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diff --git a/17923-h/17923-h.htm b/17923-h/17923-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c656c13 --- /dev/null +++ b/17923-h/17923-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6771 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Visions of England</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Visions of England, by Francis T. Palgrave</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Visions of England, by Francis T. +Palgrave, Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Visions of England + Lyrics on leading men and events in English History + + +Author: Francis T. Palgrave + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: March 5, 2006 [eBook #17923] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VISIONS OF ENGLAND*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1889 Cassell and Company edition by David Price, +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1><!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>THE +VISIONS OF ENGLAND: LYRICS OF LEADING MEN AND EVENTS IN ENGLISH HISTORY</h1> +<p><span class="smcap">by<br /> +</span>FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE<br /> +<i>Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford</i><br /> +<i>Late Fellow of Exeter College</i></p> +<p>TANTA RES EST, UT PAENE VITIO MENTIS TANTUM OPUS INGRESSUS MIHI VIDEAR</p> +<p>CASSELL & COMPANY, <span class="smcap">limited</span>:<br /> +<i>LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK & MELBOURNE</i><br /> +1889</p> +<h2><!-- page 4--><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>By +the same Author</h2> +<p>THE VISIONS OF ENGLAND: Seventy Lyrics on leading Men and Events +in English History: 8vo. 7/6</p> +<p>LYRICAL POEMS, Four Books: Extra Fcap. 8vo. 6/-</p> +<p>ORIGINAL HYMNS: 18mo. 1/6</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p><i>Poetry edited by the same</i></p> +<p>THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY: 18mo. 4/6</p> +<p>THE CHILDREN’S TREASURY OF ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY, with Notes +and Glossary: 18mo. 2/6. Or in two parts, 1/- each</p> +<p>SHAKESPEARE’S LYRICS. SONGS FROM THE PLAYS AND SONNETS, +with Notes: 18mo. 4/6</p> +<p>SELECTION FROM R. HERRICK’S LYRICAL POETRY, with Essay and +Notes: 18mo. 4/6</p> +<p>THE POETICAL WORKS OF J. KEATS, reprinted; <i>literatim</i> from +the original editions, with Notes: 18mo. 4/6</p> +<p>LYRICAL POEMS BY LORD TENNYSON, selected and arranged, with Notes: +18mo. 4/6</p> +<p>GLEN DESSERAY AND OTHER POEMS, by J. C. Shairp, late Principal of +the United College, S. Andrews, and Professor of Poetry in the University +of Oxford. With Essay and Notes. 8vo.</p> +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Macmillan, </span>Bedford St., Covent +Garden</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p><i>To be published presently</i></p> +<p>THE TREASURY OF SACRED SONG, selected from the English Lyrical Poetry +of Four Centuries, with Notes Explanatory and Biographical</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clarendon Press, Oxford</span><br /> +<i>Aug</i>. 1889</p> +<h2><!-- page 5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p>Again<span class="smcap">, </span>on behalf of readers of this <span class="smcap">National +Library, </span>I have to thank a poet of our day—in this case +the Oxford Professor of Poetry—for joining his voice to the voices +of the past through which our better life is quickened for the duties +of to-day. Not for his own verse only, but for his fine sense +also of what is truest in the poets who have gone before, the name of +Francis Turner Palgrave is familiar to us all. Many a home has +been made the richer for his gathering of voices of the past into a +dainty “Golden Treasury of English Songs.” Of this +work of his own I may cite what was said of it in <i>Macmillan’s +Magazine</i> for October, 1882, by a writer of high authority in English +Literature, Professor A. W. Ward, of Owens College. “A very +eminent authority,” said Professor Ward, “has accorded to +Mr. Palgrave’s historical insight, praise by the side of which +all words of mine must be valueless,” Canon [now Bishop] Stubbs +writes:—“I do not think that there is one of the <i>Visions</i> +which does not carry my thorough consent and sympathy all through.”</p> +<p>Here, then, Mr. Palgrave re-issues, for the help of many thousands +more, his own songs of the memories of the Nation, addressed to a Nation +that has not yet forfeited the praise of Milton. Milton said of +the Englishman, “If we look at his native towardliness in the +roughcast, without breeding, some nation or <!-- page 6--><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>other +may haply be better composed to a natural civility and right judgment +than he. But if he get the benefit once of a wise and well-rectified +nurture, I suppose that wherever mention is made of countries, manners, +or men, the English people, among the first that shall be praised, may +deserve to be accounted a right pious, right honest, and right hardy +nation.” So much is shown by the various utterances in this +<span class="smcap">National Library. S</span>o much is shown, +in the present volume of it, by a poet’s vision of the England +that has been till now, and is what she has been.</p> +<p>H. M.</p> +<p><!-- page 7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span><span class="smcap">to +the names of</span><br /> +HENRY HALLAM <span class="smcap">and </span>FRANCIS PALGRAVE<br /> +<span class="smcap">friends and fellow-labourers in english history<br /> +for forty years</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">who, differing often in judgment</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">were at one throughout life in devoted love of<br /> +justice, truth, and england</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap"><i>in affectionate and reverent remembrance</i></span><span class="smcap"><br /> +this book is inscribed and dedicated</span></p> +<h2><!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>PREFACE</h2> +<p>As the scheme which the Author has here endeavoured to execute has +not, so far as he knows, the advantage of any near precedent in any +literature, he hopes that a few explanatory words may be offered without +incurring censure for egotism.</p> +<p>Our history is so eminently rich and varied, and at the same time, +by the fact of our insular position, so stamped with unity, that from +days very remote it has supplied matter for song. This, among +Celts and Angles, at first was lyrical. But poetry, for many centuries +after the Conquest, mainly took the annalistic form, and, despite the +ability often shown, was hence predoomed to failure. For a nation’s +history cannot but present many dull or confused periods, many men and +things intractable by poetry, though, perhaps, politically effective +and important, which cannot be excluded from any narrative aiming at +consecutiveness; and, by the natural laws of art, these passages, when +rendered in verse, in their effect become more prosaic than they would +be in a prose rendering.</p> +<p>My attempt has therefore been to revert to the earlier and more natural +conditions of poetry, and to offer,—not a continuous narrative; +not poems on every critical moment or conspicuous man in our long annals,—but +single lyrical pictures of such leading or typical characters and scenes +in English history, and only such, as have seemed amenable to a strictly +poetical treatment. Poetry, not History, has, hence, been my first +and last aim; or, perhaps I might define it, History for Poetry’s +sake. At the same time, I have striven to keep throughout as closely +to absolute <!-- page 10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>historical +truth in the design and colouring of the pieces as the exigencies of +poetry permit:—the result aimed at being to unite the actual tone +and spirit of the time concerned, with the best estimate which has been +reached by the research and genius of modern investigators. Our +island story, freed from the ‘falsehood of extremes,’—exorcised, +above all, from the seducing demon of party-spirit, I have thus here +done my best to set forth. And as this line of endeavour has conducted +and constrained me, especially when the seventeenth century is concerned, +to judgments—supported indeed by historians conspicuous for research, +ability, and fairness, but often remote from the views popularized by +the writers of our own day,—upon these points a few justificatory +notes have been added.</p> +<p>A double aim has hence governed and limited both the selection and +the treatment of my subjects. The choice has necessarily fallen, +often, not on simply picturesque incident or unfamiliar character, but +on the men and things that we think of first, when thinking of the long +chronicle of England,—or upon such as represent and symbolize +the main current of it. Themes, however, on which able or popular +song is already extant,—notably in case of Scotland,—I have +in general avoided. In the rendering, my desire has been always +to rest the poetry of each Vision on its own intrinsic interest; to +write with a straightforward eye to the object alone; not studious of +ornament for ornament’s sake; allowing the least possible overt +intrusion of the writer’s personality; and, in accordance with +lyrical law, seeking, as a rule, to fix upon some factual picture for +each poem.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>To define, thus, the scope of what this book attempts, is, in itself, +a confession of presumptuousness,—the writer’s own sense +of which is but feebly and imperfectly expressed in the words from Vergil’s +letter to Augustus prefixed as my motto. In truth, so rich and +so wide are the materials, <!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>that +to scheme a lyrical series which should really paint the <i>Gesta Anglorum</i> +in their fulness might almost argue ‘lack of wit,’ <i>vitium +mentis</i>, in much greater powers than mine. No criticism, however +severe, can add to my own consciousness how far the execution of the +work, in regard to each of its aims, falls below the plan. Yet +I would allow myself the hope, great as the deficiencies may be, that +the love of truth and the love of England are mine by inheritance in +a degree sufficient to exempt this book, (the labour of several years), +from infidelity to either:—that the intrinsic worth and weight +of my subject may commend these songs, both at home, and in the many +Englands beyond sea, to those who, (despite the inevitably more engrossing +attractions of the Present, and the emphatic bias of modern culture +towards the immediate and the tangible), maintain that high and soul-inspiring +interest which, identifying us with our magnificent Past, and all its +varied lessons of defeat and victory, offers at the same time,—under +the guidance from above,—our sole secure guarantee for prosperous +and healthy progress in the Future.</p> +<blockquote><p>The world has cycles in its course, when all<br /> +That once has been, is acted o’er again;</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and only the nation which, at each moment of political or social +evolution, looks lovingly backward to its own painfully-earned experience—<i>Respiciens</i>, +<i>Prospiciens</i>, as Tennyson’s own chosen device expresses +it—has solid reason to hope, that its movement is true Advance—that +its course is Upward.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>It remains only to add, that the book has been carefully revised +and corrected, and that nineteen pieces published in the original volume +of 1881 are not reprinted in the present issue.</p> +<p>F. T. P.<br /> +<i>July</i>, 1889</p> +<h2><!-- page 15--><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>THE +VISIONS OF ENGLAND</h2> +<h3>PRELUDE</h3> +<p><i>CAESAR TO EGBERT</i></p> +<p>1</p> +<p> England<span class="smcap">, </span>fair England! +Empress isle of isles!<br /> + —Round whom the loving-envious ocean plays,<br /> + Girdling thy feet with silver and with smiles,<br /> + Whilst all the nations crowd thy liberal bays;<br /> + With rushing wheel and heart of fire they come,<br /> + Or glide and glance like white-wing’d doves that +know<br /> + And seek their proper home:—<br /> + England! not England yet! but fair as now,<br /> +When first the chalky strand was stirr’d by Roman prow.</p> +<p>2</p> +<p> On thy dear countenance, great mother-land,<br /> + Age after age thy sons have set their sign,<br /> + Moulding the features with successive hand<br /> + Not always sedulous of beauty’s line:—<br /> + Yet here Man’s art in one harmonious aim<br /> + With Nature’s gentle moulding, oft has work’d<br /> + The perfect whole to frame:<br /> + Nor does earth’s labour’d face elsewhere, like +thee,<br /> +Give back her children’s heart with such full sympathy</p> +<p>3</p> +<p> —On marshland rough and self-sprung forest +gazed<br /> + The imperial Roman of the eagle-eye;<br /> + Log-splinter’d forts on green hill-summits raised,<br /> + <!-- page 16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>Earth +huts and rings that dot the chalk-downs high:—<br /> + Dark rites of hidden faith in grove and moor;<br /> + Idols of monstrous build; wheel’d scythes of war;<br /> + Rock tombs and pillars hoar:<br /> + Strange races, Finn, Iberian, Belgae, Celt;<br /> +While in the wolds huge bulls and antler’d giants dwelt.</p> +<p>4</p> +<p> —Another age!—The spell of Rome has +past<br /> + Transforming all our Britain; Ruthless plough,<br /> + Which plough’d the world, yet o’er the nations +cast<br /> + The seed of arts, and law, and all that now<br /> + Has ripen’d into commonwealths:—Her hand<br /> + With network mile-paths binding plain and hill<br /> + Arterialized the land:<br /> + The thicket yields: the soil for use is clear;<br /> +Peace with her plastic touch,—field, farm, and grange are here.</p> +<p>5</p> +<p> Lo, flintwall’d cities, castles stark and +square<br /> + Bastion’d with rocks that rival Nature’s own;<br /> + Red-furnaced baths, trim gardens planted fair<br /> + With tree and flower the North ne’er yet had known;<br /> + Long temple-roofs and statues poised on high<br /> + With golden wings outstretch’d for tiptoe flight,<br /> + Quivering in summer sky:—<br /> + The land had rest, while those stern legions lay<br /> +By northern ramparts camp’d, and held the Pict at bay.</p> +<p>6</p> +<p> Imperious Empire! Thrice-majestic Rome!<br /> + No later age, as earth’s slow centuries glide,<br /> + Can raze the footprints stamp’d where thou hast come,<br /> + The ne’er-repeated grandeur of thy stride!<br /> + —Though now so dense a darkness takes the land,<br /> + Law, peace, wealth, letters, faith,—all lights are +quench’d<br /> + <!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>By +violent heathen hand:—<br /> + Vague warrior kings; names writ in fire and wrong;<br /> +Aurelius, Urien, Ida;—shades of ancient song.</p> +<p>7</p> +<p> And Thou—O whether born of flame and wave,<br /> + Or Gorlois’ son, or Uther’s, blameless lord,<br /> + True knight, who died for those thou couldst not save<br /> + When the Round Table brake their plighted word,—<br /> + The lord of song hath set thee in thy grace<br /> + And glory, rescued from the phantom world,<br /> + Before us face to face;<br /> + No more Avilion bowers the King detain;<br /> +The mystic child returns; the Arthur reigns again!</p> +<p>8</p> +<p> —Now, as some cloud that hides a mountain +bulk<br /> + Thins to white smoke, and mounts in lighten’d air,<br /> + And through the veil the gray enormous hulk<br /> + Burns, and the summit, last, is keen and bare,—<br /> + From wasted Britain so the gloaming clears;<br /> + Another birth of time breaks eager out,<br /> + And England fair appears:—<br /> + Imperial youth sign’d on her golden brow,<br /> +While the prophetic eyes with hope and promise glow.</p> +<p>9</p> +<p> Then from the wasted places of the land,<br /> + Charr’d skeletons of cities, circling walls<br /> + Of Roman might, and towers that shatter’d stand<br /> + Of that lost world survivors, forth she calls<br /> + Her new creation:—O’er the land is wrought<br /> + The happy villagedom by English tribes<br /> + From Elbe and Baltic brought;<br /> + Red kine light up with life the ravaged plain;<br /> +The forest glooms are pierced; the plough-land laughs again.</p> +<p><!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>10</p> +<p> Each from its little croft the homesteads peep,<br /> + Green apple-garths around, and hedgeless meads,<br /> + Smooth-shaven lawns of ever-shifting sheep,<br /> + Wolds where his dappled crew the swineherd feeds:—<br /> + Pale gold round pure pale foreheads, and their eyes<br /> + More dewy blue than speedwell by the brook<br /> + When Spring’s fresh current flies,<br /> + The free fair maids come barefoot to the fount,<br /> +Or poppy-crown’d with fire, the car of harvest mount.</p> +<p>11</p> +<p> On the salt stream that rings us, ness and bay,<br /> + The nation’s old sea-soul beats blithe and strong;<br /> + The black foam-breasters taste Biscayan spray,<br /> + And where ’neath Polar dawns the narwhals throng:—<br /> + Free hands, free hearts, for labour and for glee,<br /> + Or village-moot, when thane with churl unites<br /> + Beneath the sacred tree;<br /> + While wisdom tempers force, and bravery leads,<br /> +Till spears beat <i>Aye</i>! on shields, and words at once are deeds.</p> +<p>12</p> +<p> Again with life the ruin’d cities smile,<br /> + Again from mother-Rome their sacred fire<br /> + Knowledge and Faith rekindle through the isle,<br /> + Nigh quench’d by barbarous war and heathen ire:—<br /> + —No more on Balder’s grave let Anglia weep<br /> + When winter storms entomb the golden year<br /> + Sunk in Adonis-sleep;<br /> + Another God has risen, and not in vain!<br /> +The Woden-ash is low, the Cross asserts her reign.</p> +<p>13</p> +<p> —Land of the most law-loving,—the most +free!<br /> + My dear, dear England! sweet and green as now<br /> + <!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>The +flower-illumined garden of the sea,<br /> + And Nature least impair’d by axe and plough!<br /> + A laughing land!—Thou seest not in the north<br /> + How the black Dane and vulture Norseman wait<br /> + The sign of coming forth,<br /> + The foul Landeyda flap its raven plume,<br /> +And all the realms once more eclipsed in pagan gloom!</p> +<p>14</p> +<p> —O race, of many races well compact!<br /> + As some rich stream that runs in silver down<br /> + From the White Mount:—his baby steps untrack’d<br /> + Where clouds and emerald cliffs of crystal frown;<br /> + Now, alien founts bring tributary flood,<br /> + Or kindred waters blend their native hue,<br /> + Some darkening as with blood;<br /> + These fraught with iron strength and freshening brine,<br /> +And these with lustral waves, to sweeten and refine.</p> +<p>15</p> +<p> Now calm as strong, and clear as summer air,<br /> + Blessing and blest of earth and sky, he glides:<br /> + Now on some rock-ridge rends his bosom fair,<br /> + And foams with cloudy wrath and hissing tides:<br /> + Then with full flood of level-gliding force,<br /> + His discord-blended melody murmurs low<br /> + Down the long seaward course:—<br /> + So through Time’s mead, great River, greatly glide:<br /> +Whither, thou may’st not know:—but He, who knows, will guide.</p> +<p>St. 3 Sketches Prehistoric England. St. 4 <i>Mile-paths</i>; +old English name for Roman roads. St. 5 <i>Tree and flower</i>; +such are reported to have been naturalized in England by the Romans.—<i>Northern +ramparts</i>; that of Agricola and Lollius Urbicus from Forth to Clyde, +and the greater work of Hadrian and Severus between Tyne and Solway. +St. 6, 7 The Arthurian legends,—now revivified for us by Tennyson’s +<!-- page 20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>magnificent +<i>Idylls of the King</i>,—form the visionary links in our history +between the decline of the Roman power and the earlier days of the Saxon +conquest. St. 9 <i>Villagedom</i>; Angles and Saxons seem at first +to have burned the larger towns of the Romanized Britons and left them +deserted, in favour of village-life. St. 11 <i>Village-moot</i>: +Held on a little hill or round a sacred tree: ‘the ealdermen spoke, +groups of freemen stood round, clashing shields in applause, settling +matters by loud shouts of <i>Aye</i> or <i>Nay</i>.’ (J. +R. Green, <i>History of the English People</i>). St. 12 Balder, +the God of Light, like Adonis in the old Greek story, is a nature-myth, +figuring the Sun, yearly dying in winter, and yearly restored to life. +St. 13 <i>Landeyda</i>; Name of Danish banner: ‘the desolation +of the land.’</p> +<p>For further details upon points briefly noticed in this <i>Prelude</i>, +readers are referred to Mr. J. R. Green’s <i>History</i>, and +to Mr. T. Wright’s <i>The Celt</i>, <i>The Roman</i>, and <i>The +Saxon</i>, as sources readily accessible.</p> +<h3>THE FIRST AND LAST LAND</h3> +<p><i>AT SENNEN</i></p> +<p>Thrice-blest<span class="smcap">, </span>alone with Nature!—here, +where gray<br /> + Belerium fronts the spray<br /> +Smiting the bastion’d crags through centuries flown,<br /> + While, ’neath the hissing surge,<br /> +Ocean sends up a deep, deep undertone,</p> +<p>As though his heavy chariot-wheels went round:<br /> + Nor is there other sound<br /> +Save from the abyss of air, a plaintive note,<br /> + The seabirds’ calling cry,<br /> +As ’gainst the wind with well-poised weight they float,</p> +<p>Or on some white-fringed reef set up their post,<br /> + And sentinel the coast:—<br /> +Whilst, round each jutting cape, in pillar’d file,<br /> + The lichen-bearded rocks<br /> +Like hoary giants guard the sacred Isle.</p> +<p><!-- page 21--><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>—Happy, +alone with Nature thus!—Yet here<br /> + Dim, primal man is near;—<br /> +The hawk-eyed eager traders, who of yore<br /> + Through long Biscayan waves<br /> +Star-steer’d adventurous from the Iberic shore</p> +<p>Or the Sidonian, with their fragrant freight<br /> + Oil-olive, fig, and date;<br /> +Jars of dark sunburnt wine, flax-woven robes,<br /> + Or Tyrian azure glass<br /> +Wavy with gold, and agate-banded globes:—</p> +<p>Changing for amber-knobs their Eastern ware<br /> + Or tin-sand silvery fair,<br /> +To temper brazen swords, or rim the shield<br /> + Of heroes, arm’d for fight:—<br /> +While the rough miners, wondering, gladly yield</p> +<p>The treasured ore; nor Alexander’s name<br /> + Know, nor fair Helen’s shame;<br /> +Or in his tent how Peleus’ wrathful son<br /> + Looks toward the sea, nor heeds<br /> +The towers of still-unconquer’d Ilion.</p> +<p><i>Belerium</i>; The name given to the Land’s End by Diodorus, +the Greek historical compiler. He describes the natives as hospitable +and civilized. They mined tin, which was bought by traders and +carried through Gaul to the south-east, and may, as suggested here, +have been used in their armour by the warriors during the Homeric Siege +of Troy.</p> +<h3><!-- page 22--><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>PAULINUS +AND EDWIN</h3> +<p>627</p> +<p>The black-hair’d gaunt Paulinus<br /> + By ruddy Edwin stood:—<br /> +‘Bow down, O King of Deira,<br /> + Before the holy Rood!<br /> +Cast forth thy demon idols,<br /> + And worship Christ our Lord!’<br /> +—But Edwin look’d and ponder’d,<br /> + And answer’d not a word.</p> +<p>Again the gaunt Paulinus<br /> + To ruddy Edwin spake:<br /> +‘God offers life immortal<br /> + For His dear Son’s own sake!<br /> +Wilt thou not hear his message<br /> + Who bears the Keys and Sword?’<br /> +—But Edwin look’d and ponder’d,<br /> + And answer’d not a word.</p> +<p>Rose then a sage old warrior;<br /> + Was five-score winters old;<br /> +Whose beard from chin to girdle<br /> + Like one long snow-wreath roll’d:—<br /> +‘At Yule-time in our chamber<br /> + We sit in warmth and light,<br /> +While cavern-black around us<br /> + Lies the grim mouth of Night.</p> +<p>‘Athwart the room a sparrow<br /> + Darts from the open door:<br /> +Within the happy hearth-light<br /> + One red flash,—and no more!<br /> +<!-- page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>We +see it born from darkness,<br /> + And into darkness go:—<br /> +So is our life, King Edwin!<br /> + Ah, that it should be so!</p> +<p>‘But if this pale Paulinus<br /> + Have somewhat more to tell;<br /> +Some news of whence and whither,<br /> + And where the Soul may dwell:—<br /> +If on that outer darkness<br /> + The sun of Hope may shine;—<br /> +He makes life worth the living!<br /> + I take his God for mine!’</p> +<p>So spake the wise old warrior;<br /> + And all about him cried<br /> +‘Paulinus’ God hath conquer’d!<br /> + And he shall he our guide:—<br /> +For he makes life worth living,<br /> + Who brings this message plain,—<br /> +When our brief days are over,<br /> + That we shall live again.’</p> +<p>Paulinus was one of the four missionaries sent form Rome by Gregory +the Great in 601. The marriage of Edwin, King of Northumbria, +with Ethelburga, sister to Eadbald of Kent, opened Paulinus’ way +to northern England. Bede, born less than fifty years after, has +given an admirable narrative of Edwin’s conversion: which is very +completely told in Bright’s <i>Early English Church History</i>, +B. IV.</p> +<p>Deira, (from old-Welsh <i>deifr</i>, waters), then comprised Eastern +Yorkshire from Tees to Humber. Goodmanham, where the meeting described +was held, is some 23 miles from York.</p> +<h3><!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>ALFRED +THE GREAT</h3> +<p> 849-901</p> +<p>1</p> +<p>The fair-hair’d boy is at his mother’s knee,<br /> + A many-colour’d page before them spread,<br /> + Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red,<br /> +With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy.<br /> +But through her eyes alone the child can see,<br /> + From her sweet lips partake the words of song,<br /> + And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong,<br /> +Or gazes on some feat of gramarye.<br /> +‘When thou canst use it, thine the book!’ she cried:<br /> +He blush’d, and clasp’d it to his breast with pride:—<br /> + ‘Unkingly task!’ his comrades cry; In vain;<br /> +All work ennobles nobleness, all art,<br /> +He sees; Head governs hand; and in his heart<br /> + All knowledge for his province he has ta’en.</p> +<p>2</p> +<p>Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest,<br /> + As summer-clouds that o’er the valley flit:—<br /> + To other tasks his genius he must fit;<br /> +The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest!<br /> +—O sacred Athelney, from pagan quest<br /> + Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy<br /> + Waiting God’s issue with heroic joy<br /> +And unrelaxing purpose in the breast!<br /> +The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch,<br /> +For England fight; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch;<br /> + Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free:—<br /> +He, changing at the font his foe to friend,<br /> +Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end,<br /> + By moderation doubling victory.</p> +<p><!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>O +much-vex’d life, for us too short, too dear!<br /> + The laggard body lame behind the soul;<br /> + Pain, that ne’er marr’d the mind’s serene +control;<br /> +Breathing on earth heaven’s aether atmosphere,<br /> +God with thee, and the love that casts out fear!<br /> + A soul in life’s salt ocean guarding sure<br /> + The freshness of youth’s fountain sweet and pure,<br /> +And to all natural impulse crystal-clear:<br /> +To service or command, to low and high<br /> +Equal at once in magnanimity,<br /> + The Great by right divine thou only art!<br /> +Fair star, that crowns the front of England’s morn,<br /> +Royal with Nature’s royalty inborn,<br /> + And English to the very heart of heart!</p> +<p><i>The fair-hair’d boy</i>: There is a singular unanimity among +historians in regard to this ‘darling of the English,’ whose +life has been vividly sketched by Freeman (<i>Conquest</i>, ch. ii); +by Green (<i>English People</i>, B. I: ch. iii); and, earlier, by my +Father in his short <i>History of the Anglo-Saxons</i>, ch. vi-viii.</p> +<p><i>Changing at the font</i>: Alfred was godfather to Guthrun the +Dane, when baptized after his defeat at Ethandune in 878.</p> +<h3><!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>A +DANISH BARROW</h3> +<p><i>ON THE EAST DEVON COAST</i></p> +<p>Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!<br /> + —A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,<br /> + Whoe’er he was, I warrant him<br /> +Upon whose mound the single sheep<br /> + Browses and tinkles in the sun,<br /> + Within the narrow vale alone.</p> +<p>Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene<br /> + Suits well thy centuries of sleep:<br /> + The soft brown roots above thee creep,<br /> +The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,<br /> + And,—vain memento of the spot,—<br /> + The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.</p> +<p>Lie still!—Thy mother-land herself<br /> + Would know thee not again: no more<br /> + The Raven from the northern shore<br /> +Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,<br /> + Through fire and blood and slaughter’d kings,<br /> + ’Neath the black terror of his wings.</p> +<p>And thou,—thy very name is lost!<br /> + The peasant only knows that here<br /> + Bold Alfred scoop’d thy flinty bier,<br /> +And pray’d a foeman’s prayer, and tost<br /> + His auburn, head, and said ‘One more<br /> + Of England’s foes guards England’s shore,’</p> +<p>And turn’d and pass’d to other feats,<br /> + And left thee in thine iron robe,<br /> + To circle with the circling globe,<br /> +While Time’s corrosive dewdrop eats<br /> + <!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>The +giant warrior to a crust<br /> + Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.</p> +<p>So lie: and let the children play<br /> + And sit like flowers upon thy grave,<br /> + And crown with flowers,—that hardly have<br /> +A briefer blooming-tide than they;—<br /> + By hurrying years borne on to rest,<br /> + As thou, within the Mother’s breast.</p> +<h3>HASTINGS</h3> +<p>October 14: 1066</p> +<p>‘Gyrth<span class="smcap">, </span>is it dawn in the sky that +I see? or is all the sky blood?<br /> +Heavy and sore was the fight in the North: yet we fought for the good.<br /> +O but—Brother ’gainst brother!—’twas hard!—Now +I come with a will<br /> +To baste the false bastard of France, the hide of the tanyard and mill!<br /> + Now on the razor-edge lies<br /> + England the priceless, the prize!<br /> +God aiding, the Raven at Stamford we smote;<br /> +One stroke more for the land here I strike and devote!’</p> +<p>Red with fresh breath on her lips came the dawn; and Harold uprose;<br /> +Kneels as man before God; then takes his long pole-axe, and goes<br /> +Where round their woven wall, tough ash-palisado, they crowd;<br /> +Mightily cleaves and binds, to his comrades crying aloud<br /> + <!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>‘Englishmen +stalwart and true,<br /> + But one word has Harold for you!<br /> +When from the field the false foreigners run,<br /> +Stand firm in your castle, and all will be won!</p> +<p>‘Now, with God o’er us, and Holy Rood, arm!’—And +he ran for his spear:<br /> +But Gyrth held him back, ’mong his brothers Gyrth the most honour’d, +most dear:<br /> +‘Go not, Harold! thine oath is against thee! the Saints look askance:<br /> +I am not king; let me lead them, me only: mine be the chance!’<br /> + —‘No! The leader must lead!<br /> + Better that Harold should bleed!<br /> +To the souls I appeal, not the dust of the tomb:—<br /> +King chosen of Edward and England, I come!’</p> +<p>Over Heathland surge banners and lances, three armies; William the +last,<br /> +Clenching his mace; Rome’s gonfanon round him Rome’s majesty +cast:<br /> +O’er his Bretons Fergant, o’er the hireling squadrons Montgomery +lords,<br /> +Jerkin’d archers, and mail-clads, and horsemen with pennons and +swords:—<br /> + —England, in threefold array,<br /> + Anchor, and hold them at bay,<br /> +Firm set in your own wooden walls! and the wave<br /> +Of high-crested Frenchmen will break on their grave.</p> +<p>So to the palisade on! There, Harold and Leofwine and Gyrth<br /> +Stand like a triple Thor, true brethren in arms as in birth:<br /> +And above the fierce standards strain at their poles as they flare on +the gale;<br /> +<!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>One, +the old Dragon of Wessex, and one, a Warrior in mail.<br /> + ‘God Almighty!’ they cry!<br /> + ‘Haro!’ the Northmen reply:—<br /> +As when eagles are gather’d and loud o’er the prey,<br /> +Shout! for ’tis England the prize of the fray!</p> +<p>And as when two lightning-clouds tilt, between them an arrowy sleet<br /> +Hisses and darts; till the challenging thunders are heard, and they +meet;<br /> +Across fly javelins and serpents of flame: green earth and blue sky<br /> +Blurr’d in the blind tornado:—so now the battle goes high.<br /> + Shearing through helmet and limb<br /> + Glaive-steel and battle-axe grim:<br /> +As the flash of the reaper in summer’s high wheat,<br /> +King Harold mows horseman and horse at his feet.</p> +<p>O vainly the whirlwind of France up the turf to the palisade swept:<br /> +Shoulder to shoulder the Englishmen stand, and the shield-wall is kept:—<br /> +As, in a summer to be, when England and she yet again<br /> +Strove for the sovranty, firm stood our squares, through the pitiless +rain<br /> + Death rain’d o’er them all day;<br /> + —Happier, not braver than they<br /> +Who on Senlac e’en yet their still garrison keep,<br /> +Sleeping a long Marathonian sleep!</p> +<p>‘Madmen, why turn?’ cried the Duke,—for the horsemen +recoil from the slope;<br /> +‘Behold me! I live!’—and he lifted the ventayle; +‘before you is hope:<br /> +Death, not safety, behind!’—and he spurs to the centre once +more,<br /> +<!-- page 30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>Lion-like +leaps on the standard and Harold: but Gyrth is before!<br /> + ‘Down! He is down!’ is the shout:<br /> + ‘On with the axes! Out, Out!’<br /> +—He rises again; the mace circles its stroke;<br /> +Then falls as the thunderbolt falls on the oak.</p> +<p>—Gyrth is crush’d, and Leofwine is crush’d; yet +the shields hold their wall:<br /> +‘Edith alone of my dear ones is left me, and dearest of all!<br /> +Edith has said she would seek me to-day when the battle is done;<br /> +Her love more precious alone than kingdoms and victory won;<br /> + O for the sweetness of home!<br /> + O for the kindness to come!’<br /> +Then around him again the wild war-dragons roar,<br /> +And he drinks the red wine-cup of battle once more.</p> +<p>—‘Anyhow from their rampart to lure them, to shatter +the bucklers and wall,<br /> +Acting a flight,’ in his craft thought William, and sign’d +to recall<br /> +His left battle:—O countrymen! slow to be roused! roused, always, +as then,<br /> +Reckless of life or death, bent only to quit you like men!—<br /> + As bolts from the bow-string they go,<br /> + Whirl them and hurl them below,<br /> +Where the deep foss yawns for the foe in his course,<br /> +Piled up and brimming with horseman and horse.</p> +<p>As when October’s sun, long caught in a curtain of gray,<br /> +With a flood of impatient crimson breaks out, at the dying of day,<br /> +And trees and green fields, the hills and the skies, are all steep’d +in the stain;—<br /> +<!-- page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>So +o’er the English one hope flamed forth, one moment,—in vain!<br /> + As hail when the corn-fields are deep,<br /> + Down the fierce arrow-points sweep:<br /> +Now the basnets of France o’er the palisade frown;<br /> +The shield-fort is shatter’d; the Dragon is down.</p> +<p>O then there was dashing and dinting of axe and of broad-sword and +spear:<br /> +Blood crying out to blood: and Hatred that casteth out fear!<br /> +Loud where the fight is the loudest, the slaughter-breath hot in the +air,<br /> +O what a cry was that!—the cry of a nation’s despair!<br /> + —Hew down the best of the land!<br /> + Down them with mace and with brand!<br /> +The fell foreign arrow has crash’d to the brain;<br /> +England with Harold the Englishman slain!</p> +<p>Yet they fought on for their England! of ineffaceable fame<br /> +Worthy, and stood to the death, though the greedy sword, like a flame,<br /> +Bit and bit yet again in the solid ranks, and the dead<br /> +Heap where they die, and hills of foemen about them are spread:—<br /> + —Hew down the heart of the land,<br /> + There, to a man, where they stand!<br /> +Till night with her blackness uncrimsons the stain,<br /> +And the merciful shroud overshadows our slain.</p> +<p>Heroes unburied, unwept!—But a wan gray thing in the night<br /> +Like a marsh-wisp flits to and fro through the blood-lake, the steam +of the fight;<br /> +Turning the bodies, exploring the features with delicate touch;<br /> +<!-- page 32--><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>Stumbling +as one that finds nothing: but now!—as one finding too much:<br /> + Love through mid-midnight will see:<br /> + Edith the fair! It is he!<br /> +Clasp him once more, the heroic, the dear!<br /> +Harold was England: and Harold lies here.</p> +<p><i>The hide of the tanyard</i>; See the story of Arlette or Herleva, +the tanner’s daughter, mother to William ‘the Bastard.’</p> +<p><i>At Stamford</i>; At Stamford Bridge, over the Derwent, Harold +defeated his brother Tostig and Harold Hardrada, Sep 25, 1066.</p> +<p><i>Your castle</i>; Harold’s triple palisade upon the hill +of battle is so described by the chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon.</p> +<p><i>Rome’s gonfanon</i>; The consecrated banner, sent to William +from Rome.