The Visions of England Part 9

_Other Margaret_; Sister to Edgar the Etheling, and wife to Malcolm. Her life and character are in contrast to the unhappy and unsatisfactory career of Margaret Tudor, whom I have here only treated as at once representing and uniting England, Scotland, and Wales.

LONDON BRIDGE

July 6: 1535

The midnight moaning stream Draws down its gla.s.sy surface through the bridge That o'er the current casts a tower'd ridge, Dark sky-line forms fantastic as a dream; And cresset watch-lights on the bridge-gate gleam, Where 'neath the star-lit dome gaunt masts upbuoy No flag of festive joy, But blanching spectral heads;--their heads, who died Victims to tyrant-pride, Martyrs of Faith and Freedom in the day Of shame and flame and brutal selfish sway.

And one in black array Veiling her Rizpah-misery, to the gate Comes, and with gold and moving speech sedate Buys down the thing aloft, and bears away s.n.a.t.c.h'd from the withering wind and ravens' prey: And as a mother's eyes, joy-soften'd, shed Tears o'er her young child's head, Golden and sweet, from evil saved; so she O'er this, sad-smilingly, Mangled and gray, unwarm'd by human breath, Clasping death's relic with love pa.s.sing death.

So clasping now! and so When death clasps her in turn! e'en in the grave Nursing the precious head she could not save, Tho' through each drop her life-blood yearn'd to flow If but for him she might to scaffold go:-- And O! as from that Hall, with innocent gore Sacred from roof to floor, To that grim other place of blood he went-- What cry of agony rent The twilight,--cry as of an Angel's pain,-- _My father, O my father_! . . . and in vain!

Then, as on those who lie Cast out from bliss, the days of joy come back, And all the soul with wormwood sweetness rack, So in that trance of dreadful ecstasy The vision of her girlhood glinted by:-- And how the father through their garden stray'd, And, child with children, play'd, And teased the rabbit-hutch, and fed the dove Before him from above Alighting,--in his visitation sweet, Led on by little hands, and eager feet.

Hence among those he stands, Elect ones, ever in whose ears the word _He that offends these little ones_ . . . is heard, With love and kisses smiling-out commands, And all the tender hearts within his hands; Seeing, in every child that goes, a flower From Eden's nursery bower, A little stray from Heaven, for reverence here Sent down, and comfort dear: All care well paid-for by one pure caress, And life made happy in their happiness.

He too, in deeper lore Than woman's in those early days, or yet,-- Train'd step by step his youthful Margaret; The wonders of that amaranthine store Which h.e.l.las and Hesperia evermore Lavish, to strengthen and refine the race:-- For, in his large embrace, The light of faith with that new light combined To purify the mind:-- A crystal soul, a heart without disguise, All wisdom's lover, and through love, all-wise.

--O face she ne'er will see,-- Gray eyes, and careless hair, and mobile lips From which the shaft of kindly satire slips Healing its wound with human sympathy; The heart-deep smile; the tear-concealing glee!

O well-known furrows of the reverend brow!

Familiar voice, that now She will not hear nor answer any more,-- Till on the better sh.o.r.e Where love completes the love in life begun, And smooths and knits our ravell'd skein in one!

Blest soul, who through life's course Didst keep the young child's heart unstain'd and whole, To find again the cradle at the goal, Like some fair stream returning to its source;-- Ill fall'n on days of falsehood, greed, and force!

Base days, that win the plaudits of the base, Writ to their own disgrace, With casuist sneer o'erglossing works of blood, Miscalling evil, good; Before some despot-hero falsely named Grovelling in shameful worship unashamed.

--But they of the great race Look equably, not caring much, on foe And fame and misesteem of man below; And with forgiving radiance on their face, And eyes that aim beyond the bourn of s.p.a.ce, Seeing the invisible, glory-clad, go up And drink the absinthine cup, Fill'd nectar-deep by the dear love of Him Slain at Jerusalem To free them from a tyrant worse than this, Changing brief anguish for the heart of bliss.

_Envoy_

--O moaning stream of Time, Heavy with hate and sin and wrong and woe As ocean-ward dost go, Thou also hast thy treasures!--Life, sublime In its own sweet simplicity:--life for love: Heroic martyr-death:-- Man sees them not: but they are seen above.

_One in black array_; Sir T. More's daughter, Margaret Roper.

_That Hall_; Westminster, where More was tried: _That other place_; Tower Hill.

_The vision of her girlhood_; More taught his own children, and was like a child with them. He 'would take grave scholars and statesmen into the garden to see his girls' rabbit-hutches. . . . _I have given you kisses enough_, he wrote to his little ones, _but stripes hardly ever_': (Green, B. V: ch. ii).

