The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 108

'T is granted; and the valet mounts the d.i.c.key-- That gentleman of Lords and Gentlemen; Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, Tricked out, but modest more than poet's pen Can paint,--_"Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!"_[666]

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, If but to show I've travelled: and what's Travel, Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)

XLVIII.

The London winter and the country summer Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, When Nature wears the gown that doth become her, To lose those best months in a sweaty city, And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, Listening debates not very wise or witty, Ere patriots their true _country_ can remember;-- But there's no shooting (save grouse) till September.

XLIX.

I've done with my tirade. The World was gone; The twice two thousand, for whom Earth was made, Were vanished to be what they call alone-- That is, with thirty servants for parade, As many guests, or more; before whom groan As many covers, duly, daily laid.

Let none accuse old England's hospitality-- Its quant.i.ty is but condensed to quality.

L.

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline Departed like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine; The Gothic Babel of a thousand years.

None than themselves could boast a longer line, Where Time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their Sires--a tomb in every tree.

LI.

A paragraph in every paper told Of their departure--such is modern fame: 'T is pity that it takes no further hold Than an advertis.e.m.e.nt, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold.

The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim-- "Departure, for his country seat, to-day, Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.

LII.

"We understand the splendid host intends[md]

To entertain, this autumn, a select And numerous party of his n.o.ble friends; 'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct, The Duke of D---- the shooting season spends, With many more by rank and fas.h.i.+on decked; Also a foreigner of high condition, The envoy of the secret Russian mission."

LIII.

And thus we see--who doubts the Morning Post?

(Whose articles are like the "Thirty-nine,"

Which those most swear to who believe them most)-- Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordained to s.h.i.+ne, Decked by the rays reflected from his host, With those who, Pope says, "greatly daring dine."--[667]

'T is odd, but true,--last war the News abounded More with these dinners than the killed or wounded;--

LIV.

As thus: "On Thursday there was a grand dinner; Present, Lords A.B.C."--- Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than Victory's winner: Then underneath, and in the very same Column: date, "Falmouth. There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to Fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret: The vacancies are filled up--see Gazette."

LV.

To Norman Abbey[668] whirled the n.o.ble pair,-- An old, old Monastery once, and now Still older mansion--of a rich and rare Mixed Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal: it lies, perhaps, a little low, Because the monks preferred a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind.

LVI.

It stood embosomed in a happy valley, Crowned by high woodlands, where the Druid oak[669]

Stood like Caractacus, in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters; as Day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmured like a bird.

LVII.

Before the mansion lay a lucid Lake,[670]

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its softened way did take In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods[671] sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fixed upon the flood.

LVIII.

Its outlet dashed into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes--like an infant made[me]

Quiet--sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allayed, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

LIX.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the Church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand Arch, which once screened many an aisle.

These last had disappeared--a loss to Art: The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourned the power of Time's or Tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable Arch.[mf]

LX.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve Saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice--as tell The annals of full many a line undone,-- The gallant Cavaliers,[672] who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

LXI.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin-Mother of the G.o.d-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, looked round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoiled: She made the earth below seem holy ground.

This may be superst.i.tion, weak or wild; But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any wors.h.i.+p wake some thoughts divine.

LXII.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its gla.s.s of thousand colourings, Through which the deepened glories once could enter, Streaming from off the Sun like Seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their Hallelujahs quenched like fire.

LXIII.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when[mg]

The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical--a dying accent driven Through the huge Arch, which soars and sinks again.

Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall:

LXIV.

Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue,[673] warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fixed hour) To this grey ruin: with a voice to charm, Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:--I've heard it,--once perhaps too much.[674]

LXV.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain played, Symmetrical, but decked with carvings quaint-- Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring gushed through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain Glory, and his vainer troubles.

LXVI.

The Mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and Refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpaired, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

LXVII.

Huge halls, long galleries, s.p.a.cious chambers, joined By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Formed a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

LXVIII.