</p> +<p><i>The fierce standards</i>; These were planted on the spot chosen +by the Conqueror for the high-altar of the Abbey of Battle. The +<i>Warrior</i> was Harold’s ‘personal ensign.’</p> +<p><i>In a summer to be</i>; June 18, 1815.</p> +<p><i>The ventayle</i>; Used here for the <i>nasale</i> or nose-piece +shown in the Bayeux Tapestry.</p> +<h3>DEATH IN THE FOREST</h3> +<p>August 2: 1100</p> +<p>Where the greenwood is greenest<br /> +At gloaming of day,<br /> +Where the twelve-antler’d stag<br /> +Faces boldest at bay;<br /> +Where the solitude deepens,<br /> +Till almost you hear<br /> +The blood-beat of the heart<br /> +As the quarry slips near;<br /> +His comrades outridden<br /> +With scorn in the race,<br /> +The Red King is hallooing<br /> +His bounds to the chase.</p> +<p> <!-- page 33--><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>What +though the Wild Hunt<br /> +Like a whirlwind of hell<br /> +Yestereve ran the forest,<br /> +With baying and yell:—<br /> +In his cups the Red heathen<br /> +Mocks God to the face;<br /> +—‘In the devil’s name, shoot;<br /> +Tyrrell, ho!—to the chase!’</p> +<p>—Now with worms for his courtiers<br /> +He lies in the narrow<br /> +Cold couch of the chancel!<br /> +—But whence was the arrow?</p> +<p>The dread vision of Serlo<br /> +That call’d him to die,<br /> +The weird sacrilege terror<br /> +Of sleep, have gone by.<br /> +The blood of young Richard<br /> +Cries on him in vain,<br /> +In the heart of the Lindwood<br /> +By arbalest slain.<br /> +And he plunges alone<br /> +In the Serpent-glade gloom,<br /> +As one whom the Furies<br /> +Hound headlong to doom.</p> +<p> His sin goes before him,<br /> +The lust and the pride;<br /> +And the curses of England<br /> +Breathe hot at his side.<br /> +And the desecrate walls<br /> +Of the Evil-wood shrine<br /> +Lo, he passes—unheeding<br /> +Dark vision and sign:—</p> +<p><!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>—Now +with worms for his courtiers<br /> +He lies in the narrow<br /> +Cold couch of the chancel:<br /> +—But whence was the arrow?</p> +<p>Then a shudder of death<br /> +Flicker’d fast through the wood:—<br /> +And they found the Red King<br /> +Red-gilt in his blood.<br /> +What wells up in his throat?<br /> +Is it cursing, or prayer?<br /> +Was it Henry, or Tyrrell,<br /> +Or demon, who there<br /> +Has dyed the fell tyrant<br /> +Twice crimson in gore,<br /> +While the soul disincarnate<br /> +Hunts on to hell-door?</p> +<p> —Ah! friendless in death!<br /> +Rude forest-hands fling<br /> +On the charcoaler’s wain<br /> +What but now was the king!<br /> +And through the long Minster<br /> +The carcass they bear,<br /> +And huddle it down<br /> +Without priest, without prayer:—</p> +<p>Now with worms for his courtiers<br /> +He lies in the narrow<br /> +Cold couch of the chancel:<br /> +—But whence was the arrow?</p> +<p><i>In his cups</i>; Rufus, it is said, was ‘fey,’ as +the old phrase has it, on the day of his death. He feasted long +and high, and then chose out two cross-bow shafts, presenting them to +Tyrrell with the exclamation given above.</p> +<p><i>Serlo</i>; He was Abbot of Gloucester, and had sent to Rufus the +narrative of an ominous dream, reported in the Monastery.</p> +<p><!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span><i>The +true dreams</i>; On his last night Rufus ‘laid himself down to +sleep, but not in peace; the attendants were startled by the King’s +voice—a bitter cry—a cry for help—a cry for deliverance—he +had been suddenly awakened by a dreadful dream, as of exquisite anguish +befalling him in that ruined church, at the foot of the Malwood rampart.’ +Palgrave: <i>Hist. of Normandy and of England</i>, B. IV: ch. xii.</p> +<p><i>Young Richard</i>; Son to Robert Courthose, and hunting, as his +uncle’s guest, in the New Forest in May 1100, was mysteriously +slain by a heavy bolt from a Norman Arbalest.</p> +<p><i>The Evil-wood walls</i>; ‘Amongst the sixty churches which +had been ‘ruined,’ my Father remarks, in his notice of the +New Forest, ‘the sanctuary below the mystic Malwood was peculiarly +remarkable. . . . You reach the Malwood easily from the Leafy Lodge +in the favourite deer-walk, the Lind-hurst, the Dragon’s wood.’</p> +<p><i>Through the long Minster</i>; Winchester. Rufus, with much +hesitation, was buried in the chancel as a king; but no religious service +or ceremonial was celebrated:—‘All men thought that prayers +were hopeless.’</p> +<h3>EDITH OF ENGLAND</h3> +<p>1100</p> +<p>Through sapling shades of summer green,<br /> + By glade and height and hollow,<br /> +Where Rufus rode the stag to bay,<br /> +King Henry spurs a jocund way,<br /> + Another chase to follow.<br /> +But when he came to Romsey gate<br /> + The doors are open’d free,<br /> +And through the gate like sunshine streams<br /> + A maiden company:—<br /> +One girdled with the vervain-red,<br /> + And three in sendal gray,<br /> +And touch the trembling rebeck-strings<br /> + To their soft roundelay;—</p> +<p>—The bravest knight may fail in fight;<br /> + The red rust edge the sword;<br /> +<!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>The +king his crown in dust lay down;<br /> + But Love is always Lord!</p> +<p>King Henry at her feet flings down,<br /> + His helmet ringing loudly:—<br /> +His kisses worship Edith’s hand;<br /> +‘Wilt thou be Queen of all the land?’<br /> + —O red she blush’d and proudly!<br /> +Red as the crimson girdle bound<br /> + Beneath her gracious breast;<br /> +Red as the silken scarf that flames<br /> + Above his lion-crest.<br /> +She lifts and casts the cloister-veil<br /> + All on the cloister-floor:—<br /> +The novice maids of Romsey smile,<br /> + And think of love once more.</p> +<p>‘Well, well, to blush!’ the Abbess cried,<br /> + ‘The veil and vow deriding<br /> +That rescued thee, in baby days,<br /> +From insolence of Norman gaze,<br /> + In pure and holy hiding.<br /> +—O royal child of South and North,<br /> + Malcolm and Margaret,<br /> +The promised bride of Heaven art thou,<br /> + And Heaven will not forget!<br /> +What recks it, if an alien King<br /> + Encoronet thy brow,<br /> +Or if the false Italian priest<br /> + Pretend to loose the vow?’</p> +<p>O then to white the red rose went<br /> + On Edith’s cheek abiding!<br /> +With even glance she answer’d meek<br /> +‘I leave the life I did not seek,<br /> + In holy Church confiding’:—<br /> +Then Love smiled true on Henry’s face,<br /> + <!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>And +Anselm join’d the hands<br /> +That in one race two races bound<br /> + By everlasting bands.<br /> +So Love is Lord, and Alfred’s blood<br /> + Returns the land to sway;<br /> +And all her joyous maidens join<br /> + In their soft roundelay:</p> +<p>—For though the knight may fail in fight,<br /> + The red rust edge the sword,<br /> +The king his crown in dust lay down,<br /> + Yet Love is always Lord!</p> +<p>Edith, (who, after marriage, took the name Matilda in compliment +to Henry’s mother), daughter to Malcolm King of Scotland by Margaret, +granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, had been brought up by her aunt Christina, +and placed in Romsey Abbey for security against Norman violence. +But she had always refused to take the vows, and was hence, in opposition +to her aunt’s wish, declared canonically free to marry by Anselm; +called here an <i>Italian priest</i>, as born at Aosta. Henry +had been long attached to the Princess, and married her shortly after +his accession.</p> +<h3>A CRUSADER’S TOMB</h3> +<p>1230</p> +<p>Unnamed<span class="smcap">, </span>unknown:—his hands across +his breast<br /> + Set in sepulchral rest,<br /> +In yon low cave-like niche the warrior lies,<br /> + —A shrine within a shrine,—<br /> +Full of gray peace, while day to darkness dies.</p> +<p>Then the forgotten dead at midnight come<br /> + And throng their chieftain’s tomb,<br /> +Murmuring the toils o’er which they toil’d, alive,<br /> + <!-- page 38--><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>The +feats of sword and love;<br /> +And all the air thrills like a summer hive.</p> +<p>—How so, thou say’st!—This is the poet’s +right!<br /> + He looks with larger sight<br /> +Than they who hedge their view by present things,<br /> + The small, parochial world<br /> +Of sight and touch: and what he sees, he sings.</p> +<p>The steel-shell’d host, that, gleaming as it turns,<br /> + Like autumn lightning burns,<br /> +A moment’s azure, the fresh flags that glance<br /> + As cornflowers o’er the corn,<br /> +Till war’s stern step show like a gala dance,</p> +<p>He also sees; and pierces to the heart,<br /> + Scanning the genuine part<br /> +Each Red-Cross pilgrim plays: Some, gold-enticed;<br /> + By love or lust or fame<br /> +Urged; or who yearn to kiss the grave of Christ</p> +<p>And find their own, life-wearied:—Motley band!<br /> + O! ere they quit the Land<br /> +How maim’d, how marr’d, how changed from all that pride<br /> + In which so late they left<br /> +Orwell or Thames, with sails out-swelling wide</p> +<p>And music tuneable with the timing oar<br /> + Clear heard from shore to shore;<br /> +All Europe streaming to the mystic East!<br /> + —Now on their sun-smit ranks<br /> +The dusky squadrons close in vulture-feast,</p> +<p>And that fierce Day-star’s blazing ball their sight<br /> + Sears with excess of light;<br /> +Or through dun sand-clouds the blue scimitar’s edge<br /> + Slopes down like fire from heaven,<br /> +Mowing them as the thatcher mows the sedge.</p> +<p><!-- page 39--><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Then +many a heart remember’d, as the skies<br /> + Grew dark on dying eyes,<br /> +Sweet England; her fresh fields and gardens trim;<br /> + Her tree-embower’d halls;<br /> +And the one face that was the world to him.</p> +<p>—And one who fought his fight and held his way,<br /> + Through life’s long latter day<br /> +Moving among the green, green English meads,<br /> + Ere in this niche he took<br /> +His rest, oft ’mid his kinsfolk told the deeds</p> +<p>Of that gay passage through the Midland sea;<br /> + Cyprus and Sicily;<br /> +And how the Lion-Heart o’er the Moslem host<br /> + Triumph’d in Ascalon<br /> +Or Acre, by the tideless Tyrian coast,</p> +<p>Yet never saw the vast Imperial dome,<br /> + Nor the thrice-holy Tomb:—<br /> +—As that great vision of the hidden Grail<br /> + By bravest knights of old<br /> +Unseen:—seen only of pure Parcivale.</p> +<p>The ‘Thud Crusade,’ 1189-1193, is the subject of this +poem. Richard Coeur de Lion carried his followers by way of Sicily +and Cyprus: making a transient conquest of the latter. In the +Holy Land the siege of Acre consumed the time and strength of the Crusaders. +They suffered terribly in the wilderness of Mount Carmel, and when at +last preparing to march on Jerusalem (1192) were recalled to Ascalon. +Richard now advanced to Bethany, but was unable to reach the Holy City. +The tale is that while riding with a party of knights one of them called +out, ‘This way, my lord, and you will see Jerusalem.’ +But Richard hid his face and said, ‘Alas!—they who are not +worthy to win the Holy City are not worthy to behold it.’</p> +<p><i>The vast Imperial dome</i>; The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was +built by the Emperor Constantine; <span class="smcap">a.d. </span>326-335.</p> +<p><i>The hidden Grail</i>; This vision forms the subject of one of +Tennyson’s noblest <i>Idylls</i>.</p> +<h3><!-- page 40--><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>A +BALLAD OF EVESHAM</h3> +<p>August 4: 1265</p> +<p>Earl Simon on the Abbey tower<br /> +In summer sunshine stood,<br /> +While helm and lance o’er Greenhill heights<br /> +Come glinting through the wood.<br /> +‘My son!’ he cried, ‘I know his flag<br /> +Amongst a thousand glancing’:—<br /> +Fond father! no!—’tis Edward stern<br /> +In royal strength advancing.</p> +<p>The Prince fell on him like a hawk<br /> +At Al’ster yester-eve,<br /> +And flaunts his captured banner now<br /> +And flaunts but to deceive:—<br /> +—Look round! for Mortimer is by,<br /> +And guards the rearward river:—<br /> +The hour that parted sire and son<br /> +Has parted them for ever!</p> +<p>‘Young Simon’s dead,’ he thinks, and look’d<br /> +Upon his living son:<br /> +‘Now God have mercy on our souls,<br /> +Our bodies are undone!<br /> +But, Hugh and Henry, ye can fly<br /> +Before their bowmen smite us—<br /> +They come on well! But ’tis from me<br /> +They learn’d the skill to fight us.’</p> +<p>—‘For England’s cause, and England’s laws,<br /> +With you we fight and fall!’<br /> +—‘Together, then, and die like men,<br /> +And Heaven has room for all!’<br /> +—Then, face to face, and limb to limb,<br /> +<!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>And +sword with sword inwoven,<br /> +That stubborn courage of the race<br /> +On Evesham field was proven</p> +<p>O happy hills! O summer sky<br /> +Above the valley bent!<br /> +Your peacefulness rebukes the rage<br /> +Of blood on blood intent!<br /> +No thought was then for death or life<br /> +Through that long dreadful hour,<br /> +While Simon ’mid his faithful few<br /> +Stood like an iron tower,</p> +<p>’Gainst which the winds and waves are hurl’d<br /> +In vain, unmoved, foursquare;<br /> +And round him raged the insatiate swords<br /> +Of Edward and De Clare:<br /> +And round him in the narrow combe<br /> +His white-cross comrades rally,<br /> +While ghastly gashings, cloud the beck<br /> +And crimson all the valley,</p> +<p>And triple sword-thrusts meet his sword,<br /> +And thrice the charge he foils,<br /> +Though now in threefold flood the foe<br /> +Round those devoted boils:<br /> +And still the light of England’s cause<br /> +And England’s love was o’er him,<br /> +Until he saw his gallant boy<br /> +Go down in blood before him:—</p> +<p>He hove his huge two-handed blade,<br /> +He cried ‘’Tis time to die!’<br /> +And smote around him like a flail,<br /> +And clear’d a space to lie:—<br /> +‘Thank God!’—no more;—nor now could life<br /> +From loved and lost divide him:—<br /> +<!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>And +night fell o’er De Montfort dead,<br /> +And England wept beside him.</p> +<p>In the words given here to Simon (and, indeed, in the bulk of my +narrative) I have almost literally followed Prothero’s <i>Life</i>. +The struggle, like other critical conflicts in the days of unprofessional +war, was very brief.</p> +<h3>THE DIRGE OF LLYWELYN</h3> +<p>December 10: 1282</p> +<p>Llanyis on Irfon, thine oaks in the drear<br /> +Red eve of December are wind-swept and sere,<br /> +Where a king by the stream in his agony lies,<br /> +And the life of a land ebbs away as he dies.</p> +<p>Carádoc, thy sceptre for centuries kept,<br /> +Shall it pass like the ripple, unhonour’d, unwept:<br /> +Unknowing the lance, and the victim unknown,<br /> +Far from Aberffraw’s halls and Erýri the lone!</p> +<p>O dark day of winter and Cambria’s shame,<br /> +To the treason of Builth when from Gwynedd he came,<br /> +And Walwyn and Frankton and Mortimer fell<br /> +Closed round unawares by the fold in the dell!</p> +<p>—As who, where the shadow beneath him is thrown,<br /> +By some well in Saharan high noontide alone<br /> +Sits under the palm-tree, nor hears the low breath<br /> +Of the russet-maned foe panting hot for his death;</p> +<p>So Llywelyn,—unarm’d, unaware:—Is it she,<br /> +Bright star of his morning, when Gwynedd was free,<br /> +Fair bride, the long sought, taken early, goes by?<br /> +In the heart of the breeze the lost Eleanor’s sigh?</p> +<p><!-- page 43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>Or +the one little daughter’s sweet face with a gleam<br /> +Of glamour looks out, as the dream in a dream?<br /> +Or for childhood’s first sunshine and calm does he yearn,<br /> +As the days of Maesmynan in memory return?</p> +<p>Or,—dear to the heart’s-blood as first-love or wife,—<br /> +The mountains whose freedom was one with his life,<br /> +Gray farms and green vales of that ancient domain,<br /> +The thousand-years’ kingdom, he dreams of again?</p> +<p>Or is it the rage of stark Edward; the base<br /> +Unkingly revenge on a kinglier race;<br /> +The wrong idly wrought on the patriot dead;<br /> +The dark castle of doom; the scorn-diadem’d head?</p> +<p>—Lo, where Rhodri and Owain await thee!—The foe<br /> +Slips nearing in silence: one flash—and one blow!<br /> +And the ripple that passes wafts down to the Wye<br /> +The last prayer of Llywelyn, the nation’s last sigh.</p> +<p>But Llanynis yet sees the white rivulet gleam,<br /> +And the leaf of December fall sere on the stream;<br /> +While Irfon his dirge whispers on through the combe,<br /> +And the purple-topt hills gather round in their gloom.</p> +<p><i>Where a king</i>; The war in which Llywelyn fell was the inevitable +result of the growing power of England under Edward I; and, considering +the vast preponderance of weight against the Welsh Prince it could not +have ended but in the conquest of Wales. Yet its issue, as told +here, was determined as if by chance.</p> +<p><i>Aberffraw</i>; in Anglesea: the residence of the royal line of +Gywnedd from the time of Rhodri Mawr onwards.</p> +<p><i>Eryri</i>; the Eagle’s rock is a name for Snowdon. +The bird has been seen in the neighbourhood within late years.</p> +<p><i>Is it she</i>; Eleanor, daughter to Simon de Montfort. After +some years of betrothal and impediment arising from the jealousy of +Edward I, she and Llywelyn were married in 1278. But after only +two years of happiness, Eleanor died, leaving one child, Catharine or +Gwenllian.</p> +<p><!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span><i>Maesmynan</i>; +by Caerwys in Flintshire; where Llywelyn lived retiredly in youth.</p> +<p><i>The thousand-years’ kingdom</i>; The descent of the royal +house of North Wales is legendarily traced from Caradoc-Caractacus. +But the accepted genealogy of the Princes of Gwynedd begins with Cunedda +Wledig (Paramount) cir. 400: ending in 1282 with Llywelyn son of Gruffydd.</p> +<p><i>The scorn-diadem’d head</i>; On finding whom he had slain, +Frankton carried Llywelyn’s head to Edward at Rhuddlan, who, with +a barbarity unworthy of himself, set it over the Tower of London, wreathed +in mockery of a prediction (ascribed to Merlin) upon the coronation +of a Welsh Prince in London.</p> +<p><i>Rhodri and Owain</i>; Rhodri Mawr, (843), who united under his +supremacy the other Welsh principalities, Powys and Dinefawr; Owain +Gwynedd, (1137),—are among the most conspicuous of Llywelyn’s +royal predecessors.</p> +<h3>THE REJOICING OF THE LAND</h3> +<p>1295</p> +<p>So the land had rest! and the cloud of that heart-sore struggle and +pain<br /> +Rose from her ancient hills, and peace shone o’er her again,<br /> +Sunlike chasing the plagues wherewith the land was defiled;<br /> +And the leprosy fled, and her flesh came again, as the flesh of a child.<br /> +—They were stern and stark, the three children of Rolf, the first +from Anjou:<br /> +For their own sake loving the land, mayhap, but loving her true;<br /> +France the wife, and England the handmaid; yet over the realm<br /> +Their eyes were in every place, their hands gripp’d firm on the +helm.<br /> +Villein and earl, the cowl and the plume, they were bridled alike;<br /> +One law for all, but arm’d law,—not swifter to aid than +to strike.<br /> +<!-- page 45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>Lo, +in the twilight transept, the holy places of God,<br /> +Not with sunset the steps of the altar are dyed, but with scarlet of +blood!<br /> +Clang of iron-shod feet, and sheep for their shepherd who cry;<br /> +Curses and swords that flash, and the victim proffer’d to die!<br /> +—Bare thy own back to the smiter, O king, at the shrine of the +dead:<br /> +Thy friend thou hast slain in thy folly; the blood of the Saint on thy +head:<br /> +Proud and priestly, thou say’st;—yet tender and faithful +and pure;<br /> +True man, and so, true saint;—the crown of his martyrdom sure:—<br /> +As friend with his friend, he could brave thee and warn; thou hast silenced +the voice,<br /> +Ne’er to be heard again:—nor again will Henry rejoice!<br /> +Green Erin may yield her, fair Scotland submit; but his sunshine is +o’er;<br /> +The tooth of the serpent, the child of his bosom, has smote him so sore:—<br /> +Like a wolf from the hounds he dragg’d off to his lair, not turning +to bay:—<br /> +Crying ‘shame on a conquer’d king!’—the grim +ghost fled sullen away.<br /> +—Then, as in gray Autumn the heavens are pour’d on the rifted +hillside,<br /> +When the Rain-stars mistily gleam, and torrents leap white in their +pride,<br /> +And the valley is all one lake, and the late, unharvested shocks<br /> +Are rapt to the sea, the dwellings of man, the red kine and the flocks,—<br /> +O’er England the ramparts of law, the old landmarks of liberty +fell,<br /> +As the brothers in blood and in lust, twin horror begotten of hell,<br /> +<!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Suck’d +all the life of the land to themselves, like Lofoden in flood,<br /> +One in his pride, in his subtlety one, mocking England and God.<br /> +Then tyranny’s draught—once only—we drank to the dregs!—and +the stain<br /> +Went crimson and black through the soul of the land, for all time, not +in vain!<br /> +We bore the bluff many-wived king, rough rival and victor of Rome;<br /> +We bore the stern despot-protector, whose dawning and sunset were gloom;<br /> +For they temper’d the self of the tyrant with love of the land,<br /> +Some touch of the heart, some remorse, refraining the grip of the hand.<br /> +But John’s was blackness of darkness, a day of vileness and shame;<br /> +Shrieks of the tortured, and silence, and outrage the mouth cannot name.<br /> +—O that cry of the helpless, the weak that writhe under the foe,<br /> +Wrong man-wrought upon man, dumb unwritten annals of woe!<br /> +Cry that goes upward from earth as she rolls through the peace of the +skies<br /> +‘How long? Hast thou forgotten, O God!’ . . . and +silence replies!<br /> +Silence:—and then was the answer;—the light o’er Windsor +that broke,<br /> +The Meadow of Law—true Avalon where the true Arthur awoke!<br /> +—Not thou, whose name, as a seed o’er the world, plume-wafted +on air,<br /> +Britons on each side sea,—Caerlleon and Cumbria,—share,<br /> +Joy of a downtrod race, dear hope of freedom to-be,<br /> +<!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Dream +of poetic hearts, whom the vision only can see! . . .<br /> +For thine were the fairy knights, fair ideals of beauty and song;<br /> +But ours, in the ways of men, walk’d sober, and stumbling, and +strong;—<br /> +Stumbling as who in peril and twilight their pathway trace out,<br /> +Hard to trace, and untried, and the foe above and about;<br /> +For the Charter of Freedom, the voice of the land in her Council secure<br /> +All doing, all daring,—and, e’en when defeated, of victory +sure!<br /> +Langton, our Galahad, first, stamp’d Leader by Rome unaware,<br /> +Pembroke and Mowbray, Fitzwarine, Fitzalan, Fitzwalter, De Clare:—<br /> +—O fair temple of Freedom and Law!—the foundations ye laid:—<br /> +But again came the storm, and the might of darkness and wrong was array’d,<br /> +A warfare of years; and the battle raged, and new heroes arose<br /> +From a soil that is fertile in manhood’s men, and scatter’d +the foes,<br /> +And set in their place the bright pillars of Order, Liberty’s +shrine,<br /> +O’er the land far-seen, as o’er Athens the home of Athena +divine.<br /> +—So the land had rest:—and the cloud of that heart-sore +struggle and pain<br /> +Sped from her ancient hills, and peace shone o’er her again,<br /> +Sunlike chasing the plagues wherewith the land was defiled:<br /> +And the leprosy fled, and her flesh came again, as the flesh of a child.<br /> +For lo! the crown’d Statesman of Law, Justinian himself of his +realm,<br /> +<!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>Edward, +since Alfred our wisest of all who have watch’d by the helm!<br /> +He who yet preaches in silence his life-word, the light of his way,<br /> +From his marble unadorn’d chest, in the heart of the West Minster +gray,<br /> +<i>Keep thy Faith</i> . . . In the great town-twilight, this city of +gloom,<br /> +—O how unlike that blithe London he look’d on!—I look +on his tomb,<br /> +In the circle of kings, round the shrine, where the air is heavy with +fame,<br /> +Dust of our moulder’d chieftains, and splendour shrunk to a name.<br /> +Silent synod august, ye that tried the delight and the pain,<br /> +Trials and snares of a throne, was the legend written in vain?<br /> +Speak, for ye know, crown’d shadows! who down each narrow and +strait<br /> +As ye might, once guided,—a perilous passage,—the keel of +the State,<br /> +Fourth Henry, fourth Edward, Elizabeth, Charles,—now ye rest from +your toil,<br /> +Was it best, when by truth and compass ye steer’d, or by statecraft +and guile?<br /> +Or is it so hard, that steering of States, that as men who throw in<br /> +With party their life, honour soils his own ermine, a lie is no sin? +. . .<br /> +—Not so, great Edward, with thee,—not so!—For he learn’d +in his youth<br /> +The step straightforward and sure, the proud, bright bearing of truth:—<br /> +Arm’d against Simon at Evesham, yet not less, striking for Law,—<br /> +Ages of temperate freedom, a vision of order, he saw!—<br /> +—Vision of opulent years, a murmur of welfare and peace:<br /> +<!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>Orchard +golden-globed, plain waving in golden increase;<br /> +Hopfields fairer than vineyards, green laughing tendrils and bine;<br /> +Woodland misty in sunlight, and meadow sunny with kine;—<br /> +Havens of heaving blue, where the keels of Guienne and the Hanse<br /> +Jostle and creak by the quay, and the mast goes up like a lance,<br /> +Gay with the pennons of peace, and, blazon’d with Adria’s +dyes,<br /> +Purple and orange, the sails like a sunset burn in the skies.<br /> +Bloodless conquests of commerce, that nation with nation unite!<br /> +Hand clasp’d frankly in hand, not steel-clad buffets in fight:<br /> +On the deck strange accents and shouting; rough furcowl’d men +of the north,<br /> +Genoa’s brown-neck’d sons, and whom swarthy Smyrna sends +forth:<br /> +Freights of the south; drugs potent o’er death from the basilisk +won,<br /> +Odorous Phoenix-nest, and spice of a sunnier sun:—<br /> +Butts of Malvasian nectar, Messene’s vintage of old,<br /> +Cyprian webs, damask of Arabia mazy with gold:<br /> +Sendal and Samite and Tarsien, and sardstones ruddy as wine,<br /> +Graved by Athenian diamond with forms of beauty divine.<br /> +To the quay from the gabled alleys, the huddled ravines of the town,<br /> +Twilights of jutting lattice and beam, the Guild-merchants come down,<br /> +Cheapening the gifts of the south, the sea-borne alien bales,<br /> +For the snow-bright fleeces of Leom’ster, the wealth of Devonian +vales;<br /> +<!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>While +above them, the cavernous gates, on which knight-robbers have gazed<br /> +Hopeless, in peace look down, their harrows of iron upraised;<br /> +And Dustyfoot enters at will with his gay Autolycus load,<br /> +And the maidens are flocking as doves when they fling the light grain +on the road.<br /> +Low on the riverain mead, where the dull clay-cottages cling<br /> +To the tall town-ward and the towers, as nests of the martin in spring,<br /> +Where the year-long fever lurks, and gray leprosy burrows secure,<br /> +Are the wattled huts of the Friars, the long, white Church of the poor:<br /> +—Haven of wearied eyelids; of hearts that care not to live;<br /> +Shadow and silence of prayer; the peace which the world cannot give!<br /> +Tapers hazily gloaming through fragrance the censers outpour;<br /> +Chant ever rising and rippling in sweetness, as waves on the shore;<br /> +Casements of woven stone, with more than the rainbow bedyed;<br /> +Beauty of holiness! Spell yet unbroken by riches and pride!<br /> +—Ah! could it be so for ever!—the good aye better’d +by Time:—<br /> +First-Faith, first-Wisdom, first-Love,—to the end be true to their +prime! . .<br /> +Far rises the storm o’er horizons unseen, that will lay them in +dust,<br /> +Crashings of plunder’d cloisters, and royal insatiate lust:—<br /> +Far, unseen, unheard!—Meanwhile the great Minster on high<br /> +Like a stream of music, aspiring, harmonious, springs to the sky:—<br /> +Story on story ascending their buttress’d beauty unfold,<br /> +<!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Till +the highest height is attain’d, and the Cross shines star-like +in gold,<br /> +Set as a meteor in heaven; a sign of health and release:—<br /> +And the land rejoices below, and the heart-song of England is Peace.</p> +<p>This date has been chosen as representing at once the culminating +point in the reign of Edward, and of Mediaevalism in England. +The sound, the fascinating elements of that period rapidly decline after +the thirteenth century in Church and State, in art and in learning.</p> +<p>‘In the person of the great Edward,’ says Freeman, ‘the +work of reconciliation is completed. Norman and Englishman have +become one under the best and greatest of our later Kings, the first +who, since the Norman entered our land, . . . followed a purely English +policy.’</p> +<p><i>The three children</i>; William I and II, and Henry I.</p> +<p><i>The transept</i>; of Canterbury Cathedral, after Becket’s +death named the ‘Martyrdom.’</p> +<p><i>Nor again</i>; See the <i>Early Plantagenets</i>, by Bishop Stubbs: +one of the very few masterpieces among the shoal of little books on +great subjects in which a declining literature is fertile.</p> +<p><i>Britons on each side sea</i>; Armorica and Cornwall, Wales and +Strathclyde, all share in the great Arthurian legend.</p> +<p><i>Justinian</i>; ‘Edward,’ says Dr. Stubbs, ‘is +the great lawgiver, the great politician, the great organiser of the +mediaeval English polity:’ (<i>Early Plantagenets</i>).</p> +<p><i>Keep thy Faith</i>; ‘Pactum serva’ may be still seen +inscribed on the huge stone coffin of Edward I.</p> +<p><i>The keels of Guienne . . . Adria’s dyes</i>; The ships of +Gascony, of the Hanse Towns, of Genoa, of Venice, are enumerated amongst +those which now traded with England.</p> +<p><i>Malvasian nectar</i>; ‘Malvoisie,’ the sweet wine +of the Southern Morea, gained its name from Monemvasia, or Napoli di +Malvasia, its port of shipment.</p> +<p><i>Sendal</i>; A thin rich silk. <i>Samite</i>; A very rich +stuff, sometimes wholly of silk, often crimson, interwoven with gold +and silver thread, and embroidered. <i>Tarsien</i>; Silken stuff +from Tartary.</p> +<p><i>Athenian diamond</i>; A few very fine early gems ascribed to Athens, +are executed wholly with diamond-point.</p> +<p><i>The snow-bright fleeces</i>; Those of Leominster were very long +famous.</p> +<p><i>Devonian vales</i>; The ancient mining region west of Tavistock.</p> +<p><i>Dustyfoot</i>; Old name for pedlar.</p> +<h3><!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>CRECY</h3> +<p>August 26: 1346</p> +<p> At Crecy by +Somme in Ponthieu<br /> + High +up on a windy hill<br /> + A mill stands out like +a tower;<br /> + King +Edward stands on the mill.<br /> + The plain is seething +below<br /> + As +Vesuvius seethes with flame,<br /> + But O! not with fire, +but gore,<br /> + Earth incarnadined +o’er,<br /> + Crimson +with shame and with fame!—<br /> +To the King run the messengers, crying<br /> +‘Thy Son is hard-press’d to the dying!’<br /> + —‘Let alone: for to-day will be written in +story<br /> + To the great world’s end, and for +ever:<br /> + So let the boy have +the glory.’</p> +<p> Erin and Gwalia +there<br /> + With +England are one against France;<br /> + Outfacing the oriflamme +red<br /> + The +red dragons of Merlin advance:—<br /> + As harvest in autumn +renew’d<br /> + The +lances bend o’er the fields;<br /> + Snow-thick our arrow-heads +white<br /> + Level the foe as they +light;<br /> + Knighthood +to yeomanry yields:—<br /> +Proud heart, the King watches, as higher<br /> +Goes the blaze of the battle, and nigher:—<br /> + ‘To-day is a day will be written in story<br /> + To the great world’s end, and for +ever!<br /> + Let the boy alone have +the glory.’</p> +<p> Harold at Senlac-on-Sea<br /> + By +Norman arrow laid low,—<br /> + <!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>When +the shield-wall was breach’d by the shaft,<br /> + —Thou +art avenged by the bow!<br /> + Chivalry! name of romance!<br /> + Thou +art henceforth but a name!<br /> + Weapon that none can +withstand,<br /> + Yew in the Englishman’s +hand,<br /> + Flight-shaft +unerring in aim!<br /> +As a lightning-struck forest the foemen<br /> +Shiver down to the stroke of the bowmen:—<br /> + —‘O to-day is a day will be written in story<br /> + To the great world’s end, and for +ever!<br /> + So, let the boy have +the glory.’</p> +<p> Pride of Liguria’s +shore<br /> + Genoa +wrestles in vain;<br /> + Vainly Bohemia’s +King<br /> + Kinglike +is laid with the slain.<br /> + The Blood-lake is wiped-out +in blood,<br /> + The +shame of the centuries o’er;<br /> + Where the pride of +the Norman had sway<br /> + The lions lord over +the fray,<br /> + The +legions of France are no more:—<br /> +—The Prince to his father kneels lowly;<br /> +—‘His is the battle! his wholly!<br /> + For to-day is a day will be written in story<br /> + To the great world’s end, and for +ever:—<br /> + So, let him have the +spurs, and the glory!’</p> +<p><i>Erin and Gwalia</i>; Half of Edward’s army consisted of +light armed footmen from Ireland and Wales—the latter under their +old Dragon-flag.</p> +<p><i>Chivalry</i>; The feudal idea of an army, resting ‘on the +superiority of the horseman to the footman, of the mounted noble to +the unmounted churl,’ may be said to have been ruined by this +battle: (<i>Green</i>, B. IV: ch. iii).</p> +<p><i>Liguria</i>; 15,000 cross-bowmen from Genoa were in Philip’s +army.</p> +<p><i>The Blood-lake</i>; Senlac; Hastings.</p> +<h3><!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>THE +BLACK SEATS</h3> +<p>1348-9</p> +<p> Blue and ever more blue<br /> + The sky of that summer’s spring:<br /> + No cloud from dawning to night:<br /> + The lidless eyeball of light<br /> + Glared: nor could e’en in darkness the dew<br /> + Her pearls on the meadow-grass string.<br /> + As a face of a hundred years,<br /> + Mummied and scarr’d, for the heart<br /> + Is long dry at the fountain of tears,<br /> + Green earth lay brown-faced and torn,<br /> + Scarr’d and hard and forlorn.<br /> + And as that foul monster of Lerna<br /> + Whom Héraclés slew in his +might,<br /> + But this one slaying, not slain,<br /> + From the marshes, poisonous, white,<br /> + Crawl’d out a plague-mist and sheeted the plain,<br /> + A hydra of hell and of night.<br /> + —Whence upon men has that horror past?<br /> + From Cathaya westward it stole to Byzance,—<br /> + The City of Flowers,—the vineyards of France;—<br /> + O’er the salt-sea ramparts of England, last,<br /> + Reeking and rank, a serpent’s breath:—<br /> +What is this, men cry in their fear, what is this that cometh?<br /> + ’Tis the Black Death, they whisper:<br /> + The black black Death!</p> +<p> The heart of man at the name<br /> + To a ball of ice shrinks in,<br /> + With hope, surrendering life:—<br /> + The husband looks on the wife,<br /> + Reading the tokens of doom in the frame,<br /> + The pest-boil hid in the skin,<br /> + <!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>And +flees and leaves her to die.<br /> + Fear-sick, the mother beholds<br /> + In her child’s pure crystalline +eye<br /> + A dull shining, a sign of despair.<br /> + Lo, the heavens are poison, not air;<br /> + And they fall as when lambs in the pasture<br /> + With a moan that is hardly a moan,<br /> + Drop, whole flocks, where they stand;<br /> + And the mother lays her, alone,<br /> + Slain by the touch of her nursing hand,<br /> + Where the household before her is strown.<br /> + —Earth, Earth, open and cover thy dead!<br /> + For they are smitten and fall who bear<br /> + The corpse to the grave with a prayerless prayer,<br /> + And thousands are crush’d in the common bed:—<br /> + —Is it Hell that breathes with an adder’s breath?<br /> + Is it the day of doom, men cry, the Judge that cometh?<br /> + —’Tis the Black Death, God +help us!<br /> + The black black Death.</p> +<p> Maid Alice and maid Margaret<br /> + In the fields have built them a bower<br /> + Of reedmace and rushes fine,<br /> + Fenced with sharp albespyne;<br /> + Pretty maids hid in the nest; and yet<br /> + Yours is one death, and one hour!<br /> + Priest and peasant and lord<br /> + By the swift, soft stroke of the air,<br /> + By a silent invisible sword,<br /> + In plough-field or banquet, fall:<br /> + The watchers are flat on the wall:—<br /> + Through city and village and valley<br /> + The sweet-voiced herald of prayer<br /> + Is dumb in the towers; the throng<br /> + To the shrine pace barefoot; and where<br /> + Blazed out from the choir a glory of song,<br /> + <!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>God’s +altar is lightless and bare.<br /> + Is there no pity in earth or sky?<br /> + The burden of England, who shall say?<br /> + Half the giant oak is riven away,<br /> + And the green leaves yearn for the leaves that die.<br /> + Will the whole world drink of the dragon’s breath?<br /> +It is the cup, men cry, the cup of God’s fury that cometh!<br /> + ’Tis the Black Death, Lord help +us!<br /> + The black black Death.</p> +<p> In England is heard a moan,<br /> + A bitter lament and a sore,<br /> + Rachel lamenting her dead,<br /> + And will not be comforted<br /> + For the little faces for ever gone,<br /> + The feet from the silent floor.<br /> + And a cry goes up from the land,<br /> + Take from us in mercy, O God,<br /> + Take from us the weight of Thy hand,<br /> + The cup and the wormwood of woe!