Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L E L)
Poems published in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Books - 3
THE HINDOO MOTHER
She leaves it to the sacred stream,
She leaves it to the tide,
Her little child—her darling one,
And she has none beside.
She used to sit beneath the palm,
Her boy upon her knee ;
And dreaming of the future years,
That were his own to be :
She saw him with a stately steed,
The sabre in his hand ;
His pistols gleaming at his waist,
The foremost of his band :
She saw him with his father's smile,
Beside some maiden dear ;
She smiled to hear familiar words !
Alas ! and is he here !
The light has vanished from her day,
The hope gone from her heart ;
The young, the bright, and the beloved,
Oh ! how could he depart ?
No more his sunny smile will make
Her own, her household light ;
No more will her sweet voice be heard,
Above his sleep at night.
Her heart and home are desolate,
But for one dearest tie ;
But for the father of her child,
She would lay down and die.
The tide rolls on beneath the moon,
Down to the mighty main ;
To-morrow may the mother seek,
And seek her child in vain.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
he leaves it to the sacred stream,
Of the custom alluded to above, Mrs. Belnos gives the following interesting description :—"Hindoos of high caste burn their dead ; but if unable to do so from poverty, are forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having performed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead are too great for any but the rich. When the Infant of a poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she lays it for some time on a piece of mat, or on the sands; she stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires it few paces back, where she sits down watching for the turn of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it ; at intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great distance) in the following words:—‘O! my child ! who has taken thee, my child ! I nourished thee and reared thee, and now where art thou gone ! take me with thee, O ! my child, my child! thou play'dst around me like a gold top, my child! the like of thy face I have never seen, my child ! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The infant continually called me mah, mah,(mother, mother ;) the infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap ! my child his father never stayed at home since he was born, my child ! my child ! but bore him continually in his arms for men to admire. What has become now of that admiration ! Evil befall the eyes of men ! O ! my life, say mah again, my child, my child ! My arms and my lap feel empty, who will fill them again ! O, my sweet burden, my eyesight has become darkened, now that thou hast vanished from before it !"
THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG
FLOAT on--float on--my haunted bark,
Above the midnight tide;
Bear softly o'er the waters dark
The hopes that with thee glide.
Float on--float on--thy freight is flowers,
And every flower reveals
The dreaming of my lonely hours,
The hope my spirit feels.
Float on--float on--thy shining lamp,
The light of love, is there;
If lost beneath the waters damp,
That love must then despair.
Float on--beneath the moonlight float
The sacred billows o'er:
Ah, some kind spirit guards my boat,
For it has gained the shore.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
This song alludes to a well-known superstition among the young Hindoo girls. They make a little boat out of a cocoa-nut shell, place a small lamp and flowers within this tiny ark of the heart, and launch it upon the Ganges. If it float out of sight with its lamp still burning, the omen is prosperous; if it sinks, the love of which it questions, is ill-fated.
I
HINDOO TEMPLES AND PALACE AT MADURA
(or ON AN ENGRAVING OF HINDOO TEMPLES)
LITTLE the present careth for the past,
Too little,—'tis not well!
For careless ones we dwell
Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast.
Its blessings are around our daily path,
We share its mighty spoil,
We live on its great toil,
And yet how little gratitude it hath.
Look on these temples, they were as a shrine
From whence to the far north
The human mind went forth,
The moral sunshine of a world divine—
That inward world which maketh of our clay
Its temporary home;
From whence those lightnings come,
That kindle from a far and better day.
The light that is of heaven shone there the first,
The elements of art,
Mankind's diviner part;
There was young science in its cradle nurst.
Mighty the legacies by mind bequeathed,
For glorious were its pains
Amid those giant fanes,
And mighty were the triumphs it achieved
A woman's triumph mid them is imprest >>
One who upon the scroll
Flung the creative soul,
Disdainful of life's flowers and of its rest.
Vast was the labour, vast the enterprise,
For she was of a race
Born to the lowest place,
Earth-insects, lacking wings whereon to rise.
How must that youthful cheek have lost its bloom,
How many a dream above
Of early hope and love
Must that young heart have closed on like a tomb.
Such throw life's flowers behind them, and aspire
To ask the stars their lore,
And from each ancient store
Seek food to stay the mind's consuming fire.
Her triumph was complete and long, the chords
She struck are yet alive;
Not vainly did she strive
To leave her soul immortal on her words.
A great example has she left behind,
A lesson we should take,
Whose first task is to wake
The general wish to benefit our kind.
Our sword has swept o'er India; there remains
A nobler conquest far,
The mind's ethereal war,
That but subdues to civilize its plains.
Let us pay back the past, the debt we owe,
Let us around dispense
Light, hope, intelligence,
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go.
O England, thine be the deliverer's meed,
Be thy great empire known
By hearts made all thine own,
By thy free laws and thy immortal creed.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
Madura was at one period the centre of " might, majesty, and dominion' in India. One of its ancient monarchs in the second century sent an embassy on a splendid scale to Augustus Caesar at Rome. It was also the spot, from the meridian of which the Hindoo astronomers made their calculations. The mode of calculating by the ten numerals, after having been invented and long practised here, was first introduced into Europe by the Arabs. Here too, was the celebrated college whose influence was exercised so beneficially on the intellect of India; though at present much decayed, it is still in great repute for the magnificent ruins which surround it, and for the fine pagoda and choultry in its neighbourhood.
Among other anecdotes connected with the spirit of improvement now alive in India, Sir Alexander Johnstone, whose kindness in communicating information I cannot sufficiently acknowledge, told me one, of his relative, the late Mrs. Darner. The question of female education was much disputed, and popular opinion was certainly against it. Sir Alexander, however, brought this instance of a connexion of his own, who united birth and all social advantages with the highest degree of cultivation. At his request, Mrs. Darner made a bust of Nelson, and sent it as a present to the King of Tanjore. It was received with great attention, and the skill with which it was executed made a strong impression in favour of female education.
>> When I speak of a "a woman's triumph," I allude to the celebrated Avyia. She was a Pariah of the lowest class, but obtained such literary distinction, that her works are to this day the class-books of the scholars of the highest rank and caste in all the Hindoo schools of the peninsula of India.
HINDOO TEMPLES AT BENARES
AND day by day, and hour by hour,
The sacred stream floats past,
And rises higher o'er the shrines,
Doomed to its depths at last.
And soon above those stately domes
The fatal tide will flow,
And carved spire and sculptured tower
Sleep in the depths below
The temples have no worshippers,
The altar be unknown,
And weed and ooze in darkness rest
Upon the polished stone.
Oh, likeness of humanity,
'Tis thus that life flows on,
Till every fabric which we built
In early youth is gone.
The sacred and the beautiful,
The mighty and sublime ;
Alas, in vain, the heart would save
One single wreck from time.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
The Temples to which the above lines allude, are already half immersed in water; a few more years, and the stream which was once their mirror, will be their shroud.
It is curious to observe how general is the tradition of man's deterioration: the Bramins say, that the Ganges first rose at Benares—a more sinful generation saw it recede to Hurdwar—a third had to follow it to Burahat—and the fourth age finds it still further off, as it has now its source amid the heights of Gungoutri.
