Figure 1: The Child and Flowers
 painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by W. Humphreys
The Child and Flowers
By Mrs. Hemans
All good and guiltless thou art.
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,
Griefs that along thy altered face
Will breathe a more subduing grace,
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.
WILSON
To a Sleeping Child
|
| HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? |
| Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? |
| With the hare through to copses and the dingles wild? |
| With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? |
| Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet5 |
| Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; |
| Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, |
| And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. |
| Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song |
| Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;10 |
| The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, |
| The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim: |
[2]
|
| These are old words, that have made each grove |
| A dreary haunt for romance and love; |
| Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie15 |
| A place for the gushings of Poesy. |
| Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore |
| Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; |
| Enough for thee are the dews that sleep |
| Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep;20 |
| Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell |
| Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; |
| And the by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, |
| And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's
head.
|
| Oh! Happy child in thy fawn-like glee!25 |
| What is remembrance or thought to thee? |
| Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, |
| O'er thy green pathway their colours fling; |
| Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-- |
| What if to droop and to perish soon?30 |
| Nature hath mines of such wealth--and thou |
| Never wilt prize its delights as now! |
| For a day is coming to quell the tone |
| That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! |
| And to dim thy brow with a touch of care.35 |
| Under the gloss of its clustering hair; |
[3]
|
| And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes |
| Into the stillness of autumn skies; |
| And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, |
| Midst the hidden things of each human heart!40 |
| Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this? |
| Life hath enough of yet holier bliss! |
| Such be thy portion!--the bliss to look |
| With a reverent spirit, through nature's book; |
| By fount, by forest, by river's line,45 |
| To track the paths of a love divine; |
| To read its deep meanings--to see and hear |
| God in earth's garden--and not to fear. |
Ballad from the Norman French
By J.G. Lockhart Esq.
Here beginneth a song which made in the Wood of Bel-Regard by a
Good Companion,
who put himself there to eschew the horrible Creature of
Justices Trail-Baston.
|
| IN rhyme I clothe derision, my fancy takes thereto |
| So scorn I this provision, provided here of new; |
| The thing whereof my geste I frame I wish 'twere yet
to do,
|
| An guard not God and Holy Dame, 'tis war that must
ensue.
|
| I mean the articles abhorred of this their Trail-baston;5 |
| Except the king himself our lord, God send his malison |
| On the devisers of the same: cursed be they everyone, |
| For full they be of sinful blame, and reason have they
none.
|
| Sir, if my boy offended me now, and I my hand but lift |
| To teach him by a cuff or two what's governance and
thrift:10 |
| This rascal vile his bill doth file, attaches me of wrong; |
| Forsooth, find bail, or lie in gaol, and rot the rogues
among.
|
| 'Tis forty pennies that they ask, a ransom fine for
me;
|
| And twenty more ('tis but a score) for my Lord
Sheriff's fee:
|
| Else of his deepest dungeon the darkness I must dree;15 |
| Is this of justice, masters?-- Behold my case and see. |
| Away, then, to the greenwood! to the pleasant shade away! |
| There evil none of law doth wonne, nor harmful perjury. |
| I'll to the wood of Bel-regard, where freely flies
the jay,
|
| And without fail the nightingale is chaunting of her lay.20 |
| But for that cursed dozen,God [sic] shew them small pitie! |
| Among their lying voices, they have indicted me |
| Of wicked thefts and robberies and other felonie, |
| That I dare no more, as heretofore, among my friends to
be.
|
| In peace and war my service my lord the king hath
ta'en,25 |
| In Flanders, and in Scotland, and in Gascoyne his domain; |
| But now I'll never, while I wis, be mounted man
again,
|
| To pleasure such a man as this I've spent much time
in vain.
|
| But if these cursed jurors do not amend them so |
| That I to my own country may freely ride and go,30 |
| The head that I can come at shall jump when I've my
blow;
|
| Their menacings, and all such things, them to the winds I
throw.
|
| The Martin and the Neville are worthy folk indeed; |
| Their prayers are sure, albeit we're poor-- salvation be their
meed!
|
| But for Belflour and Spigurnel, they are a cruel seed;35 |
| God send them in my keeping-- ha! They should not soon be
freed!
|
| I'd teach them well this noble game of Trail-baston
to know;
|
| On every chine I'd stamp the same, and every nape
also;
|
[7]
|
| O'er every inch in all their frame I'd make
my cudgel go;
|
| To lop their tongues I'd think no shame, nor yet
their lips to sew.40 |
| The man that did begin it first, without redemption |
| He is for evermore accurst-- he never can atone: |
| Great sin is his, I tell ye true, for many an honest man |
| For fear hath joined the outlaw's crew, since these
new laws began.
|
| There's many a wildwood thief this hour was peaceful
man whil'ere,45 |
| The fear of prison hath such power even guiltless breast to
scare:
|
| 'Tis this which maketh many a one to sleep beneath
the tree;
|
| And he that these new laws begun, the curse of God take
he!
|
| Ye merchants and ye wandering freres, ye may well curse with
me,
|
| For ye are painful travellers, while laws like this shall be;50 |
| The king's broad letter in your hand but little can
bestead,
|
| For he perforce must bid men stand, that hath nor home nor
bread.
|
| All ye who are indicted! I pray you come to me |
| To the greenwood, the pleasant wood, where's niether
suit nor plea,
|
| But only the wild creatures and many a spreading tree55 |
| For there's little in common law but doubt and
misery.
|
| If at your need you've skill to read, you're
summon'd ne'er the less
|
| To shew your lore the Bench before, and great is your redress; |
| Clerk the most clerkly though you be, expect the same penance: |
| 'Tis true a Bishop turns the key: God grant
deliverance.60 |
| In honesty I speak--for me, I'd rather sleep beneath |
| The canopy of the green tree, yea, on the naked heath, |
| Than lie even in a Bishop's vault for many a weary
day;
|
| And he that 'twixt such choice would halt, he is a
fool I say.
|
| I had a name that none could blame, but that is lost and gone,65 |
| For lawyer-tricks have made me mix with people that have none. |
[9]
|
| I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin: |
| The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich,
may win.
|
| To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er
repaid
|
| To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid;70 |
| This is no question about gold that might be won again, |
| If once they had me in their hold 'tis death
they'd make my pain.
|
| Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I
lack;
|
| The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back; |
| I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could
spill,75 |
| But God, in all the devil's spite, can save me if he
will.
|
| There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed
Mary's child,
|
| And I can broadly pray to him; my soul is undefiled: |
| The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues
undone.
|
| God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned upon!80 |
| If meeting a companion I shew my archerie, |
| My neighbour will be saying, "He's of some
companie,
|
| He goes to cage him in the wood, and worke his old
foleye,"
|
| Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life
for me.
|
| But if I seem more cunning about the law than they,85 |
| "Ha! ha! Some old conspirator well trained in
tricks," they'll say;
|
| O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well
away:--
|
| Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I
pray.
|
| I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer, |
| That I in peace may once again to mine own land repair:90 |
| I never was a homicide--not within my will--I swear, |
| Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did
fare.
|
| This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree; |
| There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers free: |
| I wrote this skin, because within was much more sore memory,95 |
| And here I lay it by the way--that found my rhyme may be. |
Sonnets
By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart
| I. |
| WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame, |
| And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise |
| May issue the desponding sprite to raise: |
| But weekly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame;5 |
| Empty we deem the echo of a name: |
| Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays; |
| Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze; |
| Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim! |
| Thus strange is fate:-- we meet the hollow cheer,10 |
| When struck by age the cold insensate ear |
| No more with trembling extasy can hear, |
| But yet one thought a lasting a joy can give |
| That we, as not for self alone we live, |
| To others bore the boon, we would from them receive!15 |
| II. |
| TEXTURE of the mightiest splendor, force and art, |
| Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain, |
| The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain, |
| If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!20 |
| If those pure waves no added strength impart, |
| If thence the web no new attraction gain, |
| Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign |
| Her inspiration on the work to dart! |
| High intellect, magnific though thou be,25 |
| Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow |
| Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee |
| Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw; |
| Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray; |
| And worthless shall thy splendour die away!30 |
The City of the Dead
By L.E.L.