<br /> + ’Neath the terrible barbs of Thy +bow<br /> + This England, this once Thy beloved,<br /> + Is water’d with life-blood for +rain;<br /> + The bones of her children are white,<br /> + As flints on the Golgotha plain;<br /> + Not slain as warriors by warriors in fight,<br /> + By the arrows of Heaven slain.<br /> + We have sinn’d: we lift up our souls to Thee,<br /> + O Lord God eternal on high:<br /> + Thou who gavest Thyself to die,<br /> + Saviour, save! to Thy feet we flee:—<br /> + Snatch from the hell and the Enemy’s breath,<br /> +From the Prince of the Air, from the terror by night that cometh:—<br /> + From the Black Death, Christ save us!<br /> + The black black Death!</p> +<p><!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span><i>That +foul monster</i>; The Lernaean Hydra of Greek legend.</p> +<p><i>From the marshes</i>; The drought which preceded the plague in +England, and may have predisposed to its reception, was followed by +mist, in which the people fancied they saw the disease palpably advancing.</p> +<p><i>From Cathaya</i>; The plague was heard of in Central Asia in 1333; +it reached Constantinople in 1347.</p> +<p><i>The City of Flowers</i>; Florence, where the ravages of the plague +were immortalized in the <i>Decamerone</i> of Boccaccio.</p> +<p><i>The pest boil</i>; Seems to have been the enlarged and discharging +gland by which the specific blood-poison of the plague relieved itself. +A ‘muddy glistening’ of the eye is noticed as one of the +symptoms.</p> +<p><i>The common bed</i>; More than 50,000 are said to have been buried +on the site of the Charter House.</p> +<p><i>Albespyne</i>; Hawthorn.</p> +<p><i>Half the giant oak</i>; ‘Of the three or four millions who +then formed the population of England, more than one-half were swept +away’: (<i>Green</i>, B. IV: ch. iii).</p> +<h3>THE PILGRIM AND THE PLOUGHMAN</h3> +<p>1382</p> +<p>It is a dream, I know:—Yet on the past<br /> +Of this dear England if in thought we gaze,<br /> +About her seems a constant sunshine cast;<br /> +In summer calm we see and golden haze<br /> +The little London of Plantagenet days;<br /> +Quaint labyrinthine knot of toppling lanes,<br /> +And thorny spires aflame with starlike vanes.</p> +<p>Our silver Thames all yet unspoil’d and clear;<br /> +The many-buttress’d bridge that stems the tide;<br /> +Black-timber’d wharves; arcaded walls, that rear<br /> +Long, golden-crested roofs of civic pride:—<br /> +While flaunting galliots by the gardens glide,<br /> +And on Spring’s frolic air the May-song swells,<br /> +Mix’d with the music of a thousand bells.</p> +<p><!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>Beyond +the bridge a mazy forest swims,<br /> +Great spars and sails and flame-tongued flags on high,<br /> +Wedged round the quay, a-throng with ruddy limbs<br /> +And faces bronzed beneath another sky:<br /> +And ’mid the press sits one with aspect shy<br /> +And downcast eyes of watching, and, the while,<br /> +The deep observance of an inward smile.</p> +<p>In hooded mantle gray he smiled and sate,<br /> +With ink-horn at his knees and scroll and pen.<br /> +And took the toll and register’d the freight,<br /> +’Mid noise of clattering cranes and strife of men:<br /> +And all that moved and spoke was in his ken,<br /> +With lines and hues like Nature’s own design’d<br /> +Deep in the magic mirror of his mind.</p> +<p>Thence oft, returning homeward, on the book,—<br /> +His of Certaldo, or the bard whose lays<br /> +Were lost to love in Scythia,—he would look<br /> +Till his fix’d eyes the dancing letters daze:<br /> +Then forth to the near fields, and feed his gaze<br /> +On one fair flower in starry myriads spread,<br /> +And in her graciousness be comforted:—</p> +<p>Then, joyous with a poet’s joy, to draw<br /> +With genial touch, and strokes of patient skill,<br /> +The very image of each thing he saw:—<br /> +He limn’d the man all round, for good or ill,<br /> +Having both sighs and laughter at his will;<br /> +Life as it went he grasp’d in vision true,<br /> +Yet stood outside the scene his pencil drew.</p> +<p>—Man’s inner passions in their conscience-strife,<br /> +The conflicts of the heart against the heart,<br /> +The mother yearning o’er the infant’s life,<br /> +The maiden wrong’d by wealth and lecherous art,<br /> +The leper’s loathsome cell from man apart,<br /> +<!-- page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>War’s +hell of lust and fire, the village-woe,<br /> +The tinsel chivalry veiling shame below,—</p> +<p>Not his to draw,—to see, perhaps:—Our eyes<br /> +Hold bias with our humour:—His, to paint<br /> +With Nature’s freshness, what before him lies:<br /> +The knave, the fool; the frolicsome, the quaint:<br /> +His the broad jest, the laugh without restraint,<br /> +The ready tears, the spirit lightly moved;<br /> +Loving the world, and by the world beloved.</p> +<p>So forth fared Chaucer on his pilgrimage<br /> +Through England’s humours; in immortal song<br /> +Bodying the form and pressure of his age,<br /> +Tints gay as pure, and delicate as strong;<br /> +Still to the Tabard the blithe travellers throng,<br /> +Seen in his mind so vividly, that we<br /> +Know them more clearly than the men we see.</p> +<p>Fair France, bright Italy, those numbers train’d;<br /> +First in his pages Nature wedding Art<br /> +Of all our sons of song; yet he remain’d<br /> +True English of the English at his heart:—<br /> +He stood between two worlds, yet had no part<br /> +In that new order of the dawning day<br /> +Which swept the masque of chivalry away.</p> +<p>O Poet of romance and courtly glee<br /> +And downcast eager glance that shuns the sky,<br /> +Above, about, are signs thou canst not see,<br /> +Portents in heaven and earth!—And one goes by<br /> +With other than thy prosperous, laughing eye,<br /> +Framing the rough web of his rueful lays,<br /> +The sorrow and the sin—with bitter gaze</p> +<p>As down the Strand he stalks, a sable shade<br /> +Of death, while, jingling like the elfin train,<br /> +<!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>In +silver samite knight and dame and maid<br /> +Ride to the tourney on the barrier’d plain;<br /> +And he must bow in humble mute disdain,<br /> +And that worst woe of baffled souls endure,<br /> +To see the evil that they may not cure.</p> +<p>For on sweet Malvern Hill one morn he lay,<br /> +Drowsed by the music of the constant stream:—<br /> +Loud sang the cuckoo, cuckoo!—for the May<br /> +Breathed summer: summer floating like a dream<br /> +From the far fields of childhood, with a gleam<br /> +Of alien freshness on her forehead fair,<br /> +And Heaven itself within the common air.</p> +<p>Then on the mead in vision Langland saw<br /> +A pilgrim-throng; not missal-bright as those<br /> +Whom Chaucer’s hand surpass’d itself to draw,<br /> +Gay as the lark, and brilliant as the rose;—<br /> +But such as dungeon foul or spital shows,<br /> +Or the serf’s fever-den, or field of fight,<br /> +When festering sunbeams on the wounded smite.</p> +<p>No sainted shrine the motley wanderers seek,<br /> +Pilgrims of life upon the field of scorn,<br /> +Mocking and mock’d; with plague and hunger weak,<br /> +And haggard faces bleach’d as those who mourn,<br /> +And footsteps redden’d with the trodden thorn;<br /> +Blind stretching hands that grope for truth in vain,<br /> +Across a twilight demon-haunted plain.</p> +<p>A land whose children toil and rot like beasts,<br /> +Robbers and robb’d by turns, the dreamer sees:—<br /> +Land of poor-grinding lords and faithless priests,<br /> +Where wisdom starves and folly thrones at ease<br /> +’Mid lavishness and lusts and knaveries;<br /> +Times out of joint, a universe of lies,<br /> +Till Love divine appear in Ploughman’s guise</p> +<p><!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>To +burn the gilded tares and save the land,<br /> +Risen from the grave and walking earth again:—<br /> +—And as he dream’d and kiss’d the nail-pierced hand,<br /> +A hundred towers their Easter voices rain<br /> +In silver showers o’er hill and vale and plain,<br /> +And the air throbb’d with sweetness, and he woke<br /> +And all the dream in light and music broke.</p> +<p>—He look’d around, and saw the world he left<br /> +When to that visionary realm of song<br /> +His spirit fled from bonds of flesh bereft;<br /> +And on the vision he lay musing long,<br /> +As o’er his soul rude minstrel-echoes throng,<br /> +Old measures half-disused; and grasp’d his pen,<br /> +And drew his cottage-Christ for homely men.</p> +<p>Thus Langland also took his pilgrimage;<br /> +Rough lone knight-errant on uncourtly ways,<br /> +And wrong and woe were charter’d on his page,<br /> +With some horizon-glimpse of sweeter days.<br /> +And on the land the message of his lays<br /> +Smote like the strong North-wind, and cleansed the sky<br /> +With wholesome blast and bitter clarion-cry,</p> +<p>Summoning the people in the Ploughman’s name.<br /> +—So fought his fight, and pass’d unknown away;<br /> +Seeking no other praise, no sculptured fame<br /> +Nor laureate honours for his artless lay,<br /> +Nor in the Minster laid with high array;—<br /> +But where the May-thorn gleams, the grasses wave,<br /> +And the wind sighs o’er a forgotten grave.</p> +<p>Langland, whom I have put here in contrast with Chaucer, is said +to have lived between 1332 and 1400. His <i>Vision of Piers the +Plowman</i> (who is partially identified with our blessed Saviour), +with some added poems, forms an allegory on life in England, in Church +and State, as it appeared to him during the dislocated and corrupt age +which followed the superficial glories of Edward the Third’s earlier +years.</p> +<p><!-- page 62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span><i>Took +the toll</i>; Amongst other official employments, Chaucer was Comptroller +of the Customs in the Port of London. See his <i>House of Fame</i>; +and the beautiful picture of his walks at dawning in the daisy-meadows: +Prologue to the <i>Legend of Good Women</i>.</p> +<p><i>His of Certaldo, . . . in Scythia</i>; Boccaccio:—and Ovid, +who died in exile at Tomi:—to both of whom Chaucer is greatly +indebted for the substance of his tales.</p> +<p><i>Picture-like</i>; ‘It is chiefly as a comic poet, and a +minute observer of manners and circumstances, that Chaucer excels. +In serious and moral poetry he is frequently languid and diffuse, but +he springs like Antaeus from the earth when his subject changes to coarse +satire or merry narrative’ (Hallam, <i>Mid. Ages</i>: Ch. IX: +Pt. iii).</p> +<p><i>The Tabard</i>; Inn in Southwark whence the pilgrims to Canterbury +start.</p> +<p><i>Down the Strand</i>; It is thus that Langland describes himself +and his feelings of dissatisfaction with the world.</p> +<p><i>That worst woe</i>; Literature, even ancient literature, has no +phrase more deeply felt and pathetic than the words which the Persian +nobleman at the feast in Thebes before Plataea addressed to Thersander +of Orchomenus:—[ Εχθιστη +οδυνη των εν ανθρωποισι, +πολλα φρονεοντα +μηδενος κρατεειν]: +(<i>Herodotus</i>, IX: xvi).</p> +<p><i>One morn he lay</i>; The <i>Vision</i> opens with a picture of +the poet asleep on Malvern Hill: the last of the added poems closing +as he wakes with the Easter chimes.</p> +<p><i>Old measures</i>; Langland’s metre ‘is more uncouth +than that of his predecessors’ (Hallam, <i>Mid. Ag</i>. Ch. IX: +Pt. iii).</p> +<p><i>In the Minster</i>; Chaucer was buried at the entrance of S. Benet’s +Chapel in Westminster Abbey.</p> +<h3>JEANNE D’ARC</h3> +<p>1424</p> +<p>So many stars in heaven,—<br /> +Flowers in the meadow that shine;<br /> +—This little one of Domremy,<br /> +What special grace is thine?<br /> +By the fairy beech and the fountain<br /> +What but a child with thy brothers?<br /> +<!-- page 63--><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Among +the maids of the valley<br /> +Art more than one among others?</p> +<p>Chosen darling of Heaven,<br /> +Yet at heart wast only a child!<br /> +And for thee the wild things of Nature<br /> +Sot aside their nature wild:—<br /> +The brown-eyed fawn of the forest<br /> +Came silently glancing upon thee;<br /> +The squirrel slipp’d down from the fir,<br /> +And nestled his gentleness on thee.</p> +<p><i>Angelus</i> bell and <i>Ave</i>,<br /> +Like voices they follow the maid<br /> +As she follows her sheep in the valley<br /> +From the dawn to the folding shade:—<br /> +For the world that we cannot see<br /> +Is the world of her earthly seeing;<br /> +From the air of the hills of God<br /> +She draws her breath and her being.</p> +<p>Dances by beech tree and fountain,<br /> +They know her no longer:—apart<br /> +Sitting with thought and with vision<br /> +In the silent shrine of the heart.<br /> +And a voice henceforth and for ever<br /> +Within, without her, is sighing<br /> +‘Pity for France, O pity,<br /> +France the beloved, the dying!’</p> +<p>—Now between church-wall and cottage<br /> +What comes in the blinding light,<br /> +—Rainbow plumes and armour,<br /> +Face as the sun in his height . . .<br /> +‘Angel that pierced the red dragon,<br /> +Pity for France, O pity!<br /> +Holy one, thou shalt save her,<br /> +Vineyard and village and city!’</p> +<p><!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>Poor +sweet child of Domremy,<br /> +In thine innocence only strong,<br /> +Thou seest not the treason before thee,<br /> +The gibe and the curse of the throng,—<br /> +The furnace-pile in the market<br /> +That licks out its flames to take thee;—<br /> +For He who loves thee in heaven<br /> +On earth will not forsake thee!</p> +<p>Poor sweet maid of Domremy,<br /> +In thine innocence secure,<br /> +Heed not what men say of thee,<br /> +The buffoon and his jest impure!<br /> +Nor care if thy name, young martyr,<br /> +Be the star of thy country’s story:—<br /> +Mid the white-robed host of the heavens<br /> +Thou hast more than glory!</p> +<p><i>Angel that pierced</i>; ‘She <i>had pity</i>, to use the +phrase for ever on her lip, <i>on the fair realm of France</i>. +She saw visions; St. Michael appeared to her in a flood of blinding +light’: (<i>Green</i>, B. IV: ch. vi).</p> +<p><i>The buffoon</i>; Voltaire.</p> +<h3>TOWTON FIELD</h3> +<p>Palm Sunday: 1461</p> +<p>Love<span class="smcap">, </span>Who from the throne above<br /> +Cam’st to teach the law of love,<br /> +Who Thy peaceful triumph hast<br /> +Led o’er palms before Thee cast,<br /> +E’en in highest heaven Thine eyes<br /> +Turn from this day’s sacrifice!<br /> +Slaughter whence no victor host<br /> +Can the palms of triumph boast;<br /> +<!-- page 65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>Blood +on blood in rivers spilt,—<br /> +English blood by English guilt!</p> +<p> From the gracious +Minster-towers<br /> + Of York the priests behold afar<br /> + The field of Towton shimmer like a star<br /> + With light of lance and helm; while both the powers<br /> + Misnamed from the fair rose, with one fell blow,<br /> + —In snow-dazed, +blinding air<br /> + Mass’d on the +burnside bare,—<br /> +Each army, as one man, drove at the opposing foe.</p> +<p> Ne’er +since then, and ne’er before,<br /> + On England’s fields with English +hands<br /> + Have met for death such myriad myriad bands,<br /> + Such wolf-like fury, and such greed of gore:—<br /> + No natural kindly touch, no check of shame:<br /> + And no such bestial +rage<br /> + Blots our long story’s +page;<br /> +Such lewd remorseless swords, such selfishness of aim</p> +<p> —Gracious +Prince of Peace! Yet Thou<br /> + May’st look and bless with lenient +eyes<br /> + When trodden races ’gainst their tyrant rise,<br /> + And the bent back no<span class="smcap"> </span>more will +deign to bow:<br /> + Or when they crush some old anarchic feud,<br /> + And found the throne +anew<br /> + On Law to Freedom true,<br /> +Cleansing the land they love from guilt of blood by blood.</p> +<p> Nor did Heaven +unmoved behold<br /> + When Hellas, for her birthright free<br /> + Dappling with gore the dark Saronian sea,<br /> + The Persian wave back, past Abydos, roll’d:—<br /> + But in this murderous match of chief ’gainst chief<br /> + No chivalry had part,<br /> + <!-- page 66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>No +impulse of the heart;<br /> +Nor any sigh for Right triumphant breathes relief.</p> +<p> —Midday +comes: and no release,<br /> + No carnage-pause to blow on blow!<br /> + While through the choir the palm-wreathed children go,<br /> + And gay hosannas hail the Prince of Peace:—<br /> + And evening falls, and from the Minster height<br /> + They see the wan Ouse +stream<br /> + Blood-dark with slaughter +gleam,<br /> +And hear the demon-struggle shrieking through the night.</p> +<p>Love, o’er palms in triumph strown<br /> +Passing, through the crowd alone,—<br /> +Silent ’mid the exulting cry,—<br /> +At Jerusalem to die:<br /> +Thou, foreknowing all, didst know<br /> +How Thy blood in vain would flow!<br /> +How our madness oft would prove<br /> +Recreant to the law of love:<br /> +Wrongs that men from men endure<br /> +Doing Thee to death once more!</p> +<p>‘On the 29th of March 1461 the two armies encountered one another +at Towton Field, near Tadcaster. In the numbers engaged, as well +as in the terrible obstinacy of the struggle, no such battle had been +seen in England since the field of Senlac. The two armies together +numbered nearly 120,000 men’: (<i>Green</i>, B. IV: ch. vi).</p> +<p><i>Saronian sea</i>; Scene of the battle of Salamis, <span class="smcap">b.c. +</span>480.</p> +<p><i>They see the wan Ouse stream</i>; Mr. R. Wilton, of Londesborough, +has kindly pointed out to me that <i>Wharfe</i>, which from a brook +received the bloodshed of Towton, does not discharge into <i>Ouse</i> +until about ten miles south of York. The <i>gleam</i> is, therefore, +visionary: (1889).</p> +<h3><!-- page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>GROCYN +AT OXFORD</h3> +<p><i>THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE</i></p> +<p>1491</p> +<p> As she who in some village-child unknown,<br /> + With rustic grace and fantasy bedeck’d<br /> + And in her simple loveliness alone,<br /> + A sister finds;—and the long years’ neglect<br /> + Effaces with warm love and nursing care,<br /> + And takes her heart to heart,<br /> +And in her treasured treasures bids her freely share,</p> +<p> And robes with radiance new, new strength and grace:—<br /> + Hellas and England! thus it was with ye!<br /> + Though distanced far by centuries and by space,<br /> + Sisters in soul by Nature’s own decree.<br /> + And if on Athens in her glory-day<br /> + The younger might not look,<br /> +Her living soul came back, and reinfused our clay.</p> +<p> —It was not wholly lost, that better light,<br /> + Not in the darkest darkness of our day;<br /> + From cell to cell, e’en through the Danish night,<br /> + The torch ran on its firefly fitful way;<br /> + And blazed anew with him who in the vale<br /> + Of fair Aosta saw<br /> +The careless reaper-bands, and pass’d the heavens’ high +pale,</p> +<p> And supp’d with God, in vision! Or +with him,<br /> + Earliest and greatest of his name, who gave<br /> + His life to Nature, in her caverns dim<br /> + Tracking her soul, through poverty to the grave,<br /> + And left his Great Work to the barbarous age<br /> + That, in its folly-love,<br /> +With wizard-fame defamed his and sweet Vergil’s page.</p> +<p> <!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>But +systems have their day, and die, or change<br /> + Transform’d to new: Not now from cloister-cell<br /> + And desk-bow’d priest, breathes out that impulse +strange<br /> + ’Neath which the world of feudal Europe fell:—<br /> + Throes of new birth, new life; while men despair’d<br /> + Or triumph’d in their pride,<br /> +As in their eyes the torch of learning fiercely flared.</p> +<p> For now the cry of Homer’s clarion first<br /> + And Plato’s golden tongue on English ears<br /> + And souls aflame for that new doctrine burst,<br /> + As Grocyn taught, when, after studious years,<br /> + He came from Arno to the liberal walls<br /> + That welcomed me in youth,<br /> +And nursed in Grecian lore, long native to her halls.</p> +<p> O voice that spann’d the gulf of vanish’d +years,<br /> + Evoking shapes of old from night to light,<br /> + Lo at thy spell a long-lost world appears,<br /> + Where Rome and Hellas break upon our sight:—<br /> + The Gothic gloom divides; a glory burns<br /> + Behind the clouds of Time,<br /> +And all that wonder-past in beauty’s glow returns.</p> +<p> —For when the Northern floods that lash’d +and curl’d<br /> + Around the granite fragments of great Rome<br /> + Outspread Colossus-like athwart the world,<br /> + Foam’d down, and the new nations found their home,<br /> + That earlier Europe, law and arts and arms,<br /> + Fell into far-off shade,<br /> +Or lay like some fair maid sleep-sunk in magic charms.</p> +<p> And as in lands once flourishing, now forlorn,<br /> + And desolate capitals, the traveller sees<br /> + Wild tribes, in ruins from the ruins torn<br /> + Hutted like beasts ’mid marble palaces,<br /> + <!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Unknowing +what those relics mean, and whose<br /> + The goblets gold-enchased<br /> +And images of the gods the broken vaults disclose;</p> +<p> So in the Mid-age from the Past of Man<br /> + The Present was disparted; and they stood<br /> + As on some island, sever’d from the plan<br /> + Of the great world, and the sea’s twilight flood<br /> + Around them, and the monsters of the unknown;<br /> + Blind fancy mix’d with fact;<br /> +Faith in the things unseen sustaining them alone.</p> +<p> Age of extremes and contrasts!—where the +good<br /> + Was more than human in its tenderness<br /> + Of chivalry;—Beauty’s self the prize of blood,<br /> + And evil raging round with wild excess<br /> + Of more than brutal:—A disjointed time!<br /> + Doubt with Hypocrisy pair’d,<br /> +And purest Faith by folly, childlike, led to crime.</p> +<p> O Florentine, O Master, who alone<br /> + From thy loved Vergil till our Shakespeare came<br /> + Didst climb the long steps to the imperial throne,<br /> + With what immortal dyes of angry flame<br /> + Hast blazon’d out the vileness of the day!<br /> + What tints of perfect love<br /> +Rosier than summer rose, etherealize thy lay!</p> +<p> —Now, as in some new land when night is deep<br /> + The pilgrim halts, nor knows what round him lies<br /> + And wakes with dawn, and finds him on the steep,<br /> + While plains beneath and unguess’d summits rise,<br /> + And stately rivers widening to the sea,<br /> + Cities of men and towers,<br /> +Abash’d for very joy, and gazing fearfully;—</p> +<p> New worlds, new wisdom, a new birth of things<br /> + On Europe shine, and men know where they stand:<br /> + <!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>The +sea his western portal open flings,<br /> + And bold Sebastian strikes the flowery land:<br /> + Soon, heaven its secret yields; the golden sun<br /> + Enthrones him in the midst,<br /> +And round his throne man and the planets humbly run.</p> +<p> New learning all! yet fresh from fountains old,<br /> + Hellenic inspiration, pure and deep:<br /> + Strange treasures of Byzantine hoards unroll’d,<br /> + And mouldering volumes from monastic sleep,<br /> + Reclad with life by more than magic art:<br /> + Till that old world renew’d<br /> +His youth, and in the past the present own’d its part.</p> +<p> —O vision that ye saw, and hardly saw,<br /> + Ye who in Alfred’s path at Oxford trod,<br /> + Or in our London train’d by studious law<br /> + The little-ones of Christ to Him and God,<br /> + Colet and Grocyn!—Though the world forget<br /> + The labours of your love,<br /> +In loving hearts your names live in their fragrance yet.</p> +<p> O vision that our happier eyes have seen!<br /> + For not till peace came with Elizabeth<br /> + Did those fair maids of holy Hippocrene<br /> + Cross the wan waves and draw a northern breath:<br /> + Though some far-echoed strain on Tuscan lyres<br /> + Our Chaucer caught, and sang<br /> +Like her who sings ere dawn has lit his Eastern fires;—</p> +<p> Herald of that first splendour, when the sky<br /> + Was topaz-clear with hope, and life-blood-red<br /> + With thoughts of mighty poets, lavishly<br /> + Round all the fifty years’ horizon shed:—<br /> + Now in our glades the Aglaian Graces gleam,<br /> + Around our fountains throng,<br /> +And change Ilissus’ banks for Thames and Avon stream.</p> +<p> <!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>Daughters +of Zeus and bright Eurynomé,<br /> + She whose blue waters pave the Aegaean plain,<br /> + Children of all surrounding sky and sea,<br /> + A larger ocean claims you, not in vain!<br /> + Ye who to Helicon from Thessalia wide<br /> + Wander’d when earth was young,<br /> +Come from Libethrion, come; our love, our joy, our pride!</p> +<p> Ah! since your gray Pierian ilex-groves<br /> + Felt the despoiling tread of barbarous feet,<br /> + This land, o’er all, the Delian leader loves;<br /> + Here is your favourite home, your genuine seat:—<br /> + In these green western isles renew the throne<br /> + Where Grace by Wisdom shines;<br /> +—We welcome with full hearts, and claim you for our own!</p> +<p>If, looking at England, one point may be singled out in that long +movement, generalized under the name of the Renaissance, as critical, +it is the introduction of the Greek and Latin literature:—which +has remained ever since conspicuously the most powerful and enlarging +element, the most effectively educational, among all blanches of human +study.</p> +<p><i>In the vale Of fair Aosta</i>; See Anselm’s youthful vision +of the gleaners and the palace of heaven (Green: <i>History</i>, B. +II: ch. ii).</p> +<p><i>His Great Work</i>; Roger Bacon’s so-named <i>Opus Majus</i>: +‘At once,’ says Whewell, ‘the Encyclopaedia and the +Novum Organum of the thirteenth century.’ Like Vergil, Bacon +passed at one time for a magician.</p> +<p><i>That new doctrine</i>; Grocyn was perhaps the first Englishman +who studied Greek under Chalcondylas the Byzantine at Florence; certainly +the first who lectured on Greek in England. This was in the Hall +of Exeter College, Oxford, in 1491. To him Erasmus (1499) came +to study the language.—See the brilliant account of the revival +of learning in Green, <i>Hist</i>. B. V: ch. ii.</p> +<p><i>Master, who alone</i>; See <i>The Poet’s Euthanasia</i>.</p> +<p><i>Sebastian</i>; Cabot, who, in 1497, sailed from Bristol, and reached +Florida.</p> +<p><i>The golden sun</i>; Refers to Copernicus; whose solar system was, +however, not published till 1543.</p> +<p><i>The little-ones</i>; Colet, Dean of S. Paul’s, founded the +school in 1510. <!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>‘The +bent of its founder’s mind was shown by the image of the Child +Jesus over the master’s chair, with the words <i>Hear ye Him</i> +graven beneath it’ (Green: B. V: ch. iv).</p> +<p><i>Fifty years</i>; Between 1570 and 1620 lies almost all the glorious +production of our so-called Elizabethan period.</p> +<p><i>From Libethrion</i>;—<i>Nymphae, noster amor, Libethrides</i>! +. . . What a music is there in the least little fragment of Vergil’s +exquisite art!</p> +<h3>MARGARET TUDOR</h3> +<p><i>PROTHALAMION</i></p> +<p>1503</p> +<p>Love who art above us all,<br /> +Guard the treasure on her way,<br /> +Flower of England, fair and tall,<br /> +Maiden-wise and maiden-gay,<br /> +As her northward path she goes;<br /> +Daughter of the double rose.</p> +<p>Look with twofold grace on her<br /> +Who from twofold root has grown,<br /> +Flower of York and Lancaster,<br /> +Now to grace another throne,<br /> +Rose in Scotland’s garden set,—<br /> +Britain’s only Margaret.</p> +<p>Exile-child from childhood’s bower,<br /> +Pledge and bond of Henry’s faith,<br /> +James, take home our English flower,<br /> +Guard from touch of scorn and skaith;<br /> +Bearing, in her slender hands,<br /> +Palms of peace to hostile lands.</p> +<p>Safe by southern smiling shires,<br /> +Many a city, many a shrine;<br /> +<!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>By +the newly kindled fires<br /> +Of the black Northumbrian mine;<br /> +Border clans in ambush set;<br /> +Carry thou fair Margaret.</p> +<p>—Land of heath and hill and linn,<br /> +Land of mountain-freedom wild,<br /> +She in heart to thee is kin,<br /> +Tudor’s daughter, Gwynedd’s child!<br /> +In her lively lifeblood share<br /> +Gwenllian and Anghárad fair.</p> +<p>East and West, from Dee to Yare,<br /> +Now in equal bonds are wed:<br /> +Peace her new-found flower shall wear,<br /> +Rose that dapples white with red;<br /> +North and South, dissever’d yet,<br /> +Join in this fair Margaret!</p> +<p>Ocean round our Britain roll’d,<br /> +Sapphire ring without a flaw,<br /> +When wilt thou one realm enfold,<br /> +One in freedom, one in law?<br /> +Will that ancient feud be sped,<br /> +Brothers’ blood by brothers shed?</p> +<p>—Land with freedom’s struggle sore,<br /> +Land to whom thy children cling<br /> +With a lover’s love and more,<br /> +Take the gentle gift we bring!<br /> +Pearl in thy crown royal set;<br /> +Scotland’s other Margaret.</p> +<p>Margaret Tudor, daughter to Henry VII, married in 1502 to James IV, +and afterwards to Lord Angus, was thus great-grandmother on both sides +to James I of England.</p> +<p><i>Gwynedd’s child</i>; The Tudors intermarried with the old +royal family <!-- page 74--><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>of +North Wales, in whose pedigree occur the girl-names Gwenllian and Angharad.</p> +<p><i>Other Margaret</i>; Sister to Edgar the Etheling, and wife to +Malcolm. Her life and character are in contrast to the unhappy +and unsatisfactory career of Margaret Tudor, whom I have here only treated +as at once representing and uniting England, Scotland, and Wales.</p> +<h3>LONDON BRIDGE</h3> +<p>July 6: 1535</p> +<p>The midnight moaning stream<br /> +Draws down its glassy surface through the bridge<br /> +That o’er the current casts a tower’d ridge,<br /> +Dark sky-line forms fantastic as a dream;<br /> +And cresset watch-lights on the bridge-gate gleam,<br /> +Where ’neath the star-lit dome gaunt masts upbuoy<br /> +No flag of festive joy,<br /> +But blanching spectral heads;—their heads, who died<br /> +Victims to tyrant-pride,<br /> +Martyrs of Faith and Freedom in the day<br /> +Of shame and flame and brutal selfish sway.</p> +<p>And one in black array<br /> +Veiling her Rizpah-misery, to the gate<br /> +Comes, and with gold and moving speech sedate<br /> +Buys down the thing aloft, and bears away<br /> +Snatch’d from the withering wind and ravens’ prey:<br /> +And as a mother’s eyes, joy-soften’d, shed<br /> +Tears o’er her young child’s head,<br /> +Golden and sweet, from evil saved; so she<br /> +O’er this, sad-smilingly,<br /> +Mangled and gray, unwarm’d by human breath,<br /> +Clasping death’s relic with love passing death.</p> +<p><!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>So +clasping now! and so<br /> +When death clasps her in turn! e’en in the grave<br /> +Nursing the precious head she could not save,<br /> +Tho’ through each drop her life-blood yearn’d to flow<br /> +If but for him she might to scaffold go:—<br /> +And O! as from that Hall, with innocent gore<br /> +Sacred from roof to floor,<br /> +To that grim other place of blood he went—<br /> +What cry of agony rent<br /> +The twilight,—cry as of an Angel’s pain,—<br /> +<i>My father, O my father</i>! . . . and in vain!</p> +<p>Then, as on those who lie<br /> +Cast out from bliss, the days of joy come back,<br /> +And all the soul with wormwood sweetness rack,<br /> +So in that trance of dreadful ecstasy<br /> +The vision of her girlhood glinted by:—<br /> +And how the father through their garden stray’d,<br /> +And, child with children, play’d,<br /> +And teased the rabbit-hutch, and fed the dove<br /> +Before him from above<br /> +Alighting,—in his visitation sweet,<br /> +Led on by little hands, and eager feet.</p> +<p>Hence among those he stands,<br /> +Elect ones, ever in whose ears the word<br /> +<i>He that offends these little ones</i> . . . is heard,<br /> +With love and kisses smiling-out commands,<br /> +And all the tender hearts within his hands;<br /> +Seeing, in every child that goes, a flower<br /> +From Eden’s nursery bower,<br /> +A little stray from Heaven, for reverence here<br /> +Sent down, and comfort dear:<br /> +All care well paid-for by one pure caress,<br /> +And life made happy in their happiness.</p> +<p><!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>He +too, in deeper lore<br /> +Than woman’s in those early days, or yet,—<br /> +Train’d step by step his youthful Margaret;<br /> +The wonders of that amaranthine store<br /> +Which Hellas and Hesperia evermore<br /> +Lavish, to strengthen and refine the race:—<br /> +For, in his large embrace,<br /> +The light of faith with that new light combined<br /> +To purify the mind:—<br /> +A crystal soul, a heart without disguise,<br /> +All wisdom’s lover, and through love, all-wise.</p> +<p>—O face she ne’er will see,—<br /> +Gray eyes, and careless hair, and mobile lips<br /> +From which the shaft of kindly satire slips<br /> +Healing its wound with human sympathy;<br /> +The heart-deep smile; the tear-concealing glee!<br /> +O well-known furrows of the reverend brow!<br /> +Familiar voice, that now<br /> +She will not hear nor answer any more,—<br /> +Till on the better shore<br /> +Where love completes the love in life begun,<br /> +And smooths and knits our ravell’d skein in one!</p> +<p>Blest soul, who through life’s course<br /> +Didst keep the young child’s heart unstain’d and whole,<br /> +To find again the cradle at the goal,<br /> +Like some fair stream returning to its source;—<br /> +Ill fall’n on days of falsehood, greed, and force!<br /> +Base days, that win the plaudits of the base,<br /> +Writ to their own disgrace,<br /> +With casuist sneer o’erglossing works of blood,<br /> +Miscalling evil, good;<br /> +Before some despot-hero falsely named<br /> +Grovelling in shameful worship unashamed.</p> +<p><!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>—But +they of the great race<br /> +Look equably, not caring much, on foe<br /> +And fame and misesteem of man below;<br /> +And with forgiving radiance on their face,<br /> +And eyes that aim beyond the bourn of space,<br /> +Seeing the invisible, glory-clad, go up<br /> +And drink the absinthine cup,<br /> +Fill’d nectar-deep by the dear love of Him<br /> +Slain at Jerusalem<br /> +To free them from a tyrant worse than this,<br /> +Changing brief anguish for the heart of bliss.</p> +<p><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p>—O moaning stream of Time,<br /> +Heavy with hate and sin and wrong and woe<br /> +As ocean-ward dost go,<br /> +Thou also hast thy treasures!—Life, sublime<br /> +In its own sweet simplicity:—life for love:<br /> +Heroic martyr-death:—<br /> +Man sees them not: but they are seen above.</p> +<p><i>One in black array</i>; Sir T. More’s daughter, Margaret +Roper.</p> +<p><i>That Hall</i>; Westminster, where More was tried: <i>That other +place</i>; Tower Hill.</p> +<p><i>The vision of her girlhood</i>; More taught his own children, +and was like a child with them. He ‘would take grave scholars +and statesmen into the garden to see his girls’ rabbit-hutches. +. . . <i>I have given you kisses enough</i>, he wrote to his little +ones, <i>but stripes hardly ever</i>’: (Green, B. V: ch. ii).</p> +<p><i>The wonders</i>; See first note to <i>Grocyn at Oxford</i>.</p> +<p><i>In his large embrace</i>; More may be said to have represented +the highest aim and effort of the ‘new learning’ in England. +He is the flower of our Renaissance in genius, wisdom, and beauty of +nature. ‘When ever,’ says Erasmus in a famous passage, +‘did Nature mould a character more gentle, endearing, and happy, +than Thomas More’s?’</p> +<h3><!-- page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>AT +FOUNTAINS</h3> +<p>1539-1862</p> +<p>Blest hour, as on green happy slopes I lie,<br /> + Gray walls around and high,<br /> +While long-ranged arches lessen on the view,<br /> + And one high gracious curve<br /> +Of shaftless window frames the limpid blue.</p> +<p>—God’s altar erst, where wind-set rowan now<br /> + Waves its green-finger’d bough,<br /> +And the brown tiny creeper mounts the bole<br /> + With curious eye alert,<br /> +And beak that tries each insect-haunted hole,</p> +<p>And lives her gentle life from nest to nest,<br /> + And dies undispossess’d:<br /> +Whilst all the air is quick with noise of birds<br /> + Where once the chant went up;<br /> +Now musical with a song more sweet than words.</p> +<p>Sky-roof’d and bare and deep in dewy sod,<br /> + Still ’tis the house of God!<br /> +Beauty by desolation unsubdued:—<br /> + And all the past is here,<br /> +Thronging with thought this holy solitude.</p> +<p>I see the taper-stars, the altars gay;<br /> + And those who crouch and pray;<br /> +The white-robed crowd in close monastic stole,<br /> + Who hither fled the world<br /> +To find the world again within the soul.</p> +<p>Yet here the pang of Love’s defeat, the pride<br /> + Of life unsatisfied,<br /> +Might win repose or anodyne; here the weak,<br /> + <!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>Armour’d +against themselves,<br /> +Exchange true guiding for obedience meek.</p> +<p>Through day, through night, here, in the fragrant air,<br /> + Their hours are struck by prayer;<br /> +Freed from the bonds of freedom, the distress<br /> + Of choice, on life’s storm-sea<br /> +They gaze unharm’d, and know their happiness.</p> +<p>Till o’er this rock of refuge, deem’d secure,<br /> + —This palace of the poor,<br /> +Ascetic luxury, wealth too frankly shown,—<br /> + The royal robber swept<br /> +His lustful eye, and seized the prey his own.</p> +<p>—Ah, calm of Nature! Now thou hold’st again<br /> + Thy sweet and silent reign!<br /> +And, as our feverish years their orbit roll,<br /> + This pure and cloister’d peace<br /> +In its old healing virtue bathes the soul.