Better he loves each golden curl And his rose of the isles is dying ! “Play uppe, play uppe, o Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells ! Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!" Men say it was a "stolen tyde,". The Lord that sent it, he knows all, But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pieu, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry !) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need ; (0, ride as though you were flying !) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying ! His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry :) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying ! The king looked back at that faithful child ; Wan was the face that answering smiled ; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying! I sat and spun within the doore ; My thread brake off, I raised myne eres : The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth! My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. “Cusha! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, Floweth, floweth, The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; (Silence !) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wille ; None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! “Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, Mellow, mellow ! Hollow, hollow ! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; From the clovers list your head ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot? Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." If it be long — ay, long ago — When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderly. CAROLINE NORTON, HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN. COLNSHIRE. The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; “Pull ! if ye never pulled before ; Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth hee. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where, full syve good miles away, The steeple towered from out the greene. And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. Then bankes came downe with ruinand rout, - So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night ; The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, redand high, A lurid mark, and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang Enderby. They rang the sailor lads to guide, From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I, — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; The swannerds, where their sedges are, Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; And all along where Lindis flows And where the lordly steeple shows. Of pyrate galleys, warping down, They have not spared to wake the towne ; Came riding downe with might and main ; Till all the welkin rang again : The rising tide comes on apace ; Go sailing uppe the market-place !" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" With her two bairns I marked her long; Afar I heard her milking-song." For lo ! along the river's bed And uppe the Lindis raging sped. And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare, The waters laid thee at his doore Ere yet the early dawn was clear : That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, To manye more than myne and mee ; But each will mourne his own (she sayth) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more Goeth, floweth, And rearing Lindis, backwarıl pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. I shall never see her more, Shiver, quiver, A voice from stately Babylon, a mourner's rising cry, And Lydia's marble palaces give back their deep reply ; And like the sounds of distant winds o'er ocean's billows sent, Ecbatana, thy storied walls send forth the wild lament. We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; So full of life and light, That we could only say, “She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they.' So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very sitting did it seem, For sure as morning came, To catch the first faint ray, And opens to the day. Their airy cups of blue, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; Round their supports are thrown, As those clear arms whose outstretched plca Claspred all hearts to her own. For he, the dreaded arbiter, a dawning empire's trust, The eagle child of victory, the great, the wise, the just, Assyria's famed and conquering sword, and Media's regal strength, Hath bowed his head to earth beneath a mightier hand at length. And darkly through a sorrowing land Euphrates winds along, And Cydnus with its silver wave hath heard the funeral song ; And through the wide and sultry East, and throngh the frozen North, The tabret and the harp are hushed, the wail of grief goes forth. There is a solitary tomb, with rankling weeds o'er grown, A single palm bends mournfully beside the mould. ering stone Amidst whose leaves the passing breeze with fit ful gust and slow Seems sighing forth a feeble dirge for him who sleeps below. Beside, its sparkling drops of foam a desert foun tain showers; And, floating calm, the lotus wreathes its red and scented flowers, Here lurks the mountain fox unseen beside the vulture's nest; And steals the wild hyena forth, in lone and silent quest. Is this deserted resting-place the couch of fallen might? And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's in spiring light? Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared afar, Howisthy boasted name forgot, and dimmed thine honor's star! Approach, — what saith the graven verse ? “Alas for human priile ! Dominion's envied gifts were mine, nor earth her praise denied. Thou traveller, if a suppliant's voice find echo in thy breast, 0, envy not the little dust that hides my mortal rest!" in our aching en er thy green piin! y deus toogtes is to sustain ; Oves of Paradise we shall come Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; The crags repeat the raven's croak In symphony austere ; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, And mists that spread the flying shroud ; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier holds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, awhile The shepherd stood ; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may ; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground. The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear ! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear. He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell ! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side. How nourished here through such long time He knows who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate ! TOMB OF CIAS e?y Babylon, a names ANONYMOUS. HELVELLYN. A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks ; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake' of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed ; Its motions, too, are wild and shy, With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry; Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below ! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. th, ad to earth beneath a szt: gth. h a sortowing land Expat its silrer ware hath brand HELVELLYN. [In the spring of 1805 a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months af. terwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty He'vellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide : de and sultry Esasi, akitoa Worth, harp are hushel -- t-salt orth. SIR WALTER SCOTT. reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was And more stately thy couch by this desert lake yelling, lying, And starting around me the echoes replied. Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, On the right, Striden Edge round the Red Tarn With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, was bending, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. COUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain (The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church heather, of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Caur de Lion, who Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitreris decay, means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.] Like the corpse ofan outcast abandoned to weather, Torches were blazing clear, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Hymns pealing deep and slow, In the church of Fontevraud. And warriors slept beneath, On the settled face of death. On the settled face of death When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? A strong and ruddy glare, How many long days and long nights didst thou Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there; number Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? As if each deeply furrowed trace And, 0, was it meet that — no requiem read Of earthly years to show, Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore Had surely closed in woe! him, The marble floor was swept And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before By many a long dark stole, him As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? Sang mass for the parted soul ; And solemn were the strains they poured When a prince to the fate of the Peasant has Through the stillness of the night, yielded, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted And the silent king in sight. hall, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, There was heard a heavy clang, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : As of steel-girt men the tread, Through the courts, at deep midnight, the And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang torches are gleaming; With a sounding thrill of dread ; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are And the holy chant was hushed awhile, beaming ; As, by the torch's flame, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is stream. A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle ing, With a mail-clad leader came. Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. He came with haughty look, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, An eagle glance and clear ; To lay down thy head like the meek mountain But his proud heart through its breastplate shook lamb, When he stood beside the bier ! When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge He stood there still with a drooping brow, in stature, And clasped hands o'er it raised ;And draws his last sob by the side of his for his father lay before him low, dam. It was Caur de Lion gazed ! |
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