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XXI. Pass over one he died before his time
The pulse of that high blood that boiled within And look on her whose beauty hath become Was such as meaner mortals cannot knowA bye-word to all nations in the prime
Hardly could aught that pleased appear a sin And flush o' her days the rose of Christendom, Unto a nature that was fashioned so Shedding such lustre over this cold clime
For sway-when once such torrent might begin
Had all been nipped even in their opening bloom, The freshness of her famous loveliness,
And scattered into dust by the same pest The savage scowl of party hate the scoff Which hung his sable o'er the early tomb of black-souled bigot have not made her less Of Francis broken thus the delicate rest
Than when she first was taught the queen to doff, Of young confiding love, there was no room And beamed, all woman, on these halls antique, To frame another dream of woof so pure Love's liquid eye, and mantling, maddening cheek. Whereon the soul might couch in peace secure." XIX.
XXIII. No not all woman-woman, and yet queen And so, perchance, what followed—all her years Amidst the very faintness of her sighs
Of riper, richer, more effulgent gloryWearing her majesty as it had been
Were but a gaudy mask to cover tearsA thing she fain would quit, but in her eyes And the worst deeds that stain her doleful story, Enthroned immoveable, sublime, serene,
But the mad tricks of sorrow and the shears Woven in her essence by her destinies,
Thatcropped those locks of hers,untimely hoary. , Awing her lover even in the soft hour
The harbingers of a most welcome steal, Of heart-dissolving passion's prime and power, Which lopped for ever that which would not heal. XX.
XXIV. It makes man giddy but to think upon
But upon cold and heartless days she fell, Such pride of beauty in a queen's caresses ; When men threw charity from faith away ; Yet deem not Mary's eye untroubled shone And even her heavenly face possest no spell, Beneath yon glorious canopy of tresses ;
The demon of their bigot rage to lay; Ah no! the household fiend his curse had blown And she was left to one who loved full well,
Upon her radiance, and those old distresses And practised all the privilege of sway. Had dropt their shadow on her fairest day And erred, perchance, as much as Mary did, Thy spectre-presage, woeful Fotheringay ! Albeit her better craft her errors hid.
• James V.
+ The beautiful ballad, composed by Mary herself on the death of her first husband, the Dauphia might perhaps be adduced in support of this idea, as indeed it already has been by Brantome.
En mon triste et doux chant
Qui en mon doux printems,
Qu'en regret et desir. # Les cheveux etaint dejas blancs, qu'elle ne craignoit pourtant, estant en vie, de les monstrer, ny de les tordre et friser comme quand elle les avoit si beaux, si blonds, et cendrez; car ce n'estoit pas la vieillesse qui les avoit si changez en l'age de trent-cinq ans ; mais c'estoicnt les ennuys, les tris. tesses, et maux qu'elle avoit endurcz en son Royaune et co sa prison.
XXXI, And rivalry of charms, and love, and fame She was nor glad nor sorrowing, proud nor cold;
Kindled such wrath in that proud woman's soul, Yet did her sex, her station, and her creed That, when the spark had found a vent to flame, A mingled mild serenity unfold Nor policy nor mercy might controul
Upon her forehead, when she knelt to bleed, Its furious bursting, and she felt no shame Such as became her nobly; less than bold The smouldering torrent of her ire to roll
And yet in nothing seemed she terrified Full on the Lord's anointed, and begun
As were her life not much to bo laid down, That work of sacrilege which hath undone Being already stripped of her fair crown. XXVI.
XXXII. Old honour-which hath given men heart to ope
But bitter curses be those lords upon, The sacred sluice of the rich blood of kings,
Who saw, without one tear, that stroke descendWhen uninspired prophets nurse mad hope
ing, Which from impatient ignorance outsprings:
O bitter be to them the parting groanAnd popular phrenzy's shroud doth envelope
And ruffian be thegrasp, their black soulsrending; Man's quiet light of soul ; and baser things And for yon mild light that on Mary shone, Are lifted higher by the pluckers down,
Hope's vestal cheer with nature's anguish blend. Irreverent of crosier and of crown.
