SAXONS. Wail ye for Harold, the noble and brave, Wail for the hero laid low in the grave, Last of his race, to the Britons so dear, Harold the Saxon lies cold on his bier ; Wail ye his dirge with weeping and moan, For England her last day of freedom hath known. Last of the heroes who swept o'er the tide, Resistless as gods in their might and their pride, Last of the Danes and descended from Thor, Last of the Saxons the mighty in war, Harold lies stiff on the cold battle-field, Saxon to Norman for ever shall yield. Vain were thy efforts, oh Harold the brave ! Vain was thy valour, thy country to save ; Stretch' d on the battle-field, pierced to the heart, Never again to take England's part. In that fatal hour was seal'd by a blow The fate that the Saxon was destin'd to know. 90 AEUNDEL CASTLE. Then wail ye thy hero, both Saxon and Dane, Wail loud o'er his relics that lie on the plain ; For the stranger has set his stern foot on the strand, And the Norman shall rule as with iron thy land. Then loud raise the wail, and the funeral pile, For the last of the Saxons that govern'd thine isle. ARUNDEL CASTLE— A VISION. Dedicated by especial Permission to the LADIES MAEY AND ADELIZA FITZALAN HOWARD. I mused upon the castle tower, 'Till sleep o'erpower'd mine eyes, And then, as with a magic power, Strange fancies seem'd to rise. Time stopt the ceaseless flow of years, And backward turn'd his glass, While centuries, like glancing spears, Before me seem'd to pass. I look'd ; and lo ! fair Arundel Had faded into air — AEUNDEL CASTLE. 91 The stately keep, the castle walls, Alone were standing there. I gaz'd into the vale below, And by the water's side — Where late I saw the haunts of man, An abbey flourished wide. Its flowery meads, its waving woods, Remote from sin and strife, Seem'd emblems of the faith of those Who vow to God their life. Yes, vow to God, in very deed, To give up rank and birth, And lowly at their Saviour's feet Lay down the joys of earth. And, farther in yon fairy vale, An undulating stream Reflected in her bosom pale The castle like a dream. All these seem'd present to mine eye, In lieu of church and town, And I stood on that stately keep, And gazed on all around. 92 AETJ203EL CASTLE. The warder, with his measur'd tread, Paced up and down beside, And caroll'd forth a well-known air, Of some bold baron's pride. But soon he paused, for on the plain That stretch' d so fair and free, He saw what seem'd a cloud of dust, Or else a moving tree. But as it near'd the castle steep, He spied a goodly band, And on in front, a lady fair Rode up in proud command. They rode in haste, for very life, And reach' d the castle gate, When lo, it prov'd the Empress Maude, Bereft of all her state. She held Prince Henry by the hand, A sweet and lovely child, Who reck'd not that his native land Was torn by factions wild. She proudly hail'd the warder bold, Who lowly bent his head, AETJKDEL CASTLE, 93 And bade him by his oath of old, To list to what she said. " Go tell thy queen — the Empress Maude Is standing at her gates, And ere she enters in her halls, For her permission waits. " Go tell her, that an Emperor's wife, The queen of these fair lands, Is flying for her very life, Pursu'd by hostile bands." " I'll do thy bidding, noble queen," The warder grave replied, " To shelter thee, my gracious liege, Will be our lady's pride. " But stand not there, while I depart To do thy sovereign will ; For thou and thine are much expos'd Upon the open hill." Queen Maude then bow'd her stately head, And came within the tower, While archers stood on either side, And own'd her sovereign power, 94 AEUtfDEL CASTLE. But oh, not long had she to wait, For, quick as lightning's thought, Came forth the gentle widow' d queen, And hearty welcomes brought. She came, that fair and lovely queen, Serene in beauty mild, And welcom'd warm the harass' d Maude, And blest the lovely child. So sweet and graceful was her form, Such music in her voice, She seem'd more like an angel born, That liv'd on earth by choice. " Behold me !" said the haughty Maude, " Reduc'd to fly to thee ! Bereft of help, of every friend, I pray thee succour me, " If only for a single night, For Stephen's near at hand ; I've fled throughout this livelong day, Before his rebel band. " And I, to-morrow, will again Depart and shelter seek ; AEUKDEL CASTLE. I'll seek it at the cross of Christ, - Last refuge for the weak." Queen Adeliza look'd around, On all the castle band, Then spoke — " Behold our sovereign queen The queen of this fair land, " Before these walls shall cease to be A home