Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away,
That rude inscription uneffaced will last,
Unaltered by the storm or wintry blast.
Oh, while well pleased the lettered traveller roams
Among old temples, palaces, and domes,
Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time,
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime,
Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride,
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side,
Oh, be it mine aloof from public strife
To mark the changes of domestic life,
The altered scenes where once I bore a part,
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart.
As when the merry bells with echoing sound
Proclaim the news of victory around,
Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread
Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead,
All join the loud huzza with eager breath,
And triumph in the tale of blood and death;
But if extended on the battle-plain,
Cut off in conquest, some dear friend be slain,
Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye,
And suffering nature grieve that one should die.
Cold was the morn and bleak the wintry blast.
Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last.
My bosom bounded as I wandered round
With silent step the long-remembered ground,
Where I had loitered out so many an hour,
Chased the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower,
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace,
Or with mine equals vied amid the chase.
I saw the church where I had slept away
The tedious service of the summer day;
Or listening sad to all the preacher told,
In winter waked, and shivered with the cold.
Oft have my footsteps roamed the sacred ground
Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around,
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall,
Or aged convent tottering to its fall,
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain,
As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again;
For many a long-lost pleasure came to view,
For many a long-past sorrow rose anew;
Where whilome all were friends I stood alone,
Unknowing all I saw,
of all I saw unknown.
There where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest salad of the year;
Where never idle weed to spring was seen,
Rank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads obscene:
Still all around was sad, I saw no more
The playful groupe, nor heard the playful roar;
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee,
It seemed as though the world were changed like me.
Enough! it boots not on the past to dwell,
Fair scene of other years a long farewell.
Rouse up, my soul! it boots not to repine.
Rouse up! for worthier feelings should be thine.
Thy path is plain and straight-that light is given—
Onward in faith-and leave the rest to heaven.
WHAT Wildly-beauteous form,
High on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill,
Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand?
Though speds the thunder there its deep'ning way,
Though round her head the lightnings play,
Undaunted she abides the storm;
She waves her magic wand,
The clouds retire, the storm is still;
Bright beams the sun unwonted light around,
And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground.
Romance! I know thee now,
I know the terrors of thy brow;
I know thine awful mien, thy beaming eye;
And lo! whilst mists arise around
Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground!
Two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky;
Her milder sister loves to rove
Amid Parnassus' laurell'd grove,
On Helicon's harmonious side,
To mark the gurgling streamlet glide;
Meantime through wilder scenes and sterner skies,
From clime to clime the ardent genius flies.
She speeds to yonder shore,
Where ruthless tempests roar,
Where sturdy winter holds his northern reign,
Nor vernal suns relax the ice-piled plain:
Dim shadows circle round her secret seat,
Where wandering, who approach shall hear
The wild wolf rend the air;
Through the cloudy-mantled sky
Shall see the imps of darkness fly,
And hear the sad scream from the grim retreat;
Around her throne
Ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unknown.
Yet lovelier oft in milder sway,
She wends abroad her magic way;
The holy prelate owns her power;
In soft'ning tale relates
The snowy Ethiop's matchless charms,
The outlaw's den, the clang of arms,
And love's too-varying fates;
The storms of persecution lower,
Austere devotion gives the stern command,
"Commit yon impious legend to the fires!"
Calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires,
And saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless land;
High tow'rs his name the sacred list above,
And ev❜n the priest* is prais'd who wrote of blameless love.
Around the tower, whose wall infolds
Young Thora's blooming charms,
Romance's serpent winds his glittering folds;
The warrior clasps his shaggy arms,
The monster falls, the damsel is the spoil,
Matchless reward of Regner's† matchless toil.
* Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than burn his Ethiopics.
+ First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog.
Around the patriot board,
The knights* attend their lord;
The martial sieges hov'ring o'er,
Enrapt the genius views the dauntless band;
Still prompt for innocence to fight,
Or quell the pride of proud oppression's might,
They rush intrepid o'er the land;
She gives them to the minstrel lore,
Hands down her Launcelot's peerless name,
Repays her Tristram's woes with fame;
Borne on the breath of
To future times descends the memory of the throng.
Foremost 'mid the peers of France,
Orlando hurls the death-fraught lance;
Where Durlindana aims the blow,
To darkness sinks the faithless foe;
The horn with magic sound
Spreads deep dismay around;
Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes,
And scatters wide his Paynim foes;
The genius hovers o'er the purple plain
Where Olivero tramples on the slain;
Bayardo speeds his furious course,
High towers Rogero in his matchless force.
Romance the heighten'd tale has caught,
Forth from the sad monastic cell,
Where fiction with devotion loves to dwell,
The sacred legendt flies with many a wonder fraught;
Deep roll the papal thunders round,
And everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound.
Hark! Superstition sounds to war's alarms,
War stalks o'er Palestine with scorching breath,
And triumphs in the feast of death;
All Europe flies to arms:
Enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound,
Devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around.
* Knights of the Round Table.
Instead of forging the life of a saint, Archbishop Turpin was better employed in falsifying the history of Charlemagne.
A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe Ariosto's
poem, founded upon Turpin's history.
Romance before the army flies,
New scenes await her wondering eyes;
Awhile she firms her Godfrey's throne,
And make's Arabia's magic lore her own.
And hark! resound, in mingled sound,
The clang of arms, the shriek of death;
Each streaming gash bedews the ground,
And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath:
Wide through the air the arrows fly,
Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear;
Deep is the cry, when thousands die,
When Cœur de Lion's arm constrains to fear:
Aloft the battle-axe in air
Whirls around confused despair;
Nor Acre's walls can check his course,
Nor Sarzin millions stay his force.
Indignant, firm the warrior stood,
The hungry lion gapes for food;
His fearless eye beheld him nigh,
Unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed:
Romance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die,
And scarce herself believ'd the more than wond'rous deed.
And now, with more terrific mien,
She quits the sad, degenerate scene;
With many a talisman of mightiest pow'r,
Borne in a rubied car, sublime she flies,
Fire-breathing griffins waft her through the skies;
Around her head the innocuous tempest lowers,
To Gallia's favour'd realm she goes,
And quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.
Imagination waves her wizard wand,
Dark shadows mantle o'er the land;
The lightnings flash, the thunders sound,
Convulsive throbs the labouring ground;
What fiends, what monsters, circling round, arise!
High towers of fire aloft aspire,
Deep yells resound amid the skies,
Yclad in arms, to fame's alarms
Her magic warrior flies.
Romance of the Rose, written soon after the Crusades.
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