May all the triple gloom that hell inherits
Welcome, e'er life be sped, their shrinking spirits, Oh! noble is the death from noble foe
XXXIII. In the free field received, when the broad star Yes--and upon the cruel cousin Queen, Of day is high in heaven-yet more when slow Who bạde that kindred royal blood be shed,
The golden west receives his sinking car Oh, yes ! too well shall that dark curse be seenFor then those mild majestic beams bestow
When madness o'er the horrid eye is spread Their softest splendours on the bed of war
Of the old tyraness—when imps obscene And soldiers close their eyelids on the scene, Laugh"mid the hoary tangles of her head, Even like the sun, sad, solemn, and serene. And, fear faint reverence quenching, her slaves fly,
And leave the screaming wretch alone to die. XXVIII. But there is meekness lodged within thy heart
XXXIV. Most lovely Mary, (fervid tho' thou be)
And so fair Mary bled—a son had she, Which, when the agony cometh, shall impart
And he had ears to hear this bloody tale ; A more than evening of tranquillity
And Mary's crown, plucked from her misery, Tho'gloomy walls shut heaven from where thou art, Was his, and men with premature all-hail And inward only the last light to thee,
Greeted his kingship— what heart had he? With smiles amidst those lordlings shalt thou go,
Whose faith holds hearts like bodies parted male Who come to see the blood of monarchs flow. And female? craven, dastard, coward, King !
What manhood sits within that golden ring,
Upon thy solemn meditative brow?
In truth much gravity is in thy look, Well pitied he another Mary's tears
A very Solomon of frowns art thouUpon his grace, be sure, is she relying ;
And most wise parables, even without book, Stilled every tumult-vanquished all her fears
Thy tongue can utter. Where's thy wisdom now? With what repose she all around is eyeing;
Say, is it she bids thee sit still and brook amidst her maidens sobs and shrieks,
Outrage like this upon the Lion line
Insult and bloodthus silent and supine ?
What could she more or less ? she did not bare And Interest, and a nature framed so base Her neck unto the axe with the high mien That even its virtues from thy birth had been
Of pride, which mantles dying man's despair ; Disparagement and scorn to thy high race Nor on her upward eyelids was there seen Aye, me! could but the Bruce's shade have seen
That radiant light of faith-that scorn of care The timorous twitches of that pedant face, That joy of love which virgin saints display, How the proud ghost had shut his anguished eyes When rude men take their spotless lives away. On Caledonia's sunken destinies !
O see, O see,
* This circumstance is mentioned by Brantome in his beautiful and affecting narrative of Queen Mary's death.
“ Puis après vindrent les commissaires susdits et estants entrez, la Royne leur dit ; he bien, Messicurs, vons m’etes venu querir. Je suis preste et tres resolue de mourir, et trouve que la Reyne ma bonne soeur fait beaucoup pour moy, et vous tous autres particulierement, qui en avez fait cette recherche; allons donc. Eux, voyants cette constance, accompagnee d'une si grande douceur et extreme beauté, s'en estonnerent fort ; car jamais ou ne la vit plus belle, ayant une couleur aux jouës, qui l'embellissoit.
XLIII. But thou wast born a craven and a fool,
And Scotland graves her malison unsleeping, And it were wrong to heap on thy poor head For ever on their names who sold her King, Such coals of vengeance. Who shall put to school Commemoration black and silent keeping
The heart that nature forms of stone and lead ? For ever of their treasonous flattering, Could James become affectionate by rule ? And in remorseful floods her eyelids steeping
Could tractates teach him to avenge his dead ? For ever, that her womb to light did bring Could syllogystic pædagogues inspire
Children accursed, who have heaped upon her That lazy blood with man's best conscience-fire ? That mantle of inexpiate dishonour; XXXVIII.
A stain which not the passion of salt tears,
years. From him the unrelenting savage, hard,
Her sacrilege against that antique race, And stern of frame_who stood with scornful grin, Forever on her branded front appears ;While tears_yea tears--that glorious visage And gazing here on their abiding-placemarred,
Here in this hoary vale-seem all things round Down lovelier cheeks their scalding course pursuing, To sympathize with that unhealed wound. Than ever knew the stain of such bedewing.
For, even within the hearing of the hum
Most upright--if you will, most orthodox ; Of this old Abbey, their Mausoleum ;
As if their God had hewn them from the rocks; With their still pipe of sadness the winds come And in that hour when Mary's glistening tear Whispering of ruin ; and these flowers, whose Flashed vainly on the marble eye of Knox,
bloom The ministering angels sighedin ruth
Still breathes in their untrodden garden, shew That men of heart so cold should speak the truth. Like bright weeds, that on graves in mockery grow. XL.
