The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 7

Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.[67]

He dropped a pebble--mark! no bubble bright 336 Comes from the bottom--turn away thy sight!

He looks again: O G.o.d! those eye-b.a.l.l.s glare How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!

Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see 340 Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!

I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!

Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid;-- Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed: Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown, There they both rest without a name or stone.

The village maids, who pa.s.s in summer by, Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!

But what of William? Hide me in the mine! 350 He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!

Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright,-- Hide me for ever in forgetful night!

In vain--that form, the cause of all his woes, More sternly terrible in darkness rose!

Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand, The phantom in appalling stillness stand; The letters of the book shone through the night, More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!

Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring 360 A heart, that not the music of the spring, Nor summer piping on the rural plain, Shall ever wake to happiness again!

Ocean, be mine,--wild as thy wastes, to roam From clime to clime!--Ocean, be thou my home!

Some say he died: here he was seen no more; He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep, He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep; When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee, 370 A shape appeared, which none besides could see; Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook, Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

In foreign lands, in darkness or in light, The same dread spectre stood before his sight; If slumber came his aching lids to close, Funereal forms in long procession rose.

Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last; And now she smiled as when, in early life, 380 She lived in hope that she should be his wife; The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay, For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!

Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,-- The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!-- A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train Of mourners, moving to the village fane.

A coffin now is laid in holy ground, That, heavily, returns a hollow sound, When the first earth upon its lid is thrown: 390 That hollow sound now changes to a groan: While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair, And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare, The spectre comes again! It comes more near!

'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold, He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.

And now her hand is laid upon his heart.

Gasping, he wakes--with a convulsive start, He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide-- 400 The pa.s.sing keel is scarcely heard to glide,-- See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!

Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies,-- 404 And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.

Years pa.s.sed away,--at night, or evening close, Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.

Restored from toil and perils of the main, Now William treads his native place again.

Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest sh.o.r.e, 410 Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar, He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild; All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled; Some competence he gained, by years of toil: So, in a cottage, on his native soil, He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail Oft o'er the bay,[68] when suns of summer shone, Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.

At night, when, like the tumult of the tide, 420 Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died, The book of G.o.d was on his pillow laid, He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.

He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay,[69]

Which, from the Mississippi, far away, O'er the Atlantic, to his native land He brought;--and this poor bird fed from his hand.

In the great world there was not one beside For whom he cared, since his own mother died.

Yet manly strength was his, for twenty-years 430 Weighed light upon his frame, though pa.s.sed in tears; His age not forty-two, and in his face Of care more than of age appeared the trace.

Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees, The sights and sounds of life began to please.

Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known 436 Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.

She, patient, mild, compa.s.sionate, and kind, First woke to human sympathies his mind.

He looked affectionately, when her child 440 Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.

This widow and her child, almost unknown, Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.

Her husband was a fisher, one whose life Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife: Night after night exposed upon the main; Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain; His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows No stated hours of labour and repose.

When others to a cheerful home retire, 450 And his wife sits before the evening fire, He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night, Haply is thinking of that social light.

Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain Came down, the tempest swept the howling main; The boat sank in the storm, and he was found, Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.

Seven years had pa.s.sed, and after evening prayer, To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair, And with her little son would sometimes stay, 460 Listening to tales of regions far away.

The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear-- Of battles--of the roving buccaneer-- Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen, And fires, and dances of the savage men.

So William spoke of perils he had pa.s.sed,-- Of voices heard amid the roaring blast; Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft, Upon some melancholy rock are left, Who mark, despairing, at the close of day, 470 Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.

He spoke with pity of the land of slaves-- And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.[70]

It comes! it comes! A melancholy light Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.

'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll; It steers right on, but not a living soul Is there to guide its voyage through the dark, Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!

He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float 480 For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound, And questing turn their bloodshot eye-b.a.l.l.s round.

He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks, Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks, While, heard at distance, in the parting ray, Beyond the furthest promontory's bay, Aerial music swells and dies away!

One night they longer stayed the tale to hear, And Ruth that night "beguiled him of a tear, 490 Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke Which his youth suffered." Then, she pitying spoke; And from that night a softer feeling grew, As calmer prospects rose within his view.

And why not, ere the long night of the dead, The slow descent of life together tread?

The day is fixed; William no more shall roam, William and Ruth shall have one heart--one home: The world shut out, both shall together pray: Both wait the evening of life's changeful day: 500 She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild, And he shall be a father to her child.

Fair rose the morn--the summer air how bland! 503 The blue wave scarcely seems to touch the land.

Again 'tis William's wedding-day! advance-- For lo! the church and blue slate of Penzance!

Their faith and troth is pledged, the rites are o'er, The nuptial band winds slow along the sh.o.r.e, The smiling boy beside. As thus they pa.s.sed, With sudden blackness rushed the impetuous blast;[71] 510 Deep thunder rolled in long portentous sound, At distance: nearer now, it shakes the ground.

Pale, William sinks, with speechless dread oppressed, As the forked flash seems darted at his breast.

His beating heart is heard,--blanched is his cheek,-- A well-known voice seemed in the storm to speak; Aghast he cried again, with frantic look, Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

By late remorse he died; for, from that day, The judgment on his head, he pined away, 520 And soon an outcast suicide he lay.

By the church-porch rests Mary of Guynear;-- When the first cuckoo startles the cold year, And blue mint[72] on her grave more beauteous grows, One small bird[73] seems to sing for her repose.

Near the Land's-end, so black and weather-beat, He lies, and the dark sea is at his feet.

Thou, who hast heard the tale of the sad maid, Know, conscious guilt is the accusing shade: If thou hast loved some gentle maid and true, 530 Whose first affections never swerved from you; Leave her not--oh! for pity and for truth, 532 Leave her not, tearful in her days of youth!