</p> +<p>1539 is the year when the greater monasteries, amongst which Fountains +in Yorkshire held a prominent place, were confiscated and ruined by +Henry VIII.</p> +<p><i>The tiny creeper</i>; Certhia Familiaris; the smallest of our +birds after the wren. It belongs to a class nearly related to +the woodpecker.</p> +<p><i>White-robed</i>; The colour of the Cistercian order, to which +Fountains belonged.</p> +<h3><!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>SIR +HUGH WILLOUGHBY</h3> +<p>1553-4</p> +<p> Two ships upon the steel-blue Arctic seas<br /> + When day was long and night itself was day,<br /> + Forged heavily before the South West breeze<br /> + As to the steadfast star they curved their way;<br /> + Two specks of man, two only signs of life,<br /> +Where with all breathing things white Death keeps endless strife.</p> +<p> The Northern Cape is sunk: and to the crew<br /> + This zone of sea, with ice-floes wedged and rough,<br /> + Domed by its own pure height of tender blue,<br /> + Seems like a world from the great world cut off:<br /> + While, round the horizon clasp’d, a ring of white,<br /> +Snow-blink from snows unseen, walls them with angry light.</p> +<p> Now that long day compact of many days<br /> + Breaks up and wanes; and equal night beholds<br /> + Their hapless driftage past uncharted bays,<br /> + And in her chilling, killing arms enfolds:<br /> + While the near stars a thousand arrowy darts<br /> +Bend from their diamond eyes, as the low sun departs.</p> +<p> Or the weird Northern Dawn in idle play<br /> + Mocks their sad souls, now trickling down the sky<br /> + In many-quivering lines of golden spray,<br /> + Then blazing out, an Iris-arch on high,<br /> + With fiery lances fill’d and feathery bars,<br /> +And sheeny veils that hide or half-reveal the stars.</p> +<p> A silent spectacle! Yet sounds, ’tis +said,<br /> + On their forlornness broke; a hissing cry<br /> + Of mockery and wild laugh, as, overhead,<br /> + <!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Those +blight fantastic squadrons flaunted by:—<br /> + And that false dawn, long nickering, died away,<br /> +And the Sun came not forth, and Heaven withheld the day.</p> +<p> O King Hyperion, o’er the Delphic dale<br /> + Reigning meanwhile in glory, Ocean know<br /> + Thine absence, and outstretch’d an icy veil,<br /> + A marble pavement, o’er his waters blue;<br /> + Past the Varangian fiord and Zembla hoar,<br /> +And from Petsora north to dark Arzina’s shore:—</p> +<p> An iron ridge o’erhung with toppling snow<br /> + And giant beards of icicled cascade:—<br /> + Where, frost-imprison’d as the long mouths go,<br /> + The <i>Good Hope</i> and her mate-ship lay embay’d;<br /> + And those brave crews knew that all hope was gone;<br /> +England be seen no more; no more the living sun.</p> +<p> A store that daily lessens ’neath their eyes;<br /> + A little dole of light and fire and food:—<br /> + While Night upon them like a vampyre lies<br /> + Bleaching the frame and thinning out the blood;<br /> + And through the ships the frost-bit timbers groan,<br /> +And the Guloine prowls round, with dull heart-curdling moan.</p> +<p> Then sometimes on the soul, far off, how far!<br /> + Came back the shouting crowds, the cannon-roar,<br /> + The latticed palace glittering like a star,<br /> + The buoyant Thames, the green, sweet English shore,<br /> + The heartful prayers, the fireside blaze and bliss,<br /> +The little faces bright, and woman’s last, last kiss.</p> +<p> —O yet, for all their misery, happy souls!<br /> + Happy in faith and love and fortitude:—<br /> + For you, one thought of England dear controls<br /> + All shrinking of the flesh at death so rude!<br /> + <!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>Though +long at rest in that far Arctic grave,<br /> +True sailor hero hearts, van of our bravest brave.</p> +<p> And one by one the North King’s searching +lance<br /> + Touch’d, and they stiffen’d at their task, +and died;<br /> + And their stout leader glanced a farewell glance;<br /> + ‘God is as close by sea as land,’ he cried,<br /> + ‘In His own light not nearer than this gloom,’—<br /> +And look’d as one who o’er the mountains sees his home.</p> +<p> Home!—happy sound of vanish’d happiness!<br /> + —But when the unwilling sun crept up again,<br /> + And loosed the sea from winter and duresse,<br /> + The seal-wrapt race that roams the Lapland main<br /> + Saw in Arzina, wondering, fearing more,<br /> +The tatter’d ships, in snows entomb’d and vaulted o’er:</p> +<p> And clomb the decks, and found the gallant crew,<br /> + As forms congeal’d to stone, where frozen fate<br /> + Took each man in his turn, and gently slew:—<br /> + Nor knew the heroic chieftain, as he sate,<br /> + English through every fibre, in his place,<br /> +The smile of duty done upon the steadfast face.</p> +<p>Sir Hugh Willoughby, in the <i>Bona Esperanza</i>, with two other +vessels, sailed May 10, 1553, saluting the palace of Greenwich is they +passed. By September 18 he, with one consort, reached the harbour +of Arzina, where all perished early in 1554. His will, dated in +January of that year, was found when the ships were discovered by the +Russians soon after.</p> +<p>Willoughby has been taken here as the representative of the great +age of British naval adventure and exploration.</p> +<p><i>Arzina</i> is placed near the western headland of the White Sea, +east of the Waranger Fiord, and west of Nova Zembla and the mouth of +the Petchora.</p> +<h3><!-- page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>CROSSING +SOLWAY</h3> +<p>May 16: 1568</p> +<p>Blow from the North, thou bitter North wind,<br /> +Blow over the western bay,<br /> +Where Nith and Eden and Esk run in<br /> +And fight with the salt sea spray,<br /> +And the sun shines high through the sailing sky<br /> +In the freshness of blue Mid-may.</p> +<p>Blow North-North-West, and hollow the sails<br /> +Of a Queen who slips over the sea<br /> +As a hare from the hounds; and her covert afar;<br /> +And now she can only flee;<br /> +And death before and the sisterly shore<br /> +That smiles perfidiously.</p> +<p>O Mid-may freshness about her cheek<br /> +And piercing her poor attire,<br /> +The sting of defeat thou canst not allay,<br /> +The fever of heart and the fire,<br /> +The death-despair for the days that were,<br /> +And famine of vain desire!</p> +<p>—On Holyrood stairs an iron-heel’d clank<br /> +Came up in the gloaming hour:<br /> +And iron fingers have bursten the bar<br /> +Of the palace innermost bower:<br /> +And fiend-like on her the Douglas and Ker<br /> +And spectral Ruthven glower.</p> +<p>She hears the shriek as the Morton horde<br /> +Hurry the victim beneath;<br /> +And she feels their dead man’s grasp on her skirt<br /> +In the frenzy-terror of death;<br /> +And the dastard King at her bosom cling<br /> +With a serpent’s poison-breath.</p> +<p><!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>O +fair girl Queen, well weep for the friend<br /> +To his faith too faithful and thee;<br /> +For a brother’s hypocrite tears; for the flight<br /> +To the Castle set by the sea;—<br /> +Where thy father’s tomb lay and gaped in the gloom<br /> +’Twere better for thee to be!</p> +<p>O better at rest where the crooning dove<br /> +May sing requiem o’er thy bed,<br /> +Sweet Robin aflame with love’s sign on his breast<br /> +With quick light footstep tread;<br /> +While over the sod the Birds of God<br /> +Their guardian feathers outspread!</p> +<p>Too womanly sweet, too womanly frail,<br /> +Alone in thy faith and thy need;<br /> +In the homeless home, in the poisonous air<br /> +Of spite and libel and greed;<br /> +Mid perfidy’s net thy pathway is set,<br /> +And thy feet in the pitfalls bleed.</p> +<p>—O lightnings, not lightnings of Heaven, that flare<br /> +Through the desolate House in the Field!<br /> +Craft that the Fiend had envied in vain;<br /> +Till the terrible Day unreveal’d,—<br /> +Till the Angels rejoice at the Verdict-voice,<br /> +And Mary’s pardon is seal’d!</p> +<p>As a bird from the mesh of the fowler freed<br /> +With wild wing shatters the air,<br /> +From shelter to shelter, betray’d, she flees,<br /> +Or lured to some treacherous lair,<br /> +And the vulture-cry of the enemy nigh,<br /> +And the heavens dark with despair!</p> +<p>Bright lily of France, by the storm stricken low,<br /> +A sunbeam thou seest through the shade<br /> +Where Order and Peace are throned ’neath the smile<br /> +Of a royal sisterly Maid:—<br /> +<!-- page 85--><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>For +hope in the breast of the girl has her nest,<br /> +Ever trusting, and ever betray’d.</p> +<p>Brave womanly heart that, beholding the shore,<br /> +Beholds her own grave unaware,—<br /> +Though the days to come their shame should unveil<br /> +Yet onward she still would dare!<br /> +Though the meadows smile with statesmanly guile,<br /> +And the cuckoo’s call is a snare!</p> +<p>Turn aside, O Queen, from the cruel land,<br /> +From the greedy shore turn away;<br /> +From shame upon shame:—But most shame for those<br /> +On their passionate captive who play<br /> +With a subtle net, hope enwoven with threat,<br /> +Hung out to tempt her astray!</p> +<p>Poor scape-goat of crimes, where,—her part what it may,—<br /> +So tortured, so hunted to die,<br /> +Foul age of deceit and of hate,—on her head<br /> +Least stains of gore-guiltiness lie;<br /> +To the hearts of the just her blood from the dust<br /> +Not in vain for mercy will cry.</p> +<p>Poor scape-goat of nations and faiths in their strife<br /> +So cruel,—and thou so fair!<br /> +Poor girl!—so, best, in her misery named,—<br /> +Discrown’d of two kingdoms, and bare;<br /> +Not first nor last on this one was cast<br /> +The burden that others should share.</p> +<p>—When the race is convened at the great assize<br /> +And the last long trumpet-call,<br /> +If Woman ’gainst Man, in her just appeal,<br /> +At the feet of the Judge should fall,<br /> +O the cause were secure;—the sentence sure!<br /> +—But she will forgive him all!—</p> +<p><!-- page 86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>O +keen heart-hunger for days that were;<br /> +Last look at a vanishing shore!<br /> +In two short words all bitterness summ’d,<br /> +That <i>Has been</i> and <i>Nevermore</i>!<br /> +Nor with one caress will Mary bless,<br /> +Nor look on the babe she bore!</p> +<p>Blow, bitter wind, with a cry of death,<br /> +Blow over the western bay:<br /> +The sunshine is gone from the desolate girl,<br /> +And before is the doomster-day,<br /> +And the saw-dust red with the heart’s-blood shed<br /> +In the shambles of Fotheringay.</p> +<p>Mary of Scotland is one of the five or six figures in our history +who rouse an undying personal interest. Volumes have been and +will be written on her:—yet if we put aside the distorting mists +of national and political and theological partisanship, the common laws +of human nature will give an easy clue to her conduct and that of her +enemies.</p> +<p>Her flight from Scotland, as the turning-point in Mary’s unhappy +and pathetic career, has been here chosen for the moment whence to survey +it.</p> +<p><i>On Holyrood stairs</i>; Riccio was murdered on March 9, 1566. +Mary’s exclamation when she heard of his death next day, <i>No +more tears</i>; <i>I will think upon a revenge</i>, is the sufficient +explanation,—in a great degree should be the sufficient justification, +with those who still hold her an accomplice in the death of Darnley +and the marriage with Bothwell,—(considering the then lawless +state of Scotland, the complicity of the leading nobles, the hopelessness +of justice)—of her later conduct whilst Queen.</p> +<p><i>The friend</i>; In Riccio’s murder the main determinant +was his efficiency in aiding Mary towards a Roman Catholic reaction, +which might have deprived a large body of powerful nobles of the church +lands. The death of Riccio (Mary’s most faithful friend) +prevented this: the death of Darnley became necessary to secure the +position gained.</p> +<p><i>A brother’s hypocrite tears</i>; Murray, in whose interest +Riccio was murdered, and whose privity to the murder (as afterwards +to that of Darnley) is reasonably, though indirectly, proved, affected +to shed tears on seeing his sister. Next day she learned the details +of the plot, and her half-brother’s share in it.</p> +<p><i>The flight</i>; Mary then fled by a secret passage from Holyrood +Palace <!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>through +the Abbey Church, the royal tombs which had been broken open by the +revolutionary mob of 1559.</p> +<p><i>The Castle</i>; Dunbar.</p> +<p><i>Till the terrible Day unreveal’d</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> +A.</p> +<h3>SIDNEY AT ZUTPHEN</h3> +<p>October 2: 1586</p> +<p>1</p> +<p> Where Guelderland +outspreads<br /> + Her green wide water-meads<br /> + Laced by the silver of the parted Rhine;<br /> + Where round the horizon +low<br /> + The waving millsails +go,<br /> + And poplar avenues stretch their pillar’d line;<br /> + That morn a clinging mist uncurl’d<br /> +Its folds o’er South-Fen town, and blotted out the world.</p> +<p>2</p> +<p> There, as the +gray dawn broke,<br /> + Cloked by that ghost-white +cloke,<br /> + The fifty knights of England sat in steel;<br /> + Each man all ear, for +eye<br /> + Could not his nearest +spy;<br /> + And in the mirk’s dim hiding heart they feel,<br /> + —Feel more than hear,—the +signal sound<br /> +Of tramp and hoof and wheel, and guns that bruise the ground.</p> +<p>3</p> +<p>—Sudden, the mist gathers up like a curtain, the theatre clear;<br /> +Stage of unequal conflict, and triumph purchased too dear!<br /> +<!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Half +our boot treasures of gallanthood there, with axe and with glaive,<br /> +One against ten,—what of that?—We are ready for glory or +grave!<br /> +There, Spain and her thousands nearing, with lightning-tongued weapons +of war;—<br /> +Ebro’s swarthy sons, and the bands from Epirus afar;<br /> +Crescia, Gonzaga, del Vasto,—world-famous names of affright,<br /> +Veterans of iron and blood, insatiate engines of fight:—<br /> +But ours were Norris and Essex and Stanley and Willoughby grim,<br /> +And the waning Dudley star, and the star that will never be dim,<br /> +Star of Philip the peerless,—and now at height of his noon,<br /> +Astrophel!—not for thyself but for England extinguish’d +too soon!</p> +<p>4</p> +<p>Red walls of Zutphen behind; before them, Spain in her might:—<br /> +O! ’tis not war, but a game of heroic boyish delight!<br /> +For on, like a bolt-head of steel, go the fifty, dividing their way,<br /> +Through and over the brown mail-shirts,—Farnese’s choicest +array;<br /> +Over and through, and the curtel-axe flashes, the plumes in their pride<br /> +Sink like the larch to the hewer, a death-mown avenue wide:<br /> +While the foe in his stubbornness flanks them and bars them, with merciless +aim<br /> +Shooting from musket and saker a scornful death-tongue of flame.<br /> +As in an autumn afar, the Six Hundred in Chersonese hew’d<br /> +<!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>Their +road through a host, for their England and honour’s sake wasting +their blood,<br /> +Foolishness wiser than wisdom!—So these, since Azincourt morn,<br /> +First showing the world the calm open-eyed rashness of Englishmen born!</p> +<p>5</p> +<p>Foes ere the cloud went up, black Norris and Stanley in one<br /> +Pledge iron hands and kiss swords, each his mate’s, in the face +of the sun,<br /> +Warm with the generous wine of the battle; and Willoughby’s might<br /> +To the turf bore Crescia, and lifted again,—knight honouring knight;<br /> +All in the hurry and turmoil:—where North, half-booted and rough,<br /> +Launch’d on the struggle, and Sidney struck onward, his cuisses +thrown off,<br /> +Rash over-courage of poet and youth!—while the memories, how<br /> +At the joust long syne She look’d on, as he triumph’d, were +hot on his brow,<br /> +‘Stella! mine own, my own star!’—and he sigh’d:—and +towards him a flame<br /> +Shot its red signal; a shriek!—and the viewless messenger came;<br /> +Found the unguarded gap, the approach left bare to the prey,<br /> +Where through the limb to the life the death-stroke shatter’d +a way.</p> +<p>6</p> +<p> —Astrophel! +England’s pride!<br /> + O stroke that, when +he died,<br /> + Smote through the realm,—our best, our fairest ta’en!<br /> + For now the wound accurst<br /> + <!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Lights +up death’s fury-thirst;—<br /> + Yet the allaying cup, in all that pain,<br /> + Untouch’d, untasted he gives o’er<br /> +To one who lay, and watch’d with eyes that craved it more:—</p> +<p>7</p> +<p> ‘Take +it,’ he said, ‘’tis thine;<br /> + Thy need is more than +mine’;—<br /> + And smiled as one who looks through death to life:<br /> + —Then pass’d, +true heart and brave,<br /> + Leal from birth to +grave:—<br /> + For that curse-laden roar of mortal strife,<br /> + With God’s own peace ineffable +fill’d,—<br /> +In that eternal Love all earthly passion still’d.</p> +<p>In 1585 Elizabeth, who was then aiding the United Provinces in their +resistance to Spain, sent Sir Philip Sidney (born 1554) as governor +of the fortress of Flushing in Zealand. The Earl of Leicester, +chosen by the Queen’s unhappy partiality to command the English +force, named Sidney (his nephew) General of the horse. He marched +thence to Zutphen in Guelderland, a town besieged by the Spaniards, +in hopes of destroying a strong reinforcement which they were bringing +in aid of the besiegers. The details of the rash and heroic charge +which followed may be read in Motley’s <i>History of the United +Netherlands</i>, ch. ix.</p> +<p>St. 1 <i>Guelderland</i>; in this province the Rhine divides before +entering the sea: ‘gliding through a vast plain.’—<i>South-Fen</i>; +Zutphen, on the Yssel (Rhine).</p> +<p>St. 3 <i>The bands from Epirus</i>; Crescia, the Epirote chief, commanded +a body of Albanian cavalry.—<i>The waning Dudley star</i>; Leicester, +who was near the end of his miserable career.—<i>Astrophel</i>; +Sidney celebrated his love for Penelope Devereux, Lady Rich, in the +series of Sonnets and Lyrics named <i>Astrophel and Stella</i>:—posthumously +published in 1591.—After, or with Shakespeare’s Sonnets, +this series seems to me to offer the most powerful picture of the passion +of love in the whole range of our poetry.</p> +<p>St. 4 <i>Saker</i>; early name for field-piece.—<i>The Six +Hundred</i>; The Crimea in ancient days was named <i>Chersonesus Taurica</i>.</p> +<p>St. 5 <i>Black Norris</i>; had been at variance with Sir W. Stanley +before the engagement. Morris was one of twelve gallant brothers, +whose <!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>complexion +followed that of their mother, named by Elizabeth ‘her own crow.’—<i>North</i>; +was lying bedrid from a wound in the leg, but could not resist volunteering +at Zutphen, and rode up ‘with one boot on and one boot off.’—<i>Cuisses</i>;</p> +<blockquote><p>I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,<br /> +His cuisses on his thighs: (<i>Henry IV</i>, Part I: A. iv: S. i):—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Sidney flung off his ‘in a fit of chivalrous extravagance.’—<i>At +the joust</i>; In Sonnets 41 and 53 of <i>Astrophel and Stella</i> Sidney +describes how the sudden sight of his lady-love dazzled him as he rode +in certain tournaments. In Son. 69 he cries:</p> +<blockquote><p>I, I, O, I, may say that she is mine.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>ELIZABETH AT TILBURY</h3> +<p>September: 1588</p> +<p> Let them come, come never so proudly,<br /> + O’er the green waves as giants +ride;<br /> + Silver clarions menacing loudly,<br /> + ‘All the Spains’ on their +banners wide;<br /> + High on deck of the gilded galleys<br /> + Our light sailers they scorn below:—<br /> + We will scatter them, plague, and shatter them,<br /> + Till their flag hauls down to their foe!<br /> + For our oath we swear<br /> + By the name we bear,<br /> +By England’s Queen, and England free and fair,—<br /> +Her’s ever and her’s still, come life, come death:—<br /> + God save Elizabeth!</p> +<p> Sidonía, Recalde, and Leyva<br /> + Watch from their Castles in swarthy scorn,<br /> + Lords and Princes by Philip’s favour;—<br /> + We by birthright are noble born!<br /> + Freemen born of the blood of freemen,<br /> + Sons of Crecy and Flodden are we!<br /> + <!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>We +shall sunder them, fire, and plunder them,—<br /> + English boats on an English sea!<br /> + And our oath we swear,<br /> + By the name we bear,<br /> +By England’s Queen, and England free and fair,—<br /> +Her’s ever and her’s still, come life, come death!<br /> + God save Elizabeth!</p> +<p> Drake and Frobisher, Hawkins, and Howard,<br /> + Raleigh, Cavendish, Cecil, and Brooke,<br /> + Hang like wasps by the flagships tower’d,<br /> + Sting their way through the thrice-piled +oak:—<br /> + Let them range their seven-mile crescent,<br /> + Giant galleons, canvas wide!<br /> + Ours will harry them, board, and carry them,<br /> + Plucking the plumes of the Spanish pride.<br /> + For our oath we swear<br /> + By the name we bear,<br /> +By England’s Queen, and England free and fair,—<br /> +Her’s ever and her’s still, come life, come death!<br /> + God save Elizabeth!</p> +<p> —Hath God risen in wrath and scatter’d?<br /> + Have His tempests smote them in scorn?<br /> + Past the Orcadés, dumb and tatter’d,<br /> + ’Mong sea-beasts do they drift +forlorn?<br /> + We were as lions hungry for battle;<br /> + God has made our battle His own!<br /> + God has scatter’d them, sunk, and shatter’d +them:<br /> + Give the glory to Him alone!<br /> + While our oath we swear,<br /> + By the name we bear,<br /> +By England’s Queen, and England free and fair,—<br /> +Her’s ever and her’s still, come life, come death!<br /> + God save Elizabeth!</p> +<h3><!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>AT +BEMERTON</h3> +<p>1630-1633</p> +<p>Sick with the strife of tongues, the blustering hate<br /> +Of frantic Party raving o’er the realm,<br /> +Sonorous insincerities of debate,<br /> +And jealous factions snatching at the helm,<br /> +And Out o’er-bidding In with graceless strife,<br /> +Selling the State for votes:—O happy fields,<br /> +I cried, where Herbert, by the world misprized,<br /> + Found in his day the life<br /> +That no unrest or disappointment yields,<br /> +Vergilian vision here best realized!</p> +<p>His memory is Peace: and peace is here;—<br /> +The eternal lullaby of the level brook,<br /> +With bird-like chirpings mingled, glassy-clear;<br /> +The narrow pathway to the yew-clipp’d nook;<br /> +Trim lawn, familiar to the pensive feet;<br /> +The long gray walls he raised:—A household nest<br /> +Where Hope and firm-eyed Faith and heavenly Love<br /> + Made human love more sweet;<br /> +While,—earth’s rare visitant from the choirs above,—<br /> +Urania’s holy steps the cottage blest.</p> +<p>Peace there:—and peace upon the house of God,<br /> +The little road-side church that room-like stands<br /> +Crouching entrench’d in slopes of daisy sod,<br /> +And duly deck’d by Herbert-honouring hands:—<br /> +Cell of detachment! Shrine to which the heart<br /> +Withdraws, and all the roar of life is still;<br /> +Then sinks into herself, and finds a shrine<br /> + Within the shrine apart:<br /> +<!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Alone +with God, as on the Arabian hill<br /> +Man knelt in vision to the All-divine!</p> +<p>—Thrice happy they,—and know their happiness,—<br /> +Who read the soul’s star-orbit Heaven-ward clear;<br /> +Not roving comet-like through doubt and guess,<br /> +But ’neath their feet tread nescient pride and fear;<br /> +Scan the unseen with sober certainty,<br /> +God’s hill above Himalah;—Love green earth<br /> +With deeper, truer love, because the blue<br /> + Of Heaven around they see;—<br /> +Who in the death-gasp hail man’s second birth,<br /> +And yield their loved ones with a brief adieu!</p> +<p>—Thee, too, esteem I happy in thy death,<br /> +Poet! while yet peace was, and thou might’st live<br /> +Unvex’d in thy sweet reasonable faith,<br /> +The gracious creed that knows how to forgive:—<br /> +Not narrowing God to self,—the common bane<br /> +Of sects, each man his own small oracle;<br /> +Not losing innerness in external rite;<br /> + A worship pure and plain,<br /> +Yet liberal to man’s heaven-imbreathed delight<br /> +In all that sound can hint, or beauty tell.</p> +<p>A golden moderation!—which the wise<br /> +Then highest rate, when fury-factions roar,<br /> +And folly’s choicest fools the most despise:—<br /> +—O happy Poet! laid in peace before<br /> +Rival intolerants each ’gainst other flamed,<br /> +And flames were slaked in blood, and all the grace<br /> +Of life before that sad illiterate gloom<br /> + Puritan, fled ashamed:<br /> +While, as the red moon lifts her turbid face,<br /> +Titanic features on the horizon loom!</p> +<p><!-- page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>George +Herbert’s brief career as a parish priest was passed at Bemerton, +a pretty village near Salisbury in the vale of the Avon. His parsonage, +with its garden running down to the stream, and the little church across +the road in which he lies buried, remain comparatively unchanged (March +26, 1880) since he lived and mused and wrote his Poems within these +precincts. The justly-famous <i>Temple</i> was published shortly +after his death by his friend Nicholas Ferrar.</p> +<p><i>Arabian hill</i>; Mount Sinai.</p> +<p><i>Titanic features</i>; See <i>A Churchyard in Oxfordshire</i>, +st. iii.</p> +<h3>PRINCESS ANNE</h3> +<p>November 5: 1640</p> +<p>Harsh words have been utter’d and written on her, Henrietta +the Queen:<br /> +She was young in a difficult part, on a cruel and difficult scene:—<br /> +Was it strange she should fail? that the King overmuch should bow down +to her will?<br /> +—So of old with the women, God bless them!—it was, so will +ever be still!<br /> +Rash in counsel and rash in courage, she aided and marr’d<br /> +The shifting tides of the fight, the star of the Stuarts ill-starr’d.<br /> +In her the false Florentine blood,—in him the bad strain of the +Guise;<br /> +Suspicion against her and hate, all that malice can forge and devise;—<br /> +As a bird by the fowlers o’ernetted, she shuffles and changes +her ground;<br /> +No wile unlawful in war, and the foe unscrupulous round!<br /> +Woman-like overbelieving Herself and the Cause and the Man,<br /> +Fights with two-edged intrigue, suicidal, plan upon plan;<br /> +<!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>Till +the law of this world had its way, and she fled,—like a frigate +unsail’d,<br /> +Unmasted, unflagg’d,—to her land; and the strength of the +stronger prevail’d.</p> +<p> But it was not thus, not thus, in the years of +thy springtide, O Queen,<br /> +When thy children came in their beauty, and all their future unseen:<br /> +When the kingdom had wealth and peace, one smile o’er the face +of the land:<br /> +England, too happy, if thou could’st thy happiness understand!<br /> +As those over Etna who slumber, and under them rankles the fire.<br /> +At her side was the gallant King, her first-love, her girlhood’s +desire,<br /> +And around her, best jewels and dearest to brighten the steps of the +throne,<br /> +Three golden heads, three fair little maids, in their nursery shone.<br /> +‘As the mother, so be the daughters,’ they say:—nor +could mother wish more<br /> +For her own, than men saw in the Queen’s, ere the rosebud-dawning +was o’er,<br /> +Heart-wise and head-wise, a joy to behold, as they knelt for her kiss,—<br /> +Best crown of a woman’s life, her true vocation and bliss!—<br /> +But the flowers were pale and frail, and the mother watch’d them +with dread,<br /> +As the sunbeams play’d round the room on each gay, glistening +head.</p> +<p> <!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>Anne +in that garden of childhood grew nearest Elizabeth: she<br /> +Tenderly tended and loved her, a babe with a babe on her knee:<br /> +Slight and white from the cradle was Anne; a floweret born<br /> +Rathe, out of season, a rose that peep’d out when the hedge was +in thorn.<br /> +‘Why should it be so with us?’ thought Elizabeth oft; for +in her<br /> +The soul ’gainst the body protesting, was but more keenly astir:<br /> +‘As saplings stunted by forest around o’ershading, we two:<br /> +What work for our life, my mother,’ she said, ‘is left us +to do?<br /> +Or is’t from the evil to come, the days without pleasure, that +God<br /> +In mercy would spare us, over our childhood outstretching the rod?’<br /> +—So she, from her innocent heart; in all things seeing the best<br /> +With the wholesome spirit of childhood; to God submitting the rest:<br /> +Not seeing the desolate years, the dungeon of Carisbrook drear;<br /> +Eyes dry-glazed with fever, and none to lend even a tear!<br /> +Now, all her heart to the little one goes; for, day upon day,<br /> +As a rosebud in canker, she pales and pines, and the cough has its way.<br /> +And the gardens of Richmond on Thames, the fine blythe air of the vale<br /> +Stay not the waning pulse, and the masters of science fail.<br /> +Then the little footsteps are faint, and a child may take her with ease;<br /> +As the flowers a babe flings down she is spread on Elizabeth’s +knees,<br /> +<!-- page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Slipping +back to the cradle-life, in her wasting weakness and pain:<br /> +And the sister prays and smiles and watches the sister in vain.</p> +<p> So she watch’d by the bed all night, and +the lights were yellow and low,<br /> +And a cold blue blink shimmer’d up from the park that was sheeted +in snow:<br /> +And the frost of the passing hour, when souls from the body divide,<br /> +The Sarsar-wind of the dawn, crept into the palace, and sigh’d.<br /> +And the child just turn’d her head towards Elizabeth there as +she lay,<br /> +And her little hands came together in haste, as though she would pray;<br /> +And the words wrestled in her for speech that the fever-dry mouth cannot +frame,<br /> +And the strife of the soul on the delicate brow was written in flame:<br /> +And Elizabeth call’d ‘O Father, why does she look at me +so?<br /> +Will it soon be better for Anne? her face is all in a glow’:—<br /> +But with womanly speed and heed is the mother beside her, and slips<br /> +Her arm ’neath the failing head, and moistens the rose of the +lips,<br /> +Pale and sweet as the wild rose of June, and whispers to pray<br /> +To the Father in heaven, ‘the one she likes best, my baby, to +say’:<br /> +And the soul hover’d yet o’er the lips, as a dove when her +pinions are spread,<br /> +And the light of the after-life came again in her eyes, and she said;<br /> +<!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>‘For +my long prayer it is not time; for my short one I think I have breath;<br /> +<i>Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, that I sleep not the sleep of death</i>.’<br /> +—O! into life, fair child, as she pray’d, her innocence +slept!<br /> +‘It is better for her,’ they said:—and knelt, and +kiss’d her, and wept.</p> +<p><i>In her</i>; Henrietta’s mother was by birth Mary de’ +Medici; the great-grandmother of Charles was Mary of Guise.</p> +<p>‘With Charles I,’ says Ranke, ‘nothing was more +seductive than secrecy. The contradictions in his conduct entangled +him in embarrassments, in which his declarations, if always true in +the sense he privately gave them, were only a hair’s-breadth removed +from actual, and even from intentional, untruth.’—Whether +traceable to descent, or to the evil influence of Buckingham and the +intriguing atmosphere of the Spanish marriage-negotiations, this defect +in political honesty is, unquestionably, the one serious blot on the +character of Charles I.—Yet, whilst noting it, candid students +will regretfully confess that the career of Elizabeth and her counsellors +is defaced by shades of bad faith, darker and more numerous.</p> +<p><i>When the kingdom</i>; See Clarendon’s description of England +during this period, ‘enjoying the greatest calm and the fullest +measure of felicity that any people in any age for so long time together +have been blessed with.’</p> +<p><i>Three golden heads</i>; Mary, the second child of Charles and +Henrietta, was born Nov. 4, 1631: Elizabeth, Dec. 28, 1635: Anne, Mar. +17, 1637. The last two were feeble from infancy. Consumption +soon showed itself in Anne, and her short life, passed at Richmond, +closed in November, 1640. For her last words, we are indebted +to Fuller, who adds: ‘This done, the little lamb gave up the ghost.’</p> +<p>The affection and care of the royal parents is well attested. +‘Their arrival,’ when visiting the nursery, ‘was the +signal of a general rejoicing.’</p> +<p>In the latter portion of this piece I have ventured, it will be seen, +on an ideal treatment. The main facts, and the words of the dear +child, are historical:—for the details I appeal to any mother +who has suffered similar loss whether they could have been much otherwise.</p> +<p><i>Not seeing</i>; See the <i>Captive Child</i>.</p> +<p><i>The frost</i>; It is noticed that death, the <i>Sarsar-wind</i> +of Southey’s <i>Thalaba</i>, often occurs at the turn between +night and day, when the atmosphere is wont to be at the coldest.</p> +<h3><!-- page 100--><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>AFTER +CHALGROVE FIGHT</h3> +<p>June 18: 1643</p> +<p> Flags crape-smother’d and arms reversed,<br /> + With one sad volley lay him to rest:<br /> + Lay him to rest where he may not see<br /> + This England he loved like a lover accursed<br /> + By lawlessness masking as liberty,<br /> + By the despot in Freedom’s panoply drest:—<br /> +Bury him, ere he be made duplicity’s tool and slave,<br /> +Where he cannot see the land that he could not save!<br /> + Bury him, bury him, bury him<br /> + With his face downward!</p> +<p> Chalgrove! +Name of patriot pain!<br /> + O’er thy fresh fields that summer +pass’d<br /> + The brand of war’s red furnace +blast,<br /> + Till heaven’s soft tears wash’d out the blackening +stain;—<br /> + Wash’d out and wept;—But could not so restore<br /> + England’s +gallant son:<br /> + Ere +the fray was done<br /> +The stately head bow’d down; shatter’d; his warfare o’er.</p> +<p> Bending to +the saddle-bow<br /> + With leaden arm that idle hangs,<br /> + Faint with the lancing torture-pangs,<br /> + He drops the rein; he lets the battle go:—<br /> + There, where the wife of his first love he woo’d<br /> + Turning +for retreat;—<br /> + Memories +bitter-sweet<br /> +Through death’s fast-rising mist in youth’s own light renew’d.</p> +<p> Then, as those +who drown, perchance,<br /> + And all their years, a waking dream,<br /> + Flash pictured by in lightning gleam,<br /> + His childhood home appears, the mother’s glance,<br /> + <!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>The +hearth-side smile; the fragrance of the fields:<br /> + —Now, +war’s iron knell<br /> + Wakes +the hounds of hell,<br /> +Whilst o’er the realm her scourge the rushing Fury wields!</p> +<p> Doth he now +the day lament<br /> + When those who stemm’d despotic +might<br /> + O’erstrode the bounds of law and +right,<br /> + And through the land the torch of ruin sent?<br /> + Or that great rival statesman as he stood<br /> + Lion-faced +and grim,<br /> + Hath +he sight of him,<br /> +Strafford—the meteor-axe—the fateful Hill of Blood?</p> +<p> —Heroes +both! by passion led,<br /> + In days perplex’d ’tween +new and old,<br /> + Each at his will the realm to mould;<br /> + This, basing sovereignty on the single head,<br /> + This, on the many voices of the Hall:—<br /> + Each +for his own creed<br /> + Prompt +to die at need:<br /> +His side of England’s shield each saw, and took for all.</p> +<p> Heroes both! +For Order one<br /> + And one for Freedom dying!—We<br /> + May judge more justly both, than ye<br /> + Could, each, his brother, ere the strife was done!<br /> + —O Goddess of that even scale and weight,<br /> + In +whose awful eyes<br /> + Truest +mercy lies,<br /> +This hero-dirge to thee I vow and dedicate!</p> +<p> —Slanting +now,—the foe is by,—<br /> + Through Hazeley mead the warrior goes,<br /> + And hardly fords the brook that flows<br /> + Bearing to Thame its cool, sweet, summer-cry.<br /> + Here take thy rest; here bind the broken heart!<br /> + <!-- page 102--><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>By +death’s mercy-doom<br /> + Hid +from ills to come,<br /> +Great soul, and greatly vex’d, Hampden!—in peace depart!</p> +<p>In the heart of the fields he loved and the hills,<br /> + Look your last, and lay him to rest,<br /> + With the faded flower, the wither’d grass;<br /> + Where the blood-face of war and the myriad ills<br /> + Of England dear like phantoms pass<br /> + And touch not the soul that is with the Blest.<br /> +Bury him in the night and peace of the holy grave,<br /> +Where he cannot see the land that he could not save!<br /> + Bury him, bury him, bury him<br /> + With his face downward!</p> +<p>John Hampden met his death at Chalgrove in an attempt to check the +raids which Prince Rupert was making from Oxford. Struck at the +onset in the shoulder by two carabine balls, he rode off before the +action was ended by Hazeley towards Thame, finding it impossible to +reach Pyrton, the home of his father-in-law. The body was carried +to his own house amid the woods and hills of the Chiltern country, and +buried in the church close by.</p> +<p><i>With his face downward</i>; This was the dying request of some +high-minded Spaniard of old, unwilling, even in the grave, as it were, +to look on the misfortunes of his country.