THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Malbone W^, Graham
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWARD CHURTON, M.A.
 
 t
 
 
 b. iSoo. il. 1874. 
 From an early Portrait in Crayons.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWARD CHURTON, M.A. 
 
 RECTOR OF CRAYKE AND ARCHDEACON OF CLEVELAND 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 
 
 1876
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The history of this Httle volume is simply as 
 follows : — 
 
 In days of severe public anxiety, when each new 
 peril and distress of the Church was felt to their very 
 heart's core by her faithful and ardent sons, and also 
 in seasons of physical depression arising in the course 
 of many years, my father ever found in Poetry his 
 refreshment and restorative. Often, after long hours 
 at his desk, he used to take a short respite in his 
 garden, with a Spanish poem in his pocket for refer- 
 ence if necessary, and, while busily raking or weeding 
 his lawn, or in winter pacing up and down a favourite 
 terrace-walk, would set himself to " turn" or " mend " 
 a Sonnet. Then he would come in, with eyes bright- 
 ened and brow cleared, to give us the result of his 
 " play-time." To him the repose of inaction was an 
 impossibihty ; his only rest in waking hours was in 
 change of exercise ; and in this way his strenuous 
 spirit did most thoroughly " relish versing " even to 
 
 a 
 
 87ii'l?
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 old age. This then is the true account of most of the 
 following translations : they were the play of his most 
 laborious years. For his children's holiday amuse- 
 ment he translated three very interesting Spanish 
 plays, besides a large number of ballads, spirited or 
 grotesque, which were thrown off with great rapidity, 
 and appear hardly to have been looked at again. As 
 these translations accumulated, he sometimes talked 
 of making a selection from them for publication, 
 thinking the ballad-lore of other lands full of interest, 
 and especially delighting himself in the treasures of 
 old Spanish poetry, abounding as it does in the gene- 
 rous fire and quaint humour which always had peculiar 
 charms for him. The selection was never made by 
 himself, and the work has now been undertaken in 
 obedience to his wishes, but with much diffidence, 
 without sufficient knowledge of the original sources 
 to guide to a due estimate of the merit of the trans- 
 lation, and with the consciousness that none'of these 
 poems had received the last touches of their Author. 
 It is hoped, however, that if some of these translations 
 are found to lack the accurate finish which character- 
 ises the Author's versions of Gongora, the sparkles of 
 native fun and fire, which in their own tongue first 
 attracted hiin, may, even in their English dress, 
 sufficiently plead for their acceptance. 
 
 Of the Original Poems previously published by 
 himself little need now be said, except in acknow-
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 ledgment of the kind permission of Mr. Masters and 
 the Rev, Orby Shipley to reprint those which formerly 
 appeared under their auspices. 
 
 But of those now first published, it is right to own 
 that they were never intended for the public. Some 
 of these, which, though io.-^ in number, form no un- 
 important part of the whole collection, were most 
 truly, in accordance with Wordsworth's definition of 
 poetry, " the spontaneous overflow of powerful feel- 
 ings " j the strong deep fount within sweUing up and 
 finding its only vent in verse ; and these, apart from 
 their intrinsic merit, will have a special interest for 
 those who loved him, as bearing, in some sense more 
 truly than anything he ever wrote for pubHcation, the 
 impress of his inner self. 
 
 It was thought that the portraiture would be incom- 
 plete without one or two specimens, out of very many, 
 of the playful sallies which were wont to celebrate 
 holiday adventures or merry misadventures for the 
 amusement of his children ; but it has proved almost 
 impossible to give a fair sample of this sort, the 
 sportive allusions being for the most part hardly 
 intelligible to any but the initiated. 
 
 It will be seen from some of the following poems 
 that his love for the great poets of his youth became 
 only stronger and more appreciative in his age. Words- 
 worth, Southey, and Walter Scott, he continued to 
 delight in quite to the end. Dante he had studied
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 in early manhood, a pursuit shared with a beloved 
 sister ; * and his memory of many passages in the 
 Divina Commedia remained undimmed even in his 
 last illness, Tasso was a great favourite ; and, not 
 unworthy to be named with Tasso, Fairfax, his 
 unrivalled translator. And then, the great masters of 
 English song, "the sage and serious poet Spenser" 
 especially, were from youth to age beloved and 
 familiar friends. And so, through a life of unremitting 
 labour, quiet and peaceful in outward surroundings, 
 but in reality a hfe of diligent work and earnest con- 
 flict, Poetry was to him the " finer breath of being," f a 
 friend whose voice — to apply Thomas Whytehead's 
 beautiful words — was like 
 
 " A sound of church-bells on a working day." 
 
 S. M. I. 
 
 Crayke, Jtily 9, 1875. 
 
 * Anne, second daughtei of Archdeacon Ralph Churton, who 
 died at the age of nineteen. t Wordsworth.
 
 ./ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 M. 
 
 Sunday Morning, after travelling in a Mail all night ; the 
 
 light dawning over a meadow near King's Sutton 
 "In Memoriam Meorum" — 
 
 H. A. P 
 
 Fragment in a time of Sorrow, upon remembrance of 
 a happy youthful Dream 
 
 William Ralph Churton , 
 In Memoriam W. R. C. by F. C 
 High Force .... 
 A Thought in Sunshine 
 Lammas Day 
 
 My Neighbour's Landmark 
 Lays of Faith and Loyalty — 
 
 1. The Little Martyr 
 
 2. Alaric the Goth . 
 
 3. The Caliph and his Physician 
 
 4. Saint Edmund of East Anglia 
 
 5. A Story of Samt Olave 
 
 6. The Cid and Don Martin of Asturia 
 
 7. Saint Bernard's Younger Brother . 
 
 8. Walter Espec 
 
 9. Margaret Bisset .... 
 10. The Boy of Navarre 
 
 6 
 
 8 
 
 13 
 21 
 
 24 
 
 26 
 
 31 
 
 39 
 44 
 54 
 60 
 76 
 79 
 87 
 92 
 102 
 1x0
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lays of Faith and Loyalty — Continued— 
 
 11. The Battle of Vama 115 
 
 12. Lord Strafford 120 
 
 13. Sampson Horton 129 
 
 14. Elisabeth Stuart 134 
 
 Two Sonnets, meditated in Grasmere Churchyard . . 141 
 
 Sonnet. A Vision of the Hills ..... 143 
 Two Sonnets. Thoughts of Robert Southey . . -144 
 
 Dedicatory Sonnet prefixed to the Author's Gongora . 146 
 
 Sonnet. North-Country Rivers 147 
 
 Iona 148 
 
 Killiecrankie 151 
 
 Glencoe 153 
 
 A Dirge at Culloden ....... 155 
 
 A. G. F. P 159 
 
 Nursery Song. An Incident from the personal Memoirs 
 
 of the River Wiske . 160 
 
 " Ad GULIELMUM MEUM " 163 
 
 A Lay to the Last Minstrel 167 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 From the Latin — 
 
 Vexilla Regis 185 
 
 Salvete, flores Martyrum . . . . . .187 
 
 From the Anglo-Saxon — 
 
 The Resurrection, from Caedmon . .^ . .188 
 
 From King Alfred 189 
 
 Fragment from the Metrical Calendar . . . 191 
 
 Fragments from Aldhelm's Psalter . . . .196 
 
 Metrical Paraphrase of the Apostles' Creed . .199 
 
 Verses repeated by the Venerable Bede . . . 204
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 From the Breton — 
 
 The Death-Song of Gwenc'hlan 
 Joan de Montfort 
 
 From the Catalan — 
 Count Amaldos 
 The Soldan's Daughter . 
 The Stranger Child on Christmas Eve 
 The Prisoners of Lerida , . 
 Don Juan and Don Raymond . 
 The Count of Eril . 
 Ballad of the War of the Succession 
 The Death of Bach de Roda 
 The Doubtful Promise 
 The Woman's-Tailor's Love 
 " With Consent " . 
 Good-Night at Mallorca . 
 
 From the Spanish — 
 
 Luis de Leon — 
 
 Hymn to Christ Crucified. 
 
 GoNGORA — 
 
 Carol on the Festival of the Presentation . 
 
 Calderon — 
 
 ' ' Heav'n's Gifts of pardoning love " . 
 The Power of Thought .... 
 
 An unknown Author — 
 
 Dialogue of the Body and the Soul . 
 
 Vicent Garcia — 
 
 To a very tall Lady, married to a little Man 
 TOMAS DE YRIARTE — 
 
 A Fable. The Ass's Provender 
 
 A Fable. The Warrener and the Ferret . 
 
 Sonnet ....... 
 
 XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 213 
 216 
 217 
 219 
 
 222 
 224 
 226 
 231 
 
 234 
 236 
 238 
 240 
 
 . 242 
 
 . 248 
 
 . 250 
 
 • 251 
 
 • 254 
 . 259 
 
 . 261 
 
 . 262 
 
 . 264
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Spanish Romances — 
 
 The Captive ........ 265 
 
 Death of Durandarte ...... 268 
 
 Don Ramiro ........ 272 
 
 An Andalusian Epitaph on an Infant . . -274 
 
 From Modern Spanish Poets- 
 Don Lluis Roca. Jochs Florals de Barcelona, i860. 
 The Dying Girl to her Mother 275 
 
 Don Antonio de Trueba : Libro de los Can- 
 tares. — Leipzig, i860. 
 
 Divided Hearts » 278 
 
 My Mother 284 
 
 Love Immortal ....... 289 
 
 Song. The Herb-Maiden ..... 295 
 
 Senor Bienvenido y Cano — 
 
 Elegy on Arguelles, Calatrava, and Alvarez y' Mendiz- 
 abal. Ministers of Spain ..... 296 
 
 From the Modern Greek — 
 
 " Why are the mountains overcast ? " . . . 299
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 AFTER TRAVELLING IN A MAIL ALL NIGHT ; THE LIGHT 
 DAWNING OVER A MEADOW NEAR KING's SUTTON, 
 
 It was the Sabbath morn ; yet nought of Hfe 
 Waked to its purple summons : couch'd in sleep 
 The careless herd still press'd the grassy dews, 
 Nor bird of dawning early matins sang. 
 Only the incense of the vale sent up 
 Mute Nature's adoration. Slowly then, 
 Scarce heard, the matin bell its soften'd chime 
 Pour'd on the gales of morning, and the sun 
 Gilded aloft the beauteous spire that rose 
 Far o'er the drooping mists of Cherwell's mead. 
 
 O where are now the worshippers whose prayer 
 Prevented the night-watches ? Where the hymn 
 That in drear midnight rose ? the lamps prepared 
 To hail the Bridegroom's Coming ? Past the reign 
 Of solemn superstition ; past is too 
 Devotion's deeper service. Who will wake 
 While others sleep, to plead and pray for them. 
 And wTestle for a blessing ere the da.wn ? 
 
 9' 
 
 B 
 
 *
 
 SUNDA\ MORNING. 
 
 Or low in dust mourn darkling for the sins 
 Of Israel and his own, tuning his soul 
 To the sad prophet's harp, till from the East 
 It catch the tone of gladness, and mount up 
 To taste the fresh springs of immortal day ? 
 
 July 25, 1824. 
 
 '"'v^ 
 
 r*&6^
 
 Kn IHemoriam JHcorum/*
 
 IN MEM OKI AM MEORUM. 
 
 " IT WAS THE MORNING HOUR." 
 
 "/ once was bless' d with suck a 7natchless friend.'''' 
 
 Henry Antony Pye, born December 1799 ; 
 died September 14, 1823. 
 
 It was the morning hour, when dreams are true ; 
 And slumbers came, that, soothing long unrest. 
 Still kept the theme of sorrow in my breast, 
 
 Yet cheer'd my spirit ere their visions flew : 
 
 I saw that long-loved form restored to view 
 In more than mortal brightness : his pale eye 
 Shone forth with more than earthly radiancy ; 
 
 And from his cheek Consumption's withering hue 
 Had fled ; the bloom of ruddy health was there : 
 
 Methought he said, " it was no pain to die : " 
 But, as I nearer press'd those sounds to hear, 
 
 He faded as a star in twilight dim ; 
 
 Yet oh, the thought was sweet, that he was nigh, 
 
 That he was blest, and I once more with him. 
 
 1823.
 
 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 IN A TIME OF SORROW, UPON REMEMBRANCE OF A 
 HAPPY YOUTHFUL DREAM. 
 
 Away, away, — it may not be 
 That heaven hath stored such joy for me : 
 E'en now this chequer'd scene of earth 
 Hath changed its fickle hue of mirth ; 
 Pale slow Disease is brooding nigh, 
 And bids me turn my trembling eye 
 Where far above this vale of tears 
 Is built the Rock of endless years. 
 
 But oh ! the bitter cup of pain ! 
 The fiery throbs of mortal stain 
 That heave the wither'd heart within, 
 Ere to that blissful height it win ! 
 
 The lustful sense, the roving glance. 
 The pang of pleasure's dreamy trance. 
 Of days mis-spent the fearful debt, 
 Canst thou recall, or Heaven forget ? 
 How oft in Penitence' sad hour 
 Wild Fancy caught her faded flower. 
 And, reckless of remorse and pain, 
 Wove the strong cord of guilt again ! 
 
 Father of Love ! in good or ill 
 Thy Hand extends its mercy still.
 
 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 7 
 
 By Thy inscrutable decree 
 Three youthful hearts that felt for me 
 Have one by one obtain'd that shore 
 Where sin and sorrow haunt no more. 
 I linger where their feet have stray'd ; 
 Where oft the rapid hours delay'd, 
 While converse sweet in infant sense 
 Spoke more than manhood's eloquence : — 
 O Father, consecrate my grief, 
 And make me know that sole rehef 
 Which from the Fount of Mercy streams 
 Beyond the bliss of morning dreams. 
 
 Feb. 9, 1828,
 
 8 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 
 
 WILLIAM RALPH CHURTON. 
 
 NAT. SEPT. 8, 180I ; OBIIT AUG. 29, 1828. 
 
 The bitter cup is past : that graceful form, 
 Bow'd down in death to feed the sullen worm, 
 Waits the glad voice, when heaven shall call its own 
 To change for virgin robes the chamel stone : 
 For oh ! thy life was lovely, such as ne'er 
 The first-born's rapture taught a father's prayer ; 
 And all the sainted wishes of thy breast 
 Met in one scope, to bless and to be blest ! 
 
 Yet knew we not our bhss : the pangs of sin 
 Chill'd our heart's blood, and turn'd all stone within ; 
 Still hung we on those lips in mute despair. 
 Nor dared to trace Death's image sculptured there ; 
 Till the sad father's heart with one brief groan 
 Moum'd the pale corse that should have shrined his 
 
 own, 
 And waked to living agonies the train 
 That ne'er on earth shall dream of joys again.* 
 
 * "When we were all gathering round the bed of Death, 
 unable to command our reason, or to speak except in groans and 
 tears, weeping on each other's necks, my dear father alone 
 seemed restored to new energy by the exceeding affliction. 
 He summoned us to prayer, — ' There is but One Resource in 
 these afflictions ; ' and with unfaltering voice rendered thanks to 
 God for the Christian life and death of the dear departed. O
 
 IN ME MORI AM ME O RUM. 
 
 One sleeps in dust before thee ; he was gone 
 Ere yet to men his youth's fresh lustre shone : 
 His dark eye saw the tenth autumnal moon ; 
 The grey oaks echo'd to his flute at noon ; 
 But ere the grove its wintry honours shed 
 The sad nymphs mourn'd their young musician dead. 
 
 A little longer thou : — the storied line 
 Of Greece and Albion's fairy lore were thine ; 
 For thee the Muse unroll'd with placid eye 
 The spells that bathe young hearts in ecstasy : 
 Yet Truth thy first enchantment ; taught to share 
 The peasant's humble meal, the peasant's prayer, 
 Hear the wise saws the village patriarch gave, 
 Mark his white locks, the blossoms of the grave. 
 Till, when with feeble eld his eye grew dim. 
 Or slow disease unnerved each vigorous limb. 
 Serene, with holy Paul, he sought release, 
 Drank of th' accustom'd fount, and died in peace. 
 
 And when the day of prayer returning stole 
 In solemn influence o'er thy gentle soul. 
 
 that I could remember the words ! After this, he repeated once 
 or twice, with a tone of deep feehng, the words of another 
 bereaved parent : ' Ejus a me crematum est corpus, quod contra 
 decuit ab illo meum ! ' " — E. C.^s Private Record. 
 
 * John, fourth son of Ralph Churton and Mary his wife, born 
 April 26, 1803. 
 
 '■'■ ohiit cet. II ; sepidt. ap. Carth. Dom.'''' 
 
 From R. C.'s Ramt/y Bible.
 
 10 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 
 
 'Twas thine entranced to stray, at vernal prime ; 
 In every pause that broke the distant chime, 
 From woodland knoll or fountain's side, to hear 
 Soft angels' music melting on thine ear ; 
 And, ere the chilling night-dews bade retire, 
 Or yet the glow-worm lit her warning fire, 
 Lingering again to hail with hallow'd joy, — 
 Time, thy rude hand could ne'er that bliss destroy,— 
 Seen in the stillness of the Sabbath even. 
 The spire whose silent finger points to heaven ! 
 
 Then came the Parent's hour, — to hold to view 
 The maze of sorrows in a world he knew. 
 And point the truth divine, well understood 
 By thee, whose young heart felt a Saviour's blood. 
 
 How could'st thou weep o'er saintly pilgrim's tale 
 Who trod the dews of Hermon's balmy vale. 
 Like gentle Heber, braved in forests rude 
 The glaring tiger's twilight solitude, 
 Or showed, in faith unmoved, the cross he bore 
 To men as wild on blue Ontario's shore ! 
 
 Those village scenes withdrew ; the sacred seat 
 Of matron Science hail'd thy willing feet. 
 The turrets grey, for heav'nly musings made, — 
 The groves, where martyr spirits walk'd the shade, — 
 The cell, where oft, ere Plato's page had close, 
 O'er night's pale lamp the latticed morning rose, — 
 All these were thine, and gave, in glory won, 
 The palm that wreathes the Muses' darling son.
 
 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 11 
 
 O fatal virtue ! — spirit too divine 
 To dwell enthrall'd in this dim earthly shrine ! 
 E'en now its narrow bounds thy genius scorn'd ; 
 Those bright beams burnt the temple they adorn'd ; 
 And through the beauteous ruin, pale and sere, 
 Shone like the lamp that gilds a sepulchre ! 
 
 Yet still thy vigorous step exulting led 
 Thy young compeers to Cumbrian mountain's head, 
 As firm as when, 'mid Alpine cliffs, it won 
 The glance that rapt dark Afric's warrior-son ; 
 Or when thy manly arm was first to wake 
 The dawn's white surges on Benaco's lake. 
 What time, as startled by his ocean roar,* 
 The bright mist trembling fled the poplar shore. 
 
 But now to holier cares thy hours were given. 
 By Thames' green marge, to visions full of heaven ; 
 Or, midst the town's mad noise unchanged to pray. 
 And learn the Pastor's calm sequester'd way, 
 Beneath his fostering care,t who saw too soon 
 The fair flower fade before that sultry noon. 
 While yet its hues more lovely gave our eyes 
 The lustrous bloom of heaven's own paradise ; 
 Till, all refined from grosser fumes, at last 
 Away the sweet ethereal spirit pass'd ! 
 
 * Fremitu asstirgens, Benace, mat-ino. — Virgil. 
 t W. R. Churton was chaplain to the Bishop of London, 
 W. Howley, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
 
 12 IN MEMORIAM MEORUM. 
 
 Forgive, just God, the griefs that would recall 
 
 The ransom'd virtue from Thy star-paved hall. 
 
 He was but shown on earth to teach us where 
 
 Our treasure is ; — oh, let our hearts be there ! 
 
 The tomb that closed on all that here could die ; 
 
 The bursting throb's convulsive agony ; 
 
 The heart's worn strings that seem'd to faint mth pain ; 
 
 The racking tempest of th' unquiet brain ; 
 
 Oh ! let them teach how far, far happier they, 
 
 Whose young life, borne on golden clouds away, 
 
 To meet Abijah's bliss, smiles on that shore 
 
 Where Faith, and Hope, and Love can mourn no 
 
 more ! 
 
 April 26, 1830. 
 
 It may be permitted to insert here, — in token of the 
 enduring affection inspired by the beloved subject of the 
 preceding lines, written by his brother in the freshness of 
 bereavement, — the following stanzas, written thirty years 
 later, by the truly fraternal friend of both, F. C. Massing- 
 berd, late Chancellor of Lincoln.
 
 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 13 
 
 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 
 
 IMITATED FROM tennyson's III Menioriam. 
 
 I. 
 
 It strikes upon a charmed ear, 
 That lay so mournfully sedate ; — 
 I am not used to dream of late ; 
 
 I have not dream'd this many a year 
 
 Of him, who, in my prime of youth, 
 Was call'd, for me too soon, away ; 
 But now I seem to know the day 
 
 Again, that brought me that stern truth. 
 
 He, too, was beautiful and good, 
 All graces and all holiest lore 
 Had oped for him their golden store 
 
 Whom Nature and the Muses woo'd. 
 
 Nor knew we, wearing near our heart 
 How precious but how frail a treasure, 
 Nor scann'd the days, nor found the measure 
 
 Of joy that should so soon depart.
 
 14 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 
 
 II. 
 
 O well we lov'd those stately towers, 
 
 Where Isis rolls his silent flood ; 
 
 Blithesome though various was the mood 
 With which we cull'd his classic flowers. 
 
 How joyful 'twas, at morning prime 
 
 To meet upon our early way ; 
 
 To plan our labour for the day, 
 Then turn to catch the matin chime. 
 
 Sweet matin chime, from every tower 
 Rung out to call his sons to prayer ! 
 And oh ! more joyful yet, to share 
 
 Such greeting past, that solemn hour. 
 
 But most when he, the Man revered. 
 
 Watching the " breeze " whose " rustling wing " 
 Was " wakening every leaf to sing," 
 
 The Minstrel on our path appear'd.
 
 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 15 
 
 III. 
 
 Nor less, in boyhood's happier hour 
 By Avon's haunted bank we stood, 
 Laved our young Hmbs in Swift's cold flood, 
 
 Or keenly proved mind's opening power. 
 
 O why so beautiful in youth ? 
 
 O why so good, so kind, so true ? 
 
 None fear'd, all loved thee, and the few. 
 Thy chosen friends, they loved in truth. 
 
 'Twas thine to weave in happiest verse 
 Such words as purest thoughts inspire. 
 Thoughts that might fit the holiest lyre, 
 
 Words such as angels might rehearse. 
 
 Oft, fired by thee, to joy and sport 
 
 Thy comrades rush'd at evening " Play ;" 
 But oh ! how memory rues the day 
 
 When play by fatal toil was bought !
 
 16 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And when those days of youth were o'er, 
 And manhood's prime of hope was come, 
 With thee I left my EngHsh home. 
 
 With thee I sought ItaUa's shore. 
 
 Still blithe of heart, and eager still 
 For knowledge and for virtuous joy. 
 Thine was the cup without alloy 
 
 Of those who love God's holiest will. 
 
 Haste, haste across fair GalHa's plain 
 To track the Punic warrior's way, 
 Where Isere's snow-bom waters stray, 
 
 And Bernard's lesser height to gain. 
 
 "The Alps ! the Alps !" with eager cheer 
 Thine first to urge thy comrades on, 
 The rushing crowd of thought in one 
 
 Is all combined :— " The Alps are here ! "
 
 F. C M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C. 17 
 
 V. 
 
 And where is he, unknown to fame 
 As yet, though soon about to cast 
 Undying memories o'er the past, 
 
 When all shall glow at Arnold's name ? 
 
 He, too, the leader of the train, 
 
 Big with great thoughts and purpose high. 
 He, too, has lived his day, and I, 
 
 The last and least, alone remain. 
 
 Onward, from Alp to Apennine ! 
 And soon across the distant sky 
 Deep hues and deeper still we spy 
 
 Of that blue water's endless line. 
 
 By proud Genova's marbled way. 
 And Pisa's famous tower, we gain 
 Vald'amo's dear poetic plain. 
 
 Where sweet Firenze holds her sway. 
 
 c*
 
 18 F. C. M. IN MEMORIAM W. R. C 
 
 VI. 
 
 O days of happiest memory past ! 
 
 O days twice dear when shared with thee ! 
 
 And yet once more to thee and me 
 One sacred scene, and that the last : 
 
 Together kneeUng side by side, 
 
 While hands on either head are laid, 
 And holy prayers o'er each are said ; 
 
 And from henceforth our ways divide. 
 
 But oh ! too soon that course was done, 
 That shone for thee with promise bright. 
 Too soon the gathering shades of night 
 
 Had sunk upon thy work begun. 
 
 Too soon for those who mourn'd for thee, 
 — And who that knew yet mourn'd thee not?- 
 
 For them too soon ; — but thine the lot 
 Of God's own sons, — His Face to see. 
 
 i860.
 
 HIGH FORCE. 21 
 
 HIGH FORCE. 
 
 We stood beside the banks of Tees, 
 
 Where, thundering down his dreadful way. 
 
 He flings his foam-shower to the breeze. 
 And bathes the rocks with gUttering spray. 
 
 We heard the voice of waters deep, — 
 Not as when surges lash the shore, 
 
 And weary fitful pauses keep, — 
 But one unbroken solemn roar : 
 
 We gazed, where the loud chiding flood 
 Leaps from the tall cliff's rifted brow. 
 
 As earth-born giant, in wild mood, 
 From castle-tower to earth below : 
 
 Above, bright clouds the sunbeams chased. 
 And mountain-winds play'd soft and cool ; 
 
 But dank beneath, and dimly traced. 
 
 The storm-mist veil'd th' unfathom'd pool. 
 
 We gazed, while rapture still'd alarm. 
 And half we thought, 'twere sweet to die 
 
 Lock'd in the torrent's mastering arm. 
 The secrets of th' abyss to try.
 
 22 HIGH FORCE. 
 
 Nor strange it seem'd, if Pagan wild, 
 
 With earth and earth-born cares foredone, 
 
 Here deem'd some spirit, to mortals mild, 
 Kept secret court in cavern lone. 
 
 And when more sadly sweet the fall 
 Was heard beneath the soft moon-ray. 
 
 Mysterious harpings seem'd to call 
 The toil-worn pilgrim soul away : 
 
 For where, but in such ceaseless flow, 
 
 To whose loud chime the rock-vault rings, 
 
 Is seen so near on earth below 
 The shadow of eternal things ? 
 
 The restless motion, and the strife, 
 The force that man can ne'er control, 
 
 O'ermastering all that here hath life, — 
 It bows, — it melts,— it thrills the soul. 
 
 Dark stream, so fleet, so fugitive. 
 So changeful, yet thy waves abide, 
 
 Arm'd with strong virtue to outlive 
 
 Hard rock, and mountain's hoary pride : 
 
 Thy sound is of th' Eternal Power 
 
 That bears this world of change along. 
 
 That at Creation's wondrous hour. 
 When Angels woke the choral song,
 
 HIGH FORCE. 
 
 23 
 
 Call'd thy rejoicing fountains forth, 
 Unheard, unseen by man to ghde ; 
 
 But mountain warblers hail'd thy birth. 
 And wild bees sipp'd that amber tide : 
 
 Then roll'd, as now, thy dark wave's shock : 
 The trembling heart's deep silence hears, 
 
 In echoes from th' embattled rock, 
 
 The voice of twice three thousand years. 
 
 1838.
 
 24 A THOUGHT IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 A THOUGHT IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 There are, who love not summer bright, 
 Who fly to arching groves or streams. 
 And view the Sun, as if with spite, 
 " To tell him how they hate his beams." 
 
 Unwise ! — when love or duty call, 
 I'll court the heat and dusty way. 
 
 And where the fuU-orb'd glories fall 
 Bathe in the golden showers of day. 
 
 I would not scorn the silent shade, 
 
 Where Prayer may walk at eve or mom, 
 
 And Meditation lend her aid 
 
 To hang sweet thoughts on every thorn : 
 
 But Rest is good when Toil is done : 
 The evening hour, the calm of age. 
 
 Bring gladness after wages won 
 In life's meridian pilgrimage. 
 
 The daily task I'll freely court 
 
 While the bright Sun is mounting high. 
 And happy creatures glancing sport 
 
 In joy beneath th' inspiring sky.
 
 A THOUGHT IN SUNSHINE. 25 
 
 The weary limbs may slowly move, 
 
 But the free soul shall taste that spring 
 
 Which eagle spirits drink above, 
 The unsubdued of sight and wing. 
 
 August II, 1853.
 
 26 LAMMAS DA V. 
 
 STANZAS ON LAMMAS DAY, 
 
 AUGUST I. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE Zjra Sauctorum. 
 
 It is now sufficiently known that Lammas is a term 
 derived from the Anglo-Saxon Hlafmaes or Loaf-mass. 
 The day is duly honoured in the Poetical Menology 
 of our Saxon forefathers and other ancient records ; 
 and it appears that loaves of the new corn, and some- 
 times offerings of new honey, were then presented in 
 the churches, in imitation of the old Levitical offerings 
 of the first-fruits (Deut. xxvi.) These gifts were given 
 either to the priests or the poor, as seems intimated by 
 the words of the Menology. " The weed-month," as 
 August was called, " all summer bright bringeth to 
 poor people the Loaf-mass day" (v. 265, seq^j In 
 the Saxon monasteries the day seems to have been 
 kept, as it was in the Eastern Church anciently, in 
 memory of the Maccabees, and some records speak 
 of it as also devoted to the honour of St. Germain. 
 But the Lammas festival, as it was most purely 
 national and of more general observance, has sur- 
 vived the remembrance of the other distinctions of 
 the day.
 
 LAMMAS DA V. 27 
 
 A VISION fair of calm delight 
 
 It was of old on Lammas morn, 
 When from low dale or wood-crown'd height, 
 
 The chime of matin bells was borne, 
 Greeting true hearts in simple days 
 When Faith and Love kept equal ways. 
 
 At dawn, within some solemn fane. 
 Where rose the shadowy central nave. 
 
 How brightly through the quarried pane 
 The sun his orient greeting gave, 
 
 Gilding low roofs that spann'd above 
 
 God's home of humbleness and love. 
 
 The floor was throng'd with rustic souls 
 Waiting to hear the voice of prayer, 
 
 And high were heap'd the bounteous doles 
 Above and round God's Altar fair ; 
 
 Where busy hands had come to rear 
 
 The first-fruits of the teeming year. 
 
 And now the priest had left his cell, 
 And came with ancient book to pray, 
 
 And bless'd th' Archangel Panchiel * 
 Who kept each evil bird away, 
 
 * This name, which appears to be the same with Peniel or 
 Phanuel, "the Face of God," is taken from the old Durham 
 Ritual, called The Book of King Aldfrid ; where mention is made 
 of this supposed angelic being as the protector of the fruits of
 
 28 LAMMAS DA Y. 
 
 And worms, and mice, and such small deer, 
 That waste unseen the golden ear. 
 
 No fiend that walks in gloom had power 
 To harm their fruitful furrowed land ; 
 
 Soft winds had brought the timely shower. 
 And slanting fell the levin-brand ; 
 
 Nor whirlwind blast nor vapour's chill 
 
 Had struck the crops with nightly ill. 
 
 For why 1 a heavenly host was there. 
 Led by their harnessed chief along, 
 
 Watching o'er earth, and floods, and air, 
 Full four-and-forty thousand strong ; 
 
 No evil thing could walk on ground, 
 
 Where those bright warders hovered round. 
 
 " Ye know," he said, " when last I bless'd 
 
 The sparkling salt and water pure, 
 
 And flung them to Earth's open breast, 
 
 That spell no goblin might endure, 
 But fled : as Raphael's spell could fray 
 The bridegroom-quelling Asmoday. 
 
 the earth, with a host of 44,000 angels under him. The custom 
 of sprinkUng salt and water hallowed for the purpose over the 
 cultivated ground, as a symbol by which such spiritual aid was 
 invoked, is also mentioned in the same Ritual. This ceremony 
 most probably took place in Rogation week.
 
 LAMMAS DAY. 29 
 
 " Then let us bless the Holy One, 
 
 Who by His Saints such help hath given, 
 And to our adjuration down 
 
 Hath sent the denizens of heaven, 
 To shield each herb and seed and tree, 
 And flower that feeds the honey bee. 
 
 '' And let us duly to Him bring 
 
 The first-fruits of our land's increase, 
 The cell- work of the breathing Spring, 
 
 The loaves, that, multiplied in peace. 
 Our store this day may spare to feed 
 The fainting sons of pain and need." 
 
 He bless'd the gifts with reverence meet, 
 
 And silent for a space he bow'd : 
 Then rose the sound of harpings sweet. 
 
 And choral voices, echoing loud 
 The massy pillar'd aisles along, 
 Pour'd forth the glad thanksgiving song. 
 
 Then near approach'd the pilgrim poor. 
 The widow with her orphan child ; 
 
 Grey sires, whose day of toil was o'er, 
 
 Raised their pale eyes to heaven and smiled : 
 
 Glad hearts were theirs who bore away 
 
 The bounteous gifts of Lammas day.
 
 30 LAMMAS DA Y. 
 
 But ere the summer's sun was seen 
 High mounting to the point of noon, 
 
 Fast through the woodland alleys green 
 The simple worshippers were gone, 
 
 Save where young boys retreating played 
 
 Like wild deer bounding through the shade. 
 
 'Tis past, that scene of other days ; 
 
 The simple tale we hear and smile ; 
 We worship now in wiser ways ; 
 
 But say, does Mercy wake the while ? 
 Does Love, as warm as theirs of yore 
 Now give to Heaven its golden store ?
 
 MV NEIGHBOUR'S LANDMARK. 31 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 FROM THE Englishman's Magazine. 
 
 The Cadi from the City's gate 
 Goes forth in troubled mood : 
 
 Dark was his brow with cares of state 
 As o'er the plain he rode. 
 
 The solemn mule that bore him forth 
 
 That day was urged to speed 
 Unused to such degenerate birth 
 
 Of tempest-footed steed. 
 
