The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 22

Yon fir-crowned summit,[143] and the village scene, Wardour's long sweep of woods, the nearer mill, And high o'er all, the turrets of Font Hill: These views, when summer comes, shall charm no more Him o'er whose welt'ring corse the wild waves roar, Enough: 'twas Honour's voice that awful cried, Glory to him who for his country died!

Yet dreary is her solitude who bends And mourns the best of husbands, fathers, friends!

Oh! when she wakes at midnight, but to shed Fresh tears of anguish on her lonely bed, Thinking on him who is not; then restrain The tear, O G.o.d, and her sad heart sustain!

Giver of life, may she remember still Thy chastening hand, and to thy sovereign will Bow silently; not hopeless, while her eye She raises to a bright futurity, And meekly trusts, in heaven, Thou wilt restore That happiness the world can give no more!

[140] He bore down into the thickest fight with a bugle-horn sounding.

[141] His own words, the last he spoke. If I have here been more particular in this description than in that of the great commander, it will be attributed to private friendship, Captain Cooke having lived in the same village.

[142] Portrait of Captain Cooke's place, at Donhead.

[143] Barker's Hill, near Donhead.

BATTLE OF CORRUNA.

The tide of fate rolls on!--heart-pierced and pale, The gallant soldier lies,[144] nor aught avail, The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave, From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save, Land of ill.u.s.trious heroes, who, of yore, Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore, Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurled Defiance to the conquerors[145] of the world!

Oh, when we hear the agonising tale Of those who, faint, and fugitive, and pale, Saw hourly, hara.s.sed through their long retreat, Some worn companion sinking at their feet, Yet even in danger and from toil more bold, Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled;-- While tears of pity mingle with applause, On the dread scene in silence let us pause; Yes, pause, and ask, Is not thy awful hand Stretched out, O G.o.d, o'er a devoted land, Whose vales of beauty Nature spread in vain, Where misery moaned on the uncultured plain, Where Bigotry went by with jealous scowl, Where Superst.i.tion muttered in his cowl; Whilst o'er the Inquisition's dismal holds, Its horrid banner waved in bleeding folds!

And dost thou thus, Lord of all might, fulfil With wreck and tempests thy eternal will, Shatter the arms in which weak kingdoms trust, And strew their scattered ensigns in the dust?

Oh, if no human wisdom may withstand The terrors, Lord, of thy uplifted hand; If the dark tide no prowess can control, Yet nearer, charged with dread commission, roll; Still may my country's ark majestic ride, Though sole, yet safe, on the conflicting tide; Till hushed be the wild rocking of the blast, And the red storm of death be overpast!

[144] Sir John Moore.

[145] "Near Mount Medulio, the remains of a great native force destroyed themselves in sight of a Roman army, rather than submit to bondage."--_Southey's Travels in Spain and Portugal._

SKETCH FROM BOWDEN HILL AFTER SICKNESS.

How cheering are thy prospects, airy hill, To him who, pale and languid, on thy brow Pauses, respiring, and bids hail again The upland breeze, the comfortable sun, And all the landscape's hues! Upon the point Of the descending steep I stand.

How rich, How mantling in the gay and gorgeous tints Of summer! far beneath me, sweeping on, From field to field, from vale to cultured vale, The prospect spreads its crowded beauties wide!

Long lines of sunshine, and of shadow, streak The farthest distance; where the pa.s.sing light Alternate falls, 'mid undistinguished trees, White dots of gleamy domes, and peeping towers, As from the painter's instant touch, appear.

As thus the eye ranges from hill to hill, Here white with pa.s.sing sunshine, there with trees Innumerable shaded, cl.u.s.tering more, As the long vale retires, the ample scene, Warm with new grace and beauty, seems to live.

Lives! all is animation! beauty! hope!

s.n.a.t.c.hed from the dark and dreamless grave, so late, Shall I pa.s.s silent, now first issuing forth, To feel again thy fragrance, to respire Thy breath, to hail thy look, thy living look, O Nature!

Let me the deep joy contrast, Which now the inmost heart like music fills, With the sick chamber's sorrows, oft from morn, Silent, till lingering eve, save when the sound Of whispers steal, and bodings breathed more low, As friends approach the pillow: so awaked From deadly trance, the sick man lifts his eyes, Then in despondence closes them on all, All earth's fond wishes! Oh, how changed are now His thoughts! he sees rich nature glowing round, He feels her influence! languid with delight, And whilst his eye is filled with transient fire, He almost thinks he hears her gently say, Live, live! O Nature, thee, in the soft winds, Thee, in the soothing sound of summer leaves, When the still earth lies sultry; thee, methinks, Ev'n now I hear bid welcome to thy vales And woods again!

And I will welcome them, And pour, as erst, the song of heartfelt praise.

From yonder line, where fade the farthest hills Which bound the blue lap of the swelling vale, On whose last line, seen like a beacon, hangs Thy tower,[146] benevolent, accomplished h.o.a.re, To where I stand, how wide the interval!

Yet instantaneous, to the hurrying eye Displayed; though peeping towers and villages Thick scattered, 'mid the intermingling elms, And towns remotely marked by hovering smoke, And gra.s.s-green pastures with their herds, and seats Of rural beauty, cottages and farms, Unnumbered as the hedgerows, lie between!

Roaming at large to where the gray sky bends, The eye scarce knows to rest, till back recalled By yonder ivied cloisters[147] in the plain, Whose turret, peeping pale above the shade, Smiles in the venerable grace of years.

