The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 3

I.

London, I take thee to a Poet's heart!

For those who seek, a Helicon thou art.

Let schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields, Each street of thine a loftier Idyl yields; Fed by all life, and fann'd by every wind, There burns the quenchless Poetry--_Mankind!_ Yet not for me the Olympiad of the gay, The reeking SEASON'S dusty holiday:-- Soon as its summer pomp the mead a.s.sumes, And Flora wanders through her world of blooms, Vain the hot field-days of the vex'd debate, When Sirius reigns,--let Tapeworm rule the state!

Vain Devon's cards, and Lansdowne's social feast, Wit but fatigues, and Beauty's reign hath ceased.

His mission done, the monk regains his cell; Nor even Douro's matchless face can spell.

Far from Man's works, escaped to G.o.d's, I fly, And breathe the luxury of a smokeless sky.

Me, the still "LONDON," not the restless "TOWN"

(The light plume fluttering o'er the helmed crown), Delights;--for there the grave Romance hath shed Its hues; and air grows solemn with the Dead.

If, where the Lord of Rivers parts the throng, And eastward glides by buried halls along, My steps are led, I linger, and restore To the changed wave the poet-shapes of yore; See the gilt barge, and hear the fated king Prompt the first mavis of our Minstrel spring;[J]

Or mark, with mitred Nevile,[K] the array } Of arms and craft alarm "the Silent way," } The Boar of Gloucester, hungering, scents his prey! } Or, landward, trace where thieves their festive hall Hold by the dens of Law,[L] (worst thief of all!) The antique Temple of the armed Zeal That wore the cross a mantle to the steel; Time's dreary void the kindling dream supplies, The walls expand, the shadowy towers arise, And forth, as when by Richard's lion side, For Christ and Fame, the Warrior-Phantoms ride!

Or if, less grave with thought, less rich with lore, The later scenes, the lighter steps explore, If through the haunts of living splendour led-- Has the quick Muse no empire but the Dead?

In each keen face, by Care or Pleasure worn, Grief claims her sigh, or Vice invites her scorn; And every human brow that veils a thought Conceals the Castaly which Shakespeare sought.

II.

Amidst the crowd (what time the glowing Hours Strew, as they glide, the summer world with flowers), Who fly the solitude of sweets to drown Nature's still whisper in the roar of Town; Who tread with jaded step the weary mill-- Grind at the wheel, and call it "Pleasure" still;-- Gay without mirth, fatigued without employ, Slaves to the joyless phantom of a joy;-- Amidst this crowd was one who, absent long, And late return'd, outshone the meaner throng; And, truth to speak, in him were blent the rays Which form a halo in the vulgar gaze; Howden's fair beauty, Beaufort's princely grace, Hertford's broad lands, and Courtney's vaunted race; And Pembroke's learning in that polish'd page, Writ by the Grace, 'the Manners and the Age!'

Still with sufficient youth to please the heart, But old enough for mastery in the art;-- Renown'd for conquests in those isles which lie In rosy seas beneath a Cnidian sky, Where the soft G.o.ddess yokes her willing doves, And meets invasion with a host of Loves; Yet not unlaurell'd in the war of wile Which won Ulysses grave Minerva's smile, For those deep arts the diplomat was known Which mould the lips that whisper round a throne.

Long in the numbing hands of Law had lain Arden's proud earldom, Arden's wide domain.

Kinsman with kinsman, race with race had vied To s.n.a.t.c.h the prize, and in the struggle died; Till all the rights the crowd of heirs made dim, Death clear'd--and solved the tangled skein in him.

There was but ONE who in the b.a.s.t.a.r.d fame Wealth gives its darlings, rivall'd Arden's name: A rival rarely seen--felt everywhere, With soul that circled bounty like the air, Simple himself, but regal in his train, Lavish of stores he seem'd but to disdain; To art a Medici--to want a G.o.d, Life's rougher paths grew level where he trod.

Much Arden (Arden had a subtle mind, Which sought in all philosophy to find) Loved to compare the different means by which Enjoyment yields a harvest to the rich-- Himself already marvell'd to behold How soon trite custom wears the gleam from gold; Well, was his rival happier from its use Than he (his candour whisper'd) from abuse?

He long'd to know this Morvale, and to learn: They met--grew friends--the Sybarite and the stern.