| 'Twas dark with cypresses and yews which cast |
| Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers-- |
| Affections latest signs. * * * |
| Dark portal of another world-- the grave-- |
| I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,5 |
| If I may make my own heart oracle,-- |
| The many long to enter thee, for thou |
| Alone canst reunite the loved and lost |
| With those who pine for them. I fear thee not; |
| I only fear mine own unworthiness,10 |
| Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make |
| Another parting in another world. |
| ************************************************************************* |
| 1. |
| LAUREL! Oh fling thy green boughs on air,15 |
| There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there? |
| Thou art worn on the conquerors shield, |
| When his country receives him from glory's red field; |
| Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard, |
| When the song of its sweetness has won its reward.20 |
| Earth's changeless and sacred-- thou proud laurel
tree!
|
| The ears of the midnight, why hang they on thee? |
| 2. |
| Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright, |
| Thou whose whole life is noe breath of delight;25 |
| Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind |
| Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind. |
| Fair tablet, still vowed to the thoughts of the lover, |
| Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over; |
| Fragrant as blooming-- thou lovely rose tree!30 |
| The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee? |
| 3. |
| Dark cypress I see thee-- thou art my reply, |
| Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie; |
| That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave,35 |
| Yet thy shadow lies black on the warriors grave. |
| That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest, |
| Yet thy sad branches sweep o'er the maiden's
last rest:
|
| The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping, |
| I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping.40 |
| 4. |
| Yet sunbeam of heaven thou fall'st on the tomb-- |
| Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom? |
| Before thee the grove and the garden are spread; |
| Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead?45 |
[15]
|
| Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere, |
| Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here. |
| Thou art as a herald of hope from above:-- |
| Weep mourner no more o'er thy grief and thy love; |
| Still thy heart in its beating, be glad of such rest,50 |
| Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best. |
| Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie, |
| Weep no more the the loved and the loving must die |
| Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your
feet,
|
| But gaze on yon starry world-- there ye shall meet.55 |
| 5. |
| O heart of mine! Is there not One dwelling there |
| To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer? |
| For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day, |
| As a link in the fetters that keep me away;60 |
| When I think of the glad and the beautiful home, |
| Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come; |
| That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest; |
| That I may be with thee at home and at rest: |
| When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore,65 |
| I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more; |
| While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save, |
| Oh sumbeam of heaven thou mayest will light the grave. |
Night and Death
By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White
Dedicated to S.T. Coleridge, Esq. By his sincere friend, Joseph
Blanco White.
|
| MYSTERIOUS night, when the first man but knew |
| Thee by report, unseen, and heard they name, |
| Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, |
| This glorious canopy of light and blue? |
| Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew5 |
| Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, |
| Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, |
| And lo! creation widened on his view! |
| Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed |
| Within thy beams, oh Sun? Or who could find,10 |
| Whil'st fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, |
| That to such endless orbs thou mad'st us blind? |
| Weak man! Why to shun death, this anxious strife? |
| If light can thus deceive, wherefore not
life?
|
The Wanderings of Cain: A Fragment.
By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.
1 "A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little farther, and we shall come
into the open moonlight!" Their road was through a forest of fir-
trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the
path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it,
and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and
became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it,
and now it was dark as a cavern.
2 "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path
under our feet is mooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open
moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply?"
3 "Lead on my child," said Cain, "guide me, little
child." And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand
which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his father. "The
fir branches drip upon thee my son." -- "Yea, pleasantly,
father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the
cake, and
my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir
trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their
young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I
might play with them, but they leapt away from the branches, even to the slender
twigs did they leap, and in amoment I beheld them on antoher tree. Why, O my
fahter, would they not play with me? Is it because we are not so happy as they?
Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest?" Then Cain
stopped and stifling his groans, he sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood
in the darkness beside him; and Cain lifted up his voice, and cried bitterly,
and said, "The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on
that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand- blast he passeth through
me; he is around me even as the air, O that I might be utterly no more! I desire
to die -- yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth
-- behold they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the
breath of his nostrils, so I might abide in darkness and blackness, and an empty
space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs
till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion
resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a
voice; and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the mighty one who is
against me speaketh in
the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence I am dried
up." Then Enos spake to his father, "Arise my father, arise,
we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the
pitcher;" and Cain said, "How knowest thou?" and the
child answered -- "Behold, the bare rocks are a few of they strides
distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I
heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would
raise him, and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed
himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed the child.
The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination
when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the
moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and
stood in the open air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness the
child was affrighted, for the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his
hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and
wild, and told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and
were, and were still to continue to be.
4 The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could reach, it was desolate;
the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of their
white sand. You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the
crevices of the rocks, and discover nothing that acknowledged the in-
fluence of
the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn, and the
winter's snow that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks
and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but
the huge serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the
vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coilds of the serpent. The
pointed and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of
human concerns, and seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not;
steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a
boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small
distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by the
terrible groan the earth gave when our first father fell. Before you approached,
it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, and
between its points and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here
that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father.
But ere they arrived there they beheld a human shape; his back was towards them,
and they were coming up unperceived when they heard him smite his breast and cry
aloud, "Wo, is me! wo, is me! I must never die again, and yet I am
perishing with thirst and hunger."
5 The face of Cain turned pale; but Enos said, "Ere yet I could speak, I
am sure, O my father, that
I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I
remembered a sweet voice. O my father! this is it;" and Cain trembled
exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that
of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain
himself from weeping and lamentation. Enos crept softly round the base of the
rock, and stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape
shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face
were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed; and Cain stood like one who
struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream; and ere
he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape fell at
this feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry,
"Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to
torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet
rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed
his eyes, and hid them with his hands -- and again he opened his eyes, and
looked around him, and said to Enos "What beholdest thou? Didst thou
hear a voice, my son?" "Yes, my father, I beheld a man in
unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation."
Then Cain raised up the shape that was like Abel, and said, "The
creator of our father, who had
respect unto thee, and unto thy offering,
wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the Shape shrieked a second
time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath
their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon
the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate
beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all
three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised
himself up, and spake to the child; "I know where the cold , waters
are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my
pitcher?" but Cain said, "Didst thou not find favour in the
sight of the Lord thy god?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is
God of the living only, the dead have another god." Then the child Enos
lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart.
"Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,"
exclaimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to
the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was
well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who
didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered
these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands, and Cain said in his
heart, "The curse of the lords is on me -- but who is the God of the
dead?" and he ran after the shape, and the Shape fled
shrieking over
the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the
feet of him that was not like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun
Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came again to the rock where they
had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child caught hold of his
garment as he passed by, and that theman had fallen upon the ground; and Cain
stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark
woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the
child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that
the man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said
-- "Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy
flocks and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou
tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make
his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but
have not been received; I have prayed, and have not been heard; and how can I be
afflicted more than I already am?" The Shape arose and answered --
"O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow
me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed
over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.
Verses for an Album
By Charles Lamb, Esq.
| FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, |
| A young probationer of light, |
| Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright. |
| A spotless leaf; but thought, and care -- |
| And friends and foes, in foul or fair,5 |
| Have "written strange defeature" there. |
| And time, with heaviest hand of all, |
| Like that fierce writing on the wall, |
| Hath stamp'd sad dates -- he can't
recall.
|
| And error, gilding worst designs -- 10 |
| Like speckled snake that strays and shines -- |
| Betrays his path by crooked lines. |
| And vice hath left his ugly blot -- |
| And good resolves, a moment hot, |
| Fairly began -- but finished not.15 |
| A fruitless late remorse doth trace -- |
| Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace -- |
| Her irrecoverable race. |
| Disjointed numbers -- sense unknit -- |
| Huge reams of folly -- shreds of wit -- 20 |
| Compose the mingled mass of it. |
| My scalded eyes no longer brook, |
| Upon this ink- blurr'd thing to look. |
| Go -- shut the leaves -- and clasp the book! -- |
Lines Written in the Vale of Zoar, Coast of Arabia
By Charles Lamb, Esq.