 He seeks beneath the dark hill's breast 
 
 That palace rich and rare, 
 Where dwells in solace and in rest 
 
 Great Abdalrahman's heir : 
 
 Where far below the mountain-pass 
 Bright groves the courts embower ; 
 
 Fair place ! and fair its title was, 
 The City of the Flower ! 
 
 But where was now the home, that show'd 
 
 What humble toil erewhile 
 Had tamed the wildness of the wood. 
 
 And made the garden smile ?
 
 32 3fV NEIGHBOURS LANDMARK. 
 
 Where, free to hold its ancient space, 
 A peasant's hearth might share 
 
 The pleasaunce of the glorious place 
 With Abdalrahman's heir ? 
 
 The Cadi gains the palace-door : 
 
 A sack he hastes to fling 
 Across his shoulders, while the floor 
 
 He treads to face the King : 
 
 " I ask a boon of little worth, — 
 
 One boon my wish shall bound, — 
 One poor mule's burden of red earth 
 From this enchanted ground." 
 
 Loud laugh'd the prince Alhakem ; loud 
 
 Was mirth in all the ring 
 Of wits and courtiers blithe of mood 
 
 Who throng'd around the King. 
 
 " Let us walk forth ; " he said ; " my grooms. 
 Who toil in sun or shade, 
 And dig the roots, or tend the blooms. 
 Will bring the needful spade." 
 
 The Cadi led ; and halted not, 
 Till near the fountain's head, 
 
 Where late had stood the peasant's cot, 
 His slow-paced beast he led.
 
 MV NEIGH BO URS LAND MA RK. 33 
 
 There grew the flowers of odours sweet, 
 
 As through the balmy air 
 They once were wont at eve to greet 
 
 Their humbler master there. 
 
 But where the cottage walls of stone 
 
 Erewhile were seen to rise, 
 A gay alcove now proudly shone 
 
 To flout the summer skies. 
 
 " Here let us dig," the Cadi said : 
 The sack was large and wide ; 
 But fast the mattock and the spade 
 The busy delvers plied. 
 
 The task was done : " Now, faithful Lord, 
 
 Once more thy servant prays. 
 Thy kingly help and strength afford, 
 
 That sack from earth to raise." 
 
 " That sack of soil in all its weight 
 
 To rear, and poise it true. 
 
 Sir Judge, I ween it were a feat 
 
 For giant's strength to do." 
 
 " Ah King ! forgive thy faithful slave : 
 
 Of all we do or dare 
 Far in a world beyond the grave 
 
 The burden we must bear.
 
 34 MV NEIGHBOURS LANDMARK. 
 
 " If to a weight of earth so small 
 Thy strength and spirit yield, 
 How wilt thou bear at doomsday all 
 The poor man's plunder'd field ? "
 
 LAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 FAITH AND LOYALTY 
 
 " Of Honour with his spotless shield, 
 And gentle Courtesy and Faith, 
 Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death." 
 
 Marmion.
 
 TO 
 
 JOSHUA WATSON, Esq., 
 
 THROUGH LIFE 
 THE GENEROUS PATRON AND ADVOCATE 
 
 OF EDUCATION 
 
 IN THE SCHOOL OF FAITH AND LOYALTY, 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 IS GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 INSCRIBED.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 If it is true, as some one has said, that the wonders 
 of History are greater than those of Fiction, and that 
 stories of old times, however rudely told, are seldom 
 listened to without pleasure ; there may be a ground 
 for hoping that the following pages will not be with- 
 out acceptance among readers of that wondering and 
 inquiring age for which they were principally intended. 
 But the writer would not hold himself excused for 
 adding a new book, even of so small a size, to the 
 cheap hterature of the day, had he not found reason 
 to complain, that in many Historical Selections, or 
 Historic Tales, put together for the young, in prose 
 or verse, there is an absence of all moral purpose, a 
 want of unity in the component parts, and of judg- 
 ment in the choice of materials ; so as to produce no 
 effect beyond the amusement of the lower faculties of 
 the mind, with things that scarcely deserve a more 
 lasting remembrance. 
 
 In selecting the historical scenes which form the 
 staple of the ballads contained in the present volume, 
 the writer has confined himself to those which, 
 whether of a lighter or more serious cast, seemed to
 
 38 AD VER TISEMENT. 
 
 have some bearing on the two best things that bind 
 men to God and to each other, — Faith and Loyalty. 
 And as the examples shown would be of no value, 
 if they were not such as had appeared in real life, 
 though they are taken from very different periods, 
 from different ranks of life, and authorities of various 
 character, it has been his aim to reject everything of 
 a legendary kind, and to admit no incident which 
 did not appear to be based essentially on historical 
 truth.
 
 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 39 
 
 I. 
 
 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 
 
 RoMANUS, a Deacon of the Church of Csesarea in 
 Palestine, suffered martyrdom at Antioch, in the per- 
 secution of Diocletian, a.d. 303. It appears from 
 Eusebius that the Emperor Galerius was present at 
 his trial, and directed a part of the cruel treatment, 
 which he endured with wonderful fortitude and pati- 
 ence. The narrative in the following lines is taken 
 from the account given by the Christian poet Pru- 
 dentius of a remarkable incident which occurred at 
 his martyrdom. 
 
 'Tis said, when good Romanus died 
 Beneath the Thracian's bitter sway, 
 
 A little child the pagan's pride 
 
 Rebuked, and held his wrath at bay. 
 
 " Grant me this test," the martyr cried, 
 By ruthless rods and scourges torn : 
 
 " Let simple nature's voice decide 
 
 The truth your madness holds in scorn. 
 
 " Choose out, from Antioch's crowded way. 
 Choose out the first young boy ye meet. 
 And let his tongue unprompted say. 
 Before this frowning judgment-seat.
 
 40 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 
 
 " Which faith to him may reHsh best ; 
 
 To hold one God with Christ His Son, 
 Or, what ye urge by ways unblest, 
 A thousand forms of gods to own." 
 
 There stood a Roman matron by, 
 And at her side a boy, whose years 
 
 Six summers scarce outran, whose eye 
 No grief till now had dimm'd with tears. 
 
 " Ask him, and hear," the stem man said, 
 
 Who sate on judgment's blood-stain'd throne ; 
 
 " Ask as thou wilt ; — our Jove to aid ! 
 Thy life by him is lost or won." 
 
 The question heard, the fair boy smiled : 
 " Whate'er of God we think or say, 
 He must be One ; — no little child 
 
 Would dream of Heav'n's divided sway." 
 
 Amazed awhile the tyrant stood ; 
 
 Till re-collected powers of ill 
 Drove from his cheek the mantHng blood 
 
 Of generous shame that curb'd his will : 
 
 " 'Tis practice all," in gloom he said : 
 
 " Tell me, young boy, who taught this lore ? " 
 The guileless child, of nought afraid. 
 Smiled with such smile as Eden wore,
 
 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 41 
 
 And, glancing at the matron's face, 
 " It was," he said, " the Spirit blest, 
 Who gave my mother dear such grace, 
 E'en while she fed me at her breast, 
 
 " That then of Christ I learnt to hear, 
 
 And sought to love Him for His love." 
 Alack ! the puttock fierce was near, 
 That spares not e'en the nestling dove. 
 
 Swift at the bidding of their lord 
 The lictors seized that tender prey ; 
 
 And swiftly sped the accursed word, 
 Which Mercy heard, and fled away : 
 
 " That godless mother, — let her see 
 The end of that most godless pain. 
 And let her child's quick scourgings be 
 As fire to pierce her inmost brain." 
 
 The scribes who watch'd what torture's power 
 Could do to work a soul's despair, — 
 
 High lords, from kingly hall or bower, 
 
 And bondsmen poor, stood weeping there. 
 
 'Tis said the very deathsmen wept, — 
 Hard souls, sworn foes to smile or tear ; 
 
 Unbidden drops outstarting kept 
 
 Strange concord with their deeds of fear.
 
 42 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 
 
 For from those little limbs, so frail, 
 
 The sudden life-warm streams that flow'd, 
 
 So pure they were, so wondrous pale, 
 Had more the hue of milk than blood. 
 
 Yet still the mother stood serene ; 
 
 No mortal pang her heart could move, 
 Stubborn to watch that deathful scene 
 
 With love beyond a mother's love ; 
 
 And bravely did the gallant boy 
 Still watch his mother's radiant eye, 
 
 As though some treasured thought of joy 
 
 Beam'd thence to check each shuddering sigh. 
 
 And now had torture done its worst ; 
 
 The fainting child, yet undismay'd, 
 In those fond arms that rock'd him first, 
 
 For one brief pause of pain was laid. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " this parched lip. 
 This gasping burning throat, — O tell. 
 May I not live one draught to sip, — 
 
 One, — from our own bright sparkling well ? " 
 
 " My child, the Well prepared for thee 
 
 With life and health unchanging flows ; 
 Let thy soul thirst that Well to see ; 
 Forget thy present iron woes.
 
 THE LITTLE MARTYR. 43 
 
 Now must thou drink that cup of doom, 
 The babes of Bethlehem drank whilere ; 
 
 Rough is the edge of martyrdom, 
 But, past, eternal sweets are there." 
 
 She bore him where the swordsman stood. 
 Prepared to sever life's frail thread : 
 
 So, in the arms of Abel good, 
 Ere yet by envious Cain he bled, 
 
 Perchance the firstling of his flock. 
 
 More pure than all the rest, was borne : 
 
 She dallied not with death's fierce shock. 
 Nor stay'd her life's sweet hope to mourn ; 
 
 But with one kiss resign'd her charge : 
 " Go, sweetest babe : henceforth for thee 
 
 No need of prayer : but, once at large 
 In that blest presence, pray for me ! "
 
 44 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 11. 
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 The incidents related in the following ballad are all 
 recorded in the historians of the time ; but more 
 particularly by the Christian historians, Socrates, 
 B. vii. c. lo, and Sozomen, B. ix. c. 6. 9. The con- 
 cluding portion is almost a version of the narrative of 
 Orosius, B. vii. c. 39. 
 
 'TwAS a sight to rouse from sleep 
 
 Spirits of the viewless deep, 
 
 Brenn, and hardy Hannibal, 
 
 And Rome's ancient foemen all, 
 
 When fierce Alaric's trumpet-tone 
 Called the hour of vengeance on, 
 And the Goth to Rome was gone. 
 
 Foremost in the van he came, 
 
 Heart of steel, and eye of flame. 
 
 Gay with gold, as he would ride 
 
 But to seek a courtly bride ; 
 
 Gay with gold his charger shone. 
 Large of limb, and strong of bone. 
 Meet for Terror's dazzling throne.
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 45 
 
 There, as war his pastime were, 
 
 Oft he hurl'd aloft his spear, 
 
 And, with fleet horse wheehng round, 
 
 Caught it ere it came to ground, 
 Bending back, or stooping down. 
 Lithe as dancer in saloon, 
 Where the winged shaft had flown.* 
 
 Senators from Rome drew nigh, 
 Peace with love or gold to buy : 
 " Peace we ask : but ere we fall. 
 Myriads wait to man the wall ; 
 Die we will with armour on, 
 Ere our Empire's fence of stone 
 Shall by vagrant Goths be won." 
 
 * The Byzantine historian, Procopius, gives this picture of the 
 Gothic King Totila, just before his last battle with Narses : 
 B. iv., c. 31. " He did not shun the observation of the enemy. 
 For he vs^as clad in a suit of armour lavishly bespangled with 
 gold, and an uncommon quantity of crimson hung from the 
 harness of his horse, from his head-piece, and his spear, giving 
 him a very kingly appearance. He was mounted upon a strong 
 and tall horse, and wheeling round and round as he rode, often 
 threw his quivering spear aloft, and caught it as it descended ; 
 then he would change it from hand to hand, and shewed his 
 dexterity by leaning his body far back, or stooping down, and 
 again from side to side, as if he had been well taught all dancing 
 exercises from his youth."
 
 46 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 Grimly smiled the hardy Goth : 
 " Thickest grass gives easiest swath ; 
 In the city's crowded throng 
 Soonest reaps war's faulchion strong." 
 Loud again the trumpet's tone 
 Spake that hope of peace was none : 
 And the Goth to Rome is gone. 
 
 Next there came an aged monk ; 
 
 Low at Alaric's feet he sunk : 
 " Warrior, dread the day of doom ; 
 
 Spare to glut thy rage on Rome. 
 Think what penance can atone 
 For the deeds that must be done, 
 Ere thou climb the Caesars' throne.'' 
 
 For a moment Alaric heard, 
 As with inward anger stirr'd : 
 But he smooth'd his ruffled brow, 
 And his words were calm and low : 
 " Father, let the guilty groan ; 
 For, believe, a mightier One ~ 
 Brings this day of vengeance on : 
 
 " There is One, Who, day and night, 
 Stands before my soul's clear sight. 
 Speaks, and says, * The hour is come, 
 Go and sack the guilty Rome.'"'
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 47 
 
 Then again the trumpet's tone 
 Spake, that hope of peace was none ; 
 And the Goth to Rome is gone. 
 
 Now in Rome fierce discord raves, 
 
 Wild the strife of lords and slaves. 
 
 When sharp danger came to bear 
 
 Hope to these, to those despair : 
 Blest that realm, and blest alone. 
 Where the rich and poor, as one. 
 Know the public weal their own ! 
 
 Rome's sad sons of want and woe 
 Deem'd each child of wealth their foe, 
 And in secret league they wait 
 To unbar the city's gate : 
 " Let the valiant Goth come on ; 
 Then oppression's task is done, 
 Bonds are broken, freedom won." 
 
 Sorcerers by the Senate stood. 
 Bold to curse the Christian's God, 
 Tuscan augurs grim, who vow'd 
 To compel Jove's thunder-cloud, 
 
 Let but sacrifice atone 
 
 For the wrongs by Christians done 
 
 To his Capitolian throne.
 
 48 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 But with patient mien the while, 
 To Saint Peter's solemn aisle 
 Throng'd the poor of Christ to pray : 
 Maidens meek in sad array, 
 
 Hoary age and youth are gone ; 
 Low they kneel on floor of stone. 
 Pleading for a realm undone. 
 
 Short was now the respite given : 
 Lo ! the gates asunder riven ; 
 And, as levin-brand that shrouds 
 Brightest flash in darkest clouds. 
 
 Ere the night's last watch was gone, 
 Flashing roU'd the squadrons on ; 
 Rome at early dawn was won. 
 
 " Liegemen, hasten to the spoil," 
 Alaric cried, " the prize of toil ; 
 But God's holy homes forbear, 
 Touch not one who shelters there ; 
 Let not age unpitied groan, 
 Let no maid or matron's moan 
 Make just God our cause disown." 
 
 Then arose the loud acclaim ; 
 Wild blue eyes were lit with flame ; 
 At their monarch's kindling words 
 Waved the banners, clash'd the swords ;
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 49 
 
 Twice ten thousand hearts, as one, 
 Beat accordant to the tone, 
 Joyous in the conquest won. 
 
 Rome, sad Rome, what fate is hers ! 
 
 Temples, porches, theatres, 
 
 Towers strong, and pillars high, 
 
 Rich with storied imagery. 
 
 Arches reared with sculptured stone, 
 Shall their place no more be known, 
 In one mighty wreck o'erthrown ? 
 
 Who can stay fierce Alaric ? No man ; 
 
 But there stands a lonely woman,* 
 
 Feeble seems she, old, and poor, 
 
 Waiting at a low-arch'd door. 
 " Sigismer, my comrade boon, 
 Go, accost that ancient crone, 
 And dispatch her business soon ; " 
 
 * She appears to have been a devout sister and servant of the 
 church of St. Peter's, as Phoebe was at Corinth (Rom. xvi. i), 
 and was, perhaps, entrusted with the care of the sacred vessels in 
 virtue of that office. St. Augustine confirms the account of 
 Orosius, in his Treatise on the City of God, B. i., c. 4. And it 
 was this narrative which made our own excellent King Alfred, in 
 his epitome of Orosius, to call Alaric ' ' the most Christian and 
 the mildest king." 
 
 E*
 
 50 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 Alaric spoke. Count Sigismer, 
 With half-gay, half-serious air, 
 Bow'd him to that beldame poor. 
 Waiting at her low-arch'd door : 
 " Gentle lady, thou art one 
 Whom the Gothic sword hath won, 
 Thou, and all thou call'st thine own 
 
 " But for thee, may peace still bless 
 Thy long age's loneliness ; 
 War, just war, may strike the strong, 
 Feeble eld it may not wrong : 
 But we ask thy gold alone ; 
 Gold, and gold's pale sister wan, 
 Speed the sons of conquest on." 
 
 " Gold I have," the beldame said. 
 And within the door display'd 
 Service rich of vases rare. 
 Golden lamp, and chalice fair ; 
 All beyond the threshold stone 
 Bright the vaulted chamber shone. 
 Guarded by that feeble crone. 
 
 For a space in mute surprise 
 Fix'd the Goth his wond'ring eyes : 
 But when he would seize the prey, 
 Thus her warning voice said nay :
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 51 
 
 " Not for thy bright habergeon, 
 Or thy dragon-crested cone, 
 Dare to cross the threshold-stone. 
 
 " Lo ! those censers, made to bear 
 
 Odours sweet to waft with pray'r, 
 
 Lamps, in holy Peter's choir 
 
 Set to burn with hallow'd fire, 
 
 Cups, for blood that could atone 
 
 For all earth's dread malison, 
 
 Blood that Heaven's sweet pardon won. 
 
 " Feeble, old, and poor am I ; 
 
 Arm of strength I may not try ; 
 
 But if thou this deed shalt dare, 
 
 Be the following curse thy care." 
 Fast, with mutter'd orison, 
 Left the Goth that arch of stone, 
 And to Alaric's side is gone. 
 
 What a change o'er Alaric pass'd ! 
 
 Loud he blew his trumpet-blast, 
 
 Calling to his royal side 
 
 Many a warrior scatter'd wide : 
 " Render first to God His Own ; 
 Take those vessels one by one, 
 And to Peter's Church lead on."
 
 52 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 On their heads his warriors bore 
 
 All that consecrated store, 
 
 While around a guard array'd 
 
 Shoulder'd each his naked blade : 
 But not yet enough was done ; 
 Once again the trumpet's tone 
 Made the monarch's purpose known. 
 
 " Christian, born at Rome, or Goth, 
 Not for thee this hour of wrath : 
 Come, as moves our pomp along. 
 Come with chaunt and holy song : 
 For our trumpet's solemn tone 
 Bids divided hearts be one ; 
 Let the faithless mourn alone." 
 
 Thick as flock the driven deer 
 To the pass of safety near, 
 Pagans back with Christians turn'd, 
 Shelter'd by the Name they scorn'd : 
 Fast as came that concourse on, 
 Gothic swords to guard them shone : 
 Who should seek to make them known ? 
 
 Such was Alaric's proudest day : 
 Let the sons of glory say. 
 When was victory's full career 
 Stay'd, like this, at age's prayer ?
 
 ALARIC THE GOTH. 
 
 53 
 
 Like a Christian champion, 
 
 He to gain his crown pass'd on : 
 
 Christ was served, while Rome was won.
 
 54 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 
 
 The Caliph Motavakel, who reigned at Bagdad from 
 A.D. 847-861, was a dissolute and cruel prince, who 
 persecuted both the Jews and Christians who were 
 subject to his dominion, and was equally tyrannical to 
 those of his own household. Hence his son, Montas- 
 ser, was provoked to a fearful act of vengeance ; for he 
 is said to have shed his father's blood, and so ascended 
 the vacant throne ; which, however, he held only for 
 six months, distracted by the agonies of remorse. 
 His death was hastened by a remarkable incident. 
 He was standing by while some attendants were un- 
 rolling a piece of ancient tapestry, which represented a 
 horseman with a crown upon his head, round which 
 was a scroll inscribed with Persian characters. Being 
 ignorant of the language, Montasser asked the mean- 
 ing from an interpreter, who, after some delay and 
 hesitation, at length with pale looks and a faltering 
 tone, read the inscription as follows : — " I am Siroes, 
 the son of Chosroes ; I slew my father, and retained 
 the royal dignity but six months." The shock of 
 these words was so great to the wounded conscience 
 of Montasser, that he died shortly afterwards ; a victim 
 to the terrors of Divine vengeance.
 
 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 55 
 
 The narrative contained in the following lines is 
 taken from the History of Abulfaragius, the Christian 
 historian of the East, of whom a short account is given 
 in Dr. Hook's Eccl. Biography. It occurred in the 
 reign of Motavakel, who is the Caliph here alluded to. 
 The name of the Christian Physician was, according 
 to Abulfaragius, Honain, perhaps an Arabic corrup- 
 tion of Johannes, or John. 
 
 The Caliph, in a garden fair, 
 
 Beneath a bright alcove. 
 At eve drank in the perfumed air, 
 
 Breath'd from the lilac grove ; 
 
 And at his feet a learned leech 
 
 Beguiled the twilight hour. 
 Whose chemic art each use could teach 
 
 Of mineral, herb, and flower. 
 
 A Greek he was of Christian race. 
 
 Who ventured far to roam ; 
 For Science gives in every place 
 
 Her favourite sons a home. 
 
 Yet safer oft midst rocks and waves 
 The bark its course may steer. 
 
 Than tongue of truth, that boldly braves 
 A despot's wayward ear.
 
 56 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " Physician," the dark Cahph said, 
 " Such skill is sure thine own. 
 As in our holy books 'tis read 
 To Solomon was known : 
 
 " Thy limbeck can each juice refine 
 Of plant, and herb, and tree ; 
 The subtle genii of the mine 
 
 Have cull'd their spells for thee : 
 
 " Then tell me by what secret way 
 I may despatch my foe, 
 And no detected sign betray 
 
 The charm that works him woe." 
 
 Long silent sate the gentle leech, 
 
 His hand upon his brow : 
 Ah, well, he thought, did Science teach 
 
 The Coan sage his vow ! * 
 
 * Hippocrates of Cos, the father of physicians, places in the 
 front of his treatise an oath or vow to be taken by the student of 
 medicine, that he will never use his knowledge for purposes of 
 harm to any one. It is well known that our countryman, the 
 famous John Hunter, left it on record that he had discovered a 
 poison of such a subtle nature, that, lest it should be abused to 
 the destruction of human life, he determined the knowledge should 
 die with him. The conduct of this eminent man may serve to 
 illustrate the principle which swayed the physician Honain.
 
 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 57 
 
 Why did I stray from pleasant Greece, 
 
 And Freedom's mountain air, 
 To dwell amidst the foes of peace, 
 
 And tempt the serpent's lair ? 
 
 God and good Saints be now my speed ! 
 
 For earthly hope is none : 
 And, but Heav'n help me at my need. 
 
 My art and life are done. 
 
 Then starting from that painful trance, 
 
 He meekly rais'd his head, 
 And scann'd the tyrant's piercing glance, 
 
 But not a word he said. 
 
 What word might slave to despot say, 
 
 Who with a look might quell ; 
 With whom to hear was to obey. 
 
 To question, to rebel .'* 
 
 Again the Caliph spoke : " Take heed, 
 
 And let thy speech be true ; 
 For well I ween, thy skill can read 
 
 What subtlest craft may do." 
 
 " What craft may do, I know not well," 
 
 The leech did mildly say, 
 " But my true art life's citadel 
 
 Must succour, not betray."
 
 58 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 
 
 In wrath the Cahph smote his hands ; 
 
 His eunuchs, one and all, 
 Came flocking fast in grisly bands 
 
 Forth from the palace-hall. 
 
 " Seize ye that slave ; it is our doom," 
 
 The tyrant sternly cried, 
 " And bear him where the dungeon's gloom 
 
 May tame his stubborn pride. 
 
 " To-morrow be the secret said. 
 Disclosed the lore I crave ; 
 Or deep shall be his evening bed 
 In Tigris' rolling wave." 
 
 " Despair thy dooms," the leech replied ; 
 " Though life's last hope be flown : 
 My faith and art that lore will hide 
 For evermore unknown. 
 
 " My faith, that bids me seek his weal, 
 Who most desires my ill ; 
 My art, ordain'd life's griefs to heal ; 
 To save, and not to kill." 
 
 Dark passions shook the Caliph's frame ; 
 
 And heav'n and hell within 
 Were struggling, till the purer flame 
 
 Rebuked his sullen sin.
 
 THE CALIPH AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 59 
 
 " Enough ; " he said, " thy truth is proved ; 
 And honour'd be the faith, 
 That for the mercy that "it loved 
 Endured to look on death. 
 
 " Bring forth bright robes, and on his hand, 
 Be set our signet-ring ; 
 'Tis meet the bold for truth should stand 
 In council with a king."
 
 60 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 The earliest historical account of King Edmund, the 
 royal Saint of Bury, is that of Abbo of Fleury, one of 
 the learned friends of Archbishop Dunstan, who pre- 
 sided for some time as Abbot of Ramsey, in Hunt- 
 ingdonshire, then newly founded, a.d. 960, by 
 Oswald, Bishop of Worcester. From his account, 
 more than one Anglo-Saxon homily was supplied with 
 such particulars of the King's life and character, and 
 of his remarkable death, as it would be unreasonable 
 scepticism to set down as merely fictitious. Abbo 
 received these particulars from the mouth of St. 
 Dunstan ; and Dunstan professed to relate them, as 
 he had himself heard them in his youth, from an 
 officer, called " King Edmund's sword-bearer," one, 
 probably, whose office had been to bear the sword of 
 state in the royal presence on days of public cere- 
 mony, and who was then living at a very advanced 
 age in the court of King Athelstan. This is not 
 beyond the limits of historical probability, if we re- 
 collect that it was usual for well-born youths to go to 
 the ancient German or Saxon courts at the age of 
 thirteen or fourteen, to find a place among the attend- 
 ants on royalty. (^^ Tacitus, Germ. c. 13, Eddius,
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. Gl 
 
 Vit. S. Wilfrid, c. 2.) Supposing the sword-bearer to 
 have been a boy of that age in a.d. 870, the date 
 assigned by the earhest authorities for the death of 
 Edmund, it is quite credible that he might have been 
 living between sixty and seventy years later, when 
 Dunstan, who was born in a.d. 925, appears to have 
 gone to the court of Athelstan. 
 
 There are many contradictions, which modern 
 inquiry has not cleared up, between the Danish and 
 English accounts of the fate of Reyner Lodbroke, the 
 father of the five brave sons who so long disputed the 
 possession of England with the great Alfred. It is 
 merely necessary at present to say that the writer has 
 chosen to follow the account of several of our own 
 ancient chroniclers, in preference to that of Lodbroke?- 
 Qiiida, or Death-Song of Lodbroke, and other Scandi- 
 navian authorities, which have been preferred by the 
 ingenious M. Lame' Fleury, in his interesting juvenile 
 Histoire du Moyen Age, and by other recent his- 
 torians, and which attribute the hero's death to ^lla, 
 the usurper of Northumbria, and of St. Cuthbert's 
 patrimony at Crayke. 
 
 It seems probable, from the accounts of Matt. West- 
 minster and Fordun, that the great Danish invasion, 
 which began in a.d. 866, was reinforced by a new 
 armament in a.d. 870. This second force landed in 
 the spring or summer on the coast of Scotland, and 
 having slain in battle Constantine, son of Kenneth
 
 62 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 MacAlpine, marched southwards through Mercia into 
 East Anglia. Here, after a hard fight with the natives 
 near Thetford, they were joined by a detachment of 
 the first army, which came by sea from York, and so 
 became masters of the country. The account in the 
 Saxon Homilies speaks only of an army coming by 
 sea, and it seems, by other accounts, that the East 
 Anglians were taken by surprise, as they had four 
 years earHer made peace with the first invaders, whose 
 point of attack had been the kingdom of Northumbria. 
 King Edmund fell on the twentieth day of Novem- 
 ber, A.D. 870; and all our old writers who enter into 
 particulars represent his death as an act of voluntary 
 suffering ; that he refused to fly when flight was in his 
 power, beheving that his death would save his people 
 from further extremities of war, and counting it an act 
 of impiety in a Christian prince to hold his crown as 
 a subject of a pagan superior. For this his name was 
 honoured through many generations of those who 
 came after. A stately abbey was reared by the 
 bounty of Edmund the Elder, and enriched by gifts 
 from many kings and princes on the spot where his 
 bones were laid to rest. His character, as was 
 natural, was highly reverenced by merciful and gentle 
 monarchs, such as Edward the Confessor and Henry 
 VI. ; and his praises were sung by Lydgate and other 
 old poets of our native land. 
 
 The abbey, for certain reasons of state, was de-
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 63 
 
 stroyed by Henry VIII., together with the other great 
 abbeys ; but there is yet a college at Oxford which is 
 called after the royal martyr, and, among other parish 
 churches, one in London, of which her Majesty the 
 Queen and the Archbishop of Canterbury are patrons. 
 His name remains in our Calendar on the day of his 
 martyrdom ; and he [is altogether one of those for 
 whom we may suppose the gentle Muse of Spenser 
 pleaded against the Puritan : 
 
 " The hilles, where dwelled holy Samcts, 
 
 I reverence and adore, 
 Not for themselves, but for the Saincts 
 
 Which han bene dead of yore : 
 Shepherds they weren of the best, 
 
 And lived in lowly leas : 
 And sith their soules be now at rest, 
 
 Why do we them dis-ease ? " 
 
 When, on the death of Hardacnute, Magnus the 
 Good, King of Norway, had succeeded to the throne 
 of Denmark, he sent a message to Edward the Con- 
 fessor, to say that, as the heir of Hardacnute, he con- 
 sidered himself entitled to England also. The Con- 
 fessor, after explaining his hereditary right, concluded 
 his answer thus : " While I live I will not renounce 
 my title. If King Magnus come hither with an army, 
 I will gather no army against him ; but he shall only 
 get possession of England when he has taken my life." 
 On hearing this answer Magnus gave up his designs 
 on England : " I thin,k it wisest and best," he said.
 
 64 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 " that each of us should keep the kingdom that God 
 has given us." — {Snorrds Chronicle, vol. ii. p. 398. 
 Mr. Laing's Transl.) Edward's answer strongly 
 illustrates the history of St. Edmund ; and no doubt 
 the waste of much blood and treasure might be pre- 
 vented by such a spirit of patriotic self-devotion in 
 Christian kings. 
 
 Part i. 
 F02n;gE of ^clegrter 5L0ti6roIte. 
 
 Woe worth the day, may Saxon say, 
 
 When o'er the salt sea-foam, 
 With eastern gale, that breedeth bale, 
 
 The Dane went forth to roam. 
 
 Woe worth the day, in Yare's broad bay, 
 
 When first the Saxon found 
 The stranger's bark from waters dark 
 
 Escaped to English ground. 
 
 But double woe to him who dared 
 The stranger's rights to spurn, 
 
 Who struck the breast in friendship bared, 
 Woe to the traitor, Berne. 
 
 For not in guise of pirate war 
 
 That lonely wanderer came ; 
 No raven -banner stream'd afar 
 
 O'er men of steel and flame.
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 65 
 
 It was when Norway's realm of rock 
 Doth court brief summer's smile, 
 
 And summer birds unnumber'd flock 
 To northern cove and isle ; 
 
 When ocean-caves, the sea-fowl's haunt. 
 
 Such clangs of music bear. 
 As though wild Nature raised her chaunt 
 
 In vaulted temple there : 
 
 Bold Reyner launch'd his bark at morn, 
 
 His hawk was on his hand ; 
 Lightly his little sail was borne 
 
 Around each jutting strand ; 
 
 And lightly soar'd the bird on high. 
 
 And downward stoop'd to gain 
 The gannet, or the golden eye, 
 
 That dived beneath the main. 
 
 The morn was bright, the hearts were light, 
 
 That hail'd that morning ray ; 
 But waters dark roll'd round his bark 
 
 Before the closing day ; 
 
 And far from shore, in spite of oar. 
 
 The wind that breedeth bane. 
 The felon wind to life unkind, 
 
 Hath borne the noble Dane.
 
 66 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 Long may his royal dame keep ward 
 On Jutland's sounding shore, 
 
 And look to see her jocund lord ; 
 But he returns no more : 
 
 For far away, in Yare's broad bay, 
 The Saxon carle hath found 
 
 The stranger's bark from waters dark 
 Escaped to English ground. 
 
 I wot not, I, how oft the night 
 
 Give place to star of morn. 
 While o'er the loud flood's weltering might 
 
 His giddy bark was borne ; 
 
 But, all unharm'd by wildest wave, 
 On Yare's warm bank he lay ; 
 
 Kind hearts and boon his welcome gave 
 At Reedham's hamlet grey. 
 
 His hawk so good to fresh green wood 
 
 Is free again to roam, 
 And from her wings, as up she springs. 
 
 She shakes the salt sea-foam. 
 
 But when her master's call she hears. 
 
 She perches on his hand : 
 And Reyner now would meet his peers. 
 
 The nobles of the land.
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 67 
 
 To saintly Edmund's court they ride, 
 
 By Waveney's silent stream, 
 When now the day's last lustre died. 
 
 And rose the pale moonbeam. 
 
 There rests the Dane with toil forespent, 
 
 A pious prince's care, 
 Whose faith receives such guests as sent 
 
 Like angels, unaware : 
 
 " Strange wonders on the loud sea-flood," 
 He said, " our guest hath known ; 
 But He whose spirits guard the good 
 Thus marks him for His Own. 
 
 " Our holy clerks, with gentlest lore, 
 Shall melt his pagan pride, 
 Till Faith and Hope their golden door 
 For him shall open wide." 
 
 Ah, woe to him whose envy dared 
 
 His lord's behest to spurn ; 
 Who pierced the breast in friendship bared. 
 
 Woe to the traitor, Berne ! * 
 
 * Berne, the murderer of Reyner Lodbroke, was the King's 
 falconer, or master of the hounds ; and he is supposed to have 
 committed the foul deed out of envy against one who excelled him 
 in his own craft.
 
 68 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 The summer eve hath past away, 
 And autumn blasts are chill : 
 
 The leaves fall sear from bush and spray- 
 On every holt and hill : 
 
 The hunters rouse ; but where the Dane, 
 Who led the chase at morn ? 
 