Each had some fields in common: mostly those From which the plant of human friendship grows.

Each had known strong vicissitudes in life; The present ease, and the remember'd strife.

Each, though from differing causes, nursed a mind At war with Fate, and chafed against his kind.

Each with a searching eye had sought to scan The solemn Future, soul predicts to man; And each forgot how, cloud-like pa.s.sions mar, In the vex'd wave, the mirror of the star;-- How all the unquiet thoughts which life supplies May swell the ocean but to veil the skies; And dark to Man may grow the heaven that smiled On the clear vision Nature gave the Child.

Each, too, in each, where varying most they seem, Found that which fed half envy, half esteem.

As stood the Pilgrim of the waste before The stream that parted from the enchanted sh.o.r.e, Though on the opposing margent of the wave Those fairy boughs but _seeming_ fruitage gave; Though his stern manhood in its simple power, If cross'd the barrier, soon had scorn'd the bower; Yet, as some monk, whom holier cloisters shade, Views from afar the glittering cavalcade, And sighs, as sense against his will recalls Fame's knightly lists and Pleasure's festive halls,-- So, while the conscience chid, the charm enchain'd, And the heart envied what the soul disdain'd.

While Arden's nature in his friend's could find An untaught force that awed his subtler mind-- Awed, yet allured;--that Eastern calm of eye And mien--a mantle and a majesty, At once concealing all the strife below It shames the pride of lofty hearts to show, And robing Art's lone outlaw with the air Of nameless state the lords of Nature wear;-- This kingly mien contrasting this mean form, This calm exterior with this heart of storm, Touch'd with vague interest, undefined and strange, The world's quick pupil whose career was change.

Forth from the crowded streets one summer day, } Rode the new friends; and cool and silent lay } Through shadowy lanes the chance-directed way. } As with slow pace and slacken'd rein they rode, Men's wonted talk to deeper converse flow'd.

"Think'st thou," said Arden, "that the Care, whose speed Climbs the tall bark and mounts the flying steed, And (still to quote old Horace) hovers round Our fretted roofs, forbears yon village ground?-- Think'st thou that Toil drives trouble from the door; And does G.o.d's sun shine brightest on the Poor?"

"I know not," answer'd Morvale, "but I know Each state feels envy for the state below; Kings for their subjects--for the obscure, the great: The smallest circle guards the happiest state.

Earth's real wealth is in the heart;--in truth, As life looks brightest in the eyes of youth, So simple wants--the simple state most far From that entangled maze in which we are, Seem unto nations what youth is to man,"--

"'When wild in woods the n.o.ble savage ran,'"

Said Arden, smiling. "Well, we disagree; Even youth itself reflects no charms for me; And all the shade upon my life bestow'd Spreads from the myrtle which my boyhood sow'd."

His bright face fell,--he sigh'd. "And canst thou guess Why all once coveted now fails to bless?-- Why all around me palls upon the eye, And the heart saddens in the summer sky?

It is that youth expended life too soon: A morn too glowing sets in storm at noon."

"Nay," answer'd Morvale, gently, "hast thou tried That _second_ youth, to which ev'n follies guide; Which to the wanderer SENSE, when tired and spent, Proclaims the fount by which to fix the tent?

The heart but rests when sense forbears to roam; We win back freshness when Love smiles on Home;-- Home not to _thee_, O happy one! denied." } } "To me of all," the impatient listener cried, } "Thy words but probe the wounds I vainly hide; } That which I pine for, thou hast pictured now;-- The hearth, the home, the altar, and the vow; The tranquil love, unintertwined with shame; The child's sweet kiss;--the Father's holy name; The link to lengthen a time-honour'd line;-- These not for me, and yet these should be mine."

"If," said the Indian, "counsel could avail, Or pity soothe, a friend invites thy tale."

"Alas!" sigh'd Arden, "nor confession's balm Can heal, nor wisdom whisper back to calm.

Yet hear the tale--thou wilt esteem me less-- But Grief, the Egoist, yearneth to confess.

I tell of guilt--and guilt all men must own, Who but avow the loves their youth has known.

Preach as we will, in this wrong world of ours, Man's fate and woman's are contending powers; Each strives to dupe the other in the game,-- Guilt to the victor--to the vanquish'd shame!"

He paused, and noting how austerely gloom'd His friend's dark visage, blush'd, and thus resumed.