| A SCENE of Araby! -- but not the blest; -- |
| Behold a multitude of mountains wild |
| And bare and cloudless to the skies up- piled |
| In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest |
| Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none;5 |
| Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest, |
| Burning and whitening in the ardent sun. |
| Amid the crags -- her undisputed reign -- |
| Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles, |
| And half the horror of her state beguiles,10 |
| To see her empire spreading to the plain; |
| For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray, |
| Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain, |
| And haste, as from the vale of Death, away! |
An Aged Widow's Own Words
By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd
| O IS he gane my good auld man? |
| And am I left forlorn? |
| And is that manly heart at rest,, |
| The kindest e'ver was born? |
| We've sojourned here through hope and fear5 |
| For fifty years and three, |
| And ne'er in all that happy time, |
| Said he harsh word to me. |
| And mony a braw and boardly son |
| And daughters in their prime,10 |
| His tremling hand laid in the grave; |
| Lang, lang afore the time. |
| I dinna greet the day to see |
| That he to them has gane, |
| But O 'tis feafu' thus to be15 |
| Left in a world alane. |
| Wi' a poor worn and broken heart, |
| Whose race of joy is run,. |
| And scarce has little opening left, |
| For aught aneath the sun.20 |
| My life nor death I winna crave, |
| Nor fret for yet despond, |
| But a' my hope is in the grave |
| And the dear hame beyond. |
From the Italian
By Unknown
| MY LILLA gave me yester morn |
| A rose methinks in Eden born, |
| And as she gave it, little elf, |
| Blushed like another rose herself |
| Then said I, full of tenderness,5 |
| "Since this sweet rose I owe to you, |
| "Dear girl, why may I not possess |
| "The lovelier rose that gave it too?" |
Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February
By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.
| ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -- |
| The bees are stirring -- birds are on the wing -- |
| And WINTER slumbering in the open air, |
| Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! |
| And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,5 |
| Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. |
| Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow, |
| Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow. |
| Bloom, O ye Amaranths! Bloom for whom ye may -- |
| For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!10 |
| With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: |
| And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? |
| WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve, |
| And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live. |
The Poet Warrior
By Allan Cunningham
| 1. |
| STAYED is the war- horse in his strength, |
| Broke is the barbed arrow, |
| The spell has conquered on Nithside, |
| Which won of yore on Yarrow.5 |
| O did he bear a charmed sword |
| That for no mail would tarry, |
| And on his youthful head a helm |
| Was forged in land of fairy. |
| Did Saxon shaft and war axe dint10 |
| Fall on charm's mail and elfin flint? |
| 2. |
| His spell was valour, and he came |
| When warrior's hearts were coldest, |
| And poured his fire through peasant's souls,15 |
| And led and ruled the boldest. |
| He with flushed brow, and flashing eyes, |
| And right arm bare and gory, |
[30]
|
| Rushed reeking o'er the lives of men, |
| And turned our shame to glory.20 |
| A hero's soul was his, and higher |
| The minstrel's love, and poet's fire. |
| 3. |
| Seek for a dark and down cast eye, |
| A glance 'mongst men the mildest,25 |
| Seek for a bearing haught and high |
| Can daunt and awe the wildest. |
| Seek one whose soul is tenderness |
| Is steeped -- who to the lyre |
| Can pour out song as fast and bright30 |
| As heaven can pour its fire. |
| Seek him, and when thou find'st him, kneel, |
| Though thou hadst gold spurs on thy heel. |
The Rose
By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.
| La rose que ta main chérie |
| Hier a sauvé de la mort, |
| Est aujourd'hui pâle et flétrie; -- |
| Tel est des fleurs le triste sort. |
| Reconnaissante de ta peine,5 |
| En mourant cette aimable fleur, |
| Légue a tes joues sa rougeur, |
| Son doux parfum à ton haleine. |
| The rose, alas! Thy guardian hand |
| Sav'd yesterday from dying,10 |
| Pale, wan, and wither'd from its stem, |
| Is now in ruins lying: |
| But the fond flower, to shew she still |
| Was grateful, e'en in death, |
| Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,15 |
| Her perfume to thy breath. |
To My Child
By B.C.
| CHILD of my heart! My sweet, belov'd first-bórn! |
| Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours! |
| Thou rainbow, who dost come when all the showers |
| Are past, -- or passing! Rose which hath no thorn, -- |
| No pain, no blemish, -- pure and unforlorn,5 |
| Untouched -- untainted -- O, my flower of flowers! |
| More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, -- |
| To seamen stranded life-assuring morn. |
| Welcome! a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings |
| Round all, seems loosening now her snake-like fold!10 |
| New hope springs upwards, and the bright world seems |
| Cast back into her youth of endless springs! -- |
| -- Sweet mother, is it so? -- or grow I old,
|
| Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams? |
Figure 2: Sir Walter Scott and Family
 painted by David Wilkie, Esq., engraved by
W. H. Worthington
Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
By Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
1 LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A PICTURE
PAINTED AT ABBOTSFORD BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R. A., AND EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL
ACADEMY IN 1818.
2 MY DEAR ADAM -- The picture you mention has something in it of rather a domestic
character, as the personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being
the pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if you, the proprietor,
incline to have it engraved, I do not see that I am entitled to make any
objection.
3 But Mr. * * * mentions besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and
domestic life, or, as he expresses himslef, a portrait of the author in his
nightgown and slippers; -- and this form you, who, I dare say, could furnish
some anecdotes of our younger days which might now seem ludicrous enough. Even
as to my night gown and slippers, I believe the time has been when the articles
of my wardrobe were as familiar to your memory as Poins's
to Prince
Henry, but that period has been for some years past, and I cannot think it would
be interesting to the public to learn that I had changed my old robe-de-chambre
for a handsome douillette, when I was last at Paris.
4 The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be supposed delighted with the
species of gossip which, in the dearth of other news, recurs to such a quiet
individual as myself; and though, like a well-behaved lion of twenty years
standing, I am not inclined to vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not,
in any case in which I can prevent it, be acessary to these follies. There is no
man known at all in literature who may not have more to tell of his private life
than I have: I have surmounted no difficulties either of birth or education, nor
have I been favored by any particular advantages, and my life has been as void
of incidents of importance, as that of the "weary
knife-grinder."
5 "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir."
6 The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the prejudices
and absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep them, as Beau Tibbs
did his prospect, for the amusement of my domestic friends. A mere enumeration
of the persons in the sketch is all which I can possible permit to be published
respecting myself and my
family; and, as must be the lot of humanity when we
look back seven or eight years, even what follows cannot be drawn up without
some very painful recollections.
7 The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted ws to represent our family group in
the garb of south-country peasants, supposed to be concerting a merry-making,
for which some of the preparations are seen. The place is the terrace near
Kayside, commanding an extensive view toward the Eildon-hills. 1. The sitting
figure, in the dress of a miller, I believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author
of a few scores of volumes, and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the County of
Roxburgh. 2. In front, and presenting, we may suppose, a country wag somewhat
addicted to poaching, stands sir Adam Ferguson, Knight, Keeper of the Regalia of
Scotland. 3. In the background is a very handsome old man, upwards of
eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own character of a shepherd.
He also belonged to numerous clan of Scott. He used to claim credit for three
things unusual among the southland shepherds: first, that he had never been fou
in the course of his life; secondly, that he never had struck a man in anger;
thirdly, that though entrusted with the the management of large sales of stock,
he had never lost a penny for his master by a bad debt. He died soon aterwards
at Abbotsford. 4, 5, 6. Of the three female figures
the elder is the late
regretted mother of the family represented. 5. The young person most forward in
the group is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. John Gibson Lockhart; and 6,
her younger sister, Miss ann Scott. Both are represented as ewe-milkers, with
their leglins, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the shepherd, the young man
holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of Sir Walter, now Captain in
King's Hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of the family, Charles
Scott, now of Brazen Nose College, Oxford. The two dogs were distinguished
favorites of the family; the large one was a stag-hound of the old Highland
breed, called Maida, and one of the hansomest dogs that could be found; it was a
present to me from the chief of Glengary, and was highly valued, both on account
of his beauty, his fidelity, and the great rarity of the breed. The other is
little Highland terrier, called Ourisk (goblin), of a particualr
kind, bred in Kintail. It was a present from the honorable Mrs. Stuart
Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of race which is now also scarce. Maida,
like Bran, Lerath, and other dogs of distinction, slumbers "beneath his
stone," distinguished by an epitaph, which to the honour of Scottish
scholarship be it spoken, has only one false quantity in two lines.
8 Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida
9 Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.
10 Ourisk still survives, but like some other personages in the picture, with
talents and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what Dr. Rutty, the
Quaker, records himself in his journal as having sometimes been -- sinfully
dogged and snappish.
11 If it should suit Mr. * * *'s purpose to adopt the above illustrations, he is
heartily welcome to them, but I make it my especial bargain that nothing more is
said upon such a meagre subject.
12 It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott, the
shepherd, which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend welcome to.
