Kitabı oku: «Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 1», sayfa 2

TO THE SAME FLOWER

 
  Pleasures newly found are sweet
  When they lie about our feet:
  February last my heart
  First at sight of thee was glad;
  All unheard of as thou art,
  Thou must needs, I think, have had,
  Celandine! and long ago,
  Praise of which I nothing know.
 
 
  I have not a doubt but he,
  Whosoe'er the man might be, 10
  Who the first with pointed rays,
  (Workman worthy to be sainted)
  Set the Sign-board in a blaze,
  When the risen sun he painted,
  Took the fancy from a glance
  At thy glittering countenance.
 
 
  Soon as gentle breezes bring
  News of winter's vanishing,
  And the children build their bowers,
  Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mold 20
  All about with full-blown flowers,
  Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
  With the proudest Thou art there,
  Mantling in the tiny square.
 
 
  Often have I sigh'd to measure
  By myself a lonely pleasure;
  Sigh'd to think, I read a book
  Only read perhaps by me;
  Yet I long could overlook
  Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30
  And thy arch and wily ways,
  And thy store of other praise.
 
 
  Blithe of heart, from week to week
  Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
  While the patient Primrose sits
  Like a Beggar in the cold,
  Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,
  Slipp'st into thy shelter'd hold:
  Bright as any of the train
  When ye all are out again. 40
 
 
  Thou art not beyond the moon,
  But a thing "beneath our shoon;"
  Let, as old Magellen did,
  Others roam about the sea;
  Build who will a pyramid;
  Praise it is enough for me,
  If there be but three or four
  Who will love my little Flower.
 

CHARACTER of the HAPPY WARRIOR

 
  Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
  Whom every Man in arms should wish to be?
  – It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
  Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
  Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
  Whose high endeavours are an inward light
  That make the path before him always bright:
  Who, with a natural instinct to discern
  What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
  Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
  But makes his moral being his prime care;
  Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain,
  And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
  Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
  In face of these doth exercise a power
  Which is our human-nature's highest dower;
  Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
  Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
  By objects, which might force the soul to abate
  Her feeling, render'd more compassionate; 20
  Is placable because occasions rise
  So often that demand such sacrifice;
  More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
  As tempted more; more able to endure,
  As more expos'd to suffering and distress;
  Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
  Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
  Upon that law as on the best of friends;
  Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
  To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
  And what in quality or act is best
  Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
  He fixes good on good alone, and owes
  To virtue every triumph that he knows:
  – Who, if he rise to station of command,
  Rises by open means; and there will stand
  On honourable terms, or else retire,
  And in himself possess his own desire;
  Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
  Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
  And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
  For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state;
  Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
  Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
  Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
  Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
  A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
  But who, if he be called upon to face
  Some awful moment to which heaven has join'd
  Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 50
  Is happy as a Lover; and attired
  With sudden brightness like a Man inspired;
  And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
  In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
  Or if an unexpected call succeed,
  Come when it will, is equal to the need:
  – He who, though thus endued as with a sense
  And faculty for storm and turbulence,
  Is yet a Soul whose master bias leans
  To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
  Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
  Are at his heart; and such fidelity
  It is his darling passion to approve;
  More brave for this, that he hath much to love:
  'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
  Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
  Or left unthought-of in obscurity,
  Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
  Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
  Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
  Where what he most doth value must be won;
  Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
  Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
  Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
  Looks forward, persevering to the last,
  From well to better, daily self-surpast:
  Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
  For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
  Or He must go to dust without his fame,
  And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80
  Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
  And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
  His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause;
  This is the happy Warrior; this is He
  Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
 

* * * * *

The above Verses mere written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

 
  When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,
  Eustace pointed with his lance
  To the Horn which there was hanging;
  Horn of the inheritance.
  Horn it was which none could sound,
  No one upon living ground,
  Save He who came as rightful Heir
  To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.
 
 
  Heirs from ages without record
  Had the House of Lucie born, 10
  Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
  By the proof upon the Horn:
  Each at the appointed hour
  Tried the Horn, it own'd his power;
  He was acknowledged: and the blast
  Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.
 
 
  With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
  And to Hubert thus said he,
  "What I speak this Horn shall witness
  For thy better memory. 20
  Hear, then, and neglect me not!
  At this time, and on this spot,
  The words are utter'd from my heart,
  As my last earnest prayer ere we depart."
 
 
  "On good service we are going
  Life to risk by sea and land;
  In which course if Christ our Saviour
  Do my sinful soul demand,
  Hither come thou back straightway,
  Hubert, if alive that day; 30
  Return, and sound the Horn, that we
  May have a living House still left in thee!"
 
