The Bard of the Sea-Kings : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> The Bard of the Sea-Kings : electronic version. Mrs. T. K. Hervey Electronic text encoded by Charlotte Payne Electronic edition 60Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2007 hervtbardo

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 147 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The bard of the sea-kings : a legend of Kingley-vale ; with other poems Mrs. T. K. Hervey, 1811-1903 by Eleanora Louisa Montagu Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longman London 1833

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler I Suppl:627. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I Suppl:627mf.

All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved, with the exception of running heads, the original prose line breaks, signature markings and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved.

March 7, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. THEBARD OF THE SEA-KINGS, &c. &c.

THE BARD OF THE SEA-KINGSA LEGENDOFKINGLEY-VALE WITH OTHER POEMS BY ELEANORA LOUISA MONTAGU. LONDON: LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMAN. M DCCC XXXIII. TOJOHN FORBES, M. D. F. R. S.&c. &c.THESE POEMSARE INSCRIBEDAS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE TOKENOFESTEEM AND REGARDBY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED FRIEND

E. L. MONTAGU. PREFACE.

KINGLEY-VALE, also called Kingley-Bottom, the scene of the principal poem in the present volume, is a romantic dell or valley, about three miles distant from the City of CHICHESTER, abruptly scooped out, as it were, from the southern declivity of the South-down hills. It is remarkable for its mild, quiet, and solitary beauty, and for its venerable groves of gigantic Yew-trees. It has been consecrated by immemorial tradition as the theatre of a desperate battle fought between some of those war-like tribes of the north, whose piratical incursions so long desolated the shores of England, and whose leaders were known by the name of SEA-KINGS. This piece of legendary history is rendered extremely probable, if it may not be said to be almost verified, by the universality of its belief among the people of the district, by the name which the valley has always borne, and by the existence to this day, on the bill immediately overlooking it, of four large mounds, evidently of a sepulchral character, and in all times regarded as the graves of the great chieftains who fell in the battle.

The name Kingley, is obviously a corruption of the original Saxon word Kinges-lic, Kinges-leich or Kinges-lyke, signifying King's corpse, and has attained its present form by the easy and obvious transformation of a sound of unknown import into one having a direct reference to the tradition of the place. The proper name of the valley is, therefore, Kings-lich Vale—the vale of the dead Kings.∗ The adjoining hill (Bow-Hill, i. e. the hill of Bows) has, in all probability, derived its name from the same origin as the valley, but has been correctly translated from the ancient into the modern language.

The little poem entitled THE BARD OF THE SEA-KINGS, is dedicated to the illustration of some passages in the history just referred to, and it is hoped—if any faith is to be placed in the Muse—that this may now be considered as less doubtful and obscure than heretofore: it is hardly possible to give greater interest to the beautiful locality, than nature and tradition have already conferred upon it.

The time or era of the poem, is the close of the ninth century, about 800 years after the re-edification of the neighbouring city of REGNUM by Cissa, the son of Ella, who bestowed on it his

See Dallaway's Sussex, vol. 1, p. 111.

own name (CISSA-CAESTER—CHICHESTER) and which it has ever since borne.

The reader in perusing the poem is requested to bear in mind that it is altogether conceived in the character of the Bard of the Sea-Kings, and is supposed to be recited by him on the spot where the events narrated in it took place.