 His hawk that never soar'd in vain, 
 Why droops she on the thorn % 
 
 His good greyhound, so light of bound, 
 Why quails his courage now % 
 
 Foul treason's blade his lord hath laid 
 Beneath the greenwood bough. 
 
 Woe worth the day, may Saxon say. 
 The child unborn may rue 
 
 That traitor's blow, which bred all woe 
 To loving hearts and true.
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 69 
 
 Part ii. 
 Enfiaston of t|e ©anes. 
 
 Our simple Saxon ancestors, 
 
 Their faith was firm and strong, 
 That heaven would change fixed nature's course, 
 
 Ere truth should suffer wrong : 
 
 And when the solemn priest had bless'd 
 
 Hot wave or glowing steel, 
 That guiltless hand might bide the test, 
 
 Which only guilt would feel : 
 
 For secret spirits waited by. 
 
 If innocence were there. 
 To bid the cauldron's fury die. 
 
 And quench the molten share. 
 
 But now for Berne another test 
 The wise in council find : 
 " Let him, too, try the broad sea's breast. 
 The sport of wave and wind : 
 
 " Safe in that boat did Reyner float ; 
 Such grace to him was given : 
 And this false groom may brave his doom. 
 If he have peace with heaven."
 
 70 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 Alas ! the felon lives, dismiss'd 
 
 From fear and danger free : 
 Soft western gales his white sail kiss'd, 
 
 And curl'd the laughing sea ; 
 
 And that strange bark, from Ocean dark 
 Borne back to Denmark came ; 
 
 And Berne's false tale hath arm'd for bale 
 The sons of steel and flame. 
 
 They come to wreak a father's wrong ; 
 
 Hinguar with heart of pride, 
 And Hubba fierce, and Guttorm strong. 
 
 In vengeance o'er the tide. 
 
 The swineherd led his charge from mast, 
 Ere evening wolves might roam, 
 
 Where stood God's house upon the waste. 
 Saint Bennet's of the Holme ; * 
 
 His quick eye watch'd the gathering gloom 
 
 Beneath the branching tree. 
 Nor mark'd where fiercer spoilers come. 
 
 The war-wolves of the sea. 
 
 * This monastery stood in the parish of Wickmere, near Ayls- 
 ham, not very far from King Edmund's hall at Halesdon. It was 
 utterly destroyed by the Danes at this invasion ; but was restored 
 before the Norman conquest, and remained till the dissolution.
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 71 
 
 Saint Bennet's sons, with anthem clear, 
 
 Sung to the Trinal Light, 
 Pray'd help in hours of darkness drear, 
 
 From phantoms of the night. 
 
 Again, at midnight's iron chime, 
 
 Arose those monks to prayer ; 
 But ere they met at song of prime, 
 
 A house of dead was there. 
 
 The loud stag called to deer and fawn, 
 
 Ere, brightening into day, 
 On Halesdon's wood-encircled lawn 
 
 The twilight shadows lay : 
 
 The saintly king was roused, and forth 
 
 He gazed from lattice high ; 
 Wild fires were dancing in the north. 
 
 And redly glared the sky. 
 
 Short pause for question, — ere the sun 
 
 Unveil'd the dewy mead, 
 Came hurrying posts of slaughter done, 
 
 Quick voice and flying steed : 
 
 Then sad and slow, an old, old man,* 
 
 On weary palfrey borne ; 
 His reverend face was pale and wan, 
 
 His mitred locks were torn : 
 
 Humbert, Bishop of Elmham, who, according to Matt.
 
 72 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 Breathless and faint, in piteous mood 
 His lips their tale prolong : 
 " Heaven's vengeance for Earl Reyner's blood, 
 O King, is wondrous strong. 
 
 " The traitor Berne, — too plain his guilt, — 
 O day of grief and tine ! 
 That felon life, by thee un spilt. 
 Returns to strike at thine. 
 
 " Earl Reyner's sons lead on the war, — 
 Good King, thy friends are slain ; 
 Fly, while the pitying morning-star 
 Beams eastward o'er the plain." 
 
 Scarce had he ceased, that man in years, 
 Bow'd down with woe and toil, 
 
 When, following close, a stranger fierce 
 Rode o'er the sounding soil : 
 
 " To thee. Sir King, short rede I bring : 
 King Hinguar's might is nigh : 
 Canst thou withstand his conquering hand 1 
 Thy choice is. Yield, or die : 
 
 Westminster, was slain by the Danes, with King Edmund. He 
 must have been a very aged man, as he had been Bishop more 
 than fifty years.
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 73 
 
 Yield, nor withhold thy hoarded gold, 
 
 And homage meetly done, 
 He bids thee live, and back will give 
 
 The realm his sword hath won." 
 
 The King to aged Humbert spake : 
 
 " Good father, sorely tried. 
 Who didst thy needful couch forsake, 
 So far by night to ride ; 
 
 " And thou, the Dane's proud messenger, 
 Untrain'd in Christian lore : 
 Be sure, life's gift unlovely were, 
 When life's best cause is o'er. 
 
 " For my loved thanes my heart is woe. 
 For wife and helpless bairn. 
 Whom, by fell pagans' wrath laid low. 
 No message did forewarn : 
 
 *o^ 
 
 " And shall I from the remnant flee. 
 Nor heed their suffering cry % 
 Less meet it were, that they for me, 
 Than I for them should die. 
 
 " Vicegerents of the Eternal King, 
 Whom heavenly hosts obey. 
 Shall kings not dread His doom, who fling 
 Their priceless charge away ?
 
 74 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. 
 
 " Come death, come life, farewell to strife ; 
 With no blood-guilty hand, 
 For God's sweet love, who reigns above, 
 And my dear fatherland, 
 
 " Here will I bide whate'er betide, 
 Resistance offering none ; 
 Yet none shall see my bended knee. 
 Save Heaven's blest Lord alone." 
 
 He stood within his palace-hall. 
 
 His battle-bow unstrung. 
 His spear and shield upon the wall. 
 
 In guise of peace, up-hung ; 
 
 As though that voice were in his ear, 
 
 Spoke by the lifeful Word, 
 That they whose wrath the sword shall bear, 
 
 Shall perish by the swprd. 
 
 He stood, — he bore death's agony, 
 The worst that hate could bring. 
 
 Resolved as he had lived, to die, 
 A Saint, — a Christian King. 
 
 Think gently of our fathers' faith, 
 
 If for a soul like this 
 They deem'd strange wonders after death 
 
 Bespoke his spirit's bliss ;
 
 SAINT EDMUND OF EAST ANGLIA. Ih 
 
 How voices through the woodland maze 
 
 Were echoing far and near, 
 To guide amidst those tangled ways 
 
 The friends that loved him dear; 
 
 And how the grim grey wolf outspread, 
 
 By heaven withheld from prey, 
 Sate guardian of that holy head, 
 
 And chased all harms away. 
 
 Though long undone his shrine of stone 
 
 Fair may his memory stand, 
 Martyr of love to God above. 
 
 And his dear fatherland.
 
 76 A STORY OF SAINT OLAVE. 
 
 V. 
 
 A STORY OF SAINT OLAVE. 
 
 This story of St. Olave, who was king of Norway 
 while Ethelred, and afterwards Canute, reigned in 
 England, a.d. 1014-1030, is related by Snorro in his 
 Chronicle of the Kings of Norway^ vol. ii. p. 297 of 
 Mr. Laing's Translation. It is also selected by 
 modem writers on the Sacred Antiquities of Sweden 
 and Norway, who wisely reject other stories of a more 
 legendary character, which have been invented in 
 later times to magnify St. Olave. See John Vastovius 
 in his Vitis Aqnilofiia, and Benzelius's note, p. 28, 
 and Annot, p. 23, ed. Upsal. 1768. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of the act recorded, 
 which may not accord with more refined times and 
 manners, the delicacy of feeling which led the royal 
 saint rather to inflict pain upon himself than offend 
 the weak conscience of a poor and more ignorant 
 fellow-Christian, is surely worthy of this brief record. 
 
 It was the Sabbath evening hour, 
 
 The calm of hearts believing, 
 The saintly King in silent bower 
 
 Sweet fancy's chain sat weaving.
 
 A STORY OF SAINT OLA VE. 11 
 
 In his left hand a staff of pine 
 
 His quiet grasp enfolded ; 
 His right, a blade both bright and fine, 
 
 With which the staff he moulded. 
 
 An honest thrall, who waited by, 
 
 His lord's behest observing, 
 All heedless of his reverie, 
 
 From duty deem'd him swerving : 
 
 At length, his courage rising higher. 
 
 In tone of simple sorrow 
 He said, " It will be Monday, Sire, 
 
 If Heaven so please, to-morrow." 
 
 " Gramercy, friend," the King replied, 
 " The fault was unintended ; 
 But fitting penance shall abide 
 The hand that so offended." 
 
 He grasp'd the shavings great and small 
 
 As close as hand could handle, 
 Then bade the kind-reproving thrall 
 
 To bring a lighted candle ; 
 
 And on his much-enduring palm 
 
 He let them burn together. 
 His visage all unmoved and calm 
 
 As Norway's summer weather.
 
 78 
 
 A STORY OF SAINT OLA VE. 
 
 Whene'er St. Olave's church I see,- 
 Let scorners call it folly, — 
 
 This tale shall be a hint to me 
 To keep the Sabbath holy.
 
 THE CID AND DON MARTIN. 79 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE CID AND DON MARTIN OF ASTURIA. 
 
 This tale is taken from the Chronicle of the Cid, 
 § 36, 37. The conduct of the old warrior in this 
 instance bears a striking resemblance to that of the 
 gallant Lord Dundee, as related by other Scottish 
 historians and by Sir Walter Scott in his History of 
 Scotland, chap. Ivi. But that case had a more unfortu- 
 nate and tragical conclusion. 
 
 When before Valencia's city, 
 
 Ere the leaguer'd Moors would yield, 
 
 Lay the noble Cid Ruy Diaz 
 Watching in the tented field : 
 
 To his camp at early morning, 
 
 In the pause of hardy fight, 
 Mounted on a fiery jennet 
 
 Rode a young and comely knight. 
 
 Thus he spoke to bold Rodrigo : 
 " From Asturia's mountain-brow 
 I have sought thee, as the pilgrim 
 Seeks the temple of his vow.
 
 80 THE CID AND 
 
 " From the Pass of Covadonga 
 Cradle of the might of Spain, 
 In whose heights the mountain-eagle 
 Holds his unapproach'd domain, 
 
 " Moved by tidings of thy valour 
 I have led my followers on ; 
 Nobly am I born, my name is 
 Martin, Count Pelayo's son. 
 
 " Glad from far I hail'd thy banner. 
 By the morning breezes fann'd. 
 Take my gage : I pledge my service. 
 Heart to heart and hand to hand." 
 
 Doubtfully the champion scann'd him ; 
 
 Tall he was, and large of limb ; 
 But his tongue was all too fluent. 
 
 And his beard was all too trim. 
 
 Much suspected good Rodrigo, 
 When to battle he would ride, 
 
 It was but some knight of ladies 
 Who had mounted by his side. 
 
 True his thought : for, ere the onslaught 
 Of the Christian on the Moor, 
 
 On his courser gaily prancing 
 
 Burnish'd arms Don Martin wore ;
 
 DON MARTIN OF ASTURIA. ^ 81 
 
 But the din of Moorish tambours, 
 And the swarthy warriors' glare, — 
 
 Did they fright Don Martin's courser? 
 Horse and man, he vanish'd there. 
 
 Back he fled ; and with discretion, 
 
 Venturous valour's better part, 
 In his tent, till fight was ended. 
 
 Hid the throbbings of his heart. 
 
 Till the Cid, at noon returning 
 
 With the dye of carnage red, 
 Bathed his hands, all foul and weary 
 
 With the blood of Paynims dead. 
 
 Then the feast was spread before him, 
 
 As was wont, on tables twain, 
 One to grace the gallant Captain, 
 
 One, his knights, the flower of Spain. 
 
 None but knights of hardiest daring. 
 Well approved, of courage strong, 
 
 Tried in many a field of danger, 
 Might appear those ranks among : 
 
 " Every man must do his duty," 
 
 So the Cid his order gave, 
 " Ere he dine with Alvar Fanez 
 
 At the table of the brave." 
 
 G*
 
 82 THE CID AND 
 
 Little deem'd the trembling novice, 
 
 In the tumult of that day, 
 That his captain's eye beheld him 
 
 When he turn'd him from the fray : 
 
 Soon he bathed his hands in water. 
 Though the need, I ween, was small ; 
 
 And his seat with Alvar Fanez 
 Took amidst those warriors tall. 
 
 When the Cid espied that rashness, 
 From his stool in haste he flew : 
 " Those are braver men, Don Martin, 
 Braver men than I, or you : 
 
 '' Come and seat thee at my table. 
 And with me the banquet share." 
 Little dream'd the simple novice 
 What should next await him there. 
 
 Braver man than good Rodrigo 
 Never held the name of brave ; 
 
 But no less his generous pity, 
 
 Wavering worth to spare and save. 
 
 When the brief repast was ended, 
 
 And the assembled knights were gone. 
 
 Thus bespoke the good Rodrigo 
 Martin, Count Pelayo's son :
 
 DON MARTIN OF ASTURIA. 83 
 
 There was anger mix'd with sadness 
 
 In the warrior's solemn tone, 
 While he spoke, as speak the noble. 
 
 To the offender's ear alone : 
 
 " Can it be that thou, Don Martin, 
 
 Born as thou art born, should'st fly? 
 Hadst thou fall'n, it were thine honour 
 In the battle-field to die. 
 
 " Wilt thou tell me that the Paynims 
 In a mighty throng came round ? 
 Many a gallant knight was near thee, 
 Bravely they maintain'd their ground. 
 
 " Seek a house of still religion. 
 
 There thy vows may yet be true ; 
 
 There thou may'st do God that service, 
 
 Which in arms thou canst not do. 
 
 " Or if now thine ebbing spirits 
 
 Thou canst summon to their flow. 
 Mount and ride with me at even, 
 Go where honour bids thee go. 
 
 " At my side perchance thy terror 
 Less may move thee in the fray ; 
 But the brave must stand unshaken 
 With a thousand foes at bay.
 
 84 THE CID AND 
 
 " So farewell till then, Don Martin ; 
 Till thy fault amended be, 
 Till thou hast retrieved thy honour, 
 Thou must dine no more with me." 
 
 Sorely shent Don Martin parted. 
 
 Pierced with shame and deep dismay ; 
 
 Like the jay of borrow'd feathers 
 
 Stripp'd, he shrunk from sight of day. 
 
 But the generous chieftain's chiding 
 Not in vain his soul had moved ; 
 
 Most of all this hope assured him, 
 That his worth might still be proved. 
 
 Soon again the Cid has summon'd 
 To assail Valencia's towers, 
 
 And the Moors a desperate sally 
 Made with their united powers. 
 
 Who was then of knights the foremost 
 In war's stern career to run ? 
 
 Who unhorsed the foremost Paynim ? 
 Martin, Count Pelayo's son. 
 
 Strangely were the Moors confounded. 
 Back they turned with sudden dread ; 
 " Eblis, sure, hath sent that demon 
 From the caverns of the dead."
 
 DON MARTIN OF ASTURIA. 85 
 
 Like a flock of sheep fast crowding 
 
 To the entrance of the fold, 
 So the Moors retired before him 
 
 To regain Valencia's hold. 
 
 Then not Mars himself could scorn him, 
 Who such dangerous fame had woo'd. 
 
 From his wrists above his elbows 
 
 His strong arms were bathed in blood. 
 
 Lovingly the Cid embraced him, 
 Waiting on his homeward way : 
 " Martin, son of brave Pelayo, 
 
 Thou hast proved thy birth this day. 
 
 " 'Tis too low for thy brave merit 
 At my board to sit by far ; 
 Go and sit with Alvar Fanez, 
 My first brother in the war ; 
 
 " And with those brave knights, his comrades. 
 Bom in feats of arms to shine ; 
 Well-esteem'd ones, meet companions 
 For a generous soul like thine." 
 
 From that day the Asturian novice 
 
 Never quail'd in fight again ; 
 Well he proved that generous chiding 
 
 Had not pierced his heart in vain.
 
 86 
 
 THE CID AND DON MARTIN. 
 
 Well he proved how true the proverb, 
 By old wisdom sung or said : 
 
 Choose a goodly tree for shelter, 
 Thou shalt find a goodly shade.
 
 ST. BERNARD'S YOUNGER BROTHER. 87 
 
 VII. 
 
 ST. BERNARD'S YOUNGER BROTHER. 
 
 The anecdote, and its sequel, here related, will be 
 familiar to those who have read almost any life of St. 
 Bernard. It is told on the authority of his friend and 
 contemporary, who was also his first biographer. 
 William de St. Thierry. 
 
 When shall the world again behold 
 The souls, who with undazzled eye 
 
 Turn'd from Grim Mammon's heaps of gold, 
 And, meditating but to die, 
 
 Sought the cool vale, whose waters bless 
 
 The low-built cell of humbleness 1 
 
 'Twas thus four sons of one old sire 
 Went forth from one paternal hall 
 
 (Such zeal could Bernard's call inspire), 
 To seek the still Cistercian wall ; 
 
 Together from the pleasant door 
 
 They turn'd them, to return no more. 
 
 Their sire, long tried in deeds of arms. 
 Had train'd them for the tented field. 
 
 And proudly seen in war's alarms 
 
 How well they stood with sword and shield ;
 
 88 ST. BERNARUS YOUNGER BROTHER. 
 
 But now fast fell a father's tears, 
 To lose the solace of his years. 
 
 Fast fell his tears ; his voice was faint ; 
 
 But his old heart was firm and strong : 
 " God's will be done ! my buried saint 
 
 Had bless'd your choice, and grief were wrong. 
 Though lost are five, young Nivard yet 
 Attends my age, else desolate." 
 
 Through Dijon's town they took their way ; 
 
 Each well-remember'd face they greet : 
 Till where a little troop at play 
 
 Came shouting down the noisy street, 
 A gentle school-boy hurrying by 
 Paused where he met his brother's eye. 
 
 " Nivard," said Guy, the eldest born, 
 " Farewell, and God's best benison 
 Be thine, implored each eve and morn 
 By us, who leave thee for thine own 
 Our heritage by dale and hill, 
 The good broad lands, with right good-will." 
 
 A smile was in young Nivard's eye, 
 
 While his quick colour went and came ; 
 " These are no equal terms, Sir Guy," 
 He said ; " O tell it not for shame, 
 That this your love's award should be. 
 Heaven for yourselves, and earth for me."
 
 ST. BERNARD'S YOUNGER BROTHER. 89 
 
 'Twas past : the wondering band went on, 
 
 And talk'd of Nivard's jesting prate ; 
 
 But when a few short years were flown, 
 
 There stood before the convent-gate 
 
 A grey-hair'd knight, and stripUng tall ; 
 
 "We come," they said; "now Heaven take all !" 
 
 Those still Cistercian walls are gone ; 
 
 And Faith in bondage must abide, 
 Where tyrants, to her God unknown, 
 
 Rear high their pyramids of pride, 
 And their hard tasksmen scarce will spare 
 
 The Sabbath-hours for rest and prayer ; 
 
 And flatterers praise their deeds, and scorn 
 
 Those unenquiring days of old, 
 Ere stirring Sciences were born. 
 
 And Wealth increased, and Love grew cold ! 
 And teach, for Duty's ancient way, 
 That to enjoy is to obey. 
 
 But thou, fair child, beware their lure, 
 That would with notes of peace destroy, 
 
 Tempting meek hearts from shades secure 
 To griefs that feign the sense of joy ; 
 
 And rather seek, ere storms be nigh. 
 
 The threshold of glad Poverty.
 
 90 ST. BERNARD'S YOUNGER BROTHER. 
 
 Nor scorn the truth that breathes within 
 
 Those mouldering aisles of Faith o'erthrown, 
 
 That souls who mourn for mortal sin 
 Must dwell in silence and alone ; 
 
 That Heaven shines down with purer ray 
 
 On virgin souls that watch and pray. 
 
 Thou know'st not, how minds innocent, 
 In this world's crowded solitude, 
 
 With pangs of secret grief are rent, 
 And fain would fly to deserts rude, 
 
 Where the lone dove may pour her moan 
 
 From dewy cave and mossy stone. 
 
 Thou know'st not, how that lordship proud, 
 That racks the vain with envy's thorn, 
 
 With weight of cureless cares is bow'd. 
 And they, who have such fardel borne, 
 
 More blithe in prison-bands would lie, 
 
 Than bide that heart's captivity. 
 
 I bid thee not with hood or veil 
 
 To cloud thy sunbright youth in gloom. 
 
 But make, ere life's first promise fail. 
 
 Thy Father's house thy freedom's home ; 
 
 Arms, such as Templar never wore, 
 
 Shall meet thee on the Church's floor.
 
 .97: BERNARHS YOUNGER BROTHER. 91 
 
 And, with that armour girded on, 
 
 Go forth, and try what Truth can do, 
 
 Though singly match'd, yet not alone. 
 In combat with a world untrue : 
 
 With sweeter rest shalt thou be paid, 
 
 Than the glad hart's in noontide shade.
 
 92 WALTER ESP EC. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WALTER ESPEC. 
 
 Walter Espec was a Norman Baron, who possessed 
 large estates in Yorkshire in the reigns of Henry I. 
 and Stephen. His sister Adehne, wife of Peter Lord 
 Roos, was ancestress of the noble house of Manners. 
 He is famous in English history, as the captain to 
 whose courage and conduct the victory of the Stand- 
 ard was mainly owing, and also as the founder of 
 Kirkham and Rievaulx Abbeys ; acts of piety to 
 which he was led by parental grief for the loss of an 
 only son, who was killed by a fall from his horse. 
 The authorities for these particulars, and other facts 
 mentioned in the following ballad, are the Latin 
 History of the Battle of the Standard, by Aylred of 
 Rievaulx, and Dugdale's Monasticon, in the account 
 of the above-mentioned Abbeys. 
 
 The Barons of our island,* 
 
 The princes of the free, 
 By lowland or by highland 
 
 Bright may their memory be ! 
 
 * It has been the fashion with too many modern writers to call 
 in question the virtues of the old champions of our native soil, 
 who defended the frontier against Scotland and France, rescued 
 the Chiistian states in the East, and secured the great Charter of
 
 WALTER ESP EC. 93 
 
 O, noble was their bearing, 
 
 Free Virtue's inborn mood, 
 Majestic Nature's rearing 
 
 In her feudal solitude ; 
 
 the subject's liberties. "If any sparks of liberty were struck 
 out," says the conceited Horace Walpole, "it was not owing to 
 the separate virtue of flint or steel, but to their collision." Good, 
 from the advocate who came forward to defend the injured 
 virtues of Richard III. "We know," says Mr. Hallam, that a 
 nobility is always insolent." "The Great Charter," says Bishop 
 Warburton, "was wrested from the Crown by a factious, turbu- 
 lent, and ambitious Baronage, into whose hearts the love of the 
 people never entered." 
 
 This is a severe sentence. We have a striking character of one 
 of the Barons who opposed King John, drawn by one who knew 
 him, in the account which Gyraldus Cambrensis has left us of 
 William de Bruce, a Baron whose seat was at the Castle of 
 Brecon, where its ruins are still visible. "Nothing human is 
 perfect," says Gyraldus, "and to know everything, and ofTend in 
 nothing, is rather the attribute of God than of man. But I think 
 it worthy of mention, that in his ordinary discourse it was this 
 nobleman's custom to set the Lord always before him, saying of 
 everything he took in hand. Let it be done in God's name, or for 
 God's sake ; or if God will ; or By God's grace it shall be so ; 
 following in this the practice of St. Paul, and the precept of St. 
 James. (Acts xviii. 21 ; i Cor. iv. 19 ; James iv. 15.) To the 
 scribes who wrote his letters, — and being rich and powerful, he 
 had a large correspondence with many quarters, — he gave a small 
 gratuity in addition to their pay, on condition that they should 
 never forget to begin with a mention of the Divine Mercy, and 
 end wath a word of the Divine Aid. When he was on a journey, 
 and came within sight of a church or a cross by the wayside.
 
 94 WALTER ESP EC 
 
 Before the stock was blighted 
 By Mammon's withering ban, 
 
 And blushing Honour knighted 
 The burgher-gentleman. 
 
 How well they kept their courses, 
 When in glittering armour bright, 
 
 They wheel'd their gallant horses 
 In the tourney's mimic fight : 
 
 though he might at the time be engaged in conversation with a 
 companion, whether high or low, he immediately betook himself 
 to his prayers, which being shortly completed, he returned, as 
 from a digi-ession, to the subject of their discourse. What was 
 further remarkable, whenever he met with children on his way, 
 he would invite them vnth a few kind words to hold a little talk 
 with him, that he might force the little innocents to give him their 
 blessing, and pay it back with his own blessing in return." This 
 does not appear like the character of a man into whose heart the 
 love of his own kind never entered. Other instances might easily 
 be found. 
 
 It is confessed that there was in those warlike times great 
 temptation to the abuse of power, and greater space for the 
 exercise both of conspicuous crimes and great virtues. Let a true 
 knowledge of histoiy teach us, while we abhor the one, to admire 
 and venerate the other ; and not condemn them in the mass, 
 because our corrupt age has been pleased to dwell more on the 
 evil than the good. This is my meaning, gentle reader, when I 
 try to remind you that there were virtues in these old Peers of 
 England, which no true lover of his country can forget, and which 
 all who love virtue will seek to imitate.
 
 WALTER ESP EC. 95 
 
 How courteous were their speeches, 
 
 Meet for gentle lady's ear, 
 Such as Flattery never teaches ; 
 
 They are born in souls sincere. 
 
 How oft with eye that glisten'd 
 
 They read the storied page, 
 Or with bending ears they listen'd. 
 
 When the minstrel, white with age, 
 
 Told his tale of days departed. 
 And with pity tuned the string 
 
 For the chief who died true-hearted, — 
 Died for Holy Kirk and King. 
 
 For not to pastime solely 
 
 Their hours of peace they gave ; 
 
 High thoughts and counsels holy 
 Attend the good and brave. 
 
 And when Religion call'd them. 
 Or their country gave the word, 
 
 No peril then appall'd them, 
 
 When they drew the rightful sword. 
 
 It was no drug that drenches * 
 
 The sense in harm and loss, 
 That arm'd in Salem's trenches 
 
 The champions of the Cross ; 
 
 * That is, they did not fight under the influence of opium, gentle 
 reader, nor for opium. The Turks, they say, do the first ; if you
 
 96 WALTER ESP EC. 
 
 That arm'd each noble martyr, 
 Who died in Freedom's cause, 
 
 Ere they won the sacred Charter 
 Of England's rescued laws. 
 
 Let not Envy's voice upbraid them, 
 Now the lion-hearts are gone ; 
 
 Let them rest where Honour laid them. 
 When their valour's task was done ; 
 
 Where their forms by Sculpture moulded. 
 
 Lie in battle-mail array 'd, 
 And their steel-clad hands are folded 
 
 As though still in death they pray'd ; 
 
 To tell each gazing stranger. 
 
 That in life's uneven road 
 The loyal walk with danger. 
 
 And in sleep must wake to God. 
 
 Such life was Baron Walter's, 
 
 That chief of old renown, 
 Lord of the woods of Galtres 
 
 And Cleveland's mountains brown. 
 
 have ever heard of a nation that has done the second, and that not 
 long ago, why then, perhaps, times are not so very much mended 
 since the Barons' wars. But I hope neither you nor I had any 
 vote in the matter.
 
 WALTER ESPEC. 97 
 
 One day he had of glory, 
 
 One day to memory dear, 
 That long in England's story 
 
 The listening world shall hear : 
 
 When he stood midst dead and dying, 
 
 On Allerton's broad plain, 
 Where the bolts from arblasts flying,* 
 
 Drank the blood of Scotland's slain ; 
 
 When with eye that never wander'd, 
 And with heart that could not yield, 
 
 Fast by the noble Standard -|- 
 He kept the stubborn field ; 
 
 * It seems that the word " arblast " is not in Johnson's or other 
 common dictionaries. It was familiar in old English, and means, as 
 the learned know, a cross-bow. Hence the surname " Arblaster " 
 [arbalester, in Speed's Chronicle), which was as easily understood 
 in former days as Archer or Bowman ; but since the Cross- 
 bowman was forgotten, has been ridiculously corrupted into 
 Alabaster ; even a poet, Dr. W. Alabaster, in Charles I.'s days, 
 following the common misnomer. One example shall be given 
 from the fine moral verses of old Lydgate : — 
 
 " God hath a thousande handes, if He chastyse, 
 
 A thousande dartes of strange punicion, 
 
 A thousande bowes all made in divers wyse, 
 
 A thousande arblastcs bent in Hys dongeon ; 
 But where He findes mekeness and penitaunce, 
 Mercy is mistresse of His ordinaunce." 
 
 Tragedies of Princes, I. § 3. 
 
 t The Standard, which has given name to this famous battle, was 
 
 H *
 
 98 WALTER ESPEC. 
 
 And his voice amidst the battle 
 ■Was heard at every stound 
 
 Above the din and rattle, 
 
 Like the trumpet's silver sound. 
 
 a tall ship-mast set on a four-wheeled carriage ; and from it were 
 displayed the three sacred banners of Yorkshire, — that of St. 
 Peter of York, St. Wilfrid of Ripon, and St. John of Beverley. 
 Geoffrey de Vinesauf describes the royal banner of Coeur de Lion, 
 as displayed from a precisely similar Standard in his wars in 
 Palestine. In the south of England there were also sometimes 
 three banners carried, that of St. George, that of St. Edmund, 
 and St. Edward the Confessor. It is singular that of all these, 
 St. George's, a saint whose honour was imported by the Crusaders 
 from the East, should have outlasted the rest, and especially those 
 of four native saints. 
 
 Walter Espec, says the historian of Rievaulx, was "a man of 
 stature passing tall, but of limbs well proportioned, and which 
 were well fitted to his great height. He had his hair still black, 
 though he was old and full of days ; his beard was long and 
 flowing, his forehead wide and noble, his eyes large and piercing, 
 his face broad but well-featured, and his voice like the sound of 
 a ti-umpet, setting off his natural eloquence of his speech with a 
 kind of majesty of sound." When he had harangued the army 
 before the battle, and encouraged them not to fear the greater 
 numbers of the Scots, he took the right hand of the Earl of 
 Albemarle, who commanded the English army, and said, " I 
 swear on this day to conquer or die upon the field." " So swear 
 we all," said the other barons ; and the fight began. Baron 
 Walter retired from the world, and became a monk at Rievaulx 
 about two years before his death ; he died there, March 9, 
 
 IIS3-
 
 WALTER ESP EC. 99 
 
 But tell me why that old man 
 
 Endured that summer's day, 
 When many a young and bold man 
 
 Was fain to quit the fray? 
 
 What strong resolve had bound him 
 
 To conquer or to die, 
 While each hardy knight around him 
 
 Caught a courage from his eye ? 
 
 That ancient Baron Walter, 
 
 His earthly hope was gone, 
 When he rear'd the solemn altar 
 
 Beneath the vault of stone. 
 
 Where the silver Derwent wanders 
 
 By woods and meadows green, 
 Where the pitying Muse still ponders 
 
 On the things that once have been ; 
 
 He had rear'd the solemn altar 
 
 Beneath the vault of stone, 
 Resign'd, though his voice might falter, 
 
 For he mourn'd for his only son. 
 
 To God those fruits of sorrow 
 
 His thankful heart had given ; 
 And he rose upon that morrow 
 
 Strong in the strength of heaven.
 
 100 WALTER ESPEC. 
 
 A courage more than mortal's 
 That day had nerved his hand : 
 " Angels from heaven's high portals 
 Would guard his native land ; 
 
 " Heaven's vengeance should be wroken 
 For the blood of infants slain, 
 And the spoilers' spear be broken, 
 And their bodies press the plain." 
 
 'Twas done : ere curfew sounded, 
 
 The battle-field was red, 
 And the northern host, confounded. 
 
 Left twice five thousand dead. 
 
 But by the noble Standard, 
 When died the battle's roar. 
 
 That eye that never wander'd 
 Was seen to watch no more. 
 
 Where the Rie its waves of amber 
 Rolls o'er its bed of stone, 
 
 Where the wild deer stray, or clamber 
 The grey rocks all alone. 
 
 There an abbey stands, — more fair one 
 No northern vale hath seen ; 
 
 That abbey rear'd the Baron 
 Those echoing hills between.
 
 WALTER ESP EC. 101 
 
 There dwell the monks, the wan ones, 
 
 Who labour, fast, and pray, 
 Good Bernard's meek companions 
 
 In their cowls and frocks of grey. 
 
 While the moon is on the mountains, 
 
 And the moonlit air is still ; 
 No sound, save of the fountains. 
 
 Or the gushing near the mill ; 
 
 Now the midnight chaunt is ended, 
 And the aisles are deep in shade. 
 
 And in chambers long-extended 
 The convent's sons are laid ; 
 
 Gaze softly, where the grating 
 
 Gives to view the bed of heath, 
 There the Baron rests, awaiting 
 
 The welcome call of death.
 
 102 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 IX. 
 
 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 Margaret Bisset was one of the maids of honour 
 who waited on Eleanor of Provence, queen consort of 
 Henry III. The incident on which the following 
 lines are founded is recorded by Matt. Paris, as having 
 occurred in the autumn of a.d. 1238. 
 
 Broad was the forest's ancient space,* 
 When England's kings on Woodstock chace, 
 Oft wearied many a gallant horse, 
 Hunting the fearful hart of force,f 
 With cry of hounds, and blasts between, 
 That woke the jocund woodland scene. 
 
 * The royal chace at Woodstock, including Whichwood and 
 four adjoining townships, is described in Domesday Book as being 
 nine leagues, or nearly thirty miles, square. The park of Wood- 
 stock was enclosed by Henry I., who also built a royal mansion 
 there ; but the place had been an ancient seat of the Saxon kings. 
 
 t From Lord Surrey's old poem upon Windsor : 
 " The wylde forest, the clothed holtes with grene. 
 Where we did chase the fearful hart of force 
 With crye of houndes and merry blastes betwene."
 