Enter their dwelling ; look upon their walls,
Deemed fouler outrage still might be secure Faint echo of some old and tragic tale! Bencath the same all-overshadowing screen Lo ! there of Wallace' horn the clear high calls Of sanctity-and hypocrites demure,
With panic cold his southern toes assail, Trampled that Round which Mary's royal foe Couched in the Torwood ; Torwood's deer aghast, Had died with rage to think should come so low. Drink with their forward ears the shrilly blast. XLI.
XLVII. For the wise reverence which a thousand fears Here stands the Bruce, amidst the crimson eve, Had sheltered in the bosom of the land,
With solemn gaze the weltering field surveying ; Withstood not the false wiles of those shrewd seers. While some who did with him the work achieve,
And, as when the stream leaves some ancient strand, Uplift their failing hands, devoutly praying
For his asserted crown : His ears receive
Its potency; and half he seems to mourn, So England, when she first threw off the reign Even in the very hour of Bannockburn. XLII.
XLVIII. Of her ancestral monarchs, deemed that she There where the Thunder, in his clouds revealed,
Should be a greater England than of old ; Stoops as his coming rage the heath would crush, But soon she learned what barren tyranny
There, in the centre of the lowering field, Attests the passions of the vulgar bold,
What storm of human wrath disturbs the hush When they usurp high places like a sea, Of the grim elements ?_“Yield thee, Percy, yield.”
Back then the healing waves of homage rolled, " No—not to me but to yon bracken bush." And England fain would wash from earth's record, Oh! rich may be that briar in bloom and bud, The murderous doom of her discrowned lord. For its deep root hath drunk the Douglas' blood."
* The “ Battle of Otterburn” is perhaps the most beautiful of all the old ballads of the Border.
“ My wound is deep. I fain would sleep, “ Whom to shall I yield,” said Earl Percy,
Take thou the vanguard of the three, “ Now that I see it must be so ?”
Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me,
But yield thee to the bracken bush
That grows upon yon lily lee !”
About the breaking of the day,
And the Percy led captive away.
And heavy on each line hangs the damp mould ; Upon the ruins of a royal pile ? And horse, and horseman, flood, and heaven, and What—but perchance to tempt new blasphemies plain,
From men who wear one cold eternal smile All in one mist of dim decay are rolled. For all beyond their vulgar ken that liesAnd it is better so. The working brain
For all the ancient honours of our islem Can fill the gap of circumstance half-told
-For all that sanctified in the old day, To the half-baffled eye; one broken he
The high resolves of men more pure than they Can tell a world of woe; one stream of blue
Shall time hang towering trophies o'er the wreck Can speak where once a beaming sky hath been,
Of names, before whose old magnificence O'erhanging triumph of hot war-or camp,
Nations were proud to bow ? Shall he erect Or tourneying knights upon the paled green ;
· The signals of his sad omnipotence And yon black steed that riderless doth tramp,
O’er high and holy things-yet give no check As on the air, with that demoniac mien,
To that rife brood of paltriness, from whence Doth but the more upon the muser stamp,
Creeps the slow mildew with its slimy clutch, High memory of the master of his fear,
Upon all beauty it may dare to touch.
And shall we learn to be a liberal race,
Like our most liberal teachers ? Shall we stoop And the pale shroud of sheltering melancholy
Beneath their leaden folly's gilded muce, Are well befitting. Who is he would dress These withering walls in the bright gleams of Before such symbol ? Shall the grinning face
And deem it pride, as many do, to droop folly, Or, with new weight of worldly pomp, dare press
Of self-complacent dullness awe its groupe Upon their monumental slumber holy ?
Of drivelling adoration on-nor hear Keep out the wind and rain ; but give the throne
One warning cry to tell its hour is near ?
What matters it? The sun is in the sky,
And, tho' these fogs half intercept his beam, And come with me into the peopled town,
And blind him for a season, soon on high, Where meditations, made of sterner stuff,
In his meridian fervour, shall he seem Await our musing.-- What avails to frown To scatter them like Cranioch ; his broad eye O’er Puritanic traitors rude and rough,
Shall speak in lightnings to his trampling team, Who tore, of old, the rose and thistle down,
And bats, and owls, and every bird of night, And scorned, alike, sweet Mary's peerless grace,
Shall blink into their creaks and all be light. And the pale Martyr's reverential face?
