The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 20

Farewell, my harp!--away, away! 15 To the field of death I go; Welcome the trumpet's blast, the neigh Of my bold and barbed steed of gray, And the clang of the steel crossbow!

Gwenlhian sat in the hall at night, 16 Counting the heavy hours; She saw the moon, with tranquil light, s.h.i.+ne on the circling mountain's height, And the dim castle towers.

Deep stillness was on hill and glen, 17 When she heard a bugle blow; A trump from the watch-tower answered then, And the tramp of steeds, and the voice of men, Were heard in the court below.

The watch-dog started at the noise, 18 Then crouched at his master's feet; He knew his step, he heard his voice; But who can now like her rejoice, Who flies her own lord to greet?

And soon her arms his neck enfold: 19 But whence that altered mien!

O say, then, is thy love grown cold, Or hast thou been hurt by the robbers bold, That won in the forest of Dean?

Oh no, he cried, the G.o.d above, 20 Who all my soul can see, Knows my sincere, my fervent love; If aught my stern resolve could move, It were one tear from thee.

But I have sworn, in the Holy Land,-- 21 Need I the sequel speak; Too well, she cried, I understand!

Then grasped in agony his hand, And hid her face on his cheek.

My loved Gwenlhian, weep not so, 22 From the lid that tear I kiss; Though to the wars far off I go, Betide me weal, betide me woe, We yet may meet in bliss.

Fourteen suns their course had rolled, 23 When firmly thus he spake; Hear now my last request: behold This ring, it is of purest gold, Love, keep it for my sake!

When summers seven have robed each tree, 24 And clothed the vales with green, If I come not back, then thou art free, To wed or not, and to think of me, As I had never been!

Nay, answer not,--what wouldst thou say!

Come, let my harp be brought; For the last time, I fain would play, Ere yet we part, our favourite lay, And cheat severer thought:

THE AIR.

Oh, cast every care to the wind, And dry, best beloved, the tear!

Secure, that thou ever shalt find, The friend of thy bosom sincere.

Still friends.h.i.+p shall live in the breast of the brave, And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

I have felt each emotion of bliss, That affection the fondest can prove, Have received on my lip the first kiss Of thy holy and innocent love; But perish each hope of delight, Like the flashes of night on the sea, If ever, though far from thy sight, My soul is forgetful of thee!

Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave, How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

Now bring my boy; may G.o.d above 26 Shower blessings on his head!

May he requite his mother's love, And to her age a comfort prove, When I perhaps am dead!

The beams of morn on his helm did play, 27 And aloud the bugle blew, Then he leaped on his harnessed steed of gray, And sighed to the winds as he galloped{f} away, Adieu, my heart's love, adieu!

And now he has joined the warrior train 28 Of knights and barons bold, That, bound to Salem's holy plain, Across the gently-swelling main, Their course exulting hold.

With a cross of gold, as on they pa.s.sed, 29 The crimson streamers flew; The s.h.i.+elds hung glittering round the mast, And on the waves a radiance cast, Whilst all the trumpets blew.

O'er the Severn-surge, in long array, 30 So, the proud galleys went, Till soon, as dissolved in ether gray, The woods, and the sh.o.r.es, and the Holms[136] steal away, And the long blue hills of Gwent.

[132] This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old Welsh melody. I have placed the circ.u.mstance in the time of the Crusades.

[133] Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales.

[134] Monmouths.h.i.+re.

[135] The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name of the woman.

[136] Islands in the Bristol Channel.

PART II.

High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, 1 A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone, And half-revealed its ivied stone.

Amid the beechen wood.

Here often, when the mountain trees 2 A leafy murmur made, Now still, now swaying to the breeze, (Sounds that the musing fancy please), The widowed mourner strayed.

And many a morn she climbed the steep, 3 From whence she might behold, Where, 'neath the clouds, in s.h.i.+ning sweep, And mingling with the mighty deep, The sea-broad Severn rolled.

Her little boy beside her played, 4 With sea-sh.e.l.ls in his hand; And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed, And sometimes running onward, said, Oh, where is Holy Land!

My child, she cried, my prattler dear! 5 And kissed his light-brown hair; Her eyelid glistened with a tear, And none but G.o.d above could hear, That hour, her secret prayer.

As thus she nursed her secret woes, 6 Oft to the wind and rain She listened, at sad autumn's close, Whilst many a thronging shadow rose, Dark-glancing o'er her brain.

Now lonely to the cloudy height 7 Of the steep hill she strays; Below, the raven wings his flight, And often on the screaming kite She sees the wild deer gaze.

The clouds were gathered on its brow, 8 The warring winds were high; She heard a hollow voice, and now She lifts to heaven a secret vow, Whilst the king of the storm rides by.

Seated on a craggy rock, 9 What aged man appears!

There is no hind, no straggling flock; Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock, And shake my soul with fears?

Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn; 10 A pale man stands confessed; With look majestic, though forlorn, A mirror in his hand, and horn Of ivory on his breast.

Daughter of grief, he gently said, 11 And beckoned her: come near; Now say, what would you give to me, If you brave Hoel's form might see, Or the sound of his bugle hear!

Hoel, my love, where'er thou art, 12 All England I would give,[137]

If, never, never more to part, I now could hold thee to my heart, For whom alone I live!

He placed the white horn to her ear, 13 And sudden a sweet voice Stole gently, as of fairies near, While accents soft she seemed to hear, Daughter of grief, rejoice!

For soon to love and thee I fly, 14 From Salem's hallowed plain!

The mirror caught her turning eye, As pale in death she saw him lie, And sinking 'mid the slain.

She turned to the strange phantom-man, 15 But she only saw the sky, And the clouds on the lonely mountains' van, And the Clydden-Shoots,[138] that rus.h.i.+ng ran, To meet the waves of Wye.

Thus seven long years had pa.s.sed away,-- 16 She heard no voice of mirth; No minstrel raised his festive lay, At the sad close of the drisly day, Beside the blazing hearth.

She seemed in sorrow, yet serene, 17 No tear was on her face; And lighting oft her pensive mien, Upon her languid look was seen A meek attractive grace.

In beauty's train she yet might vie, 18 For though in mourning weeds, No friar, I deem, that pa.s.sed her by, Ere saw her dark, yet gentle eye, But straight forgot his beads.

Eineon, generous and good, 19 Alone with friends.h.i.+p's aid, Eineon, of princely Rhys's blood, Who 'mid the bravest archers stood, To sooth her griefs essayed.