 MARGARET BISSET. 103 
 
 Returning slow at evening hour, 
 
 King Henry sought fair Woodstock's bower, 
 
 Alighting at the accustom'd gate. 
 
 Where oft, retired from toils of state, 
 
 He shared with comrades choice and few 
 
 Such mirth as merry England knew. 
 
 Strange sight ! Emerging from the wood 
 
 There came in fierce distracted mood 
 
 An outlaw'd knight. With darksome frown 
 
 He cried, '' False king, resign thy crown : 
 
 Restore my rights, usurp'd too long ; 
 
 Or Heaven, that sees, shall judge the wrong." 
 
 The loyal yeomen rear'd their staves, 
 And marvell'd much, what king of knaves 
 Was he, who dared to rail so high 
 In ears of England's Majesty; 
 But the good king their anger stay'd, 
 " Let go the poor distraught," he said. 
 
 Forgotten was that madman's freak : 
 It was a merry jest to speak 
 Of what had chanced, when at the door 
 His youthful queen, fair Eleanor, 
 Came down, her lord's return to grace, 
 And hear each passage of the chace.
 
 104 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 But then the jocund feast was spread : 
 And when the weary guests were fed, 
 The gleemen came with harp and song, 
 And other tales the time prolong ; 
 Till lord and lady, host and guest, 
 Are gone to quiet bed of rest. 
 
 One lonely lamp at midnight hour 
 Stream'd from the gateway's lofty tower, 
 What time beneath the pale moon's ray 
 So still the forest mazes lay. 
 That scarce a breath of roving air 
 Gave Night a voice to murmur there. 
 
 But where that lonely lamp was bright, 
 A maiden fair kept watch by night, 
 A maiden gentle, fair, and young, 
 Who sweetly sang her compline-song. 
 Before her, on a polish'd stand, 
 Her psalter-book, her harp in hand. 
 
 She was a Baron's daughter, one 
 Whom proudest fortune smiled upon. 
 And none of lovelier face or mien 
 Waited on England's youthful queen : 
 But suitors vainly came to move 
 A heart that own'd a higher love.
 
 MARGARET BISSET. 105 
 
 Oft, when the feast was ranged in hall, 
 
 She sought the way-side hospital. 
 
 Left the gay masque where dancers meet, 
 
 To wash the way-worn pilgrim's feet, 
 
 Or watch'd, when life's last hour was nigh, 
 
 By age's bed, to learn to die.* 
 
 O sight, that angels from the skies 
 May gaze on with rejoicing eyes, 
 When gentle youth and beauty bright, 
 Dead to the vain world's false delight, 
 Live but to thoughts that saints may share. 
 And wake by night to songs of prayer ! 
 
 Her chaunt's last tones had died away : 
 One moment by the pale moon's ray 
 She look'd upon the peaceful scene. 
 And on the bright heaven's deep serene. 
 Ere yet her couch of needful rest, 
 At peace, with dreams of peace, she press'd. 
 
 * These were the charitable works of good ladies in the Middle 
 Ages, as we read of Matilda, queen of Henry I., of Aletta, mother 
 of St. Bernard, and of Margaret, Countess of Richmond. An old 
 author says of Aletta, " She was often to be seen, alone and on 
 foot, on the road between Fontaines and Dijon, visiting the cot- 
 tages of the poor, and carrying provisions and remedies to the sick 
 and afflicted, and administering instruction and spiritual consola- 
 tion to them. She never allowed her domestics to assist her in 
 these offices, so that it might truly be said her left hand knew 
 not what her right hand performed."
 
 106 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 What turns her startled ear to mark ? 
 Was it the watch-dog's honest bark ? 
 Or wandering night-bird's fitful cry, 
 That rose afar complainingly ? 
 Again ? it is a thought of fear ; 
 A step is in the chamber near. 
 
 That chamber where the king full late 
 Had strewn his regal couch of state, 
 Till Eleanor had used her power 
 To change it for a brighter bower, 
 A brighter bower, more deftly made. 
 Where now the royal pair were laid. 
 
 Fair Margaret down the stair of stone 
 To that void chamber hastes alone, 
 With lamp in hand. She turns the key, 
 And now her eyes a sight may see. 
 That might a stronger frame o'erpower, 
 Unused to face sharp danger's hour. 
 
 There dimly in the lamp's faint light 
 Stood forth the maniac outlaw'd knight. 
 With rugged brow and darting eye ; 
 And to her straight approaching nigh, 
 Arm'd with a naked glittering blade. 
 He brandish'd high his hand, and said :
 
 MARGARET BISSET. 107 
 
 " The false king's fatal hour is come : 
 Your gate was barr'd ; the wall I clomb ; 
 Stole through the window ; sought his bed ; 
 Where is the cowering craven fled ? 
 Aid me, I'll swear by yon round moon 
 To take thee for my queen alone." 
 
 There is a power that can subdue 
 All terror, when the heart is true ; 
 There is a wit that springs to aid 
 The weakest, where wild threats invade, 
 O'ermastering Frenzy by the eye 
 Of calm, undaunted Constancy. 
 
 Thus spoke the pure and gentle maid : 
 " What ? shall it then be sung or said 
 That he who England's crown doth claim. 
 Forgetful of his knighthood's name, 
 Like a base thief at midnight crept 
 To stab his rival while he slept ? 
 
 " Not such the good defiance brave 
 That Ryence once to Arthur gave.* 
 
 * King Ryence of North Wales, whose robe of state was bor- 
 dered with the beards of eleven subject kings, sent to King Arthur 
 to demand his for the twelfth : but it is supposed that King 
 Arthur proved himself the more cunning shaver of the two. The 
 challenge may be seen in the ballad printed in Percy's Reliques.
 
 108 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 No ! let us seek the guarded hall, 
 And wake the slumbering seneschal, 
 And sound our challenge bold and free : 
 Sheathe then thy sword, and follow me." 
 
 He heard, and changed as with a charm, 
 Dropp'd at the word his sinewy arm : 
 The maiden to the guard-room led, 
 And, while the warders gazed in dread, 
 Spoke briefly in their captain's ear, 
 " Sir Giles, ye watch but slackly here." 
 
 When next with ruddy morning glow'd 
 The hawthorn banks of Evenlode, 
 What praise was heard from every tongue 
 Of that brave maiden, fair and young, 
 Who stay'd the wild assassin's knife, 
 And saved a monarch's sacred life ! 
 
 Swift roll the winged years away : 
 Five times hath autumn's misty ray 
 Lit up on tree and russet heath 
 The hues that speak of change and death 
 In Woodstock gleam the tapers fair 
 At eve ; but Margaret is not there. 
 
 Enclosed within the forest wide, 
 Low roofs and gardens by its side,
 
 MARGARET BISSET. 
 
 109 
 
 A little silvan chapel stood, 
 
 Built for a pious sisterhood ; 
 
 And she whose wealth their vows had blest, 
 
 There in the lowly aisle hath rest.* 
 
 * The lady, whose presence of mind was the means of rescuing 
 her sovereign from this great danger, died at an early age about 
 four years afterwards, when she had founded a nunnery in the 
 neighbourhood, the precise situation of _which is not mentioned 
 by the historian. Matt. Paris, inA.D. 1242.
 
 1 10 THE BOY OF N A VARRE. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE BOY OF NAVARRE. 
 
 The fact upon which the following lines are founded 
 occurred at a time when the factions of the English 
 nobles were beginning to be very ruinous to the 
 ancient spirit of chivalry, and dangerous to the public 
 safety, during the early years and minority of Richard 
 II., about A.D. 1377-1380. It is briefly recorded in 
 Walsingham's Chronicle, p. 229, ed. Camd. 
 
 A dark-hair'd boy from old Navarre, — 
 
 The gladness of his eye 
 Glanced radiant, as the silver star 
 
 At gloaming lights the sky. 
 
 A page of lighter step, I ween. 
 
 Ne'er tripp'd in lady's bower ; 
 But now with solemn pace and mien. 
 
 In London's frowning Tower, 
 
 'Twas his to tend a captive knight. 
 
 Who, fast in cell of stone. 
 Must bid farewell to all delight. 
 
 Until his cause be known.
 
 THE BO Y OF NA VARRE. 1 1 1 
 
 The lords are met at council-board ; 
 
 With speeches fierce and high, 
 The rivals of their state, abhorr'd, 
 
 They doom to pine and die. 
 
 And now a herald forth is gone, 
 
 Their stern award to bear, 
 Where worth and valour make their moan 
 
 On prison-bed of care : 
 
 " Sir Knight," he said, " in dungeon-hold 
 Thy forfeit life must pine, 
 Till surety mend the strife, and gold 
 Assoil thee of thy fine : 
 
 " Such grace is offer'd, since thy lance 
 Was stout in old Navarre. 
 And firm in field of fertile France, 
 When Edward led the war. 
 
 " Three thousand marks the scale may turn. 
 And set the prisoner free." 
 Sir Hubert felt his proud heart burn : 
 But then his glance might see 
 
 The gentle boy from old Navarre 
 
 Stand smiling silently, 
 And radiant as a silver star 
 
 The gladness of his eye.
 
 1 12 THE BO V OF NA VARRE. 
 
 Sir Hubert paused, — perchance for ruth, 
 Lest words that spoke annoy 
 
 Might seem to wrong his page's truth. 
 And dash his childish joy. 
 
 The herald parts ; and night is come : 
 But, ere the morning grey 
 
 Shed latticed light within the room, 
 The page was on his way ; 
 
 And where the nobles of the land 
 
 To council-board repair. 
 He prays their grace with cap in hand, 
 
 The earliest suitor there : 
 
 " Barons," he said, " this trusty word 
 Sir Hubert sends by me : 
 A soldier's wealth is his good sword. 
 Not land or golden fee ; 
 
 " But since in Spain he bore him well 
 By princely Edward's side. 
 To him a noble hostage fell, 
 Rescued in battle-tide, 
 
 " Young Raymond, Count of Deva's son ; 
 Let him your surety be ; 
 A princely ransom is your own. 
 But set Sir Hubert free."
 
 THE BOY OF NA VARRE. 113 
 
 "And where is now Count Raymond's son?" 
 Fierce Mowbray quick replied : 
 The boy drew back ; a nobler air 
 Spoke from his brow of pride : 
 
 " Ere this he were in old Navarre, 
 And glad both sire and son, 
 Had he who saved him in the war 
 His gallant purpose done. 
 
 "But since upon his patron's fate 
 Mischance hath seem'd to lower, 
 'Tis his to tend his bonds, and wait 
 His errand in the Tower." 
 
 Then might you see strange passions move 
 
 Those stern-faced lords, each one ; 
 And foremost each to ask they strove, 
 "Art thou Count Raymond's son?" 
 
 The boy drew off a Spanish glove. 
 And show'd a ruby ring : 
 " A token this my faith to prove, 
 I wear it from my king." 
 
 Then rose the mitred Sudbury, 
 
 And spoke : " My noble peers, 
 See heaven reveal truth's mystery 
 
 To childhood's simple years !
 
 114 
 
 THE BOY OF NA VARRE. 
 
 " But lest this gipsy boy of Spain 
 Should boast our worth outdone, 
 Free pardon let Sir Hubert gain, 
 
 Speed home Count Raymond's son." 
 
 Then back the boy of old Navarre 
 To London's Tower might hie. 
 
 And brighter than a silver star 
 The gladness of his eye.
 
 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 115 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 
 
 The battle of Varna was fought on November lo, 
 1444; and was a fatal battle to those Christian states 
 in the East of Europe, which had allied themselves to 
 check the arms of the Turks, and to save Constanti- 
 nople. The Hungarians and other allies had unhappily 
 listened to the advice of the Pope's Nuncio, who 
 persuaded them to break a ten years' treaty, just con- 
 cluded on very advantageous terms to themselves, 
 with the Turkish Sultan. Hence Christian writers 
 have always spoken of this overthrow as a token of 
 God's judgment against the truce-breakers ; and the 
 contemporary authorities mention the anecdote of 
 Amurath, which is here related, in reference to it. 
 
 Thrice, like crested seas advancing. 
 
 Where tall rocks their inroad bar. 
 On the strong Hungarian border 
 
 RoU'd the Moslem waves of war : 
 Thrice that broken surge retreating 
 
 Left its corpses strew'd in gore. 
 Like the green and purple tangles 
 
 By the wave-mark on the shore.
 
 116 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 
 
 Then said Amurath the Sultan, 
 " Allah, thou art great alone ! 
 Fatal is this cloud that gathers 
 
 Round the Balkan's mountain-throne. 
 By the faithful fall'n around me 
 Well I read the sure decree : 
 Fate ordains a further conquest, — 
 
 But to mine, and not to me. 
 Brave viziers, now let the sabre 
 
 Spare the foes whom we abhor. 
 Till the star of young Mohammed 
 
 Lights anew the ranks of war ; 
 Let soft peace restore the weary, 
 
 Till Mohammed's beard be grown. 
 And his sword shall lead to glories 
 I too rashly deem'd my own." 
 
 Straight a herald sped the message, 
 
 That the wide-encroaching Turk, 
 Yielding now his claim of conquest. 
 
 Sought a truce from murder's work. 
 Soon they met, — the Reis Effendi 
 
 With his sable-silver'd beard, 
 And Hunniades the Waiwode, 
 
 Whom the turban'd Othmans fear'd : 
 Glad Hungaria's war-worn monarch 
 
 Gave the truce the Moslems pray'd ; 
 Glad his warriors saw returning 
 Sabbath-rest with God to aid.
 
 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 117 
 
 Fair and free the term accorded, 
 
 Till ten times the circling sun 
 O'er the wide Hungarian border 
 
 His full yearly course had run. 
 But, alack the day ! Pope Eugene, 
 
 Frowning from his solemn throne, 
 Proudly spoke, " This peace ill-sorted 
 
 Mars the good that valour won. 
 Christian knights, too soon ye yielded. 
 
 And by evil arts o'erseen ; 
 Let this poor and bootless treaty 
 
 Be as it had never been." 
 Such the message Juliano 
 
 From the Roman father bore : 
 " Keep no truce with unbelievers ; 
 
 Void are all the oaths ye swore." 
 Bold the Cardinal and Legate 
 
 Stand before the Christian peers ; 
 Arm'd he comes to lead the battle. 
 
 High the banner'd Cross he rears. 
 But, alack ! that day of sorrow. 
 
 When the champions of the Cross 
 Listen'd to his faithless message, 
 
 Spring of fatal harm and loss. 
 
 Strong in arms the Christian squadrons 
 Left the pine-clad mountain-brow, 
 
 And the sword's wide-wasting onset 
 Swept Bulgaria's plains below ;
 
 118 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 
 
 Still the Moslem host retreated, 
 
 Till, in Varna's spreading bay. 
 They beheld where now the Sultan 
 
 With his fleet at anchor lay : 
 " Onward ! " cried Hungaria's monarch, 
 
 " Till our mountain eagle lave 
 Her bold breast and gory pinions 
 
 In dark Euxine's stormy wave. 
 Onward ! till the recreant Paynim 
 
 From our Christian land retire ; 
 Or the sea engulph the remnant 
 
 'Scaped from battering sword and fire." 
 
 Then the shout of gathering thousands 
 
 Echoed to the trumpet's breath. 
 Scorn was there, and maddening laughter, 
 
 And the baneful joys of death : 
 Onward rush'd Hungaria's monarch, 
 
 Loud he raised his battle-cry. 
 As he near'd the stern-eyed Sultan : 
 
 " Amurath, now fight or fly." 
 From his breast the stern-eyed Sultan 
 
 Drew a scroll of parchment fair : 
 Briefly to and fro he waved it 
 
 In the clear and sunbright air : 
 " Jesu, son of maiden Mary, 
 
 Whom the Christian hosts adore, 
 Carest Thou not for these deceivers, 
 
 Who Thy name blaspheming swore ?
 
 THE BATTLE OF VARNA. 119 
 
 Lo ! the scroll of truce ! the signet ! 
 
 'Tis their king's imperial sign : 
 Be it Thine to chasten falsehood, 
 
 If to preach of truth were Thine." 
 
 Was it that the Lord of Glory- 
 Heard the Paynim chieftain's prayer, 
 
 Or that heaviest vengeance ever 
 Waits on Christians who forswear ? 
 
 Straight, as when some counter-current 
 Rolls the eddying clouds away, 
 
 Back the tide of war returning 
 Changed the fortune of that day. 
 
 Low then fell Hungaria's monarch. 
 Low was Julian's pride o'erthroAvn, 
 
 Brave Hunniades borne backward 
 Lives to lose his rescued throne. 
 
 From that day in prouder conquest 
 Did the wavering Crescent shine. 
 
 Till it storm'd thy princely bulwarks. 
 Brave and peerless Constantine !
 
 120 STRAFFORD. 
 
 XII. 
 STRAFFORD. 
 
 The Defence of Lord Strafford, spoken on April 12, 
 1 64 1, was published among the pamphlets of the day. 
 It appears to have been taken down by a reporter, 
 who had heard it delivered, and was able to give the 
 substance of the concluding portion ; but from some 
 errors in the phraseology and arrangement of the sen- 
 tences, it is evident that we have not the exact words 
 which he used, nor a copy of them revised by himself 
 We have, therefore, nothing more than a tolerable 
 newspaper report of that Defence, which moved the 
 wondering admiration of all who heard it ; and it is 
 important to notice this, as some modern historians 
 have treated it as a document of higher authority. It 
 is from this pamphlet, printed in 1641, that the first 
 part of the following lines has been derived. The 
 rest is partly from the common histories, partly from 
 Sir George Radcliffe's Memoir. 
 
 Persons judge differently of the character of Lord 
 Strafford, according to their persuasion of the politi- 
 cal condition of England at that time. Those who 
 think that the opponents of this great man had no ob- 
 ject but to secure the subject's liberties, and the rights
 
 STRAFFORD. 121 
 
 of the House of Commons, and the redress of some 
 acknowledged disorders in the system of government, 
 can only regard this nobleman as a splendid culprit 
 whose fall was just and necessary. Those who, on 
 the contrary, take the view, which the result goes far 
 enough to justify, that there was a powerful faction at 
 work from the first, whose design was to subvert the 
 throne and exalt themselves upon its ruins, must ever 
 revere his character, as an example of fortitude and 
 self-devoted loyalty, such as has never been surpassed. 
 It is needless to say which of these two opinions 
 the present writer considers to be most in accordance 
 with historical truth. Not even those, who are most 
 strongly under the power of the opposite opinion, will 
 now justify the mode by which this noble victim was 
 sacrificed, doomed to death by a law made for the 
 special purpose of his destruction ; but one of the 
 most able advocates who have lately appeared on that 
 side, the ingenious Mr. Hallam, borrowing the words 
 of a second-rate pagan poet, says that, in the case of 
 such conspicuous guilt, some enormity of punishment 
 is requisite, to " absolve the gods," to show that 
 heaven is neither deaf nor blind. A mode of argu- 
 ment which would go to justify, as, indeed, it was 
 first used to justify, an act of public assassination.
 
 122 STRAFFORD. 
 
 Silent were England's peers, 
 When Strafford's voice was heard \ 
 A soul too great for the storms of fate 
 Spoke in each burning word : 
 
 " Such lot," he said, " is mine. 
 As the fisher's, doom'd to go, 
 Where no buoy afloat warn'd his light-oar'd boat 
 Of the anchor moor'd below : 
 
 " Or like to his, who treads 
 The treacherous battle-plain. 
 Where never smoke from the deep earth broke, 
 To mark war's hidden train. 
 
 " Let your oracles of law 
 Declare, nor think it scorn, 
 When hath traitor bled on treason's bed 
 For a treason yet unborn ? 
 
 " And ye, high England's peers, 
 Shall they say in after time, 
 That ye gave to hate the power of fate. 
 To change the marks of crime ? 
 
 " Pause yet, if any care 
 For your King's just honour be ; 
 Faith will not live, where she may not give 
 The counsel of the free.
 
 STRAFFORD. 123 
 
 " O, born to counsel thrones, 
 Guard well from harm secure, 
 From envious breath, and the fear of death. 
 That birthright high and pure : 
 
 " And give these curious arts. 
 That would slay before they warn, 
 Such end as took old Sorcery's book * 
 In Truth's immortal morn. 
 
 " Think not, for brittle life 
 This constant soul shall sue : 
 But I plead the cause of England's laws, 
 For England, and for you. 
 
 " Yet something my heart would say, — 
 Those pledges, whom Mercy gave, 
 Whom a saint at rest, where the pure are blest. 
 Still loves beyond the grave, — 
 
 * See Acts xix. 19. There was a peculiar propriety in Lord 
 Strafford's comparison of the mysterious science of constructive 
 treason, by which he was condemned, with the " curious arts " of 
 the old pagan sorcerers. Both these arts and sciences gave the 
 adepts some especial facilities in practising against human life. 
 And as we read of wizards and fortune-tellers being much 
 patronised by such persons as the Emperor Tiberius and Louis XL 
 of France, Cromwell also had his Sidrophel in William Lily, 
 who was his astrologer in state affairs.
 
 124 STRAFFORD. 
 
 Must they too share the loss 
 My heavy doom shall bring ? 
 Nay, the thought was wrong ; let my hope be strong 
 In God, and my gracious King : 
 
 " In God, Whose grace hath taught 
 My weakness to despise 
 Fate's darkest frown, for the weightier crown 
 Of glory in the skies. 
 
 " And thus, for death or life 
 Howe'er your voice be given, 
 There is One alone Whose Will is done, 
 In this low earth, and heaven." 
 
 Silent were England's peers : 
 The man they would condemn 
 So calm appear'd, as though he fear'd 
 Less for himself than them ; 
 
 And they, who had met to doom 
 That noble Earl to die, 
 Shrunk, pale as death, and with bated breath, 
 From his hon port and eye. 
 
 None acted such a part 
 Upon Fate's purple stage : 
 O wondrous power of that strong hour, 
 When Reason strove with Rage !
 
 STRAFFORD. 125 
 
 But the grim award is past ; 
 They have heard him plead in vain : 
 God pity their toil in the serpent coil 
 Of Error's endless train ! * 
 
 And a white-stoled man is gonef 
 The fatal scroll to brine;, 
 And with fatal art to play his part, 
 To palter with his King. 
 
 O grief ! the King bends down 
 To write the deathful sign ! 
 ' Brave Earl, thy fate, o'erborne by hate, 
 Is happier far than mine." X 
 
 O bitter hour of shame. 
 When, weak to hold his own, 
 The sad King gave his champion brave 
 To the foes that sought his throne ! 
 
 * This line, from Spenser's Fairy Queen, I. i. i8, was applied 
 by Strafford himself to the weak or treacherous conduct of other 
 members of the government, by whom his fall was either hastened 
 or contrived. Letter to S. G. Radcliffe, Nov. 5, 1640. 
 
 t Williams, Archbishop of York, who told the king he had 
 two consciences, a private and public one ; and that he ought 
 only to consult the public one on matters of state. 
 
 X Charles spoke these words with tears, when he signed the 
 commission to pass the bill. Sir G. Radcliffe's Memoir.
 
 126 STRAFFORD. 
 
 O heaviest wrong to bear 
 
 In all that tide of ill ! 
 a willing mind no wror 
 And Strafford is loyal still. 
 
 But a willing mind no wrong can find, 
 
 The pleasant morn of May 
 Glanced bright on field and bower, 
 When the solemn bell for that noble knell 
 Rang out from the frowning Tower. 
 
 He comes, that champion brave, 
 As firm in step and mien, 
 As in youth he play'd, where the dun deer stray'd 
 In Wentworth forest green. 
 
 He comes, where the rebel rout 
 Are flocking fast, to see 
 How the souls of the brave can pass to the grave 
 In the hour of their agony. 
 
 Yet, hold a little space, 
 And list to the solemn prayer 
 From the latticed cell, where a priest doth dwell,f 
 Like him, a captive there ; 
 
 * "To a willing man no injuiy is done." Strafford's words 
 to the King from the Tower, May 4, 1641. 
 
 t For these lines on the parting interview between Strafford 
 and Laud, the writer is much indebted to a friend who sent him 
 his thoughts in manuscript.
 
 STRAFFORD. 127 
 
 A reverend aged priest, 
 Who maketh prayer alway ; 
 Though his robes of pride be cast aside, 
 And his mitre reft away : 
 
 God's chosen priest and true. 
 By the rabble's curse o'erborne, 
 Reserved to feel grim Faction's steel, 
 And glut the rebel's scorn. 
 
 Before him Strafford kneels : 
 The knee that could not bow 
 To crested pride * on Oppression's side, — 
 It kisses the pavement now ; 
 
 And up to that aged man 
 He meekly lifts his eye, 
 And in reverent fear he waits to hear 
 His blessing, ere he die. 
 
 O, those lips for grief are mute : 
 He may not speak, but sigh ; 
 And he raiseth his hands in their iron bands, 
 And blesseth him silently. 
 
 * "He loved justice for justice itself, taking great delight to 
 free a poor man from a powerful oppressor, or to punish bold 
 wickedness. This lost him some men's good will, which he 
 thought to be better lost than kept on such terms." Sir G. 
 Radcliffe.
 
 128 
 
 STRAFFORD. 
 
 'Tis past : — lead quickly on ; 
 Deep silence let there be, 
 Till the words are said, and the prayer is pray'd. 
 And the gallant soul is free !
 
 SAMPSON HORTON. 129 
 
 XIIL 
 
 SAMPSON HORTON. 
 
 In the parish Register of Bishop's Bourne, in Kent, 
 is to be seen the following record : — " Sampson 
 Horton was buried the 9th of May 1648; an aged 
 man who had been clarke to this parish, by his own 
 relation, threescore years." He is, therefore, the 
 " grateful clerk," who honoured the memory of 
 Hooker in the way which will be remembered by 
 most readers of Izaak Walton, and which is the sub- 
 ject of the following lines. The anecdote has lately 
 called forth some beautiful verses from a young 
 American divine and poet, the Rev. Benj. Winslow ; 
 which the present writer would have preferred insert- 
 ing in this volume to his own, had it not appeared 
 that they were not sufficiently cast into the narrative 
 form required in a ballad. 
 
 The drops of kindly dew * that fall 
 From trees of goodliest bough, 
 
 Rain blessings on each flow'ret small, 
 That lowly blooms below. 
 
 * Spenser, Shepherd's Calendar, November : — 
 
 " The kindly dewe di-ops from the higher tree, 
 And wets the little plants that lowly dwell." 
 K*
 
 130 SAMPSON HORTON. 
 
 Such grace have souls of highest grace, 
 By heav'n-taught wisdom made 
 
 The strength of men in humbler place, 
 Who grow beneath their shade. 
 
 Such grace had he, whom Meekness bore 
 Most near with Truth to dwell, 
 
 With deepest draughts of holy lore 
 Fed from the eternal Well, — 
 
 The meek-eyed priest of Bishop's Bourne, 
 Whom England's Church alway 
 
 Deems brightest star that rose at morn 
 To light her purer day. 
 
 Such grace had he, — and of his grace 
 
 A simple soul had share, 
 An honest heart, that kept its place 
 
 Amidst a realm's despair. 
 Nor change nor peril could efface 
 
 The master's lesson there. 
 
 Full forty years had come and fled, 
 Since that meek man of God 
 
 Had lowly laid his reverend head 
 Beneath the churchyard sod :
 
 SAMPSON HORTON. 131 
 
 And now new people fill the land, 
 
 To his good name unknown ; 
 New priests at England's altars stand, 
 
 New kings usurp her throne. 
 
 Old Sampson Horton, still he lives. 
 
 Hath every change out-worn ; 
 With age to do his part he strives 
 
 Lay-clerk of Bishop's Bourne. 
 
 Oft when around the mountain's brow 
 
 The storm beats loud and shrill. 
 Deep in the winding vale below 
 
 The charmed air is still : 
 
 So fared this humble man, — his life 
 
 In Kent's low vales was led ; 
 The thunder of the public strife 
 
 RoH'd high above his head. 
 
 Till on a day, — unblest the day, — 
 
 Rebellion's hateful scorn 
 Forced from his pastoral home away 
 
 The loyal priest of Bourne. 
 
 Glad Easter morn was shining bright : 
 
 Old Sampson, as of yore. 
 With staff to prop his feeble might. 
 
 Took forth his sacred store.
 
 132 SAMPSON HORTON. 
 
 And paten, cup, and linen white, 
 For God's blest altar bore. 
 
 But where was now glad Easter's song, 
 Or Easter's solemn prayer ? 
 
 Strange features in the chancel throng, 
 Strange hands the feast prepare. 
 
 And now the graceless rites begin, 
 Where men of pride and gloom 
 
 Are bold to act fierce Korah's sin, 
 And dread not Korah's doom : 
 
 With knees that scorn to bow, they meet 
 
 Around the sacred board. 
 And seats they spread, to sit and eat 
 
 As equals with their Lord. 
 
 Awhile old Sampson gazing stood, — 
 For age is grave and slow, — 
 
 As one scarce able, if he would. 
 To comprehend that show. 
 
 Then spake Geneva's minister, 
 As proud he trod the floor, 
 " Old man, leave off that wondering air. 
 And close the church's door." 
 
 " Nay, shut me out," the old man said, 
 " My charge I here resign ;
 
 SAMPSON NORTON. 133 
 
 Full threescore years that board I spread 
 
 For other rites than thine, 
 And knelt, where prayer had bless'd the bread, 
 
 Salvation's pledge and sign. 
 
 " Not mine the part of questions deep, 
 That oft perplex the wise ; 
 But firm to death that path to keep, 
 Where simple duty lies. 
 
 " Where my good master bow'd, I bow ; 
 Age keeps its memories strong, — 
 I cannot change my service now, 
 I cannot do him wrong." 
 
 He left the desecrated dome ; 
 
 A tear was in his eye ; 
 He sought his humble cottage-home. 
 
 And laid him down to die. 
 
 Light lie the earth upon his breast 
 
 Beneath the churchyard sod, 
 Where Hooker's honour'd bones at rest 
 
 Await the trump of God : 
 
 And when for me some tangled knot 
 
 Perplexing Reason ties, 
 Some Angel guide me to that spot 
 
 Where simple Duty lies !
 
 134 ELISABETH STUART. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ELISABETH STUART. 
 
 In the month of November 1793, as some workmen 
 were digging a grave in the chancel of the church at 
 Newport in the Isle of Wight, they discovered a 
 leaden coffin, on which was inscribed the name and 
 title of " Elisabeth, second daughter of the late King 
 Charles, Sept. 8, 1650." It was then almost a for- 
 gotten tale, that this young princess, with her little 
 brother the Duke of Gloucester, after the martyrdom 
 of her royal father, had passed some time under the 
 care of the Earl and Countess of Leicester at Pens- 
 hurst ; but were afterwards removed, by order of the 
 rebel Parliament, to the custody rather than the charge 
 of Sir Henry Mildmay, Governor of Carisbroke Castle, 
 one of the worst men of their own profligate number. 
 Here the tender and delicate girl shortly fell a victim, 
 at the early age of fifteen, to her own acute sorrows ; 
 the very place, as her physician said of it, and the 
 remembrance of her father's imprisonment, having 
 raised in her the grief which ended her days. The 
 Duke of Gloucester was afterwards sent by Cromwell's 
 order to join the Queen-Mother in France. He died 
 shortly after the Restoration, in his twentieth year, 
 September 13, 1660, a young prince of the highest 
 promise.
 
 ELISABETH STUART. 135 
 
 I STOOD within the mouldering tower, 
 Where once a suffering Monarch lay, 
 
 When rebel rage was arm'd with power, 
 And triumph'd in a realm's decay. 
 
 The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombs, 
 For sacred sorrow marks the spot ; 
 
 And there the blue-eyed floweret blooms, 
 By shepherds call'd Forget-me-not. 
 
 That quiet scene, — I know not how, — 
 The roofless walls, the casement's frame, 
 
 Where through the bars at freedom now 
 The thymy breezes went and came, — 
 
 The turf's green floor within the cell 
 
 Of that majestic captive's woes. 
 Moved thoughts too deep for speech to tell, 
 
 As all the past in memory rose. 
 
 Forget thee, martyr'd Saint and King ! 
 
 Forget thee ! Sooner let me be 
 Myself an unremember'd thing 
 
 To each loved heart that beats for me ! 
 
 Thus mused I, speaking half aloud, 
 As though that little summer flower 
 
 Reproach'd my curious gaze, too proud 
 For mourner in a martyr's bower.
 
 136 ELISABETH STUART. 
 
 A martyr's bower ! Ah, not alone 
 
 For him my vows perform'd shall be ; 
 
 But for that meek and tender one 
 Here doom'd a longer woe to drie ; 
 
 For her, poor child, whose heavy lot 
 It was to bear long months of pain 
 
 E'en here, where each remember'd spot 
 Recall'd a father's griefs again ; 
 
 Where, far from every eye that loved, 
 
 Her life's young bloom in charge was given 
 
 To one dark soul, as far removed 
 From pity, as from hope and heaven. 
 
 O witchcraft of rebellious sin, 
 
 That drugs so deep guilt's deadly bowl, 
 
 That no sweet Mercy wakes within 
 The slumber of the darken'd soul ! 
 
 O fearful sacraments of crime, 
 
 Which men of blood as pledges seek, 
 
 That no remorse in after-time 
 
 May prove them changelings, soft and weak 
 
 Such spell was on thy graceless end, 
 Fall'n Mildmay,* of all truth forlorn. 
 
 Traitor to all who call'd thee friend, 
 At once the rebels' drudge and scorn. 
 
 Lord Clarendon gives the following account of this person
 
 ELISABETH STUART. 137 
 
 Thy gallant brother,* now to thee 
 No brother, watch'd his master dear, 
 
 And when his gracious soul was free, 
 To Windsor bore his honour'd bier. 
 