</p> +<p><i>O’erstrode the bounds</i>; ‘After every allowance +has been made,’ says Hallam, speaking of the Long Parliament from +a date so early as August, 1641, ‘he must bring very heated passions +to the records of those times, who does not perceive in the conduct +of that body a series of glaring violations, not only of positive and +constitutional, but of those higher principles which are paramount to +all immediate policy’: (<i>Const. Hist</i>. ch. ix).</p> +<p><i>The axe</i>; A clear and impartial sketch of Stafford’s +trial will be found in Ranke (B. viii): who deals dispassionately and +historically with an event much obscured by declamation in popular narratives. +Even in Hallam’s hand the balance seems here to waver a little.</p> +<p><i>Heroes both</i>;—<i>Each his side</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> +B.</p> +<h3><!-- page 103--><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>A +CHURCHYARD IN OXFORDSHIRE</h3> +<p>September: 1643</p> +<p>Sweet air and fresh; glades yet unsear’d by hand<br /> +Of Midas-finger’d Autumn, massy-green;<br /> +Bird-haunted nooks between,<br /> +Where feathery ferns, a fairy palmglove, stand,<br /> +An English-Eastern band:—<br /> +While e’en the stealthy squirrel o’er the grass<br /> +Beside me to the beech-clump dares to pass:—<br /> +In this still precinct of the happy dead,<br /> +The sanctuary of silence,—Blessed they!<br /> +I cried, who ’neath the gray<br /> +Peace of God’s house, each in his mounded bed<br /> +Sleep safe, nor reck how the great world runs on;<br /> +Peasant with noble here alike unknown.</p> +<p>Unknown, unnamed beneath one turf they sleep,<br /> +Beneath one sky, one heaven-uplifted sign<br /> +Of love assured, divine:<br /> +While o’er each mound the quiet mosses creep,<br /> +The silent dew-pearls weep:<br /> +—Fit haven-home for thee, O gentlest heart<br /> +Of Falkland! all unmeet to find thy part<br /> +In those tempestuous times of canker’d hate<br /> +When Wisdom’s finest touch, and, by her side,<br /> +Forbearance generous-eyed<br /> +To fix the delicate balance of the State<br /> +Were needed;—King or Nation, which should hold<br /> +Supreme supremacy o’er the kingdoms old.</p> +<p>—God’s heroes, who? . . . Not most, or likeliest, he<br /> +Whom iron will cramps to one narrow road,<br /> +Driving him like a goad<br /> +Till all his heart decrees seem God’s decree;<br /> +<!-- page 104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>That +worst hypocrisy<br /> +When self cheats self, and conscience at the wheel<br /> +Herself is steer’d by passion’s blindfold zeal;<br /> +A nether-world archangel! Through whose eyes<br /> +Flame the red mandates of remorseless might;<br /> +A gloom of lurid light<br /> +That holds no commerce with the crystal skies;<br /> +Like those rank fires that o’er the fen-land flee,<br /> +Or on the mast-head sign the wrath to be.</p> +<p>As o’er that ancient weird Arlesian plain<br /> +Where Zeus hail’d boulder-stones on the giant crew,<br /> +And changed to stone, or slew,<br /> +No bud may burgeon in Spring’s gracious rain,<br /> +No blade of grass or grain:<br /> +—So bare, so scourged, a prey to chaos cast<br /> +The wisest despot leaves his realm at last!<br /> +Though for the land he toil’d with iron will,<br /> +Earnest to reach persuasion’s goal through power,<br /> +The fruit without the flower!<br /> +And pray’d and wrestled to charm good from ill;<br /> +Waking perchance, or not, in death,—to find<br /> +Man fights a losing fight who fights mankind!</p> +<p>And as who in the Theban avenue,<br /> +Sphinx ranged by Sphinx, goes awestruck, nor may read<br /> +That ancient awful creed<br /> +Closed in their granite calm:—so dim the clue,<br /> +So tangled, tracking through<br /> +That labyrinthine soul which, day by day<br /> +Changing, yet kept one long imperious way:<br /> +Strong in his weakness; confident, yet forlorn;<br /> +Waning and waxing; diamond-keen, or dull,<br /> +As that star Wonderful,<br /> +Mira, for ever, dying and reborn:—<br /> +Blissful or baleful, yet a Power throughout,<br /> +Throned in dim altitude o’er the common rout.</p> +<p><!-- page 105--><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>Alas, +great Chief! The pity of it!—For he<br /> +Lay on his unlamented bier; his life<br /> +Wreck’d on that futile strife<br /> +To wed things alien by heaven’s decree,<br /> +Sword-sway with liberty:—<br /> +Coercing, not protecting;—for the Cause<br /> +Smiting with iron heel on England’s laws:<br /> +—Intolerant tolerance! Soul that could not trust<br /> +Its finer instincts; self-compell’d to run<br /> +The blood-path once begun,<br /> +And murder mercy with a sad ‘I must!’<br /> +Great lion-heart by guile and coarseness marr’d;<br /> +By his own heat a hero warp’d and scarr’d.</p> +<p>Despot despite himself!—And when the cry<br /> +Moan’d up from England, dungeon’d in that drear<br /> +Sectarian atmosphere,<br /> +With glory he gilt her chains; in Spanish sky<br /> +Flaunting the Red Cross high;—<br /> +Wars, just or unjust, ill or well design’d,<br /> +Urged with the will that masters weak mankind.<br /> +—God’s hammer Thou!—not hero!—Forged to break<br /> +The land,—salve wounds with wounds, heal force by force;<br /> +Sword-surgeon keen and coarse:—<br /> +To all who worship power for power’s own sake,—<br /> +Strength for itself,—Success, the vulgar test,—<br /> +Fit idol of bent knee, and servile breast!</p> +<p>—O in the party plaudits of the crowd<br /> +Glorious, if this be glory!—o’er that shout<br /> +A small still voice breathes out<br /> +With subtle sweetness silencing the loud<br /> +Hoarse vaunting of the proud,—<br /> +A song of exaltation for the vale,<br /> +And how the mountain from his height shall fail!<br /> +How God’s true heroes, since this earth began,<br /> +<!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>Go +sackcloth-clad through scourge and sword and scorn,<br /> +Crown’d with the bleeding thorn,<br /> +Down-trampled by man’s heel as foes to man,<br /> +And whispering <i>Eli</i>, <i>Eli</i>! as they die,—<br /> +Martyrs of truth and Saint Humility.</p> +<p>These conquer in their fall: Persuasion flies<br /> +Wing’d, from their grave: The hearts of men are turn’d<br /> +To worship what they burn’d:<br /> +Owning the sway of Love’s long-suffering eyes,<br /> +Love’s sweet self-sacrifice;<br /> +The might of gentleness; the subduing force<br /> +Of wisdom on her mid-way measured course<br /> +Gliding;—not torrent-like with fury spilt,<br /> +Impetuous, o’er Himalah’s rifted side,<br /> +To ravage blind and wide,<br /> +And leave a lifeless wreck of parching silt;—<br /> +Gliding by thorpe and tower and grange and lea<br /> +In tranquil transit to the eternal sea.</p> +<p>—Children of Light!—If, in the slow-paced course<br /> +Of vital change, your work seem incomplete,<br /> +Your conquest-hour defeat,<br /> +Won by mild compromise, by the invisible force<br /> +That owns no earthly source;<br /> +Yet to all time your gifts to man endure,<br /> +God being with you, and the victory sure!<br /> +For though o’er Gods the Giants in the course<br /> +May lord it, Strength o’er Beauty; yet the Soul<br /> +Immortal, clasps the goal;<br /> +Fair Wisdom triumphs by her inborn force:<br /> +—Thus far on earth! . . . But, ah!—from mortal sight<br /> +The crowning glory veils itself in light!</p> +<p><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p>—Seal’d of that holy band,<br /> +Rest here, beneath the foot-fall hushing sod,<br /> +<!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>Wrapt +in the peace of God,<br /> +While summer burns above thee; while the land<br /> +Disrobes; till pitying snow<br /> +Cover her bareness; till fresh Spring-winds blow,<br /> +And the sun-circle rounds itself again:—<br /> +Whilst England cries in vain<br /> +For thy wise temperance, Lucius!—But thine ear<br /> +The violent-impotent fever-restless cry,<br /> +The faction-yells of triumph, will not hear:<br /> +—Only the thrush on high<br /> +And wood-dove’s moaning sweetness make reply.</p> +<p>Lucius Cary, second Viscount Falkland, may perhaps be defined as +at once the most poetically chivalrous and the most philosophically +moderate amongst all who took part in the pre-restoration struggles. +He was killed in the royal army at the first battle of Newbury, Sep. +20, 1643, aged but 33 years, and buried, without mark or memorial, in +the church of Great Tew (North Oxfordshire), the manor of which he owned.</p> +<p><i>English Eastern</i>; The common brake-fern and its allies seem +to betray tropical sympathies by their late appearance and sensitiveness +to autumnal frost.</p> +<p><i>That Arlesian plain</i>; Now named the <i>Crau</i>. It lies +between Aries and the sea—a bare and malarious tract of great +size covered with shingle and boulders. Aeschylus describes it +as a ‘snow-shower of round stones,’ which Zeus rained down +in aid of Heracles, who was contending with the Ligurians.</p> +<p><i>Mira</i>; A star in the <i>Whale</i>, conspicuous for its singular +and rapid changes of apparent size.</p> +<p><i>The Cause</i>; After passing through several phases this word, +in Cromwell’s mouth, with the common logic of tyranny, became +simply a synonym for personal rule.</p> +<p><i>Smiting with iron heel</i>; The terrorism of the Protector’s +government, and the almost universal hatred which it inspired, are powerfully +painted by Hallam. ‘To govern according to law may sometimes +be an usurper’s wish, but can seldom be in his power. The +protector abandoned all thought of it. . . . All illusion was now (1655) +gone, as to the pretended benefits of the civil war. It had ended +in a despotism, compared to which all the illegal practices of former +kings, all that had cost Charles his life and crown, appeared as dust +in the balance.’</p> +<p><!-- page 108--><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span><i>The +blood-path</i>; The trials under which Gerard and Vowel were executed +in 1654, Slingsby and Hewit in 1658, are the most flagrant instances +of Cromwell’s perversion of justice, and contempt for the old +liberties of England. But they do not stand alone.</p> +<p><i>Guile and coarseness</i>; ‘A certain coarse good nature +and affability that covered the want of conscience, honour, and humanity: +quick in passion, but not vindictive, and averse to unnecessary crimes,’ +is the deliberate summing-up of Hallam,—in the love of liberty +inferior to none of our historians, and eminent above all for courageous +impartiality,—<i>iustissimus unus</i>.</p> +<p><i>With glory he gilt</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> C.</p> +<p><i>Success, the vulgar test</i>; See Matthew Arnold’s finely +discriminative <i>Essay</i> on Falkland.</p> +<h3>MARSTON MOOR</h3> +<p>July 2: 1644</p> +<p>O, summer-high that day the sun<br /> +His chariot drove o’er Marston wold:<br /> +A rippling sea of amber wheat<br /> +That floods the moorland vale with gold.</p> +<p>With harvest light the valley laughs,<br /> +The sheaves in mellow sunshine sleep;<br /> +—Too rathe the crop, too red the swathes<br /> +Ere night the scythe of Death shall reap!</p> +<p>Then thick and fast o’er all the moor<br /> +The crimson’d sabre-lightnings fly;<br /> +And thick and fast the death-bolts dash,<br /> +And thunder-peals to peals reply.</p> +<p>Where Evening arched her fiery dome<br /> +Went up the roar of mortal foes:—<br /> +Then o’er a deathly peace the moon<br /> +In silver silence sailing rose.</p> +<p><!-- page 109--><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>Sweet +hour, when heaven is nearest home,<br /> +And children’s kisses close the day!<br /> +O disaccord with nature’s calm,<br /> +Unholy requiem of the fray!</p> +<p>White maiden Queen that sail’st above,<br /> +Thy dew-tears on the fallen fling,—<br /> +The blighted wreaths of civil strife,<br /> +The war that can no triumph bring!</p> +<p>—O pale with that deep pain of those<br /> +Who cannot save, yet must foresee,—<br /> +Surveying all the ills to flow<br /> +From that too-victor victory;</p> +<p>When ’gainst the unwisely guided King<br /> +The dark self-centred Captain stood,<br /> +And law and right and peace went down<br /> +In that red sea of brothers’ blood;—</p> +<p>O long, long, long the years, fair Maid,<br /> +Before thy patient eye shall view<br /> +The shrine of England’s law restored,<br /> +Her homes their native peace renew!</p> +<p><i>That day</i>; The actual fight lay between 7 and 9 p.m.</p> +<p><i>Too-victor victory</i>; At Naseby, says Hallam,—and the +remark, (though Charles was not personally present), is equally true +of Marston Moor—‘Fairfax and Cromwell triumphed, not only +over the king and the monarchy, but over the parliament and the nation.’</p> +<p><i>Unwisely guided</i>; ‘Never would it have been wiser, in +Rupert,’ remarks Ranke, ‘to avoid a decisive battle than +at that moment. But he held that the king’s letter not only +empowered, but instructed him to fight.’</p> +<p><i>Red sea</i>; ‘The slaughter was deadly, for Cromwell had +forbidden quarter being given’: (Ranke, ix: 3).</p> +<h3><!-- page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>THE +FUGITIVE KING</h3> +<p>August 7: 1645</p> +<p>Cold blue cloud on the hill-tops,<br /> +Cold buffets of hill-side rain:—<br /> +As a bird that they hunt on the mountains,<br /> +The king, he turns from Rhôs lane:<br /> +A writing of doom on his forehead,<br /> +His eyes wan-wistful and dim;<br /> +For his comrades seeking a shelter:<br /> +But earth has no shelter for him!</p> +<p>Gray silvery gleam of armour,<br /> +White ghost of a wandering king!<br /> +No sound but the iron-shod footfall<br /> +And the bridle-chains as they ring:<br /> +Save where the tears of heaven,<br /> +Shed thick o’er the loyal hills,<br /> +Rush down in the hoarse-tongued torrent,<br /> +A roar of approaching ills.</p> +<p>But now with a sweeping curtain,<br /> +In solid wall comes the rain,<br /> +And the troop draw bridle and hide them<br /> +In the bush by the stream-side plain.<br /> +King Charles smiled sadly and gently;<br /> +‘’Tis the Beggar’s Bush,’ said he;<br /> +‘For I of England am beggar’d,<br /> +And her poorest may pity me.’</p> +<p>—O safe in the fadeless fir-tree<br /> +The squirrel may nestle and hide;<br /> +And in God’s own dwelling the sparrow<br /> +Safe with her nestlings abide:—<br /> +But he goes homeless and friendless,<br /> +<!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>And +manlike abides his doom;<br /> +For he knows a king has no refuge<br /> +Betwixt the throne and the tomb.</p> +<p>And the purple-robed braes of Alban,<br /> +The glory of stream and of plain,<br /> +The Holyrood halls of his birthright<br /> +Charles ne’er will look on again:—<br /> +And the land he loved well, not wisely,<br /> +Will almost grudge him a grave:<br /> +Then weep, too late, in her folly,<br /> +The dark Dictator’s slave!</p> +<p>This incident occurred during the attempt made by Charles, in the +dark final days of his struggle, to march from South Wales with the +hope of joining Montrose in Scotland. He appears to have halted +for the night of Aug. 6, 1645, at Old Radnor and ‘the name of +<i>Rails Yat</i>, (Royal gate) still points out the spot where, on the +following morning, he left the Rhôs Lane for the road which brought +him to shelter at Beggar’s Bush’: a name which is reported +to be still preserved.</p> +<h3>THE CAPTIVE CHILD</h3> +<p>September 8: 1650</p> +<p>Child in girlhood’s early grace,<br /> +Pale white rose of royal race,<br /> +Flower of France, and England’s flower,<br /> +What dost here at twilight hour<br /> +Captive bird in castle-hold,<br /> +Picture-fair and calm and cold,<br /> +Cold and still as marble stone<br /> +In gray Carisbrook alone?<br /> +—Fold thy limbs and take thy rest,<br /> +Nestling of the silent nest!</p> +<p><!-- page 112--><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Ah +fair girl! So still and meek,<br /> +One wan hand beneath her cheek,<br /> +One on the holy texts that tell<br /> +Of God’s love ineffable;—<br /> +Last dear gift her father gave<br /> +When, before to-morrow’s grave,<br /> +By no unmanly grief unmann’d,<br /> +To his little orphan band<br /> +In that stress of anguish sore<br /> +He bade farewell evermore.</p> +<p>Doom’d, unhappy King! Had he<br /> +Known the pangs in store for thee,<br /> +Known the coarse fanatic rage<br /> +That,—despite her flower-soft age,<br /> +Maidenhood’s first blooming fair,—<br /> +Fever-struck in the imprison’d air<br /> +As rosebud on the dust-hill thrown<br /> +Cast a child to die alone,—<br /> +He had shed, with his last breath,<br /> +Bitterer tears than tears of death!</p> +<p>As in her infant hour she took<br /> +In her hand the pictured book<br /> +Where Christ beneath the scourger bow’d,<br /> +Crying ‘O poor man!’ aloud,<br /> +And in baby tender pain<br /> +Kiss’d the page, and kiss’d again,<br /> +While the happy father smiled<br /> +On his sweet warm-hearted child;<br /> +—So now to him, in Carisbrook lone,<br /> +All her tenderness has flown.</p> +<p>Oft with a child’s faithful heart<br /> +She has seen him act his part;<br /> +Nothing in his life so well<br /> +Gracing him as when he fell;<br /> +<!-- page 113--><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>Seen +him greet his bitter doom<br /> +As the mercy-message Home;<br /> +Seen the scaffold and the shame,<br /> +The red shower that fell like flame;<br /> +Till the whole heart within her died,<br /> +Dying in fancy by his side.</p> +<p>—Statue-still and statue-fair<br /> +Now the low wind may lift her hair,<br /> +Motionless in lip and limb;<br /> +E’en the fearful mouse may skim<br /> +O’er the window-sill, nor stir<br /> +From the crumb at sight of her;<br /> +Through the lattice unheard float<br /> +Summer blackbird’s evening note;—<br /> +E’en the sullen foe would bless<br /> +That pale utter gentleness.</p> +<p>—Eyes of heaven, that pass and peep,<br /> +Do not question, if she sleep!<br /> +She has no abiding here,<br /> +She is past the starry sphere;<br /> +Kneeling with the children sweet<br /> +At the palm-wreathed altar’s feet;<br /> +—Innocents who died like thee,<br /> +Heaven-ward through man’s cruelty,<br /> +To the love-smiles of their Lord<br /> +Borne through pain and fire and sword.</p> +<p>Elizabeth, second daughter of Charles I. and Henrietta Maria, was +born on Innocents’ Day, 1635. The incident accounted in +Stanza iv occurred in 1637. She had been taken on a visit to Hampton +Court to her mother, who wished her to be present at her own vesper-service, +when Elizabeth, not yet two years old, became very restless. To +quiet her a book of devotion was shown to her.’ The King, +when the Queen drew his attention, said, ‘She begins young!’</p> +<p>This tale is told by Mrs. Green, in her excellent <i>Princesses of +England</i>, (London, 1853),—a book deserving to be better known,—on +the authority of the Envoy Con.</p> +<p><!-- page 114--><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>The +first grief of a very happy and promising childhood may have been the +loss of her sister Anne in 1640. But by 1642, the evils of the +time began to press upon Princess Elizabeth; her mother’s departure +from England, followed by her own capture by order of the Parliament; +her confinement under conditions of varying severity; and the final +farewell to her father, Jan. 29, 1649.</p> +<p>From that time her life was overshadowed by the sadness of her father’s +death, her own isolation, and her increasing feebleness of health. +She seems to have been a singularly winning and intelligent girl, and +she hence found or inspired affection in several of the guardians successively +appointed to take charge of her. But if she had not been thus +marked by beauty of nature, our indignant disgust would hardly be less +at the brutal treatment inflicted by the Puritan-Independent authorities +upon this child:—at the refusal of her prayer to be sent to her +elder sister Mary, in Holland; at the captivity in Carisbrook; at the +isolation in which she was left to die.—Yet it is not she who +most merits pity!</p> +<p>In this poem, written before the plan of the book had been formed, +I find that some slight deviation from the best authorities has been +made. Elizabeth’s young brother Henry, Duke of Gloster, +shared her prison: and although her own physician, Mayerne, had been +dismissed, yet some medical attendance was supplied.—Henry Vaughan +has described the patience of the young sufferer in two lovely lines:</p> +<blockquote><p>Thou didst not murmur, nor revile,<br /> +And drank’st thy wormwood with a smile.</p> +<p>—<i>Olor Iscanus</i>; 1651.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>THE WRECK OF THE ADMIRAL</h3> +<p><i>A TALE OF PRINCE RUPERT</i></p> +<p>September 30: 1651</p> +<p>Seventy league from Terceira they lay<br /> + In the mid Atlantic straining;<br /> +And inch upon inch as she settles they know<br /> + The leak on the Admiral gaining.</p> +<p>Below them ’tis death rushes greedily in;<br /> + But their signal unheeded is waving,<br /> +<!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>For +the shouts by their billow-toss’d consort unheard<br /> + Are lost in the tempest’s wild raving.</p> +<p>For Maurice in vain o’er the bulwark leant forth,<br /> + While Rupert to rescue was crying;<br /> +And the voice of farewell on his face is flung back<br /> + With the scud on the billow-top flying!</p> +<p>But no time was for tears, save for duty no thought,<br /> + When brother is parting from brother;<br /> +For Rupert the brave and his high-hearted crew,<br /> + They must die, as they lived, by each other.</p> +<p>Unregarded the boat, for none care from their post<br /> + To steal off while the Prince is beside them,<br /> +All, all, side by side with his comrades to share<br /> + Till the death-plunge at last shall divide them.</p> +<p>Ah, sharp in his bosom meanwhile is the smart,<br /> + He alone for his king is contending!<br /> +And the brightness and blaze of his youth in its prime<br /> + Must here in mid-waves have their ending!</p> +<p>—The seas they break over, the seas they press in<br /> + From fo’csle to binnacle streaming;<br /> +And a ripple runs over the Admiral’s deck,<br /> + With blue cold witch-fire gleaming.</p> +<p>O then in a noble rebellion they rise;<br /> + They may die, but the Prince shall o’erlive them!<br /> +With a loving rough force to the boat he is thrust,<br /> + And he must be saved and forgive them!</p> +<p>Now their flame-pikes they lift, the last signal for life,<br /> + Flaring wild in the wild rack above them:—<br /> +And each breast has one prayer for the Mercy on high,<br /> + And one for the far-off who love them.</p> +<p><!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>O +high-beating hearts that are still’d in the deep<br /> + Unknown treasure-caverns of Ocean!<br /> +There, where storms cannot vex, the three hundred are laid<br /> + In their silent heroic devotion.</p> +<p>Rupert, nephew to Charles through his sister Elizabeth, wife to the +Elector Palatine, after the ruin of his uncle’s cause, carried +on the struggle at sea. The incident here treated occurred on +one of his last voyages, when cruising in the Atlantic near the Canaries: +it is told at full length in E. Warburton’s narrative of Rupert’s +life.</p> +<p><i>Brother is parting from brother</i>; Maurice, a year younger than +himself,—then in the companion ship <i>Swallow</i>, in which Rupert, +by the devoted determination of his comrades, was ultimately saved. +Maurice was not long after drowned in the West Indies.</p> +<p><i>Flame-pikes</i>; Two ‘fire-pikes,’ it is stated, were +burned as a signal just before the flag-ship sank. Three hundred +and thirty-three was the estimate of the number drowned.</p> +<h3>THE RETURN OF LAW</h3> +<p>1660</p> +<p>At last the long darkness of anarchy lifts, and the dawn o’er +the gray<br /> +In rosy pulsation floods; the tremulous amber of day:<br /> +In the golden umbrage of spring-tide, the dewy delight of the sward,<br /> +The liquid voices awake, the new morn with music reward.<br /> +Peace in her car goes up; a rainbow curves for her road;<br /> +Law and fair Order before her, the reinless coursers of God;—<br /> +Round her the gracious maids in circling majesty shine;<br /> +They are rich in blossoms and blessings, the Hours, the white, the divine!</p> +<p><!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>Hands +in sisterly hands they unite, eye calling on eye;<br /> +Smiles more speaking than words, as the pageant sweeps o’er the +sky.<br /> +Plenty is with them, and Commerce; all gifts of all lands from her horn<br /> +Raining on England profuse; and, clad in the beams of the morn,<br /> +Her warrior-guardian of old the red standard rears in its might;<br /> +And the Love-star trembles above, and passes, light into light.</p> +<p>Many the marvels of earth, the more marvellous wonders on high,<br /> +Worlds past number on worlds, blank lightless abysses of sky;<br /> +But thou art the wonder of wonders, O Man! Thy impalpable soul,<br /> +Atom of consciousness, measuring the Infinite, grasping the whole:<br /> +Then, on the trivialest transiencies fix’d, or plucking for fruit<br /> +Dead-sea apples and ashes of sin, more brute than the brute.<br /> +Yet in thy deepest depths, filth-wallowing orgies of night,<br /> +Lust remorseless of blood, yet, allow’d an inlet for light:<br /> +As where, a thousand fathom beneath us, midnight afar<br /> +Glooms in some gulph, and we gaze, and, behold! one flash of one star!<br /> +For, ever, the golden gates stand open, the transit is free<br /> +For the human to mix with divine; from himself to the Highest to flee.<br /> +Lo on its knees by the bedside the babe:—and the song that we +hear<br /> +Has been heard already in Heaven! the low-lisp’d music is clear:—<br /> +For, fresh from the hand of the Maker, the child still breathes the +light air<br /> +<!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Of +the House Angelic, the meadow where souls yet unbodied repair,<br /> +Lucid with love, translucent with bliss, and know not the doom<br /> +In the Marah valley of life laid up for the sons of the womb.<br /> +—I speak not of grovelling hearts, souls blind and begrimed from +the birth,<br /> +But the spirits of nobler strain, the elect of the children of earth:—<br /> +For the needle swerves from the pole; they cannot do what they would;<br /> +In their truest aim is falsehood, and ill out-balancing good.<br /> +Faith’s first felicities fade; the world-mists thicken and roll,<br /> +’Neath the heavens arching their heaven; o’er-hazing the +eye of the soul.<br /> +Then the vision is pure no longer; refracted above us arise<br /> +The phantasmal figures of passion; earth’s mirage exhaled to the +skies.<br /> +And they go as the castled clouds o’er the verge when the tempest +is laid,<br /> +Towering Ambition, and Glory, and Self as Duty array’d:—<br /> +Idols no less than that idol whom lustful Ammon of yore<br /> +With the death-scream of children, a furnace of blood, was fain to adore!<br /> +So these, in the shrine of the soul, for a Moloch sacrifice cry,<br /> +The conscience of candid childhood, the pure directness of eye:—<br /> +Till the man yields himself to himself, accepting his will as his fate,<br /> +And the light from above within him is darkness; the darkness how great!</p> +<p> O Land whom the Gods,—loving most,—most +sorely in wisdom have tried,<br /> +England! since Time was Time, thrice swept by the conqueror tide,<br /> +<!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Why +on thyself thrice turn, thrice crimson thy greenness in gore,<br /> +With the slain of thy children, as sheep, thy meadows whitening-o’er?<br /> +Race impatiently patient; tenacious of foe as of friend;<br /> +Slow to take flame; but, enflamed, that burns thyself out to the end:<br /> +Slow to return to the balance, once moved; not easily sway’d<br /> +From the centre, and, star-like, retracing thy orbit through sunlight +and shade!<br /> +—Without hate, without party affection, we now look back on the +fray,<br /> +Through the mellowing magic of time the phantoms emerging to day!<br /> +Grasping too much for self, unjust to his rival in strife,<br /> +Each foe with good conscience and honour advances; war to the knife!<br /> +Lo, where with feebler hand the Stuart essays him to guide<br /> +The disdainful coursers of Henry, the Tudor car in its pride!<br /> +For he saw not the past was past; nor the swirl and inrush of the tide,<br /> +A nation arising in manhood; its will would no more be denied.<br /> +They would share in the labour and peril of State; they must perish +or win;<br /> +’Tis the instinct of Freedom that cries; a voice of Nature within!<br /> +Narrow the cry and sectarian oft: true sons of their age;<br /> +Justice avenged unjustly; yet more in sorrow than rage;<br /> +Till they drank the poison of power, the Circé-cup of command,<br /> +And the face of Liberty fail’d, and the sword was snatch’d +from her hand.<br /> +Now Law ’neath the scaffold cowers, and,—shame engendering +shame,—<br /> +<!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>The +hell-pack of war is laid close on the land for ruin and flame.<br /> +For as things most holy are worst, from holiness when they decline,<br /> +So Law, in the name of law once outraged, demon-divine,<br /> +Swoops back as Anarchy arm’d, and maddens her lovers of yore,<br /> +Changed from their former selves, and clothed in the chrisom of gore.<br /> +Then Falkland and Hampden are gone; and darker counsels arise;<br /> +Vane with his tortuous soul, through over-wisdom unwise;<br /> +Pym, deep stately designer, the subtle in simple disguised,<br /> +Artist in plots, projector of panics he used, and despised!<br /> +—But as, in the mountain world, where the giants each lift up +their horn<br /> +To the skies defiant and pale, and our littleness measure and scorn,<br /> +Frowning-out from their far-off summits: and eye and mind may not know<br /> +Which is hugest, where all are huge: But, as from the region we go<br /> +Receding, the Titan of Titans comes forth, and above him the sky<br /> +Is deepest: and lo!—’tis the White One, the Monarch!—He +mounts, as we fly!<br /> +Or as over the sea the gay ships and the dolphins glisten and flit,<br /> +And then that Leviathan comes, and takes his pastime in it;<br /> +And wherever he ploughs his dark road, they must sink or follow him +still,<br /> +For his is the bulkiest strength, the proud and paramount will!<br /> +—Thou wast great, O King! (for we grudge not the style thou didst +yearn-for in vain,<br /> +But a river of blood was between and an ineffaceable stain),<br /> +<!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>Great +with an earth-born greatness; a Titan of awe, not of love;<br /> +’Twas strength and subtlety balanced; the wisdom not from above.<br /> +For he leant o’er his own deep soul, oracular; over the pit<br /> +As the Pythia throned her of old, where the rock in Delphi was split;<br /> +And the vapour and echo within he mis-held for divine; and the land<br /> +Heard and obey’d, unwillingly willing, the voice of command.<br /> +—Soaring enormous soul, that to height o’er the highest +aspires;<br /> +All that the man can seize being nought to what he desires!<br /> +And as, in a palace nurtured, the child to courtesy grows,<br /> +Becoming at last what it acts; so man on himself can impose,<br /> +Drill and accustom himself to humility, till, like an art,<br /> +The lesson the fingers have learn’d appears the command of the +heart;<br /> +Whilst pride, as the snake at the charmer’s command, coils low +in its place,<br /> +And he wears to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face.<br /> +Truest of hypocrites, he!—in himself entangled, he thinks<br /> +Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks:<br /> +Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg’d and +deceived;<br /> +Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper’d as duty believed.<br /> +And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer,<br /> +Yet the sky by a veil was darken’d, a phantom flitting in air;<br /> +For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth,<br /> +<!-- page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>And +whatever he will’d in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:—<br /> +Grew with his growth: And now ’tis Ambition, disguised in success;<br /> +And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess,<br /> +Clear in immediate purpose: and moulding his party at will,<br /> +He thrones it o’er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain’d +to fulfil.<br /> +Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm:<br /> +God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm!<br /> +As he needs, steers crooked or straight: with his eye controlling the +proud,<br /> +While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the +crowd;<br /> +Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound,<br /> +Greatness untemper’d, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:—<br /> +Yet the key-note is ever beneath: ‘Mere humble instruments! +See!<br /> +Poor weak saints, at the best: but who has triumph’d as we?’<br /> +Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause:<br /> +Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God: but within are the claws,<br /> +The lion-strength is within!—Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew,<br /> +When the bauble of Law disappear’d, and the sulky senate withdrew:<br /> +When the tyrannous Ten sword-silenced the land, and the necks of the +strong<br /> +By the heel of their great Dictator were bruised, wrong trampling on +wrong.<br /> +<!-- page 123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>Least +willing of despots! and fain the fair temple of Law to restore,<br /> +Sheathing the sword in the sceptre: But lo! as in legends of yore,<br /> +Once drawn, once redden’d, it may not return to the scabbard!—and +straight<br /> +On that iron-track’d path he had framed to the end he is goaded +by Fate.<br /> +And yet, as a temperate man, to flavour some exquisite dish,<br /> +Without stint pours forth the red wine, thus only can compass his wish;<br /> +Upon Erin the death-mark he brands, the Party and Cause to secure;<br /> +Not bloodthirsty by birth; just, liquor ’twas needful to pour;<br /> +Only the wine of man’s blood! . . . But the horrible sacrament +thrill’d<br /> +Right through the heart of a nation; nor yet is the memory still’d;<br /> +E’en yet the dim spectre returns, the ghost of the murderous years,<br /> +Blood flushing out in hatred; or blood transmuted to tears!<br /> +—Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries rise<br /> +On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!<br /> +For as when the Switzer looks down on the dell, from the pass and the +snow,<br /> +Sees the peace of the fields, the white farms, the clear equable streamlet +below,<br /> +And before him the world unknown, the blaze of the shadowless Line,<br /> +Riches ill-purchased in exile, the toiling plantation and mine;<br /> +And the horn floats up the faint music of youth from his forefathers’ +fold,<br /> +And he sighs for the patient life, the peace more golden than gold:—<br /> +<!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>So +He now looks back on the years, and groans ’neath the load he +must bear,<br /> +Loving this England that loathed him, and none the burden to share!<br /> +Gagging not gaining souls: to the close he wonders in vain<br /> +Why he cannot win hearts: why ’tis only the will that resigns +to his reign.<br /> +As that great image in Dura, the land perforce must obey,<br /> +Unloved, unlovely,—and not the feet only of iron and clay,—<br /> +Atlas of this wide realm! in himself he summ’d up the whole;<br /> +Its children the Cause had devour’d: the sword was childless and +sole.</p> +<p> —Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries +rise<br /> +On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!<br /> +In the strait beneath Etna for as the waves ebb, and Scylla betrays<br /> +The monster below, foul scales of the serpent and slime,—could +we gaze<br /> +On Tyranny stript of her tinsel, what vision of dool and dismay!<br /> +Terror in confidence clothed, and anarchy biding her day:<br /> +Selfishness hero-mask’d; stage-tricks of the shabby-sublime;<br /> +Impotent gaspings at good; and the deluge after her time!</p> +<p> —Is it war that thunders o’er England, +and bursts the millennial oak<br /> +From his base like a castle uprooted, and shears with impalpable stroke<br /> +The sails from the ocean, the houses of men, while the Conqueror lay<br /> +On the morn of his crowning mercy, and life flicker’d down with +the day?<br /> +Is it war on the earth, or war in the skies, or Nature who tolls<br /> +<!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Her +passing-bell as from earth they go up, her imperial souls?<br /> +—He rests:—’Tis a lion-sleep: and the sternness of +Truth is reproved:<br /> +The sleep of a leader of men; unhuman, to watch him unmoved!<br /> +In the stillness of pity and awe we remember his troublesome years,<br /> +For man is the magnet to man, and mortal failure has tears.<br /> +—He rests:—On the massive brows, as a rock by the sunrise +is crown’d,<br /> +His passionate love for the land, in a glory-coronal bound!<br /> +And Mercy dawns fast o’er the dead, from the bier as we turn and +depart,<br /> +England for England’s sake clasp’d firm as a child to his +heart.<br /> +—He rests:—And the storm-clouds have fled, and the sunshine +of Nature repress’d<br /> +Breaks o’er the realm in smiles, and the land again has her rest.<br /> +He rests: the great spirit is hid where from heaven the veil is unroll’d,<br /> +And justice merges in love, and the dross is purged from the gold.</p> +<p>The general point of view from which this subject is here approached +is given in the following passages:—‘The whole nation,’ +says Macaulay (1659), ‘was sick of government by the sword, and +pined for government by the law.’ Hence, when Charles landed, +‘the cliffs of Dover were covered by thousands of gazers, among +whom scarcely one could be found who was not weeping with delight . +. . Every where flags were flying, bells and music sounding, wine and +ale flowing in rivers to the health of him whose return was the return +of peace, of law, and of freedom.’ Nor was this astonishing: +the name of the Commonwealth, a greater than Macaulay remarks, ‘was +grown infinitely odious: it was associated with the tyranny of ten years, +the selfish rapacity of the Rump, the hypocritical despotism of Cromwell, +the arbitrary sequestrations of committee-men, the iniquitous decimations +of <!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>military +prefects, the sale of British citizens for slavery in the West Indies, +the blood of some shed on the scaffold without legal trial, . . . the +persecution of the Anglican Church, the bacchanalian rant of sectaries, +the morose preciseness of puritans . . . It is universally acknowledged +that no measure was ever more national, or has ever produced more testimonies +of public approbation, than the restoration of Charles II. . . . For +the late government, whether under the parliament or the protector, +had never obtained the sanction of popular consent, nor could have subsisted +for a day without the support of the army. The King’s return +seemed to the people the harbinger of a real liberty, instead of that +bastard Commonwealth which had insulted them with its name’ (Hallam: +<i>Const. Hist</i>. ch. x and xi).</p> +<p><i>Peace in her car</i>; It will be seen that the Rospigliosi <i>Aurora</i>, +Guido’s one inspired work, has been here before the writer’s +memory.</p> +<p><i>On thyself thrice turn</i>; The civil wars of the Barons, the +Roses, and the Commonwealth.</p> +<p><i>He saw not</i>; Ranke’s dispassionate summary of the attempted +‘arrest of five members,’ which has been always held one +of the King’s most arbitrary steps, as it was, perhaps, the most +fatal, illustrates the view here taken: ‘The prerogative of the +Crown, <i>in the sense of the early kings</i>’ (unconditional +right of arrest, in cases of treason), ‘and the privilege of Parliament, +<i>in the sense of coming times</i>, were directly contradictory to +each other’: (viii: 10).</p> +<p><i>Till they drank the poison</i>; A sentence weighty with his judicial +force may be here quoted from Hallam:—‘The desire of obtaining +or retaining power, if it be ever sought as a means, is soon converted +into an end.’ The career of the Long Parliament supports +this judgment: of it ‘it may be said, I think, with not greater +severity than truth, that scarce two or three public acts of justice, +humanity, or generosity, and very few of political wisdom and courage, +are recorded of them from their quarrel with the King to their expulsion +by Cromwell’: (<i>Const. Hist</i>. ch. x: Part i).</p> +<p><i>The chrisom</i>; Name for the white cloth in which babes were +veiled immediately after Baptism.</p> +<p><i>Artist in plots</i>; See Ranke (viii: 5) for Pym’s skilful +use of a supposed plot, (the main element in which was known by himself +to be untrue), in older to terrify the House and ensure the destruction +of Stafford; and Hallam (ch. ix).—Admiration of Pym may be taken +as a proof that a historian is ignorant of, or faithless to, the fundamental +principles of the Constitution:—as the worship of Cromwell is +decisive against any man’s love of liberty, whatever his professions.</p> +<p><i>O King</i>; ‘Cromwell, like so many other usurpers, felt +his position <!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>too +precarious, or his vanity ungratified, without the name which mankind +have agreed to worship.’ The conversations recorded by Whitelock +are conclusive on this point: ‘and, though compelled to decline +the crown, he undoubtedly did not lose sight of the object for the short +remainder of his life’ (<i>Hallam</i>).</p> +<p><i>The sky by a veil</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> D.</p> +<p><i>And he walks</i>; ‘He said on one occasion, <i>He goes furthest +who knows not whither he is going</i>’: (Ranke: xii: 1).</p> +<p><i>Purrs about God</i>; Examples, (the tone of which justifies this +phrase, and might deserve a severer), may be found by the curious in +the frailties of poor human nature, <i>passim</i>, in Cromwell’s +‘Letters and Speeches,’ for which, (although not always +edited with precise accuracy), we are indebted to Mr. T. Carlyle. +But the view which he takes of his ‘hero,’ whether in regard +of many particular facts alleged or neglected, or of the general estimate +of Cromwell as a man,—as it appears to the author plainly untenable +in face of proved historical facts, is here rejected.</p> +<p>The familiar figure of the Tyrant, too long known to the world,—with +the iron, the clay, and the little gold often interfused also in the +statue,—has been always easily recognisable by unbiassed eyes +in Oliver Cromwell. His tyranny was substantially that of his +kind, before his time and since, in its actions, its spirit, its result. +Fanaticism and Paradox may come with their apparatus of rhetoric to +blur, as they whitewash, the lineaments of their idol. Such eulogists +may ‘paint an inch thick’: yet despots,—political, +military, ecclesiastical,—will never be permanently acknowledged +by the common sense of mankind as worthy the great name of Hero.</p> +<p><i>The tyrannous Ten</i>; The Major-Generals, originally ten, (but +the number varied), amongst whom, in 1655, the Commonwealth was divided. +They displayed ‘a rapacity and oppression beyond their master’s’ +(Hallam): a phrase amply supported by the hardly-impeachable evidence +of Ludlow.</p> +<p><i>The horrible sacrament</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> D.</p> +<p><i>Why he cannot win hearts</i>; ‘In the ascent of this bold +usurper to greatness . . . he had encouraged the levellers and persecuted +them; he had flattered the Long Parliament and betrayed it; he had made +use of the sectaries to crush the Commonwealth; he had spurned the sectaries +in his last advance to power. These, with the Royalists and Presbyterians, +forming in effect the whole people . . . were the perpetual, irreconcilable +enemies of his administration’ (Hallam ch. x).</p> +<p><i>Stage-tricks</i>; See the curious regal imitations and adaptations +of the <!-- page 128--><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>Protector +during his later years, in matters regarding his own and his family’s +titles and state, or the marriage of his daughters.</p> +<p><i>Mortal failure</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> D.</p> +<h3>THE POET’S EUTHANASIA</h3> +<p>November: 1674</p> +<p>Cloked in gray threadbare poverty, and blind,<br /> +Age-weak, and desolate, and beloved of God;<br /> +High-heartedness to long repulse resign’d,<br /> +Yet bating not one jot of hope, he trod<br /> +The sunless skyless streets he could not see;<br /> +By those faint feet made sacrosanct to me.</p> +<p>Yet on that laureate brow the sign he wore<br /> +Of Phoebus’ wrath; who,—for his favourite child,<br /> +When war and faction raised their rancorous roar,<br /> +Leagued with fanatic frenzy, blood-defiled,<br /> +To the sweet Muses and himself untrue,—<br /> +Around the head he loved thick darkness threw.</p> +<p>—He goes:—But with him glides the Pleiad throng<br /> +Of that imperial line, whom Phoebus owns<br /> +His ownest: for, since his, no later song<br /> +Has soar’d, as wide-wing’d, to the diadem’d thrones<br /> +That, in their inmost heaven, the Muses high<br /> +Set for the sons of immortality.</p> +<p>Most loved, most lovely, near him as he went,<br /> +Vergil: and He, supremest for all time,<br /> +In hoary blindness:—But the sweet lament<br /> +Of Lesbian love, the Parian song sublime,<br /> +Follow’d:—and that stern Florentine apart<br /> +Cowl’d himself dark in thought, within his heart</p> +<p><!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>Nursing +the dream of Church and Caesar’s State,<br /> +Empire and Faith:—while Fancy’s favourite child,<br /> +The myriad-minded, moving up sedate<br /> +Beckon’d his countryman, and inly smiled:—<br /> +Then that august Theophany paled from view,<br /> +To higher stars drawn up, and kingdoms new.</p> +<p>The last ten years of Milton’s life were passed at his house +situate in the (then) ‘Artillery Walk,’ Bunhill, near Aldersgate. +He is described as a spare figure, of middle stature or a little less, +who walked, generally clothed in a gray camblet overcoat, in the streets +between Bunhill and Little Britain.</p> +<p><i>Vergil</i>; placed first as most like Milton in consummate art +and permanent exquisiteness of phrase. It is to him, also, (if +to any one), that Milton is metrically indebted.—The other poets +classed as ‘Imperial’ are Homer, Sappho, Archilochus, Dante, +Shakespeare. The supremacy in rank which the writer has here ventured +to limit to these seven poets, (though with a strong feeling of diffidence +in view of certain other Hellenic and Roman claims), is assigned to +Sappho and Archilochus, less on account of the scanty fragments, though +they be ‘more golden than gold,’ which have reached us, +than in confidence that the place collateral with Homer, given them +by their countrymen (who criticized as admirably as they created), was, +in fact, justified by their poetry.</p> +<p><i>The dream</i>; Dante’s political wishes and speculations, +wholly opposed to Milton’s, are, however, like his in their impracticable +originality.</p> +<p><i>Theophany</i>; Vision of the Gods.</p> +<h3><!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>WHITEHALL +GALLERY</h3> +<p>February 11: 1655</p> +<p> As when the King of old<br /> + ’Mid Babylonian gold,<br /> +And picture-woven walls, and lamps that gleam’d<br /> + Unholy radiance, sate,<br /> + And with some smooth slave-mate<br /> +Toy’d, and the wine laugh’d round, and music stream’d<br /> +Voluptuous undulation, o’er the hall,—<br /> + Till on the palace-wall</p> +<p> Forth came a hand divine<br /> + And wrote the judgment-sign,<br /> +And Babylon fell!—So now, in that his place<br /> + Of Tudor-Stuart pride,<br /> + The golden gallery wide,<br /> +’Mid venal beauty’s lavish-arm’d embrace,<br /> +And hills of gambler-gold, a godless King<br /> + Moved through the revelling</p> +<p> With quick brown falcon-eye<br /> + And lips of gay reply;<br /> +Wise in the wisdom not from Heaven!—as one<br /> + Who from his exile-days<br /> + Had learn’d to scorn the praise<br /> +Of truth, the crown by martyr-virtue won:<br /> +Below ambition:—Grant him regal ease!<br /> + The rest, as fate may please!</p> +<p> —O royal heir, restored<br /> + Not by the bitter sword,<br /> +But when the heart of these great realms in free,<br /> + Full, triple, unison beat<br /> + The Martyr’s son to greet,<br /> +<!-- page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Her +ancient law and faith and flag with thee<br /> +Rethroned,—not thus!—in this inglorious hall<br /> + Of harem-festival,</p> +<p> Not thus!—For even now,<br /> + The blaze is on thy brow<br /> +Scored by the shadowy hand of him whose wing<br /> + Knows neither haste nor rest;<br /> + Who from the board each guest<br /> +In season calling,—knight and kerne and king,—<br /> +Where Arthur lies, and Alfred, signs the way;—<br /> + —We know him, and obey.</p> +<p>Lord Macaulay’s lively description of this scene (<i>Hist</i>. +Ch iv) should be referred to. ‘Even then,’ he says, +‘the King had complained that he did not feel well.’</p> +<p><i>Tudor-Stuart</i>; This famous Gallery was of sixteenth-century +date.</p> +<p><i>When the heart</i>; The weariness of England under the triple +yoke of Puritanism, the Independents, and the Protector, has been already +noticed: (Note on p. 125).</p> +<p>‘The Restoration,’ says Professor Seeley, in an able +essay on current perversions of seventeenth-century-history, ‘was +not a return to servitude, but the precise contrary. It was a +great emancipation, an exodus out of servitude into liberty . . . As +to the later Stuarts, I regard them as pupils of Cromwell: . . . it +was their great ambition to appropriate his methods,’ (and, we +may add, to follow his foreign policy in regard to France and Holland), +for the benefit of the old monarchy. They failed where their model +had succeeded, and the distinction of having enslaved England remained +peculiar to Cromwell.’</p> +<h3><!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>THE +BALLAD OF KING MONMOUTH</h3> +<p>1685</p> +<p><i>Fear not</i>, <i>my child, though the days be dark</i>,<br /> + <i>Never fear</i>, <i>he will come again</i>,<br /> +<i>With the long brown hair</i>, <i>and the banner blue</i>,<br /> + <i>King Monmouth and all his men</i>!</p> +<p> The summer-smiling bay<br /> + Has doff’d its vernal gray;<br /> + A peacock breast of emerald shot with blue:<br /> + Is it peace or war that lands<br /> + On these pale quiet sands,<br /> +As round the pier the boats run-in their silent crew?</p> +<p> Bent knee, and forehead bare;<br /> + That moment was for prayer!<br /> + Then swords flash out, and—Monmouth!—is the +cry:<br /> + The crumbling cliff o’erpast,<br /> + The hazard-die is cast,<br /> +’Tis James ’gainst James in arms! Soho! and Liberty!</p> +<p>—<i>Fear not, my child, though he come with few</i>;<br /> + <i>Alone will he come again</i>;<br /> +<i>God with him, and his right hand more strong</i><br /> + <i>Than a thousand thousand men</i>!</p> +<p> They file by Colway now;<br /> + They rise o’er Uplyme brow;<br /> + And faithful Taunton hails her hero-knight:<br /> + And girlhood’s agile hand<br /> + Weaves for the patriot band<br /> +The crown-emblazon’d flag, their gathering star of fight.</p> +<p> —Ah flag of shame and woe!<br /> + For not by these who go,<br /> + Scythe-men and club-men, foot and hunger-worn,<br /> + <!-- page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>These +levies raw and rude,<br /> + Can England be subdued,<br /> +Or that ancestral throne from its foundations torn!</p> +<p> Yet by the dour deep trench<br /> + Their mettle did not blench,<br /> + When mist and midnight closed o’er sad Sedgemoor;<br /> + Though on those hearts of oak<br /> + The tall cuirassiers broke,<br /> +And Afric’s tiger-bands sprang forth with sullen roar:</p> +<p> Though the loud cannon plane<br /> + Death’s lightning-riven lane,<br /> + Levelling that unskill’d valour, rude, unled:<br /> + —Yet happier in their fate<br /> + Than whom the war-fiends wait<br /> +To rend them limb from limb, the gibbet-withering dead!</p> +<p>—<i>Yet weep not, my child, though the dead be dead</i>,<br /> + <i>And the wounded rise not again</i>!<br /> +<i>For they are with God who for England fought</i>,<br /> + <i>And they bore them as Englishmen</i>.</p> +<p> Stout hearts, and sorely tried!<br /> + —But he, for whom they died,<br /> + Skulk’d like the wolf in Cranborne, torn and gaunt:—<br /> + Till, dragg’d and bound, he knelt<br /> + To one no prayers could melt,<br /> +Nor bond of blood, nor fear of fate, from vengeance daunt.</p> +<p> —O hill of death and gore,<br /> + Fast by the tower’d shore,<br /> + What wealth of precious blood is thine, what tears!<br /> + What calmly fronted scorn;<br /> + What pangs, not vainly borne!<br /> +For heart beats hot with heart, and human grief endears!</p> +<p><!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>—<i>Then +weep not, my child, though the days be dark</i>;<br /> + <i>Fear not; He will come again</i>,<br /> +<i>With Arthur and Harold and good Saint George</i>,<br /> + <i>King Monmouth and all his men</i>!</p> +<p>Monmouth’s invasion forms one of the most brilliant,—perhaps +the most brilliant,—of Lord Macaulay’s narratives. +But many curious details are added in the <i>History</i> by Mr. G Roberts +(1844).</p> +<p>The belief, which this poem represents, that ‘King Monmouth,’ +as he was called in the West, would return, lasted long. He landed +in Lyme Bay, June 11, 1685, between the Cobb (Harbour-pier) and the +beginning of the Ware cliffs: marching north, after a few days, by the +road which left the ruins of Colway House on the right and led over +Uplyme to Axminster.</p> +<p><i>Soho</i>; the watch-word on Monmouth’s side at Sedgemoor; +his London house was in the Fields, (now Square), bearing that name.</p> +<p><i>Faithful Taunton</i>; here the Puritan spirit was strong; and +here Monmouth was persuaded to take the title of king (June 20), symbolized +by the flag which the young girls of Taunton presented to him. +It bore a crown with the cypher J B.—Monmouth’s own name +being James.</p> +<p><i>Dour deep trench</i>; Sedgemoor lies in a marshy district near +Bridgewater, much intersected by trenches or ‘Rhines.’ +One, the Busses Rhine, lay between the two armies as they fought, July +6. Monmouth was caught hiding in Cranborne Chase, July 8; executed, +after a vain attempt to move the heart of his uncle the king, July 15, +on Tower Hill.</p> +<p><i>Afric’s tiger-bands</i>; Kirke savage troops from Tangier.</p> +<h3><!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>WILLELMUS +VAN NASSAU</h3> +<p>Yes<span class="smcap">!</span> we confess it! ’mong the sons +of Fate,<br /> + Earth’s great ones, thou art great!<br /> +As that tall peak which from her silver cone<br /> + Of maiden snow unstain’d<br /> +All but the bravest scares, and reigns alone</p> +<p>In glacier isolation: Thus wert thou,<br /> + With that pale steadfast brow,<br /> +Gaunt aquiline: Thy whole life one labouring breath,<br /> + Yet the strong soul untamed;<br /> +France bridled, England saved, thy task ere death!</p> +<p>—O day of triumph, when thy bloodless host<br /> + From Devon’s russet coast<br /> +Through the fair capital of the garden-West,<br /> + And that, whose gracious spire<br /> +Like childhood’s prayer springs heaven-ward unrepress’d,</p> +<p>To Thames march’d legion-like, and at their tread<br /> + The sullen despot fled,<br /> +And Law and Freedom fair,—so late restored,<br /> + And to so-perilous life,<br /> +While Stuart craft replaced the Usurper’s sword,—</p> +<p>Broke forth, as sunshine from the breaking sky,<br /> + When vernal storm-wings fly!<br /> +That day was thine, great Chief, from sea to sea:<br /> + The whole land’s welcome seem’d<br /> +The welcome of one man! a realm by thee</p> +<p>Deliver’d!—But the crowning hour of fame,<br /> + The zenith of a name<br /> +Is ours once only: and he, too just, too stern,<br /> + <!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>Too +little Englishman,<br /> +A nation’s gratitude did not care to earn,</p> +<p>On wider aims, not worthier, set:—A soul<br /> + Immured in self-control;<br /> +Saving the thankless in their own despite:—<br /> + Then turning with a gasp<br /> +Of joy, to his own land by native right;</p> +<p>Changing the Hall of Rufus and the Keep<br /> + Of Windsor’s terraced steep<br /> +For Guelderland horizons, silvery-blue;<br /> + The green deer-twinkling glades,<br /> +And long, long, avenues of the stately Loo.</p> +<p>‘William,’ says his all too zealous panegyrist, ‘never +became an Englishman. He served England, it is true; but he never +loved her, and he never obtained her love. To him she was always +a land of exile, visited with reluctance and quitted with delight. . +. . Her welfare was not his chief object. Whatever patriotic feeling +he had was for Holland. . . . In the gallery of Whitehall he pined for +the familiar House in the Wood at the Hague, and never was so happy +as when he could quit the magnificence of Windsor for his humbler seat +at Loo:’ (Macaulay: <i>Hist</i>. ch. vii)</p> +<p><i>One labouring breath</i>; William throughout life was tortured +by asthma.</p> +<p><i>Demon’s russet coast</i>; Torbay.—<i>Capital of the +garden-West</i>; Exeter.—<i>Gracious spire</i>; Salisbury.—<i>Hall +of Rufus</i>; The one originally built by William II at Westminster.</p> +<h3><!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +CHILDLESS MOTHER</h3> +<p>1700-1702</p> +<p>Oft in midnight visions<br /> + Ghostly by my bed<br /> +Stands a Father’s image,<br /> + Pale discrownéd head:—<br /> +—I forsook thee, Father!<br /> + Was no child to thee!<br /> +Child-forsaken Mother,<br /> + Now ’tis so with me.</p> +<p>Oft I see the brother,<br /> + Baby born to woe,<br /> +Crouching by the church-wall<br /> + From the bloodhound-foe.<br /> +Evil crown’d of evil,<br /> + Heritage of strife!<br /> +Mine, an heirless sceptre:<br /> + His, an exile life!</p> +<p>—O my vanish’d darlings,<br /> + From the cradle torn!<br /> +Dewdrop lives, that never<br /> + Saw their second morn!<br /> +Buds that fell untimely,—<br /> + Till one blossom grew;<br /> +As I watch’d its beauty,<br /> + Fading whilst it blew.</p> +<p>Thou wert more to me, Love,<br /> + More than words can tell:<br /> +All my remnant sunshine<br /> + Died in one farewell.<br /> +Midnight-mirk before me<br /> + Now my life goes by,<br /> +<!-- page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>For +the baby faces<br /> + As in vain I cry.</p> +<p>O the little footsteps<br /> + On the nursery floor!<br /> +Lispings light and laughter<br /> + I shall hear no more!<br /> +Eyes that gleam’d at waking<br /> + Through their silken bars;<br /> +Starlike eyes of children,<br /> + Now beyond the stars!</p> +<p>Where the murder’d Mary<br /> + Waits the rising sign,<br /> +They are laid in darkness,<br /> + Little lambs of mine.<br /> +Only this can comfort:<br /> + Safe from earthly harms<br /> +Christ the Saviour holds them<br /> + In His loving arms:—</p> +<p>Spring eternal round Him,<br /> + Roses ever fair:—<br /> +Will His mercy set them<br /> + All beside me there?<br /> +Will their Angels guide me<br /> + Through the golden gate?<br /> +—Wait a little, children!<br /> + Mother, too, must wait!</p> +<p><i>I forsook thee</i>; Marlborough, desirous to widen the breach +between Anne and William III, influenced her to write to her Father, +‘supplicating his forgiveness, and professing repentance for the +part she had taken.’</p> +<p><i>Now ’tis so</i>; Anne ‘was said to attribute the death +of her children to the part she had taken in dethroning her father:’ +(Lecky, <i>History of the Eighteenth Century</i>).</p> +<p><i>The brother</i>; The infant son of James, known afterwards as +the ‘Old Pretender,’ or as James III. He was carried +as an infant from the <!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>Palace +(Dec. 1688) to Lambeth, where he was in great peril of discovery. +The story is picturesquely told by Macaulay.</p> +<p><i>One blossom</i>; The Duke of Gloucester, who grew up to eleven +years, dying in July 1700. After his death Anne signed, in private +letters, ‘your unfortunate’ friend.</p> +<p>Anne’s character, says the candid Lecky, ‘though somewhat +peevish and very obstinate, was pure, generous, simple, and affectionate; +and she displayed, under bereavements far more numerous than fall to +the share of most, a touching piety that endeared her to her people.’</p> +<p><i>Where the murder’d Mary</i>; ‘Above and around, in +every direction,’ says Dean Stanley, describing the vault beneath +the monument of Mary of Scotland in Henry the Seventh’s Chapel,—‘crushing +by the accumulated weight of their small coffins the receptacles of +the illustrious dust beneath, lie the eighteen children of Queen Anne, +dying in infancy or stillborn, ending with William Duke of Gloucester, +the last hope of the race:’ (<i>Historical Memorials of Westminster +Abbey</i>, ch. iii).</p> +<h3>BLENHEIM</h3> +<p>August 13: 1704</p> +<p> Oft hast thou acted thy part,<br /> + My country, worthily thee!<br /> + Lifted up often thy load<br /> + Atlantean, enormous, with glee:—<br /> + For on thee the burden is laid to uphold<br /> + World-justice; to keep the balance of states;<br /> + On thee the long cry of the tyrant-oppress’d,<br /> + The oppress’d in the name of liberty, waits:—<br /> + Ready, aye ready, the blade<br /> + In its day to draw forth, unafraid;<br /> + Thou dost not blench from thy fate!<br /> +By thy high heart, only, secure; by thy magnanimity, great.</p> +<p> E’en so it was on the morn<br /> + When France with Spain, in one realm<br /> + Welded, one thunderbolt, stood,<br /> + With one stroke the world to o’erwhelm.<br /> + <!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>—They +have pass’d the great stream, they have stretch’d their +white camp<br /> + Above the protecting morass and the dell,<br /> + Blenheim to Lutzingen, where the long wood<br /> + In summer-thick leafage rounds o’er the fell:<br /> + —England! in nine-fold advance<br /> + Cast thy red flood upon France;<br /> + Over marsh over beck ye must go,<br /> +Wholly together! or, Danube to Rhine, all slides to the foe!</p> +<p> As the lava thrusts onward its +wall,<br /> + One mass down the valley they tramp;<br /> + Fascine-fill the marsh and the stream;<br /> + Like hornets they swarm up the ramp,<br /> + Lancing a breach through the long palisade,<br /> + Where the rival swarms of the stubborn foe,<br /> + While the sun goes high and goes down o’er the fight,<br /> + Sting them back, blow answering blow:—<br /> + O life-blood lavish as rain<br /> + On war’s red Aceldama plain!<br /> + While the volleying death-rattle rings,<br /> +And the peasant pays for the pride and the fury-ambition of kings!</p> +<p> And as those of Achaia and Troia<br /> + By the camp on the sand, so they<br /> + In the aether-amber of evening<br /> + Kept even score in the fray;<br /> + Rank against rank, man match’d with man,<br /> + In backward, forward, struggle enlaced,<br /> + Grappled and moor’d to the ground where they stood<br /> + As wrestlers wrestling, as lovers embraced:—<br /> + And the lightnings insatiable fly,<br /> + As the lull of the tempest is nigh,<br /> + And each host in its agony reels,<br /> +And the musket falls hot from the hand, enflamed by the death that it +deals.</p> +<p> <!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>But, +as when through the vale the rain-clouds<br /> + Darker and heavier flow,<br /> + Above them the dominant summit<br /> + Stands clad in calmness and snow;<br /> + So thou, great Chief, awaiting the turn<br /> + Of the purple tide:—And the moment has come!<br /> + And the signal-word flies out with a smile,<br /> + And they charge the foe in his fastness, home:—<br /> + As one long wave when the wind<br /> + Urges an ocean behind,<br /> + One line, they sweep on the foe,<br /> +And France from our battle recoils, and Victory edges the blow.</p> +<p> As a rock by blue lightning divided<br /> + Down the hillside scatters its course,<br /> + So in twain their army is parted<br /> + By the sabres sabring in force:<br /> + They have striven enough for honour! . . . and now<br /> + Crumble and shatter, and sheer o’er the bank<br /> + Where torrent Danube hisses and swirls<br /> + Slant and hurry in rankless rank:—<br /> + There are sixty thousand the morn<br /> + ’Gainst the Lions marching in scorn;<br /> + But twenty, when even is here,<br /> +Broken and brave and at bay, the Lilied banner uprear.</p> +<p> —So be it!—All honour +to him<br /> + Who snatch’d the world, in his +day,<br /> + From an overmastering King,<br /> + A colossal imperial sway!<br /> + Calm adamantine endurant chief,<br /> + Fit forerunner of him, whose crowning stroke,<br /> + Rousing his Guards on the Flandrian plain,<br /> + Unvassall’d Europe from despot yoke!<br /> + He who from Ganges to Rhine<br /> + <!-- page 142--><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Traced +o’er the world his red line<br /> + Irresistible; while in the breast<br /> +Reign’d devotedness utter, and self for England suppress’d!</p> +<p> O names that enhearten the soul,<br /> + Blenheim and Waterloo!<br /> + In no vain worship of glory<br /> + The poet turns him to you!<br /> + O sung by worthier song than mine,<br /> + If the day of a nation’s weakness rise,<br /> + Of the little counsels that dare not dare,<br /> + Of a land that no more on herself relies,—<br /> + O breath of our great ones that were,<br /> + Burn out this taint in the air!<br /> + The old heart of England restore,<br /> +Till the blood of the heroes awake, and shout in her bosom once more!</p> +<p> —Morning is fresh on the +field<br /> + Where the war-sick champions lie,<br /> + By the wreckage of stiffening dead,<br /> + The anguish that yearns but to die.<br /> + Ah note of human agony heard<br /> + The paean of victory over and through!<br /> + Ah voice of duty and justice stern<br /> + That, at e’en this price, commands them to do!<br /> + And a vision of Glory goes by,<br /> + Veil’d head and remorseful eye,<br /> + A triumph of Death!—And they cried<br /> +‘Only less dark than defeat is the morning of conquest’;—and +sigh’d.</p> +<p>Blenheim is fully described in Lord Stanhope’s <i>Reign of +Queen Anne</i>. Its importance as a critical battle in European +history lies in the fact that the work of liberating the Great Alliance +against the paramount power of France under Lewis XIV, (which England +had unwisely fostered from Cromwell to James II), was secured by this +victory. ‘The loss of France could not be measured by men +or fortresses. A <!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>hundred +victories since Rocroi had taught the world to regard the armies of +Lewis as all but invincible, when Blenheim and the surrender of the +flower of the French soldiery broke the spell’: (Green: <i>History +of the English People</i>: B. VIII: ch. iii).</p> +<p>‘The French and Bavarians, who numbered, like their opponents, +some fifty thousand men, lay behind a little stream which ran through +swampy ground to the Danube . . . It was not till midday that Eugene, +who commanded on the right, succeeded in crossing the stream. +The English foot at once forded it on the left.’ They were +repelled for the time. But, in the centre, Marlborough, ‘by +making an artificial road across the morass which covered it,’ +in two desperate charges turned the day.</p> +<p>A map of 1705 in the <i>Annals of Queen Anne’s Reign</i>, shows +vast hillsides to the right of the Allies covered with wood. This +map also specifies the advance of the English in nine columns.</p> +<p><i>Only less</i>; ‘Marlborough,’ says Lord Stanhope, +‘was a humane and compassionate man. Even in the eagerness +to pursue fresh conquests he did not ever neglect the care of the wounded.’</p> +<h3>AT HURSLEY IN MARDEN</h3> +<p>1712</p> +<p> We count him +wise,<br /> +Timoleon, who in Syracuse laid down<br /> + That gleaming bait of all men’s eyes,<br /> +And for his cottage changed the invidious crown;<br /> +Moving serenely through his grayhair’d day<br /> + ’Mid vines and olives gray.</p> +<p> He also, whom<br /> +The load of double empire, half the world<br /> + His own, within a living tomb<br /> +Press’d down at Yuste,—Spain’s great banner furl’d<br /> +His winding-sheet around him,—while he strove<br /> + The impalpable Above</p> +<p> Though mortal +yet,<br /> +To breathe, is blazon’d on the sages’ roll:—<br /> + <!-- page 144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>High +soaring hearts, who could forget<br /> +The sceptre, to the hermitage of the soul<br /> +Retired, sweet solitudes of the musing eye,<br /> + And let the world go by!</p> +<p> There, if the +cup<br /> +Of Time, that brims ere we can reach repose,<br /> + Fill’d slow, the soul might summon up<br /> +The strenuous heat of youth, the silenced foes;<br /> +The deeds of fame, star-bright above the throne;<br /> + The better deeds unknown.</p> +<p> There, when +the cloud<br /> +Eased its dark breast in thunder, and the light<br /> + Ran forth, their hearts recall the loud<br /> +Hoarse onset roar, the flashing of the fight;<br /> +Those other clouds piled-up in white array<br /> + Whence deadlier lightnings play.</p> +<p> There, when +the seas<br /> +Murmur at midnight, and the dome is clear,<br /> + And from their seats in heaven the breeze<br /> +Loosens the stars, to blaze and disappear,<br /> +<i>And such as Glory</i>! . . . with a sigh suppress’d<br /> + They smile, and turn to rest.</p> +<p> —But +he, who here<br /> +Unglorious hides, untrain’d, unwilling Lord,<br /> + The phantom king of half a year,<br /> +From England’s throne push’d by the bloodless sword,<br /> +Unheirlike heir to that colossal fame;—<br /> + How should men name his name,</p> +<p> How rate his +worth<br /> +With those heroic ones who, life’s labour done,<br /> + Mark’d out their six-foot couch of earth,<br /> +The laurell’d rest of manhood’s battle won?<br /> +<!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>—Not +so with him! . . . Yet, ere we turn away,<br /> + A still small voice will say,</p> +<p> By other rule<br /> +Than man’s coarse glory-test does God bestow<br /> + His crowns: exalting oft the fool,<br /> +So deem’d, and the world-hero levelling low.<br /> +—And he, who from the palace pass’d obscure,<br /> + And honourably poor,</p> +<p> Spurning a +throne<br /> +Held by blood-tenure, ’gainst a nation’s will;<br /> + Lived on his narrow fields alone,<br /> +Content life’s common service to fulfil;<br /> +Not careful of a carnage-bought renown,<br /> + Or that precarious crown:—</p> +<p> Him count we +wise,<br /> +Him also! though the chorus of the throng<br /> + Be silent: though no pillar rise<br /> +In slavish adulation of the strong:—<br /> +But here, from blame of tongues and fame aloof,<br /> + ’Neath a low chancel roof,</p> +<p> —The +peace of God,—<br /> +He sleeps: unconscious hero! Lowly grave<br /> + By village-footsteps daily trod<br /> +Unconscious: or while silence holds the nave,<br /> +And the bold robin comes, when day is dim,<br /> + And pipes his heedless hymn.</p> +<p><i>Timoleon</i>; was invited from Corinth by the Syracusans (<span class="smcap">b.c.</span> +344) to be their leader in throwing off the tyranny of the second Dionysius. +Having effected this, defeated the Carthaginian invaders, and reduced +all the minor despotisms within Sicily, he voluntarily resigned his +paramount power and died in honoured retirement.</p> +<p><i>He also</i>; In 1556 the Emperor Charles V gave up all his dominions, +withdrawing in 1557 to Yuste;—a monastery situated in a region +of <!-- page 146--><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>singular +natural beauty, between Xarandilla and Plasencia in Estremadura. +He died there, Sep. 21, 1558.</p> +<p><i>Loosens the stars</i>; So Vergil, <i>Georg</i>. I., 365:</p> +<blockquote><p>Saepe etiam stellas vento inpendente videbis<br /> +Praecipites caelo labi . . .</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>The phantom king</i>; Richard Cromwell was Protector from Sep. +3, 1658 to May 25, 1659. After 1660 his life was that of a simple +country gentleman, till his death in 1712, when he was buried at Hursley +near Winchester.</p> +<p><i>Unheirlike heir</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> E.</p> +<h3>CHARLES EDWARD AT ROME</h3> +<p>1785</p> +<p>1</p> +<p><span class="smcap"> O</span> +sunset<span class="smcap">, </span>of the rise<br /> + Unworthy!—that, so brave, so clear, so gay;<br /> + This, prison’d in low-hanging earth-mists gray,<br /> + And ever-darken’d skies:—<br /> + Sad sunset of a royal race in gloom,<br /> +Accomplishing to the end the dolorous Stuart doom!</p> +<p>2</p> +<p> Ghost of a king, he sate<br /> + In Rome, the city of ghosts and thrones outworn,<br /> + Drowsing his thoughts in wine;—a life forlorn;<br /> + Pageant of faded state;<br /> + Aged before old age, and all that Past,<br /> +Like a forgotten thing of shame, behind him cast.</p> +<p>3</p> +<p> Yet if by chance the cry<br /> + Of the sharp pibroch through the palace thrill’d,<br /> + He felt the pang of high hope unfulfill’d:—<br /> + And once, when one came by<br /> + <!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>With +the dear name of Scotland on his lips,<br /> +The heart broke forth behind that forty-years’ eclipse,</p> +<p>4</p> +<p> Triumphant in its pain:—<br /> + Then the old days of Holyrood halls return’d<br /> + The leaden lethargy from his soul he spurn’d,<br /> + And was the Prince again:—<br /> + All Scotland waking in him; all her bold<br /> +Chieftains and clans:—and all their tale, and his, he told:</p> +<p>5</p> +<p> —Told how, o’er the +boisterous seas<br /> + From faithless France he danced his way<br /> + Where Alban’s thousand islands +lay,<br /> + The kelp-strown ridge of the lone Hebrides:—<br /> + How down each strath they stream’d as springtide +rills,<br /> + When +he to Finnan vale<br /> + Came +from Glenaladale,<br /> +And that snow-handful grew an avalanche of the hills.</p> +<p>6</p> +<p> There Lochiel, +Glengarry there,<br /> + Macdonald, Cameron: souls untried<br /> + In war, but stout in mountain-pride<br /> + All odds against all worlds to laugh and dare:<br /> + Unpurchaseable faith of chief and clan!<br /> + Enough! +Their Prince has thrown<br /> + Himself +upon his own!<br /> +By hearts not heads they count, and manhood measures man!</p> +<p>7</p> +<p> —Torrent +from Lochaber sprung,<br /> + Through Badenoch bare and Athole turn’d,<br /> + The fettering Forth o’erpast and +spurn’d,<br /> + Then on the smiling South in fury flung;<br /> + <!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>Now +gather head with all thine affluent force,<br /> + Draw +forth the wild mellay!<br /> + At +Gladsmuir is the fray;<br /> +Scotland ’gainst England match’d: White Rose against White +Horse!</p> +<p>8</p> +<p> Cluster’d +down the slope they go,<br /> + Red clumps of ragged valour, down,<br /> + While morn-mists yet the hill-top crown:—<br /> + Clan Colla! on!—the Camerons touch the foe!<br /> + One touch!—the battle breaks, the fight is fought,<br /> + As +summit-boulders glide<br /> + Riddling +the forest-side,<br /> +And in one moment’s crash an army melts to nought!</p> +<p>9</p> +<p> —Ah gay +nights of Holyrood!<br /> + Star-eyes of Scotland’s fairest +fair,<br /> + Sun-glintings of the golden hair,<br /> + Life’s tide at full in that brief interlude!<br /> + Then as a bark slips from her natural coast<br /> + Deep +into seas unknown,<br /> + Scotland +went forth alone,<br /> +Unfriended, unallied; a handful ’gainst a host.