"Nay, I approve not of the code I find, Not less the wrong to which the world is kind.

But, to be frank, how oft with praise we scan Men's actions only when they deal with man; Lo, gallant Lovelace, free from every art That stains the honour or defiles the heart,-- _With men_;--but how, if woman the pursuit?

What lies degrade him, and what frauds pollute; Yet still to Lovelace either s.e.x is mild, And new Clarissas only sigh--'How wild!'"

"Enough," said Morvale; "I perforce believe: Strong Adam owns no equal in his Eve; But worse the bondage in your bland disguise; Europe destroys,--kind Asia only buys!

If dull the Harem, yet its roof protects, And Power, when sated, still its slave respects.

With you, ev'n pity fades away with love,-- No gilded cage gives refuge to the dove; Worse than the sin the curse it leaves behind: Here the crush'd heart, or there the poison'd mind,-- Your streets a charnel or a market made, For the lorn hunger, or the loathsome trade.

Pardon,--Pa.s.s on!"

"Behold, the Preface done,"

Arden resumed, "now opens Chapter One!"

III.

LORD ARDEN'S TALE.

"Rear'd in a court, a man while yet a boy, Hermes said 'Rise,' and Venus sigh'd 'Enjoy;'

My earlier dreams, like tints in rainbows given, Caught from the Muse, glow'd but in clasping heaven; The bird-like instinct of a sphere afar Pined for the air, and chafed against the bar.

But can to Guelphs Augustan tastes belong?

Or _Georgium Sidus_ look benign on song?

My short-lived Muse the ungenial climate tried, Breathed some faint warbles, caught a cold, and died!

Wise kinsmen whisper'd 'Hush! forewarn'd in time; The feet that rise are not the feet of Rhyme; Your cards are good, but all is in the lead, Play out the heart, and you are lost indeed: Leave verse, my boy, to unaspiring men-- The eagle's pinion never sheds a pen!'

"So fled the Muse! What left the Muse behind?

The aimless fancy and the restless mind; The eyes, still won by whatsoe'er was bright, But lost the star's to prize the diamond's light.

Man, like the child, accepts the bauble boon.

And clasps the coral where he ask'd the moon.

Forbid the pomp and royalty of heaven,-- To the born Poet still the earth is given; Duped by each glare in which Corruption seems To give the glory imaged on his dreams: Thus, what had been the thirst for deathless fame, Grew the fierce hunger for the Moment's name; Ambition placed its hard desires in Power, And saw no Jove but in the Golden Shower.

No miser I--no n.i.g.g.ard of the store-- The end Olympus, but the means the ore: I look'd below--there Lazarus crawl'd disdain'd; I look'd aloft--there, who but Dives reign'd?

He who would make the steeps of power his home, Must mask the t.i.tan till he rules the Gnome.

If I insist on this, my soul's disease, Excuse for fault thy practised sight foresees: It makes the moral of my tale, in truth, And boyhood sow'd the poison of my youth.

"Meanwhile men praised, and women smiled;--the wing, Bow'd from the height, still bask'd beneath the spring.

Pa.s.s by the Paphian follies of that day,-- When true love comes, it is to close our May.

Well, ere my boyish holiday was o'er, The grim G.o.d came, and mirth was mine no more: A well-born pauper, I seem'd doom'd to live By what great men to well-born paupers give: I had an uncle high in power and state, Who ruled three kingdoms' and one nephew's fate.

This uncle loved, as English thanes will all, An autumn's respite in his rural hall; In slaughtering game, relax'd his rigid breast; And so,--behold me martyr'd to his guest!

IV.

"Wandering, one day, in discontented mood By a clear brook--through gra.s.sy solitude, Leading the dance of light waves chanting low-- A little world of sunshine seem'd to grow Out from the landscape--as with sudden spring From bosk and brake--leapt the stream glittering.

Lo, the meek home, its porch with roses twined, Green sward before, a sacred tower behind; On the green sward the year's last flowers were gay, And the last glory of the golden day Paused on the spire, that, shining, soar'd to cleave Those clouds, the loveliest, that precede the eve.

"Along the bank, beneath the bowering tree, Young fairies play'd--young voices laugh'd in glee; One voice more mellow'd in its silver sound, Yet blithe as rang the gladdest on the ground; One shape more ripen'd, one sweet face more fair, Yet not less happy, the t.i.tania there.