HINDOO TEMPLES ON THE MOUNTAIN LAKE OF ABOO
FROM the hills they descend, as wild as the river,
Which spring hath unloosed, like a shaft from its quiver;
With light on its waters, and foam on its banks,
So gather these free waves—so gather these ranks.
There is gold on the housings, and gold on the rein
That checks the bold courser they guide to the plain.
More precious by far to the warriors are
The matchlock they carry, the sabre they bear.
Red, red is the turban that girdles their brow—
More redly the blood of their foemen shall flow.
Free the wing of the heron, that wave white at its side,
More free are the Rajpoots to battle who ride.
They have kept their old hills unsubdued by a foe—
There is death and defeat in the country below;
But the Rajpoots have kept their ancestral hills
Untrod, like their snows—and unchained, like their rills.
The Moslem sweeps on with his banner of green,
And ruins have marked where the crescent has been;
But here the sole crescent that ruleth on high
Is where the young moon first appears in the sky.
Sail down by the Jumna, and what will ye find
But the horsetail and crescent, that sweep on the wind?
The Ottoman conqueror rules to the sea,
But not o’er these mountains— the fearless and free.
No prayer writ in gold from the wall is effaced—
No altar is levelled—no shrine is defaced:
The sons of Mahomet all else may subdue,
Bur safe, ‘mid their clouds, are the heights of Aboo.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
Aboo Gurgh is a mountain-lake in the province of Guzerat, 5000 feet above the level of the sea, in which the Suruswuttee river has its source. It is surrounded by numerous marble temples, of high antiquity, the principal of which is dedicated to Mahadeo, and the district itself is held in the utmost veneration by the Hindoos. “The Olympus of India, the celebrated Aboo, is the source of the tribe of Chohaun Rajpoots. There are no temples in India which can for a moment compete with these, either in costliness of materials or beauty of design.” Grindlay’s India
HONISTER CRAG, CUMBERLAND
Not where the green grass hides
His kindred before him ;
Not where his native trees
Droop to deplore him ;
But in the stranger's land
Must we bestow him.
Leave there his sword and shield,
That all may know him.
Never was fairer youth,
Never was bolder ;
Who would have met his sword
A few summers older !
Ne'er will our chieftain's line
Yield such another ;
Who can, amid us all !
Tell it his mother.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
" In this wild and picturesque glen a skirmish took place between the Elliotts and the Graemes, in which the young leader of the Scottish clan was slain, though his party were victorious. They buried him in an opening on the hillside ; and every clansman brought a fragment of rock, to raise a rude monument to his honour. On the summit of the pile they placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, that neither friend nor foe should pass irreverently the youthful warrior's grave."
THE HOUSE IN WHICH ROSCOE WAS BORN
A LOWLY roof, an English farm-house roof—
What is the train of thought that it should wake ?
Why cheerful evenings, when the winter cold
Grows glad beside the hearth ; or summer days,
When round the shady porch the woodbine clings;
Some aged man beneath, to hear whose words
The children leave off play ; for he can tell
Of the wild sea, a sailor in his youth.
Yet here the mind's eye pictures other scenes—
A fair Italian city, in a vale,
The sanctuary of summer, where the air
Grows sweet in passing over myrtle groves.
Glides the blue Arno, in whose tide are glassed
Armed palaces, with marble battlements.
Forth ride a band of princely chivalry,
And at their head a gallant chieftain—he,
Lorenzo the magnificent.
Within this house was thy historian born,
Florence, thou pictured city; and his name
Calls up thy rich romance of history ;
And this calm English dwelling fills the mind
With memories of Medici—
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
It is scarcely necessary to state that Mr. Roscoe's principal work was the Life of Lorenzo di Medicis.
HOWTH LIGHT-HOUSE
Look from the lattice, look forth, my child —
Are the waves heaving, is the wind wild.
Burns the red beacon afar on the air,
Are the stars shining, and is the night fair ?
Give me his keepsake, that echoing shell
Where the deep murmur of far waters dwell ;
There let me listen, it moans in my ear.
Soft is the music — no tempest is near.
Shine, thou bright beacon, though I may no more
Rejoice in the radiance thou fling'st on the shore,
Yet doth thy glory remembered impart
Light to my slumber, and hope to my heart.
Now is the autumn, the yellow leaves fall
From the grapes that lie purple, the last on the wall,
The free gales of autumn sweep over the sea,
They’ll bring back my sailor to home and to me.
The curlew has left, with a fugitive wing,
The nest which she built for her young in the spring,
Far on the wild winds and waters to roam.
But mine with the autumn returns to his home.
He will come to his mother the blind and the old,
Before the drear winter is cheerless and cold ;
I shall hear his light footstep his coming declare.
And kiss his fair forehead, and touch his soft hair.
The moon of the hunter is now in her wane.
And fair is the weather and fixed is the vane ;
Then shine, thou bright beacon, afar on thy height.
Shine out for the ship soon to welcome thy light.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
Few subjects can be more sublime and grand than the present illustration, under the circumstances and point of view in which it is here represented. A vista, formed by a great chasm amid the rocks, discloses to the view the lofty promontory called the Baily, (situated on the north side of Dublin Bay,) starting precipitously from the water, and having its narrow summit crowned by a beautiful tower, supporting a great lantern with an encircling gallery. —
The character of "The Needles" is naturally sublime : the intervening sea between them and the light-house always presents an agitated surface ; and the little bold peninsula itself exposes a series of rocky, steep, and inaccessible cliffs.
HURDWAR—THE GATE OF VISHNOO
FLING wide the sacred city gates,
Wide on the open air ;
A higher Conqueror awaits
Than he whose name they bear.
He comes not in the strength of war,
He comes not in its pride ;
No banners are around his car,
No trumpets at his side.
Not in the midst of armed bands
The Christian Chief appears,
No swords are in his followers' hands,
They strive with prayers and tears.
For faint and weak those followers seem,
Yet mighty is their voice :
The Ganges' old and holy stream
Will in its depths rejoice.
Low is the voice with which they plead—
A voice of peace and love ;
Peaceful and loving is the creed
Whose emblem is the dove.
Far in the east a star arose,
And with its rising brought
God's own appointed hour to those
By whom it had been sought.
And still that guiding star hath shone
O'er all its light hath won ;
And it will still keep shining on
Until its work be done.
A glorious ending at its birth
Was to that planet given :
For never will it set on earth
Till earth is lost in heaven.
Fling wide the ancient city's gates,
The hours of night are past,
And Christ, the Conqueror, awaits
Earth's holiest and her last.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
Hurdwar signifies the Gate of Hari, or Vishnoo, the Saviour of the Hindoo mythology, and has, from the earliest times, been one of the most considerable places of Hindoo pilgrimage and purification. Amongst the hordes who flock to immerse themselves in the holy stream, in the month of April, at the point where it first emancipates itself from the gigantic mountains which give it birth, are many victims of disease, or in the last stage of life, who have literally crawled hundreds of miles, apprehensive lest they should expire from exhaustion before they reach the sacred goal ; and ere they arrive, exhibit signs of the most extravagant joy at finding themselves once more able to lave their limbs in the sacred stream. The number of persons usually collected on these occasions varies from two to three thousand ; and once in twelve years, when particular ceremonies are observed, they have been computed at a million.