CONTENTS. Dedication 5 Preface 7 The Bard of the Sea-Kings 13 Notes to the Bard of the Sea-Kings 37 The Maiden's Dream 43 To Ada Byron 49 The Bard's Anniversary 54 The Bride of the Slain 57 Lucy Ashton to Ravenswood 61 The Poet-Painter 65 The Changed Heart 69 The Haunted Spirit 73 The Dying Minstrel 76 Stanzas to J. F. 80 [THE BARD OF THE SEA-KINGS] The ship-borne warriors of the North, The sons of Woden's race, To battle as to feast went forth With stern and changeless face ; And I, the last of a great line, The self-devoted, long To lift on high the runic sign Which gives their names to song. Motherwell. TheBard of the Sea-Kings. I. THE waves are hush'd in Cissa's bay; The winds are silent in the dell Where proudly once, in battle fray, The Sea-Kings fought and fell. Sad was the hour when o'er the wave Their banners to the breeze they gave, And traced afar the gathering foe From rolling Elbe to Weser's flow: And I—who erst my lyre would string, Of others' warlike deeds to sing, And held in fight an honour'd place (1) To chaunt the glories of my race,— It came—that night, alas! too soon, When I my harp forgot to tune; And now, a feeble bard and old, Remain to weep above their mould. II. Cold, cold upon their shields they lie, And hear no more the sea-bird's wail; The shafts that flew beneath their eye, Are scatter'd, wingless, in the dale: By woody Cymen's winding shore (2) Their stately ships are seen no more; No more the vale their war-cries fill, In dust each bow of battle lies, And lone upon the heathy hill Their kingly tombs arise. Lo! seen from mount and forest round, Four graves with mossy verdure crown'd, Four mounds, from whence at even-tide I mark their shades in silence glide, And spreading far their banners wide Rush to the vale below, And fiercely there, the live-long night, Renew, in visionary fight, The wounds that laid them low; 'Till wakes the morn o'er green Bow-hill (3) And all again is still. III. Long years have fled o'er Alric's head, Since those he mourns were with the dead, Yet still their bard can number o'er Each glorious name renown'd of yore; Nor fails that deadly feud to rue Whence strife between their nations grew And first the vengeful steel they drew— They who, in brotherhood of old, Together swept the northern tide, And rode beneath one banner's fold, And battled side by side. Who then their gather'd force should brave, When to the Gods of war they gave Their dragons hovering o'er the wave, And follow'd in the dolphin's track And bore the spoils of nations back— The crowning torques with gems enroll'd, The mead-cup, and the ruddy gold? Woe to the breast, though broad the shield, That heedless sought their fatal field! Woe to the foot that trod the plain Where tower'd the Norseman and the Dane! IV. Those glorious days, for aye, farewell! A change upon my heroes fell,— But not for me their wrath to tell. How should this lip their hatred speak, This voice the sacred silence break, When bright in fancy's eye appears Each steadfast friend of olden years? When to my soul their forms arise And greet their bard with mournful eyes, Shall I the wrongful hour restore And deeds this heart must aye deplore? Renew the strife long past and gone Or lift the veil that time hath drawn? A dearer—nobler task be mine, In deathless song their names to shrine, Bid the warm tear of memory flow, And raise, in tones of during woe, The dirge alike o'er friend and foe! V. From Elbe's deserted isles they came, Six warlike chiefs of giant frame: Brave Thorwald, of the shield of gold; Aslauga's son in battle bold; (4) Sigurd and Olaf, stern in fight; With Alstan, of the sword of might:— But ah! why fears my lip to tell The name of him who darkly fell? Why haunts my ear—why blasts my sight Each sound, each scene of that dread night, When glancing by yon shadowing yew, The fatal arrow falsely flew? All! why, when warlike deeds inspire Thy brother's long forsaken lyre, Why chills thy hand the thrilling wire, Thou hope of Alric's hoary sire! VI. Away, away! no sound of wail Must break the hush of Cissa's vale; A bolder chord—a higher strain Must rouse the fawn o'er Ella's plain, Wake the wild sea-bird on the lea, And stir the waves of yonder sea. In magic tones beneath the moon, I raise the death-awakening Rune; (5) And lo! before the voice of song Contending hosts the valley throng! He who survives that midnight fray, The island of the Elbe shall sway: The chief who wields the stoutest brand Shall reign sole lord in Heilig-land. (6) Already shines the northern star As onward rolls the tide of war: I mark each arm uplift the spear, I list their shouts' resounding peal, And in the hush of midnight hear The clashing of their steel! VII. Fair was the dawn that o'er yon tide, Beheld their ships, like meteors, glide: But oh! how fairer far was she, Whose beauty shamed the morning's smile, The maid who cross'd that northern sea, From Heilig's rocky isle! A quiver at her shoulder slung, And in her hand a bow unstrung, Her long hair from her forehead flung— The child of Thorwald came; And long each heath and valley rung With Emmenburga's name! VIII. Ah! wherefore o'er the western water In beauty wander'd Heilig's daughter? Alas! amid the deepening night Why came she, like a guiding star, To lead me to the fight— Shedding her radiant gaze afar To teach my soul the joys of war? Sweet dweller by the rocky steep! What hovering shade from Hela's cave Thy soul inspired to tempt the wave. And guide thy warrior o'er the deep? Say, hadst thou slumber'd by the rill That laves the roots of Yggdrasil, (7) 'Till, rising from thy dream of power, Thou read'st the fate of battle's hour, As with that bird's devining eye That broods upon its branches high? That morn, which saw their dragons move O'er waves they now no longer rove, In secret did thy hand unroll The snowy sail for him whose love First woke the music of thy sigh— Thou voice of song to Ara's soul! —Him who of old thy love had won, The royal Agner's warlike son, Ere yet the undying hatred rose When friends of old were turn'd to foes, And far upon the Danish plains They bound him with a captive's chains. IX. Light of the rolling Elbe! for thee The strains of Heilig's bard shall be! Thou that didst leave thy rocky land And smiling lead, with gentle hand, Thy captive o'er the sea; Yet only tore his chains apart To hang the fetters round his heart. Oh! beautiful thou wert!