 — " He was master of the King's Jewel-house, and had been bred 
 up in the Court, being younger brother of a good family in Essex, 
 and had been prosecuted with so great favours and bounties by 
 King James and by King Charles, that he was raised by them to 
 a great estate and preferred to that office in the Household, which 
 is the best under those which entitle the officers to be of the Privy 
 Council. No man was more obsequious than he to the Court 
 whilst it flourished ; a great flatterer of all persons in authority, 
 and a spy in all places for them. But, from the beginning of the 
 Parliament, he concurred with those who were most violent 
 against the Court, and most likely to prevail against it ; and being 
 thereupon branded with ingratitude, as that brand commonly 
 makes men impudent, he continued his desperate pace with them, 
 till he became one of the murderers of his master." He and an- 
 other wretched apostate, Sir John D' Anvers, were the only persons 
 who sat as judges on the Royal Martyr, whom he had personally 
 known. These two had both been his confidential and highly- 
 favoured servants, and consequently we may well believe what 
 Lord Clarendon says, that " the party of miscreants," who pro- 
 fited by their baseness, " looked upon no two men in the king- 
 dom with such scorn and detestation, as they did on D' Anvers 
 and Mildmay." 
 
 * Antony Mildmay, Esq., the younger brother of Sir Henry, 
 was the exact opposite to him in all points of his character. S ted- 
 fast in his religion, and loyal to his sovereign to the end, he wait- 
 ed on him in prison at Carisbroke, and at Hurst Castle ; and 
 attended his corpse with the faithful Sir Thomas Herbert, when 
 it was carried from London to be buried at Windsor.
 
 138 ELISABETH STUART. 
 
 But thou, who didst consent to bring 
 That stately cedar down so low, 
 
 Wouldst now too strike the shoots of spring, 
 That from its root in beauty grow. 
 
 Beneath that withering jailer's eye. 
 
 The child, — so dark his glances were, — 
 
 Oft pray'd, if Heaven would bid her die, 
 That doom had less of fear for her. 
 
 And when in many a rise and fall 
 
 The winds swept round these turrets grey, 
 
 She deem'd she heard her father call 
 Her suffering soul no more to stay. 
 
 For still his voice was in her ear,* 
 As when, his last farewell to speak. 
 
 He raised her faint and mute with fear, 
 And kiss'd her pale cold trembling cheek ; 
 
 * The Princess Elisabeth, as it is well known, left a short and 
 simple account in writing of her and her brother's last interview 
 with her father before his death ; of which a most affecting rela- 
 tion is given by Herbert. Later writers have commonly repeated 
 the account of the words which passed between the little Duke of 
 Gloucester and his father ; but have been less particular about 
 those which the Princess relates as addressed to herself, to which 
 allusion is here made : 
 
 " He wished me not to grieve and torment myself for him ; 
 for that it would be a glorious death that he should die, for the 
 laws and liberties of this land, and for maintaining the true Pro-
 
 ELISABETH STUART. 139 
 
 And pray'd Heav'n's grace to shield her youdi, 
 To guard her soul with holiest care, 
 
 By Laud and Hooker train'd in truth, 
 By Andrewes taught the voice of prayer. 
 
 " Grieve not for me," her sire had said, 
 " For I shall win the martyr's wreath." 
 " O no, I grieve not ; but my head 
 
 Throbs with an eager pulse for death." 
 
 It was the fever of the brain 
 
 That wrought to death that gentle dove ; — 
 But oh, she hath not lived in vain. 
 
 Young martyr vow'd of filial love. 
 
 testant religion. He bade me read Bishop Andrews's Sermons, 
 Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, and Bishop Laud's Book against 
 Fisher, which would ground me against Popeiy. He told me he 
 had forgiven his enemies, and hoped God would forgive them ; 
 and commanded us, and all the rest of my brothers and sisters, to 
 forgive them. He bade me tell my mother that his thoughts had 
 never strayed from her, and that his love should be the same to 
 the last. He commanded me and my brother to be obedient to 
 her, and bade me send his blessing to the rest of my brothers and 
 sisters, with commendation to all his friends. So after he had 
 given me his blessing, I took my leave. 
 
 "Further, he commanded us all to forgive those people, but 
 never to trust them ; for they had been most false to him, and to 
 those that gave them power, and he feared to their own souls 
 also. He desired me not to grieve for him, for he should die a 
 martyr, and he doubted not but that God would settle his throne 
 upon his son, and that we should be all happier than we could 
 have expected to have been if he had lived."
 
 <5r
 
 TWO SONNETS, 
 
 MEDITATED IN GRASMERE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 L 
 
 We trod the Vale of peaceful Memory, 
 
 Where He, whose thoughts were hung on every bough. 
 Whose spirit linger'd round each mist-clad brow. 
 Or glanced from every dewy flow'ret's eye, 
 Was with us ; where each breeze that murmur'd by, 
 The torrent's roar amidst the silent wood. 
 The still dark mirror of the moonlit flood, 
 Woke in the soul mysterious harmony. 
 
 And joy of voiceless songs ; till one green nook 
 Subdued us, where one simple dark grey stone 
 Marks the low mound, where sleeps the minstrel tongue. 
 Of Him whose harp meek Mercy tuned and strung, 
 Whom gentlest Nature for her Prophet took. 
 And Love Eternal hallow' d for its own.
 
 142 TWO SONAEl'S. 
 
 II. 
 
 Flow on, bright Rotha, sparkling to the day, 
 Roll thy clear waves o'er moss or serried stone, 
 Whether the mountain storms with flash and moan 
 
 Swell thy full stream, or on its summer way 
 
 It sport midst birchen shades and marble grey, 
 Undimm'd alike and pure. For such was One, 
 Who listen'd to thy voice, and caught its tone, 
 
 Brightening earth's joys, or chiding grief away 
 
 With flow of song untroubled. Who would change 
 
 That life, whose music countercharm'd despair. 
 For Wealth's dead surging sea, where never oar 
 Or sail yet found the visionary shore. 
 
 Or all Ambition's madness ? Whisperings strange 
 
 Breathe from that grave. Peace sings her requiem 
 
 there ! 
 
 September 185 1.
 
 A VISION OF THE HILLS. 143 
 
 A VISION OF THE HILLS. 
 
 Was it a dream that mock'd my waking sight, 
 As stretch'd upon the mountain-slope I lay, 
 And wondering saw the deep blue vault of day 
 Converge as to a hollow spire of light. 
 Wherein a stair of sapphire, height on height. 
 
 Rose circling still, till eye no more could trace 
 The lessening rounds, so spiritually bright, 
 
 That angel forms might seem to throng the space 
 Ascending or descending ? Was it vain. 
 
 That show, which all unbidden met my gaze ? 
 Or was th' unearthly pageant sent to raise 
 The drooping heart, and bid the soul be strong, 
 Till loosed from earthly bonds it rise to gain 
 Heights, where Heaven's choirs attune th' eternal song? 
 
 On Skidda7C', Sept. i, 1S54.
 
 1 44 THO UGHTS OF ROBER T SO UTHE V. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, 
 
 AT Greta Hall. 
 
 Was ever Poet nursed in school like thine, 
 
 Mid sighs of furnace-blasts, and sobs of mills, 
 
 In tunnel-reek, and steams of spirit-stills. 
 Where scarce the sun's meridian beams might shine ? 
 Did ever infant Poet pen a line 
 
 By money-changers' boards, or tinkling tills ? 
 
 Or learn to lisp in numbers, taught by bills 
 Of strollers, scorn of Phoebus and the Nine ? 
 Yet Nature made thy joyous heart a mine 
 
 Of fancies rich, as throng the sunbright hills, 
 
 Or wake at morn by Heliconian rills, 
 As gay as meny Greece, and more benign ; 
 
 Warm fancies, proof to stormy Fortune's chills. 
 That burn at Home-Affection's altar-shrine. 
 
 1854.
 
 THOUGHTS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. 145 
 
 11. 
 
 Proud bards there are, who Fortune's power defy, 
 
 And say she bears no sway where Prudence dwells : 
 There are, who from her threats dishearten'd fly, 
 
 Whose new-fledged hopes her first rude tempest 
 quells ; 
 
 Who sing their idle griefs to woods and dells, 
 Like the poor brainsick knight, in field o'erthrown, 
 
 Of whose last dolorous trance the Spaniard tells, 
 Vowing to make the shepherd's life his own. 
 And leave his lance to rust. A braver tone 
 
 Was thine, to smile at Fate that frown'd on thee, 
 To teach the sullen world how thou hadst won 
 
 The gladness of the heart by Truth set free. 
 And, more than laureate wreath, the cro\vn made sure 
 To virtuous aims fast-link'd with counsels pure. 
 
 1854. 
 
 L*
 
 1 4G DEDICA TOR V SONNE T. 
 
 DEDICATORY SONNET 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE AUTHOR's " GONGORA," WITH A 
 GRATEFUL INSCRIPTION "TO THE PIOUS MEMORY 
 OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, THE FRIEND OF SPAIN AND 
 OF SPANISH LITERATURE." 
 
 I THOUGHT of thee on stern Sebastian's height, 
 Gazing on rock, and flood, and sounding shore, 
 
 And sparkhng waves that danced in Eastern hght. 
 While Morn her orange-wreath in beauty wore : 
 I heard the broad Atlantic's solemn roar, 
 
 Look'd to the stedfast hills, and thought of thee 
 Bidding thy bedes at Mercy's golden door. 
 
 Till Pride was quell'd, and suffering realms were free ; 
 
 That evermore the pine-clad Pyrenee 
 
 Might be this loyal Land's unbroken zone. 
 
 And Truth, more fair than Morn o'er sparkling sea. 
 Might dawn to blend long-sever'd faiths in one. 
 
 Shall it not come, that dawn of Truth so fair ? 
 
 Thy spirit lives, and Heaven records the prayer !
 
 NORTH-COUNTRY RIVERS. 147 
 
 NORTH- COUNTRY RIVERS. 
 
 Fair Wharfe, glad pastoral Yore, bright Swale, loud 
 Tees, 
 Clear sparkling Rother, and dark Lune, your throng 
 Of waters rolls as from the Fount of Song, 
 The living chaunt of heaven's deep harmonies : 
 Strange spirits haunt your caves, your rocks, your trees, 
 Leap down your torrent-falls, or dart along 
 Your sunbeams, glancing, changing, swift and strong, 
 With shafts new-bathed in glory. Let soft Ease. 
 Sleep by the still broad lake or tranquil shore, 
 Where rest is pleasant and the land is good : 
 
 Let Mammon dig and delve for glittering ore 
 Amidst the world's dry places, bleak and rude : 
 But, Hope, thy call speaks from each arrowy flood 
 The Eternal's watchword, Onward evermore ! 
 
 Near Ingleborotigh, Sept. 28, 1864.
 
 148 I ON A. 
 
 lONA. 
 
 The glittering shafts of Mom 
 Are glancing o'er the waves, 
 And dart from misty hills of Lorn 
 
 On Mull's sea-weltering caves. 
 
 Aboard, young hearts, with me ! 
 We steer by stormy shores. 
 Where pent in straits the northern Sea 
 Round rock and headland roars. 
 
 'Tis past, the surging Sound : 
 And, righting from the strain. 
 Our bark, like steed in meadow-ground, 
 Is racing through the main. 
 
 Care not for weeping cloud. 
 Again the sun shall smile. 
 And hang its rainbow's emerald shroud 
 On Staffa's wondrous isle. 
 
 Yet not on Staffa's isle 
 
 Our wish shall linger long, 
 Though well may Nature's vaulted pile 
 Wake up our choral song.
 
 ION A. 14 
 
 We seek a dearer land, 
 That boasts a richer store 
 Than ere from Ophir's golden strand 
 Tyre's merchant-princes bore : 
 
 There sleep the saintly dead, 
 Whom from their island-home 
 The Baptist's hermit spirit led 
 
 O'er moss and moor to roam. 
 
 Where soft as spring-tide dew 
 Their gracious speech was heard, 
 Wild tribes, whom Caesars never knew, 
 Bow'd captive to the Word : 
 
 In tempest-girdled Thule 
 
 The Northmen sought their lore, 
 And blue-eyed Saxons learnt their rule, 
 On far Northumbria's shore. 
 
 Tread softly o'er the ground : 
 The forms we may not see 
 Perchance e'en now are hovering round 
 From earthly trammels free. 
 
 Though mute these aisles that rang 
 With voice of chaunted prayer, 
 Or echoing but with sea-bird's clang 
 
 Through arches rude and bare,
 
 150 ION A. 
 
 The spirit of their love 
 
 Breathes yet from every stone, 
 Their toil, whose record lives above, 
 To mortal praise unknown. 
 
 Though cold that love in death, 
 And Discord wild and wide. 
 Strong in the wreck of ancient Faith, 
 Walks forth on every side, 
 
 Yet let thy vow be said, 
 For Truth to do and dare. 
 The spirits of the saintly dead 
 
 Are near to bless thy prayer : 
 
 The sun is bright above 
 
 The sounding northern main, 
 And bright-eyed Faith shall shine and move 
 United hearts again. 
 
 August 25, 1857.
 
 KILLIECRANKIE. 151 
 
 KILLIECRANKIE. 
 
 Oh for one hour of brave Dundee ! 
 
 That last strong hour by Garry's flood, 
 Which saw his victor-soul set free 
 
 By Death and Fortune unsubdued ! 
 
 When the mute caves in deepest glen, 
 The cliffs with birchen sprays o'erhung, 
 
 Rang echoing to the deeds of men 
 
 Unraatch'd since Earth and Time were young ; 
 
 When Honour, from her beaming throne, 
 Smiled on her champion's rugged fight, 
 
 Gilding with brightest set of sun 
 
 The last proud field of Scotland's right. 
 
 Roll on, swift Garry, down the glen. 
 
 Swift as the rolling war that day, 
 Led by that peerless Chief of men. 
 
 Unchanged by Time and Faith's decay. 
 
 Roll thy dark waves by moss-clad rock, 
 Through eddying fall, and whirlpool deep, 
 
 As voicing still the battle-shock 
 
 Of him who sleeps the warrior's sleep ;
 
 152 KILLIECRANKIE. 
 
 And tell, till dull Oblivion die, 
 
 How here he closed his loyal strife 
 
 In thunder-clangs of victory, 
 To live in song a deathless life. 
 
 There are, who school their patient breast 
 To bear the imperious spurns of Crime, 
 
 To suffer, and in silence rest 
 
 Through dim reproach, and faithless time. 
 
 I blame them not : may rest be theirs. 
 Who dwell at home with blameless peace, 
 
 Whose meek enduring soul outwears 
 
 Hard days, till guile and wrong shall cease. 
 
 But meet it is, that Virtue find 
 
 Her chosen few, of aims more high. 
 
 Whom Force may break, but may not bind. 
 Who dare for truth to do and die. 
 
 To die, if Fate her doom have pass'd. 
 Their life, but not their faith, to yield. 
 
 And bear in death the word that graced 
 The dying Spartan's dinted shield. 
 
 August 29, 1855.
 
 GLENCOE. 153 
 
 GLENCOE. 
 
 I STOOD within the vale of woe, 
 And saw tall cliffs, in terror piled, 
 
 Dark rifts, where torrents leap and flow, 
 Loud moaning through the long-drawn wild 
 
 I stood and gazed on stern Glencoe, 
 And thought upon the bitter day. 
 
 When Murder dyed the mountain-snow 
 With stains that ne'er shall pass away ; 
 
 When Wrath in Council's solemn place 
 
 Rejected pity's suit unheard. 
 And loosed upon his fiery chase 
 
 Revenge that waited for the word ; 
 
 When guiltless blood cried out to heaven ; 
 
 And despots cold with marble eye 
 Withheld the sword, which God had given 
 
 To bid the blood-stain'd felon die ; 
 
 For hard state-reasons steel'd the heart ; 
 
 The doubtful throne, — the shifting time, — 
 And taught the close usurper's art 
 
 To wink at serviceable crime.
 
 154 GLENCOE. 
 
 " Fair words make truce," King William said ; 
 His men of arms brought speeches fair : 
 For them the board their victims spread, 
 Nor deem'd that Joab's sword was there. 
 
 Within the hospitable door 
 
 The day went down in mirth and glee ; 
 The morrow dawn'd, — O never more 
 
 May sun so dire a dawning see ! 
 
 Suspicion slept : no guarded watch 
 
 Forewarned, when fell destruction came, 
 
 Till ruthless hands were on the latch, 
 
 To heap the hearth with blood and flame. 
 
 But who shall tell the piteous strife, 
 
 When babes and mothers, roused to fly, 
 
 Lost on steep rocks their feeble life. 
 Or sank in wreaths of snow to die ? 
 
 " A thousand years that mountain-snow 
 May melt in mists of vernal rain. 
 And bathe the slopes of steep Glencoe, 
 And wake its vales to joy again ; 
 
 " But evermore that stain shall last : " — 
 I spoke, and Cona's mournful roar 
 Made answer through the rock-bound waste, 
 " For evermore ! for evermore !" 
 
 August 27, 1857.
 
 A DIRGE AT CULLODEN. 155 
 
 A DIRGE AT CULLODEN. 
 
 O MOURN for Scotland's noblest, 
 
 The fearless ones and true, 
 Who fell on drear Culloden, 
 
 By Moray's waters blue. 
 
 Let the tear-drop fall above them. 
 Where the soil, for which they bled, 
 
 Gave wide its rugged bosom 
 To strew their funeral bed : 
 
 Where the mounds are thrown, chance-scatter'd, 
 
 O'er the unrecorded brave. 
 As the toil-worn hands of sorrow 
 
 In haste prepared their grave : 
 
 Where Scotland o'er her children 
 
 Would have rear'd the sculptured stone, 
 
 But, forlorn and grief-enfeebled, 
 Left half her task undone. 
 
 For who should write the blazon 
 
 Of the dim and evil day, 
 When the German bands, twice broken, 
 
 Came in turn to stab and slay ?
 
 156 A DIRGE AT CULLODEN. 
 
 When the banner'd cross of England 
 Droop'd sad in tainted air ; 
 
 When the coward's wrath was cruel,* 
 And his vengeance could not spare ? 
 
 Nay, in silence and in sadness 
 Leave the grey and lonely heath, 
 
 Whence Pity fled, all weeping. 
 From the victor's sullied wreath ; 
 
 Where the blood of priceless valour 
 Was pour'd on earth hke rain. 
 
 And the hearts of doleful mothers 
 Died down amidst their slain. 
 
 Leave, leave the broken column ; 
 
 Let the tomb of trophied stone 
 Tell of Britain's stainless triumphs. 
 
 Not her carnage of her own. 
 
 Yet mourn not for the fallen : 
 
 They have found their bed of rest 
 
 In the birth-soil of their fathers. 
 
 With the dead who loved them best : 
 
 * "He was a coward, and therefore merciless." — Sir Walter 
 Raleigh of a character in ancient history. I believe this to be a 
 sentence expressive of an universal truth, and therefore think it a 
 mistake to call WilHam, Duke of Cumberland, a brave man.
 
 A DIRGE A 7 CULLODEN. 157 
 
 Where they rush'd, hke mists of morning, 
 
 While the cannon's fiery breath 
 But served to light them onwards 
 
 To the gleaming ranks of death : 
 
 When each hand set firm the bonnet 
 
 On each pale and kindling brow, 
 And closer drew the tartan 
 
 As they vow'd the warrior's vow, 
 
 And grasp'd their fathers' broadswords, 
 
 And bade to hill and sky 
 Their bold farewell that morrow. 
 
 When they went to do and die. 
 
 But mourn for hopes that wither'd 
 
 Never more to bloom again ; 
 Mourn the onward road of glory 
 
 Tum'd to Exile's flight of pain ; 
 
 Mourn for him, the Heir of Princes, 
 
 Whose brightest day of prime, 
 Fast-fleeting, left his manhood 
 
 A wreck to Change and Time. 
 
 Mourn his life of aims forsaken, 
 
 The homeless wanderer's home, 
 The mirth of heartless revels. 
 
 Where gladness could not come :
 
 158 A DIRGE AT CULLODEN. 
 
 Through graceless courts, heart-weary, 
 
 Unfriended doom'd to rove, 
 Where none were near to love him, 
 
 None left whom he might love. 
 
 Mourn for Him, whom Honour mourned for. 
 And scarce could deem the same, 
 
 Who had stood, a kingdom's wonder, 
 In the front of steel and flame. 
 
 When Memory, self-accusing, 
 
 Had bedimm'd the eye of faith. 
 And the rest was but the anguish 
 
 Of the spirit's living death.* 
 
 Mourn for Him ; — but not for Scotland, 
 
 Who fearless sons and true 
 Sleep well on drear Culloden, 
 
 By Moray's waters blue. 
 
 Aug7ist 27, 1855. 
 
 * " ZJt' viv!-e et pas vivre est heaucoiip plus que de mourir.'''' A 
 sentence found in the handwriting of Charles Edward after his 
 death.
 
 A. G. F. P. 159 
 
 A. G. F. P. 
 
 ' What is that name that changeth not, 
 
 Though it be turn'd and turn'd again ? " 
 My God-child ADA's : be her lot 
 
 A life unchanged by joy or pain. 
 But what strange things that life shall see, 
 
 We cannot know, we may not plan : 
 One prayer her name shall teach to me, 
 
 That all may end as it began ! 
 
 October 1849.
 
 160 NURSERY SONG. 
 
 NURSERY SONG. 
 
 AN INCIDENT FROM THE PERSONAL MEMOIRS OF 
 THE RIVER WISKE. 
 
 The River Wiske 
 
 It took a frisk 
 Upon a summer's day, 
 
 And roU'd its flood 
 
 In gamesome mood, 
 Across the Queen's highway. 
 
 Proud of its kick, 
 
 Each httle duck 
 Came forth to dive and play, 
 
 And wish'd the Wiske 
 
 Would take that frisk 
 On every summer's day. 
 
 But 'twas great risk 
 
 For Kirby Wiske, 
 The folks were in dismay : 
 " O what a flood ! 
 
 It bodes no good ! 
 'Twill drown us if we stay."
 
 NURSERY SONG. LGl 
 
 With puzzled face 
 
 Old Boniface 
 Peep'd from his door that day, 
 
 For fear his ale, 
 
 Both mild and stale, 
 Should swim and float away. 
 
 And in the school 
 
 There was no rule 
 Throughout that summer's day ; 
 
 The boys, they could 
 
 Not cross the flood, 
 And so, — they went to play. 
 
 But down it went. 
 
 Its force was spent 
 Before the close of day ; 
 
 Though strong and brisk 
 
 The River Wiske, 
 It seem'd all whisked away. 
 
 And Farmer Brown 
 
 Rode through the town, 
 Right glad because his hay 
 
 AVas safe in pike 
 
 Beyond the dyke, 
 And was not whisk'd away.
 
 162 
 
 NURSERY SONG. 
 
 " Why, then, all's right," 
 Said old John White, 
 Whose hair was turn'd to grey : 
 " More fright than harm 
 
 To stock or farm 
 The Wiske has brought to-day. 
 
 " And oft I think, 
 
 As by its brink 
 To watch the waves I stray. 
 
 So, like the moods 
 
 Of summer floods, 
 Life's sorrows pass away." 
 
 ^■■^^' 
 
 ^i^"
 
 AD GULIELMUM MEUM. 163 
 
 AD GULIELMUM MEUM. 
 
 Litteras, quas tu, Gulielme dulcis, 
 Loetus et felix animi dedisti, 
 Loetus accepi pater ; est in illis 
 Gratia chartis. 
 
 Acta cum charo patruo recenses ; 
 Acta per terras recitas, marique, 
 Atque ubi pulchro novus enitescit 
 Lumine lucus.* 
 
 Nactus es, mirande puer, magistrum, 
 Quem minus felix mihi 'sors negavit ; 
 En viam, ut possis equitare, monstrat 
 Doctus equiso. 
 
 Disce, sed ne prjetuleris caballum, 
 Altius quamquam ingreditur, pusillae, 
 Quae tuum assueta est equa ferre pondus. 
 Optima equarum.f 
 
 * Anglice, " Fairlight glen." 
 
 + Poeta commendat equam parvam Zetlandicam, Scotice 
 dictam "Wee Moggie."
 
 164 AD GULIELMUM MEUM. 
 
 Ilia, mannorum grege de pusillo, 
 Te manet pinguis reducem ; superba 
 Orcadum tellus patria est, vel ipsa 
 Ultima Thule. 
 
 Hortulus floret tuus, et sororis ; 
 Hunc bonus custos coluit Johannes, 
 lUe qui nomen trahit a virentis 
 Nomine bosci.* 
 
 1846. 
 
 * Anglice, "John Greenwood.
 
 A LAY 
 
 TO THE 
 
 LAST MINSTREL 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 " To guard a title which was rich before." — King Johj
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 " No one can make good his claim to be esteemed a 
 noble poet, who is easy for everybody to understand, 
 and who has not in him a good store of learned skill 
 and knowledge of things, concealed beneath the sur- 
 face." This is the expressed opinion of one who was 
 himself a distinguished master of the art, and has 
 borne among his countrymen the name of " the divine 
 Herrera." * The question is whether Scott is an 
 exception to this rule ? But is not the answer to be 
 found in the strange diversity of judgments formed 
 about him and the creations of his pen, both during 
 his hfe and since his death ? This is not meant to 
 refer to writers whose strong antipathies, moral or 
 political, disqualify them from the capability of an 
 unbiassed estimate, and have led them to speak of 
 the great Minstrel as a hasty manufacturer of books 
 for the purpose of making money and purchasing a 
 landed estate ; but we seem to have lived to hear 
 men of more freedom of spirit, more unswayable by 
 popular voices, and of some pretension to critical 
 
 * Escritos y Poesies ineditas ; Sevilla, 1870, p. 86.
 
 168 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 taste and learning, speak as if they th<;Ught the old 
 admirers of those wonderful Lays and Romances 
 wanted an apology. And, as Toryism is not at pre- 
 sent in the sunshine, they intermix a little pity for the 
 man who would not take his lesson in politics, in his 
 last public appearance, from the weavers of Jedburgh, 
 and wished to leave the old machine of State at rest, 
 till it could be repaired by the best workman. Time 
 will tell whether he was less wise than those who are 
 now in the ascendant, whose policy is tending, with 
 such admirable success, to resolve society into its 
 primitive elements. But our business is not wth 
 Scott's politics, but his poetry. 
 
 To give to those who hint their doubts and 
 hesitate their dislikes as high a support as they are 
 likely to find elsewhere, it may be enough to refer to 
 some disparaging remarks reported from the conversa- 
 tion of the Poet Wordsworth, which, if Wordsworth's 
 true estimate of Scott had not, happily, been recorded 
 by himself in his own undying verse, might leave an im- 
 pression on the reader's mind as unjust to the one 
 great poet as to the other. See Memoir of Words- 
 worth, vol. ii. 444. No doubt what may have fallen 
 from the lips of such a man as Wordsworth, even in 
 the course of casual conversation, must command 
 respectful attention ; but a report from memory of 
 opinions expressed by him in talk cannot be received 
 as evidence of his real estimate of Scott, when it is
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 169 
 
 found to differ from his own deliberately-recorded 
 testimony of his love and value for his brother-poet. 
 That testimony has been given in no equivocal terms. 
 What was Wordsworth's earliest impression of Scott's 
 verse he has himself told us. When he first visited 
 the minstrel at his home in the Border country, 
 September 1803, Scott read to him a portion of the 
 Lay. " The novelty of the manners," says Words- 
 worth, " the clear picturesque descriptions, and the 
 ease and glowing energy of much of the verse, greatly 
 delighted me." There is nothing in any of his subse- 
 quent writings to belie these early impressions. But 
 there is still extant, — and it is not likely to be soon 
 forgotten, — a poem which a good critic * has called 
 " one of the finest occasional poems in the language," 
 Yarrow Revisited. This poem, so deeply filled with 
 affectionate veneration for Scott, and admiration for 
 his diversified invention and power, Wordsworth him- 
 self valued so much, that a short time after the great 
 minstrel's death he published another volume of his 
 poems, with this to give it its leading title.t It would 
 be a simple wrong to the memory of Wordsworth to 
 suppose that he wrote this poem, or any other, in the 
 style or spirit of those with whom " lowly feigning is 
 called compliment." 
 
 * Mr. F. T. Palgrave. 
 
 t Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems, 1834 ; with a dedica- 
 tion to the Poet Rogers.
 
 170 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 The observations ascribed to Wordsworth in con- 
 versation upon Scott as a poet were understood to apply- 
 only to such of his works as were literally in verse : 
 but it is hardly conceivable that Wordsworth, a didac- 
 tic philosopher in his own art and craft, should have 
 adopted the vulgar technical distinction between prose 
 and poetry, and have confined the minstrel's claim to 
 be accounted a poet to his compositions in metre only. 
 If he had forgotten his own doctrine of the identity 
 of language in good poetry and well-written prose, 
 could he have forgotten the enduring rule of the old 
 master, that a poet establishes his title to the name 
 rather by the construction of his plot and the conduct 
 of his fable than by any skill in arranging syllables 
 and metres ? And must he not, in all likelihood, have 
 read what another admirable poet had written in one 
 of the most interesting and masterly critiques on the 
 " Life and Writings of Sir Walter Scott," which has any- 
 where appeared ?* " It is," says John Keble, " in his 
 character as a great poet, as the leading one, that 
 posterity will always consider him. His romances in 
 prose are essentially poems, whatever test we take of 
 poetry except that ordinary one of metre : indeed it 
 would not, perhaps, be easy to find a completer proof 
 of metrical composition being but an accident of the 
 art, than any one can make out for himself, by recol- 
 
 * British Critic, October 1838.
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 171 
 
 lecting what he felt on first reading The Lady of the 
 Lake, and how little the impression differed from that 
 left by The Talisman or Guy Maniiering. The kind 
 of interest, the objects of sympathy, are surely the 
 same in both cases : the difference of prose and verse 
 is felt to be but technical ; it is the same music per- 
 formed on different instruments." And were not Ellen 
 Douglas and her father, as well as Jeanie Deans or 
 Caleb Balderstone, present to Wordsworth's mind 
 when he penned to Scott the touching stanza : — 
 
 " For thou, upon a thousand streams, 
 By tales of love and sorrow, 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow " ? 
 
 And was it not the Lay, above all, that clung to 
 Wordsworth's memory, when, after climbing " the 
 winding stair" of Newark Tower, he declared that 
 " localised Romance " does not " play false with our 
 affections"? 
 
 After this, it is hardly necessary to allude to a 
 remark ascribed to him conveying the opinion that 
 success is impossible in any attempt to represent the 
 manners of a past time. Could he, who had so deep 
 and true a sense of the high calling of the poet to sus- 
 tain the heart of man amidst the changeful trials of the 
 present with " visions of the past," have thought the 
 poet powerless to give truth and life to those visions ? 
 Could he have forgotten Aristotle's distinction here
 
 172 A LAY TO THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 also, that it is the historian's part to relate things as 
 they were, the poet's to describe them as probably 
 they might have been ? Is the character of Louis XI. 
 in Qicentin Diirward unlike the portrait presented to 
 us in history ? Does not the same degree of historical 
 probability attach itself to the amusing soldier of for- 
 tune, Sir Dugald Dalgetty, in The Legend of Montrose, 
 as belongs to the gallant Falconbridge in Skakspeare's 
 King John ? But such individual characters, each in 
 his portion, embody the manners of past times. 
 
 Believing, therefore, that Wordsworth's real estimate 
 of Scott is to be found in his own pubUshed words, 
 rather than in any remarks reported from his conver- 
 sation ; believing this fully, as much for the credit of 
 Wordsworth as of Scott, the present writer begs leave, 
 in what will probably be his last appeal to an indul- 
 gent public, to pour forth a tribute of heartfelt homage 
 to the Genius of Border Romance and Song. It is 
 " Sixty years since," as a very young client of the 
 Muses, he read Marmion in the first edition, stretched 
 upon the grass, on a whole-holiday at school, and felt 
 his heart melted by the benevolent wish in the greet- 
 ing at the end, which how many thousands have since 
 personally apphed, and some few may still treasure 
 in as long a grateful remembrance ; 
 
 " To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 
 Has cheated of thy hour of play, 
 Light task, and merry holiday ! "
 
 A LA V TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 173 
 
 The chord then struck still vibrates with a pulse of 
 gratitude and joy at the end of sixty years. 
 
 As to the fame of Scott, one may almost, without 
 profaneness, take up St. Augustine's sentence of calm 
 confidence for the safety of the Catholic Faith: Securus 
 jiidicat orhis terrarum. With what truth as well as 
 tenderness has Wordsworth called him " the whole 
 world's darling " ! The Germans number him among 
 the few unapproached Englishmen of genius. The 
 Italians are still among his most ardent admirers ; and 
 even in that land of poetry and romance, which gave 
 birth to Cervantes and Calderon, his noble fictions 
 were not only read in translations, but gave a tinc- 
 ture to the native novels of the day. " His name," 
 says a generous Spaniard, " comes naturally to the 
 memory and the lips, whenever we speak of Fernan 
 Caballero." * 
 
 "It is not too much to say," — to quote John 
 Keble again, — "that never did any single writer 
 exert a greater influence on his age." And, what he 
 speaks of as then recent, it has been neither a slight 
 nor a transient benefit " to have substituted his manly 
 realities, both in prose and verse, for the flimsy ener- 
 vating literature, which, with few exceptions, peopled 
 the shelves of those who read chiefly for amusement." 
 But there are some yet living to remember that his 
 
 * Don Manuel Camete. Prologo to Fernan Caballero's Deiidas 
 Pagadas, Madr. 1863.
 
 174 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 reform extended to the language, as well as to the 
 literature, of the time. He designed this, and was not 
 unconscious of it, when he spoke of his own regard to 
 the old Teutonic fountains of Enghsh undefiled. 
 
 When a modern German critic calls his poetry 
 " Epic," * he is not far wTong. The Epic of Homer 
 grew out of the strains of the rhapsodists, much as the 
 Lays and Tales of Scott were heroic structures built 
 on the old foundations of the Border Ballad. And if 
 Homer paints the manners of old Greece in prehistoric 
 times, Scott's portraitures of feudal characters of the 
 Middle Ages are as like the truth as they can be made 
 on the evidence of historic probability. But with 
 what masterly skill are the lines of his historic portraits 
 drawn ! Or rather, it is not so much the hand of the 
 skilful artist, calmly studying the features he would 
 represent, as the impulse of a bold actor, unchecked 
 and unconstrained, throwing himself into the part 
 which occupies the scene, and living in it, as Garrick 
 or Siddons lived in the characters they sustained in 
 their wondrous hours upon the stage. 
 