HURDWAR, A PLACE OF HINDOO PILGRIMAGE
I LOVE the feeling which, in former days,
Sent men to pray amid the desert's gloom,
Where hermits left a cell, or saints a tomb ;
Good springs alike from penitence and praise,
From aught that can the mortal spirit raise:
And though the faith be false, the hope be vain,
That brought the Hindoo to his idol fane ;
Yet one all-sacred truth his deed conveys—
How still the heart doth its Creator own,
Mid strange idolatry and savage rite,
A consciousness of power eternal shown,
How man relies on some superior might.
The soul mid darkness feels its birth divine.
And owns the true God in the false god's shrine.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
Hurdwar, or Haridwar, means the gate of Vishnoo, the Prinsir. The Hindoos perform this pilgrimage, to bathe in a particular spot of the Ganges*, at the time when the sun enters the sign Aries. A fair is then held, which, thanks to the precautions taken by the British government, has, of late years, gone off without bloodshed. "At the annual fairs, it is supposed, from 200,000 to 300,000 persons are collected. Once in twelve years, when particular ceremonies are performed, the number of those present has been computed at one million." —
Hamilton's Gazetteer.
* " Parvati, the bride of Siva, ventured one day to cover his eyes with her hands. Thereupon all the functions of life were suspended—time stood—nay, the drops poured from Siva's brow, to think of the awful consequences arising from his almighty eye relaxing from its eternal watchfulness. From these drops, the Ganges had its divine origin ; hence the veneration of the Hindoos for the sacred river." —
Asiatic Researches.
IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW (or A SUTTEE)
Gather her raven hair in one rich cluster,
Let the white champac light it, as a star
Gives to the dusky night a sudden lustre,
Shining afar.
Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom,
Until the breathing air around grows sweet ;
Scatter the languid jasmine's yellow blossom
Beneath her feet.
Those small white feet are bare—too soft are they
To tread on aught but flowers ; and there is roll'd
Round the slight ankle, meet for such display,
The band of gold.
Chains and bright stones are on her arms and neck ;
What pleasant vanities are linked with them,
Of happy hours, which youth delights to deck
With gold and gem.
She comes ! So comes the Moon, when has she found
A silvery path wherein through heaven to glide ?
Fling the white veil—a summer cloud—around ;
She is a bride !
And yet the crowd that gather at her side
Are pale, and every gazer holds his breath.
Eyes fill with tears unbidden, for the bride—
The bride of Death !
She gives away the garland from her hair,
She gives the gems that she will wear no more ;
All the affections, whose love-signs they were,
Are gone before.
The red pile blazes—let the bride ascend,
And lay her head upon her husband's heart,
Now in a perfect unison to blend—
No more to part.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
THE INDIAN GIRL (or HORSE-SHOE FALLS)
She sat alone beside her hearth—
For many nights alone ;
She slept not on the pleasant couch
Where fragrant herbs were strown.
At first she bound her raven hair
With feather and with shell;
But then she hoped; at length, like night,
Around her neck it fell.
They saw her wandering 'mid the woods ,
Lone, with the cheerless dawn.
And then they said, " Can this be her
We call'd ' The Startled Fawn.' "
Her heart was in her large sad eyes.
Half sunshine and half shade;
And love, as love first springs to life,
Of every thing afraid.
The red leaf far more heavily
Fell down to autumn earth,
Than her light feet, which seem'd to move
To music and to mirth.
With the light feet of early youth.
What hopes and joys depart!
Ah ! nothing like the heavy step
Betrays the heavy heart.
It is a usual history
That Indian girl could tell,
Fate sets apart one common doom
For all who love too well.
The proud—the shy—the sensitive,
Life has not many such;
They dearly buy their happiness,
By feeling it too much.
A stranger to her forest home,
That fair young stranger came
They raised for him the funeral song—
For him the funeral flame.
Love sprang from pity,--and her arms
Around his arms she threw;
She told her father, " If he dies,
Your daughter dieth too."
For her sweet sake they set him free—
He linger'd at her side;
And many a native song yet tells
Of that pale stranger's bride.
Two years have pass'd--how much two years
Have taken in their flight !
They've taken from the lip its smile.
And from the eye its light.
Poor child ! she was a child in years—
So timid and so young
With what a fond and earnest faith
To desperate hope she clung!
His eyes grew cold—his voice grew strange—
They only grew more dear.
She served him meekly, anxiously.
With love—half faith, half fear.
And can a fond and faithful heart
Be worthless in those eyes
For which it beats ?—Ah ! wo to those
Who such a heart despise.
Poor child ! what lonely days she pass'd,
With nothing to recall
But bitter taunts, and careless words,
And looks more cold than all.
Alas ! for love, that sits at home,
Forsaken, and yet fond;
The grief that sits beside the hearth,
Life has no grief beyond.
He left her, but she follow'd him—
She thought he could not bear
When she had left her home for him
To look on her despair.
Adown the strange and mighty stream
She took her lonely way!
The stars at night her pilots were.
As was the sun by day.
Yet mournfully—how mournfully !—
The Indian look'd behind,
When the last sound of voice or step
Died on the midnight wind.
Yet still adown the gloomy stream
She plied her weary oar;
Her husband—he had left their home,
And it was home no more.
She found him—but she found in vain—
He spurn'd her from his side;
He said, her brow was all too dark,
For her to be his bride.
She grasp'd his hands,—her own were cold,
And silent turn'd away.
As she had not a tear to shed,
And not a word to say.
And pale as death she reach'd her boat.
And guided it along;
With broken voice she strove to raise
A melancholy song.
None watch'd the lonely Indian girl,—
She pass'd unmark'd of all,
Until they saw her slight canoe
Approach the mighty Fall !*
Upright, within that slender boat
They saw the pale girl stand,
Her dark hair streaming far behind—
Uprais'd her desperate hand.
The air is fill'd with shriek and shout—
They call, but call in vain ;
The boat amid the waters dash'd—
'Twas never seen again.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
HORSE-SHOE FALL, NIAGARA.
IN the centre of the Fall, a vast body of water rushes in an unbroken sheet; but towards the extremities, the fluid mass is shivered by rocky projections into minute particles, assuming a variety of forms, and radiant with prismatic hues. The volume of air carried down by the waters in their descent, so greatly diminishes the sustaining power of the element, that only substances of the greatest buoyancy will float in the chasm beneath. The spectator can advance to a great distance behind the cascade, by traversing a ledge of rock connected with the overhanging cliff; and having arrived at the customary limit, a scene of wonderful and fearful interest displays itself before him. A curtain of waters separates him from the world, a rocky canopy rises far above his head ; " his feelings are those of a prisoner, but never, surely, was there so magnificent a dungeon !"