—more fair Than she, the maid with flowing hair, Beloved of Ocean's youthful king— Bright Gerda, of the golden ring. (8) Thy smile, more soft than break of dawn, Thy footstep, fleeter than the fawn, Thy voice, that did the soul reveal, Thy glance, like lightning on the steel! These charms could oft, of old, inspire With soaring song my lonely lyre, And still, as fades this life away, His parting song— his latest lay The offering of thy bard shall be Oh! daughter of my chief! to thee. X. Pale, pale the moon of midnight waned, And long and baleful shadows threw Where the red stream, at sunset drain'd From many a living fountain, stain'd The valley of the yew. Long had the battle's fury raged And long an equal war they waged, When lo! upon the hill above The maid of captive Ara's love! The banner in her hand she bore A raven's wings waved darkly o'er; Swift as the breeze those wings that sway'd, She pass'd unseen the open glade And sought her warrior 'neath the shade; And high above the din of war Her tuneful voice was borne afar: "Arise my love, my Ara, rise! In death the mighty Olaf lies And many a spear is low; Alone I saw my father stand; Bravest of all his warrior band He scarce survives the night of woe. And now behold! in deathful ire He joins in combat with thy sire! Thus, sword to sword and shield to shield, Long will they strive, nor either yield, And oh! should either fall— What bitter sighs o'er yonder field Would waft their shades to Odin's hall! What ceaseless tears our hearts would pour Should either sink, to rise no more!— Then go, young chief of Ragnar's race, Go look upon thy father's face, And say, as low thou bend'st the knee, 'Twas Thorwald's child that set thee free.— Fixed in the earth by yonder wood Thy banner of the battle stood, I bore it from the green hill-side To plant the staff by Ara's side.— —But see, oh! see—with serpent glide Behind him steals a meaner foe:— That hidden stroke— that coward blow Ye Gods! will lay my father low!— Behold where, stretched beneath his eye, Three kings in glorious slumber lie! Shall he, far nobler than them all, By secret guile dishonor'd fall? Then be that hour recall'd no more When he the name of victor bore; Oh! think not now upon the day When 'neath his spear my Ara lay— But take the sword, my warrior brave! And let thine arm be rais'd to save." XI. Far, far from my view to the battle they flew, And I stood alone by the tree that grew, A single oak, in the vale of the yew; (9) I stood alone, but my dream it was broke And the strength of my sires in my bosom awoke. I had heard her soft voice in its agony roll And the words of the maiden sunk deep in my soul. Should I stay when the daughter of Thorwald arose And the arm of my chief was borne down by his foes? Should I rest when our falchions were strew'd on the plain, And the green turf grew red with the blood of the slain? Ah no!—the strong bow of my fathers I drew, And I left my wild harp by the oak-tree that grew In the lone dell of Cissa—the vale of the yew. XII. Woe, woe that ever Alric's hand Should draw the shaft for Heilig-land! Scarce had the arrow left the string When hark!—the herald of despair, A shout that made the welkin ring Burst on the midnight air; Then all was silent as before,— For now the battle's strife was o'er: Yet though no war-cry filled the gale, I felt the heart within me fail, As on the breeze there rose a wail. I hear it now as when at first Full on my startled ear it burst! I could not bear the torturing sound; I clear'd the vale with winged bound, And lo! upon the ground he lay— The best in all that fatal fray! "Arise, thou son of Alric's sire! For thee awaits my slumbering lyre, Oh! brother of my soul!"—I cried: Alas! no voice to mine replied! I raised the helmet from his brow, And saw the blood in torrents flow:— I look'd upon his dying face— And stood—the last of all my race XIII. What more befel is mystery all The valley swam before my sight; Each mingled scene I now recall Is like a vision of the night. I beheld my Chieftain amid his band And a banner waving in Ara's hand; I saw him stand—that warrior fair, Beside the maid with golden hair. Then rose the voice of Agner high And I heard the last words of my chiefs reply: "Go, launch the bark, lift high the sail! Once more our steeds shall stem the gale. (10) And thou, young chief of Ragnar's line, Hear!—by the head of Thor divine I swear, my Emmenburga's hand Shall crown thee king in Heilig-land! And may each hated foe of thine As surely fall beneath thy brand, As fell the head of yonder serf Who now lies quivering on the turf. To the island of the Elbe— away! 'Behold!' I hear Niorder say, As floats thy banner on the breeze— 'Another Ragnar rides the seas!' Go, guide thy bark to Heilig's shore; We lift the sword of strife no more. Thy maiden's hand bright mead shall bring, In Ara's halls the harp shall ring, And war amid our race shall cease, While bards raise high the song of peace." XIV. A strain of triumph at the close From all my brother-bards arose; But I—no joy had I to bring, My harp had lost its brightest string! Soon the broad wave by Cymen's shore I mark'd their sails glide proudly o'er, And I was left to mourn—in vain, And heap the turf above the slain. With hand untired those mounds I piled, The lonely beacons of the wild: And if o'er wave-borne Erik's breast The earth rose loftier than the rest, That nobler tomb—that sacred grave, A brother to a brother gave. XV. When in the vale the winds are bound, And o'er the hill there wakes no sound, With mournful step I trace the ground: Wide is the tomb and green the mound, Twice sixty and seven the paces around. Beside it, as greenly, the sods arise Where mighty Olaf in slumber lies; Some space apart rests each kingly Dane Alstan and Sigurd, by Thorwald slain. Alas! I breathe their names in vain! Ah! who their silent graves shall know Or sing their deeds when I am low! And Thou, above whose turf I weep, And long and mournful vigils keep,— No brother then for thee shall tune The harp, or sound the magic Rune; No kindred bard around thy name Shall hang the unwithering wreaths of fame; No foot, from eve till dewy morn, Shall pace thy grave with step forlorn! Yet shall the unborn years, when I In lowlier rest forgotten lie, Behold thy tomb rise green and high; And not a King of Northern line But mid the names of race divine, With kindling eye shall number thine, And say, as o'er the raging deeps His ocean-steed to battle sweeps— '' 'Neath yonder mound Great Erik sleeps!" No tomb have I—in King-lich Vale My bones shall whiten in the gale, While sadly o'er my shaded grave Dark yews for ever wave; And none the burial turf shall spread, Or raise the moan for Alric dead! NOTES. NOTES. NOTE 1. And held in fight an honor'd place.

