The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 34

_July 2, 1826._

ON MISS FITZGERALD AND LORD KERRY PLANTING TWO CEDARS IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.

Yes, Pamela, this infant tree Planted in sacred earth by thee, Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow Whilst I am mouldering dust below.

This churchyard turf shall still be green, When other pastors here are seen, Who, gazing on that dial gray, Shall mourn, like me, life's pa.s.sing ray.

What says its monitory shade?

Thyself so blooming, now shalt fade; And even that fair and lightsome boy, Elastic as the step of joy, The future lord of yon domain, And all this wide extended plain, Shall yield to creeping time, when they Who loved him shall have pa.s.sed away.

Yet, planted by his youthful hand, The fellow-cedar still shall stand, And when it spreads its boughs around, Shading the consecrated ground, He may behold its shade, and say (Himself then haply growing gray), Yes, I remember, aged tree, When I was young who planted thee!

But long may time, blithe maiden, spare Thy beaming eyes and crisped hair, Thy unaffected converse kind, Thy gentle and ingenuous mind.

For him when I in dust repose, May virtue guide him as he grows; And may he, when no longer young, Resemble those from whom he sprung!

Then let these trees extend their shade, Or live or die, or bloom or fade, Virtue, uninjured and sublime, Shall lift her brightest wreath, untouched by time.

THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.

When evening listened to the dipping oar, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride, Reflects that stately structure on his side,

Within whose walls, as their long labours close, The wanderers of the ocean find repose, We wore, in social ease, the hours away, The pa.s.sing visit of a summer's day.

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, I lingered on the river's marge alone, Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, And watched the last bright suns.h.i.+ne steal away.

As thus I mused amidst the various train Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main, Two sailors,--well I marked them, as the beam Of parting day yet lingered on the stream, And the sun sank behind the shady reach,-- Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.

The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight; Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight, For ever. As I drew, more anxious, near, I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear; But neither said a word. He who was blind, Stood as to feel the comfortable wind, That gently lifted his gray hair--his face Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.

The other fixed his gaze upon the light, Parting, and when the sun had vanished quite, Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless, Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!

And then, as meek and silent as before, Back, hand in hand, they went, and left the sh.o.r.e.

As they departed through the unheeding crowd, A caged bird sang from the cas.e.m.e.nt loud, And then I heard alone that blind man say, The music of the bird is sweet to-day!

I said, O heavenly Father! none may know The cause these have for silence or for woe!

Here they appeared heartstricken and resigned Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.

There is a world, a pure unclouded clime, Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time, Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder bell Pealed slow, and bade the dying day farewell, Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to night, They thought upon that world of distant light!

And when the blind man, lifting light his hair, Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer; Then sighed, as the blithe bird sang o'er his head, No morn shall s.h.i.+ne on me till I am dead!

GLAs...o...b..RY ABBEY AND WELLS CATHEDRAL.

WRITTEN AFTER VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE ONE, AND HEARING THE CHURCH SERVICE IN THE OTHER.

Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale, How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!

Fancy yet sees them, in the suns.h.i.+ne pale, Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose, When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows, Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]

How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close, Came blended with the airs of eventide, When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!

But all is silent now! silent the bell, That, heard from yonder ivied turret high, Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell; Silent the vesper-chant, the litany Responsive to the organ!--scattered lie The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray, Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh!

And even the mouldering shrine is rent away, Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.

Now look upon the sister fane of Wells!

It lifts its forehead in the summer air; Sweet, o'er the champagne, sound its Sabbath bells, Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer.

Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare, Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state!

Oh! say,--shall time revere the fabric fair, Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate, Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate!

No! to subdue or elevate the soul, Our best, our purest feelings to refine, Still shall the solemn diapasons roll, Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, s.h.i.+ne From the tall windows on the sculptured shrine, Tinging the pavement! for He shall afford, He who directs the storm, his aid divine, Because its Sion has not left thy word, Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!

SILCHESTER, THE ANCIENT CALEVA.[199]

The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls, Along the circuit of thine ancient walls, Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]

The buried coins of mighty men are found, Silent remains of Caesars and of kings, Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings, In its sad story! These have had their day Of glory, and have pa.s.sed, like sounds, away!

And such their fame! While we the spot behold, And muse upon the tale that Time has told, We ask where are they?--they whose clarion brayed, Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed; Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way, Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray!

Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands, That, now, a lone and broken column stands!

Ask of that road--whose track alone remains-- That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and plains; And still along the silent champagne leads; Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds?

Ask of the dead, and silence will reply; Go, seek them in the grave of mortal vanity!

Is this a Roman veteran?--look again,-- It is a British soldier, who, in Spain, At Albuera's glorious fight, has bled; He, too, has spurred his charger o'er the dead!

Desolate, now--friendless and desolate-- Let him the tale of war and home relate.

His wife (and Gainsborough such a form and mien Would paint, in harmony with such a scene), With pensive aspect, yet demeanour bland, A tottering infant guided by her hand, Spoke of her own green Erin, while her child, Amid the scene of ancient glory, smiled, As spring's first flower smiles from a monument Of other years, by time and ruin rent!

Lone city of the dead! thy pride is past, Thy temples sunk, as at the whirlwind's blast!

Silent--all silent, where the mingled cries Of gathered myriads rent the purple skies!

Here--where the summer breezes waved the wood-- The stern and silent gladiator stood, And listened to the shouts that hailed his gus.h.i.+ng blood.

And on this wooded mount, that oft, of yore, Hath echoed to the Lybian lion's roar, The ear scarce catches, from the shady glen, The small pipe of the solitary wren.

RESTORATION OF MALMESBURY ABBEY.[201]

Monastic and time-consecrated fane!

Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, Almost august as in thy early day, Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.

No more the ma.s.s on holidays is sung, The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung; No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow, With lighted tapers, in long order go; Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light; Those ma.s.sy cl.u.s.tered columns, whose long rows, Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose, Amid the silent sanct.i.ty of death, Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.

Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise; Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile, Reprints the tracery of the holy pile, Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?

O mightiest Master! thy immortal strains These roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow, Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.

And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chant Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?

More softly now, imploring litanies, Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs Of penitence from yon altar rise; Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings-- "Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"

Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime; Reckless alike of injuries or time; Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty, The tempest hast defied and shalt defy!