for thee and thine, The owl shall hoot within its halls, And dead be me and mine. " The rebel Chief may hedge it round, And lay it stone by stone, Ere I give up my sovereign queen, And send thee forth to roam." She ceased ; then on the Empress Maude She laid her gentle hand, And bade her knights and men at arms B-espect their queen's command. And every knight and squire there Bent low his valiant head, And vow'd allegiance to her cause, Till earth should be their bed. 96 ABTTKDEL CASTLE. Queen Maude had not a melting heart, Not given was she to tears, But now they seem'd to flow unbid, — Mementoes of her fears. She enter' d first the welcome hall, Young Henry walked behind, For much he lov'd the gentle queen, Whose accents were so kind. But could futurity have drawn The veil from off its face, How little would that gallant boy Have brook'd his son's disgrace ! To think among the barons bold, His kinsman's hand alone Compell'd King John to sign the deed That free'd the poor man's home. But, thanks to God, we do not know What fate may have in store, But rest contented with our lot, Nor dare to covet more. Peace reign' d throughout the castle halls, The tired wanderers slept ; AEUNDEL CASTLE. 97 But while the household sought repose, King Stephen's army crept, And fix'd their post upon the plain, To hem the castle in — And morning broke, and the warder woke With the clatter and the din. Then rush'd forth warder, knights and all, To view the forces round ; But tho' they look'd both right and left, Its limits were not found. It spread, where'er the eye could see, In beautiful array ; It took a heart of metal stern, Not quite to flee away. And soon the news flew through the hall And reach' d the widow' d queen, That Stephen and his lawless band Could from her walls be seen. Then Adeliza hurried forth, And gain'd the castle tower ; Not often for that massive keep She left her sheltering bower. 98 ARUNDEL CASTLE. But tlio' her gentle heart was cast In woman's choicest mould, When rous'd, at times she could exert A spirit warm and bold. Ay ! such a spirit as could awe The fiercest of her train ; They held her word a sovereign law, That ne'er was broke in vain. And such a spirit Stephen found In vain to bend or break, For three long weeks he lay around, And kept the towers awake. But gallantry at last prevail' d, His better self had power, And he agreed Queen Maude should leave, And seek some other tower. And further still, to guard from harm, He sent a troop of horse, To be her escort, safe and sound, Throughout the hostile force. I saw King Stephen's escort stand Beside the castle gate ; ABTTKDEL CASTLE. 99 The proudest nobles in the land Upon the empress wait. And Maude came forth, with stately tread, But sad and dim her eye ; She could not leave the gentle queen ' Without a parting sigh. I saw her mount her palfrey steed, And slowly head the train ; I saw her pass through Stephen's camp, And reach the distant plain. And then a hand upon my arm Dissolv'd the pleasant dream ; I started, I was in the keep, And nothing could be seen. It was a dream, it pass'd away, And I alone was there ; The pageant that entranc'd my sight Had melted into air. And such is life, an empty dream, That lasts but for a day ; It shifts as 'twere a changing scene, And then we fade away. H 2 100 ARUKDEL CASTLE. But social virtues, kindly deeds, Impress the path they tread ; Queen Adeliza's fame remains, Though ages long have fled. And dames as true, and maids as fair, Still bless the Howard name, And equally, from rich and poor, Respect and reverence claim. The virtues of the lovely queen Shine brighter still in them ; They're like the blossoms of the rose, And she the parent stem. And oh, that Heaven's choicest gifts May bless the youthful pair That now adorn that stately line, The sweetest flowerets there. But, as the poet truly said, There dwells in every heart Some lurking wish we fain would see Fulfill' d, if but in part. Oh, may thy wishes be fulfill' d Before they're breath' d by thee, And God, who both has power and will, ] Grant each a blessing free. ELEANOB OE CASTILE. 101 THE POISONED ARROW; OR, ELEANOR OF CASTILE. The sun has sunk in Palestine, The moon has risen high ; A knight upon a coal-black steed Is riding quickly by. He rides to gain yon open plain, Where the Christians keep their post : He has fought his way unscath'd to-day, Through all the heathen host. Ride on, Sir Knight, thy welcome bright Thou earnest in thy hand, For thou art come from Joppa's shore, With news of thy native land. The rider eross'd the boundary line, He had reach' d an open tent, And before a knight of stately height His knee he lowly bent. " Rise up, Sir Knight, Sir Walter, rise, What news hast thou in hand 1 Is my father well, do the people dwell In peace in my native land ? 