"The Scald accompanied his king to battle and sung the achievements of which he was an eye-witness. Thus the Saga of Olaf Tryggvason relates how that heroic king placed around him his Scalds on the day of battle, saying to them: 'now you shall sing, not merely what you have heard from the reports of others, but that which you have seen with your own eyes.'"

Wheaton's History of the Northmen. NOTE 2. By woody Cymen's winding shore.

The name of the second son of Ella, Cymen, seems to have been given to the arm of the sea which stretches inlandnearly to the walls of his brother's city, as this inlet was antiently known by the name of Cimenes-ora or Cymen-shore (See Dallaway's Sussex): it is now called Chichester Harbour.

NOTE 3. 'Till wakes the morn o'er green Bow-hill.

Bow-hill, i. e. the Hill of Bows, an appellation, no doubt, deriving its origin at the same time, and from the same source whence the valley and tumuli have obtained theirs.

NOTE 4. Aslauga's son in battle bold.

Agner.—Aslauga was the wife of Ragnar Lodbrok.

NOTE 5. I raise the death-awakening Rune.

"Runes originally signified letters, and then songs. They were of two kinds, Maalrunor (speech-runes) and Trolbrunor (magic-runes)."

Keightley's Fairy Mythology.

"The ancient Scalds or Bards boasted a power of disturbing the repose of the dead and dragging them out of their gloomy abodes by means of certain songs they knew how to compose."

The Edda. NOTE 6. Shall reign sole lord in Heilig-land!

An island in the month of the river Elbe, now called Heligoland.

NOTE 7. That laves the roots of Yggdrasil.

"The Yggdrasil is the greatest of all trees, its branches cover the surface of the earth, its top reaches to heaven, and it is supported by three vast roots. An eagle, whose peircing eye discovers all things, perches upon its branches. From under one of its roots runs a fountain wherein wisdom is concealed."

The Edda. NOTE 8. Bright Gerda of the golden ring.

According to Saemund, Gerda, the daughter of the giant Gimer, was the most beautiful of her sex. She was beloved by Freyer, the son of Niorder, the northern Neptune, who sent her a gold ring—for an account of which see The Edda. Freyer was the god of the sun, but as his father was the Neptune of the Eddaic Mythology, by poetic licence he is called in the text "Ocean's youthful king."

NOTE 9. A single oak, in the vale of the yew.

