For in that face they saw the last, Last lingering look of clay, that tames All pride; by which all happiness is blighted. Said Merlin, "Mighty King, fair Lords, Away with feast and tilt and tourney! Ye saw, throughout this royal House, Ye heard, a rocking marvellous Of turrets, and a clash of swords Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. Lo! by a destiny well known
To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow; This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed
Where she by shipwreck had been thrown; Ill sight! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." "Though vast thy power, thy words are weak,"
Exclaimed the King, "a mockery hateful; Dutiful Child, her lot how hard!
Is this her piety's reward?
Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek! O winds without remorse! O shore ungrateful! Rich robes are fretted by the moth; Towers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder; Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate A Father's sorrow for her fate? He will repent him of his troth;
His brain will burn, his stout heart split
Her birth was heathen; but a fence Of holy Angels round her hovered: A Lady added to my court
So fair, of such divine report And worship, seemed a recompense For fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered. Ask not for whom, O Champions true! She was reserved by me her life's betrayer; She who was meant to be a bride Is now a corse: then put aside
Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance due
Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her."
"The tomb," said Merlin, "may not close Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty; Not froward to thy sovereign will Esteem me, Liege! if I, whose skill Wafted her hither, interpose
To check this pious haste of erring duty.
My books command me to lay bare The secret thou art bent on keeping: Here must a high attest be given, What Bridegroom was for her ordained by Heaven:
And in my glass significants there are Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping.
For this, approaching One by One, Thy Knights must touch the cold hand of the Virgin;
A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." "So be it," said the King:-"anon, Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial; Knights, each in order as ye stand Step forth."-To touch the pallid hand Sir Agravaine advanced; no sign he won From Heaven or earth;-Sir Kaye had like denial.
Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away;
Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure; Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere He reached that ebon car, the bier Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel lay, Full thrice had crossed himself in meek com- posure.
Imagine (but ye Saints! who can?) How in still air the balance trembled- The wishes, peradventure the despites.
That overcame some not ungenerous Knights: And all the thoughts that lengthened out a
Whereat, a tender twilight streak
Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek; And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow.
Deep was the awe, the rapture high,
Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining,
When, to the mouth, relenting Death Allowed a soft and flower-like breath, Precursor to a timid sigh,
To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. In silence did King Arthur gaze
Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; In silence watched the gentle strife Of Nature leading back to life; Then eased his soul at length by praise Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen-the blissful Mary.
Then said he, "Take her to thy heart,
Sir Galahad! a treasure, that God giveth,
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee Through mortal change and immortality; Be happy and unenvied, thou who art A goodly Knight that hath no peer that liveth!" Not long the Nuptials were delayed; And sage tradition still rehearses The pomp, the glory of that hour When toward the altar from her bower
King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses;- Who shrinks not from alliance
Of evil with good Powers To God proclaims defiance, And mocks whom he adores.
A Ship to Christ devoted
From the Land of Nile did go; Alas! the bright Ship floated, An Idol at her prow.
By magic domination, The Heaven-permitted vent Of purblind mortal passion, Was wrought her punishment. The Flower, the Form within it, What served thee in her need? Her port she could not win it, Nor from mishap be freed. The tempest overcame her, And she was seen no more; But gently, gently blame her- She cast a Pearl ashore. The Maid to Jesu hearkened, And kept to him her faith, Till sense in death was darkened, Or sleep akin to death.
But Angels round her pillow Kept watch, a viewless band; And, billow favouring billow, She reached the destined strand. Blest Pair! whate'er befal you, Your faith in Him approve Who from frail earth can call you To bowers of endless love!
THE RIVER DUDDON.
A SERIES OF SONNETS.
THE RIVER DUDDON rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire; and, having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Millum.
TO THE REV. DR WORDSWORTH.
(WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820) The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand! And who but listened?-till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim: The greeting given, the music played, In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And " merry Christmas" wished to all! O Brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.
Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite; And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light Which Nature and these rustic Powers, In simple childhood, spread through ours! For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unclaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear-and sink again to sleep!
NOT envying Latian shades-if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Blandusja, prattling as when long ago
Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence;
The mutual nod, -the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid.
Ah! not for emerald fields alone,
With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone
Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared
The ground where we were born and reared! Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, Usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, Mountains old! Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought That slights this passion, or condemns; If thee fond Fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams, and greener bowers Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days; Moments, to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal, And all the far-off past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial City's din Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe, That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy!
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing: Careless of flowers that in perennial blow Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling;
How shall I paint thee?-Be this naked stone My seat, while I give way to such intent; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, Make to the eyes of men thy features known. But as of all those tripping lambs not one Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent To thy beginning nought that doth present Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare; Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth!
TAKE, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take This parting glance, no negligent adieu! A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue
The curves, a loosely scattered chain doth make;
Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through
Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill Robed instantly in garb of snow-white foam; And laughing dares the Adventurer, who hath clomb
So high, a rival purpose to fulfil;
Else let the dastard backward wend, and
Seeking less bold achievement, where he will!
SOLE listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy moundUnfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid
"CHANGE me, some God, into that breathing rose !"
The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, The envied flower beholding, as it lies On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose; Or he would pass into her bird, that throws The darts of song from out its wiry cage; Enraptured, could he for himself engage The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows,
And what the little careless innocent Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice! There are whose calmer mind it would content To be an unculled floweret of the glen, Fearless of plough and scythe; or darkling That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice.
THE struggling Rill insensibly is grown Into a Brook of loud and stately march, Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch; And, for like use, lo! what might seem a zone Chosen for ornament - stone matched with
In studied symmetry, with interspace For the clear waters to pursue their race Without restraint. How swiftly have they
flown, Succeeding-still succeeding! Here the Child Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild,
His budding courage to the proof; and here Declining Manhood learns to note the sly And sure encroachments of infirmity, Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how
NOT so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance With prompt emotion, urging them to pass; A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass; Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance; To stop ashamed-too timid to advance; She ventures once again-another pause! His outstretched hand He tauntingly with- draws-
She sues for help with piteous utterance! Chidden she chides again; the thrilling touch Both feel, when he renews the wished-for aid: Ah! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much,
Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed.
The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, see The struggle, clap their wings for victory!
No fiction was it of the antique age: A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, Is of the very foot-marks unbereft Which tiny Elves impressed;-on that smooth
Dancing with all their brilliant equipage In secret revels-haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe-Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted Mother to assuage
When the broad oak drops, a leafless skeleton, And the solidities of mortal pride,
Palace and tower, are crumbled into dust!The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide
Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set: Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse-we
And, if thou canst, leave them without regret !
HAIL to the fields-with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
And one small hamlet, under a green hill Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill!
A glance suffices:-should we wish for more, Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds roar
Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash
The matted forests of Ontario's shore By wasteful steel unsmitten-then would I Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale, Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, Laugh with the generous household heartily At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale !
O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd, and his Cot
Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude; Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude A field or two of brighter green, or plot Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot Of stationary sunshine:- thou hast viewed These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave, Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, Though simple thy companions were and few; And through this wilderness a passage cleave The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pur- Attended but by thy own voice, save when
FROM this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold A gloomy NICHE, capacious, blank, and cold;
Her grief with, as she might!-But, where, A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey;
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