102 THE POISONED ARROW; OR, " The land was in peace, Sir Prince, When I bade its shores adieu ; The vassal eats at his master's board, The knights are bold and true. " This packet I bring from his grace the king For none but thy royal hand ; I have fought my way to thy tent to-day, Past all the heathen band." The prince the packet eager took, And cut the silken striDg ; When oh ! an arrow aim'd for death, Came rapid on the wing. The arrow has pierc'd the prince's breast, He has sunk upon the plain ; The knights gaze round, in wild amaze, To know from whence it came. His princess hears the frantic cries, And rushes from within, To see her husband stretch' d in death, And life begin to dim. " Draw near, my Eleanor, draw near, And hear my parting word ; ELEAN'OB OE CASTILE. 103 For ne'er again, on battle field, This arm shall draw a sword, " And ne'er again my native land Shall glad these darksome eyes ; I little thought the assassin's dart Would cause my parting sighs. " Then lay my bones in this holy land, My heart carry back with thee ; And for the blessed Virgin's sake, Have masses said for me." He ceased, and fainting, sank again ; She looked in wild dismay ; A monk held up a crucifix, And bent his knee to pray. " Can nothing save his life ?" she cries, And gaz'd on all around ; "Will no one draw the poison out? Is none so faithful found V She clasped her hands in firm resolve, Then rais'd her streaming eyes ; " For the holy Virgin's sake above, In mercy hear my cries. 104 THE POISONED ABEOW. " Grant me the grace his life to save, And if it cost my own, I will lay it down without a sigh, Or e'en a parting groan." Her lips are press'd upon his breast, The poison slow sucks out ; And the life came back to his fainting heart, And he slowly turn'd about. Yes, turn'd to bless his heroic wife, For the ease he quickly knew ; To bless her for the holy deed God gave her strength to do. And, Eleanor, thy virtues live, Though years have pass'd away, A theme for many a minstrel's song, From the past to the present day. For when children listen to the lays Of England's ancient glory, And tales are told of the Crusades bold, Comes thy oft-repeated story — How thou wert bless' d and prais'd through life, By thy husband bold and true, THE LEOPAED KNIGHT. 105 And after death, how thy name was paid - More honour than woman knew. For death o'ertook thee on thy way, The stranger's home among, And many a tear bedew'd thy corpse, And masses were said and sung. And where'er they stray 'd, a cross was made, In honour to thy name ; And those signs still stand in our English land, In memory of thy fame. THE LEOPARD KNIGHT ; OR, THE FALSE SIGNAL. Adapted from Scoffs Tales of the Crusaders. PAET THE EIEST. It was on Acre's gallant strand, At the solemn hour of night, That the English flag waved lightly o'er The steps of a red-cross knight. His sable mail, in the moonlight pale, Set forth his stately form j And the glance so true, of his eyes of blue, Show'd he was nobly born. 106 THE LEOPABD K1STGHT. Yes, he was as bold a knight As e'er a sword could wield ; He stood renown' d in the Christian camp, For deeds upon battle field. But no one knew from whence he came, To join King Richard's band ; His name and lineage were unknown, Throughout the Holy Land. And now he paces to and fro The little mound of green, And nothing but his faithful dog Can at his feet be seen. Sudden a sound comes through the air, A step is drawing nigh, And a tiny page, of tender age, Has met the knight's stern eye. But what doth cause that knight to start, And turn so deadly pale, And list with such a breathless air, As the page begins his tale ? ' ' This ring I bring from my lady fair, She bade me give it thee, THE LEOPAUD KNIGHT. 