This venerable oak, in appearance as old as the surrounding yews, occupies the very centre of the grove, and still flourishes although in decay.

NOTE 10. Once more our steeds shall stem the gale.

"Steeds of the ocean" as applied to their war-ships, was a favorite metaphor with the Sea-kings, as was also "dragons."

POEMS. THE MAIDEN'S DREAM. "Our life is twofold:—sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and Existence." Byron. I. It was mine hour of slumber, and methought The long, cold valley of the troubled years Had all decay'd and faded into nought: Closed was the lab'rinth of thick-growing fears, And dry the fountain of the stream of tears; On the fringed willows there was no more day, Yet soft and sad as light that disappears, There fell a shower o'er withered leaf and spray, As if pale Woe, departing, wept herself away. II. There came a voice unto mine hour of sleep, A sweet and solemn voice, like those gone Whose faintest music in our souls we keep Albeit they wake no echo but a sigh; And I did feel a gentle spirit lie Upon my heart—where grief and woe were not; And soft kind glances met my tranced eye, As press'd again my foot the wall-known spot Through many a year untrod, yet ne'er to be forgot. III. There flow'd the waters of the glorious river, The silver stream, by withies green o'erhung,— The joyous stream that wanders on for ever Since first its ripple to the daylight sung Or tuned the reeds that to its sides had clung! Softly along my native banks did come A welcome step, those wild-wood paths among; And mine were planted there—no more to roam, For in the bowers of old I made myself a home. IV. The hours passed by, as spring and summer pass, And strong and swift the winged days flew on, And silently to darkness went:—alas! That o'er such days night's shadow should be thrown! The morning of my dream was past and gone, Yet slept I on:—one golden link had burst, But more remained I still could call my own, And that which fell, perchance, was but the worst:— My vision's second dawn was brighter than the first. V. I stood before the altar of my faith, Happy—for He I loved was by my side; The spring's first flowers were strew'd upon my path, And overhead were banners waving wide. I could not mark the stately banners' pride, My tears had fall'n those lowly blossoms o'er; Yet soon that troubled joy did all subside, And Peace, sweet Peace! as she was wont of yore, Again within my heart her cloudless beauty wore. VI. A holy calm was round me, and I knelt And softly breath'd a deep and solemn vow, And all the many years wherein I dwelt In sorrow, were forgotten:—to my brow Return'd the light departed long ago. The marriage-bells were silent, and there stole No sound to mingle with the murmurs low Of love, that o'er me held its strong controul; And heart was on my lips, and in my words was soul. VII. Again my visions faded for awhile: No more the gorgeous trophies were unroll'd, Nor bloom'd the chaplets in that lonely aisle. When next my mirror'd sleep return'd,—behold! Of all my number'd years the best were told, And Peace alone was in her golden prime: Earth's varied banner took another fold; Hope's joyous bells had long forgot to chime; And Life's young flowers had fall'n within the urn of time. VIII. My hairs were grey:—and I did look on him Who made their whiteness beauty in my sight;— His youth was faded, and those eyes grown dim That gazed upon me when mine own were bright; But Love had lent them grace in time's despite, And Age upon that sacred head had thrown His wealth of pearls:—while tenderly the light— The hallow'd light of his pure spirit shone In rays that lent to mine a glory all their own. IX. Slowly we wander'd by the lamp of years, Feeble of step but in affection strong: Our smiles were peace, and gratitude our tears; Youth was a strain we could no more prolong, And youth's remembrance but a dream of song; Yet we could think upon the days gone by, Nor mourn:—so gently had they pass'd along, Their parting left no tear in either eye, No cloud on either brow, on neither lip a sigh. X. My dream departed; and the sounds that woke That blissful sleep, fell harshly on mine ear; And I did turn me from the light that broke On eyes which morn had now no power to cheer, But only served upon my heart to sear The visions I might never more redeem, And make the clouded soul more dark appear. Like fairy sails along some moonlit stream, Thus all the joys of life went floating on a dream! TO ADA BYRON. I. Like tones that wake a strange delight When chords we hear that, hid from sight, The music of their sadness roll, Thou art! A gush of melody—no more to part, The echoing sweetness of the broken lyre, Thy Sire; An image crown'd within the dreamy soul And by the lamps of eloquence and thought With glory fraught; First of the many phantom-forms that pass Along life's magic glass, Which still, when half their power is o'er, Remain a spell for evermore! II. 