The concussion of the waters at Niagara strikes less forcibly on the ear than might be supposed ; within a very short distance of the Falls, conversation may be maintained without any great exertion of the voice. The sounds of the cataract combine with none other; they would be heard amid the roaring of a volcano, and yet do not drown the chirping of a sparrow.
The view of the Falls represented in the engraving, derives much additional interest from an event detailed in the following extract from the Literary Gazette, May 9th, 1835 : —
" A recent letter from New York announces the fall of the Table rock, at the Falls of Niagara. This immense mass of stone was on the Canada side of the river, projecting so as to afford the spectator a front view of the Horse-Shoe Fall. It was considerably undermined, and fissures on the surface had, for some time past, indicated the disruption. A larger mass was detached two or three years back, by the total fall of the most favourable position for viewing the magnificent appearance presented by that stupendous fall of waters. "
* Niagara
INFANTICIDE IN MADAGASCAR
A luxury of summer green
Is on the southern plain,
And water-flags, with dewy screen,
Protect the ripening grain.
Upon the sky is not a cloud
To mar the golden glow,
Only the palm-tree is allowed
To fling its shade below.
And silvery, mid its fertile brakes,
The winding river glides,
And every ray in heaven makes
Its mirror of its tides.
And yet it is a place of death—
A place of sacrifice ;
Heavy with childhood's parting breath
Weary with childhood's cries.
The mother takes her little child—
Its face is like her own ;
The cradle of her choice is wild—
Why is it left alone ?
The trampling of the buffalo
Is heard among the reeds,
And sweeps around the carrion-crow
That amid carnage feeds.
Oh ! outrage upon mother Earth
To yonder azure sky ;
A destined victim from its birth,
The child is left to die.
We shudder that such crimes disgrace
E'en yonder savage strand ;
Alas ! and hath such crime no trace
Within our English land ?
Pause, ere we blame the savage code
That such strange horror keeps;
Perhaps within her sad abode
The mother sits and weeps,
And thinks how oft those eyelids smiled,
Whose close she may not see,
And says, " Oh, would to God, my child,
I might have died for thee !"
Such law of bloodshed to annul
Should be the Christian's toil ;
May not such law be merciful,
To that upon our soil ?
Better the infant eyes should close
Upon the first sweet breath,
Than weary for their last repose,
A living life in death !
Look on the children of our poor
On many an English child :
Better that it had died secure
By yonder river wild.
Flung careless on the waves of life,
From childhood's earliest time,
They struggle, one perpetual strife,
With hunger and with crime.
Look on the crowded prison-gate—
Instructive love and care
In early life had saved the fate
That waits on many there.
Cold, selfish, shunning care and cost,
The poor are left unknown ;
I say, for every soul thus lost,
We answer with our own.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
The Malagassy regard certain days as propitious to every procedure resulting from the events of those days, and other days as the reverse. This delusive influence inculcates the belief, that all born on these inauspicious days will be its subjects and agents through life, and superinduces a conviction, that to spare and nurse the unhappy infants, born on such days, would be to cherish sorcerers, the chief instruments in inflicting every calamity they fear. On the birth, therefore, of an infant, the great solicitude of the parents is to know its vintana, or destiny, which must be ascertained by certain rules. Amongst the varied exhibitions of the domination of superstition, there is not, perhaps, presented a scene of more affecting wretchedness than the one displayed in the engraving. An infant, perfectly helpless, and unconscious, smiling perhaps in innocence, is laid in a narrow entrance to a village, or a fold, through which there is barely room for cattle to pass, several of which are driven violently in, and made to pass over the spot on which the child is placed, while the parents, with agonizing feelings, stand by waiting the result. If the oxen pass over without injuring the infant, the omen is propitious; the powerful and evil destiny is removed, and the parents may, without apprehension, embrace and cherish their offspring.
INTERIOR OF A MOORISH PALACE
Hamooda holds a feast to-night —
Fill ye the lamps with fragrant light ;
Burn, in the twilight's dewy time,
The mastic, rosemary, and thyme;
And scatter round the festal chamber
Oils from the rose, the musk, the amber.
And bind ye wreaths to hang the room,
The red pomegranate just in bloom,
The tulip, with the purple glow,
That hides the burning heart below ;
The crimson rose beside the pale,
And the white jasmin, faint and frail.
Fling ye the silken curtains wide,
With gold restrained — with scarlet dyed.
And let the colours wander o'er
The polished walls — the snowy floor.
The painted glass has hues to vie
With morning's dew or evening's sky.
White are the walls, but o'er them wind
Rich patterns curiously designed.
The Koran's sentences of light,
Where azure, gold, and red unite ;
And like their mirrors, fountains play
To lull and cool the burning day.
See the sherbets be cool with snows,
Flavoured with lemon and with rose ;
High in pearl baskets pile the grape
So that no purple bloom escape.
Bring ye the sweetmeats, and serve up
The coffee in a golden cup.
Call in the music, hours are long
Unspeeded by the dance and song.
Prepare the fairest slaves, whose eyes
Are stars to light our human skies.
Gather scents, songs, tales, smiles, and light,
The Bey Hamooda feasts to-night.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1840
The palace, built by Hamooda Pasha, is a magnificent specimen of Moorish architecture.
INTRODUCTION
1.
AND has my heart enough of song
To give these pictured lines
The poetry that must belong
To what such art designs?
The landscape, and the ruined tower,
The temple's stately brow —
Methinks I never felt their power
As I am feeling now.
2.
For now I find in foreign scenes
What foreign scenes can be,
And truth with fancy intevenes,
To bring them home to me.
A few short miles, a few salt waves,
How strange a change there came —
Our lives as separate as our graves;
Is then our kind the same ?
3.
Ah, yes ; a thousand sympathies
Their general birth-place find.
And nature has a thousand links
To beautify and bind.
I deeply felt that song should make
One universal link,
Uniting, for each other's sake,
All those who feel and think.
4.
The poet’s lovely faith creates
The beauty it believes
The light which on his footstep waits
He from himself receives.
His lot may be a weary lot,
His thrall a heavy thrall,
And cares and griefs the crowd know not
His heart may know them all.
5.
But still he hath a mighty dower —
The loveliness that throws
Over the common thought and hour
The colours of the rose.
A loveliness like that sweet ray
I marked this very morn,
When the first smile of early day
Amid the east was born.
6.
Fair Paris caught the crimson hue —
Well may I call it fair.
With its pure heaven of softest blue.
Its clear and sunny air —
Soft fell the morning o'er each dome
That rises mid the sky ;
And, conscious of the day to come,
Demand their place on high.
7.
Round the Pantheon's height was wrought
A web of royal red ;
A glory as if morning brought
Its homage to the dead.
And Notre Dame's old gothic towers
Were bathed in roseate bloom,
As Time himself had scattered flowers
Over that mighty tomb.
8.
For tomb it is — those arches hide
Six centuries below :
A world of faith, and pomp, and pride,
Our days no longer know.
The streets around wore those soft hues
That flit on rosy wings,
The meanest lane drank those pure dews
The angel morning brings.
9.
They lasted not — too soon they soil —
The common day began
With all the grief, the care, the toil,
That morning brings to man.