 One feature more requires to be noticed. It was 
 the benevolent soul of Shakspeare and of Cervantes, 
 opening itself to every kind impulse, loving humanity, 
 as he beheld it, on its bright side, which gave Scott 
 his power over all feeling hearts and minds. Who 
 
 * Herr Elze, quoted in Quarterly Revuw, Oct. 1871, p. 354.
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 175 
 
 would not have desired such a friend ? Lockhart has 
 well pointed out this in his apology,- — if any one could 
 think that an apology was needed, — for those delight- 
 ful epistles prefixed to the several Cantos of Marmion. 
 " It may be," he says, " that to a reader turning the 
 leaves with the first ardour of curiosity, they may seem 
 to interfere with the flow of the story. But however 
 that may be, are there any pages, among all he ever 
 wrote, that one would be more sorry he should not have 
 written ? They are among the most delicious portrait- 
 ures that genius ever painted of itself, — buoyant, 
 virtuous, happy genius — exulting in its own energies, 
 yet possessed and mastered by a clear, calm, modest 
 mind, and happy only in diffusing happiness around 
 it." * 
 
 And this overflowing spirit of sympathy did not 
 decline with years, or sink under his hard change of 
 fortune. It was as much seen in Aniie of Geierstein 
 as in Waverley. With a man who wrote so much it is 
 natural that there should have been great inequalities. 
 There were poems, like Harold the Dauntless^ struck off 
 with a careless beat ; and marks of haste, and characters 
 less happily conceived, and scenes less probably 
 worked up, in several of his romances ; but the warm 
 fancy was still alive, and ready to exert itself again 
 with the happiest effect, when it was engaged with a 
 
 * Lockhart's Life of Sir JVaiter Scott, vol. ii. p. 151.
 
 176 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 subject worthy of its powers, till the mortal tenement 
 gave way, and the mind was clouded by the approach- 
 ing shades of death. But he could then take comfort 
 in the retrospect of his literary life with a reflection, 
 surely not founded in self-conceit, that in all his 
 voluminous writings " he had tried to unsettle no 
 man's faith, to corrupt no man's principle, and had 
 written nothing which on his deathbed he should wish 
 to have blotted out." * 
 
 This Preface was written before making acquaint- 
 ance with Principal Shairp's admirable essay on 
 Wordsworth in his Studies in Poetry and Philosophy, 
 or the very interesting article by the same author in 
 Good Words, September 1873, on "Wordsworth's 
 Three Yarrows ;" but the present writer is glad to 
 take this opportunity of expressing his grateful sense 
 of the pleasure which both these papers have afforded 
 him, especially in the just tribute there paid to the 
 enduring friendship of the two great poets, " who," as 
 Lockhart well observes, " had through life loved each 
 other well, and in spite of very different theories as to 
 art, appreciated each other's genius more justly than 
 inferior spirits ever did either of them." f 
 
 * Scott's words to Mr. Edw. Cheney, in Lockhart's Life, 
 vol. vii. p. 378. 
 
 \ Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol vii. p. 309.
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 177 
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT DRYBURGH ABBEY, 
 
 September 3, i860. 
 
 He, who could burst with wizard rhyme 
 
 The cells of joy and wonder, 
 The dungeons, where the miser Time 
 
 Had stored his old world's plunder ; 
 
 Who peopled rock -bound isle and glen. 
 Brown heath, or lowland meadow. 
 
 With shadowy forms of godlike men. 
 More glorious in their shadow ; 
 
 Here rests in still Saint Mary's aisle 
 
 With kindred dust departed, 
 Till the last dawn on earth shall smile, 
 
 And waken bards true-hearted. 
 
 Tread softly, where thro' silent glades 
 Soft evening dews are stealing. 
 
 Soft sunbeams slant, and nought invades 
 The calm of holy feeling ; 
 N *
 
 178 A LAY TO THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 And Tweed upon his summer-flow, 
 Through woodland mazes turning, 
 
 Hath hush'd his troubled voice of woe 
 To sound of gentler mourning. 
 
 Ere yet the gracious hour be gone, 
 Revere the dead, who slumbers. 
 
 Where with dumb spell the cold grey stone 
 Hath bound his magic numbers. 
 
 — Nay, but those numbers, wandering free, 
 
 Disdain a bed so narrow ; 
 They breathe on many a breezy lea 
 
 By Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow. 
 
 They live, they breathe : too fair for death, 
 Fresh bloom of purple splendour 
 
 Invests the tales of love and faith, 
 Of dauntless hearts and tender ; 
 
 Fine fictions, veiling in her state 
 The queenUke brow of Nature ; 
 
 Sublime deceits, for truth too great, 
 Yet vow'd to Truth as greater ; 
 
 The days o'erpast, as Fancy wills, 
 
 In golden hues portraying, 
 Bright as the mom on ancient hills 
 
 When dewy gleams are straying.
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 179 
 
 They live, — the forms of ages gone, 
 The merry drolls, whose gladness, 
 
 By cottage-hearth, or kingly throne, 
 Unknit the brow of sadness ; 
 
 Or shades of high heroic mood, 
 
 Their wreaths in glory wearing. 
 Who stemm'd Rebellion's roaring flood, 
 
 Or perish'd in the daring. 
 
 I see them yet : above, around, 
 
 Bright spirits seem to linger ; 
 To yon lone arch on holy ground 
 
 They point with radiant finger ; 
 
 And bid me, meditating still, 
 
 Where dust in dust is lying, 
 Resolve what charm of potent skill 
 
 Achieved that fame undying : 
 
 The genial wit, unforced by art. 
 Through sportful sallies ranging ; 
 
 Or more, that large and loyal heart. 
 In love and faith unchanging ; 
 
 The love, that, as the wakening child 
 
 In smiling owns its mother, 
 On the stem land that nursed him, smiled. 
 
 Nor joy'd in any other :
 
 180 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 The faith, that to the faithful dead 
 
 A Hfe in memon' giving, 
 Raised beacons to their worth, and led 
 
 To noble deeds the living. 
 
 For this, while Britain's laws and throne 
 Defend the soil that bore him, 
 
 His praise her sons of song shall own, 
 And chaunt their requiem o'er him ; 
 
 And gentle hearts his end shall know, 
 How, like calm waves retreating, 
 
 The music of their full-voiced flow 
 In dying falls repeating. 
 
 The spirit of the generous will 
 Time's waning lamp attended. 
 
 Warm to his friend and country still. 
 Till life and memory ended, 
 
 I've roam'd in thought, dark Florentine, 
 
 With thee by Arno's water, 
 While keen remembrance fired each line 
 
 With tales of kindred slaughter : 
 
 Or when thy lonely spirit felt 
 Mild hope its peace infusing ; 
 
 But scarcely love of kind could melt 
 The sternness of thy musing.
 
 A LAY TO THE LAST MINSTREL. 181 
 
 I've roam'd in sunny lands of Spain, 
 
 By sunny memories haunted 
 Of him, whose gravely mirthful vein 
 
 From fables disenchanted, 
 
 And chased away, Avith smiling glee, 
 
 Grim Folly's old disorder;* 
 But could not cheer the heart like thee. 
 
 Dear Minstrel of the Border. 
 
 Bright roll the brooks down Arno's vale. 
 
 Bright gleams the darting Darro ; 
 But more to me the shadows pale 
 
 By Tweed and pensive Yarrow. 
 
 * Scott said of the great Florentine, " It is mortifying that Dante 
 seemed to thinlc nobody worth being sent to the Inferno but his 
 own Itahans ; whereas other people had as great rogues in their 
 own families." — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vii. 371. The narrator, 
 from whom the biographer received this remark, gives it a more 
 humorous application. But it seems to me that our warm-hearted 
 Minstrel found the heroic indignation of Dante against so many 
 of his own kith and kin rather difficult and uncongenial to him. 
 
 On the other hand, as one might well have supposed, he was 
 thoroughly at home with Cervantes. "He expressed the most 
 unbounded admiration for him, and said that his ' Novelas ' 
 had first inspired him with the ambition of excelling in fiction ; 
 and that, until disabled by illness, he had been a constant reader 
 of them." — Ibid. 370. He read them, it is scarcely necessary to 
 add, in the original Spanish.
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND 
 
 IMITATIONS.
 
 FROM THE LATIN. 
 
 VEXILLA REGIS. 
 
 The banners of our King go forth, 
 The sacred Cross is beaming high ; 
 
 Whereon the Lord of heaven and earth 
 Endured a sinner's death to die ; 
 
 Where the rude spear, whose baleful steel 
 FulfiU'd the soldier's ruthless mood, 
 
 Reveal'd a Fount to cleanse and heal, 
 Pure Water and atoning Blood. 
 
 Then were the wonders plainly sho\vn, 
 Which saints of old rejoiced to sing, 
 
 How of the Tree He made a Throne, 
 Whereby He reign'd a glorious King. 
 
 O ever bright and beaming Tree, 
 With purple of our King array'd, 
 
 How great thy glory, that on thee 
 Those limbs of holiest power were laid !
 
 186 FROM THE LA TIN. 
 
 O blest by every faithful tongue, 
 Whereon, the sinners' debt to pay, 
 
 The weight of this world's ransom hung 
 And spoil'd the spoiler of his prey. 
 
 Hail to the Cross, whereon He bled. 
 But more to Him the Victim slain ; 
 
 Our Life, Who bow'd to death His head 
 By death our endless life to gain !
 
 FROM THE LATIN. 187 
 
 SALVETE, FLORES MARTYRUM. 
 
 Hail, young flowers of martyrdom, 
 Whom the ruthless sword hath shorn : 
 
 Rosebuds, in your morning's bloom 
 By the deadly whirlwind torn : 
 
 You the Lord, for Whom ye bled, 
 Firstlings of His flock shall own ; 
 
 Lambs, who play'd, to slaughter led. 
 Sporting with your palms and crown. 
 
 What avails the murderer's knife ? 
 
 What hath cruel Herod found ? 
 Christ is borne beyond that strife 
 
 Where no tyrant's sword can wound. 
 
 While His infant mates lie low, 
 
 While the childless mothers mourn, 
 
 One hath 'scaped the reaver's blow, 
 One, of Maiden Mother born. 
 
 Praise and glory be address'd 
 
 Jesu, Virgin-born, to Thee : 
 Father, Son, and Spirit blest, 
 
 Praise we everlastingly.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 THE RESURRECTION. 
 
 FROM CAEDMON. 
 
 Dim and dark Death's shadow lay 
 On the abode of woe that day, 
 When, upborne to earth afar, 
 Rose our Bright and Morning Star, 
 Rose th' Eternal Lord of men. 
 Crowds of faithful spirits then 
 Of the race of Abraham old 
 Seers, who erst that day foretold, 
 Mustering their triumphant bands 
 Bore the Victor in their hands, 
 
 Bore Him as His guard of state 
 
 Fast to Salem's city-gate. 
 
 For the conquest now was won, 
 
 Ere the promise of the sun ; 
 
 Ere the midnight watch gave way 
 
 To the ruddy dawn of day. 
 
 Then the thunder-peal from heaven 
 
 Death's strong bars had burst and riven. 
 
 And with lightning mark'd the road 
 
 Of the First-born Son of God.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 189 
 
 FROM KING ALFRED. 
 
 Ne'er may man on mountain crest 
 Rear his roof-tree fast to bide ; 
 
 Nor will Wisdom build her nest 
 In the rocking winds of pride ; 
 
 Ne'er the shifting sands may give 
 Seat assured for house or hall ; 
 
 Nor with thee will Wisdom live, 
 If base earth thy soul enthrall. 
 
 Bare and barren sands, whose thirst 
 Weltering rain-floods ne'er can fill,- 
 
 Such the man, whose soul is cursed 
 With the unsated worldling's will. 
 
 Would'st thou for thyself prepare 
 Bliss that shall be aye thine own ? 
 
 Fly, O fly the false world's glare ; 
 Fix thy lowly corner-stone. 
 
 Where at peace thy gentle mind 
 With itself at home may dwell ; 
 
 Where no floods, nor bitter wind, 
 Can remove the hallow'd cell.
 
 190 
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 When the storm clouds, sweeping by 
 Vex th' unquiet welkin round, 
 
 Vainly shall their fury try 
 
 To disturb that charmed ground ; 
 
 For the hollow dejie each day 
 By immortal feet is trod ; 
 
 Wisdom meets thee on thy way, 
 And it is th' abode of God.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 191 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON 
 METRICAL CALENDAR. 
 
 Seven nights ere December end 
 Did the Sire of Angels send 
 Comfort far and wide to earth 
 In his Son's, our Saviour's, birth. 
 'Twas the bleak mid-winter's morn, 
 When that mighty King was born, 
 Christ, the Glory-King of heaven, 
 ' And to Him a Name was given, 
 
 Jesus, Healer of all woes, 
 When the eighth day's light arose ; 
 E'en that selfsame morning, when 
 Busy crowds of happy men 
 Meet rejoicing far and near 
 In the birth-day of the year. 
 For to town that self-same day 
 Still a stranger takes his way, 
 Foremost still at morn he's there ; ] 
 'Tis the month hight Januare, V 
 Porter to the Calendar. j 
 
 Then, when five long nights are gone, 
 Twelfth's day holy morn comes on,
 
 192 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Our blest King's baptismal day. 
 His, who wash'd our sins away. 
 Noblest chiefs of British mould 
 Still that day in reverence hold. 
 
 When four weeks are almost flown, 
 
 Wanting yet two nights alone. 
 
 Comes the little Februare, 
 
 When the sun, returning fair. 
 
 Lengthens our brief winter day. 
 
 Laws of ancient wisdom, say. 
 
 Is it not as I declare. 
 
 Of the little Februare ? 
 
 But when one night more shall pass, 
 
 Comes the Blessed Mary's mass, 
 
 Mother of our Heavenly King : 
 
 'Tis the day that she did bring 
 
 To the solemn Temple's floor 
 
 Him whom heaven and earth adore. 
 
 Five nights more, and Winter goes ; 
 
 Then add seventeen nights to those. 
 
 And the Saint's day comes, whose breath 
 
 Then was yielded up in death 
 
 For the Saviour whom he loved, 
 
 Great Matthias, well approved : 
 
 Near the time when, far and wide 
 
 Christians keep their Lenten tide.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 193 
 
 Well 'tis known, when three and twain 
 Waning nights are past again, 
 Save when once in twelvemonths four 
 Leap-year makes it one night more, 
 Churl or earl by dale or down 
 Feel that March is come to town, 
 Wrathful March in blustering mood : 
 Loud his voice by strand or flood. 
 And his beard bespangled o'er 
 With the rime of hail-show'rs hoar. 
 When eleven nights are past, 
 Then, on Time's wing flying fast, 
 Comes the solemn memory nigh 
 Of the blessed Gregory, 
 Famous for God's holy lore 
 Sent to Britain's isle of yore. 
 And when nine more days are gone 
 Holy Bennet's day comes on : 
 Then his Saviour's rest he sought, 
 Stedfast in the rules he taught : 
 Well extoll'd in A\Titings wise 
 By the goodly companies 
 Who, hke soldiers formed in line, 
 March beneath his discipline. 
 Then, as reckoners teach aright, 
 Even space of day and night 
 Holds dominion o'er the earth : 
 For the Lord of Nature's birth
 
 194 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Then first set their course to run 
 Evermore both moon and sun. 
 What is next to tell ? The day, 
 When four nights have pass'd away, 
 When th' Eternal Father sent 
 From the crystal firmament 
 His high angel, news to bring 
 How heaven's Ever-Blessed king 
 Should of Mary mild be born : 
 Sinful earth, that lay forlorn 
 Never yet such tidings heard 
 As were in that mighty word. 
 
 Days and nights pass tour and three, 
 
 And in season orderly 
 
 April, changeful month, is here ; 
 
 Then most oft the varying year 
 
 Brings the tide of greatest joy, 
 
 Bliss that foe can ne'er destroy. 
 
 Comfort of all mortal woes ; 
 
 'Tis the tide when Christ arose, 
 
 As of old the prophet said, 
 
 'Tis the day the Lord hath made. 
 
 Day of consecrated mirth 
 
 To the happy sons of earth. 
 
 But unfix'd is that high Day ; 
 
 Nor more certainly we may
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 195 
 
 Reckon when the Lord ascended, 
 When His work on earth was ended, 
 For it varieth evermore : 
 But the wise in starry lore 
 Every year by skilful ways 
 Find these solemn holy-days. 
 
 Shall we pass unheedful by 
 The good martyrs' memory ? 
 Let our song record the day ; 
 Ere glad Easter's moon decay, 
 When the nineteenth night is gone, 
 Then the solemn tide comes on. 
 'Tis a famous day of prayer : 
 When their relics men up-rear, 
 Oft in glittering caskets set, 
 Where the gazing crowds are met. 
 Then with mirth in field and bower. 
 Comes bright May's rejoicing hour,
 
 196 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 FROM ALDHELM'S PSALTER.* 
 Psalm LXXXIV. 1-5. 
 
 Lord, to me thy minsters are 
 Courts of honour, passing fair ; 
 And my spirit deems it well 
 There to be, and there to dwell : 
 Heart and flesh would fain be there, 
 Lord, Thy life, Thy love to share. 
 
 There the sparrow speeds her home. 
 And in time the turtles come. 
 Safe their nestling young they rear, 
 Lord of hosts. Thine altars near \ 
 Dear to them Thy peace ; — but more 
 To the souls who there adore. 
 
 * This and the following Anglo-Saxon poems are from the 
 Early English Church.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 197 
 
 Psalm LXVIII. 11-13. 
 
 God the word of wisdom gave ; 
 
 Preachers, who his voice have heard, 
 Taught by Him, in meekness brave, 
 
 Speed the message of that word. 
 Mighty King with beauty crown'd ! 
 
 In His House the world's proud spoil, 
 Oft in almsdeeds dealt around, 
 
 Cheers the poor wayfarer's toil 
 If among His clerks you rest, 
 
 Silver plumes shall you enfold. 
 Fairer than the culver's breast. 
 
 Brighter than her back of gold.
 
 198 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Psalm XCIII. 3, 4. 
 
 When the tempest wakes to wrath 
 
 Many waters wide and far, 
 On the ocean's dreadful path 
 
 Loud and high their voices are : 
 Wondrous ways those waters move, 
 
 Where the sea-streams swiftest flow 
 But more wondrous far above, 
 
 Holy Lord, Thy glories show. 
 
 Psalm CXVI. 15. 
 
 As the beacon-fire by night, 
 That the host of Israel led, 
 
 Such the glory, fair and bright, 
 Round the good man's dying bed 
 
 'Tis a beacon bright and fair, 
 
 TeUing that the Lord is there.
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 199 
 
 METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE 
 APOSTLES' CREED. 
 
 Father of unchanging might, 
 
 Set above the welkin's height, 
 
 Who the unsulhed tracts of air 
 
 Didst in their own space prepare, 
 
 And the sohd earth as fast 
 
 With its deep foundations cast, — 
 
 Thee, the Everlasting One, 
 
 With believing heart I own. 
 
 Life itself from Thee had birth. 
 
 Lord of angels. King of earth ; 
 
 Thou the ocean's mighty deep 
 
 Li its pathless caves dost keep ; 
 
 And the countless stars that glow. 
 
 Thou their power and names dost know. 
 
 And with faith assured I own 
 Lord, Thy true and only Son, 
 King of might to heal and save ; 
 Whom Thy pitying mercy gave 
 Hither for our help to come 
 From the blissful angels' home. 
 Gabriel, on Thine errand sent, 
 Through the crystal firmament
 
 200 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Glancing \vith the speed of thought, 
 Thy behest to Mary brought. 
 She, the Virgin pure and blest, 
 Freely bow'd to Thy behest. 
 And the Father's wondrous power 
 Praised in that rejoicing hour. 
 There no earth-born lust had room \ 
 Spotless was that Maiden's womb. 
 As a casket meet to bear 
 Brightest gem, heaVn's first-born heir. 
 But such bliss as Angels know 
 Thy pure Spirit did bestow ; 
 And the Maid and Mother mild 
 Gave to earth her heaven-born Child, 
 Born as man, our needs to prove, 
 Maker of the hosts above ! 
 Heavenly comfort, at His birth, 
 Dawn'd upon the sons of earth ; 
 And by David's lowly town 
 Angels brought glad tidings do^\^^, 
 That the Healer of all woe 
 Sojourn'd now with men below. 
 
 Then, when under men of Rome 
 Pilate held the power to doom. 
 Our dear Lord gave up His breath, 
 Bore the bitter throes of death 
 On the rood as sinners die. 
 King of endless majesty !
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 201 
 
 Sadly Joseph made His grave 
 In his own sepulchral cave : 
 But His soul was gone to quell 
 Foes that held the spoil of hell 
 In the fiery cells that keep 
 Spirits long imprison'd deep, 
 Whom His summons call'd away 
 To their home in upper day. 
 
 Then when came the third day's light 
 Rose again the Lord of might ; 
 Freshly fi-om His clay-cold bed 
 King of light and life He sped. 
 Forty days His followers true 
 To His heavenly lore He drew, 
 Holy runes * unfolding, ne'er 
 Heard before by mortal ear ; 
 Till His hour to reign was come, 
 And He sought His glorious home : 
 But His promise left to man. 
 From the hour that reign began, 
 That no more distraught with dread 
 Faithful men His ways should tread ; 
 But with patience standing fast 
 Of His free deliverance taste. 
 
 I the Spirit of all grace 
 With unswerving faith embrace, 
 
 * Runes, mysteries ; alluding to Acts i. 3.
 
 202 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Whom the tongues of nations own, 
 With the Father and the Son, 
 Everlasting God. Though Three 
 Named by Name, yet One they be : 
 One the Godhead, One alone, 
 Whom in differing names we own. 
 Faith receives the mystery. 
 Yielding truth the victory. 
 Wheresoe'er the world is spread. 
 Lord, Thy glory-gifts are shed. 
 To Thy saints in wonders shown ; 
 And eternal is Thy Throne. 
 Furthermore, I keep and hold 
 Ever-loved of God, the Fold 
 Of His faithful ones, that are 
 Ever the good Shepherd's care, 
 That true Church, that to heaven's King 
 Doth accordant praises sing ; 
 And the fellowship bestow'd 
 On the saints in earth's abode, 
 With the souls that dwell with God. 
 
 Free forgiveness for each sin 
 Penitent I hope to win : 
 And Avith faith assured, I trust 
 That this flesh, retum'd to dust, 
 Shall arise, with all the dead. 
 At the day of doom and dread ;
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 203 
 
 When our endless state shall be, 
 Judge of all men, fix'd by Thee, 
 As on earth our works are still 
 Measured by our Maker's will.
 
 204 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 VERSES REPEATED BY THE VENERABLE 
 
 BEDE. 
 
 Ere the pilgrim soul go forth 
 
 On its journey far and lone, 
 Who is he that yet on earth 
 
 All his needful part hath done ? 
 
 Who foreweighs the joy and scathe 
 That his parted ghost shall know, 
 
 Endless, when the day of death 
 Seals his doom for weal or woe ? 
 
 x<^&^
 
 FROM THE BRETON. 
 
 (See Barzaz-Breiz. Chants popiilaires de la Bretagne. De la 
 Villemarqtie. — Paris, 1846.) 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF GWENC'HLAN. 
 
 As sets the sun I chaunt my lay, while swells the 
 
 sounding sea, 
 Here at the door I sit and sing, but all is dark to me. 
 I sang in youth, I sing in age, as I was wont of yore ; 
 I sing by night, I sing by day, and yet my grief is sore : 
 Low sinks this head that once was high : my heart is 
 
 full of woe ; 
 Oh not without a weighty cause my head and heart 
 
 are low. 
 It is not that I fear to die ; I fear not to be slain, 
 I fear not : life was sweet ; but now I would not live 
 
 again. 
 A time will come, when all unsought my presence 
 
 men shall find ; 
 But now departing, hke a cloud, I leave no trace 
 
 behind.
 
 206 FROM THE BRETON. 
 
 No matter, — what must come will come, — to mourn 
 
 or to be blest, 
 Three deaths in life must all men die, ere comes life's 
 
 final rest. 
 
 11. 
 
 I see the wild boar from the wood ; he halts, his feet 
 
 are sore : 
 His bristly crest is white with age ; his jaws are red 
 
 with gore. 
 Around him throng his boarish brood : grim Famine 
 
 prowling nigh 
 Preys on their wasted flanks ; their hour is come, and 
 
 they must die. 
 I see the sea-horse on the deep ; a terror shakes the 
 
 shore : 
 White is his form as sparkling snow ; with silvery 
 
 horns before. 
 The briny spray is boiling round, his thundering 
 
 nostrils glow : 
 His army's ranks are close as reeds where silent waters 
 
 flow. 
 Hold on, hold on, thou sea-horse fierce, and strike 
 
 the monster's head ! 
 Blood on the ground ! bare feet may slip on footing 
 
 dark and red ;
 
 FROM THE BRETON. 207 
 
 Blood like a river ! Blood knee-deep ! Strike home ! 
 
 again strike home ! 
 Blood like a sea ! strike the death-stroke ! to-morrow 
 
 rest will come. 
 
 III. 
 
 While I was softly sleeping in my cold and tomb-like 
 cell, 
 
 At midnight deep I heard the call, the famish'd eagle's 
 yell: 
 
 She call'd her roving eaglets all, she call'd the tribes 
 of air : 
 
 " Mount, mount on wing," aloud she cried, " the feast 
 of death to share ; 
 
 'Tis not the flesh of murrain-sheep, or corpse of 
 mangled hound : 
 
 I snuff the scent of Christian blood, a chieftain's mor- 
 tal wound." 
 
 — Tell me, thou grey one from the sea, old raven, oft 
 hast thou 
 
 On morsels from War's table fed : say what thy ban- 
 quet now ? 
 
 "I hold," she cries, "the chieftain's skull, it is my 
 choice to dine 
 
 With beak-thrusts on his cruel eyes, whose wrath 
 extinguish'd thine."
 
 208 FROM THE BRETON. • 
 
 — Tell me, grey fox, what prize is that which war to thee 
 
 hath thrown ? 
 " I hold and rend his knavish heart, heart falser than 
 
 mine own. 
 That plann'd and panted for thy death long since, 
 
 thy death of pain." 
 — Thou toad, that watchest at his lip, what dost thou 
 
 wait to gain ? 
 " I wait to catch his parting soul, in vengeance doom'd 
 
 to be 
 In durance all my lengthen'd age a captive pent in 
 
 me. 
 Thus be avenged the Bard he wrong'd, the lays beloved 
 
 of men. 
 The voice no longer heard between Roch-allaz and 
 
 Porz-gwenn."
 
 FROM THE BRETON. 209 
 
 JOAN DE MONTFORT. 
 
 What strange flock, at nightfall seen, 
 Climbs the mountain's deep ravine ? 
 Mountain-sheep upon their track ? 
 Mountain-sheep were ne'er so black. 
 'Tis a troop of armed Franks : 
 Swift they come in silent ranks, 
 To besiege with all their power 
 Hennebont's guarded town and tower. 
 
 But the duchess, wise and ware. 
 Eyes the foe and mocks the snare : 
 Cheerily the loud bells sound 
 While she rides the fortress round. 
 'Twas a sight of pride to see, 
 When, her babe upon her knee. 
 On her palfrey white she rode ; 
 And where'er she came, the crowd 
 Raised on high their cries of joy : 
 
 " God defend her and her boy ! 
 God defend her !" was the cry : 
 
 " Let the knavish Frenchmen die." 
 
 Vaunting ere they took their prey. 
 You might hear those Frenchmen say.
 
 210 FROM THE BRETON. 
 
 " We shall catch them, as on lawn 
 Hunters catch both hind and fawn : 
 Golden chains shall bind in one 
 Both the mother and the son." 
 From her towers the Duchess heard, 
 And her noble wrath was stirr'd :' 
 
 " Nay, you'll catch no hind in lair ; 
 Let the prowling wolf * beware ; 
 It to-night he shake with cold, 
 Royally we'll warm his hold." 
 
 From the towers whereon she stood 
 Down she came in \\Tathful mood ; 
 Not with silken head-band now. 
 But with casque upon her brow ; 
 Not with velvet boddice laced, 
 But with corselet on her waist : 
 Glittering steel of proof she wore. 
 And a keen-edged sword she bore. 
 From her host for battle then 
 Straight she chose three hundred men, 
 Seized a firebrand, and in haste 
 Through an angle gate she pass'd. 
 
 Lo ! the Frenchmen, close in tent 
 With their weary march forespent, 
 
 * A play on the name of her enemy, Charles de Blois, here 
 called Blei'z, the Breton word for wo//.
 
 FROM THE BRETON. 2H 
 
 Held their revels gay and long, 
 Startling Night's dull ear with song"; 
 When a voice with stranger lay- 
 Broke upon those revels gay : 
 
 " More than one who laughs to-night, 
 Shall be sad ere dawning light'; 
 He who eats the bread so white, 
 Soon the cold black dust shall bite : 
 He who pours the red wine good 
 Soon shall pour his heart's best blood. 
 He who brags, of nought afraid. 
 Shall on ashy bed be laid." 
 While e'en yet, half drunken dead. 
 On the board lean'd many a head, 
 Rose a cry of terror, higher 
 Than the songs and laughter, "Fire !" 
 
 " Fly, oh fly ! the flames rush on, 
 'Tis the hand of Fiery Joan ! " 
 
 Yes ! full sure, Joan's fiery hand 
 First and foremost hurl'd the brand, 
 Hurl'd it in the darkest hour, 
 Hurl'd it on the corners four. 
 Set the French camp all alight ; 
 Fierce the glare and murk the night ! 
 Tents and men were wrapp'd in fire, 
 Night-winds sped the burning dire ;
 
 212 FROM THE BRETON. . 
 
 Of three thousand men who came 
 Scarce five-score survived that flame. 
 
 Fiery Joan, when morn arose, 
 Did her lattice high unclose ; 
 O'er the scene with wrecks defiled 
 Grimly did she gaze, and smiled ; 
 While the smouldering embers lay 
 Pale beneath the new-born day. 
 Grimly did she smile, and said : 
 
 " Ha, good clearance has been made ! 
 Clearance for the plough ; the field 
 Shall a tenfold increase yield. 
 AVell our elders said of yore. 
 When their battle day was o'er : 
 
 ' Would ye see fair corn-crops grown, 
 Spread good store of Gaulish bone !' "
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 See Obscrvaciones sobre la Poesia populai; etc. : Mila y Fontanals. 
 — Barcelona, 1853. Rotnancero General: Agustin Duran. — 
 Madrid, 1851, Los Trobadors Nous : Ant. de Bofariill.—V,^xcQ- 
 lona, 1858. 
 
 COUNT ARNALDOS. 
 
 Who had e'er so strange a fortune 
 
 O'er the deep seas roUing on 
 As befel the Count Arnaldos 
 
 On the morning of Saint John ? 
 
 Forth he rode to chase at dawning, 
 
 With his falcon on his hand, 
 When he saw a stately galley 
 
 Working onward to the strand ; 
 
 With silken sails that glisten'd 
 On the cordage fine and strong ; 
 
 And the helmsman at the rudder 
 Chaunted still a wondrous song.
 
 214 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 At his voice the sea in stillness 
 
 Like a silver mirror lay, 
 And the winds with lowly whisper 
 
 Softly kiss'd the silent bay. 
 
 And the fish that haunt the hollows 
 Rose upon the deep's calm floor ; 
 
 On the mast the sea-birds resting 
 Wing'd the mid-way air no more. 
 
 " My galley, O my galley, 
 
 God shield thee well for me, 
 From the false world and its dangers, 
 O'er the waters of the sea. 
 
 "From the shoals of Almeria, 
 
 From Gibraltar's rock-bound coast, 
 From Venetian Gulf, and Flanders 
 Where the lives on sands are lost,— 
 
 " And the stormy Gulf of Lyons, 
 Where pain the shipmen drie, 
 Where most of all the tempest 
 Wakes the dangers of the sea !" 
 
 Then spake the Count Arnaldos, 
 And oh, his prayer was strong : 
 " In the name of God, good seaman. 
 Let me learn thy wondrous song."
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 215 
 
 The mariner made answ 
 " Alas ! it may not be : 
 That song, — no mortal learn. 
 Except he sail with me." 
 
 This Ballad has been already well rendered into English verse 
 by Lockhart and by Archbishop Trench. It is also the subject 
 of Longfellow's Secret of the Sea.
 
 216 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It was the Soldan's Daughter, 
 
 When springtide deck'd the bowers, 
 
 Her simple mind full fain would know 
 The Lord of all the flowers : 
 
 To her the Lord of flowers 
 In vision did appear : 
 " My heart," He said, " is warm'd to thee 
 Thy gentle vow to hear : 
 
 " Take, take these crimson roses. 
 Their hue was found in Me, 
 When Love in death all bleeding lay, 
 The Love that died for thee. 
 
 " I hear My Father calling : 
 
 Beloved, espoused one, come ; 
 Long since thou wast ordain'd to reign 
 Where flowers immortal bloom." 
 
 She heard : her spirit trusted 
 The Voice till then unknown, 
 
 And meekly for the Lord of flowers 
 She twined the rosy crown.
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 217 
 
 THE STRANGER CHILD ON CHRISTMAS 
 
 EVE. 
 
 'Tis Yule-tide, and the blessed night 
 
 When happy children meet, 
 And every hearth is warm and bright. 
 
 And silent every street ; 
 
 Save where one little wanderer comes, — 
 His eyes are pale and wild, — 
 
 Homeless amidst a thousand homes ; 
 It is the Stranger-Child. 
 
 He shivers in the cold night air ; 
 He hears the mirth and glee : 
 " The Christmas-joy is everywhere, 
 For all, — but not for me." 
 
 Lo ! from afar, approaching now. 
 
 In vesture pure and white, 
 A glory round His gracious brow, 
 
 And in His hand a light, 
 
 Another Child comes down the street : 
 
 His mien is sad and grave ; 
 But oh. His voice is low and sweet. 
 