'Twould be a joy for many a day To look upon thy lighted eye, And hear the sacred glance away Deep in my memory; But once to gaze upon thy face, To picture all that yet may be, And through the veil of earthly grace To trace thy father's soul in thee: Like the hues the rainbow blendeth With the twilight of her tears, Like the gleam that false hope sendeth O'er the shadows of our fears, Like a soft, faint voice that cometh With a tone of sadden'd glee, From where some lone spirit roameth, Were that memory to me. III. Thou hast a pride within thy heart I would that I could call my own Or but the faintest part Of the radiance o'er thee thrown! Softly wilt thou lend thine ear And silently rejoice, Nor fear, When the deep echo of thy father's voice The hollows of the everlasting hills With music fills. Thou wilt walk the mountains old Where the green valleys wind afar, Rich with the strains within them roll'd Of him who wept by Loch-na-gar: Perchance along those fields divine, The isles of Greece, thy path shall lie— Fair Greece! whose bosom is the shrine And grave of him whose latest sigh Was mingled with her name and thine. IV. Where'er the brightness of thy presence lies Music shall be; While He who sleeps in glory shall arise More beautiful in thee: And none upon his name shall heap The dark revilings of the bitter tongue, While soft and deep, In accents yet unsung, The wakeful scorn thy voice shall lull to sleep. Oh! ever thus thy power shall be Triumphing o'er shore and sea, Bright with the halo round thee cast— The chasten'd spirit of the past; A power to bend the stubborn heart, To tear pale envy's links apart, And guard from ev'n the breath of wrong The memory of the 'Childe of Song.' THE BARD'S ANNIVERSARY. I. 'Tis o'er—the dull and heavy night, And morn hath from the darkness burst! Of all that greet the living light I lift my voice the first, And tenderly a blessing pour From lips that ne'er may bless thee more. II. Another year thy life hath crown'd; But I—each day hath years for me, Yet not a moment but hath found Some tone that speaks of thee. I droop with age, that knew no prime; And hours for me are full of time. III. I cannot touch the joyous string, Nor give this day a welcome meet: A heavy heart 'tis mine to bring; A pulse not long to beat; A soul, that made its joys thine own, Yet now would bear its grief alone. IV. I would not cloud one thought of thine, Though in thy thought 'twere sweet to live; I would not see thee weep o'er mine For all thy love could give; Such tears would bring more woe to me Than all I feel in losing thee. V. Of changeless love I speak not now, This heart hath been thine own so long; Yet would I twine around thy brow One wreath of fervent song, And win thy smile for these poor lays, That sought and seek no other praise. VI. Perchance that brow too proud and high, Would scorn the gifts this hand could bring:— Yet wreaths which are not born to die May round their altar cling: And mine but ask before before they fade To clasp the shrine they bloomed to shade. THE BRIDE OF THE SLAIN. "She watched him all the night and all the day And drove the bloodhounds from their destin'd prey." Homer. I. She sat beside her glorious dust And watch'd it 'till the dews were laid, And the warm blood had turn'd to rust Upon the now-neglected blade: His head upon her knee reposed, His cold hand lock'd within her own— Thus 'till the night's first shadows closed She watch'd the dreary corse alone. II. She heeded not the coming light, Though now the dusky shades were gone And the last hour of weary night Slept in the bosom of the dawn: For her no light was in the morn, No glory in the living day; Her glory from her heart was torn— Her light to darkness waned away. III. If from the fields—no longer green, Unto the heavens she raised her eye, The Vulture's wing moved dark between Her vision and the peaceful sky: Her cold ear, dull to earthly sound, Yet heard the one unbroken roar Where the dun wolves went prowling round, Their eager fangs new-steeped in gore. IV. Yet swept the vulture's wing afar, Or hovered o'er another prey; Those sable-waving plumes of war Her marble beauty scared away. The ravening wolves along the plain The magic of her silence fled, And, turning to the unguarded slain, In awe resigned her nobler dead. V They found her fallen and faded there, Her head low-drooping in its rest; One sheltering arm lay coldly fair Across her martyr'd warrior's breast, And one, half-lifted to the day, Rose, though the birds of air were gone, As if, the last wing scared away, Her spirit too had with them flown. VI. They bore her on her soldier's bier And laid her in th' ancestral tomb, To sleep beside his gleamy spear And light his folded banner's gloom: There does her sculptured presence rest, Fair-pictured as her vassals found her; Her white arm guards her lover's breast— Her hero's glory moves around her. LUCY ASHTON TO RAVENSWOOD ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR MEETING. "The fairy wand with which in her solitude she had delighted to raise visions of enchantment became now the rod of a magician, the bond-slave of evil genii, serving only to invoke spectres at which the exorcist trembled." Bride of