The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 11

His may be Fancy's sunshine, and the Muse May deck his visions with her fairest hues; And he may lift his honest front, and say To the hard storm, that rends his locks of gray, I heed thee not;--he unappalled may stand Beneath the cloud that shades a sinking land, While heedless of the storm that onward sweeps, Mad, impious Riot his loud wa.s.sail keeps, 70 Pre-eminent in native worth; nor bend, Though gathering ills on his bare head descend: And when the wasteful storm sweeps o'er its prey, And rends the kingdoms of the world away, He, firm as stands the rock's unshaken base, Yet panting for a surer resting-place, The human hurricane unmoved can see, And say, O G.o.d, my refuge is in Thee!

States, anch.o.r.ed deep, that far their shadow cast, Rock, and are scattered by the ALMIGHTY'S blast; 80 As when, awakened from his horrid sleep, In fiery caves, a thousand fathoms deep, The Earthquake's Demon hies aloft; he waits, Nigh some high-turreted proud city's gates, As listening to the mingled shouts and din Of the mad crowd that feast or dance within.

Mean time sad Nature feels his sway, the wave Heaves, and low sounds moan through the mountain cave; Then all at once is still, still as midnight, When not the lime-leaf moves: Oh, piteous sight! 90 For now the glittering domes crash from on high-- And hark, a strange and lamentable cry!

It ceases, and the tide's departing roar Alone is heard upon the desert sh.o.r.e, That, as it sweeps with slow huge swell away, Remorseless mutters o'er its buried prey.

So Ruin hurrieth o'er this shaken ball: 97 He bids his blast go forth, and lo! doth fall A Carthage or a Rome. Then rolls the tide Of deep Forgetfulness, whelming the pride Of man, his shattered and forsaken bowers, His noiseless cities, and his prostrate towers.

Some columns, eminent and awful, stand, Like Egypt's pillars on the lonely sand; We read upon their base, inscribed by Fame, A HOMER'S here, or here a SHAKESPEARE'S name; Yet think not of the surge, that soon may sweep Ourselves unnumbered to the oblivious deep.

Yet time has been, as mouldering legends say,[56]

When all yon western tract, and this bright bay, 110 Where now the sunshine sleeps, and wheeling white The sea-mew circles in fantastic flight, Was peopled wide; but the loud storm hath raved, Where its green top the high wood whispering waved, And many a year the slowly-rising flood Raked, where the Druids' uncooth altar stood.

Thou only, aged mountain, dost remain, Stern monument amidst the deluged plain!

And fruitless the big waves thy bulwarks beat; The big waves slow retire, and murmur at thy feet:[57] 120 Thou, half-encircled by the refluent tide, As if thy state its utmost rage defied, Dost tower above the scene, as in thine ancient pride.

Mountain! the curious Muse might love to gaze On the dim record of thy early days; Oft fancying that she heard, like the low blast, The sounds of mighty generations past.

Thee the Phoenician, as remote he sailed Along the unknown coast, exulting hailed, And when he saw thy rocky point aspire, 130 Thought on his native sh.o.r.es of Aradus or Tyre.

Distained with many a ghastly giant's blood, Upon thy height huge Corineus[58] stood, And clashed his shield; whilst, hid in caves profound, His monstrous foe cowered at the fearful sound.

Hark to the brazen clarion's pealing swell!

The shout at intervals, the deepening yell!

Long ages speed away, yet now again The noise of battle hurtles on the plain!

Behold the dark-haired warriors!--down thy side, O mountain! sternly terrible, they stride!

Ev'n now, impatient for the promised war, They rear their axes[59] huge, and shouting, cry to Thor.

The sounds of conflict cease--at dead of night A voice is heard: Prepare the Druid rite!

And hark! the bard upon thy summit rings The deep chords of his thrilling harp, and sings To Night's pale Queen, that through the heavens wide, Amidst her still host list'ning seems to ride!

Slow sinks the cadence of the solemn lay, 150 And all the sombrous scenery steals away-- The shadowy Druid throng, the darksome wood, And the h.o.a.r altar, wet with human blood!