107 And made me swear by her golden hair, That none should be by to see. " And she waits, Sir Knight, in her bower bright, And lists for thy well-known tread, And has taken care that none are there — All is silent as the dead." The knight has kissed the ruby ring, He knows the faithful token ; "And can it be, my Edith fair V Those precious words has spoken ?" His king, his honour, are forgot, He thinks on her alone, On her who sent the fatal ring, To make her wishes known. With a light' ning step he follows quick, And gains the lady's bower ; But ah ! no Edith's waiting there, To keep the trysting hour. The knight is struck with sore amaze, The moon shines bright and clear, And he faintly knocks at her virgin bower, But it is in doubt and fear. 108 THE LEOPAED KKEG-HT. " What brought thee here, Sir Knight, to me, At this unseemly hour ?" And he held her up the ruby ring — " It was this, my peerless flower." The colour forsook the lady's cheek, A faintness seiz'd her frame ; " That ring, Sir Knight, I never sent, But on me must rest the blame. "My royal mistress begg'd the ring — She must have sent it thee ; Oh it's a trick to bring thee here, Which they have play'd on me ! " Hie back, Sir Knight, as quick as light, Before thou art miss'd or seen ; And lest thou should be known to leave, I will haste me to the queen ; "And she shall gain King Richard's ear, And her thoughtless plot unveil ; I little thought when the ring I gave, It would such grief entail." The knight speeds back with, a heavy heart, Oh, sight to meet his eyes ! THE LEOPARD KNIGHT. 109 The standard's gone, and his faithful dog Has sunk no more to rise. His folly now he sees too late, He knows he is betray'd ! Ah ! it is not a thoughtless trick, But a deeper plot is laid. One way remains his faith to save, Before his honour's lost — He must hasten to the king, and tell That he hath left his post. And if he deems his life should pay The forfeit of the same, Why, he stak'd it for his Edith's sake, And she will bless his name. PABT THE SECOND. King Richard in his tent is lying, His battle-axe by his side ; By night or day he never parts With that symbol of his pride — For not a soul in the Christian camp Can raise that axe on high ; 110 THE LEOPAKD KNIGHT. Whoe'er would wield it o'er his head, His knightly spurs might buy. The leopard knight admission gains, He enters without fear ; King Richard starts from his broken sleep ; " Sir Knight, what brings thee here ? " Gave I not thee the post to guard Our standard bold and free ? Has aught befell that banner bright ? Speak out, Sir Knight, to me." The knight return'd King Richard's glance, By a look devoid of fear ; Yet when he spoke, his accents broke With sadness on the ear. " The standard's gone, and I am come My forfeit life to pay ; Ask me no question how 'tis lost, The cause I may not say." " And livest thou to tell the news ? And dar'st to bring it me ? Traitor ! my trusty battle-axe Shall make an end of thee !" THE LEOFAKD KNIGHT. Ill He rais'd the ponderous axe on high, The knight stood firm and bold ; Sudden, a rushing sound is heard, And the king relax' d his hold, For a female form has rush'd between, And sunk upon her knees ; Well might King Richard drop the sword, For it is the queen he sees. Her wavy locks of sunny gold Fell o'er her brow of snow, And her liquid eyes swam in pearly tears, As she spoke in accents low — " Oh ! spare his life, my gracious king, In mercy set him free, It was I who sent the fatal ring, But not me he came to see. " I sent it in the name of one Who is dearer than his life ; I did it for a harmless jest, Nor dreamt of mortal strife, " Then spare his life, my Richard dear, Oh spare his life, I pray !" 112 THE LEOPAED KNIGHT. And she clasp'd her hands, and wrung her hair, Like one in deep dismay. 11 Out of my tent this moment go," King Richard angry cries ; " Think I -will spare a traitor's life, For the sake of streaming eyes ?" " It's not a traitor's life you'll spare, King Richard, if you do, But a noble knight who hath serv'd thee well, And fought both bold and true. " When the fatal ring was sent to him, They sent it in my name : Hear me but tell the simple truth, And that will clear his fame. " By all the laws of chivalry He was bound to come to me, Whene'er I sent my signet ring, To say that I was free. " So not a stain can rest upon His honour as a knight ; I only grieve he should have held His Edith's fame so light. THE LEOPAED KNIGHT. 113 " To think at this unwonted hour, With nought of peril near, He should be summon'd to my bower, A tale of love to hear." She ceas'd ; upon her lofty brow The colour died away ; Calmly she stood before the king, And inward seem'd to pray. " Thy life is spar'd !" King Richard cries, For a generous heart had he ; " I spare it ; not for woman's sighs, But because thou art bold and free. " For hadst thou made a backward step, Or quail' d beneath mine eye, My trusty sword had laid thee low, Ere thou had'st breath' d a sigh. " Then go, Sir Knight, in the tournay fight, Go challenge thy secret foe, Throw down thy glove for thy lady-love, And strike a stalwart blow. " Redeem thy name, and thy knightly fame Shall be spotless as