The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles - LightNovelsOnl.com
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He had himself been early tried 20 By stern misfortune's doom; For she who loved him drooped and died, And on the green hill's flowery side He raised her gra.s.sy tomb.
What marvel, in his lonely heart, 21 To faith a friends.h.i.+p true, If, when her griefs she did impart, And tears of memory oft would start, If more than pity grew.
With converse mild he oft would seek 22 To sooth her sense of care; As the west wind, with breathings weak, Wakes, on the hectic's faded cheek A smile of faint despair.
The summer's eve was calm and still, 23 When once his harp he strung; Soft as the twilight on the hill, Affection seemed his heart to fill, Whilst eloquent he sung:
When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind, And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe, In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find, All that friends.h.i.+p and kindness and truth could bestow.
Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed, But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine, Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast, And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.
He paused, then with a starting tear, 24 And trembling accent, cried, O lady, hide that look severe,-- The voice of love, of friends.h.i.+p hear, And be again a bride.
Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,-- 25 Lady, he is dead, is dead,-- Far distant wanders his pale ghost,-- His bones by the white surge are tossed, And the wave rolls o'er his head.
She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled, 26 Since thus brave Hoel spake, When last I heard his voice, Behold, This ring,--it is of purest gold,-- Then, keep it for my sake.
When summers seven have robed each tree, 27 And decked the coombs with green, If I come not back, then thou art free, To wed or not, and to think of me As I had never been.
Those seven sad summers now are o'er, 28 And three I yet demand; If in that s.p.a.ce I see no more The friend I ever must deplore, Then take a mourner's hand.
The time is pa.s.sed:--the laugh, the lay, 29 The nuptial feast proclaim; From many a rus.h.i.+ng torrent gray, From many a wild brook's wandering way, The h.o.a.ry minstrels came.
From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed; 30 From Skirid, bleak and high; From Penalt's s.h.a.ggy solitude; From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude, That frowns o'er mazy Wye.
With harps the gallery glittered bright,-- 31 The pealing rafters rung; Far off upon the woods of night, From the tall window's arch, the light Of tapers clear was flung.
The harpers ceased the acclaiming lay, 32 When, with descending beard, Scallop, and staff his steps to stay, As, foot-sore, on his weary way, A pilgrim wan appeared.
Now lend me a harp for St Mary's sake, 33 For my skill I fain would try, A poor man's offering to make, If haply still my hand may wake Some pleasant melody.
With scoffs the minstrel crowd replied, 34 Dost thou a harp request!
And loud in mirth, and swelled with pride, Some his rain-dripping hair deride, And some his sordid vest.
Pilgrim, a harp shall soon be found, 35 Young Hoel instant cried; There lies a harp upon the ground, And none hath ever heard its sound, Since my brave father died.
The harp is brought: upon the frame 36 A filmy cobweb hung; The strings were few, yet 'twas the same; The old man drawing near the flame, The chords imperfect rung:
Oh! cast every care to the wind, And dry, best beloved, the tear; Secure that thou ever shalt find The friend of thy bosom sincere.
She speechless gazed:--he stands confessed,-- 37 The dark eyes of her Hoel s.h.i.+ne; Her heart has forgotten it e'er was oppressed, And she murmurs aloud, as she sinks on his breast, Oh! press my heart to thine.
He turned his look a little s.p.a.ce, 38 To hide the tears of joy; Then rus.h.i.+ng, with a warm embrace, Cried, as he kissed young Hoel's face, My boy, my heart-loved boy!
Proud harpers, strike a louder lay,-- 39 No more forlorn I bend!
Prince Eineon, with the rest, be gay, Though fate hath torn a bride away, Accept a long-lost friend.
This tale I heard, when at the close of day The village harper tuned an ancient lay; He struck his harp, beneath a ruin h.o.a.r, And sung of love and truth, in days of yore, And I retained the song, with counsel sage, To teach _one_ lesson to a wiser age!
[137]
"Wales, England, and Llewellyn, All would I give for a sight of William."
_Giraldus_, vol. i. p. 46.
[138] "Nearly through the centre of the hill that backs the village (Landoga) is a deep ravine, called Clydden-Shoots, which, when the springs are full, forms a beautiful cascade."--_Heath._
AVENUE IN SAVERNAKE FOREST.
How soothing sound the gentle airs that move The innumerable leaves, high overhead, When autumn first, from the long avenue, That lifts its arching height of ancient shade, Steals here and there a leaf!
Within the gloom, In partial suns.h.i.+ne white, some trunks appear, Studding the glens of fern; in solemn shade Some mingle their dark branches, but yet all, All make a sad sweet music, as they move, Not undelightful to a stranger's heart.
They seem to say, in accents audible, Farewell to summer, and farewell the strains Of many a lithe and feathered chorister, That through the depth of these inc.u.mbent woods Made the long summer gladsome.
I have heard To the deep-mingling sounds of organs clear, (When slow the choral anthem rose beneath), The glimmering minster, through its pillared aisles, Echo;--but not more sweet the vaulted roof Rang to those linked harmonies, than here The high wood answers to the lightest breath Of nature.
Oh, may such sweet music steal, Soothing the cares of venerable age,[139]
From public toil retired: may it awake, As, still and slow, the sun of life declines, Remembrances, not mournful, but most sweet; May it, as oft beneath the sylvan shade Their honoured owner strays, come like the sound Of distant seraph harps, yet speaking clear!
How poor is every sound of earthly things, When heaven's own music waits the just and pure!
[139] The Earl of Aylesbury.
DIRGE OF NELSON.
Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more brave Ne'er triumphed on the green-sea wave!
Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave, Toll Nelson's knell!
The ball of Death unerring flew; His cheek has lost its ardent hue; He sinks, amid his gallant crew!
Toll Nelson's knell!
Yet lift, brave chief, thy dying eyes; Hark! loud huzzas around thee rise; Aloft the flag of conquest flies!
The day is won!
The day is won--peace to the brave!
But whilst the joyous streamers wave, We'll think upon the victor's grave!
Peace to the brave!
DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOKE,
OF "THE BELLEROPHON," KILLED IN THE SAME BATTLE.
When anxious Spain, along her rocky sh.o.r.e, From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar; When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke The haze inc.u.mbent, and the clouds of smoke, As oft the volume rolled away, thy mien, Thine eye, serenely terrible, was seen, My gallant friend.--Hark! the shrill bugle[140] calls, Is the day won! alas, he falls--he falls!
His soul from pain, from agony release!
Hear his last murmur, Let me die in peace![141]
Yet still, brave Cooke, thy country's grateful tear, Shall wet the bleeding laurel on thy bier.
But who shall wake to joy, through a long life Of sadness, thy beloved and widowed wife, Who now, perhaps, thinks how the green seas foam, That bear thy victor s.h.i.+p impatient home!
Alas! the well-known views,--the swelling plain, Thy laurel-circled home, endeared in vain, The brook, the church, those chestnuts darkly-green,[142]