Marked ye the Angel-spectre that appeared?

By other hands the holy fane[60] is reared High on the point, where, gazing o'er the flood, Confessed, the glittering apparition stood.

And now the sailor, on his watch of night, Sees, like a glimmering star, the far-off light; Or, homeward bound, hears on the twilight bay 160 The slowly-chanted vespers die away!

These scenes are fled and pa.s.sed, yet still sublime, And wearing graceful the gray tints of Time, Upon the steep rock's craggy eminence The embattled castle sits, surveying thence The villages that strew the subject plain, And the long winding of the lucid main: Meantime the stranger marks its turrets high, And muses on the tale of changeful years gone by.

Of this no more: lo! here our journey ends; 170 Wide and more wide the arch of heaven extends, And on this topmost fragment as we lean, We feel removed from dim earth's distant scene.

Lift up the hollow trump[61] that on the ground Is cast, and let it, rolling its long sound, Speak to the surge below, that we may gain Tidings from those who traverse the wide main.

Or tread we now some spot of wizard-land, And mark the sable trump, that may command The brazen doors to fly, and with loud call 180 Scare the grim giant in his murky hall!

Hail, solitary castle! that dost crown This desert summit, and supreme look down On the long-lessening landscape stretched below; Fearless to trace thy inmost haunts we go!

We climb the steps:--No warning signs are sent, No fiery shapes flash on the battlement.

We enter; the long chambers without fear We traverse; no strange echoes meet the ear; No time-worn tapestry spontaneous shakes, 190 No spell-bound maiden from her trance awakes, But Taste's fair hand arrays the peaceful dome, And hither the domestic virtues come; Pleased, while to this secluded scene they bear Sweets that oft wither in a world of care.

Castle! no more thou frownest on the main In the dark terror of thy ancient reign; No more thy long and dreary halls affright, Swept by the stoled spirits of the night; But calm, and heedless of the storms that beat, 200 Here Elegance and Peace a.s.sume their seat; And when the night descends, and Ocean roars, Rocking without upon his darkened sh.o.r.es, These vaulted roofs to gentle sounds reply, The voice of social cheer, or song of harmony.[62]

So fade the modes of life with slow decay, And various ages various hues display!

Fled are the grimly shadows of Romance-- And, pleased, we see in beauteous troop advance New arts, new manners, from the Gothic gloom 210 Escaped, and scattering flowers that sweetlier bloom!

Refinement wakes; before her beaming eye Dispersed, the fumes of feudal darkness fly.

Like orient Morning on the mountain's head, A softer light on life's wide scene is shed; Lapping in bliss the sense of human cares, Hark! Melody pours forth her sweetest airs; And like the shades that on the still lake lie, Of rocks, or fringing woods, or tinted sky, Painting her hues on the clear tablet lays, 220 And her own beauteous world with tender touch displays!

Then Science lifts her form, august and fair, And shakes the night-dews from her glittering hair; Meantime rich Culture clothes the living waste, And purer patterns of Athenian Taste Invite the eye, and wake the kindling sense; And milder Manners, as they play, dispense, Like tepid airs of Spring, their genial influence!

Such is thy boast, Refinement. But deep dyes Oft mar the splendour of thy noontide skies: 230 Then Fancy, sick of follies that deform The face of day, and in the sunshine swarm; Sick of the fluttering fopperies that engage The vain pursuits of a degenerate age; Sick of smooth Sophistry's insidious cant, Or cold Impiety's defying rant; Sick of the muling sentiment that sighs O'er its dead bird, while Want unpitied cries; Sick of the pictures that pale l.u.s.t inflame, And flush the cheek of Love with deep, deep shame; 240 Would fain the shade of elder days recall, The Gothic battlements, the bannered hall; Or list of elfin harps the fabling rhyme, Or wrapped in melancholy trance sublime, Pause o'er the working of some wond'rous tale, Or bid the spectres of the castle hail!

Oh, might I now, amid the frowning storm, Behold, great Vision of the Mount! thy form, Such and so vast as thou wert seen of yore, When looking steadfast to Bayonna's sh.o.r.e, 250 Thou sattest awful on the topmost stone, Making the rock thy solitary throne!