But still it was a lovely light
That vanished from the scene ;
'Twas much, when past away from sight,
To think that it had been.
10.
All things are symbols, and we find,
In this glad morning prime,
The actual history of the mind
In its own early time.
So to the youthful poet’s gaze
A thousand colours rise ;
The beautiful which soon decays,
The buoyant which soon dies.
11.
So does not die their influence.
His spirit owns the spell ;
Memory to him is music — hence
The magic of his shell.
He sings of general hopes and fears,
A universal tone ;
All weep with him, for in his tears
They recognise their own.
12.
True, that with weariness and wo
The fairy gift is won,
And many a glorious head lies low.
Ere half its race be run ;
And many a one whose lute hangs now
High on the laurel tree,
Feels that the cypress's dark bough
A fitter home would be —
13.
And turns away from many a smile.
And many a word of praise ;
And with a lonely heart the while
Regrets the price he pays.
For fame is bought by feverish nights,
By sacrifice and pain ;
The phantasie of past delights
Still haunts the poet's strain.
14.
Though he may bid, with charmed voice,
His own wild heart be still,
And in lull'd silence sleep, his choice
It is not at his will.
His fate is song, and for that song
Doth glory track his way ;
A thousand hearts to him belong,
Won by his gentle lay.
15.
'Tis his upon the landscape's bloom
A deeper spell to cast ;
‘Tis his, beside the ruined tomb,
To animate the past.
And let him think, if his own sphere
Too visionary seem,
Life's dearest joy, and hope, and fear,
What are they each ? — a dream.
Paris
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
ND has my heart enough of song
INTRODUCTION
ANOTHER year — again our page
Goes wandering over sea and land,
And gathers, in its pilgrimage,
The shells on many a foreign strand ; —
And asks their music and their dreams —
What of the future, and the past.
Waking the visionary gleams
Around the colder present cast.
Two worlds there are — one, chill and stern,
Is the external world alone,
Whose lessons all mankind must learn,
Whose troubles all mankind have known.
It were too harsh, it were too cold,
But for the world within that lies :
The spirit, by the clay controlled,
There yet asserts its native skies.
It is the minstrel's part to fling
Around the present's common cope,
The solemn hues on Memory's wing,
The spiritual light of Hope.
The scene that to a careless eye
Seems nothing but itself to be,
Has charmed earth and haunted sky —
Seen as the minstrel's eye can see.
Himself is but an instrument
Inspired by that diviner hour,
When first Imagination lent
To earth its passion and its power.
Its presence to the heart of man
Is like the sunshine to the earth :
The soul of its eternal plan,
And whence the beautiful has birth.
All things divine and elevate
Attend its mighty influence here —
The daylight of our actual state,
The moral glory of our sphere.
Without its being, earth's fair face
Has no sweet shadows, flung of yore ;
The present lacks the sacred grace
Bequeathed by those that are no more.
Without such lovely light the while,
Dark, silent, strange, all scenes would be ;
And Ithaca were but an isle,
Unknown, upon a nameless sea !
But now a thousand years come back,
The gift of one immortal line ;
Each with new splendor on its track,
As stars upon the midnight shine.
All tender thoughts that fill the heart
With tears, and dreams more soft than tears,
Have in imagination part,
Which sanctifies what it endears.
I only wake the softest chord
That is upon the dreaming lyre ;
One low, one love-touched whispering word,
Which asks its tears, but not its fire.
I ask of every pictured scene
What human hearts have beaten there ;
What sorrow on their soil has been,
What hope has lighted human care ?
I have myself forgot regret,
Care, trouble, wrong, amid my strain ;
If I win others to forget,
My song has not been quite in vain.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
THE IONIAN CAPTIVE
SADLY the captive o'er her flowers is bending,
While her soft eye with sudden sorrow fills;
They are not those that grew beneath her tending
In the green valley of her native hills.
There is the violet—not from the meadow
Where wandered carelessly her childish feet;
There is the rose—it grew not in the shadow
Of her old home—it cannot be so sweet.
And yet she loves them—for those flowers are bringing
Dreams of the home that she will see no more;
The languid perfumes are around her, flinging
What almost for the moment they restore.
She hears her mother's wheel that slowly turning
Murmured unceasingly the summer day;
And the stone murmur when the pine-boughs burning
Told that the summer-hours had passed away.
She hears her young companions sadly singing
A song they loved—an old complaining tune;
Then comes a gayer sound—the laugh is ringing
Of the young children—hurrying in at noon.
By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister,
They tell old stories, broken by the mirth
Of her young brother: alas! have they missed her,
She who was borne a captive from their hearth?
She starts—too present grows the actual sorrow,
By her own heart she knows what they have borne;
Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow,
It can but find her prisoner and forlorn.
What are the glittering trifles that surround her—
What the rich shawl—and what the golden chain—
Would she could break the fetters that have bound her,
And see her household and her hills again!
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE
O, RECALL not the past, though this valley be filled
With all we remember, and all we regret ;
The flowers of its summer have long been distilled,
The essence has perish’d, ah ! let us forget.
What avails it to mourn over hours that are gone,
O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst !
Alas ! of the few that are lingering, none
Wear the light or the hues that encircled the first.
Alas for the springtime ! alas for our youth !
The grave has no slumber more cold than the heart,
When languid and darkened it sinks into truth,
And sees the sweet colours of morning depart.
Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave,
But they cannot delude like the earlier light ;
We know that the twilight encircles the eve,
And sunset is only the rainbow of night.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
JACOB BLESSING EPHRAIM AND MANASSEH
“And Joseph took them both, Ephraim in his right hand toward Israel's left hand, and Manasseh in his left hand toward Israel's right hand, and brought them near unto him. And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid it upon Ephraim's head, who was the younger, and his left hand upon Manasseh's head, guiding his hands wittingly; for Manasseh was the firstborn. And he blessed Joseph, and said, God, before whom my fathers Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long unto this day, the Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads.”—Genesis, chap. xiviii. ver. 13, et seq.
The old man’s head is white with age,
Weary has been his pilgrimage;
Yet ‘few and evil’ were the years
Spent amid our vale of tears.
At his side there is his son,
He so long unlooked upon;
And a stately chief is he
Whom his father cannot see.
Two young children with soft hair
Bright as locks of childhood are,
Kneel with sweet uplifted eyes,
Touched with infantine surprise—
Wondering, as they look above,
Who is he that claims their love.
Yet familiar seems their prayer,
Words from childhood heard are there.
Earnest, is the mother’s gaze—
Hath she gone to other days,
When the father of her child
Was betrayed—oppressed—exiled?
Weak the old man’s voice and low,
Through her soul it seems to go.
Piercing many a future hour
With the prophet’s mighty power.
Peace upon each spirit came,
As he blessed them in God’s name;
Holy are the words and high,—
And the old man turns to die.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
JAHARA BAUG, AGRA
The History of Shah Dara’s Flight and Death
======
Agra was Shah Jehan’s city of residence. It was from its walls that he witnessed the overthrow of Prince Dara, his eldest son. The Jehara Baug is one of the gardens adjoining the river.