Tom was, both as a trusted servant, and as a rich fellow in his line, a person
of considerable importance among his class in the neighbourhood, and used to
stickle a good deal to keep his place in public opinion. Now, he suffered, in
his own idea at least, from the consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who,
though neither so well reputed for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet
an advantage over him, from having seen the late King, and used to take
precedence upon all occasions when they chanced to meet. Thomas suffered under
this superiority. But after this sketch was finished, and exhibited in London,
the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had condescended to take
some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott set out on a
most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,
where his rival
resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage when he called out in his broad
forest dialect -- "Andro', man, did ye anes sey (see) the
King?" "In troth did I, Tam," answered
Andro'; "sit down, and I'll tell ye a' about
it: -- ye sey I was at Lonon, in a place they ca' the park, that is, no
like a hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked parks in this country --
" "Hout awa," said Thomas, "I have heard
a' that before: I only came ower the know now to tell you, that, if you
have seen the king, the king has seen mey" (me). And so he returned
with a jocund heart, assuring his friends "it had done him muckle gude
to settle accounts with Andro'."
13 Jocere haec -- as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of Gowrie --
farewell my old, tried, and dear friend of forty long years. Our enjoyments must
now be of a character less vivid than those we have shared together,
14 But still at our lot it were vain to repine, Youth cannot return, or the days of
Lang Syne.
15 Your's Affectionately,
16 Walter Scott.
17 Abbotsford, 2d August, 1827.
The Night before the Battle of Montiel:
A Dramatic Sketch
From the Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba
[The battle of Montiel was that which determined the fate of Pedro the Cruel.
Just ten years before it took place he and Edward the Black Prince had
utterly defeated at Nejara Henry (called of Transtamara) Pedro's natural
brother, the competitor for the throne of Castile: But in the interval
Pedro's cruelties had alienated the affection of his subjects, and the
murder of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, sister to the King of France, had
stirred up an enemy whom, being deserted by the English Prince, he had no
longer any sufficient means to resist.
Pedro's famous mistress, Maria de Padilla, was in the castle of Montiel when
the battle was fought, and after her lover was slain received the body and
was permitted to bury it.
The French army was commanded by the illustrous Bertrand du Guesclin -- in
whose memoirs the highly picturesque details of the conflict, the subsequent
meeting of the brothers, and the death of Pedro, may be found. Le Begue was
the French knight who stabbed Pedro.]
SCENE I.
SCENE I -- The Camp of Henry.
ALAIN DE LA HOUSSAYE AND LE BEGUE.
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| I do remember even on such a sky |
| Kind Pedro's banner flaunted, even so calm |
| And heavy hung yon selfsame royal blazon |
| Upon the air, as the slow sun went down |
| The night before Nejara.5 |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| ‘Twas in Paris, |
| I heard the tidings of that filed; -- I knew not |
| That my old friend rode in Prince Henry's host |
| Else had I not rejoiced. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
- LE BEGUE.
-
| Yes, Alain -- -- |
| I had heard many things against Don Pedro, |
| Yet, truth to speak, it seemed to me foul scorn, |
| That one whose mother never had been married, |
| Should put his hand forth -- clutching at the crown.15 |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| I hope we'll have no thoughts like these to-morrow. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| Not I, the fleurdelys will be i'the van. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| My thoughts shall be upon the Lady Blanche. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| Aye, well they may -- |
| That bloody Jewess -- is it known if she20 |
| Be still with Pedro? Follows she the camp? |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| They say she doth -- but see! Lord Onis comes, |
| And he can tell us further. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| The old lord |
| Walks very solemnly methinks to-night,25 |
| His pace is sober as a hooded priest. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| Aye, and I'll warrant ye his thoughts more sober, |
| Than oft lie hid beneath the gown and cowl. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| In the hot hour |
[41]
|
| The chance is equal! be we French or Spaniard -- 30 |
| But if the day go darkly, and Don Henry |
| Find on Montiel the fortune of Nejara, -- |
| No ransom for a traitor. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| Look upon him! |
| There sits no selfish fear on Onis' brow;35 |
| He is a Spaniard, and we war in Spain. |
| The rival chiefs are brothers -- and the swords |
| That glow even now in many a strenuous hand |
| As they receive the polish and the point, |
| Must gleam ere long before the eyes of kindred.40 |
| Where'er may fall the chance of victory, |
| Yon stream, amidst to-morrow's noontide brightness, |
| Will be more purple with Castilian blood, |
| Than now the broad sun sinking paints its face. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| He passes on -- he takes no note of us.45 |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| We greet you well, Lord Onis! |
- ONIS.
-
| Ha! fair Sirs! |
| I crave your pardon. Whither be ye bound? |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| Du Guesclin's trumpet hath not sounded yet? |
- ONIS.
-
| They are together in the royal tent.50 |
| Anon we shall be summoned. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| Doth the prince, |
| (I crave your grace, the king) doth he to-morrow |
| Charge on the centre of his brother's battle? |
- ONIS.
-
| I would it were not so; but, if I know him,55 |
| It would be heavy tiding for his ear, |
[42]
|
| That any sword but his had found its sheath |
| Within the breast of Pedro. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| Don Pedro's cuirass hath turned swords ere now -- |
| And wielded by as ready hands as Henry's.60 |
- ONIS.
-
| You speak the truth, Sir Alain de la Houssaye, |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| You look for stubborn work, my Lord of Onis. |
- ONIS.
-
| Sir Alain Houssaye has seen Pedro's plume |
| Rising and falling like a falcon's wing, |
| As far i'the front as e'er Plantagenet65 |
| Shewed his black crest. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| And yet the old adage |
| Hangs cruelty and cowardice together. |
- ONIS.
-
| The man that coined the phrase had known no Pedro. |
| The old ancestral sense of dignity70 |
| Exalts our excellence if we be good, |
| And even if we be vicious, that high pride |
| Is not more inborn than inalienable; |
| At least ‘tis so with Pedro. ‘Twas the same |
| When Pedro stood no higher than his hilt,75 |
| A most imperious boy. God he defies, |
| And man he never feared. |
- LE HOUSSAYE.
-
| This nobleness |
| Of kingly nature props e'en now a cause |
| That, had he been in aught a vulgar villain80 |
[43]
|
| Had been as bare of man's aid as of God's; -- |
| But hark! The trumpet. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
[Exeunt Houssaye and Le Begue.
- ONIS.
-
| Beautiful Valley! What a golden light |
| Is on thy bosom. Ha! the bells are ringing85 |
| In the church towers along yon green hill side |
| The vesper chaunt! Alas! What dreary knells |
| Must shake, next sunset, their gray pinnacles! |
[Exit.
SCENE II.
The Tent of Henry of Transtamara.
HENRY -- DU GUESCLIN -- BISHOP PEREZ -- ONIS -- HOUSSAYE -- LE BEGUE.
- HENRY.
-
| Sit, gentlemen. Onis, we waited for thee. |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| There is no need we should be long together; |
| We may do better service in our quarters: |
| My humble mind it was, most certainly, |
| That you, sir king, should take the right to-morrow,5 |
| Where, if our scouts bring true intelligence, |
| Don Pedro plants his Moors --- |
- HENRY.
-
| Noble Du Guesclin, |
| We fight on Spanish ground, and I have here |
| Three thousand true men of Castile and Leon10 |
| Who serve me as their king -- the which I am |
[44]
|
| By the free choice of nobility |
| In open Cortes, aiding right of blood, |
| My brother having forfeited all title |
| By bloody acts of murder and oppression15 |
| Not to be counted -- some of them ye know -- |
| The which dissolved all claim to our allegiance, |
| And left us free (I mean the Lords of Spain) |
| To choose another wearer for the crown |
| Of old Pelayo; -- of Pelayo's line20 |
| Am I, and justly now I wear that crown, |
| Though once there was a baton on my shield, |
| That stain being erased and nullified |
| By the decree I spake of --- Now their hearts |
| Would scarcely brook to see the post of honour25 |
| Filled by a stranger, howsoever noble |
| In blood, and whatsoever pennon rearing, |
| When I their king am present. Other reasons |
| I have already to your private ear |
| Sufficiently expounded. Is there need30 |
| That I recount them also? |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| Since his highness |
| Is so resolved in this, my Lord of Onis, |
| I yield the matter -- for myself I speak: |
| What says La Houssaye?35 |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| May it please the king, |
| Although your courtesy, noble Du Guesclin, |
| Hath brought me to the council, I am here |
| Not to oppose my voice to voice of yours -- |
[45]
|
| But having learned your pleasure and my part,40 |
| To tender, if need be, humble suggestion |
| Touching what falls to me -- and crave your guidance -- |
| Ride we then on the right? |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| You and Le Begue, |
| Be there with Burgundy and Picardy,45 |
| Ye'll have the Moors to deal withal. Myself |
| Will set my light-limbed Bretons on the left; |
| Perchance, while that King Henry from our centre |
| Bears with his Spaniards on the bridge, the old ford |
| May serve our need as well. I think ‘tis certain,50 |
| Don Pedro, with his own Castilian spears, |
| Will bide your highness' onset—Spain to Spain! |
- HENRY.