Then let the winged carrion of the air,
hooting, (Though time, the soother, loves to shelter deed Poise in their clouds a moment, and prepare
Less dark than his)—as black his fame appears, For somewhat of a more severe saluting As in that day of woe which saw thee bleed, Than I have yet adventured on, to scare Thou victim of his ire-wbom all endears
Their pert vagaries ; let them seek some footing To all-whose errors take (whate'er they were) Whereon to rest, when next my scorn shall speak, From thy sad memory, now, no worshipper. The bleeding talon, and the bruised beak.*
* Mr Wastle seems here to allude to his poem of “the Modern Dunciad,” which, we observe, is already announced as preparing for publication. It is understood, that Mr W. is to spend next summer in Italy, and that this highly important work will not be published till Christmas; but this is all uncertainty in the case of so rapid a versifier as our illustrious friend. Mr Wastle's motto for his new work seems to be a very happy one ; it is from that old and much neglected classic, Sir Stephen Stanihurst.
EDITOR. " Who in small streams the fisher's trade do try,
Are used to sit long hours and little gain ;
They of their fortune nothing do complain :
Floats such variety of fish and fry,
To win them wearily by hook and fiy,
LETTERS FROM THE LAKES.
WRITTEN DURING THE SUMMER OF 1818.
Translated from the German of PHILLIP KEMPFHERHAUSEN.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
are sailing slowly but surely by, and I NEVER saw, in the works of the most a melancholy almost painful now comes poetical painters of Italy, any scene of to me with the approach of twilightthe kind fit to be compared with the each setting sun seems to leave a more village of Ambleside. There really mournful light upon the mountainsdoes not seem to be wanting, in that night after night do I gaze on the still sweet reality, a single object of inter- waters of Windermere with a proest which the imagination would con- founder sadness and when the bell jure up in its dreams of perfect rural of the church-tower tolls over the valbeauty; while there is such harmony ley during the silence of nature, it in the living picture such a spirit, seems to warn me of my departure not of union only, but of unity itself, from this beautiful little world, in as would defy the powers of the most which I have been so happy. Fairest magical pencil. Accordingly, the neigh- of villages! never shall I forget any one bourhood of this village is haunted, of the days that I have past in thy during the summer months, by the bosom-any one of the placid evenings best artists of England ; and not when I have returned from the distant only have all its grander outlines, but glens into the homefelt joy of thy reall its most secret nooks, been, year pose. I will love to speak of thee to after year, a hundred times shadowed those whom I love ; and often and on the canvass. I had seen many of often will I think on thee, in those the finest of those paintings; yet, in reveries when there seems no such spite of them all, the character of the thing as words, but the soul is filled country came upon me, on my first vi- with thoughts purer and more prosit to it, with all the fresh-bursting found than can ever pass into utterance, brightness of novelty; and now that with images brighter and more serene Ambleside and all its beauties are than ever shone over the face of the
real world. “ Part of my dreaming spirit's still domains,"
Do you smile, my dear friend, at
my enthusiasm ? You would not, had I feel that the best picture would do you been with me during the long day no more than merely recall to lite a of delight that is now joining few of those images whose floating and past's eternity." What caliph was it multitudinous variety keeps a moun
who said that he had enjoyed only tainous region, from sunrise
to sunset, nine days of happiness? Had they as magnificently changeable as the been all brightened into one, that one great sea itself.
could not have so satisfied his heart, This is the only spot in England to as mine has been with the Sabbath whose keeping I may say that I have that is now sinking so beautifully with given up my heart. A man almost the setting sun. I feel delight prompte feels unwilling, in a foreign country, ing me to send away my soul unto my to intrust his affections to any objects, friend, and I will strive to bring back however delightful they may be ; for into one hour the lights and shadows all the while that they are stealing of a day past in Paradise. away his love, he remembers how cran I rose just as the twilight of the sitory must be the season of his en- short night shewed some faint sympjoyment; and surely it is a mournful toms of morning; and being uncerthing to form friendships which we 'tain in what direction my day's route know must be broken off as soon as was destined to lie, I walked up to they are beginning to be a part of our the burial-ground on a mount immeexistense. Some such feelings as diately above the village, from which these make me love this delightful I could see the openings, or the genvillage, perhaps more dearly, more in eral course of many vallies, and from tensely, than any native of England which I resolved to start on my jourcouid do. The long summer-days ney, in obedience to the strongest ime VOL. IV.