======
It was the lovely twilight-time went down o'er Agra's towers,
And silent were her marble halls, and tranquil were her bowers ;
The crimson colours of the rose were melting on the air,
And from the ivory minarets arose the evening prayer.
The snowy herons to the roofs were flocking for the night,
The columns and the cupolas were bathed in purple light ;
And the large lilies on the stream grew fairer in their hue,
As they flung up each silver cup to catch the falling dew.
Filled with the sweet good-night of flowers that sigh themselves to sleep,
Along the quiet river's side, the shadowy gardens sweep ;
While fair and pale, like some young girl who pines with early love,
The young moon seems as if she feared to take her place above.
Is there no feasting in those halls ? why is that palace mute ?
The silvery cadences unheard of the young dancer's foot :
How changed since that glad marriage eve, when with the dance and song
Prince Dara led his cousin-bride, those lighted halls along.
How changed since that imperial day, when at his father's hand,
The eldest born sat down to share that father's high command ;
And the proud nobles of the court drew forth the glittering sword,
In token all were at his will, and waited but his word.
An old man sits upon the walls that guard the eastern side ;
‘Tis not to hear the wild wind wake the music of the tide :
The rising of the evening star, the perfume from the bough,
The last sweet singing of the doves—all pass unheeded now.
The aged king sits on his tower, and strains his eyes afar,
And asks of every passer by for tidings of the war;
They come—he sees the scattered flight of Dara's* broken hands;
At last a fugitive himself—his son before him stands.
The monarch hid his face and wept, he heard his first-born say,
"The crown you placed upon my brow this hour has past away ;
My brother is my enemy—a traitor is my friend,
And I must seek these ancient walls, to shelter and defend."
"Not so," the old king said, "my son ; fly thou with spear and shield,
For never walls could stand for those who stood not in the field ;"
He wept before his father's face—then fled across the plain ;
The desolate and the fugitive—they never met again.
Time has past on, and Dara's doom is darkly drawing nigh,
The vanquished prince has only left to yield— despair and die ;
The faithless friend, the conquering foe, have been around his path,
And now a wild and desert home, is all Prince Dara hath.
The sands are bare, the wells are dry, and not a single tree
Extends its shade o'er him who had a royal canopy :
There is not even safety found amid those burning sands ;
The exile has a home to seek in far and foreign lands.
He lingers yet upon his way—within his tents is death;
He cannot fly till he has caught Nadira's latest breath.
How can he bear to part with her—she who, since first his bride,
In wo and want his comforter, has never left his side.
He kissed the pale unconscious cheek—he flung him at her feet ;
He gazed how fondly on those eyes he never more might meet ;
"’Tis well," he cried, "my latest friend is from my bosom flown,
Go bear her to her father's tomb, while I go forth alone."
The traitor is upon his way, the royal prey is found,
And by ignoble hands and chains, the monarch's son is bound ;
Garbed as a slave, they lead him forth the public ways along,
But on his noble brow is scorn, and on his lip a song. *
'Tis midnight ; but the midnight crime is darker than the night,
And Aurungzebe with gloomy brow awaits the morning light ;
The morning light is dyed for him with an accusing red,
They bring to the usurper's feet his brother Dara's head. **
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
Prince Dará was the favourite son of Shah Jehan, who associated him with himself on the throne. The talents and good fortune, however, of Aurungzebe, the younger brother, turned the scale in his own favour. The struggle between the two was long and severe ; and the final catastrophe fatal to the unfortunate Dara.
* Having a talent for poetry, he composed many affecting verses on his own misfortunes, with the repetition of which he often drew tears from the eyes of the common soldiers who guarded his person. "My name,"said he, " imports that I am in pomp like Darius ; I am also like that monarch in my fate. The friends whom he trusted were more fatal than the swords of his enemies."
** Aurungzebe passed the night destined for his brother's death in great fear and perplexity, when Najis, the instrument of his crime, brought before him the last fatal relic. The head of Dara being disfigured with blood, he ordered it to be thrown into a charger of water ; and when he had wiped it with his handkerchief, he recognized the features of his brother. He is said to have exclaimed, " Alas, unfortunate man !" and then to have shed some tears.
JESUITS IN PROCESSION :
VALETTA, MALTA.
Whence rose the seat that 'neath yon azure dome,
Hath had such wide domain o'er courts and kings,
And the wild forest where the condor springs,
Darkening the lonely vale which has his home—
Whence did that sect with all its power come !
From the dim shadows of the sick man's room !
The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life
Whatever of that life might seem the best :
The glorious fever of the battle strife,
The pleasure that in court or bower is guest ;
But in all things were care and sorrow rife,
And the soul's instinct craved diviner rest,
Then to his hopes a holier aim was given—
He made of earth the stepping-stone to heaven !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
This beautiful architectural vista, one of those avenues so execrated by Byron, represents the Strada St. Giovanni, at the moment (and at what moment are they not in motion ?) when a religious procession, of the Jesuitic order, is passing by. Valetta abounds with " streets of stairs," an unavoidable consequence of its situation on a somewhat steep ridge. It must have been the inconvenience of ascent that drew forth the impassioned exclamation of the noble bard against all such avenues, he who would else have loved them for their very singularity, for their necessary absence from the every-day pageantry of life, from the deep shadows and vivid lights attendant on their narrow width, the height of the houses, and the numerous breaks caused by the projecting balconies and rich architectural decorations.
JOHN KEMBLE
O ! GLORIOUS triumph, thus to sway at will
All feelings in our nature ; thus to work
The springs of sympathy, the mines of thought,
And all the deep emotions of the heart.
To colour the fine paintings of the mind,
And bid them move and breathe. Our island bard,
He who flung human life upon his page,
How much he owes the actor. Kemble once
Made Hamlet, Cato, and the Noble Moor,
Our own familiar friends—they lived, they looked,
And left an actual image on the soul.
I would I could remember them, but he
Who looks yon pale and melancholy prince,
Was past before my time—yet still the stage
Is fancy's world of poetry to me—
For I have heard the pathos of the Moor
Tremble in broken music, when he bids
His last farewell to Venice, and implores
For charity and rest :—and I have wept
When the stern father slays his only child,
That he may keep her memory a thing
To shelter in his heart. Nor is she least
Amid these haunting shapes—that gentle wife,
Who kept one stainless faith through long, long years,
Of utter hopelessness, and yet loved on ;
Till Mantua ranks within my memory,
With those Italian cities which have been
The visions of my youth.
I know not how it acts on other minds,
But this I know, my most enchanted world
Is hidden when the curtain falls, and leaves
Remembrance only of its gorgeous dreams
And beautiful creations.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834
THE JUMMA MUSJID—The Principal Mosque at Agra
Yon mosque alone remains to tell,
How glorious once did Agra rise,
When gilded roof and pinnacle
Met morning half-way in the skies.
Two mighty empires load the plain,
With palace, mosque, and tomb, and tower:
Out on the works man rears in vain!
Out on the vanity of power!
A conqueror poured forth wealth and blood,
And dome and temple rose sublime ;—
Now, what remains where Agra stood,
But dust and ruins, Death and Time!