-
- BISHOP.
-
| Now God protect King Henry! |
| The Lord of Hosts will battle for the right.55 |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| We all shall do our best, my good Lord Bishop. |
- ONIS.
-
[Aside to La Houssaye.]
| 'Twere vain you see for anyone to fight |
| Against the king's determination. |
- HOUSSAYE.
-
| ‘Tis a most wild one! Heaven defend the issue. |
- HENRY.
-
- LE BEGUE.
-
| He prays heaven, my lord, |
| To send fair issue of to-morrow's field. |
- HENRY.
-
| 'Tis well; and now brave gentlemen of France |
| Good e'en be with you all. Let the dawn find us |
| Each at his post.65 |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| My word shall be—QUEEN BLANCHE! |
- HENRY.
-
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| They'll do well together. |
[The lords rise from their seats; a Trumpet is heard.
- HENRY.
-
| What means this trumpet? thrice, too? |
[The Enter a Castilian Herald in his tabard, attended by
Officers &c.
- HERALD.
-
| By my mouth70 |
| Thus to King Sancho's baseborn son, Don Henry |
| Of Transtamara, speaks his rightful liege |
| The King, Don Pedro of Castille. Bold bastard, |
| That darest, not remembering the black curse |
| Which lies upon the memory of Count Julian,75 |
| To ape his ancient treason, and become |
| The guide of foreign spears into the heart |
| Of the fair Spanish land -- I, born thy prince, |
| The lawful son and heir of thy dead father, |
| Whose erring love begot thee of a slave,80 |
| Bearded by thee within mine heritage, |
| Thee and the Bourbon's vassals whom thou guidest, |
| I full of scorn and wrath, as well I may be, |
| Have pity on all of those their fair allegiance |
[47]
|
| Due to the Majesty of France hath led85 |
| Thus far within my realm -- albeit their swords |
| Are girded on their thighs to serve the cause |
| Of my most sinful rebel; nor against |
| Even those, my own born liegemen, whom thy cunning |
| Hath led astray, so that forgetting oath90 |
| And fealty and solemn plight of homage, |
| They stand with thee against their sovereign's banner, |
| Am I entirely steeled. Therefore, in presence |
| Of brave Du Guesclin and his captains and |
| The Spaniards that are with them, I make offer95 |
| Of truce from this time till to-morrow's sunset, |
| Within which space -- at the cool dawn ‘twere best -- |
| Let lists be set upon the open field |
| Between these camps; and let the Lord Du Guesclin, |
| Upon the part of Henry Transtamara,100 |
| And the most noble Castro upon mine, |
| Be umpires of the day -- and man to man, |
| And horse to horse -- with lance, sword, mace, and knife -- |
| Let two, whose hostile banners bear one sign, |
| Appeal to the unseen eye of God for judgment105 |
| On their conflicting titles; let the winner |
| Be undisputed king; unfearing love |
| Rest between him, whoever he may be, |
[48]
|
| And all that are this day encamped here, |
| Moor, Frenchman, Spaniard; and let him who loses110 |
| Have death or exile; so shall knightly blood |
| Keep knightly veins, and wives' and mothers' eyes |
| On either side the rugged Pyrenees |
| Retain their tears unwept; so France in honour, |
| And Spain in peace, sweep from all memory115 |
| The traces of this tumult. I, the king, |
| Speak so: -- Don Henry, called of Transtamara, |
[Flings down his gauntlet.
| Liftest thou King Pedro's glove? |
- ONIS.
-
| Now heaven defend!-- |
| That voice! --120 |
- HENRY.
-
[Stepping forward.]
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
[rising, and laying his own hand on Henry's arm.]
| Forbear, rash king! |
| Herald! go back in safety as thou camest, |
| And tell thy master that the King Don Henry |
| Would willingly have lifted up the glove125 |
| Thy had flung down -- but that Du Guesclin stayed him. |
- HENRY.
-
| French Lord, I do command thee, let me pass. |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| Nay, nay King Henry -- thou art not my king. |
- HENRY.
-
| Thou art the vassal of my brother of France, |
[49]
|
| And thou art here because my quarrel's his.130 |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| Yes; but his quarrel is not thine, Lord King ---- |
| Nor, when he kissed my baton at the Louvre |
| Did he command me to entrust the vengeance, |
| For which dead Blanche's blood doth cry to heaven |
| And him, the royal brother of her blood,135 |
| To any Spanish hand -- prince's or king's. |
| We, De la Houssaye, and Le Begue, and I, |
| And ten good score of noblemen besides, |
| With all the spears that love or chivalry |
| Has clustered at our backs -- must we stand by140 |
| And let the murderer of the Lady Blanche, |
| The sister of our king, conquer or fall, |
| According as one Spaniard or another |
| Couches his lance the firmest, in our sight -- |
| Had Henry of Transtamara ne'er been crowned --145 |
| Aye, had ne'er been born, thinkest thou my king |
| Would have sat still upon his father's throne, |
| And bid his priests sing masses for the soul |
| Of unrevenged Blanche. |
| I lift this glove;150 |
| I place it in the front of this my basnet, |
| Which here, for lack of worthier, represents |
| The coronetted helmet of King Philip. |
| Do as ye will, thou, and the Lord of Onis, |
| This bishop, and as many Spaniards more155 |
| As are encamped with us -- I speak for France, |
[50]
|
| And I will have a field, an open field, |
| A bloody field for Blanche! |
- HERALD.
-
| A bloody field! |
| So be it—I shall know my glove again.160 |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
- HERALD.
-
| King Pedro's glove. I speak for him. |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| Thou speakest in safety whatsoe'er thou speakest. |
- HERALD.
-
[taking of his cap.]
| I speak in safety since Du Guesclin says so, |
| I am King Pedro! Doth Henry know me? Kneel slave!165 |
- HENRY.
-
[starting back, and drawing his sword.]
| Thou murderer! hast no sword? |
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| If he had fifty none were drawn to-night. |
| This sacred garb which God and man respect, |
| And mine own words do save thee. Go in peace. |
- PEDRO.
-
| I came not hither to make speeches, nor170 |
| See I fit judge to sit and hold the balance |
| Between my breath and thine. Therefore, Du Guesclin, |
| Farewell. We meet to-morrow. Ynigo Onis |
| Thou hadst a playmate once. Ha! Father Joseph, |
| Who drew that bare scalp from a monkery,175 |
| And clapped a mitre on't? Sweet lords, good night. |
[Exit Pedro.
- DU GUESCLIN.
-
| Le Begue, attend the Herald to the barrier. |
[Exit Le Begue.
| Bold, dark, and haughty soul. I knew him not. |
- ONIS.
-
| There was something in the voice -- and yet |
| I could not think but that I dreamed. ----180 |
- HENRY.
-
| Ten years |
| Have changed my brother much. His brow is wrinkled, |
| His hairs are grey. |
- LA HOUSSAYE.
-
| His fierce eye is the same. |
- HENRY.
-
| Once more, kind gentlemen, farewell.185 |
|
[Exeunt Du Guesclin, &c.] Lord
Bishop.
|
| Do thou remain with some little space. |
|
[Aside.] stage>I've seen my
brother -- something whispers me
|
| That one more meeting, and no more shall be. |
SCENE III.
The French Camp.
[Enter Pedro, Le Begue, & a crowd of soldiers.
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
| I warrant ye lie has worn both plate and mail, |
| His stuffed tabard sits like a shirt upon him. |
- SECOND SOLDIER.
-
| And fifty lances! |
| I never heard of herald so attended. |
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
| He is some noble gentleman, besure,5 |
[52]
|
| The Lord Le Begue, you see, is squiring him. |
- THIRD SOLDIER.