Lammermoor. I. It dawns! the dear and sacred day, Hallowed for evermore to me; And once again I kneel and pray, And pour my soul to thee, And in thy crowned life rejoice, Yet bless thee with a mournful voice. II. The joyous years are fled away, Time's icy hand is on my heart, And fast from life's o'erclouded day My glorious visions part; All but the one sweet dream of truth— The rainbow-light of love and youth. III. My lot is cast on heavy days; Thy semblance fills thy vacant place, And I have not the power to gaze Upon the living face: I may not from thy presence flee, Yet dare not weep remembering thee. IV. They make my heart drop bitter tears, And try to rouse me into pride: But then I think of those loved years When thou wert by my side, And anguish in my bosom burns, And all my pride to sorrow turns. V. They strive the chains I love, to sever And cast a slander on thy name; But oh! my true heart swells for ever And glories in thy fame: They'll stay as soon the unfaltering sea As turn my fervent love from thee. VI. I bless thee with as fond a zeal As in the time our spirits met; Yet weep I not; the world's cold seal Is on the fountain set:— The frozen stream that blessed thee first Nor joy nor sorrow more can burst. VII. The down of precious hope is flown Whereon I pillowed once my breast; By memory's side I dream alone, Nor ask I other rest, 'Till meeting in some brighter clime We slumber on the wings of time. THE POET-PAINTER. STANZAS ADDRESSEDTO A PORTRAIT DRAWN FROM MEMORY. "Oh! that those lips had language; life hath passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last." Cowper. I. Now thou art mine, blest image of my love!— The hand that traced the foliage and the flower, Had need of deeper—holier skill to prove Affection's still unutterable power: Yet now 'tis given; and, bright as from above Descends the early dew's refreshing shower, Comes forth the long-bound fountain of my tears To steep the unburied memories of years. II. Deep is the joy even thus in tears to gaze On thee whose gentle looks upon me shine, And from a meek and trusting heart to raise The voice, which now no answer wins from thine, As o'er my soul the thoughts of other days Breathe with a sadness I would not resign;— That soul, whose love, whate'er its grief may be, Still melts in tones of tenderness to thee. III. Have I not cause to bless thee?—thee who first Made glad a life, all desolate before? Nor less when now the brief bright chain hath burst Whose links shall hang around my heart no more, And when I feel of wretchedness the worst That time can fling upon my path, is o'er: I bless thee for the world thy love hath brought, Its land of dreams, and wilderness of thought; IV. And every feeling, holy, deep, and strong, My heart's still depths and lone recesses filling, When memory, like some fondly-treasured song Of olden music, through the distance thrilling, Gives to my ear that voice—unheard too long— Each strange unrest and wild emotion stilling, When to those days from these more troubled years I turn, and pray, and bless thee midst my tears. V. And I am grateful for the least of all The ties that bind my spirit unto thine, And for the hope which ne'er, oh! ne'er can fall— Hope that thy lot is happier than mine,— Which is but blest in thoughts that can recall Those youthful visions, still almost divine:— And oh! most grateful for the gift of power That gives thine image to this darkened hour. VI. Strange, that the present hath no joys so deep As those which live and breathe but in the past! Strange, that the very dreams o'er which we weep Should hold their empire o'er us to the last! And on its waking hour, love's broken sleep The magic of so dark a spell should cast, That still we strive, though vainly, to return Again to slumber, and again to mourn! THE CHANGED HEART. I. The years are changed!—in time o'erpast Each breath of spring to me was sweet, And not a summer then but cast Its burthen at my feet: Then smiled young morn and fading day, And years looked green in their decay. II. But since thy voice—howe'er I grieve— Its soothing tone hath long forgot, And to my side, at morn or eve, Thy step returneth not, Years once that fled so swift away Now seem too long in their decay. III. The scene is changed!—each vale and mead Was lovely in those joyous hours When thou with tender hand didst lead My step amid the flowers:— Ah! wherefore pales the rose's fold, And blooms not as it bloomed of old? IV. When bowers, 'mid which our childhood roved, No longer lent their grateful shade, Then gloomed the paths where'er I moved, And blossoms learnt to fade; Then paled the rose's blushing fold And bloomed not as it bloomed of old. V Mine eyes are changed!—the ready tears Once sprung at sorrow's simple tale; But burning thoughts of fevered years Have caused that fount to fail; For me the joy of grief is o'er— As once I wept I weep no more. VI. 'Twas bitter pride that curbed their flow And made it first a shame to weep; Now when I call them in my woe They lie, alas! too deep; These eyes their tears too long forebore— As once they wept they weep no more. VII. My heart is changed!