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
Captain Elliot says, " that a single century, or even a shorter space of time, is sufficient to reduce the streets and bazaars of an Indian city to a level with the earth from whence they rose, and to become almost as if they had never been ; while the larger mosques and tombs remain with little deterioration, and stand as melancholy monuments of the earlier splendour and prosperity of the Eastern capitals." " The city of Agra was greatly embellished by the Emperor Akbar, and it certainly contains some of the most beautiful remains of architecture that are to be found in India, where the face of a vast country is covered with the ruins of two great empires." " Some of the tombs have been converted into dwelling-houses by the English inhabitants."
It was remarked by Bishop Heber, that " Vanity of vanities was surely never written in more legible characters than on the dilapidated arcades of Delhi." He might have said the same of Agra.
KALENDRIA ;
A PORT IN CILICIA
Do you see yon vessel riding,
Anchored in our island bay,
Like a sleeping sea-bird biding
For the morrow's onward way ?
See her white wings folded round her
As she rocks upon the deep;
Slumber with a spell hath bound her,
With a spell of peace and sleep.
Seems she not as if enchanted
To that lone and lovely place,
Henceforth ever to be haunted
By that sweet ship's shadowy grace.
Yet, come here again to-morrow,
Not a vestige will remain,
Though those sweet eyes strain in sorrow,
They will search the sea in vain.
'Twas for this I bade thee meet me,
For a parting word and tear ;
Other lands and lips may greet me ;
None will ever seem so dear.
Other lands—I may say, other—
Mine again I shall not see ;
I have left mine aged mother,
She has other sons than me.
Where my father's bones are lying,
There mine own will never lie ;
Where the myrtle groves are sighing,
Soft beneath our summer sky.
Mine will be a wilder ending,
Mine will be a wilder grave,
Where the shriek and shout are blending,
Or the tempest sweeps the wave.
Mine may be a fate more lonely.
In some sick and foreign ward,
Where my weary eyes meet only
Hired nurse or sullen guard.
Dearest maiden, thou art weeping ;
Must I from those eyes remove?
Hath thy heart no soft pulse sleeping
Which might ripen into love ?
No ! I see thy brow is frozen,
And thy look is cold and strange ;
Ah ! when once the heart has chosen,
Well I know it cannot change.
And I know that heart has spoken
That another's it must be.
Scarce I wish that pure faith broken,
Though the falsehood were for me.
No : be still the guileless creature
That upon my boyhood shone ;
Couldst thou change thy angel nature,
Half my faith in heaven were gone.
Still thy memory shall be cherished,
Dear as it is now to me ;
When all gentler thoughts have perished,
One shall linger yet for thee.
Farewell !—With those words I sever
Every tie of youth and home;
Thou, fair isle ! adieu for ever !
See, a boat cuts through the foam.
Wind, time, tide, alike are pressing,
I must hasten from the shore.
One first kiss, and one last blessing—
Farewell, love ! we meet no more.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
KALENDRIA, ON THE COAST OF CILICIA
The little sea-port of Kalendria looks, by moonlight, more like the creation of the artist's imagination than the realities of nature. During the friendly silence of the moon, the bold and spiry cliffs, the precipices of shivered slate and fractured limestone, rarely relieved by verdure of any kind, softened by the calm, cold light that falls on each peak, rock, and tower, mercifully shrouds the nakedness and dreariness bared by the fierce and scorching beams of day. At this lone and unfrequented spot, the arrival or departure of a vessel creates an unusual degree of bustle and interest ; and if it were not that the couriers for Cyprus from Constantinople embark here, the inhabitants might soon forget that they owed allegiance to the city of the Sultan. This too is the place where, in Tiberius's reign, the progress of the injurious Piso was arrested, after, by his plots and machinations, he had contributed to the death of Germanicus.
KATE IS CRAZ’D
COWPER.
“There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving-maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death —
And never smiled again ! and now she roams
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tattered still ; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food,
Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes.
Though pinched with cold, asks never.— Kate is craz’d."
How wonderful ! how beautiful ! these words
Are but the usual recompense assigned
To usual efforts of the human mind.
And yet how little jars these mighty chords !
How soon but one uneasy hour affords
Space for disunion and for disarray,
To mar the music of an earlier day !
It is a fearful thing to live, yet be
That which is scarcely life — the spirit fled —
Death at the heart — our nobler self is dead —
The reasoning and responsible, while we
Live, like the birds around, unconsciously.
God ! in thy mercy keep us from such doom,
Let not our mind precede us to our tomb !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1840
THE KEEPSAKE
OH! do not take the picture,
I pray thee, Mother dear;
It has been my only solace
Of many a lingering year.
I may be wrong, my Mother,
I know that I am wrong;
But I have loved that image
So dearly and so long!
Children we were together—
And with it will depart
All that remains of childhood
Around my wasted heart.
Forgive me, oh! my Mother!
All hope I can resign;
But leave a little memory
Of what no more is mine.
We shall meet no more, my Mother,
As we were wont to meet,
Overhead the long green branches,
The wild flowers at our feet.
I know that he is altered,
That I am altered too,
That we could not if we would, Mother,
Our early love renew.
We meet—it is as strangers—
We part without a word;
But in my heart there vibrates
An unforgotten chord.
It is not love but sorrow,
Wo for the youthful heart,
That sees its fairest fancies,
its dearest dreams depart.
It will but guard the future
With many a mournful sign:
Then give me back the picture—
O, give it, mother mine.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
THE KYLAS, CAVES OF ELLORA
THE East, it is thy birth-place, thou bright sun;
There, too, the mind of man first felt its power,
And did begin its course. These mighty fanes
Were of its earliest efforts : that fine skill
And high imagination, which called forth
These giant temples, have, in other shapes,
Gone forth to civilize the world—oh! sun,
Still following in thy track, and, like thy light,
Leaving thick darkness when it past away.
All things are signs in nature, still there are
Subtle analogies we dimly trace.
Perhaps our moral world has but its day,
Of which the great sun is the glorious type;
And intellect will run its course, and set.
If so, we touch on the extremest verge
Of our horizon ; and our arts, our power,
Our conquests o'er the many realms of mind.
Wealth, painting, sciences, and poetry,
Are but that rich magnificence of hues
Which heralds in the closing of our day.
These giant fabrics were the first great signs
Of man's dominion o'er his mother earth :
We have had other triumphs, have achieved
Victories o'er all the other elements ;
And having run mankind's appointed race,
Perchance the night comes on, and what we deem
Meridian is our setting.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
Lord Mimster, in his " Overland Journey from India," observes, when speaking of his visit to the Caves of Ellora—" I felt a sensation of gratitude, and almost of esteem, towards the religion which had effected a labour so immense and so remarkable. Every thing around me spoke of other times, of individuals, nations, and arts long since past away; and I took a hurried view of the present state of India, looking in vain for any power or class of men, great, or I may almost say omnipotent enough, to venture on so prodigious an undertaking." — — —" As I stood in Keylas, casting a rapid glance from those ages concealed in impenetrable darkness, in which the stupendous monuments of art before me had arisen, down to the present moment, I sought in vain for any incident in the lapse of time, which could convey an equal conception of the power of man over matter." The writer might well proceed to ask, " Whether the object of amazement, next to this, in the history of India, was not that of the inhabitants of an island in the outskirts of Europe, unknown even by name in these regions, till they were first seen as merchants, and then as conquerors; and who, during little more than half a century, had, by a gradual extension of military operations, established over the country an influence or dominion which may now be said to be universal.”