-
| Faith! and I think he walks a-foot behind him. |
- PEDRO.
-
| Le Begue de Villaines? Ha! a noble name! |
| A very noble race of Burgundy; |
| I've heard of them ere now. My Lord Le Begue10 |
| You've had a hasty march from Salamanca, |
| Some fifteen days, I think. I have been near you, |
| Almost as near as now within that time. |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| An' please your Highness, had we known thereof, |
| We should, as now, have tendered ye our escort.15 |
- PEDRO.
-
| I doubt it not. You've chosen your quarters shrewdly. |
| I know the spot of old. There is a well |
| Beside yon oak that ye may slake your thirst in, |
| If ye were thrice as many as I count ye. |
| A very pleasant fountain, --20 |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| I have not drunk thereof. |
- PEDRO.
-
| A true Burgundian! -- Well, Sir, blood flows out |
| And wine flows in -- such is the soldier's course. |
| I wish I had ye in Montiel this night. -- |
| Your lads, I see, have lips of the same savour,25 |
| By Jove they seem right merry underneath |
| These old trees -- there's no lack of skins among them. |
| Well, drink to-night. If some of these red lips |
[53]
|
| Be white enough, and dry withal ere long, |
| The blood ye might have kept, and the good wine30 |
| Ye might have drunk—I shall be blamed for neither. |
| Captain, are these your soldiers? |
- LE BEGUE.
-
- PEDRO.
-
| Yon tall black fellow, leaning on his spear, |
| Is he not Spanish?35 |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| Is his leathern doublet? |
| I know him not -- his face is new to me. |
- PEDRO.
-
| But not to me -- Rodrigo Perez! Look ye |
| Sir knight, how the slave bends. His Spanish blood |
| Is not all washed from out his veins. --40 |
- LE BEGUE.
-
| An' please you, Sir, |
| I can permit no talk -- the barrier's near, |
| I'll see you safe among your followers. |
- PEDRO.
-
| What? stop a Herald's mouth! well well, pass on, |
[throwing money to the soldiers.]
| Drink all men's friend, the Herald, when he's gone.45 |
[Exit Pedro.]
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
| Thanks for the largess! Fill a cup to him. |
[drinks.]
- SECOND SOLDIER.
-
| Aye, sure; a noble generous gentleman. |
[drinks.]
- OLD SPEARMAN.
-
| Why do ye not pledge the toast? |
| He is your countryman. ---- |
- RODRIGO PEREZ.
-
| If ye knew his face50 |
| As well as I, ye would not fill so cheerily. |
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
| You've seen him heretofore? how runs his name? |
| A don I'll warrant ye, and then some dozen |
| Of fine high sounding long words after it. |
| You've half an ell of names yourself, I'll swear.55 |
- PEREZ.
-
| A short one serves him. -- |
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
- PEREZ.
-
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
| Old man you stare as if this lordly Herald |
| Had been your father's ghost. Come, speak, who is he?60 |
| He spoke to you; he called you by your name. |
- SECOND SOLDIER.
-
| By our Lady, |
| It seems as if this Pedro's coat of arms |
| Painted upon a fool's coat, were enough |
| To frighten some that must expect to see65 |
| His floating banner and his dancing crest, |
| Ere long -- if, as they say, we fight to-morrow. |
- PEREZ.
-
| Talk on, young men: to-morrow's not far off. |
- THIRD SOLDIER.
-
| No, and for that cause my most sober comrade, |
| It is my mind that we should drink to-night,70 |
| To-morrow we'll have neither shade nor wine. |
- PEREZ.
-
[Exit.
- FIRST SOLDIER.
-
[sings.]
| To-morrow when the sun is high |
[55]
|
| Up in the glowing burning sky, |
| When trumpets sound, and pennons fly,75 |
| And lances gleam. |
| No resting on the spear |
| To drain the wine cup clear: |
| Of jollity and cheer |
| I shall not dream.80 |
- SECOND SOLDIER.
-
| To-morrow when the sun is low, |
| For some a jovial cup may flow, |
| But who can tell, and who can know |
| For me? -- for whom? |
| A cold earth bed perchance,85 |
| Beside a broken lance, |
| Far, far from merry France, |
| May be my doom. |
- THE TWO SOLDIERS.
-
| To-night yon sun goes down in gold, |
| His purple clouds around him rolled,90 |
| What eyes his next descent behold, |
| May none reveal. |
| Fill, fill your goblets high, |
| Bright as yon glorious sky, |
| Wine will not make us die95 |
| On hot Montiel. |
- THIRD SOLDIER.
-
| Pass round the cup -- I think our dry old Spaniard |
| Has moved himself. |
- FOURTH SOLDIER.
-
| Now saw ye e'er a man |
| Look wilder when yon Herald as he passed100 |
| Fixed his black eye, and named him? |
- FOURTH SOLDIER.
-
SCENE IV.
Another part of the camp.
- RODRIGO PEREZ.
-
[alone.]
| It was but yesterday this King and Onis |
| Stood by while I was digging here i the ditch, |
| And looked upon me for some minutes' space, |
| I did not work less lustitly because |
| There eyes were on me -- by my troth I watered5 |
| The clay with my best sweat -- but never a word -- |
| "Rodrigo Perez, hot work, old Rodrigo ----" |
| To say so much had been no mighty matter, |
| "The ditch will do." "The barrier will be
good,"
|
| Good! good! good barrier! nothing of good soldier.10 |
| Well, ‘tis all one. |
Enter GIL FRASSO.
- GIL.
-
| Perez, comrade Perez, |
| Hast heard this story? |
- PEREZ.
-
| Story! I've heard none -- |
| What is't?15 |
- GIL.
-
| I scarcely can believe 'tis true -- |
| The old king -- black Don Pedro, man, -- Yon Herald |
| Whose trumpet we all heard -- they say ‘twas he -- |
[57]
|
| 'Twas he himself -- and that he came disguised |
| In those gay trappings to fling down his glove,20 |
| And challenge Henry face to face to the combat -- |
| The single combat -- but Du Guesclin barred it. |
- PEREZ.
-
| Where hast thou heard this news? |
- GIL.
-
| Why, but this moment |
| I left a knot of our companions gathered25 |
| Beneath the big oak, close beside the well, |
| And this was all their talk. |
- PEREZ.
-
| The single combat! |
| By Saint Iago, in my humble mind, |
| Du Guesclin did Don Henry a good turn.30 |
- GIL.
-
| Hush! do not say so. Dost thou then believe it? |
- PEREZ.
-
| Why not, Gil Frasso? Pedro's worst of foes |
| Will scarce deny that give them equal chance |
| Of wind and sun, within a guarded ring, |
| The old King mounted as we all have seen him,35 |
| Might raise a clatter on the new King's helm |
| In spite of the fair coronet that girds it. |
- GIL.
-
| Faith! Pedro always had a heavy hand. |
| But can ye credit it that he came here? |
- PEREZ.
-
| Why that I scarce can doubt. I saw him Frasso,40 |
| I saw him, man, with mine own eyes. |
- GIL.
-
- PEREZ.
-
| Aye, Gil—what's stranger, may be, he knew me. |
- GIL.
-
| Nay, nay, old Perez, I can scarce go with you -- |
| But come let's hear the story.45 |
- PEREZ.
-
| Look'ye, Gil, |
| It was down yonder, where those gay French sparks |
| Are drinking and carousing in the shade; |
| I stood beside them leaning on my spear, |
| To see the Herald passing to the barrier;50 |
| Well, up he came, the Lord Le Begue came with him, |
| And as they passed us, suddenly the Herald |
| (We had ta'en notice of his lordly step,) |
| Halted, and said "are these your soldiers, Sir?" |
| And then he pointed with his finger thus,55 |
| "My Lord Le Begue," quoth he, "there
stands a Spaniard,"
|
| And then he loooked more sternly yet, and waved |
| His hand, and named my name "Rodrigo Perez." |
| These were his words -- they're ringing in my ears. |
| Rodrigo Perez! -- Well, say what they will,60 |
| It is no shame I think, even for a King, |
| To know an old man that has shed his blood |
| Beneath his banner. -- 'Twill be just ten years |
| Next Thursday (if we see it) since Nejara -- |
- GIL.
-
| It was a noble day -- a glorious day!65 |
- RODRIGO.
-
| Say that within the hearing of Lord Onis -- |
- GIL.