 Like music on the wave.
 
 218 
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 " Weep not," He said, '* thou Stranger-Boy 
 For thee there yet is room, — 
 Room in My Father's hall of joy : 
 My light shall guide thee home." 
 
 Led by that light, a happy guest, 
 The wondering Child is gone : 
 
 But who hath seen the home of rest 
 Wliich Love hath made his own ?
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 219 
 
 THE PRISONERS OF LERIDA. 
 
 In prison-house at Lerida, there lay in prison strong 
 Five-score and fifty captive men, who sang their 
 
 captive song. 
 A lady to the lattice came, a lady fair and young : 
 The captives were aware of her, and ceased their 
 
 captive song. 
 "Why sing ye not, poor captive men? why check 
 
 your pleasant song?" 
 " O lady, how should captives sing, who lie in prison 
 
 strong. 
 With morsel poor and bever scant, and all but once 
 
 a day? 
 Look in and see our meagre fare, and bear it as you 
 
 may." 
 " Sing on, sing on, poor captive men : for I will 
 
 mend it soon." 
 She went to find her father dear, to beg of him a 
 
 boon. 
 " How now, my daughter Margaret ? what boon 
 
 should I give thee?" 
 " O father dear, sweet father dear, the key, the prison- 
 key ! "
 
 220 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 " Ah no, my daughter Margaret : in faith it may not 
 
 be: 
 To-morrow morn those captive men must hang on 
 
 gallows-tree." 
 " O father dear, and wilt thou hang the youth who 
 
 sued to me?" 
 " Alas ! my daughter Margaret, but pry thee, which 
 
 is he?" 
 "O father dear, my father dear, the ruddiest and 
 
 most tall." 
 " Alas ! my daughter ! he must hang the foremost of 
 
 them all." 
 " O father dear, my father dear, I pray thee, hang 
 
 me too." 
 " O no, my daughter Margaret, such deed I may not 
 
 do." 
 The gallows were with silver deck'd, the ropes with 
 
 gold were twined ; 
 On every beam a wreath of flowers waved sweetly in 
 
 the wind ; 
 And every passer-by, who snuff'd the fragrance in the 
 
 air, 
 For that poor lover doom'd to death sent up a silent 
 
 prayer. 
 
 {Variation, which may be added}} 
 
 That night her father slept full sound : she took the 
 prison-key :
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 221 
 
 " Go forth, go forth, poor captive men, care not to 
 
 stay for me ; 
 Haste, haste to France ; if well you speed, you'll there 
 
 indite a song, 
 How once Don Jayme's daughter saved your lives 
 
 from prison strong." 
 O then they leap'd and ran like men who felt that 
 
 free they were ; 
 One only linger'd at the gate, the youth who sued to 
 
 her.
 
 222 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 DON JUAN AND DON RAYMOND. 
 
 Young Juan and young Raymond rode glad to chase 
 
 at morn ; 
 But oh, the change, the heavy change ! the woe of 
 
 their return ! 
 First from his horse Don Raymond fell, Don Juan 
 
 drooping rode, 
 Their mother mark'd them as they came, in verdant 
 
 field abroad, 
 A lady-leech, she gather'd there the balm and violet, 
 To heal the hurts their steeds might bear, if saddle-how 
 
 should fret. 
 "What aileth thee, son Raymond? thy face is wan 
 
 and pale." 
 " O mother, lay me soon to sleep ; they've bled me 
 
 to my bale." 
 " Oh, ill betide the barber-leech, whose lancet did the 
 
 harm ! " 
 " Nay, mother, trouble not thy heart ; but, past all 
 
 herb or charm. 
 My life is ebbing to its fount ; no more with joy and 
 
 pride ' 
 Shall I in tourney or in chase my gallant courser 
 
 ride.
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 223 
 
 Between my steed and me, strong lance-thrusts twenty- 
 nine 
 We bode, — the nine my brave horse took, and all the 
 
 rest were mine. 
 My gallant horse will die to-night, who me so well 
 
 hath borne, 
 My gallant horse will die to-night, and I to-morrow 
 
 morn. 
 My horse ! Oh choose him well a place beneath the 
 
 stable floor, 
 And let his burial be the best, who me so bravely 
 
 bore. 
 And me, for me must grave be made in vaulted holy 
 
 ground, 
 In Saint Eulalia's holy aisle ; my sires are sleeping 
 
 round ; 
 And on my tomb a sword laid out shall mark the 
 
 solemn place. 
 And if men ask, who caused my death, — " Don Juan 
 
 on the chase."
 
 224 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 THE COUNT OF ERIL. 
 
 Home rode the Count of Eril at early dawn of day ; 
 Full many a moon had wax'd and waned, while he 
 
 was far away. 
 An aged Hegeman met his lord hard by his castle-gate, 
 " Oh whither now, my noble Count, so early, yet so 
 
 late?" 
 " I come to see my lady, too long by me unseen." 
 " Ah, noble lord, thy lady is as she had never been. 
 I heard the solemn chaunt and prayer, when she was 
 
 lowly laid ; 
 I saw the palace-hangings in mourning pomp array'd ; 
 I saw amidst the funeral train the blooming boys she 
 
 bore. 
 Too young their loss to know, or why the mourner's 
 
 dress they wore." 
 The good Count answer'd not again, but onward urged 
 
 his way ; 
 He sought her tomb and challenged Death to yield 
 
 him back his prey ; 
 With sword-point on the mound he call'd, strong love 
 
 o'er-mastering fear, 
 " Rise, rise, my lady sweet, oh rise ; thy only lord is 
 
 here."
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 225 
 
 Did fancy wake, or Mercy send a dream to soothe 
 
 his pain ? 
 A voice seem'd issuing from the tomb, and answer'd 
 
 him again : 
 " How can I rise, good Count ? not thus can I return 
 
 to thee. 
 Oh wed another bride, good Count, and wed for love 
 
 of me. 
 And the lady of thy second choice, let her be to thee 
 
 as I; 
 In thought of her the thought of me will evermore be 
 
 nigh. 
 And for our little children, till they come to man's 
 
 estate, 
 Let their young hfe be shielded well within the con- 
 vent-gate. 
 Of the world, and what it means, let them hear no 
 
 mention there. 
 But learn at eventide and morn to Hsp their Saviour's 
 
 prayer."
 
 226 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE WAR OF THE 
 SUCCESSION.— CIRCA 1704. 
 
 Will you hear what a fortune 
 
 A gipsy wife told 
 To King Louis's grandson, 
 
 Of courage so bold, 
 When he set out from Paris 
 
 To king it in Spain ? 
 " Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " Your hand if you'll give me 
 
 I soon shall divine 
 What destiny waits you 
 
 By reading each line ; 
 I can weigh in true balance 
 
 Your loss and your gain ; 
 Farewell, my lord Duke 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " Here's a cross in the palm, 
 Boding trouble and toil ; 
 Many tossings and crossings 
 Of angry turmoil
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 227 
 
 In the racket of Fortune 
 
 You'll have to sustain \ 
 Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " You have sworn you will reign ; 
 
 But the little bird sings 
 That saying and doing 
 
 Are different things. 
 By right or by wrong 
 
 You have sworn you will reign : — 
 Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " When you reach Barcelona 
 
 Your Court you will hold 
 In the land of the Catalans 
 
 Forward and bold. 
 The dread of your Gascons' 
 
 So vaunting and vain ; 
 Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " A young bride of Savoy 
 Both blooming and fair, 
 Like gold in the sunlight 
 The rays of her hair,
 
 228 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 You shall wed, and be thankful 
 She pities your pain ; 
 
 But still, my lord Duke, 
 We shall see you again. 
 
 " Your Queen's wit and beauty 
 
 Will tell in the scale 
 With the lords of Castille, 
 
 But it may not avail. 
 The balance will turn 
 
 To a prince of Almaine ; 
 And then, my lord Duke, 
 
 We shall see you again. 
 
 "Those Catalan fellows, — 
 
 I hear the bird sing, — 
 Will fight for Don Carlos, 
 
 And make him their king. 
 For him they will battle 
 
 With might and with main :— 
 Farewell, my lord Duke ! 
 
 We shall see you again ! 
 
 " You fain would chastise 
 
 In the French braggart style 
 Those Catalan lads : 
 But be patient awhile !
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 229 
 
 Barcelona will scatter 
 
 That dream from your brain : 
 Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 
 Till we see you again ! 
 
 " Then in Guadalajara 
 
 Your rival you'll face. 
 At the head of your troops ; 
 
 Nay, you'll fly in disgrace. 
 Though 't were time then or never 
 
 Your cause to maintain. 
 You will fly, my lord Duke, 
 
 We shall see you again ! 
 
 " For King Charles will be there. 
 
 And Navarre will come down 
 With powder and bullets 
 
 To fight for his crown ; 
 Such a dance they will lead you, 
 
 You'll never draw rein 
 Till you come to Versailles 
 
 A true Frenchman again. 
 
 " Pretenders are many. 
 Great leaders are few ; 
 When you die, in your will 
 You'll dispose of Anjou,
 
 230 
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 And your silver that's left 
 From your travels in Spain 
 
 Farewell, my lord Duke, 
 Till we see you again !
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 231 
 
 THE DEATH OF BACH DE RODA. 
 
 Francisco M. Bach de Roda was a gallant Catalan, who, in 
 the War of the Succession, took a forward part in the struggle 
 against the French party, which was so stoutly maintained in his 
 native province. The fervent provincial-patriotism of the hero, 
 and the deep resentful sympathy of his compatriots, as expressed 
 in this contemporary ballad, are thoroughly characteristic of 
 Catalonia. 
 
 Farewell, thou cruel town of Vich, — a burning were 
 
 thy meed : 
 The noblest knight of all thy plain thy wrath has 
 
 doom'd to bleed, 
 Francisco Bach, of Roda town, the noble and the 
 
 brave. 
 Saint Mary, and Saint Dominic, O where were ye 
 
 to save? 
 O where were ye on that sad day, when holy clerks 
 
 proclaim 
 The graces of the Rosary, and Carmel's saintly name? 
 In friendship's guise foul Treason came : they bade 
 
 him to descend 
 His chamber stairs ; a friend required the service of 
 
 a friend.
 
 232 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 Scarce had he reach'd the floor, when fast with cords 
 
 his arms they tied, 
 And on a sledge at horse's tail to Vich they made 
 
 him ride. 
 And now was proclamation made : " All carpenters, 
 
 attend. 
 Come forth and build new gallows-trees right at the 
 
 High Street end." 
 The carpenters and builders said, " We have no 
 
 wood in store, 
 Wrought for the work." " Then break the posts and 
 
 frames around each door." 
 They break them, and the chandeliers and lamps of 
 
 silver bright 
 They bear away to guide their steps through darkness 
 
 of the night. 
 Then loud the crier proclaim'd again, " Close fast 
 
 each city-gate." 
 They shut them : thus the pardon sent, excluded, 
 
 came too late. 
 They seize him now, and bind again, and bear to 
 
 gallows-tree. 
 There on the platform high he stood, and those last 
 
 words spake he : 
 " They doom me dead, but for no wrong, — no treason- 
 guilt have I : 
 No troop of bandits have I led ; no felon's death 
 
 I die.
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 233 
 
 But for my country's weal I stood : her weal most 
 
 dear to me : 
 For her defence I took the sword, and pray'd God 
 
 set her free. 
 To Raymond, my good ghostly sire, I give this box 
 
 of gold, 
 To keep in memory of me when I am dead and cold. 
 And now no qualms of death I feel : nay, death is 
 
 most my friend. 
 One task undone alone I leave ; it haunts me to the 
 
 end. 
 My daughters three are all betrothed : — Heaven bless 
 
 their marriage-bed ! 
 This grieves me in my sudden fate, — I cannot see 
 
 them wed ! "
 
 234 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 THE DOUBTFUL PROMISE. 
 
 There be maidens in the city, and beyond the town 
 Hkewise, 
 
 Maidens of the pleasant suburbs ; early in the dawn 
 they rise : 
 
 Early as the larks at sunrise, in the morning's ruddy 
 glow, 
 
 You may see them wash their aprons and their apron- 
 strings also. 
 
 Then by chance a fine young wooer walks to take 
 the morning air, 
 
 And he stops to see the laundry, thinks it wise to 
 loiter there : 
 
 " Damsel, give me a love-token : let no scorn the 
 boon deny." 
 
 " Granted ! shall it be my shoe-string, or my bonny 
 apron-tie?" 
 
 " Fie upon it ! not your shoe-string, nor your apron- 
 girdle, no ! 
 
 But a love-knot of those roses round your porch 
 that twine and blow." 
 
 " Come upon St. Peter's even, when the summer day 
 is gone. 
 
 Come at even on St. Peter's, or the matins of St. 
 John :
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 235 
 
 Come, as now, at early morning, when you hear the 
 
 matin bells, 
 Then the roses will be blooming — for yourself or 
 
 some one else."
 
 236 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 THE WOMAN'S -TAILOR'S LOVE. 
 
 The highland maids of Canigo, — so bright in bower 
 
 and hall 
 All summer there they flourish fair, in spring, and 
 
 autumn-fall : 
 One little damsel there I saw, — 'twas but in passing 
 
 by: 
 My heart she holds in golden chains that never will 
 
 untie. 
 I went to drink the fountain cool, where sweet the 
 
 waters rise ; 
 And while I took the grateful draught, I heard soft 
 
 tears and sighs : 
 It was herself, all sad at heart, that little love of 
 
 mine : 
 " How shall I find a dear new dress, with skirts and 
 
 boddice fine?" 
 " O soon the fair-day will be here, — the fairing shall 
 
 be thine ; 
 And I will buy the flowery skirt, the skirt and boddice 
 
 fine. 
 But say, what colour pleaseth thee, my pretty Queen 
 
 of May?" 
 " O friend, the crimson likes me best, it is so brave 
 
 and gay."
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 237 
 
 The tailor loved my lovely one ; he plied his willing 
 powers, 
 
 And every braid his needle made he trimm'd with 
 sprigs of flowers ; 
 
 And oft he sigh'd, that not his own, but Fate's pre- 
 ventive shears 
 
 Forbade his slender thread of life to be entwined 
 with hers.
 
 238 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 "WITH CONSENT." 
 
 'TwAS on a fresh May morning, I took my dog and 
 
 gun: 
 But game to shoot I found not, — of old my luck 
 
 was none. 
 A little shepherd maiden beneath a beechwood tree 
 Was sleeping where her sheep and lambs were 
 
 wandering o'er the lea. 
 A handful of the violet-flowers I gathered, and in 
 
 play 
 I threw them on the maiden's neck in slumbers as 
 
 she lay. 
 The violet-flowers were fresh and sweet, — she woke : 
 
 — I see her stand 
 E'en now, as then she stood and spake, her distaff in 
 
 her hand : 
 " What make you here, young master % what would 
 
 you seek or find % " 
 " Your love, my pretty maiden, — let but your heart be 
 
 kind." 
 " Go, ask it of my father, and ask it of my mother ; 
 Go, ask it of the tall young man who calls himself 
 
 my brother :
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 239 
 
 Go, ask it of my maiden aunt, — she says she loves 
 
 me well : 
 And my uncle dear, the chaplain, — you'll find him 
 
 at his cell. 
 And if all five agree in one, you'll then be in the 
 
 road j 
 For, past all doubt, with five consents, I shall be well 
 
 bestow'd."
 
 240 FROM THE CATALAN. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AT MALLORCA. 
 
 Long is the night to him that waketh, 
 Short is the night when sleep is sound : 
 
 God grant us joy when morning breaketh, 
 God send us rest while night goes round. 
 
 Soft as on bed of down new-driven 
 
 Sweet sleep with heart at rest be mine ; 
 
 And life, new life, shall dawn from heaven, 
 When morn's first eastern ray shall shine. 
 
 Look up, my soul ! thy God is near thee. 
 
 Who clothes the fields and guards each flower 
 
 That blooms or fadeth : He shall hear thee 
 In joy or sorrow's heaviest hour. 
 
 Thy drooping hope again shall flourish, 
 The good day dimm'd shall shine again ; 
 
 The times of tears more richly nourish 
 Fresh seeds of gladness sown in pain. 
 
 Hast thou done well % O never, never 
 
 Is goodness in this world alone : 
 A friend is thine no change can sever, 
 
 Thy true heart, evermore thy own.
 
 FROM THE CATALAN. 241 
 
 An orphan thou mayst mourn to-morrow, 
 For Death on earth brings pain and thrall : 
 
 Each heart must know its part of sorrow, 
 But comfort waits alike for all. 
 
 One wretch alone no grace redeemeth, 
 One groans all comfortless alone : 
 
 Woe, woe to him, who none esteemeth, 
 Whose sullen heart is warm'd to none. 
 
 Children of God, whate'er betide you. 
 In life or death like brothers still. 
 
 Grieve not for good to-day denied you ; 
 Wait the good hour, for come it will. 
 
 Long is the night to him that waketh, 
 Short night is his whose sleep is sound : 
 
 God grant us joy when morning breaketh, 
 God shield our rest while night goes round ! 
 
 R*
 
 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 
 
 (Printed in the Lyra Mystica, edited by the Rev. Orby Shipley.) 
 
 HYMN TO CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 Thou Spotless Lamb of God, 
 
 Bathed in Thine own dear Blood, 
 That flows to wash the world's deep guilt away, 
 
 Who on the stubborn Tree 
 
 Dost seem to call on me. 
 With Arms outstretch'd, to find the Grace I pray ; 
 
 Ere yet life's slow decay 
 
 Makes pale the lustre bright 
 
 Of that celestial Face, 
 
 And Death's cold fingers trace 
 Their darkening shadows o'er those Orbs of light, 
 
 O let one glance be thrown 
 From Thy meek Eyes on me, to mark me for Thine 
 Own! 
 
 Now when Thy Love profound 
 Hath reach'd its utmost bound,
 
 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 243 
 
 Nor mortal veil such Might may more confine ; 
 
 While on the painfiil Rood, 
 
 With sharpest anguish bow'd, 
 Thy thorn-crown'd Head Thou dost to earth incline, 
 
 With Mercy's glance Divine 
 
 Thy Mother's gaze to meet ; 
 
 And Thy majestic Prayer 
 
 E'en rebel souls would spare, 
 Sent upward to Thy Father's Glory-seat \ 
 
 let Thy Pardon free 
 Prevail for sins like mine. Now, Lord, remember me ! 
 
 Now, while Thy suffering Hands 
 
 Thy bounteous Grace expands. 
 As though in dying still outstretch'd to give ; 
 
 And, as in balance weigh'd. 
 
 The full account is paid, 
 Whereby poor slaves redeem'd from bondage live j 
 
 Thy captive. Lord, receive ; 
 
 While every vital pore. 
 
 With flowing Mercy rife, 
 
 Bursts out, and parting life 
 Drains from Thy heart Love's ne'er exhausted store ; 
 
 Fain would I first be there. 
 My loss. All-righteous Saviour, earliest to repair. 
 
 Thy Bedesman, Lord, behold, 
 In thraldom dark and cold
 
 244 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 
 
 Long laid, entangled long in Error's chain : 
 
 Yet Hope, o'ermastering Fear, 
 
 Still prompts, that Thou wilt hear, 
 My Advocate will not my prayer disdain : 
 
 Since Mercy's highest strain 
 
 Decrees, that pardon free 
 
 E'en there should most abound 
 
 Where deepest guilt is found ; 
 And when the darkest stain is cleansed by Thee, 
 
 Thy Blood with richest cost 
 Is lavish' d, and Thy Godlike love rejoiceth most. 
 
 What though with guilty load 
 
 My drooping neck is bow'd 
 And my sad spirit faints with toil and care, 
 
 Because my rebel pride 
 
 Cast Thy mild Yoke aside, 
 Doom'd, justly doom'd, a tyrant's bonds to bear : 
 
 What though I might despair 
 
 With weary steps and slow 
 
 To reach Thee, Thou art nigh. 
 
 And never more wilt fly ; 
 Those royal Feet transfix'd Thy purpose show ; 
 
 Fix'd on the firm-set Tree 
 In patient grief they tell how Mercy waits for me. 
 
 I know it, O my God : 
 As in a quiet road
 
 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 245 
 
 My good desires may here at anchor ride ; 
 
 That Heart, in open sign 
 
 Of pitying Love Divine, 
 Seen through the lattice of Thy wounded Side, 
 
 Hath all my need supplied : 
 
 That to the dying Thief 
 
 Gave comfort ; one brief word 
 
 He spake, and he was heard : 
 E'en as a glad surprise the pray'd relief 
 
 The Answer gave ; the night 
 Of darkness left his soul in dawn of Life and Light. 
 
 I come in happy hour 
 
 To feel Thy Grace's power, 
 Now, when with charter new, embracing all, 
 
 Thy Gifts Thou dost prepare 
 
 For all who seek to share : 
 Now, when to Thy sad Mother, bow'd in thrall, 
 
 Thy sovereign Voice doth call, 
 
 And bids her find a Son, 
 
 Bids John a Mother find. 
 
 The thief of contrite mind 
 To look for promised joy — shall I alone 
 
 Still pine for Grace denied ? 
 No, Lord ! each empty soul with Thee is satisfied. 
 
 Behold me. Lord, a son 
 In error's path undone,
 
 246 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 
 
 My portion lost, did Justice speak my doom : 
 
 But Thy good word hath said 
 
 That Mercy's mildest aid 
 Turns, stays, and guides repentant wanderers home. 
 
 I come. Dear Lord, I come 
 
 To kiss Thy sainted Feet, 
 
 As on a rack, outspread 
 
 On Thy hard dying bed ; 
 For here my sorrowing voice Thy Grace shall meet, 
 
 And Grace to Sons forgiven 
 Here speaks — O lost and found, thy portion rests in 
 Heaven. 
 
 For token of that Grace 
 
 To all who seek Thy Face, 
 E'en now Thy Head in death Thou dost incline : 
 
 I know that I have won 
 
 Of Thee that priceless Boon, 
 The earnest of my hope, in that dear Sign. 
 
 O Majesty Divine, 
 
 O Love of Truth so pure, 
 
 Thy Bounty to bequeath, 
 
 That the Testator's death 
 Must pass to make the gift of Blessing sure ! 
 
 O mercy great and high, 
 That to confirm the bond e'en Mercy's Lord must 
 die!
 
 FROM LUIS DE LEON. 
 
 247 
 
 My Song, we here must stay : 
 
 Such theme to honour best 
 Not words, but flowing tears, should speak the rest : 
 Sad silent musings chase loud songs away : 
 
 Our notes we cannot keep, 
 When Earth is hush'd, and Sun and Heaven in 
 darkness weep !
 
 FROM GONGORA. 
 
 CAROL ON THE FESTIVAL OF THE 
 PRESENTATION. 
 
 Oh haste thee, shepherd, run and fly like silent bird 
 on wing : 
 
 Oh see what hands the snow-white dove, the thank- 
 ful offering, bring : 
 
 And see what aged man this day the gift of joy 
 receives. 
 
 The gift a Maiden Mother bears, and as a Mother 
 gives. 
 
 Oh let us mount with silent foot the solemn Temple- 
 stair ; 
 
 The Dove with olive-bough of Peace, the long- 
 desired, is there ; 
 
 The Hope fulfiU'd of Simeon old, that comforts all 
 his pain ; 
 
 And, like the phoenix born anew, he breathes and 
 lives again.
 
 FROM GONGORA. 249 
 
 The fairest window of the fane, whereon the daystar 
 
 bright 
 Was wont its eastern rays to pour, now beams with 
 
 hoher hght : 
 A heavenly Sun hath dawn'd within, more bright than 
 
 eastern sky : 
 The radiance glows on Simeon's breast, and fires his 
 
 age-worn eye. 
 
 Oh hear ! between the dove's soft moans a voice is 
 
 heard more strong ; 
 The grey old swan is pouring forth his last rejoicing 
 
 song : 
 " Now, Lord, e'en now I part in peace ; life hath no 
 
 further store ; 
 Mine eyes have Thy Salvation seen, — Thine, Lord, 
 
 but ours much more." 
 
 Oh haste thee, shepherd, run and fly like silent bird 
 on wing : 
 
 And see what hands the snow-white dove, the thank- 
 ful offering, bring : 
 
 And how that old, old man in joy the gift of joy 
 receives. 
 
 The gift a Maiden Mother bears, and as a Mother 
 gives.
 
 FROM CALDERON. 
 
 "HEAV'N'S GIFTS OF PARDONING LOVE." 
 
 Heav'n's gifts of pardoning Love 
 The sands upon the shore outnumber not, 
 Nor stars of night serene, the sparks of fire, 
 The golden motes of light, nor viewless wings 
 That bear the subtle chariot of the wind. 
 This I believe ; and for this faith would give 
 Not one life only, but a thousand lives. 
 Were life and death now trembling in the scale.
 
 IMITA TED FROM CALDERON. 251 
 
 THE POWER OF THOUGHT. 
 
 I AM the primal beryl-stone, 
 
 That doth of Fortune's turns forewarn, 
 Of hue more changeful than the Moon, 
 
 More glancing than the darts of Morn. 
 
 A homeless wanderer from my birth, 
 I rove without commandment free 
 
 Through air and water, heaven and earth, 
 And know not where my rest shall be. 
 
 Alike in grief and mounting joy 
 The nimble spirits feel me near ; 
 
 Mine the young dream of girl or boy, 
 And man's or woman's hope and fear. 
 
 I am in kings — the uneasy watch. 
 
 That o'er their realm and state they keep 
 
 And rack their favourites to despatch 
 
 The cares that break their masters' sleep. 
 
 I rule when great men's dooms are just : 
 I wake remorse for sinner's crime ; 
 
 I prompt the poor aspirant's trust. 
 And wary placeman's trick of time.
 
 252 IMITATED FROM CALDERON. 
 
 Fair lady's boast of beauty bright, 
 Brave gallant's vaunt of favour vain, 
 
 And daring-do in hardy knight, 
 
 And gamester's stake of loss and gain. 
 
 Are mine : the miser's golden hoard 
 I count, and bid the spendthrift groan ; 
 
 I strike the glad heart's merriest chord 
 And tune dejected sorrow's moan. 
 
 Yes, here and there, and everywhere 
 I roam, unbound to place or plan ; 
 
 Each guise assume, and then forswear ; — 
 The restless Thought of changeful man. 
 
 Yet call me not a thing of nought : 
 This varied mood, this shifting strife, 
 
 Bears witness to the life of Thought ; 
 
 For where Thought comes not, what is Life ? 
 
 The rainbow's hues my vest adorn ; 
 
 Such weeds doth mirthful Frenzy wear ; 
 Yet deem me not of wit forlorn ; 
 
 Calm Reason did the garb prepare. 
 
 For who among the madmen gay 
 More meetly should go forth attired, 
 
 Than he who dared to do or say 
 
 Whate'er his motley Thought inspired ?
 
 IMITA TED FROM CALDERON. 253 
 
 All, all are mad ; but all the praise 
 
 Of sober sadness fain would win, 
 And but in hour unguarded raise 
 
 The veil that hides the mood within. 
 
 Mine is that inner mood : whate'er 
 Imperial Judgment's doom may be, 
 
 It cannot bind the shapes of air, 
 
 With Thought still ranging, madly free. 
 
 Yet not in wildness bold and blind 
 
 Without rebuke or check I stray : 
 The harp, whose chords obey the wind, 
 
 Will more the Master's hand obey. 
 
 Though oft in Fancy's wayward hour 
 Be heard her loud unmeasured tone, 
 
 Sweet chimes of more enduring power 
 
 Ring out, when Thought and Truth are one 
 
 Then on my tower of watch I seek 
 
 The Spirit of the mightier rhyme. 
 And Thought the Prophet guides to speak 
 
 Of things unheard by Change and Time.
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR. 
 
 The following specimen of the Poetical Gloss, a favourite 
 exercise of the Spanish Poets, is translated from a copy m the 
 Translator's Foho MS. It is by an unknown Author; but the 
 Poem itself appears to be well known in Spanish Literature. 
 
 DIALOGUE OF THE BODY AND SOUL. 
 
 "In the year 1500 a poet at Madrid composed the following 
 octave ; and just as he finished writing the last verse, he died a 
 sudden death : but he had confessed himself the same day."— 
 MS. Note. 
 
 How long the account to give of time prolong'd ! 
 
 The term how short ! the call that none can stay ! 
 The judgment-throne with thousand terrors throng'd, 
 
 At which e'en Saints may tremble with dismay ! 
 Duty undone ! Heaven's holiest precepts wrong'd ! 
 
 The Judge how just, that will all wrongs repay ! 
 Dread moment, when from God no force shall sever, 
 Or in the abyss of woe we pine for ever !
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR. 255 
 
 GLOSS ON THE ABOVE. 
 
 What ails thee, my sad soul ? 'Tis time to part. 
 
 To part ? from whom ? From thee, whose load I 
 bear. 
 When must thou go? To-day. Is there no art 
 
 That can detain thee ? None ! no art, or prayer. 
 And hast thou joy, or sorrow ? Both have part ; 
 
 Joy, to be free from earth-born fear and care : 
 Sorrow, to think of Heaven's just precepts wrong'd. 
 And of the long account of time prolong'd. 
 
 II. 
 
 The long account ? of what ? Of my sad sins. 
 
 Of time prolong'd ? What time ? My life's whole 
 span. 
 What, when the account is render'd ? Doom begins. 
 Thy doom? High God's dear blessing or deep 
 ban. 
 But what weighs now against thee? Those dark 
 lines 
 Recording how with thee in guilt I ran. 
 Hast thou no hope ? I hope ; yet doubts dismay : 
 The term so short, — the call that none can stay !
 
 256 FROM AN UNKNO WN A UTHOR. 
 
 III. 
 The term so short ? of what ? Of life now fleeting. 
 
 And what the call that none can stay ? Of death. 
 Is death so near? So near, there's no retreating. 
 
 Why thus ? Fate claims e'en now my forfeit breath. 
 But what is thy chief dread ? That thy poor cheating 
 
 Led me enthrall'd to work my own sad scathe. 
 But what harm caused I ? Much : with thee I 
 
 wrong'd 
 The judgment-throne with thousand terrors throng'd. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What judgment-throne ? The fearful throne of God. 
 
 What terrors throng it ? First, the accusing sprite ; 
 Then, man's ill conscience, and the avenging rod, 
 
 That strikes on wretches banish'd from Heaven's 
 light. 
 And what comes after judgment ? Driven and awed 
 
 By vengeful furies still to pine in night. 
 The flock of lost ones to that realm shall stray, 
 At which e'en Saints may tremble with dismay. 
 
 Why should Saints tremble ? For that Saints they are. 
 
 If Saints they are, why fear ? Lest God chastise. 
 What cause ? That imperfection they too share. 
 
 Yet Saints they are ? Saints, seeking Heaven's 
 high prize.
 
 FROM AN UNKNO IVN A UTHOR. 257 
 
 But who should blame them ? Their own jealous care. 
 And who shall judge ? Themselves ; for they are 
 wise. 
 But what ill find they ? Much in life prolong'd ; 
 Duty undone ! Heaven's holiest precepts wrong'd ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Heaven's precepts wrong'd? how? By committed 
 fault. 
 
 Duty undone ? when ? In each fault's commission. 
 How doth God punish ? When the soul hath sought 
 
 His grace, and finds it not. Is that condition 
 So sad ? So sad, all other woe is nought ; 
 
 For joy is none, save in that blest fruition. 
 And fear they this ? They fear the impending day, 
 And that just Judge, that will all wrongs repay. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How is His justice shown ? In speaking doom. 
 
 Repaying whom ? The guilty, doom'd to moan : 
 For Mercy then, long-slighted, finds no room. 
 
 What most avails ? Accepted labour done. 
 And what the accepted's portion ? Not to come 
 
 To wailing. What the lost one's ? Still to groan 
 In anguish, lost the crown of good endeavour. 
 The moment, when from God no force shall sever. 
 
 s *
 
 258 
 
 FROM AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No force shall sever? how? No term of years 
 Shall break those joys with relish ever new. 
 
 What things shall then have end ? Deceits and fears. 
 What good begin ? Possession firm and true. 
 
 And bliss therewith ? Bliss strange to mortal ears. 
 What goes before ? One moment, ere to view 
 
 Shall break that bliss, from which no force shall sever. 
 
 Or in the abyss of woe we pine for ever.
 
 FROM VICENT GARCIA. 
 
 TO A VERY TALL LADY, MARRIED TO A 
 LITTLE MAN. 
 
 Joanna, all our folks are glad 
 
 To see you wed : but why, or how 
 
 Content thee with so small a lad, 
 No bigger than a bird on bough ? 
 
 They say, who see you side by side. 
 Bridegroom so short, with bride so tall, 
 
 " How came that Sparrow, in his pride, 
 To perch by that high belfry-wall?" 
 
 Or if you go for market-stuff. 
 
 Where dealers balance weight and bale. 
 They say, " That lass might weigh enough. 
 
 Without her make-weight in the scale." 
 
 At table-board, when flesh or fish 
 Invite you, you appear, when seen, 
 
 Proportion'd like the great top-dish, 
 And he, the little sauce-tureen.
 
 260 
 
 FROM VICENT GARCIA. 
 
 The parson, ere his part began, 
 Not knowing what he was to do, 
 
 Ask'd you, you know, " What little man 
 Is this, who comes to church with you?" 
 
 For, seeing you, how grand you were, 
 And him so very small a thing. 
 
 He took you for his Godmother, 
 Who brought him to his christening. 
 
 e^'
 
 FROM TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 
 A FABLE. 
 
 " The painful writer racks his brain 
 To please the vulgar herd, in vain. 
 "Wliat need of better prose or verse 
 For fools who prize and praise the worse?" 
 Thus spoke a Playwright, to excuse 
 The follies of his trashy Muse, 
 In a sly Poet's listening ear : 
 Now what the Poet answer'd, hear : 
 
 " An Ass, long patient of the pack, 
 Fed at his frugal owner's rack, 
 Grinding beneath his weary jaw 
 His daily portion of chopp'd straw. 
 Without complaint, though suffering long ; 
 Till, adding insult to the wrong, 
 His master spoke : ' Take this, dull creature, 
 Since this contents your low-bom nature.' 
 Poor Dapple, not quite unconcern'd, 
 Took heart, and answer meet return'd : 
 
 ' I take it, since I must, hard man ; 
 Digest it, as my stomach can ; 
 But if for oats, which you deny me, 
 You think I have no relish, try mej "
 
 262 FROM TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 It was a sturdy Warren er 
 
 Came home at set of sun, 
 His pack of rabbits slung behind 
 
 To show his work was done : 
 And hot and tired he seem'd to be, 
 But proud of his grand sport was he. 
 