 
  "Fear not," quickly answer'd Hubert;
  "As I am thy Father's son,
  What thou askest, noble Brother,
  With God's favour shall be done."
  So were both right well content:
  From the Castle forth they went.
  And at the head of their Array
  To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40
 
 
  Side by side they fought (the Lucies
  Were a line for valour fam'd)
  And where'er their strokes alighted
  There the Saracens were tam'd.
  Whence, then, could it come the thought,
  By what evil spirit brought?
  Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
  His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?
 
 
  "Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
  "Deep he lies in Jordan flood." – 50
  Stricken by this ill assurance,
  Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
  "Take your earnings." – Oh! that I
  Could have seen my Brother die!
  It was a pang that vex'd him then;
  And oft returned, again, and yet again.
 
 
  Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace!
  Nor of him were tidings heard.
  Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
  Back again to England steer'd. 60
  To his Castle Hubert sped;
  He has nothing now to dread.
  But silent and by stealth he came,
  And at an hour which nobody could name.
 
 
  None could tell if it were night-time,
  Night or day, at even or morn;
  For the sound was heard by no one
  Of the proclamation-horn.
  But bold Hubert lives in glee:
  Months and years went smilingly; 70
  With plenty was his table spread;
  And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.
 
 
  Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
  And, as good men do, he sate
  At his board by these surrounded,
  Flourishing in fair estate.
  And, while thus in open day
  Once he sate, as old books say,
  A blast was utter'd from the Horn,
  Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80
 
 
  'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
  He is come to claim his right:
  Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
  Hear the challenge with delight.
  Hubert! though the blast be blown
  He is helpless and alone:
  Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
  And there he may be lodg'd, and thou be Lord.
 
 
  Speak! astounded Hubert cannot;
  And if power to speak he had, 90
  All are daunted, all the household
  Smitten to the heart, and sad.
  'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
  Living Man, it must be he!
  Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
  And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.
 
 
  Long, and long was he unheard of:
  To his Brother then he came,
  Made confession, ask'd forgiveness,
  Ask'd it by a Brother's name, 100
  And by all the saints in heaven;
  And of Eustace was forgiv'n:
  Then in a Convent went to hide
  His melancholy head, and there he died.
 
 
  But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels
  Had preserv'd from Murderers' hands,
  And from Pagan chains had rescued,
  Liv'd with honour on his lands.
  Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:
  And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 110
  A long posterity renown'd,
  Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.
 

THE AFFLICTION of MARGARET – OF —

* * * * *

 
  Where art thou, my beloved Son,
  Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
  Oh find me prosperous or undone!
  Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
  Why am I ignorant of the same
  That I may rest; and neither blame,
  Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
 
 
  Seven years, alas, to have received
  No tidings of an only child;
  To have despair'd, and have believ'd, 10
  And be for evermore beguil'd;
  Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
  I catch at them, and then I miss;
  Was ever darkness like to this?
 
 
  He was among the prime in worth,
  An object beauteous to behold;
  Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
  Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
  If things ensued that wanted grace,
  As hath been said, they were not base; 20
  And never blush was on my face.
 
 
  Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
  When full of play and childish cares,
  What power hath even his wildest scream,
  Heard by his Mother unawares!
  He knows it not, he cannot guess:
  Years to a Mother bring distress;
  But do not make her love the less.
 
 
  Neglect me! no I suffer'd long
  From that ill thought; and being blind, 30
  Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong;
  Kind mother have I been, as kind
  As ever breathed: " and that is true;
  I've wet my path with tears like dew,
  Weeping for him when no one knew.
 
 
  My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
  Hopeless of honour and of gain,
  Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
  Think not of me with grief and pain:
  I now can see with better eyes; 40
  And worldly grandeur I despise,
  And fortune with her gifts and lies
 
 
  Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
  And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
  They mount, how short a voyage brings
  The Wanderers back to their delight!
  Chains tie us down by land and sea;
  And wishes, vain as mine, may be
  All that is left to comfort thee.
 
 
  Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50
  Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
  Or thou upon a Desart thrown
  Inheritest the Lion's Den;
  Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
  Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
  An incommunicable sleep.
 
 
  I look for Ghosts; but none will force
  Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
  That there was ever intercourse
  Betwixt the living and the dead; 60
  For, surely, then I should have sight
  Of Him I wait for day and night,
  With love and longings infinite.
 
 
  My apprehensions come in crowds;
  I dread the rustling of the grass;
  The very shadows of the clouds
  Have power to shake me as they pass:
  I question things, and do not find
  One that will answer to my mind;
  And all the world appears unkind. 70
 
 
  Beyond participation lie
  My troubles, and beyond relief:
  If any chance to heave a sigh
  They pity me, and not my grief.
  Then come to me, my Son, or send
  Some tidings that my woes may end;
  I have no other earthly friend.