before, i 114 EICHAED CCETTE DE LION. And the terrible plight of this fatal night Shall never be spoke of more." The knight has left King Richard's tent, His tainted fame to clear ; And had I space for his deeds of grace, They should have record here. How, by the aid of his noble hound, He track' d the traitor knight, And laid him low by a stalwart blow, In the lists of the tournay fight. And when blest at last with Edith's hand— Lov'd boon for all his care — My leopard knight, if the tale runs right, Was Scotland's sovereign heir. TO THE HON. WILLIAM HENRY JOHN NORTH, Cfjui Itstcricat ISailatJ OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION Is most gratefully dedicated, by his very obliged servant, JULIA TILT. A minsteel from the Holy Land Was wending on his way, And passing by a castle high, He tun'd his harp to play. EICHAED CXEUB DE LION. 115 He tun'd it with a heavy heart, For when last the strain was rung, It was before King Richard's court, And the lion-king he sung. But now that brave and noble king Is in a dungeon laid, And the minstrel sigh'd o'er his bosom's pride, As his fingers o'er it stray' d. He thought of many a scene gone by, Of many a lady bright, Of many a song in Palestine, He'd caroll'd with delight. But those blithesome joys have pass'd away, And by a vow he's bound To rest him not, by night or day, Until King Richard's found. He has travell'd many a weary mile, Pass'd mauy a lady's bower, And cheer' d the warden by his song, On many a lonely tower. By night or day he plays but one, A sweet and plaintive strain, i2 116 EICHAED CCEUR DE LI01ST. Iii hopes King Richard will respond — But his hopes are all in vain. The harp he sweeps with a pensive hand, And sings both sweet and clear ; Hark ! can it be an echo nigh, That falls upon his ear ? Is it a dream, or fairy spell ? For, floating on the air, A voice sends back the strain again, In tones both rich and rare. He listens breathless to the note, Which echo still repeats ; » His wanderings now are well repaid, And his heart with rapture beats. For glancing to the turret high, Whence those welcome notes are heard, Is fluttering from its stony loop, A signal like a bird. And then a voice he dearly lov'd, A voice both bold and true, Call'd him an old familiar name — " Say, Blondell, is it you ? EICHAKD CCETJE DE LICXN". 11 " Say, is it thou, my minstrel true ? . • How welcome is thy strain ? I almost thought I ne'er should hear Those joyful notes again. " Six weary months I've been confin'd Within these dismal walls ; It seems to me a living death, Whilst pining in its halls. e< I left my band in the Holy Land, In the garb of a pilgrim gray, And was wending home to my native strand, When a traitor cross' d my way. " But if I'd had my trusty sword, With a score of archers brave, My axe, that never fail'd me yet, My freedom would have sav'd. " But a hostile troop waylaid my path, And brought me here by force, And shut me close in this turret high, Without feeling or remorse. " Now, Blondell, hear thy monarch's will, And bear to my native land 118 EICHARD C(ETJE DE LIOK. The news that I am alive and well, But detain' d on a foreign strand. " And bid them, by the holy cross I rear'd in Palestine, — By the name of Mary's blessed Son, Of which it is the sign, — " By their princely halls and cottage homes, - By their castles proud and high, — By their morning prayer and evening hymn- Not to leave me here to die. " Bid monk and abbot, peer and knight, E'en burghers to combine, To raise sufficient to suffice To pay the heavy fine, "For the traitor prince who could conspire, The lion-king to hold, Will gratify his heart's desire, And sue for sordid gold. " But once let me be free again, My banner proud to rear, Their trusting faith I will repay, They shall have nought to fear. EICHAED CCETTE DE LIOF. 119 " Then, Blondell, hie thee back again, Spare neither spur nor horse ; Speed quick and light, to our island bright, Each moment seems a loss." The minstrel knelt upon the ground As if in silent prayer, Then rais'd his cap, and from its shade Fell rings of golden hair. " Oh, Richard!" murmur' d forth a voice, In woman's sweetest tone, " Did not affection teach thy heart, That she who shar'd thy throne, " Could not forget the days gone by, The bright and happy years, The hours of joy, she'd spent with thee In sunshine and in tears ? " Thou left me in the Holy Land, But when the news arriv'd That thou hadst not reach' d thy native strand, I scarce the news survived. " And Blondell, who had taken sail From Joppa's sacred shore, 120 RICHARD C(EUR DE LI