 He met a neighbour : " Friend," he said, 
 " My luck I needs must tell ; 
 
 'Tis true the morning sun was hot, 
 But I'm rewarded well. 
 
 See what a load I bear ; 'tis more 
 
 Than ever mortal caught before. 
 
 " Without a boast I dare affirm 
 
 I'll say and say again, 
 There's not a better warrener 
 
 Than I am, in all Spain." 
 He look'd so grand and talk'd so loud, 
 'Twas very plain the man was proud. 
 
 He carried in his hand a box : 
 Of cork the sides were made ; 
 
 A ferret through the network'd door 
 Poked out its snout and head.
 
 FROM TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 263 
 
 For he had wonder'd much to hear 
 The talk of our vain warrener. 
 
 " My Master, by your leave," he said ; 
 " Two little words with you : 
 Pray, my dear sir, who caught that game ? 
 
 Which was it of us two ? 
 Methinks in common equity 
 You might have said one word for me." 
 
 Perchance, dear Reader, you may think 
 
 Our warrener would be 
 Corrected by this wise reproof: 
 
 But was he ? no, not he. 
 He braved it out ; whate'er was done 
 The praise he counted for his own. 
 
 In short, he stood as much unmoved, 
 
 As I have seen a knave 
 Who stole another's rhymes, and took 
 
 The praise his hearers gave, 
 Without a word his debt to tell 
 To him who made him rhyme so well.
 
 264 FROM TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 One morning by a wayside Cross there sate 
 
 An Andalusian, somewhat droll and sly ; 
 
 When on an Andalusian horse came by 
 A Portuguese, in pride of place and state : 
 He look'd upon the native, and his hat 
 
 He doffd, as moved by well-bred courtesy : 
 
 Like courtesy not wishing to deny. 
 Wearing a cap, the native took off that. 
 " My reverence, Zur, to you I did not make," 
 
 Said he of Portugal, unkindly proud, 
 " But to the Cross, which there uprear'd I see." 
 " Hush !" answer'd straight the other : "no mistake 
 
 To you I bow'd not, but your bit of blood, 
 A well-bred Andalusian, like to me."
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 S&Q RomanccTO General: — Agitstin Diwan. Madrid, 1851. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE, A ROMANCE. 
 
 From a Castle's frowning turret thus a captive made 
 
 his wail : 
 " 'Tis the joy of May returning, life and health in 
 
 every gale. 
 Joyous sings the warbling linnet, answering to the 
 
 nightingale. 
 'Tis the time when youthful lovers go to serve where 
 
 love commands. 
 All but I, in darksome prison bound with misery's 
 
 iron bands. 
 Scarce I know when morn's pale lustre through ray 
 
 narrow grating steals ; 
 Scarce the change at evening twilight night's returning 
 
 gloom reveals. 
 Late one little bird at dawning caroll'd, sweet his 
 
 matin song ; 
 But an archer shot my songster ; — ill betide him for 
 
 the wrong !
 
 266 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 From my head the tangled elf-locks clustering fall 
 
 below my knee, 
 And my beard so long and matted for a napkin 
 
 serves for me. 
 My long nails are grown like talons, sharp as any 
 
 scrivener's knife ; 
 — If my King commands it, patience ! — he may well 
 
 command my life. 
 If the jailor wills it, traitor to my royal lord's com- 
 mand, 
 Patience yet ; — so mean a traitor ne'er shall stain my 
 
 knightly hand. 
 But alas ! Could I but find me one of those poor 
 
 mimic birds, 
 Taught in bowers of gentle ladies to repeat a teacher's 
 
 words. 
 Were it thrush or merry linnet or the plaintive night- 
 ingale, 
 He should tell my gentle lady how to rid me of my 
 
 bale : 
 " Leonora," he should tell her, " let your skilful hands 
 
 prepare 
 For your captive knight a pasty of construction rich 
 
 and rare : 
 Not with spotted trout or salmon fill the dainty dish 
 
 within, 
 But with good steel-file and pick-lock, that deliverance 
 
 he may win ;
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 267 
 
 With a file to file his fetters, and a pick-lock for the 
 
 door." 
 The good King was listening near him : " Prisoner, 
 
 plan those tricks no more : 
 Let thy lady spare her pasty : open stands the 
 
 prison-door." 
 
 A slightly different form of this ballad is given by Lockhart, 
 under the title of The Captive Knight and the Blackbird.
 
 268 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 DEATH OF DURANDARTE. 
 
 By the track where Durandarte late was borne with 
 
 bleeding wound, 
 Sad and slow did Montesinos thread the mountain 
 
 pass profound. 
 'Twas the hour when scarce the dawning lights the 
 
 wakeful pilgrim's way, 
 When the steeple-clocks of Paris rang the chime of 
 
 rising day. 
 Weary came the knight from battle ; batter'd was the 
 
 mail he wore ; 
 In his strong right hand a fragment ol his shiver'd 
 
 lance he bore : 
 Shiver'd, yet a soldier's trophy ; for the pointed steel 
 
 was lost 
 In the corpse of Abenzaydi, bravest of the Moorish 
 
 host. 
 This the knight of France bore onward, for it served 
 ^ him at his need 
 
 For a staff to wake the spirit of his way-worn battle 
 
 steed. 
 Wearily he track'd the mountain, sadly gazing where 
 
 the pass 
 By the day-beam brighter gleaming show'd the blood- 
 empurpled grass.
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 269 
 
 Sadly beat the hero's bosom : terrors for himself 
 
 unknown, 
 Stole upon his heart, revolving what' brave friend was 
 
 here o'erthrown : 
 Till amidst his doubt and sadness, from a beech-tree's 
 
 spreading shade 
 Came a voice that seem'd to call him where a 
 
 wounded knight was laid. 
 'Twas a voice whose tones of anguish pierced the 
 
 champion's heart with woe : 
 Long he gazed upon the dying ere he could his 
 
 features know. 
 Long he gazed, for his barr'd ventail dimness o'er his 
 
 sight had spread. 
 Till he lighted from his charger, and disarm'd his 
 
 helmed head. 
 Then he knew his own brave cousin, whom he loved 
 
 in life most dear : 
 Close he drew, and bending o'er him strove his dying 
 
 words to hear, 
 'Twas a sight the brave might pity, where those noble 
 
 knights in woe 
 Show'd such heart-o'ermastering sorrow as the brave 
 
 alone can know. 
 To th' unwounded spake the wounded, while th' 
 
 unwounded clasp'd him round. 
 Weeping loud with such strong anguish that all words 
 
 in tears were drown'd :
 
 270 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 Till at length in dying accents thus his last commands 
 
 he gave : 
 " Cousin dear, good Montesinos, low in death are 
 
 laid the brave. 
 Low is laid the noble Roland ; — woe is me for Alda 
 
 fair! 
 Captive is the stout Guarinos, first in arms to do and 
 
 dare. 
 Wounded sore, I feel within me near my heart death's 
 
 cold arrest ; 
 One poor boon I crave, one only, ere my spirit leave 
 
 my breast. 
 From this corpse, now scarcely heaving, when the 
 
 tenant soul shall part. 
 With this little poniard opening my left side, take out 
 
 my heart. 
 And to fair Belemia bear it, lovely lady of my 
 
 vow; 
 Tell her how I loved her living, how in death I love 
 
 her now. 
 For that heart which dead I send her ne'er in life its 
 
 faith belied. 
 All my good broad lands and lordships in the realm 
 
 of France so wide, 
 Hers they are, to her I give them ; 'tis the law for 
 
 vassals true 
 To account their goods and chattels ever their dear 
 
 sovereign's due."
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 271 
 
 Scarce his words the knight had ended, when his 
 
 spirit seeni'd to part : 
 Love was strong, but death had broken Durandarte's 
 
 gallant heart.
 
 272 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 DON RAMIRO. 
 
 There, is strife in Aragon, — from Tolosa to Navarre ; 
 All the nobles are at strife, foul debate and threats of 
 
 war : 
 For their king is dead and gone ; new pretenders 
 
 seek to reign ; 
 But the loyal keep their faith, firm and pure from 
 
 treason's stain. 
 He that rules in Aragon must with right the throne obtain; 
 Hemust be of kinglyblood; — meaner suitors askinvain. 
 Don Ramiro's was the right, though a cloister'd "^ 
 
 monk was he \ 
 Holy man he was as ever sprang from kingly 
 
 pedigree ; 
 King Alfonso's royal brother : — he their king of 
 
 right must be. 
 So they take him from his cloister, though it pleased 
 
 him not at all. 
 And proclaim him king and sov'reign, high in 
 
 Huesca's royal hall. 
 Prosperous man was he in battle, happy in each 
 
 venturous road ; 
 Loved he was by all his vassals, gifts and graces he 
 
 bestow'd. 
 But when first he fought the Paynim, 'twas a marvel 
 
 then to see 
 
 /
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 273 
 
 How his gallant knights prepared him for his deeds 
 
 of chivalry. 
 First they arm'd him with a breastplate strong to 
 
 keep his heart's blood warm ; 
 Mounted him on warlike charger, with a shield on 
 
 his left arm : 
 And his right hand bore his falchion bare and flashing 
 
 in the sun : 
 But he needed further counsel ere th' array was duly 
 
 done : 
 " Take the reins, dread lord," they said ; " take them 
 
 in that selfsame hand 
 Where the shield is clasp'd; then riding strike the 
 
 Moor with trenchant brand." 
 Don Ramiro, sore perplex'd, answer'd thus his 
 
 knights again : 
 " With the hand that holds the buckler I can never 
 
 grasp the rein : 
 Put the bridle in my teeth; then I may with comfort go." 
 As the king had so commanded, 'twas agreed it 
 
 should be so. 
 Thus he enter'd into battle ; many a recreant Moor 
 
 he slew : 
 Bravely many a time he bore him, and his realm with 
 
 conquest grew. 
 Till at length he left his throne, and, as he had first begun. 
 Sought again his peaceful cloister till his sands of life 
 were run.
 
 274 FROM THE SPANISH, 
 
 AN ANDALUSIAN EPITAPH ON AN 
 INFANT. 
 
 White roses crown her brow : — mourn not thy loss, 
 Sad mother ! — not with palm from conflict done, 
 But pure and fair her innocent soul is gone. 
 
 And on her breast sweet flowers entwine her cross. 
 
 Her death was as the dreams of infants are : 
 Angels of light on her new waking smiled : 
 One only want she knows, that happy child, 
 
 One only want in heaven, — till thou art there !
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 DON LLUIS ROCA. JOCHS FLORALS DE 
 BARCELONA, i860. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 I DO not repine, sweet mother, 
 
 I do not repine i 
 'Tis my lot, and I am ready, 
 
 Since the lot is mine. 
 
 Nay, this day I feel me happy, 
 
 Happy to be gone, 
 Since the Blessed Bridegroom seeks me, — 
 
 He, the Eternal One. 
 
 Joy hath fill'd me at His coming, 
 
 Joy to hear His call ; 
 'Tis the trusting soul's last comfort, 
 
 Comfort chief of all. 
 
 Hark, it sounds, — the voice that spake it, — 
 
 Still the sound I hear ; 
 From henceforth I fear no evil, 
 
 Never more Avill fear.
 
 276 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 One poor boon I crave, dear mother, 
 
 One poor boon alone, 
 That thou make no moan at parting, 
 
 Oh no, make no moan. 
 
 ,. We are Christians, maid or mother. 
 Taught the Christian skill 
 To resign us, when God willeth, 
 Since it is His will. 
 
 Think, the soul in dying dies not, 
 
 If in grace it dies ; 
 In its aims to God transported, 
 
 Far as aims can rise. 
 
 Think, though we, brief mortal flowers 
 
 Live, like flowers, a day ; 
 Flowers, whose sweetness mounts to heaven. 
 
 Pass not all away. 
 
 There, oh there, shall I be waiting, 
 
 Waiting there at home, 
 Till thou too shalt come, dear mother, — 
 
 Thou in turn shalt come. 
 
 Where my place of rest is given. 
 
 Thou that rest shalt share ; 
 There we two shall dwell for ever, — 
 
 Dwell in union there.
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. Til 
 
 Dry thy tears, my own sweet mother, 
 
 Dry thy tears for me ; 
 More a day of joy than mourning 
 
 Happy death should be. 
 
 Happy be the death-bell tolling, 
 
 Happy signal-call ! 
 Happy be the soul's last comfort,— 
 
 Comfort chief of all !
 
 278 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 DON ANTONIO DE TRUEBA : LIBRO DE 
 LOS CANTARES.— LEIPZIG, i860. 
 
 DIVIDED HEARTS 
 
 L 
 
 Ramona. 
 
 " Come, dress me, dear Mary : come twine me with 
 
 care 
 Each ringlet and braid of my bonny brown hair ; 
 This day of all days on my looks I set store. 
 For a crisis is coming which ne'er came before." 
 " My young lady, you look like a newly blown rose, 
 When the first rays of morning the blossom unclose ; 
 But be kind to my five wits, which run in a maze 
 To imagine why this is the day of all days." 
 " Because this fine day my fine bachelors three 
 Have each in their turn craved a hearing of me. 
 There is Geoffrey, and Lucas, and Robert the Grand, — 
 I would fain please them all, but can give but one hand. 
 " O charming ! a marriage is then in the wind ; 
 But to which of tlie pleaders will judgment be kind !" 
 " Fy, fy, without hearing no judge can decide ; 
 The culprit's confessions the verdict must guide."
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POE TS. 279 
 
 " Yes ; but don't play the prude ; take men as they are. 
 Let your words be well weigh'd : let your treaty be fair. 
 Play your game with decision ; strike bravely your ball, 
 These are days when 'tis well to find husbands at all." 
 " But I bargain for one thing." " Oh, what may it be ?" 
 " I bargain, that he, who makes contract with me 
 Should love me and me only ; if not, let him go ; 
 Without this condition my word will be No. 
 A heart undivided I ask and require, 
 I can never take half, when I give mine entire." 
 
 II. 
 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "Ramona,how dost thou?" "I'mwell; how are you?" 
 
 " I'm badly ; but still with your help I shall do." 
 
 " With my help ? " " Yes." " But how ? " '• 'Tis the 
 
 simplest of things ; 
 Be my wife, and I ask not the treasures of kings." 
 " Well, but first let the matter be well understood ; 
 For the case needs a sober and serious mood. 
 I must tell you the truth ; I'm a jealous poor thing." 
 " O Ramona, I'll never shoot bird on the wing. 
 Pigeon, partridge, or plover, white, black, brown, or 
 
 grey, 
 If e'er from thy beauty my fancy shall stray."
 
 280 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 " But, to come to the point, and to aid all debate, 
 Do you love any other?" "No more than I hate. 
 I am ready to swear in the world there is none 
 That I prize but yourself, and my dogs and my gun." 
 " O ho ! so your dogs are your darlings, you say : 
 I shall wed, and find rivals in Fido and Tray. 
 Farewell, my dear Geoffrey ; whate'er you endure, 
 With me for physician your case is past cure." 
 " Ramona, Ramona, you're mad." " If I be, 
 Put your hand on your mouth, for we ne'er shall 
 
 agree. 
 A heart undivided I ask and desire ; 
 Never offer me half, when I give mine entire." 
 
 III. 
 Lucas. 
 
 " Gentle maiden, may I with your leave now be 
 
 heard?" 
 " Not more welcome the cuckoo when May hath 
 
 appeared." 
 " O lovely as Dian whose orb is so bright 
 Cytherea with envy might swoon at the sight." 
 " Hold, hold ! in the name of Paul, Peter, and John, 
 Let me hear you discourse like a Christian man's son. 
 Not in old Pagan nonsense." "Well then, let me 
 
 speak
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 281 
 
 In plain terms, if you like not my fine heathen 
 
 Greek, 
 Sweet lily, sweet rose, sweet carnation, so fine 
 With all hues of fresh beauty, with face so divine, 
 That no garden of earth with such bloom may 
 
 compare." 
 " By this talk you are making my face z, parterre.'^ 
 " Nay, rather an Eden, for which my pure sigh 
 Love wafts to a Paradise over the sky. 
 Alas! if I gain it not, then I'm prepared . . . ." 
 " Heaven help us !"..." to die like a resolute bard. 
 I walk with two pistols, primed, loaded with ball, 
 One in each of my pockets ; whate'er may befall, 
 The world shall not say 'twas a bully's vain boast." 
 "Then to keep you in life, lest your aim should be 
 
 cross'd, 
 Let me ask what you seek?" "Your white hand is 
 
 my aim." 
 " I'm free to bestow it without hurt or maim. 
 But first I must question. Pray tell me in truth, 
 Are you bound to none other by bond or by 
 
 oath ? " 
 " No bond or engagement my heart ever knew ; 
 I have sported with none save the Muses and you." 
 " But your love to the Muses, I guess, is full-grown?" 
 " Both by night and by day I adore them, I own." 
 " Oh, for pity forgive me, the part is not mine 
 To contend in the field with competitors nine.
 
 282 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 I should come off with scratches. Dear friend of the 
 
 lyre, 
 You've partition'd your heart, while I give mine entire." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " My young lady, Don Lucas in dudgeon is gone ; 
 
 Whether north to the Shetlands, or south to Ceylon. 
 
 He will emigrate somewhere in wrath and despair ; 
 
 But the Muses will help him his sorrows to bear. 
 
 He will not blow his brains out ; the case were too 
 hard 
 
 Should a little coquette be the death of a bard." 
 
 " Say no more; here comes Robert the Grand." " My 
 young lady, 
 
 Though this swain be a clown, yet his tenants at pay- 
 day 
 
 Bring him many doubloons ; throw your glove in his 
 way ; 
 
 If he takes up the challenge, your heart may be gay." 
 
 Robert. 
 
 " Your slave, fair Ramona, awaits your command." 
 " What a delicate speech from tall Robert the Grand !" 
 " So blooming your charms and so trim your attire, 
 Pretty creature ! your graces blind moles might admire." 
 " Sharp-eyed lynxes were better ; but, flattery apart, 
 Let us come to our business j — unbosom your heart."
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 283 
 
 " Well then, I am ricli ; I have houses and land, 
 I have horses and coaches, and money in hand. 
 I have twenty fine girls even now in my view ; 
 I might choose where I please, but I'd rather have 
 
 you. 
 I have sjDorted and fancied, been merry and gay ; 
 But it seems after all but a contraband way. 
 In short I've concluded, I hope you'll agree ; 
 Among all pretty monkeys, Ramona for me." 
 " Then Ramona, my friend, as the symptoms declare. 
 Will unkindly dismiss you, the willow to wear." 
 " The willow ! to me do you say it, who swim 
 In an ocean of gold ? Avhat nonsensical whim 
 Has possess'd you .^ Poor soul ! let your fancy be 
 
 known." 
 " Only this ; he who loves me must love me alone." 
 '* O idle pretensions of ages that were ! 
 None but frights and old women such claims would 
 
 prefer. 
 My philosophy tells me, as life flies on wings. 
 To take all that I can of material things. 
 And each lad now-a-days, whose large heart is his own. 
 Parts it out in fair slices ; each lass to have one." 
 " Gentle sir, if your heart you have parted so free. 
 Seek out maids less exacting : waste none upon me. 
 One heart undivided I ask and require. 
 Your slice will not serve, when I give mine entire."
 
 284 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 "Blessed is she that believed." — St. Luke i. 45. 
 
 I. 
 
 " O HUSH thee, my darling, till night turn to day, 
 Though night-winds may whistle, and night-hounds 
 
 may bay : 
 For angels shall shield thee from harm and from 
 
 dread, 
 With golden wings watching unseen round thy bed." 
 
 Thus sang my sweet Mother to lull me to rest. 
 When my life was unclouded, untroubled my breast ; 
 Soft as dew on mine eyelids sweet slumbers held 
 
 sway, 
 Till morn came in gladness, and night turn'd to day. 
 
 They said that the night-wind was shrill, as it 
 play'd 
 Round the cot where my head in soft cradle was laid ; 
 They said that the night-hounds were howling aloud, 
 As the moon in her wane met the wild racking cloud : 
 
 But all the night long not a sound did I hear, 
 Save the lullaby song falling sweet on my ear ;
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 285 
 
 And my dream was of angels with bright wings out- 
 spread, 
 That fann'd my soft slumbers and watch'd round 
 
 . my bed. 
 Still, still from that night angels guarded my rest : 
 'Tvvas the creed of my Mother : — her spirit be blest. 
 
 11. • 
 
 " My son, my heart's treasure, O hear me forewarn ; 
 In life's path of roses beware of the thorn : 
 After storm the poor seaman finds joy in the calm : 
 After martyrdom past comes the crown and the palm." 
 
 Thus, with tears flowing fast as the soft April rain, 
 Flow'd my Mother's sweet words at our parting of 
 
 pain. 
 When I left my dear valley : — oh, ne'er will depart 
 That hour from my memory, that home from my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Alas ! for the mountain's green slopes, and the 
 
 glade, 
 Where my brothers and I through the walnut-grove 
 
 play'd : 
 Alas ! for the holt, whose cool alleys along 
 The far wood-notes re-echoed the voice of my song : 
 Alas ! for the covert with chestnuts o'ergrown, 
 And the white cot beneath them, how dearly my own !
 
 286 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 I have roam'd through the world like a pilgrim 
 forlorn : 
 Short-lived were its roses, long-lasting the thorn : 
 The pang at my heart can no comfort assuage : 
 Lo, the brow of my manhood is wrinkled with age. 
 
 But if God gives me sorrows, His promise pours 
 
 balm : 
 " After martyrdom past comes the crown and the 
 
 palm." 
 Return, my sad soul, to thy haven of rest ; 
 Twas the creed of my Mother : — her spirit be blest ! 
 
 III. 
 
 " My son, if thy heart hear the call of sweet Love, 
 Forget 'not, its birthplace, its home, is above. 
 Woe worth to the proud, who weak woman would 
 
 wrong. 
 Be the strength of the feeble, the arm of the strong." 
 
 'Twas my Mother's sweet counsel ; her soul in 
 each line 
 Spoke of Love as immortal, its life as divine : 
 May her spirit the crown of the seraphim wear, 
 Who taught me pure vows which the seraphs might 
 share !
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 287 
 
 Thencefonvard in Love I that essence behold 
 Whose bond doth the world in its concord enfold, 
 The source of all tenderness chaste and benign ; 
 To pay it on earth in glad service be mine ! 
 
 And woman to me is a plant, whose frail form, 
 Exposed in the rude world must bend to the storm, 
 Save when a supporter to shield and to guide, 
 Frank, noble, true-hearted, is near at her side. 
 
 This faith gives me joys to the vulgar unknown, 
 Words tell not their sweetness, I feel them my own. 
 O, holy the creed, in such faith that could rest ! 
 'Twas the creed of my Mother : — her spirit be blest ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Once more, in sweet lines her last counsel she 
 gave : — 
 " My son, be not sad, when I go to the grave. 
 'Tis nought but vain dust to this earth we resign : 
 The soul lives undying : its source is divine." 
 
 Thus wrote my sweet Mother : faith quelling all 
 
 fear, 
 
 When she knew that her time of departure was near : 
 
 She is dead ; she is number'd with beings that were : 
 
 But my heart ever speaks and holds converse with her.
 
 288 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 There are beings I loved : they have made their 
 
 last moan ; 
 And I walk in this rude world a pilgrim alone. 
 But I reck not ; O ne'er shall my spirit misgive ! 
 Still with them I hold converse : they love and they 
 
 live. 
 
 Whene'er for their tombstones a garland I wreathe, 
 Or defend their dear names from Imposture's foul 
 
 breath, 
 They pray, with bright joy on each passionless brow, 
 To the Father of spirits to prosper my vow. 
 
 O creed of the holy and humble of heart. 
 Ne'er, ne'er from my bosom thy power shall depart, 
 Making Friendship and Love in eternity rest : 
 'Twas the creed of my Mother : — her spirit be blest !
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 289 
 
 LOVE IMMORTAL. 
 
 It was the hallow'd eve of rest, 
 When, leaning from the balcony 
 
 We watch'd beyond the mountain-crest 
 The glowing western sky. 
 
 A sadness of the twilight hour 
 
 Was in my heart, and in her own ; 
 
 For we were born to feel its power, 
 To love, and love as one. 
 
 And chasten'd hope and pure desire 
 Were breathing in each silent sigh, 
 
 While paler glow'd the parting fire 
 That lit the western sky. 
 
 For in that hour, so sadly sweet 
 
 When faintly gleams the sun's last ray, 
 
 And little birds half-hush'd repeat 
 Their farewell to the day ; 
 
 And o'er each fountain-side and stream 
 The white mist hangs its vapoury shroud, 
 
 And the pale moon's victorious beam 
 Darts through each wandering cloud ; 
 U *
 
 290 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 And in the neighbouring village-tower 
 The mellow chime is heard, that calls 
 
 To prayer at solemn evening hour 
 Within the sacred walls ; 
 
 My God ! how sweet is then the thought 
 Of love unblamed ! but what the pain 
 
 To hearts, that answering love have sought 
 Beguiled to hope in vain ! 
 
 " Mary," I said, " I cannot rest : 
 O tell me, must I sigh alone, 
 Nor find a chord within that breast 
 Responsive to my own?" 
 
 The maiden do^vnward turn'd her eyes 
 In modest glance of maiden fear ; 
 
 Then raised them to the darkening skies, 
 For Heaven in thought was near : 
 
 And spoke as if her boding heart 
 The darkening future could divine : 
 " There, where no change the bond can part, 
 Shall meet thy love and mine."
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 291 
 
 II. 
 
 The love that happy children know, 
 Increasing as their days increase ; 
 
 The love with which bright angels glow, 
 All purity and peace ; 
 
 Such love was ours : — the year went round : 
 O God ! the glory all be Thine ; 
 
 Thy gift that love, which knew no bound, 
 Pure, innocent, divine. 
 
 Who calls this world a vale of tears, 
 Hath never felt that higher strain. 
 
 That nobler mood, wherein appears 
 Lost Paradise again. 
 
 But ah ! it could not, might not, last : 
 
 That sweetest maid, whose childhood free 
 
 Gay birds or butterflies had chased 
 Through woods, o'er lawns, with me ; 
 
 That maid, so loving and beloved. 
 
 Whose troth-plight now to me was given, 
 
 Whose heart from mine had never roved, 
 Was not for earth, but heaven.
 
 292 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 She droop'd, as droops a short-lived flower, 
 She breathed the Aveary parting moan, 
 
 And to its amaranthine bower 
 That angel-soul had flown. 
 
 A spirit from a brighter sphere, 
 
 Awhile she wander'd, like the dove, 
 
 But found no rest on billows here, 
 And sought her ark above. 
 
 Yet think not that in grief for her 
 I wept with hopeless tear and sigh : 
 
 Such love is not of things that were, 
 It dies not when we die. 
 
 The undying soul in mortal heart 
 Hath yearnings, like itself, divine : 
 
 She spake it : "Where no change can part. 
 Shall meet thy love and mine."
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 293 
 
 III. 
 
 I mourn'd her, early dead, — not so 
 
 As men past hope, past comfort, mourn ; 
 
 But with such natural tears as flow 
 From all of women born. 
 
 I mourn'd with trembling heart, resign'd, 
 With hope o'ermastering mortal fears, 
 
 For her, whose love my fate had twined 
 For evermore with hers. 
 
 Faith dried my flowing tears ; and now 
 My sighs uplift my soul to heaven : 
 
 My childhood's joy, my manhood's vow, 
 Thy bonds of death are riven ! 
 
 Those eyes of love still gaze on me, 
 That gentle voice is still my stay ; 
 
 I hear its tones, when wearily 
 I toil in life's rude way. 
 
 Along the mead, or thro' the wood. 
 Where'er in memory sad I mourn, 
 
 That gentle voice to my sad mood 
 Comes answering in return.
 
 2,94 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 My God ! how sweet, how sweet is Faith ! 
 
 Beneath the western balcony, 
 Whence first our vows for hfe or death 
 
 Were heard and mark'd on high, 
 
 There grows a Httle summer-flower ; 
 
 Her hands had rear'd and train'd it there ; 
 Which every day at pHghted hour 
 
 Her message seems to bear : 
 
 " Forget me not, my only love : " 
 
 The message in each bloom is set : 
 I answering gaze on heaven above : 
 " I never can forget," 
 
 For why ? she is not dead, whose breast , 
 Was leaning from the balcony. 
 
 When on that hallow'd eve of rest 
 We watch'd the western sky. 
 
 When, with soft blush, her maiden's heart 
 Spoke to my heart at day's decline : 
 " There, where no change the bond can part, 
 Shall meet thy love and mine."
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 295 
 
 SONG. 
 THE HERB-MAIDEN. 
 
 I SAW thee on thy early round, 
 Where thou cUdst take thy way 
 
 To cull thy herbs in garden ground, 
 At dawn of golden day. 
 
 I went to take a nearer view, — 
 No further thought in mind, — 
 
 But when I left the ground, I knew 
 I'd left my heart behind. 
 
 What I have lost, 'tis thou hast found. 
 It rests with none but thee : 
 
 Young maiden of the garden-ground. 
 Give back my heart to me.
 
 296 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 SENOR BIENVENIDO Y CANO. 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON ARGUELLES, CALATRAVA, AND ALVAREZ Y 
 MENDIZABAL, MINISTERS OF SPAIN. 
 
 The late distinguished ministers, Agustin Arguelles, 
 Jose Maria Calatrava, and Juan Alvarez y Mendiz- 
 abal, have had their remains deposited with many- 
 tokens of public honour in the cemetery of St. Nicolas 
 and St. Salvador at Madrid ; and the Spanish Muses 
 have followed them, certainly in a spirit which affords 
 a pleasing contrast to the scurril rhymes in which 
 Villamediana sang the downfall of the statesmen of 
 Philip III.'s reign, and some imitators of Villa- 
 mediana pursued in his retirement the fallen Olivares. 
 The following lines appear to be worthy of notice, 
 not only for their elegiac pathos, but because the 
 style reminds us that there is now in Spain a little 
 reviving regard to the school of Gongora. 
 
 True genius dies not, — no : o'er death's dark sea 
 Lies the far land the God of Hfe defends ; 
 
 And, borne in strength to Him, the spirit free 
 Fills time's long ages, and all space transcends.
 
 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 297 
 
 What boots it, if too soon the parting breath 
 
 Leave the fr?il shroud, and Nature prompts to 
 moan? 
 
 From Hfe's steep pilgrimage it gains in death 
 The portal of a world to death unknown. 
 
 Vainly the slave of gold with toil and pain 
 
 Would stay the hours that in his sand-glass haste ; 
 
 Through marble halls sad echo sighs, 'Tis vain 
 To seek the blooms of spring in winter's waste. 
 
 The marble tomb, where banners proudly wave, 
 Fills not with earnest tears the gazer's eye, 
 
 Like one poor flower that strews the peasant's grave, 
 Or lowly cross that warns how man should die. 
 
 For virtue's rich memorial is the seed 
 
 Of truth divine its patient hand hath sown. 
 
 And kindly Genius is its own fair meed. 
 
 Felt in all hearts, the world's wide wealth its own. 
 
 Arguelles, Calatrava, Alvarez, 
 
 Your virtuous worth in trinal union 
 Lived poorly, when to princely dignities 
 
 Ye might have soar'd, and golden store have won. 
 
 But see your grateful land, on this fair day. 
 Hallowing your names, a granite record raise, 
 
 While tones more clear than old Amphion's lay 
 Chaunt to the rising pile your deathless praise. 
 
 X*
 
 298 FROM MODERN SPANISH POETS. 
 
 Blest tomb, that, founded in a people's love, 
 To that just love a holier ardour gives ! 
 
 Blest, that such vow a people's heart could move, 
 More blest for that high praise that with it lives ! 
 
 No more : for generous deeds of godlike men 
 Live evermore, emblazon'd on that scroll, 
 
 Whereof immortal spirits hold the pen. 
 The conscious tablets of the undying soul.
 
 FROM THE MODERN GREEK. 
 
 See Chants popiilaires de la Grice Moderne. — Fauriel, 1825. 
 
 "WHY ARE THE MOUNTAINS OVERCAST?" 
 
 Why are the mountains overcast? what dim and 
 
 darkening shroud 
 Rolls round with war of icy wind that drives the 
 
 racking cloud? 
 *Tis not the storm-cloud in its gloom, or wind with 
 
 icy breath : 
 It is the Hunter on his road : the sweeping blast of 
 
 Death. 
 The young he drives before his face ; the old, too 
 
 weak to go 
 He drags behind ; pale infant-forms are on his saddle- 
 bow. 
 With bended knee both young and old beseech him 
 
 on his way : 
 " Good rider, draw thy rein one hour before our 
 
 home to stay : 
 Before our village home the fount flows cool beneath 
 
 the tree : 
 There let the old man slake his thirst, and let the 
 
 young be free
 
 300 FROM THE MODERN GREEK. 
 
 One hour to ply their games of strength ; the little 
 
 child, one hour 
 To wander yet on earth's green lap, and pluck the 
 
 budding flower. 
 List to the prayer, nor be the boon, one little boon, 
 
 denied ; 
 Let the sad mother clasp her child, the bridegroom 
 
 bless his bride ! " 
 " It may not be," the Pale One said ; " the draught 
 
 would wake again 
 The feeble old man's thirst of life, forgetful of its 
 
 pain : 
 The young's desire would glow more fierce, resisting 
 
 Heav'n's decree. 
 The wife and mother strive, more loth to yield their 
 
 loves to me. 
 I stay not, till to other Powers my service I bequeath ; 
 'Tis not of earth, though shown on earth, the Love 
 
 that masters Death." 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.
 
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