-
| No 'faith -- but yet it was a glorious field. |
- RODRIGO.
-
| Aye, and the morrow after, I remember |
[59]
|
| I wakened stiff enough -- this arm was bandaged, |
| And this leg too -- I woke and sat upright,70 |
| And looked about me, in the crowded place |
| All full of comrades shattered like myself, |
| Some worse, some better, and there stood the King, |
| Aye there he stood himself among the leeches |
| And priests (they all were busy), and he said --75 |
| It seems as if all had passed but yestereven, -- |
| "Lie down good fellow, rest a day or two, |
| And ye'll be well again." |
- GIL.
-
| I would he had not slain the Lady Blanche. |
- RODRIGO.
-
| She was a pretty lady -- so say all --80 |
| But French -- why seek they wives from France? -- I love not |
| The men -- no nor the women of that land. |
- GIL.
-
| No more did Pedro. -- He should have not killed her |
| And for a Jewess too! |
- RODRIGO.
-
| We hear black tales:85 |
| Who knows what may have been before she died? |
- GIL.
-
| In faith I know not, Perez. |
- RODRIGO.
-
| So we had at Nejara: There Don Henry |
| Was beat -- aye, man, like chaff, before black Wales |
[60]
|
| And the old king. He wants those English spears,90 |
| None better ever thrust, but as men speak, |
| There are some thousands of the Moorish horse |
| Within Montiel to-night. Our gay French comrades |
| May find the scimitar's as good's the sword. |
| And old De Castro is with Pedro still.95 |
- GIL.
-
| God knows the issue. Would the day were over. |
- RODRIGO.
-
| Aye, would it were. If riding in the front |
| Among the Bishop's men it so fall out, |
| That we come near the king -- I mean King Pedro, -- |
| And I behold him charging on the French --100 |
| I know not. -- |
- GIL.
-
- RODRIGO.
-
| He's but a bastard, |
| We may get easily beyond the barrier -- |
| Down yon Green Lane -- your hand: -- The true old king105 |
| Will let us in, I warrant him, right kindly. |
| Why, Gil, I think it would have chilled our bloods, |
| And made our arms like withs, if we had seen |
| King Pedro's plume at work, and heard his voice |
| High above all the meacute;leacute;e as of yore,110 |
| And we old followers, Nejara-men, |
| Been there against him. |
- GIL.
-
| That oath to the bishop |
| Sticks in my gizzard. |
- RODRIGO.
-
| So, man, gulp it down115 |
[61]
|
| While yet he was but plain old Father Joseph -- |
| And Henry -- my Lord Bastard --- |
| I had ta'en oaths enough to serve Don Pedro. |
| Hark to yon Frenchmen how they boose and sing. |
- GIL.
-
| Come -- we'll have cups of welcome from the king.120 |
Exeunt.
SCENE V.
A chamber in the Castle of Montiel.
MARIA DE PADILLA, her SON, and SARAH, seated by a window.
- MARIA.
-
| Your father will come home anon, my love. |
- SARAH.
-
| The sun's gone down, and if it please my lady |
| I'll see him to his chamber. |
- BOY.
-
| Let me stay |
| Until my father be come home again,5 |
| I will not sleep till he has said good night, |
| And kissed me. |
- MARIA.
-
| Kiss me darling -- |
| So, -- you shall stay and get the other too. |
| Speak truly, Sarah -- they're the king's own eyes.10 |
- SARAH.
-
| In part 'tis so; the long lids are the same -- |
| 'Tis a sweet mixture -- fair and gentle boy! |
- MARIA.
-
| Aye, fair and gentle now -- gentle and fair! |
[62]
|
| But look beneath the shadow of the oak, |
| And see how delicate the nursling plant15 |
| Fruit of some late chance-scattered acorn shews |
| Its smooth slim stem, its tiny trembling shoots -- |
| Its little glossy leaves—one scarce could dream, |
| That in the course of nature these must be |
| Transformed into the rough wide girdled trunk20 |
| Scornful of tempests, and the giant boughs, |
| Whose massive umbrage darkens noon below them -- |
| And yet 'tis so -- when the stout parent tree |
| Has mouldered into age's dust, or yielded |
| Perchance to the dread flash of heavenly fire --25 |
| Aye, or been battered down before its day, |
| By common woodman's axe -- that little budling |
| Shall be the pride of all the grove around. -- |
| One down -- another rises -- this smooth chin |
| Will ere men think that many years have flown,30 |
| Be rough and back enow -- this ivory forehead |
| Plaited with wrinkled lines, the legacy |
| Of sorrows, it may be -- most certainly |
| Of cares -- the wind, the sun, foul weather |
| Will all have done their work to tan this cheek,35 |
| And this white shoulder, (now it hath a dimple, |
| The prettiest bride in all Castile might envy), |
| Will be deep ploughed with trace of buckled mail, |
| And clasped plate -- Pedro will be a man -- |
| I hope a noble soldier like his father.40 |
- SARAH.
-
| Aye, and a prince as once his father was |
[63]
|
| And in God's time a king as he is now. |
- MARIA.
-
| I hope my god will hear my nightly voice, |
| And let me sleep in dust before that day -- |
| For my fair child -- come Pedro to my knee --45 |
| My sinless child, or ere thou close thine eyes |
| This night, be sure thou kneel – alone -- for I |
| Must not be with thee then, and pray to God |
| To send down victory on thy father's sword -- |
| Pray strongly for thy father: -- simple child,50 |
| See, Sarah, how he stares with his black eyes! |
- SARAH.
-
| Now, prithee, cease my lady, |
| You'll send us all a weeping to our beds |
| If you look thus. I met the Lord de Castro |
| But now as I was coming through the court,55 |
| He smiled upon me courteously and gaily: |
| I'm sure he thinks 'twill all go well to-morrow. |
- MARIA.
-
| The old soldier will not let shis eye betray him. |
| His counsel and his prudence are my hope |
| Next to the strong arm of my fearless king.60 |
| As for these Moors -- |
| I cannot trust them -- Yon old crafty Zagal, |
| Although his words be of the readiest |
| I doubt he he'll pause before he sheds much blood |
| Of faithful Mussulmen in this debate: --65 |
- SARAH.
-
| If you suspect him, speak it to the king. |
- MARIA.
-
| I would the king were here -- he tarries long. |
- SARAH.
-
| He hath rode something further than he thought for |
| In reconnaissance -- he will soon be here; |
| De Castro, Zagal, and the other lords70 |
| Are but assembling in the hall as yet. |
- MARIA.
-
| Sleepy, my boy? Well, Sarah, carry him |
| Up to his chamber: when the king returns |
| We both will come together -- soon I hope. |
- SARAH.
-
| Come, darling, you have watched too long already.75 |
[Exit with the boy.
- MARIA.
-
| And now 'tis dark all over -- hot and dark -- |
| The heavens must be relieved from this oppression -- |
| We from this doubting which is worse than death. |
| What matters it whether the thunder growl |
| Once or a thousand times? If it light here --80 |
| The spirit of one must be unclad -- a king |
| Or nothing ---- I -- what must I be? -- no matter -- |
| At least if things go darkly I can share |
| His gloomier destiny -- have my full half |
| Of all that brings -- and be at least his equal85 |
| As well as bedfellow within the grave. |
| The grave! Dead Blanche I fear thee -- |
| And yet God gives to kings the arbitrement |
| Of life and death -- and Pedro is a king -- |
| She knew that I had lain on Pedro's breast,90 |
| And yet she couched her curls there: -- my sweet boy |
| On thee she had no pity, nor thy mother -- |
[Scene closes.
Jessy of Kibe's Farm
By Miss M.R. Mitford
1 ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of
Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample
yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact,
scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to
live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care
of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few
colts and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the
vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young
family.
2 The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane,
which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded
with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens
sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and
regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for
that bright mirror, a rich leafy
frame. A little way farther on the lane again
widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow
stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of
beautiful meadows; then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and
finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amidst the
rushes and the willows of Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream,
where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and
throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a
pretty rural picture.
3 Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very
irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch,
and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a
luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight,
of an ivy-mantled tower. One side extends the ample but disused farm buildings;
on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as
to convey the idea of a fruit forest. Behind the house is an ample
kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs.
Lucas and family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife
Dinah, served in some sort as domestics.