For up the narrow steps, winding with pain, The watch-tower's loftiest platform now we gain.

Departed spirit! fruitless is the prayer, We see alone thy long-deserted chair;[63]

And never more, or in the storm of night, Or by the glimmering moon's illusive light, Or when the flash, with red and hasty glance, Sudden illumes the sea's remote expanse, 260 The sh.o.r.es, the cliffs, the mountain, till again Deep darkness closes on the roaring main, Shalt thou, dread Angel, with unaltered mien, Sublime upon thy cloudy seat be seen!

Yet, musing much on wild tradition's lore, And many a phantom tale, believed of yore, Chiefly remembering the sweet song (whose strain Shall never die) of him who wept in vain For his loved Lycidas, in the wide sea Whelmed, when he cried, great Angel, unto thee, 270 The fabled scene of thy renown we trace, And hail, with thronging thoughts, thy hallowed resting-place!

The stealing Morn goes out--here let us end Fitliest our song, and to the sh.o.r.e descend.

Yet once more, azure ocean, and once more, Ye lighted headlands, and thou stretching sh.o.r.e, Down on the beauties of your scenes we cast A tender look, the longest and the last!

Amid the arch of heaven, extended clear, Scarce the thin flecks of feathery clouds appear; 280 Beyond the long curve of the lessening bay The still Atlantic stretches its bright way; The tall ship moves not on the tranquil brine; Around, the solemn promontories shine; No sounds approach us, save, at times, the cry Of the gray gull, that scarce is heard so high; The billows make no noise, and on the breast Of charmed Ocean, Silence sinks to rest!

Oh, might we thus from heaven's bright battlements Behold the scene Humanity presents; 290 And see, like this, all harmonised and still, And hear no far-off sounds of earthly ill!

Wide landscape of the world, in purest light Arrayed, how fair, how cheering were the sight!

Alas! we think upon this seat of care, And ask, if peace, if harmony be there.

We hear the clangours and the cries that shake The mad world, and their dismal music make; We see gaunt Vice, of dread, enormous size, That fearless in the broad day sweltering lies, 300 And scorns the feeble arrow that a.s.sails His Heaven-defying crest and iron scales; His brows with wan and withered roses crowned, And reeling to the pipe's lascivious sound, We see Intemperance his goblet quaff; And mocking Blasphemy, with mad loud laugh, Acting before high Heaven a direr part, Sport with the weapons that shall pierce his heart!

If o'er the southern wave[64] we turn our sight, More dismal shapes of hideous woe affright: 310 Grim-visaged War, that ruthless, as he hies, Drowns with his trumpet's blast a brother's cries; And Ma.s.sacre, by yelling furies led, With ghastly grin and eye-b.a.l.l.s rolling red!

O'er a vast field, wide heaped with festering slain, Hark! how the Demon Pa.s.sions shout amain, And cry, exulting, while the death-storm lowers, Hurrah! the kingdoms of the world are ours!

O G.o.d! who madest man, I see these things, And wearied wish for a fleet angel's wings, 320 That I might fly away, and hear no more The surge that moans along this mortal sh.o.r.e!

But Joy's unclouded sunshine may not be, Till, Father of all worlds, we rest with Thee!

Then Truth, uplifting from thy works the pall, Shall speak: In wisdom hast Thou made them all; Then angels and archangels, as they gaze, And all the acclaiming host of heaven, shall raise The loud hosannah of eternal praise!

Here all is mixed with sorrow; and the clouds 330 Hang awfully, whose shade the dim earth shrouds; Therefore I mourn for man, and sighing say, As down the steep I wind my homeward way, Oh, when will Earth's long muttering tempests cease, And all be sunshine (like this scene) and peace!

[54] A mine called the Wherry-Mine, beneath the surface of the sea near Penzance.

[55] Three or four sheep were seen rambling among the precipices, and picking here and there a blade of gra.s.s; but in general the rock is naked, and extremely steep and craggy.

