Poems by Sir John Carr Part 8

Here let me pause;--the Muse, in sad affright, Turns from the dire disasters of that night; Quite panic-struck she drops her trembling plumes, And thus a moralizing theme a.s.sumes:-- Know, gentle Ladies, once these shapeless walls, O'er whose grey wreck the shading ivy crawls, Compos'd a graceful mansion, whose fair mould Led from the road the trav'ller, to behold.

Oft, when the morning ting'd the redd'ning skies, Far off the spiral smoke was seen to rise; At noon the hospitable board was spread, Then nappy ale made light the weary head; And when grey eve appear'd, in shadows damp, Each cas.e.m.e.nt glitter'd with th' enliv'ning lamp; Here the laugh t.i.tter'd, there the lute of Love Fill'd with its melody the moon-light grove: All, all are fled!--Time ruthless stalks around, And bends the crumbling ruin to the ground: Time, Ladies, too (I know you do not like him, And, if a fan could end him, you would strike him), Will with as little gallantry devour From your fair faces their bewitching pow'r; Then, like these ruins, beauteous in decay, Still shall you charm, and men shall still obey: Then, with remembrance soft, and tender smile, Perchance you'll think upon this mossy pile; And, with a starting tear of joy declare, "Oh! how we laugh'd, how merry were we there!"

[Footnote A: The manor of Berry was given by William the Conqueror to one of his Normans, Ralph de la Pomerai, who built on it the castle which still bears his name, and in whose family it continued till the reign of Edward VI. when it was sold by Sir Thomas Pomeroy to Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, from whom it has descended to the present Duke.

The castle is seated upon a rock, which rises almost perpendicularly from a narrow valley; through this valley winds a small stream of water, which drives the mill seen through the foliage of the surrounding woods from the turrets of the castle.

In approaching the castle from the south, the path leads down the side of a hill through a thick wood; and on the north side of the valley, opposite the rock on which the castle stands, is a high ridge, partly covered with oak: these hills completely shut in the ruins on both sides. The valley stretches a considerable way both to the east and west, and opens a view at either end into the adjacent country.

From the ivy-covered ruins of the fortress which now remain, it is scarcely possible to say what was its ancient form; but it is most generally supposed to have been quadrangular, having only one entrance, a large double portcullis, at the west end of the southern front, turreted and embattled, as was the whole of the front, with a tower at its eastern end, corresponding with that on the west. This front, with its gateway and turrets, are perhaps the only remains of the original structure. Winding steps, now almost worn away, lead to what once was a chapel, over the portcullis, and thence to the top of the turrets.

In more modern times a magnificent building was erected within the walls of the castle by the Seymour family; but, although upwards of 20,000 were said to have been expended on it, it was never finished, and now the whole forms one common ruin, which, as it totters on it base, the spectator contemplates with awe, while he sighs over the remains of fallen grandeur.]

[Footnote B: A party from Totness went to Lord Courtenay's masquerade in this way, there being no other conveyance to be had, and met with the ridiculous accident here alluded to.]

LINES

TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER,

KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,

_Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff_.

To save the credit of the dame, Poets and painters all agree That Mistress Fortune cannot see, And on her bandage cast the blame;

When honours on th' unworthy wait, When riches to the wealthy flow, When high desert, oppress'd by woe, Is left to struggle on with Fate.

But, Porter! when on thee she smil'd, The fillet from her eyes she mov'd, To view the merit all approv'd-- A mind inform'd, a heart unsoil'd.

She saw thy virtues bright appear; A son that mothers seldom know, A brother with affection's glow, The soldier brave[A], the friend sincere.

With honours then thy name she grac'd, And call'd on Love to bless thy arms With princely rank, with Virtue's charms, And all the pow'rs of wit and taste.

[Footnote A: Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy.]

THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH,

_Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid_,

IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT.

_ORIGINAL_.

N'offrant qu'un coeur a la Beaute, Nud comme la Verite, Sans armes comme l'Innocence, Sans ailes comme la Constance, Tel fut l'Amour dans le siecle d'or, On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu'on le cherche encore.

_TRANSLATION_.

To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, No other off'ring will she prize; As Truth should unadorn'd appear, Behold! the G.o.d is naked here!

Like Innocence, he has no arms But those of sweet, of native, charms; No wish or pow'r has he to fly, Like thy pure spirit, Constancy!

Such in the golden age was Love; But now, oh! whither does he rove?

THE RHINGAU SONG.

This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced.

_ORIGINAL_.

Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn frolich leer; In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, Wie war er sonst so gut?

Wie war er sonst so edel, stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: Gesegnet sey der Rhein!

Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen labe wein.

So trinkt ihn dann, und la.s.st uns alle wege Uns freun, und frolich seyn; Und wusten wir, wo jemand traurig lage, Wir gaben ihm den wein.

_TRANSLATION_.

With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, For, search all Europe round, You'll say, as pleas'd you drink it up, Such wine was never found.

Such wine, &c.

Our fathers' land this vine supplies; What soil can e'er produce But this, tho' warm'd with genial skies, Such mild, such gen'rous juice?

Such mild, &c.

Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, For on its banks alone Can e'er be found a wine to give The soul its proper tone.

The soul, &c.

Come, put the jovial cup around, Our joys it will enhance, If any one is mournful found, One sip shall make him dance.

One sip, &c.

LINES TO HEALTH,