4 Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her
husband had been an officer, and died
fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her
with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through
the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first,
settled in great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching
music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in
the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself
for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to
fancy that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance and
pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled
with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent
for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there
apparently for life.
5 We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met
Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general
recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy,
romping bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at
Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw
this interesting family again under my observation.
6 The first time that I saw them was on a bright
summer evening, when the
nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briar rose blossoming in the hedge, and
the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely
and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and
down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy
bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting
about like bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now
collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her
arm; and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that
sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coming long
before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await
with their usual noisy and bustling patience the showers of grain which she
flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, and
health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded
well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A
beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness,
and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an
object no less charming, although in a very different way.
7 It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty
romp of the flower
garden, not unlike her in form and feature, but totally
distinct in colouring and expression.
8 She sate in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the
western sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty
of her chesnut hair, brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of
ther smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her
whole face and form had a bending and statue-like grace, encreased by the
adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and
gathered up behind in a large knot -- a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long
eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and
beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work
with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to
her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her
laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a
handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile -- such a
smile! -- spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in
her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and
then resumed her seat and her work, imitating better than I have ever heard them
imitated, the various notes of a
nightingale who was singing in the opposite
hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.
9 The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased
tenfold -- for I then knew that Jessy was blind -- a misfortune always so
touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly
affecting by the personal character of the individual. We soon became
acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of
the rectory; and every interview served to encrease the interest excited by the
whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.
10 Never was any human being more gentle generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly
resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her character arose
as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent
occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced
incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of
which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude.
"She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut
out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the
house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be
sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing:
and some day or other she
would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother
William had written upon a groupe of wild flowers, which she had begun before
her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of
such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to
her, and so was Emma; but William -- oh she wished that I knew William! No one
could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he
walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made
for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's
meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get
across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet;
he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so
comfortable and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her own self all
that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a
deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they
should never meet again -- never alive -- that she was sure of -- she knew
it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William
was so much too good for this world: there was nobody like William! And he was
gone for a soldier. Old General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for
him abroad;
had given him a commission in his regiment; and he would never come
home -- at least they should never meet again -- of that she was sure -- she
knew it."
11 This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the
cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit.
How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition,
some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the
calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often
in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from
her trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit
which had always characterised the object of her love -- a slender youth, whose
ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.
12 However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark
cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless.
They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of
them all, the fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse
away those sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and
above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.
13 The letters came punctually and gaily; letters
that might have quieted the heart
of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William
spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and
expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices the most
gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The regiment
was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he
had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to
Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and
daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A
letter from General Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, was still
more explicit: it adduced the son's admirable character and exemplary
conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and avowed his design of
providing for each of his young relatives, and of making William his heir.
14 For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy --
till the peril of a Winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her
imagination, and checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected,
another epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to
that which conveyed their previous dispatches, and might be expected hourly at
Kibe's farm. The voyage was past, safely past, and the weight seemed
now really taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and
smiled; yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was
mingled even with the very intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and
wind; and the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had
overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams which it fed into
torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's lane had washed away part of
the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, and was still
foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if
William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road was
round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and
William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he
loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no
postillion would think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond
sister's heart was fluttering like a new caught bird, and she feared
she knew not what.
15 All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and
stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with
her fearful calamity, and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation,
and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of
a carriage rapidly advancing on the
other side of the stream. "It is only
the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a
carriage, the horses, the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at
once, with the double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the postillion
of crossing the stream. Emma and her mother followed, fast! fast! But what speed
could vie with Jessy's, when the object was William? They called, but
she neither heard nor answered. Before they had to won to the bend in the lane
she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her pursuers had gained
the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was
borne resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately procured; men,
and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a
poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavor to save Jessy Lucas; and
William, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived
her. William was there, struggling with all the strength of love and agony to
rescue that dear and helpless creature; but every effort -- although he
persevered until he too was taken out senseless -- every effort was vain. The
fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction
was verified to the letter; and the brother and his favourite sister never met
again.
Song
By T.K. Hervey, Esq.
| COME, touch the harp, my gentle one! |
| And let the notes be sad and low, |
| Such as may breathe, in every tone, |
| The soul of long ago! |
| That smile of thine is all too bright5 |
| For aching hearts, and lovely years, |
| And, dearly as I love its light, |
| To- day I would have tears! |
| Yet weep not thus, my gentle girl! |
| No smile of thine has lost its spells;10 |
| By heaven! I love thy lightest curl, |
| Oh! more than fondly well! |
| Then touch the lyre, and let it wile |
| All thought of grief and gloom away, |
| While thou art by, with harp and smile,15 |
| I will not weep, to- day! |
Figure 3: Sans Souci
 painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Brandard
Sans Souci
By L.E.L.
| COME ye forth to our revel by moonlight, |
| With your lutes and your spirits in tune; |
| The dew falls to- night like an odour, |
| Stars weep o'er our last day in June. |
| Come maids leave the loom and its purple,5 |
| Though the robe of a monarch were there; |
| Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest, |
| And be it to- night your sole care. |
| Braid ye your curls in their thousands, |
| Whether dark as the raven's dark wing,10 |
| Or bright as that clear summer colour, |
| When sunshine lights every ring. |
| On each snow ankle lace silken sandal, |
| Don the robes like the neck they hide white; |
| Then come forth like planets from darkness,15 |
| Or like lilies at day- break's first light. |
| Is there one who half regal in beauty, |
| Would be regal in pearl and in gem; |
| Let her wreath her a crown of red roses, |
| No rubies are equal to them.20 |
| Is there one who sits languid and lonely, |
| With her fair face bowed down on her hand, |
| With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash, |
| And careless locks 'scaped from their band. |
| For a lover not worth that eye's tear- drop,25 |
| Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss, |
| Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness; |
| I know not the lover that is. |
| Let her bind up her beautiful tresses; |
| Call her wandering rose back again;30 |
| And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage, |
| A hundred shall carry her chain. |
| Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful, |
| With hearts like the light plumes ye wear; |
| Eyes all but divine light our revel,35 |
| Like the stars in whose beauty they share. |
| Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling, |
| Some clear as the morning's first light; |
| Others touched with the evening's last crimson, |
| Or the blush that may meet ye to night.40 |
| There are plenty of sorrows to chill us, |
| And troubles last on to the grave; |
| But the coldest glacier has its rose- tint, |
| And froth rides the stormiest wave. |
| Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,45 |
| With plumage as bright as before; |
| And pleasures like lamps in a palace, |
| If extinct, you need only light more. |
| When one vein of silver's exhausted, |
| 'Tis easy another to try;50 |
| There are fountains enough in the desert, |
| Though that by your palm- tree be dry: |
| When an India of gems is around you, |
| Why ask for the one you have not? |
| Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,55 |
| Be contented with what you have got. |
| Come to- night, for the white blossomed myrtle |
| Is flinging its love- sighs around; |
| And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties, |
| The violets peep from the ground.60 |
| Seek ye for gold and for silver, |
| There are both on these bright orange- trees; |
| And never in Persia the moonlight |
| Wept o'er roses more blushing than these. |
| There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,65 |
| The fountain wave dances in light; |
| Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking, |
| And soft steps break the sleeping of the night. |
| Then come all the young and the graceful, |
| Come gay as the lovely should be,70 |
| 'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble, |
| To let one midnight pass Sans Souci. |
Figure 4: The Warriors
 painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox
A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry
By Thomas Hood, Esq.
| Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, |
| All chivalrous romantic work, |
| Is ended now and past! -- |
| That iron age -- which some have thought |
| Of mettle rather overwrought -- 5 |
| Is now all over- cast! |
| Aye, -- where are those heroic knights |
| Of old -- those armadillos wights |
| Who wore the plated vest, -- |
| Great Charlemagne, and all his peers10 |
| Are cold -- enjoying with their spears |
| An everlasting rest! -- |
| The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound, |
| So sleep his knights who gave that Round |
[76b]
|
| Old Table such eclat!15 |
| Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow! |
| And none engage at turneys now |
| But those who go to law! |
| No Percy branch now perserveres |
| Like those of old in breaking spears -- 20 |
| The name is now a lie! -- |
| Surgeons, alone, by any chance, |
| Are all that ever couch a lance |
| To couch a body's eye! |
| Alas! for Lion- Hearted Dick,25 |
| That cut the Moslems to the quick, |
| His weapon lies in peace, -- |
| |