</p> +<p>10</p> +<p> By the Bolder +moorlands bare,<br /> + By faithless Solway’s glistening +sands,<br /> + And where Caer Luel’s dungeon stands,<br /> + Huge keep of ancient Urien, huge, foursquare:—<br /> + Preston, and loyal Lancashire; . . . and then<br /> + From +central Derby down,<br /> + To +strike the royal town,<br /> +And to his German realm the usurper thrust again!</p> +<p><!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>11</p> +<p> —O the +lithesome mountaineers,<br /> + Wild hearts with kingly boyhood high,<br /> + And victory in each forward eye,<br /> + While stainless honour his white banner rears!<br /> + Then all the air with mountain-music thrill’d,<br /> + The +bonnets o’er the brow,—<br /> + My +gallant clans! . . . and now<br /> +The voices closed in earth, in death the pibroch still’d!</p> +<p>12</p> +<p> —As beneath +Ben Aille’s crest<br /> + The west wind weaves its roof of gray,<br /> + And all the glory of the day<br /> + Blooms off from loch and copse and green hill-breast;<br /> + So, when that craven council spoke retreat,<br /> + The +fateful shameful word<br /> + They +heard,—and scarcely heard!<br /> +At Scotland’s name how should the blood refuse to beat?</p> +<p>13</p> +<p> —O soul-piercing +stroke of shame!<br /> + O last, last, chance,—and wasted +so!<br /> + Work wanting but the final blow,—<br /> + And, then, the hopeless hope, the crownless name,<br /> + The heart’s desire defeated!—What boots now<br /> + That +ice-brook-temper’d will,<br /> + Indomitable +still<br /> +As on through snow and storm their path the dalesmen plough?</p> +<p>14</p> +<p> —Yet +again the tartans hail<br /> + One smile of Scotland’s ancient +face;<br /> + One favour waits the faithful race,—<br /> + One triumph more at Falkirk crowns the Gael!<br /> + <!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>And +O! what drop of Scottish blood that runs<br /> + Could +aught, save do or die,<br /> + And +Bannockburn so nigh?<br /> +What cause to higher height could animate her sons?</p> +<p>15</p> +<p> Up the gorse-embattled +brae,<br /> + With equal eager feet they dash,<br /> + And on the moorland summit clash,<br /> + Friend mix’d with foe in stormy disarray:<br /> + Once more the Northern charge asserts its right,<br /> + As +with the driving rain<br /> + They +drive them down the plain:<br /> +That star alone before Drummossie gilds the night.</p> +<p>16</p> +<p> —Ah! +No more!—let others tell<br /> + The agony of the mortal moor;<br /> + Death’s silent sheepfold dotted +o’er<br /> + With Scotland’s best, sleet-shrouded as they fell!<br /> + There on the hearts, once mine, the snow-wreaths drift;<br /> + Night’s +winter dews at will<br /> + In +bitter tears distil,<br /> +And o’er the field the stars their squadrons coldly shift.</p> +<p>17</p> +<p> Faithful in +a faithless age!<br /> + Yet happier, in that death-dew drench’d,<br /> + In each rude hand the claymore clench’d,<br /> + Than who, to soothe a nation’s craven rage,<br /> + To the red scaffold went with steady eye,<br /> + And +the red martyr-grave,<br /> + For +one, who could not save!<br /> +Who only lives to weep the weight of life, and die!</p> +<p>18</p> +<p> —He ended, with such grief<br /> + As fits and honours manhood:—Then, once more<br /> + <!-- page 151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Weaving +that long romantic lay, told o’er<br /> + The names of clan and chief<br /> + Who perill’d all for him, and died;—and how<br /> +In islets, caves, and clefts, and bare high mountain-brow</p> +<p> 19</p> +<p> The wanderer hid, and all<br /> + His Odyssey of woes!—Then, agonized<br /> + Not by the wrongs he suffer’d and despised,<br /> + But for the Cause’s fall,—<br /> + The faces, loved and lost, that for his sake<br /> +Were raven-torn and blanch’d, high on the traitor’s stake,</p> +<p>20</p> +<p> As on Drummossie drear<br /> + They fell,—as a dead body falls,—so he;<br /> + Swoon-senseless at that killing memory<br /> + Seen across year on year:<br /> + O human tears! O honourable pain!<br /> +Pity unchill’d by age, and wounds that bleed again!</p> +<p>21</p> +<p> —Ah, much enduring heart!<br /> + Ah soul, miscounsell’d oft and lured astray,<br /> + In that long life-despair, from wisdom’s way<br /> + And thy young hero-part!—<br /> + —And yet—<span class="smcap">Dilexit multum!</span>—In +that cry<br /> +Love’s gentler judgment pleads; thine epitaph a sigh!</p> +<p>The sad old age of Prince Charles is described by Lord Mahon [Stanhope] +in his able <i>History</i>: ch. xxx: and some additional details will +be found in Chambers’ narrative of the expedition. During +later life, an almost entire silence seems to have been maintained by +the Prince upon his earlier days and his royal claims. But the +bagpipe was occasionally heard in the Roman Palace, and a casual visit, +which Lord Mahon fixes in 1785, drew forth the recital which is the +subject of this poem. The prince fainted as he recalled what his +Highland followers had gone through, and his daughter rushing in exclaimed +to the visitor, ‘Sir! what is this! You must have been <!-- page 152--><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>speaking +to my father about Scotland and the Highlanders! No one dares +to mention these subjects in his presence:’ (Mahon: ch. xxvi).</p> +<p>St. 2 <i>Drowsing His thoughts</i>; The habit of intemperance, common +in that century to many who had not Charles Edward’s excuses, +appear to have been learned during the long privations which accompanied +his wanderings, between Culloden and his escape to France.</p> +<p>St. 5 <i>Hebrides</i>; Charles landed at Erisca, an islet between +Barra and South Uist, in July 1745.</p> +<p>St. 7 <i>Fettering Forth</i>; ‘Forth,’ according to the +proverb, ‘bridles the wild Highlandman.’—Charles passed +it at the Ford of Frew, about eight miles above Stirling.—<i>At +Gladsmuir</i>; or Preston Pans; Sep. 21, 1745.—<i>White Horse</i>; +The armorial bearing of Hanover.</p> +<p>St. 8 <i>Clan Colla</i>; general name for the sept of the Macdonalds.</p> +<p>St. 10 <i>Caer Luel</i>; Urien ap Urbgen is an early hero of Strathclyde +or Alcluith, the British kingdom lying between Dumbarton and Carlisle, +then Caer Luel.</p> +<p>St. 12 <i>Ben Aille</i>; a mountain over Loch Ericht in the central +Highlands.</p> +<p>St. 13 <i>Ice-brook-temper’d</i>; ‘It is a sword of Spain, +the ice-brook’s temper’: (<i>Othello</i>: A. 5: S. 2).</p> +<p>St. 14 <i>At Falkirk</i>; Jan 17, 1746. ‘On the eve after +his victory Charles again encamped on Bannockburn.’</p> +<p>St. 16 <i>The mortal moor</i>; named Culloden and Drummossie: Ap. +16, 1746. The cold at that time was very severe.</p> +<p>St. 17 A <i>nation’s craven rage</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> +F.</p> +<p>St. 21 <i>Love’s gentler judgment</i>; We may perhaps +quote on his behalf Vergil’s beautiful words</p> +<blockquote><p>. . . utcumque ferent ea facta minores,<br /> +Vincet amor patriae laudumque inmensa cupido.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>—It is also pleasant to record that over the coffin of Charles +in S. Peter’s, Rome, a monument was placed by George the Fourth, +upon which, by a graceful and gallant ‘act of oblivion,’ +are inscribed the names of James the Third, Charles the Third, and Henry +the Ninth, ‘Kings of England.’</p> +<p>On the simple monument set up by his brother Henry in S. Pietro, +Frascati, it may be worth notice that Charles is only described as <i>Paterni +iuris et regiae</i> | <i>dignitatis successor et heres</i>:—the +title, King, (given to his Father in the inscription), not being assigned +to Charles, or assumed by the Cardinal.</p> +<h3><!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>TRAFALGAR</h3> +<p>October 21: 1805</p> +<p>Heard ye the thunder of battle<br /> + Low in the South and afar?<br /> +Saw ye the flash of the death-cloud<br /> + Crimson o’er Trafalgar?<br /> +Such another day never<br /> + England will look on again,<br /> +When the battle fought was the hottest,<br /> + And the hero of heroes was slain!</p> +<p>For the fleet of France and the force of Spain were gather’d +for fight,<br /> +A greater than Philip their lord, a new Armada in might:—<br /> +And the sails were aloft once more in the deep Gaditanian bay,<br /> +Where <i>Redoubtable</i> and <i>Bucentaure</i> and great <i>Trinidada</i> +lay;<br /> +Eager-reluctant to close; for across the bloodshed to be<br /> +Two navies beheld one prize in its glory,—the throne of the sea!<br /> +Which were bravest, who should tell? for both were gallant and true;<br /> +But the greatest seaman was ours, of all that sail’d o’er +the blue.</p> +<p> From Cadiz the enemy sallied: they knew not Nelson +was there;<br /> +His name a navy to us, but to them a flag of despair.<br /> +’Twixt Algeziras and Ayamonte he guarded the coast,<br /> +Till he bore from Tavira south; and they now must fight, or be lost;—<br /> +Vainly they steer’d for the Rock and the Midland sheltering sea,<br /> +For he headed the Admirals round, constraining them under his lee,<br /> +<!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>Villeneuve +of France, and Gravina of Spain: so they shifted their ground,<br /> +They could choose,—they were more than we;—and they faced +at Trafalgar round;<br /> +Rampart-like ranged in line, a sea-fortress angrily tower’d!<br /> +In the midst, four-storied with guns, the dark <i>Trinidada</i> lower’d.</p> +<p> So with those.—But meanwhile, as against +some dyke that men massively rear,<br /> +From on high the torrent surges, to drive through the dyke as a spear,<br /> +Eagled-eyed e’en in his blindness, our chief sets his double array,<br /> +Making the fleet two spears, to thrust at the foe, any way, . . .<br /> +‘Anyhow!—without orders, each captain his Frenchman may +grapple perforce:<br /> +Collingwood first’ (yet the <i>Victory</i> ne’er a whit +slacken’d her course)<br /> +‘Signal for action! Farewell! we shall win, but we meet +not again!’<br /> +—Then a low thunder of readiness ran from the decks o’er +the main,<br /> +And on,—as the message from masthead to masthead flew out like +a flame,<br /> +<span class="smcap">England expects every man will do his duty,—</span>they +came.</p> +<p> —Silent they come:—While the thirty +black forts of the foeman’s array<br /> +Clothe them in billowy snow, tier speaking o’er tier as they lay;<br /> +Flashes that thrust and drew in, as swords when the battle is rife;—<br /> +<!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>But +ours stood frowningly smiling, and ready for death as for life.<br /> +—O in that interval grim, ere the furies of slaughter embrace,<br /> +Thrills o’er each man some far echo of England; some glance of +some face!<br /> +—Faces gazing seaward through tears from the ocean-girt shore;<br /> +Faces that ne’er can be gazed on again till the death-pang is +o’er. . . .<br /> +Lone in his cabin the Admiral kneeling, and all his great heart<br /> +As a child’s to the mother, goes forth to the loved one, who bade +him depart<br /> +. . . O not for death, but glory! her smile would welcome him home!<br /> +—Louder and thicker the thunderbolts fall:—and silent they +come.</p> +<p> As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters attack,<br /> +Plagued by their darts from afar, leaps in, dividing them back;<br /> +So between Spaniard and Frenchman the <i>Victory</i> wedged with a shout,<br /> +Gun against gun; a cloud from her decks and lightning went out;<br /> +Iron hailing of pitiless death from the sulphury smoke;<br /> +Voices hoarse and parch’d, and blood from invisible stroke.<br /> +Each man stood to his work, though his mates fell smitten around,<br /> +As an oak of the wood, while his fellow, flame-shatter’d, besplinters +the ground:—<br /> +Gluttons of danger for England, but sparing the foe as he lay;<br /> +For the spirit of Nelson was on them, and each was Nelson that day.</p> +<p> <!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>‘She +has struck!’—he shouted—‘She burns, the <i>Redoubtable</i>! +Save whom we can,<br /> +Silence our guns’:—for in him the woman was great in the +man,<br /> +In that heroic heart each drop girl-gentle and pure,<br /> +Dying by those he spared;—and now Death’s triumph was sure!<br /> +From the deck the smoke-wreath clear’d, and the foe set his rifle +in rest,<br /> +Dastardly aiming, where Nelson stood forth, with the stars on his breast,—<br /> +‘In honour I gain’d them, in honour I die with them’ +. . . Then, in his place,<br /> +Fell . . . ‘Hardy! ’tis over; but let them not know’: +and he cover’d his face.<br /> +Silent, the whole fleet’s darling they bore to the twilight below:<br /> +And above the war-thunder came shouting, as foe struck his flag after +foe.</p> +<p> To his heart death rose: and for Hardy, the faithful, +he cried in his pain,—<br /> +‘How goes the day with us, Hardy?’ . . . ‘’Tis +ours’:—Then he knew, not in vain<br /> +Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled: how he left her secure,<br /> +Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and example endure.<br /> +O, like a lover he loved her! for her as water he pours<br /> +Life-blood and life and love, lavish’d all for her sake, and for +ours!<br /> +—‘Kiss me, Hardy!—Thank God!—I have done my +duty!’—And then<br /> +Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among men.</p> +<p>Hear ye the heart of a nation<br /> + Groan, for her saviour is gone;<br /> +<!-- page 157--><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>Gallant +and true and tender,<br /> + Child and chieftain in one?<br /> +Such another day never<br /> + England will weep for again,<br /> +When the triumph darken’d the triumph,<br /> + And the hero of heroes was slain.</p> +<h3>TORRES VEDRAS</h3> +<p>1810</p> +<p>As who, while erst the Achaians wall’d the shore,<br /> + Stood Atlas-like before,<br /> +A granite face against the Trojan sea<br /> + Of foes who seethed and foam’d,<br /> +From that stern rock refused incessantly;</p> +<p>So He, in his colossal lines, astride<br /> + From sea to river-side,<br /> +Alhandra past Aruda to the Towers,<br /> + Our one true man of men<br /> +Frown’d back bold France and all the Imperial powers.</p> +<p>For when that Eagle, towering in his might<br /> + Beyond the bounds of Right,<br /> +O’ercanopied Europe with his rushing wings,<br /> + And all the world was prone<br /> +Before him as a God, a King of Kings;</p> +<p>When Freedom to one isle, her ancient shrine,<br /> + O’er the free favouring brine<br /> +Fled, as a girl by lustful war and shame<br /> + Discloister’d from her home,<br /> +Barefoot, with glowing eyes, and cheeks on flame,</p> +<p><!-- page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>And +call’d aloud, and bade the realm awake<br /> + To arms for Freedom’s sake:<br /> +—Yet,—for the land had rusted long in rest,<br /> + The nerves of war unstrung,<br /> +Faint thoughts or rash alternate in her breast,</p> +<p>While purblind party-strife with venomous spite<br /> + Made plausible wrong seem right,—<br /> +O then for that unselfish hero-chief<br /> + Tender and true, and lost<br /> +At Trafalgar,—or him, whose patriot grief</p> +<p>Died with the prayer for England, as he died,<br /> + In vain we might have cried!<br /> +But this one pillar rose, and bore the war<br /> + Upon himself alone;<br /> +Supreme o’er Fortune and her idle star.</p> +<p>For not by might but mind, by skill, not chance,<br /> + He headed stubborn France<br /> +From Tagus back by Douro to Garonne;<br /> + And on the last, worst, field,<br /> +The crown of all his hundred victories won,</p> +<p>World-calming Waterloo!—Then, laying by<br /> + War’s fearful enginery,<br /> +In each state-tempest mann’d the wearying helm;<br /> + E’en through life’s winter-years<br /> +Serving with all his strength the ungrateful realm.</p> +<p>O firm and foursquare mind! O solid will<br /> + Fix’d, inexpugnable<br /> +By crowns or censures! only bent to do<br /> + The day’s work in the day;—<br /> +Fame with her idiot yelp might come, or go!</p> +<p>O breast that dared with Nature’s patience wait<br /> + Till the slow wheels of Fate<br /> +<!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>Struck +the consummate hour; in leash the while<br /> + Reining his eager bands,<br /> +The prey in view,—with that foreseeing smile!</p> +<p>And when for blood on Salamanca ridge<br /> + Morn broke, or Orthez’ bridge,<br /> +He read the ground, and his stern squadrons moved<br /> + And placed with artist-skill,<br /> +Red counters in the perilous game they loved,</p> +<p>Impassive, iron, he and they!—and then<br /> + With eagle-keener ken<br /> +Glanced through the field, the crisis-instant knew,<br /> + And through the gap of war<br /> +His thundering legions on their victory threw.</p> +<p>Not iron, he, but adamant! Diamond-strong,<br /> + And diamond-clear of wrong:<br /> +For truth he struck right out, whate’er befall!<br /> + Above the fear of fear:<br /> +Duty for duty’s sake his all-in-all.</p> +<p>Among the many wonders of Wellington’s Peninsular campaign, +from Vimiera (1808) to Toulouse (1814), the magnificent unity of scheme +preserved throughout is, perhaps, the most wonderful: the dramatic coherence, +development, and final catastrophe of triumph. For this, however, +readers must be referred to Napier’s <i>History</i>; Enough here +to add that one of the most decisive steps was the formation of the +lines in defence of Lisbon, of which the most northerly ran from Alhandra +on the Tagus by Aruda and Zibreira to Torres Vedras near the sea-coast +at the mouth of the Zizandre.</p> +<p><i>When Freedom</i>; the unwise and uncertain management of the campaign +by the English home Government has been set forth by Napier with so +much emphasis as, in some degree, to impair the reader’s full +conviction. Yet the amazing superiority in energy and wisdom with +which Wellington towered over his contemporaries, (the field being, +however, cleared by the recent deaths of Nelson and Pitt), is so patent, +that this attempt to do justice to his greatness is offered with hesitation +and apology.</p> +<p><i>Orthez’ Bridge</i>; crosses the river named Gave de Pau;—and +covered Soult’s forces then lying north of it.</p> +<h3><!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>THE +SOLDIERS’ BATTLE</h3> +<p>November 5: 1854</p> +<p> In the solid sombre mist<br /> + And the drizzling dazzling shower<br /> + They may mass them as they list,<br /> + The gray-coat Russian power;<br /> +They are fifties ’gainst our tens, they, and more!<br /> + And from the fortress-town<br /> + In silent squadrons down<br /> + O’er the craggy mountain-crown<br /> + Unseen, they pour.</p> +<p> On the meagre British line<br /> + That northern ocean press’d;<br /> + But we never knew how few<br /> + Were we who held the crest!<br /> +While within the curtain-mist dark shadows loom<br /> + Making the gray more gray,<br /> + Till the volley-flames betray<br /> + With one flash the long array:<br /> + And then, the gloom.</p> +<p> For our narrow line too wide<br /> + On the narrow crest we stood,<br /> + And in pride we named it <i>Home</i>,<br /> + As we sign’d it with our blood.<br /> +And we held-on all the morning, and the tide<br /> + Of foes on that low dyke<br /> + Surged up, and fear’d to strike,<br /> + Or on the bayonet-spike<br /> + Flung them, and died.</p> +<p> It was no covert, that,<br /> + ’Gainst the shrieking cannon-ball!<br /> + But the stout hearts of our men<br /> + <!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>Were +the bastion and the wall:—<br /> +And their chiefs hardly needed give command;<br /> + For they tore through copse and gray<br /> + Mist that before them lay,<br /> + And each man fought, that day,<br /> + For his own hand!</p> +<p> Yet should we not forget<br /> + ’Gainst that dun sea of foes<br /> + How Egerton bank’d his line,<br /> + Till in front a cloud uprose<br /> +From the level rifle-mouths; and they dived<br /> + With bayonet-thrust beneath;<br /> + Clench’d teeth and sharp-drawn breath,<br /> + Plunging to certain death,—<br /> + And yet survived!</p> +<p> Nor the gallant chief who led<br /> + Those others, how he fell;<br /> + When our men the captive guns<br /> + Set free they loved so well,<br /> +And embraced them as live things, by loss endear’d:—<br /> + Nor, when the crucial stroke<br /> + On their last asylum broke,<br /> + And e’en those hearts of oak<br /> + Might well have fear’d,—</p> +<p> How Stanley to the fore<br /> + The citadel rush’d to guard,<br /> + With that old Albuera cry<br /> + <i>Fifty-seventh</i>! <i>Die hard</i>!<br /> +Yet saw not how his lads clear the crest,<br /> + And, each one confronting five,<br /> + The stubborn squadrons rive,<br /> + And backward, downward, drive,—<br /> + —Death-call’d to rest!</p> +<p> <!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>—O +proud and sad for thee!<br /> + And proud and sad for those<br /> + Who on that stern foreign field<br /> + Not seeking, found repose,<br /> +As for England dear their life they gladly shed!<br /> + Yet in death bethought them where,<br /> + Not on these hillsides bare,<br /> + But within sweet English air<br /> + Their own home-dead</p> +<p> In a green and sure repose<br /> + Beside God’s house are laid:—<br /> + Then faced the charging foes<br /> + Unmoved, unhelp’d, unafraid:—<br /> +For they knew that God would rate each shatter’d limb<br /> + Death-torn for England’s sake,<br /> + And in Christ’s own mercy take<br /> + On the day when souls shall wake,<br /> + Their souls to Him!</p> +<p>The battle of Inkermann was mainly fought on a ridge of rock which +projects from the south-eastern angle of Sebastapol: the English centre +of operations being the ill-fortified line named the ‘Home Ridge.’ +The numbers engaged in field-operations, roughly speaking, were 4,000 +English against 40,000 Russians.</p> +<p><i>The curtain-mist</i>; The battle began about 6 <span class="smcap">a.m. +</span>under heavy mist and drizzling rain, which lasted for several +hours. Through this curtain the Russian forces coming down from +the hill were seen only when near enough to darken the mist by their +masses.</p> +<p><i>Egerton</i>; He commanded four companies of the 77th, and charged +early in the battle with brilliant success;—his men, about 250, +scattering 1500 Russians.</p> +<p><i>The gallant chief</i>; General Soimonoff, killed just after Egerton’s +charge.</p> +<p><i>With that old Albuera cry</i>; Prominent in the defence of the +English main base of operations, the Home Ridge, against a weighty Russian +advance, was Captain Stanley, commanding the 57th. This regiment, +it was said, at the battle of Albuera had been encouraged by its colonel +<!-- page 163--><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>with +the words, ‘Fifty-seventh, die hard’:—and Stanley, +having less than 400 against 2000, thought the time had come to remind +his ‘Die-hards’ of their traditional gallantry;—after +which he himself at once fell mortally wounded.</p> +<h3>AFTER CAWNPORE</h3> +<p>June: 1857</p> +<p> Fourteen<span class="smcap">, +</span>all told, no more,<br /> + Pack’d close +within the door<br /> + Of that old idol-shrine:<br /> + And at them, as they +stand,<br /> + And from that English +band,<br /> +The leaden shower went out, and Death proclaim’d them<br /> + <i>Mine</i>!<br /> + Fourteen against an army; they, no more,<br /> + Had ’scaped Cawnpore.</p> +<p> With each quick +volley-flash<br /> + The bullets ping and +plash:<br /> + Yet, though the tropic +noon<br /> + With furnace-fury broke<br /> + The sulphur-curling +smoke,<br /> +Scarr’d, sear’d, thirst-silenced, hunger-faint, they stood:<br /> + And soon<br /> + A dusky wall,—death sheltering life,—uprose<br /> + Against their foes.</p> +<p> Behind them +now is cast<br /> + The horror of the past;<br /> + The fort that was no +fort,<br /> + The deep dark-heaving +flood<br /> + Of foes that broke +in blood<br /> +On our devoted camp, victims of fiendish sport;<br /> + From that last huddling refuge lured to fly,<br /> + —And help so +nigh!</p> +<p> <!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>Down +toward the reedy shore<br /> + That fated remnant pour,<br /> + Had Fear and Death beside;<br /> + And other spectres yet<br /> + Of darker vision flit,—<br /> +Old unforgotten wrongs, the harshness and the pride<br /> + Of that imperial race which sway’d the land<br /> + By sheer command!</p> +<p> O little hands that strain<br /> + A mother’s hand in vain<br /> + With terror vague and vast:—<br /> + Parch’d eyes that cannot shed<br /> + One tear upon the head,<br /> +A young child’s head, too bright for such fell death to blast!<br /> + Ah! sadder captive train ne’er filed to doom<br /> + Through vengeful Rome!</p> +<p> From Ganges’ reedy shore<br /> + The death-boats they unmoor,<br /> + Stack’d high with hopeless hearts;<br /> + A slowly-drifting freight<br /> + Through the red jaws of Fate,<br /> +Death-blazing banks between, and flame-wing’d arrow-darts:—<br /> + Till down the holy stream those cargoes pour<br /> + Their flame and gore.</p> +<p> In feral order slow<br /> + The slaughter-barges go,<br /> + Martyrs of heathen scorn:<br /> + While, saved from flood and fire<br /> + To glut the tyrant’s ire,<br /> +The quick and dead in one, from their red shambles borne,<br /> + Maiden and child, in that dark grave they throw,<br /> + Our well of woe!</p> +<p> <!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>Ah +spot on which we gaze<br /> + Through Time’s all-softening haze,<br /> + In peace, on them at peace<br /> + And taken home to God!<br /> + —O whether ’neath the sod,<br /> +Or sea, or desert sand, what care,—if that release<br /> + From this dim shadow-land, through pathways dim,<br /> + Bear us to Him!</p> +<p> But those fourteen, the while,<br /> + Wrapt in the present, smile<br /> + On their grim baffled foe;<br /> + Till o’er the wall he heaps<br /> + The fuel-pile, and steeps<br /> +With all that burns and blasts;—and now, perforce, they go<br /> + Hack’d down and thinn’d, beyond that temple-door<br /> + But Seven,—no +more.</p> +<p> O Elements at strife<br /> + With this poor human life,<br /> + Stern laws of Nature fair!<br /> + By flame constrain’d to fly<br /> + The treacherous stream they try,—<br /> +And those dark Ganges waves suck down the souls they bear!—<br /> + Ah, crowning anguish! Dawn of hope in sight;<br /> + Then, final night!</p> +<p> And now, Four heads, no more,<br /> + Life’s flotsam flung ashore,<br /> + They lie:—But not as they<br /> + Who o’er a dreadful past<br /> + The heart’s-ease sigh may cast!<br /> +Too worn! too tried!—their lives but given them as a prey!<br /> + Whilst all seems now a dream, a nought of nought,<br /> + For which they fought!</p> +<p> <!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>—O +stout Fourteen, who bled<br /> + O’erwhelm’d, not vanquishéd!<br /> + In those dark days of blood<br /> + How many dared, and died,<br /> + And others at their side<br /> +Fresh heroes, sprang,—a race that cannot be subdued!<br /> + —Like them who pass’d Death’s vale, and +lived;—the Four<br /> + Saved from Cawnpore!</p> +<p>The English garrison at Cawnpore, with a large number of sick, women, +and children, were besieged in their hastily made and weak earthworks +by Nana Sahib from June 6 to June 25, 1857. Compelled to surrender, +under promise of safe convoy down the Ganges, on the 27th they were +massacred by musketry from the banks; the thatch of the river-boats +being also fired. The survivors were murdered and thrown into +the well upon Havelock’s approach on July 15.</p> +<p>One boat managed to escape unburnt on June 27. It was chased +through the 28th and 29th, by which time the crowd on board was reduced +to fourteen men, one of whom, Mowbray-Thomson, has left a narrative +equally striking from its vividness and its modesty. Seven escaped +from the small temple in which they defended themselves; four only finally +survived to tell the story.</p> +<p><i>A dusky wall</i>; ‘After a little time they stood behind +a rampart of black and bloody corpses, and fired, with comparative security, +over this bulwark:’ (Kaye: <i>Sepoy War</i>: B. V: ch. ii).</p> +<h3>MOUNT VERNON</h3> +<p>October 5: 1860</p> +<p>Before the hero’s grave he stood,<br /> +—A simple stone of rest, and bare<br /> +To all the blessing of the air,—<br /> +And Peace came down in sunny flood<br /> +From the blue haunts of heaven, and smiled<br /> +Upon the household reconciled.</p> +<p><!-- page 167--><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>—A +hundred years have hardly flown<br /> +Since in this hermitage of the West<br /> +’Mid happy toil and happy rest,<br /> +Loving and loved among his own,<br /> +His days fulfill’d their fruitful round,<br /> +Seeking no move than what they found.</p> +<p>Sweet byways of the life withdrawn!<br /> +Yet here his country’s voice,—the cry<br /> +Of man for natural liberty,—<br /> +That great Republic in her dawn,<br /> +The immeasurable Future,—broke;<br /> +And to his fate the Leader woke.</p> +<p>Not eager, yet, the blade to bare<br /> +Before the Father-country’s eyes,—<br /> +—E’en if a parent’s rights, unwise,<br /> +With that bold Son he grudged to share,<br /> +In manhood strong beyond the sea,<br /> +And ripe to wed with Liberty!</p> +<p>—Yet O! when once the die was thrown,<br /> +With what unselfish patient skill,<br /> +Clear-piercing flame of changeless will,<br /> +The one high heart that moved alone<br /> +Sedate through the chaotic strife,—<br /> +He taught mankind the hero-life!</p> +<p>As when the God whom Pheidias moulds,<br /> +Clothed in marmoreal calm divine,<br /> +Veils all that strength ’neath beauty’s line,<br /> +All energy in repose enfolds;—<br /> +So He, in self-effacement great,<br /> +Magnanimous to endure and wait.</p> +<p>O Fabius of a wider world!<br /> +Master of Fate through self-control<br /> +And utter stainlessness of soul!<br /> +<!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>And +when war’s weary sign was furl’d,<br /> +Prompt with both hands to welcome in<br /> +The white-wing’d Peace he warr’d to win!</p> +<p>Then, to that so long wish’d repose!<br /> +The liberal leisure of the farm,<br /> +The garden joy, the wild-wood charm;<br /> +Life ebbing to its perfect close<br /> +Like some white altar-lamp that pales<br /> +And self-consumed its light exhales.</p> +<p>No wrathful tempest smote its wing<br /> +Against life’s tender flickering flame;<br /> +No tropic gloom in terror came;<br /> +Slow waning as a summer-spring<br /> +The soul breathed out herself, and slept,<br /> +And to the end her beauty kept.</p> +<p>Then, as a mother’s love and fears<br /> +Throng round the child, unseen but felt,<br /> +So by his couch his nation knelt,<br /> +Loving and worshipping with her tears:—<br /> +Tears!—late amends for all that debt<br /> +Due to the Liberator yet!</p> +<p>For though the years their golden round<br /> +O’er all the lavish region roll,<br /> +And realm on realm, from pole to pole,<br /> +In one beneath thy stars be bound:<br /> +The far-off centuries as they flow,<br /> +No whiter name than this shall know!</p> +<p>—O larger England o’er the wave,<br /> +Larger, not greater, yet!—With joy<br /> +Of generous hearts ye hail’d the Boy<br /> +Who bow’d before the sacred grave,<br /> +With Love’s fair freight across the sea<br /> +Sped from the Fatherland to thee!</p> +<p><!-- page 169--><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>And +Freedom on that Empire-throne<br /> +Blest in his Mother’s rule revered,<br /> +On popular love a kingdom rear’d,<br /> +And rooted in the years unknown,—<br /> +Land rich in old Experience’ store<br /> +And holy legacies of yore,</p> +<p>And youth eternal, ever-new,—<br /> +From the high heaven look’d out:—and saw<br /> +This other later realm of Law,<br /> +Of that old household first-born true,<br /> +And lord of half a world!—and smiled<br /> +Upon the nations reconciled.</p> +<p>The date prefixed is that of the visit which the Prince of Wales +paid to the tomb of Washington: carrying home thence, as one of the +most distinguished of his hosts said, ‘an unwritten treaty of +amity and alliance.’</p> +<p>Mount Vernon on the Potomac, named after the Admiral, was the family +seat of Augustine, father to George Washington, and the residence of +the latter from 1752. But all his early years also had been spent +in that neighbourhood, in those country pursuits which formed his ideal +of life: and thither, on resigning his commission as Commander-in-Chief, +he retired in 1785; devoting himself to farming and gardening with all +the strenuousness and devoted passion of a Roman of Vergil’s type. +And there (Dec. 1799) was he buried.</p> +<p><i>Not eager</i>; When the ill-feeling between England and America +deepened after 1765, Washington ‘was less eager than some others +in declaring or declaiming against the mother country;’ (Mahon: +<i>Hist</i>. ch. lii).</p> +<p><i>Ripe to wed with Liberty</i>; See <i>Appendix</i> G.</p> +<p><i>And to the end</i>; See Petrarch’s beautiful lines: <i>Trionfo +della Morte</i>, cap. I.</p> +<p><i>Due to the Liberator</i>; Compare the epitaph by Ennius on Scipio:</p> +<blockquote><p>Hic est ille situs, cui nemo civi’ neque hostis<br /> + Quivit pro factis reddere opis pretium.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>History, it may be said with reasonable confidence, records no hero +more unselfish, no one less stained with human error and frailty, than +George Washington.</p> +<p><i>The years unknown</i>; It is to Odin, whatever date be thereby +signified, that our royal genealogy runs back.</p> +<h3><!-- page 170--><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>SANDRINGHAM</h3> +<p>1871</p> +<p> In the drear November gloom<br /> + And the long December night,<br /> + There were omens of affright,<br /> + And prophecies of doom;<br /> +And the golden lamp of life burn’d spectre-dim,<br /> + Till Love could hardly mark<br /> + The little sapphire spark<br /> + That only made the dark<br /> + More dark and grim.</p> +<p> There not around alone<br /> + Watch’d sister, brother, wife,<br /> + And she who gave him life,<br /> + White as if wrought in stone<br /> +Unheard, invisible, by the bed of death<br /> + Stood eager millions by;<br /> + And as the hour drew nigh,<br /> + Dreading to see him die,<br /> + Held their breath.</p> +<p> Where’er in world-wide skies<br /> + The Lion-Banner burns,<br /> + A common impulse turns<br /> + All hearts to where he lies:—<br /> +For as a babe the heir of that great throne<br /> + Is weak and motionless;<br /> + And they feel the deep distress<br /> + On wife and mother press,<br /> + As ’twere their own.</p> +<p> O! not the thought of race<br /> + From Asian Odin drawn<br /> + <!-- page 171--><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>In +History’s mythic dawn,<br /> + Nor what we downward trace,<br /> +—Plantagenet, York, Edward, Elizabeth,—<br /> + Heroic names approved,—<br /> + The blood of the people moved;<br /> + But that, ’mongst those he loved,<br /> + He fought with death.</p> +<p> And if the Reason said<br /> + ‘’Gainst Nature’s law and death<br /> + Prayer is but idle breath,’—<br /> + Yet Faith was undismayed,<br /> +Arm’d with the deeper insight of the heart:—<br /> + Nor can the wisest say<br /> + What other laws may sway<br /> + The world’s apparent way,<br /> + Known but in part.</p> +<p> Nor knew we on that life<br /> + What burdens may be cast;<br /> + What issues wide and vast<br /> + Dependent on that strife:—<br /> +This only:—’Twas the son of those we loved!<br /> + That in his Mother’s hand<br /> + Peace set her golden wand;<br /> + ’Mid heaving realms, one land<br /> + Law-ruled, unmoved.</p> +<p> —He fought, and we with him!<br /> + And other Powers were by,<br /> + Courage, and Science high,<br /> + Grappling the spectre grim<br /> +On the battle-field of quiet Sandringham:<br /> + And force of perfect Love,<br /> + And the will of One above,<br /> + Chased Death’s dark squadrons off,<br /> + And overcame.</p> +<p> <!-- page 172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>—O +soul, to life restored<br /> + And love, and wider aim<br /> + Than private care can claim,<br /> + —And from Death’s unsheath’d sword!<br /> +By suffering and by safety dearer made:—<br /> + O may the life new-found<br /> + Through life be wisdom-crown’d,—<br /> + Till in the common ground<br /> + Thou too art laid!</p> +<h3>A DORSET IDYL</h3> +<p><i>HARCOMBE NEAR LYME</i></p> +<p>September: 1878</p> +<p> Before me with one happy heave<br /> + Of golden green the hillside curves,<br /> + Where slowly, smoothly, rounding swerves<br /> + The shadow of each perfect tree,<br /> + By slanting shafts +of eve<br /> +Flame-fringed and bathed in pale transparency.</p> +<p> And that long ridge that crowns the hill<br /> + Stands fir-dark ’gainst the falling +rays;<br /> + Above, a waft of pearly haze<br /> + Lies on the sapphire field of air,<br /> + So radiant and so still<br /> +As though a star-cloud took its station there.</p> +<p> Up wold and wild the valley goes,<br /> + ’Mid heath and mounded slopes of +oak,<br /> + And light ash-thicket, where the smoke<br /> + Wreathes high in evening’s air serene,<br /> + Floating in white repose<br /> +O’er the blue reek of cottage-hearths unseen.</p> +<p> <!-- page 173--><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>Another +landscape at my feet<br /> + Unfolds its nearer grace the while,<br /> + Where gorses gleam with golden smile;<br /> + Where Inula lifts a russet head<br /> + The shepherd’s +spikenard sweet;<br /> +And closing Centaury points her rosy red.</p> +<p> One light cicada’s simmering cry,<br /> + Survivor of the summer heat,<br /> + Chimes faint; the robin, shrill and sweet,<br /> + Pipes from green holly; whilst from far<br /> + The rookery croaks +reply,<br /> +Hoarse, deep, as veterans readying for war.</p> +<p> —Grief on a happier future dwells;<br /> + The happy present haunts the past;<br /> + And those old minstrels who outlast<br /> + Our looser-textured webs of song,<br /> + Nursed in Hellenic +dells,<br /> +Sicilian, or Italian, hither throng.