—when life was new, Oft would my breast, impatient, sigh That ever love so deep and true Or faith so pure should die, Or dark oblivion round us wave, Or hope be perished in the grave. VIII. But on my soul a vision bland Like balmy dews of even fell, And I was dwelling in a land Where there was no farewell; And blessed the power whose mercy gave A love that triumphed o'er the grave! THE HAUNTED SPIRIT. I. Oh! whither shall I flee away? The dawn, the mournful dawn is waking, And o'er my heart, in long array, Day's haunting lights are breaking. Where'er my step its matin keeps The blossom lifts its head and weeps. II. The small blue flower its eye hath set For ever on my dreamy brain; The troubled spirit hath not met Its eloquence in vain: When from the ground it took its birth My hopes were folded in the earth. III. The glorious sun, to battle borne, His silver shield in light displays, And rolls upon the clouded morn The quiver of his rays: As o'er my heart the radiance streams To me each ray an arrow seems. IV. The night—the silent night, alone In welcome tears mine eyes can steep: But then the searching stars look down, And watch me while I weep: There is no joy in dark nor light, In day no peace—no rest in night. V. Where shall I turn me from the gaze— The living gaze of stars and flowers? The restless heaven's eternal blaze— The phantoms of the bowers? Oh! whither from their sight repose— The piercing eyes that never close? VI. Not from the bowers of living light The withered hearts of earth shall flee, Not from the searching eyes of night May the weary soul be free, Till on the cold grave's gloomy breast The haunted spirit sinks to rest. THE DYING MINSTREL. I. Oh! lead me forth once more, that I may gaze With closing eye upon yon glorious sun! And bring the lyre I loved, for I would raise My voice in music ere my sands are run. The strife is o'er—the heavy work is done; Yet would I leave, in memory of the past, One leaf unfaded of the crown I won, And pour my dying breath upon the blast In one full burst of song, the saddest and the last. II. Even now I feel the yet-warm life subside, That faints and flutters in each aching vein, And mother Earth from these dim eyes doth glide That ne'er shall look upon her face again. Oft have I longed in slumber to have lain, And child-like calm, within her sheltering breast, O'er which the upbraiding world might war in vain; There, cradled like the wild bird in her nest, The storm might rage around, yet trouble not my rest. III. I was not born a lingering woe to hide, Nor live an age of unavailing tears— Passing from summer on to winter's side, Through the dark autumn of my failing years. High hopes were mine, and blind unbidden fears, Vain longings and the dreams which none might share But in my brain there is a brand that sears, And a chained thought for penance do I bear, And on my head are heaped the ashes of despair. IV. My star was bright, like hers∗ whose love was given To one though high yet born of mortal race; And mine grows dim on earth, as hers in heaven, Because my heart hath wandered from its place, And wildly suffered its high thoughts to trace All truth, all virtue in a child of clay,— Which should have soared where death could not deface The love it bore, nor on its ruin prey, Nor bitter care corrode, nor sorrow waste away. V. Great is my love—too great to wear the blush That paints young cheeks as with the hue of shame; I cannot bring my aching brow to flush Before the hollow utterance of a name: Long have I learnt each outward sign to tame; Yet 'twas not always thus; and if I brave The scorn of those who deem such love is blame, 'Tis that all hope is o'er,, and now I crave No meed of human gift—but slumber and the grave.

Merope.

VI. Oh! little knew they of the thoughts that burned Within this breast—too early frozen o'er, Or how affection, on itself returned, Wept o'er the vanished dreams it shared no more! No word but then its deathful arrow bore, 'Till, deeply rankling 'neath the wounds they gave, The riven heart was poisoned at the core, And all too feeble grown the world to brave, Sought far within itself its own inshrouding grave. VII. But this is o'er! and I have found a voice That unto One shall bear my long farewell, And He through time and distance shall rejoice To hear the murmurs of the broken shell: For this I bid the last faint numbers swell; And if I fain would leave, when life is gone, One thrilling tone that of the past might tell, 'Tis that I blush not from my grave to own A love that to the last was poured for him alone! STANZAS TO J—— F——. I. Oh! chide me not, if o'er my heart The voice of song too wildly breathe; Ties, it were death to rend apart, Are in the verse I wreathe; That heart, whose grief the tones awoke, Would in those ties be doubly broke. II. As through the skies of clouded Time Some star looks out amid the gloom, The mists of life's o'ershadow'd clime These fitful strains illume; And like a love 'mid sorrow born, Can never from the soul be torn. FINIS. Mason, Chichester.