Too late, the pang of vain remorse shall start, And Conscience thus avenge--a broken heart!

PART FOURTH.

WALK ABROAD--VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL--WRINGTON--"AULD ROBIN GRAY."

The shower is past--the heath-bell, at our feet, Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear Upon the eyelids of a village child!

Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves Gleams, while the pa.s.sing shower above our head Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues Of the fast-fading rainbow,--such is life!

Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad, And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again. 10 No object on the wider sea-line meets The straining vision, but one distant ship, Hanging, as motionless and still, far off, In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.

She seems the ship--the very ship I saw In infancy, and in that very place, Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old Since she was first descried; and there she sits, A solitary thing of the wide main-- As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:-- 20 To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!

Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice 22 Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way Slow up the channel, after many years, Returning from some distant clime, or lands, Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes Count every nearer surge that heaves around!

How many anxious hearts this moment beat With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes, Intensely fixed upon these very hills, 30 Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on-- On--on--into the world of the vast sea, There to be lost: never, with homeward sails, Destined to greet these far-seen hills again, Now fading into mist! So let her speed, And we will pray she may return in joy, When every storm is past! Such is this sea, That shows one wandering ship! How different smile The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine, Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine-- 40 Where I have pa.s.sed the happiest hours of youth-- Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls, And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore, Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,[74] and chid The tide, that came regardless to his feet, A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike Yon solitary sea, the summer shines, There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide, Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave, 50 And sails, at distance, beautifully swell To the light breeze, or pa.s.s, like b.u.t.terflies, Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!-- Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht That turns the wooded point, and silently 55 Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently-- And yet as if she said, as she went on, Who does not gaze at me!

Yon winding sands Were solitary once, as the wide sea. 60 Such I remember them! No sound was heard, Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind, Or of the surge that broke along the sh.o.r.e, Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget, When, once, a visitor from Oxenford, Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth, Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here I could have no companion fit for him-- So whispered youthful vanity--for him Whom Oxford[75] had distinguished,--can my heart 70 Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn, I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round, I listened to the tide's advancing roar, When, for the old and booted fisherman, Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze Of sunrise, I beheld--or was it not A momentary vision?--a fair form-- A female, following, with light, airy step, The wave as it retreated, and again 80 Tripping before it, till it touched her foot, As if in play; and she stood beautiful, Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep, Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.

I looked that she would vanish! She had left, Like me, just left the abode of discipline, And came, in the gay fulness of her heart, When the pale light first glanced along the wave, 88 To play with the wild ocean, like a child; And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear, Ye votaries of German sentiment!)-- Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident, I cast a parting look, that seemed to say, Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled, And left the scene to solitude. Once more We met, and then we parted, in this world To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone The vision of a moment, on the sands, Was never seen again! Now it has pa.s.sed Where all things are forgotten; but it shone 100 To me a sparkle of the morning sun, That trembled on the light wave yesterday, And perished there for ever!

Look around!

Above the winding reach of Severn stands, With ma.s.sy fragments of forsaken towers, Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!

Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand, And deem it some old castle of romance; 110 And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock, Above the wave, fancy it was the form Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen, Lifting her b.l.o.o.d.y dagger, then with shrieks Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound--no sound But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!

There is no bleeding apparition there-- No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!

Surrounded by the works of silent art, And far, far more endearing, by a group 120 Of breathing children, their possessor lives;[76] 121 And ill should I deserve the name of bard-- Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme Without a prayer--an earnest, heartfelt prayer, When one, whose smile I never saw but once, Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms-- Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock-- A living and a lovely bride![77]

How proud, Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud, 130 With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke, Trailing in columns to the midday sun, Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze, And the great stir of commerce, and the noise Of pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing wains, and cars, And sledges, grating in their underpath, And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts And pennants from all nations of the earth, Streaming below the houses, piled aloft, Hill above hill; and every road below 140 Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:-- How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these, Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof, Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,--how proudly girt With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks, Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea-- Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces, That ancient city sits!

From out those trees, 150 Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!

How many woody glens and nooks of shade, 152 With transient sunshine, fill the interval, As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks, Dark, or with fits of desultory light Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road, Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe Allures the lingering traveller to wind, Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow, Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously 160 The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away, Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend, While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!

There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare, Seem as admonishing the nether woods Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge 170 One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern, Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.

And who lives in that far-secluded cot?

Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid, Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age, Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!

Nor pa.s.s we Fayland, with its fairy rings Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance, 180 Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam, By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled The rocks, that stern in desolation frown, Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,[78]

Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite 183 More dismal makes its utter dreariness!

But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smiles The seat of cultivated Addington:[79]

And there, that beautiful but solemn church Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend[80] 190 Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends-- With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower, Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.

Is that a magic garden on the edge Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam; While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke (Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke), Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door, 200 That seems to say--England, with all thy crimes, And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws, England, thou only art the poor man's home!

And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen, Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.

The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung, Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.

And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think 210 Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song-- Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too![81]

He, in retirement's literary bower, Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well, Harmonious: nor pa.s.s on without a prayer For her, a.s.sociate of his early fame, 216 Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,[82]

Who now, with slow and gentle decadence, In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven, Waits meekly at the gate of paradise, 220 Smiling at time!

But, hark! there comes a song, Of Scotland's lakes and hills--Auld Robin Gray!

Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed words More sadly soothing; but the melody,[83]

Like some sweet melody of olden times, A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.

Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once-- Sung by a maiden[84] of the south, whose look (Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life, 230 Are sweeter than her song--no minstrel gray, Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"

But would lay down his harp, and when the song Was ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile, To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:--