The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 33

ELIZ. Now, my Lord Cardinal, what is the will Of our great lords with me? Your Grace well knows I am a helpless woman, have no power; My only wish, for what of life remains, Prayer and repose, and for my poor child here Safety.

CAR. The Council, madam, wish no less; But, for your son, they deem his durance here Breeds ill report. This separation, too, Of those in blood allied, almost of years The same, who have been cradled in one lap, What can it say, but that one brother stands In peril of the other? And, besides, Were it not for the comfort of them both That they should be together? Sport, not care, Becomes their early years.

ELIZ. I say not nay; It is most fitting that my youngest son Were with the king, his brother; in good faith, I know it would be comfort to them both: But, when I think upon the tender years, Even of the eldest, I must also think A mother's custody were best for either.

You have no children, else I would not ask, Is there a guardian like a mother's love?

Richard, look up! This good man here intends No harm to me or you. Look up, my boy!

No power on earth, nothing but death itself Shall sever us.

What would you more, my Lord?

CAR. Madam, no man contendeth that your Grace Is not the fittest guardian of your child, And tenderest; but, if so it pleases you Here to lie hid, shut out from all the world, Be it for humour or for jealousy, We hold it meetest, that no power on earth Should so detain a brother of the King.

And let me add, when reasons of the state Required the absence of your eldest son, Yourself were well content.

ELIZ. Not very well; Nor is the case the same; one was in health, The other here declines; and let me marvel That _he_, the Lord Protector of this realm, Should wish him out; for, should aught ill betide, Suspicion, in some tempers, might arise Against the keeping of his Grace. My Lord, Do they complain that my child Richard here Is with his desolate and widowed mother, Who has no other comfort? Do they claim His presence, for that here his residence Consorts not with his fortunes? I am fixed Not to come forth and jeopardy his life.

CAR. Jeopardy! Where, and how;--why should, indeed, Your friends have any fears? Can you say why?

ELIZ. Truly; nor why in prison they should be, As now they are, I know no reason why.

But this I know, that they who, without colour, Have cast them into prison, if they will, Their deaths may compa.s.s with as little cause.

My Lord, no more of this.

CAR. My gracious queen, This only let me say; if, by arrest, Your Grace's high and honourable kin Be now confined, when trial has been had, They shall do well; and for your Grace's self, There never was, nor can be, jeopardy.

ELIZ. Why should I trust? That I am innocent!

And were they guilty? That I am more loved, Even by those enemies, who only hate Them for my sake!

Therefore I will not forth, Nor shall my son,--here will we both abide.

These shrines shall be the world to him and me; These monuments our sad companions; Or when, as now, the morning sunshine streams Slant from the rich-hued window's height, and rests On yonder tomb, it shall discourse to me Of the brief sunshine in the gloom of life.

No, of heaven's light upon the silent grave; Of the tired traveller's eternal home; Of hope and joy beyond this vale of tears.

CAR. Then pardon me. We will not bandy words Further. If it shall please you, generous queen, To yield your son, I pledge my life and soul, Not only for a surety, but estate.

If resolutely still you answer no, We shall forthwith depart, for nevermore Will I be suitor in this business Unto your Majesty, who thus accuse, Either of want of knowledge or of truth, Those who would stake their lives on the event.

Madam, farewell!

ELIZ. [_after a pause_]. Stay, let me think again.

If you say sooth--and I have found you ever, My Lord, a faithful friend and counsellor-- Into your hands I here resign, in trust, My dearest treasure upon earth, my son.

Of you I will require him, before Heaven; Yet, for the love which his dead father bore you, For kindnesses of old, and for that trust The king, my husband, ever placed in you, Think, if a wretched mother fear too much, Oh think, and be you wary, lest you fear Too little!

My poor child, here then we part!

Richard! Almighty G.o.d shower on your head His blessings, when your mother is no more.

Farewell, my own sweet son! Yet, ere we part, Kiss me again, G.o.d only knows, poor babe, Whether in this world we shall meet again!

Nay, my boy Richard, let me dry thy tears, Or hide them in my bosom; dearest child, G.o.d's blessing rest with thee!--farewell, farewell!

My heart is almost broken--oh, farewell!

CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!

Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried, Liberty! and the sh.o.r.es, from age to age Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied, Liberty! But a spectre at his side Stood mocking, and its dart uplifting high Smote him; he sank to earth in life's fair pride: Sparta! thy rocks echoed another cry, And old Ilissus sighed, Die, generous exile, die!

I will not ask sad pity to deplore His wayward errors, who thus early died; Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more, Will I say aught of genius misapplied; Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride.

But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave, Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side, And pray thy spirit may such quiet have, That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave.

So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage!

Ends in that region, in that land renowned, Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page, And on the Muses' consecrated ground; His pale cheek fading where his brows were bound With their unfading wreath! I will not call The nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound, But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall, And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral.

Slow move the plumed hea.r.s.e, the mourning train, I mark the long procession with a sigh, Silently pa.s.sing to that village fane Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie; Where sleeps the mother, who with tearful eye Pondering the fortunes of thy onward road, Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy; Who here, released from every human load, Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode.

Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak, When first the earth is heaped upon thy head, In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak, She thus might give the welcome of the dead: Here rest, my son, with me--the dream is fled-- The motley mask and the great coil are o'er; Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed, Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar Of earth, and fretting pa.s.sions waste the heart no more.

Here rest!--on all thy wanderings peace repose, After the fever of thy toilsome way; No interruption this long silence knows; Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray; The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey: Here both shall sleep in peace till earth and sea Give up their dead, at that last awful day, King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me; And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!

THE EGYPTIAN TOMB.

Pomp of Egypt's elder day, Shade of the mighty pa.s.sed away, Whose giant works still frown sublime 'Mid the twilight shades of Time; Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude, That strew the sandy solitude, Lo! before our startled eyes, As at a wizard's wand, ye rise, Glimmering larger through the gloom!

While on the secrets of the tomb, Rapt in other times, we gaze, The Mother Queen of ancient days, Her mystic symbol in her hand, Great Isis, seems herself to stand.

From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim, Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?

And saw ye not in order dread The long procession of the dead?

Forms that the night of years concealed, As by a flash, are here revealed; Chiefs who sang the victor song; Sceptred kings,--a shadowy throng,-- From slumber of three thousand years Each, as in light and life, appears, Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast, Three thousand years have silent pa.s.sed, Suns of empire risen and set, Whose story Time can ne'er forget, Time, in the morning of her pride Immense, along the Nile's green side, The City[197] of the Sun appeared, And her gigantic image reared.

As Memnon, like a trembling string When the sun, with rising ray, Streaked the lonely desert gray, Sent forth its magic murmuring, That just was heard,--then died away; So pa.s.sed, O Thebes! thy morning pride!

Thy glory was the sound that died!

Dark city of the desolate, Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great!

This busy-peopled isle was then A waste, or roamed by savage men Whose gay descendants now appear To mark thy wreck of glory here.

Phantom of that city old, Whose mystic spoils I now behold, A kingdom's sepulchre, oh say, Shall Albion's own ill.u.s.trious day, Thus darkly close! Her power, her fame Thus pa.s.s away, a shade, a name!

The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke; A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke; It answered not, but pointed as it fled To the black carcase of the sightless dead.

Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife, And the streets ringing to the stir of life.

CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

Look at those sleeping children; softly tread, Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nigh Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry, 'Tis morn, awake! awake! Ah! they are dead!

Yet folded in each other's arms they lie, So still--oh, look! so still and smilingly, So breathing and so beautiful, they seem, As if to die in youth were but to dream Of spring and flowers! Of flowers? Yet nearer stand-- There is a lily in one little hand, Broken, but not faded yet, As if its cup with tears were wet.

So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death, And seeming still to hear her sister's breath, As when she first did lay her head to rest Gently on that sister's breast, And kissed her ere she fell asleep!

The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.

Take up those flowers that fell From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!

Your spirits rest in bliss!

Yet ere with parting prayers we say, Farewell for ever to the insensate clay, Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!

Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wrought This work of nature, feeling, and of thought; Thine, Chantrey, be the fame That joins to immortality thy name.

For these sweet children that so sculptured rest-- A sister's head upon a sister's breast-- Age after age shall pa.s.s away, Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.

For here is no corruption; the cold worm Can never prey upon that beauteous form: This smile of death that fades not, shall engage The deep affections of each distant age!

Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent, Shall gaze with tears upon the monument!

And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath: How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!