</p> +<p> Why care if Turk and Tartar fume,<br /> + Barbarian ’gainst barbarian set,<br /> + Or how our politic prophets fret,<br /> + When on this tapestry-thyme and heath,<br /> + Fresh work of Nature’s +loom,<br /> +Thus, thus, we can diffuse ourselves, and breathe</p> +<p> Autumnal sparkling freshness?—while<br /> + The page by some bless’d miracle +saved<br /> + When Goth and Frank ’gainst Hellas +raved.<br /> + Paints how the wanderer-chief divine,<br /> + Snatch’d from +Circaean guile,<br /> +Led by Nausicaa past Athéné’s shrine,</p> +<p> In that delicious garden sate<br /> + Where summer link’d to summer glows,<br /> + Grapes ever ripe, and rose on rose;<br /> + <!-- page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>And +all the wonders of thy tale<br /> + —O greatest of +the great—<br /> +Whose splendour ne’er can fade, nor beauty fail!</p> +<p> Or by the city of God above<br /> + In rose-red meadows, where the day<br /> + Eternal burns, the bless’d ones +stray;<br /> + The harp lets loose its silver showers<br /> + From the dark incense-grove;<br /> +And happiness blooms forth with all her flowers.</p> +<p> O Theban strain,—remote and pure,<br /> + Voice of the higher soul, that shames<br /> + Our downward, dry, material aims,<br /> + The bestial creed of earth-to-earth,—<br /> + Owning with insight +sure<br /> +The signs that speak of Man’s celestial birth!</p> +<p> Or white Colonos here through green<br /> + Green Dorset winds his holy vale,<br /> + Where the divine deep nightingale<br /> + Heaps note on note and love on love,<br /> + In ivy thick unseen,<br /> +While goddesses with Dionysos rove.</p> +<p> Another music then we hear,<br /> + A cry from the Sicilian dell,<br /> + ‘Here ’mid sweet grapes and +laurel dwell;<br /> + Slips by from wood-girt Aetna’s dome<br /> + Snow-cold the stream +and clear:—<br /> +Hither to me, come, Galataea, come!’</p> +<p> —Voices and dreams long fled and gone!<br /> + And other echoes make reply,<br /> + The low Maenalian melody<br /> + ‘’Twas in our garth, a twelve-year child,<br /> + I saw thee, little +one,<br /> +Pick the red fruit that to thy fancy smiled,</p> +<p> <!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>‘Thee +and thy mother: I, your guide:’—<br /> + O sweet magician! Happy heart!<br /> + Content with that unrivall’d art,—<br /> + The soul of grace in music shrined,—<br /> + And notes of modest +pride,<br /> +To sing the life he loved to all mankind!</p> +<p> There, shading pine and torrent-song<br /> + Breathe midday slumber, sudden, sweet;<br /> + Deep meadows woo the wayward feet;<br /> + In giant elm the ring-doves moan;<br /> + There, peace secure +from wrong,<br /> +The life that keeps its promise, there, alone!</p> +<p> —O loftier than the wordy strife<br /> + That floats o’er capitals; the +chase<br /> + Of florid pleasure; the blind race<br /> + Of gold for gold by gamblers run,<br /> + This fair Vergilian +life,<br /> +Where heaven and we and nature are at one!</p> +<p> On that deep soil great Rome was sown;<br /> + Our England her foundations laid:—<br /> + Hence, while the nations, change-dismay’d,<br /> + To tyrant or to quack repair,<br /> + A healthier heart we +own,<br /> +And the plant Man grows stronger than elsewhere.</p> +<p> Should changeful commerce shun the shore,<br /> + And newer, mightier races meet<br /> + To push us from our empire-seat,<br /> + England will round her call her own,<br /> + And as in days of yore<br /> +The sea-girt Isle be Freedom’s central throne.</p> +<p> Freedom, fair daughter-wife of Law;<br /> + One bright face on the future cast,<br /> + One reverent fix’d upon the past,<br /> + <!-- page 176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>And +that for Hope, for Wisdom this:—<br /> + While counsels wild +and raw<br /> +Fly those keen eyes, and leave the land to bliss:—</p> +<p> Dear land, where new is one with old:<br /> + Land of green hillside and of plain,<br /> + Gray tower and grange and tree-fringed +lane,<br /> + Red crag and silver streamlet sweet,<br /> + Wild wood and ruin +bold,<br /> +And this repose of beauty at my feet:—</p> +<p> Fair Vale, for summer day-dreams high,<br /> + For reverie in solitude<br /> + Fashion’d in Nature’s finest +mood;<br /> + Or, sweeter yet, for fond excess<br /> + Of glee, and vivid +cry,<br /> +Whilst happy children find more happiness</p> +<p> Ranging the brambled hollows free<br /> + For purple feast;—till, light as +Hope,<br /> + The little footsteps scale the slope;<br /> + And from the highest height we view<br /> + Our island-girdling +sea<br /> +Bar the green valley with a wall of blue.</p> +<p>The poets whose landscape-pictures are here contrasted with English +scenery, are Homer, Pindar, Sophocles, Theocritus, and Vergil.</p> +<h3><!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>A +HOME IN THE PALACE</h3> +<p>1840-1861</p> +<p> Thrice fortunate +he<br /> +Who, in the palace born, has early learn’d<br /> + The lore of sweet simplicity:<br /> +From smiling gold his eyes inviolate turn’d,<br /> +Turn’d unreturning:—Who the people’s cause,<br /> + The sovereign-levelling laws,</p> +<p> Above the throne,<br /> +—He made for them, not they for him,—has set;<br /> + Life-lavish for his land alone,<br /> +Whether she crown with gratitude, or forget:—<br /> +He, who in courts beneath the purple weight<br /> + Of precedence moves sedate,</p> +<p> By all that +glare<br /> +Of needful pageantry less stirr’d than still’d,<br /> + Bringing a waft of natural air<br /> +Through halls with pomp and flattering incense fill’d;<br /> +And in the central heart’s calm secret, waits<br /> + The closure of the gates,</p> +<p> The music mute,<br /> +The darkling lamps, the festal tables clear:—<br /> + Then,—glad as one who from pursuit<br /> +Breathes safe, and lets himself himself appear,—<br /> +Turns to the fireside jest, the laughing eyes,<br /> + The love without disguise,—</p> +<p> On home alone,<br /> +The loyal partnership of man with wife,<br /> + Building a throne beyond the throne;<br /> +All happiness in that common household life<br /> +By peasant shared with prince,—when toil and health,<br /> + True parents of true wealth,</p> +<p> <!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>To +its fair close<br /> +Round the long day, and all are in the nest,<br /> + And care relaxes to repose,<br /> +And the blithe restless nursery lulls to rest;<br /> +Prayer at the mother’s knee; and on their beds<br /> + We kiss the shining heads!</p> +<p> —Thrice +fortunate he<br /> +Who o’er himself thus won his masterdom,<br /> + Earning that rare felicity<br /> +E’en in the palace walls to find the Home!<br /> +Who shaped his life in calmness, firm and true,<br /> + Each day, and all day through,</p> +<p> To that high +goal<br /> +Where self, for England’s sake, was self-effaced,<br /> + In silence reining-in his soul<br /> +On the strait difficult line by wisdom traced,<br /> +’Twixt gulf and siren, avalanche and ravine,<br /> + Guarding the golden mean.</p> +<p> Hence, as the +days<br /> +Went by, with insight time-enrich’d and true,<br /> + O’er Europe’s policy-tangled maze<br /> +He glanced, and touch’d the central shining clue:<br /> +And when the tides of party roar’d and surged,<br /> + ’Gainst the state-bulwarks urged</p> +<p> By factious +aim<br /> +Masquing beneath some specious patriot cloke,<br /> + Or flaunting a time-honour’d name,—<br /> +Athwart the flood he held an even stroke;<br /> +Between extremes on her old compass straight<br /> + Aiding to steer the state.</p> +<p> With equal +mind,<br /> +Hence,—sure of those he loved on earth, and then<br /> + His loved ones sure again to find,—<br /> +<!-- page 179--><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>For +Christ’s and England’s cause, Goodwill to men,<br /> +To the end he strove, and put the fever by,—<br /> + Ready to live or die.</p> +<p> —And +if in death<br /> +We were not so alone, who might not quit,<br /> + Smiling, this tediousness of breath,<br /> +These bubble joys that flash and burst and flit,—<br /> +This tragicomedy of life, where scarce<br /> + We know if it be farce,</p> +<p> A puppet-sight<br /> +Of nerve-pull’d dolls that o’er the world dance by,<br /> + Or Good in that unequal fight<br /> +With Ill . . . who from such theatre would not fly?<br /> +—But those dear faces round the bed disarm<br /> + Death of his natural charm!</p> +<p> —O Prince, +to Her<br /> +First placed, first honour’d in our love and faith,<br /> + True stay, true constant counseller,<br /> +From that first love of boyhood’s prime,—to death!<br /> +O if thy soul on earth permitted gaze<br /> + In these less-fortunate days</p> +<p> When, hour +by hour,<br /> +The million armaments of the world are set<br /> + Skill-weapon’d with new demon-power,<br /> +Mouthing around this little isle, . . . and yet<br /> +On dream-security our fate we cast,<br /> + Of all that glory-past</p> +<p> With light +fool-heart<br /> +Oblivious! . . . O in spirit again restored,<br /> + Insoul us to the nobler part,<br /> +The chivalrous loyalty of thy life and word!<br /> +Thou, who in Her to whom first love was due,<br /> + Didst love her England too,</p> +<p> <!-- page 180--><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>If +earthly care<br /> +In that eternal home, where thou dost wait<br /> + Renewal of the days that were,<br /> +Move thee at all,—upon the realm estate<br /> +The wisdom of thy virtue, the full store<br /> + Thy life’s experience bore!</p> +<p> O known when +lost,<br /> +Lost, yet not fully known, in all thy grace<br /> + Of bloom by cruel early frost,<br /> +Best prized and most by Her, to whom thy face<br /> +Was love and life and counsel:—If this strain<br /> + Renew not all in vain</p> +<p> The bitter +cry<br /> +Of yearning for the loss we yet deplore,—<br /> + Yet for her heart, who stood too nigh<br /> +For comfort, till God’s hour thy face restore.<br /> +Man has no lenitive! He, who wrought the grief, . . .<br /> + Alone commands relief.</p> +<p> —Thou, +as the rose<br /> +Lies buried in her fragrance, when on earth<br /> + The summer-loosen’d blossom flows,<br /> +Art sepulchred and embalm’d in native worth:<br /> +While to thy grave, in England’s anxious years,<br /> + We bring our useless tears.</p> +<p><i>Above the throne</i>; ‘He knows that if Princes exist, it +is for the good of the people. . . . Well for him that he does so,’ +was the remark made by an observing foreigner on Prince Albert: (Martin: +<i>Life of H.R.H. the Prince Consort</i>: ch. xi).</p> +<p><i>On home alone</i>; ‘She who reigns over us,’ said +the then Mr. Disraeli when seconding the Address on the death of the +Duchess of Kent, (March, 1861), ‘She who reigns over us has elected, +amid all the splendour of empire, to establish her life on the principle +of domestic love’ (Martin: ch. cxi).</p> +<p><i>Firm and true</i>, ‘Treu und Fest’ is the motto of +the Saxe-Coburg family.</p> +<p><!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span><i>Goodwill +to men</i>; A revision of the despatch to the Cabinet of the United +States, remonstrating on the ‘Trent affair,’ whilst the +fatal fever was on him, was the last of Prince Albert’s many services +(Nov. 30, 1861) to England. To the temperate and conciliatory +tone which he gave to this message, its success in the promotion of +peace between the two countries was largely due: (Martin: ch. cxvi).</p> +<h3>ODE</h3> +<p><i>FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE</i><br /> +1887</p> +<p>. . . <i>Sunt hic sua praemia laudi</i>,<br /> +<i>Sunt lacrimae rerum</i> . . .</p> +<p> As when the snowdrop from the snowy ground<br /> + Lifting a maiden face, foretells the flowers<br /> + That lurk and listen, till the chaffinch sound<br /> + Spring’s advent with the glistening willow crown’d,<br /> + Sheathed in their silken bowers:—<br /> + E’en so the promise of her life appears<br /> + Through those white childhood-years;<br /> + —Whether in seaside happiness, and air<br /> + Rosing the fair cheek,—sand, and spade, and shell,—<br /> + Or race with sister-feet, that flash’d and fell<br /> + Printing the beach, while the gay comrade-wind<br /> + Play’d in the soft light hair:—<br /> + Or if with sunbeam-smile and kind<br /> + Small hand at cottage-door<br /> + Her simple alms she tender’d to the poor:<br /> +Love’s healthy happy heart in all her steps was seen,<br /> + And God, in life’s fresh springtime, bless’d +our Queen.</p> +<p> Lo! the quick months their order’d dance +pursue,<br /> + And Spring’s bright apple-blossoms flush to fruit;<br /> + <!-- page 182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>The +bay-tree thrives ’neath Heaven’s own gracious dew,<br /> + And her young shoots the parent-life renew<br /> + Around the fostering root.<br /> + —The Girl from care in youth’s sweet sleep +withdrawn<br /> + Wakes to a crown at dawn!<br /> + But Love is at her side, strong, faithful, wise,<br /> + To share the world-wide burden of command,<br /> + The sceptre’s weight in the unlesson’d hand;<br /> + To aid each nursery inmate,—each in turn<br /> + Dear pride of watchful eyes,—<br /> + To clasp the innocent hands, and learn<br /> + The words of love and grace,<br /> + Lifting their souls to the compassionate Face:—<br /> +While o’er the fortunate fold the Shepherd watch’d unseen;<br /> + And home, in all its beauty, bless’d a Queen.</p> +<p> Ah! Happy she, who wedded finds in one<br /> + Wisest and dearest! happy, happy years!<br /> + But summer whirlwinds wait on summer’s sun;<br /> + Where the Five Rivers from Himala run,<br /> + His snow where Everest rears,<br /> + Or Alma’s echoing crags with war-cry wake<br /> + The wind-vext Euxine lake.<br /> + —O Death in myriad forms! O brutal roar<br /> + Of battle! throes of race, and crash of thrones!<br /> + Imploring hands, and wreck of whitening bones<br /> + In Khyber pass;—Or woman’s stifled cry,<br /> + And that dark pit of gore!<br /> + —Yet night had light; for He was by,<br /> + Her heart, her strength, her shield,<br /> + Twin-star in the Throne’s radiance self-conceal’d;<br /> +Love’s hand laid light on hers, guiding the ship unseen—<br /> + For God’s best grace in Albert bless’d the +Queen.</p> +<p> <!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>But +at man’s side each hour with ambush’d sword<br /> + Death hurries, nor for prayer nor love delays;<br /> + In God’s own time His harvest-sheaves are stored,<br /> + ‘For My thoughts are not your thoughts,’ saith +the Lord,<br /> + ‘Nor are your ways My ways.’<br /> + He Who spared not the Son His bitter cup,<br /> + The broken heart binds up<br /> + In His fit hour, All-Merciful!—And she,<br /> + The desolate faithful Mother, in the nest<br /> + By children’s love soft-woven, has found rest;<br /> + Some constant to her side, if some have flown<br /> + The Angels’ road, and see<br /> + The Vision of the Eternal Throne:—<br /> + With them, ’tis well!—But thou,<br /> + Strong through submission, to His will dost bow,<br /> +Till God renew the home in that far realm unseen,<br /> + And bless with all her lost ones England’s Queen.</p> +<p> Yet in great Nature’s changeful mystic dance<br /> + Joy circles grief, gay dawn outsmiles the night:<br /> + ’Tis meet our song should build its radiance<br /> + Like some high palace-porch, and walls that glance<br /> + With gold and marble light:<br /> + Now fifty suns ’neath one firm patriot sway<br /> + Have whirl’d their shining way.<br /> + —Lo Commerce with the golden girdling chain<br /> + That links all nations for the good of each;<br /> + While Science boasts her silent lightning speech<br /> + Swifter than thought; and how her patience rein’d<br /> + To post o’er earth and main<br /> + The panting white-breath’d Titan, chain’d<br /> + Bondslave to man:—and won<br /> + The magic spark o’erdazzling star and sun<br /> +<!-- page 184--><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>From +its dark cave: for He, the all-seeing Lord unseen<br /> + Enlightening, bless’d the years of England’s +Queen.</p> +<p> Freedom of England! from thy sacred source<br /> + Where Alfred arm’d in Athelney, welling pure,<br /> + With hero-blood dyed in thy widening course,<br /> + —What loyaler hand than her’s to guide thy +force<br /> + Down ancient channels sure?<br /> + Honour of England! in what bosom stirs<br /> + Thy soul more quick than her’s?<br /> + Yet in her days . . . O greater grief, than when<br /> + In years of woe, the years of happiness<br /> + Flash o’er us,—to behold,—and no redress,—<br /> + Some deed of shame we cannot cure nor stay!<br /> + Our best, our man of men,<br /> + Martyr’d inch-meal by dull delay!<br /> + Ah, sacred, hidden grave!<br /> + Ah gallant comrade feet, love-wing’d to save,<br /> +Too late, too late!—But Thou, Whose counsels work unseen,<br /> + Spare us henceforth such pangs, spare England’s Queen</p> +<p> O much enduring, much revered! To thee<br /> + Bring sun-dyed millions love more sweet than fame,<br /> + And happy isles that star the purple sea<br /> + Homage;—and children at the mother’s knee<br /> + With her’s unite thy name;<br /> + And faithful hearts, that throb ’neath palm and pine,<br /> + From East to West, are thine.<br /> + For as some pillar-star o’er sea and storm<br /> + Whole fleets to haven guides, so from that height<br /> + One great example points the path of Right,<br /> + And purifies the home; with gracious aid<br /> + Lifting the fallen form.<br /> + See Death by finer skill delay’d;<br /> + <!-- page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Kind +hearts to wait on woe,<br /> + And feet of Love that in Christ’s footsteps go;<br /> +Wild wastes of life reclaim’d by Woman’s hand unseen:<br /> + All England bless’d with England’s Empress +Queen.</p> +<p> And now, as one who through some fruitful field<br /> + Has urged the fifty furrows of the grain,—<br /> + Look round with joy, and know thy care will yield<br /> + A thousandfold in its due day reveal’d,<br /> + The harvest laugh again:—<br /> + E’en now thy great crown’d ancestors on high<br /> + Watch with exultant eye<br /> + Thy hundred Englands o’er the broad earth sown,<br /> + And Arthur lives anew to hail his heir!<br /> + —O then for her and us we chant the prayer,—<br /> + Keep Thou this sea-girt citadel of the free<br /> + Safe ’neath her ancient throne,<br /> + Love-link’d in loyal unity;<br /> + Let eve’s calm after-glow<br /> + Arch all the heaven with Hope’s wide roseate bow:<br /> +Till in Time’s fulness Thou, Almighty Lord unseen,<br /> + With glory and life immortal crown the Queen.</p> +<p>Published (June, 1887) under sanction of the Delegates of the Clarendon +Press, Oxford; and intended as an humble offering of loyalty and hearty +good-wishes on the part of the University.</p> +<h3>ENGLAND ONCE MORE</h3> +<p>Old if this England be<br /> +The Ship at heart is sound,<br /> +And the fairest she and gallantest<br /> +That ever sail’d earth round!<br /> +And children’s children in the years<br /> +Far off will live to see<br /> +<!-- page 186--><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>Her +silver wings fly round the world,<br /> +Free heralds of the free!<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless her as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<p>They are firm and fine, the masts;<br /> +And the keel is straight and true;<br /> +Her ancient cross of glory<br /> +Rides burning through the blue:—<br /> +And that red sign o’er all the seas<br /> +The nations fear and know,<br /> +And the strong and stubborn hero-souls<br /> +That underneath it go:—<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless her as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<p>Prophets of dread and shame,<br /> +There is no place for you,<br /> +Weak-kneed and craven-breasted,<br /> +Amongst this English crew!<br /> +Bluff hearts that cannot learn to yield,<br /> +But as the waves run high,<br /> +And they can almost touch the night,<br /> +Behind it see the sky.<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless her as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<p>As Past in Present hid,<br /> +As old transfused to new,<br /> +Through change she lives unchanging,<br /> +To self and glory true;<br /> +<!-- page 187--><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>From +Alfred’s and from Edward’s day<br /> +Who still has kept the seas,<br /> +To him who on his death-morn spoke<br /> +Her watchword on the breeze!<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless her as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<p>What blasts from East and North,<br /> +What storms that swept the land<br /> +Have borne her from her bearings<br /> +Since Caesar seized the strand!<br /> +Yet that strong loyal heart through all<br /> +Has steer’d her sage and free,<br /> +—Hope’s armour’d Ark in glooming years,<br /> +And whole world’s sanctuary!<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless her as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<p>Old keel, old heart of oak,<br /> +Though round thee roar and chafe<br /> +All storms of life, thy helmsman<br /> +Shall make the haven safe!<br /> +Then with Honour at the head, and Faith,<br /> +And Peace along the wake,<br /> +Law blazon’d fair on Freedom’s flag,<br /> +Thy stately voyage take:—<br /> + While now on Him who long has bless’d<br /> + To bless Thee as of yore,<br /> + Once more we cry for England,<br /> + England once more!</p> +<h2><!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>APPENDIX</h2> +<h3>A: p. 87</h3> +<p><i>Till the terrible Day unreveal’d</i>; Much of course is +and will probably remain unknown among the details of that fatal and +fascinating drama, Mary’s life. But all hitherto ascertained +evidence has now, mainly by Mr. Hosack, been sifted so closely and so +ably that the main turning points in her career seem to have reached +that twilight certainty beyond which History can rarely hope to go, +and are placed beyond the reach of reasonable controversy. Such, +(not to enter upon the Queen’s life as Elizabeth’s captive), +is the more than Macchiavellian—the almost incredible—perfidy +of the leading Scottish politicians, united with a hypocrisy more revolting +still, and enabled to do its wicked work, (with regret we must confess), +by the shortsighted bigotry of Knox:—The gradual forgery of the +letters by which the Queen’s death was finally obtained from the +too-willing hands of Elizabeth’s Cabinet:—The all but legally +proved innocence of Mary in regard to Darnley’s death, and the +Bothwell marriage. Taking her life as a whole, it may be fairly +doubted whether any woman has ever been exposed to trials and temptations +more severe, or has suffered more shamefully from false witness and +fanatical hatred. But the prejudices which have been hence aroused +are so strong, such great interests, religious and political, are involved +in their maintenance, that they will doubtless prevail in the popular +mind until our literature receives,—what an age of research and +of the scientific spirit should at last be prepared to give us,—a +tolerably truthful history of the Elizabethan period. (1889)</p> +<h3>B: p. 102</h3> +<p><i>Heroes both</i>;—<i>Each his side</i>;—In regard to +the main issue at stake in the Civil War, and the view taken of it throughout +this book, let me here once for all remark that no competent and impartial +student of our history can deny a fair cause to each side, whatever +errors may have been committed by Charles and by the Parliament, or +however fatal for some fifteen years to liberty and national happiness +were the excesses and the tyranny into which the victorious party gradually, +and as it were inevitably, drifted. ‘No one,’ says +Ranke (whom I must often quote, because to this distinguished foreigner +we owe the single, though too brief, narrative of this period in which +history has been hitherto, treated historically, that is, without judging +of the events by the light either of their remote results, or of modern +political party), ‘will make any very heavy political charge against +Strafford on the score of his government of Ireland, or of the partisan +attitude which he had taken up in the intestine struggle in England +in general; for the ideas for which he contended were as much to be +found in the past history of England as were those which he attacked:’ +<!-- page 189--><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>—and +Hampden’s conduct may claim analogous justification. If +the Parliament could appeal to those mediaeval precedents which admitted +the right of the people through their representatives, to control taxation +and (more or less) direct national policy, Charles, (and Strafford with +him), might as lawfully affirm that they too were standing ‘on +the ancient ways’; on the royal supremacy undeniably exercised +by Henry II or Edward I. by Henry VIII and by Elizabeth. Both +parties could equally put forward the prosperity of England under these +opposed modes of government: Patriotism, honour, conscience, were watchwords +which either might use with truth or abuse with profit. If the +great struggle be patiently studied, the moral praise and censure so +freely given, according to a reader’s personal bias, will be found +very rarely justified. There was far, very far, less of tyranny +or of liberty involved in the contest, up to 1642, than partisans aver. +To the actual actors (nor, as retrospectively criticized by us) it is +a fair battle on both sides, not a contest ‘between light and +darkness.’</p> +<p>We, looking back after two centuries, are of course free to recognize, +that one effect of the Tudor despotism had been to train Englishmen +towards ruling themselves;—we may agree that the time had come +for Lords and Commons to take their part in the Kingdom. But no +proof, I think it may be said, can be shown that this great idea, in +any conscious sense, governed the Parliaments of James and Charles. +It is we who,—reviewing our history since the definite establishment +of the constitutional balance after 1688, and the many blessings the +land has enjoyed,—can perceive what in the seventeenth century +was wholly hidden from Commonwealth and from King. And even if +in accordance with the common belief, we ascribe English freedom and +prosperity and good government to the final triumph of the popular side, +yet deeper consideration should suggest that such retrospective judgments +are always inevitably made under our human entire ignorance what might +have been the result had the opposite party prevailed. Who should +say how often, in case of these long and wide extended struggles,—political +and dynastic,—the effects which we confidently claim as <i>propter +hoc</i>, are only <i>post hoc</i> in the last reality?</p> +<p>Waiving however these somewhat remote and what many will judge over-sceptical +considerations, this is certain, that unless we can purify our judgment +from reading into the history of the past the long results of time;—from +ascribing to the men of the seventeenth century prophetic insight into +the nineteenth;—unless, in short, we can free ourselves from the +chain of present or personal prepossessions;—no approach can be +made to a fair or philosophical judgment upon such periods of strife +and crisis as our Civil War preeminently offers.</p> +<h3>C: p. 108</h3> +<p><i>With glory he gilt</i>; Yet to readers, (if such readers there +be) who can look with an undazzled eye on military success, or hear +the still small voice of truth through the tempest of rhetoric, Cromwell’s +foreign policy, (excepting the isolated case of his interference with +the then comparatively feeble powers of Savoy and the Papacy on behalf +of the persecuted Waldenses), will be far from supporting the credit +with which politico-theological partisanship has invested it.</p> +<p>Holland was beyond question the natural ally on political and religious +grounds of puritan England. But a mischievous war against her +in 1652-3 was caused by the arrogant restrictions of the Navigation +<!-- page 190--><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>Act +of 1651. The successful English demand in 1653 that the Orange +family, as connected closely with that of Stuart, should be excluded +from the Stadtholdership, was in a high degree to the prejudice of the +United Provinces.</p> +<p>In 1654 Cromwell was negotiating with France and Spain. From +the latter he arrogantly asked wholly unreasonable terms, whilst Mazarin, +on the part of France, offered Dunkirk as a bribe. News opportunely +arriving that certain Spanish possessions in America were feebly armed, +Cromwell at once declared war: and now, supplementing unscrupulous policy +by false theology, announced ‘the Spaniards to be the natural +and ordained enemies of England, whom to fight was a duty both to country +and to religion:’ (Ranke: xii. 6).</p> +<p>The piratical war which followed, in many ways similar to that which +the ‘wise Walpole’ tried to avert in 1739, was hardly less +impolitic than immoral. It alienated Holland, it sanctioned French +aggression on Flanders (xii. 7), it ended by giving Mazarin and Lewis +XIV that supremacy in Western Europe for which England had to pay in +the wars of William III and Anne; whilst, as soon as it was over, France +naturally allied herself with Spain, on a basis which might have caused +the union of the two crowns (xii. 8) and which allowed Spain at once +to support Charles II. As the result of the Protector’s +‘spirited policy’ England thus figured as the catspaw of +France, and the enemy of European liberty.</p> +<p>It is satisfactory, however, to find that, in Ranke’s judgment, +the common modern opinion that Cromwell’s despotism was favourably +regarded in England because of his foreign enterprize, is exaggerated. +Even against the conquest of Jamaica,—his single signal gain,—unanswerable +arguments were popularly urged at the time: (xii. 4, 8)—But the +Protectorate, in the light of modern research,—like the reign +of Elizabeth,—still awaits its historian.</p> +<h3>D: p. 127</h3> +<p><i>The sky by a veil</i>; ‘A spiritual world,’ says a +critic of deep insight, ‘over and above this invisible one, is +a most important addition to our idea of the universe; but it does not +of itself touch our moral nature. . . . Its moral effect depends entirely +upon what we make that world to be.’—Cromwell’s religion, +which may be profitably studied in his letters and speeches, (much better +known of, than read) reveals itself there as the simple reflex of his +personal views: it had great power to animate, little or none to regulate +or control his impulses. He had, indeed, a most real and pervading +‘natural turn for the invisible; he thought of the invisible till +he died; but the cloudy arch only canopied a field of human aim and +will.’</p> +<p><i>The horrible sacrament</i>; The summary of Cromwell’s conduct +at Drogheda by a writer of so much research, impartiality, and philosophic +liberality as Mr. Lecky deserves to be well considered.</p> +<p>‘The sieges of Drogheda and Wexford, and the massacres that +accompanied them, deserve to rank in horror with the most atrocious +exploits of Tilly and Wallenstein, and they made the name of Cromwell +eternally hated in Ireland. It even now acts as a spell upon the +Irish mind, and has a powerful and living influence in sustaining the +hatred both of England and Protestantism. The massacre of Drogheda +acquired a deeper horror and a special significance from the saintly +professions and the religious phraseology of its perpetrators, and the +town <!-- page 191--><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>where +it took place is, to the present day, distinguished in Ireland for the +vehemence of its Catholicism:’ (<i>Hist. of Eighteenth Cent</i>. +ch. vi).</p> +<p><i>Mortal failure</i>; The ever-increasing unsuccess of Cromwell’s +career is forcibly set forth by Ranke (xii. 8). He had ‘crushed +every enemy,—the Scottish and the Presbyterian system, the peers +and the king, the Long Parliament and the Cavalier insurgents,—but +to create . . . an organization consistent with the authority which +had fallen to his own lot, was beyond his power. Even among his +old’ Anabaptist and Independent ‘friends, his comrades in +the field, his colleagues in the establishment of the Commonwealth, +he encountered the most obstinate resistance. . . . At no time were +the prisons fuller; the number of political prisoners was estimated +at 12,000 . . . The failure of his plans soured and distracted him.’ +It was, in fact, wholly ‘beyond his power to consolidate a tolerably +durable political constitution.’—To the disquiet caused +by constant attempts against Cromwell’s life, Ranke adds the death +of his favourite daughter, Lady Claypole, whose last words of agony +‘were of the right of the king, the blood that had been shed, +the revenge to come.’</p> +<h3>E: p. 146</h3> +<p><i>Unheirlike heir</i>; Richard Cromwell has received double measure +of that censure which the world’s judgment too readily gives to +unsuccess, finding favour neither from Royalists nor Cromwellians. +Macaulay, with more justice, remarks, ‘That he was a good man +he evinced by proofs more satisfactory than deep groans or long sermons, +by humility and suavity when he was at the height of human greatness, +and by cheerful resignation under cruel wrongs and misfortunes.’ +. . . ‘He did nothing amiss during his short administration.’</p> +<p>His fall may be traced to several causes: to the fact that the puritan +party proper, who supported him, the ‘sober men’ mentioned +by Baxter ‘that called his father no better than a traitorous +hypocrite,’ had not power to resist the fanatic cabal of army +chiefs: to the necessity he was under of protecting some justly-odious +confederates of Oliver: his own want of ability or energy to govern,—a +point fully recognized during Oliver’s supremacy; and to his own +honourable decision not to ‘have a drop of blood shed on his poor +account.’ Yet there is ample evidence to show that Richard, +had he chosen, might have made a struggle to retain the throne,—sufficient, +at least, to have thus deluged the kingdom.</p> +<p>Richard’s life was passed in great quiet after 1660: Charles +II, according to Clarendon, with a wise and humorous lenity, not thinking +it ‘necessary to inquire after a man so long forgotten.’ +His letters reveal a man of affectionate and honest disposition; he +uses the Puritan phraseology of the day without leaving a sense of nausea +in the reader’s mind. At Hursley he was buried at a good +old age in 1712.</p> +<h3>F: p. 152</h3> +<p><i>A nation’s craven rage</i>; The want of public spirit in +England shown during the war of 1745-6 is astonishing. ‘England,’ +wrote Henry Fox, ‘is for the first comer . . . Had 5,000 [French +troops] landed in any part of this island a week ago, I verily believe +the entire conquest of it would not have cost them a battle.’ +And other weighty testimonies might be added, in support of Lord Mahon’s +view as to the great <!-- page 192--><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>probability +of the Prince’s success, had he been allowed by his followers +to march upon London from Derby.</p> +<p>This apathy and the panic which followed found their natural issue +in the sanguinary punishment of the followers of Prince Charles. +‘The city and the generality,’ wrote H. Walpole in August, +1746, ‘are very angry that so many rebels have been pardoned.’ +The vindictive cruelty then shown makes, in truth (if we compare the +magnitude and duration of the rebellion for which punishment was to +be exacted), an unsatisfactory contrast to the leniency of 1660. +But History supplies only too numerous proofs that a century’s +march in civilisation may be always undone at once by the demons of +Panic or of Party in the hour of their respective triumphs.</p> +<h3>G: p. 169</h3> +<p><i>Ripe to wed with Liberty</i>; Looking at the American War of Independence +without party-passion and distortion, as should now at least be possible +to Englishmen, the main cause must be acknowledged to lie simply in +the growth and geographical position of the Colonies, which had brought +them to the age of natural liberty, and had begun to fit them for its +exercise:—facts which it was equally in accordance with nature +that the Fatherland should fail to perceive. For the causes which +gradually determined American resistance we must look, (as regards us), +not to the blundering English legislation after 1760,—to the formalism +of Grenville, the subterfuges of Franklin,—but to the whole course +of our commercial policy since the Revolution: As regards the Colonies, +to the extinction of the power of France in America by the Treaty of +Paris in 1763: (Lecky: ch. v; Mahon: ch. xliii).</p> +<p>The Stamp Act of 1765 brought home, indeed, to a rapidly-developing +people the supremacy claimed across the Atlantic; but the obnoxious +taxation which it imposed, (despite the splendid sophistry of Chatham), +cannot be shown to differ essentially from the trade restrictions and +monopolies enacted in long series after 1688, as the result of the predominance +obtained at the Revolution by the commercial classes in this country, +and which so far as 1765 the colonies openly recognized as legal.</p> +<p>Going, however, beyond these minor motives, the true cause was unquestionably +that the time for separate life, for America to be herself, had come. +This was a crisis which home-legislation could do little to create or +to avert: a natural law, which only worked itself out ostensibly by +political manœuvres and military operations, so ill-managed as +to be rarely creditable to either side;—and, regarded simply as +a ‘struggle for existence,’ is, in the eye of impartial +history, hardly within the scope of praise or censure.</p> +<p>But it was a neutrally tinted background like this, which could most +effectually bring into full relief the great qualities of the one great +man who was prominent in the conflict.</p> +<p>Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited. 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