[56] Tradition reports that the rock was anciently connected by a large tract of land with the Isles of Scilly, and that the whole s.p.a.ce between was inundated by an incursion of the sea.

[57] It is only at high tide the rock is entirely surrounded by the sea; at low water it is accessible by land.

[58] One of the supposed followers of Brutus, to whom Cornwall was allotted. The rather by him liked, says Milton, for that the hugest giants in rocks and caves were said to lurk there; which kind of monsters to deal with was his old exercise.

[59] At the bottom of this mountain, as they were digging for tin, they found spear-heads, axes, _et cet._--_Camden._

[60] A convent built on the top of the rock, where the apparition of St Michael was said to have appeared.

[61] A speaking-trumpet lying on the ground.

[62] This and the foregoing reflections were suggested by seeing instruments of music, books, _et cet._, in an apartment, elegantly but appropriately fitted up.

[63] On the highest turret of the castle is a place called St Michael's Chair.

[64] Alluding to the cruelties committed in France.

ON AN UNFORTUNATE AND BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1783.

Oh, Mary, when distress and anguish came, And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame; When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled, And Want bowed low thy unsupported head; Sure sad Humanity a tear might give, And Virtue say, Live, beauteous sufferer, live!

But should there one be found, (amidst the few Who with compa.s.sion thy last pangs might view), One who beheld thy errors with a tear, To whom the ruins of thy heart were dear, 10 Who fondly hoped, the ruthful season past, Thy faded virtues might revive at last; Should such be found--oh! when he saw thee lie, Closing on every earthly hope thine eye; When he beheld despair, with rueful trace, Mark the strange features of thy altered face; When he beheld, as painful death drew nigh, Thy pale, pale cheek, thy feebly lifted eye, Thy chill, shrunk hand, hung down as in despair, Or slowly raised, with many a muttered prayer;-- 20 When thus, in early youth, he saw thee bend Poor to the grave, and die without a friend; Some sadder feelings might unbidden start, And more than common pity touch his heart!

The eventful scene is closed; with pausing dread And sorrow I drew nigh the silent bed; Thy look was calm--thy heart was cold and still, As if the world had never used it ill; Methought the last faint smile, with traces weak, Still seemed to linger on thy faded cheek. 30 Poor Mary! though most beauteous in thy face, Ere sorrow touched it, beamed each lovely grace; Yet, oh! thy living features never wore A look so sweet, so eloquent before, As this, which bids all human pa.s.sions cease, And tells my pitying heart you died in peace!

HYMN TO WODEN.

G.o.d of the battle, hear our prayer!

By the lifted falchion's glare; By the uncouth fane sublime, Marked with many a Runic rhyme; By the "weird sisters"[65] dread, That, posting through the battle red, Choose the slain, and with them go To Valhalla's halls below, Where the phantom-chiefs prolong Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 10 And their dreadful beverage drain From the skulls of warriors slain: G.o.d of the battle, hear our prayer; And may we thy banquet share!

Save us, G.o.d, from slow disease; From pains that the brave spirit freeze; From the burning fever's rage; From wailings of unhonoured age, Drawing painful his last breath; Give us in the battle death! 20 Let us lift our glittering shield, And perish, perish in the field!

Now o'er c.u.mri's hills of snow To death, or victory, we go; Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; See! they bind their yellow hair; Frenzy flashes from their eye, They fly--our foes before them fly!

Woden, in thy empire drear, Thou the groans of death dost hear, 30 And welcome to thy dusky hall Those that for their country fall!

Hail, all hail the G.o.dlike train, That with thee the goblet drain; Or with many a huge compeer, Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear!

Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread Echo to their giant tread, And ten thousand thousand shields Flash lightning o'er the glimmering fields! 40 Hark! the battle-shouts begin-- Louder sounds the glorious din: Louder than the ice's roar, Bursting on the thawing sh.o.r.e; Or crashing pines that strew the plain, When the whirlwinds hurl the main!

Riding through the death-field red, And singling fast the destined dead, See the fatal sisters fly!

Now my throbbing breast beats high-- 50 Now I urge my panting steed, Where the foemen thickest bleed.