As the few threads of age's silver hairs, Just sprinkled o'er the forehead, lend a grace Of saintly reverence, seemly, though compared With blooming Mary's tresses like the morn; So the gray weather-stained towers yet wear A secret charm impressive, though opposed To views in verdure flourishing, the woods, And scenes of Attic taste, that glitter near.[148]

O venerable pile,[149] though now no more The pensive pa.s.senger, at evening, hears The slowly-chanted vesper; or the sounds Of "Miserere," die along the vale; Yet piety and honoured age[150] retired, There hold their blameless sojourn, ere the bowl Be broken, or the silver chord be loosed.

Nor can I pa.s.s, s.n.a.t.c.hed from untimely fate, Without a secret prayer, that so my age, When many a circling season has declined, In charity and peace may wait its close.

Yet still be with me, O delightful friend, Soothing companion of my vacant hours, Oh, still be with me, Spirit of the Muse!

Not to subdue, or hold in moody spell, The erring senses, but to animate And warm my heart, where'er the prospect smiles, With Nature's fairest views; not to display Vain ostentations of a poet's art, But silent, and a.s.sociate of my joys Or sorrows, to infuse a tenderness, A thought, that seems to mingle, as I gaze, With all the works of G.o.d. So cheer my path, From youth to sober manhood, till the light Of evening smile upon the fading scene.

And though no pealing clarion swell my fame, When all my days are gone; let me not pa.s.s, Like the forgotten clouds of yesterday, Nor unremembered by the fatherless Of the loved village where my bones are laid.

[146] Sir Richard h.o.a.re's tower at Stourhead.

[147] Lac.o.c.k Abbey.

[148] Bowood, Mr d.i.c.kenson's and Mr Methuen's magnificent mansion.

[149] Lac.o.c.k Abbey.

[150] The venerable Catholic Countess, who resides in the abbey.

SUN-DIAL, IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.

So pa.s.ses silent o'er the dead thy shade, Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade, And like a summer vapour steal away!

And have not they, who here forgotten lie (Say, h.o.a.ry chronicler of ages past!) Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye, Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast!

Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath; The pastor and his flock alike have slept, And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death.

Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile, As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power; So smiling and so perishing the while.

I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound, When to these scenes a stranger I drew near, Proclaim the tidings to the village round, While memory wept upon the good man's bier.[151]

Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone; While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!

Enough, if we may wait in calm content, The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O G.o.d!

[151] My predecessor, Rev. Nathaniel Hume, canon residentiary and precentor of Salisbury, a man of exemplary benevolence.

THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY BY SEA:

A DESCRIPTIVE AND HISTORICAL POEM.

INTRODUCTION.[152]

I need not perhaps inform the reader, that I had before written a Canto on the subject of this poem; but I was dissatisfied with the metre, and felt the necessity of some connecting idea that might give it a degree of unity and coherence.

This difficulty I considered as almost inseparable from the subject; I therefore relinquished the design of making an extended poem on events, which, though highly interesting and poetical, were too unconnected with each other to unite properly in one regular whole. But on being kindly permitted to peruse the sheets of Mr Clarke's valuable work on the _History of Navigation_, I conceived (without supposing _historically_ with him that all ideas of navigation were derived from the ark of Noah) that I might adopt the circ.u.mstance _poetically_, as capable of furnishing an unity of design; besides which, it had the advantage of giving a more serious cast and character to the whole.

To obviate such objections as might be made by those who, from an inattentive survey, might imagine there was any carelessness of arrangement, I shall lay before the reader a general a.n.a.lysis of the several books; and, I trust, he will readily perceive a leading principle, on which the poem begins, proceeds, and ends.

I feel almost a necessity for doing this in _justice_ to myself, as some compositions have been certainly misunderstood, where the _connexion_ might, by the least attention, have been perceived. In going over part of the same ground which I had taken before, I could not always avoid the use of similar expressions.

I trust I need not apologise for having, in some instances, departed from strict historical facts. It is not true that Camoens sailed with De Gama, though, from the authority of Voltaire, it has been sometimes supposed that he did. There are other circ.u.mstances for which I may have less reason to expect pardon. The Egyptians were never, or but for a short time, a maritime nation. In answer to this, I must say, that _history_ and _poetry_ are two things; and though the poet has no right to _contradict_ the historian, yet, if he find two opinions upon points of history, he may certainly take that which is most susceptible of poetical ornament; particularly if it have sufficient plausibility, and the sanction of respectable names.

In deducing the first maritime attempts from _Thebes_, so called from _Thebaoth_, the _Ark_, founded by the sons of Cush, who first inhabited the caves on the granite mountains of Ethiopia, I have followed the idea of Bruce, which has many testimonies, particularly that of Herodotus, in its favour. In making the ships of Ammon first pa.s.s the straits of Babelmandel, and sail to Ophir, I have the authority of Sir Isaac Newton. But still these points must, from their nature, be obscure; the poet, however, has a right to build upon them, whilst what he advances is not in _direct contradiction_ to all historical admitted facts. He may take what is _shadowy_, if it be _plausible_, poetical, and coherent with his general plan. Having said ingenuously thus much, I hope I shall not be severely accused for having admitted, _en pa.s.sant_, some ideas (which may be thought visionary) in the notes, respecting the allusion to the ark in Theocritus, the situation of Ophir, the temple of Solomon, and the algum-tree.

I must also submit to the candour of the critic, the necessity I sometimes felt myself under of varying the verse, and admitting, when the subject seemed particularly to require it, a break into the measure.

He will consider, as this poem is neither didactic, nor epic, that might lead on the mind by diversity of characters, and of prospects; it was therefore necessary (at least I thought myself at liberty so to do) to break the uniformity of the subject by digression, contrast, occasional change of verse, _et cet._ But after all, at a time so unfavourable to long poems, I doubt whether the reader will have patience to accompany me to the end of my _circ.u.mnavigation_. If he do, and if this much larger poetical work than I have ever attempted should be as favourably received as what I have before published has been, I shall sincerely rejoice.