_The wonders_; See first note to _Grocyn at Oxford_.

_In his large embrace_; More may be said to have represented the highest aim and effort of the 'new learning' in England. He is the flower of our Renaissance in genius, wisdom, and beauty of nature. 'When ever,' says Erasmus in a famous pa.s.sage, 'did Nature mould a character more gentle, endearing, and happy, than Thomas More's?'

AT FOUNTAINS

1539-1862

Blest hour, as on green happy slopes I lie, Gray walls around and high, While long-ranged arches lessen on the view, And one high gracious curve Of shaftless window frames the limpid blue.

--G.o.d's altar erst, where wind-set rowan now Waves its green-finger'd bough, And the brown tiny creeper mounts the bole With curious eye alert, And beak that tries each insect-haunted hole,

And lives her gentle life from nest to nest, And dies undispossess'd: Whilst all the air is quick with noise of birds Where once the chant went up; Now musical with a song more sweet than words.

Sky-roof'd and bare and deep in dewy sod, Still 'tis the house of G.o.d!

Beauty by desolation unsubdued:-- And all the past is here, Thronging with thought this holy solitude.

I see the taper-stars, the altars gay; And those who crouch and pray; The white-robed crowd in close monastic stole, Who hither fled the world To find the world again within the soul.

Yet here the pang of Love's defeat, the pride Of life unsatisfied, Might win repose or anodyne; here the weak, Armour'd against themselves, Exchange true guiding for obedience meek.

Through day, through night, here, in the fragrant air, Their hours are struck by prayer; Freed from the bonds of freedom, the distress Of choice, on life's storm-sea They gaze unharm'd, and know their happiness.

Till o'er this rock of refuge, deem'd secure, --This palace of the poor, Ascetic luxury, wealth too frankly shown,-- The royal robber swept His l.u.s.tful eye, and seized the prey his own.

--Ah, calm of Nature! Now thou hold'st again Thy sweet and silent reign!

And, as our feverish years their orbit roll, This pure and cloister'd peace In its old healing virtue bathes the soul.

1539 is the year when the greater monasteries, amongst which Fountains in Yorkshire held a prominent place, were confiscated and ruined by Henry VIII.

_The tiny creeper_; Certhia Familiaris; the smallest of our birds after the wren. It belongs to a cla.s.s nearly related to the woodp.e.c.k.e.r.

_White-robed_; The colour of the Cistercian order, to which Fountains belonged.

SIR HUGH WILLOUGHBY

1553-4

Two ships upon the steel-blue Arctic seas When day was long and night itself was day, Forged heavily before the South West breeze As to the steadfast star they curved their way; Two specks of man, two only signs of life, Where with all breathing things white Death keeps endless strife.

The Northern Cape is sunk: and to the crew This zone of sea, with ice-floes wedged and rough, Domed by its own pure height of tender blue, Seems like a world from the great world cut off: While, round the horizon clasp'd, a ring of white, Snow-blink from snows unseen, walls them with angry light.

Now that long day compact of many days Breaks up and wanes; and equal night beholds Their hapless driftage past uncharted bays, And in her chilling, killing arms enfolds: While the near stars a thousand arrowy darts Bend from their diamond eyes, as the low sun departs.

Or the weird Northern Dawn in idle play Mocks their sad souls, now trickling down the sky In many-quivering lines of golden spray, Then blazing out, an Iris-arch on high, With fiery lances fill'd and feathery bars, And sheeny veils that hide or half-reveal the stars.

A silent spectacle! Yet sounds, 'tis said, On their forlornness broke; a hissing cry Of mockery and wild laugh, as, overhead, Those blight fantastic squadrons flaunted by:-- And that false dawn, long nickering, died away, And the Sun came not forth, and Heaven withheld the day.

O King Hyperion, o'er the Delphic dale Reigning meanwhile in glory, Ocean know Thine absence, and outstretch'd an icy veil, A marble pavement, o'er his waters blue; Past the Varangian fiord and Zembla h.o.a.r, And from Petsora north to dark Arzina's sh.o.r.e:--

An iron ridge o'erhung with toppling snow And giant beards of icicled cascade:-- Where, frost-imprison'd as the long mouths go, The _Good Hope_ and her mate-ship lay embay'd; And those brave crews knew that all hope was gone; England be seen no more; no more the living sun.

A store that daily lessens 'neath their eyes; A little dole of light and fire and food:-- While Night upon them like a vampyre lies Bleaching the frame and thinning out the blood; And through the ships the frost-bit timbers groan, And the Guloine prowls round, with dull heart-curdling moan.