LANCASTER
OH, pleasant on a winter night,
To see the fagot blaze,
While o'er white wall and sanded floor,
The cheerful firelight plays.
Rebecca sat beside the hearth,
The wheel was at her knee,
Round, round it went with ceaseless hum,
And cheerfully worked she.
For company she had old songs,
The simple and the true ;
And as she sang, she felt her heart
Its gladsome youth renew.
At first she sang unceasingly,
And with a cheerful tone,
Then paused, to ask the cuckoo clock,
How much of night had flown.
The notes grew sorrowful, then ceased,
She let her wheel stand still,
And forth she looked, the quiet moon
Was bright above the hill.
She blessed the blue and tranquil sky,
And closed the cottage door ;
Again her wheel turned busily,
Her song arose once more.
But broken now by start and pause,
And oft her wandering eye,
Turned to the clock, and anxiously
Watched each long hour pass by.
My mother she is late to-night,
God keep her on her way ;
Again Rebecca turned to watch
The moors that round them lay.
But now the moon had hid her light
Behind a heavy cloud,
Which o'er the azure face of heaven
Had darkened like a shroud.
The wind was howling, as it howls
O'er some sea-beaten strand :
So utter was the darkness round,
You could not see your hand.
The rain upon the casement beat,
And yet she flung it wide;
And with dry brushwood, and with furze,
The blazing hearth supplied.
She knew their cottage was for miles
Seen shining thro' the night—
" God grant," she said with faltering voice,
" My mother sees the light."
She could not bear her agony,
For she could hear afar
The tumult of the rising flood,
With the wild wind at war.
With desperate steps she hurried forth;
The lanthorn's feeble ray,
And the strong purpose of her heart
Sufficed her dangerous way.
How past with her that anxious night
To God is only known,
For reason in that fearful search
Was utterly o'erthrown.
At morning light the ebbing flood
Had yielded up its prey,
And there, by some strange impulse led,
Rebecca bent her way.
They found her with her mother's head
Raised childlike on her arm,
And carefully her cloak was wrapt
To keep the dead one warm.
The cottage now is desolate
Upon that lonely moor;
No firelight through the lattice gleams,
No rose climbs up the door.
By day and night Rebecca's steps
Upon the wild moors roam ;
Still bears the wind one piteous cry—
" Oh, mother dear, come home !"
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
In the neighbourhood of Lancaster, are the dangerous sands alluded to in the above poem. They are fordable at low water; but darkness, fogs, or unexpected tides, have led to many melancholy accidents. Vide " Views and
Illustrations in Lancashire."
THE LAKE OF COMO
AGAIN I am beside the lake,
The lonely lake which used to be
The wide world of the beating heart,
When I was, love, with thee.
I see the quiet evening lights
Amid the distant mountains shine ;
I hear the music of a lute,
It used to come from thine.
How can another sing the song,
The sweet sad song that was thine own ?
It is alike, yet not the same,
It has not caught thy tone.
Ah, never other lip may catch
The sweetness round thine own that clung ;
To me there is a tone unheard,
There is a chord unstrung.
Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores,
That dreams from other days might cast,
The presence elsewhere sought in vain,
The presence of the past.
I find the folly of the search,
Thou bringest but half the past again ;
My pleasure calling faintly back
Too vividly my pain.
Too real the memories that haunt
The purple shadows round thy brink—
I only asked of thee to dream,
I did not ask to think.
False beauty haunting still my heart,
Though long since from that heart removed ;
These waves but tell me how thou wert
Too well and vainly loved.
Fair lake, it is all vain to seek
The influence of thy lovely shore—
I ask of thee for hope and love—
They come to me no more.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
GAIN I am beside the lake,
H, pleasant on a winter night,
LANCASTER CASTLE
Dark with age these towers look down
Over their once vassal town ;
Warlike—yet long years have past
Since they looked on slaughter last.
Never more will that dark wall
Echo with the trumpet's call,
When the Red Rose and the White
Called their warriors to the fight.
Never more the sounding yew,
Which the English archer drew,
Will decide a battle-day
Past like its own shafts away.
Never more those halls will ring
With the ancient harper's string,
When the red wine passed along
With a shout and with a song.
Trumpet, harp, and good yew bow
Are so many memories now,
While the loom, the press, the gun,
Have another age begun.
Yet that old chivalric hour
Hath upon the present power
Changed—and softened and refined
It has left its best behind.
What may its bequeathings be ?
Honour, song, and courtesy.
Like the spirit of its clay,
Yesterday redeems to-day.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
ark with age these towers look down
LANGDALE PIKES
RISE up, rise up, the cheerful sun
Has his golden race begun;
Though low from your cottage eaves,
Hang the thick vine's clustering leaves,
Many a sunbeam has found way,
Shining messengers of day :
What can be the dream, whose power
Keeps you at so late an hour ?
All the trouble has been mine,
Ready is your rod and line,
All prepared the rainbow flies,
Tyre ne'er knew such radiant dies
As the purple and the gold,
Which their filmy wings unfold:
Fairer baits were never cast—
Ho ! you sluggard, up at last ?
What a silvery mist around,
Rises from the dewy ground!
Hot will be the noontide hours,
May it soon come down in showers :
But for shower or for shine,
I know of a woodland shrine,
Moss and leaves ;—the fairy queen
'Mid its blossoms must have been.
Glittering in the morning beam,
Crystal runs our little stream,
See the flag-flowers bright and blue,
Tinge the small waves with their hue;
Azure, like a maiden's eye,
Surely there the trout will lie:
Shadowy hangs the alder bough
Hush! we must be silent now.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
And through that valley winds a little stream like a pleasant thought, 'mid the gray rocks, and the purple heath; its banks are the only green things, as if the spring loved them for the sake of seeing her face mirrored in the clear stream. Some alders grow beside, and a profusion of wild flowers; also there is good sport for the angler.
ISE up, rise up, the cheerful sun
THE LAST REQUEST
SINKING on his couch he lies—
Pale his lips, and dim his eyes;
Yet he hath a little breath—
Love is stronger still than death.
Yet his faltering accents seek
Of the heart within to speak—
Of a love that cannot die—
Of a hope beyond the sky.
Near him stands his youngest one,
Fearing what he looks not on;
Fearing, though he knows not why
With a strange and downcast eye.
But his sister, on the bed
Bendeth her despairing head.
Must her father be resigned—
He, so careful, and so kind?
Never more with eager feet
Will she haste that sire to meet,
Laden with the early flowers
Which he loved, of April hours.
But the wife beside his bed
Calmly holds his dying head.
Full her heart of tears may be—
They are not for him to see.
For the sake of gone-by years,
Filled with mutual hopes and fears—
For the sake of that loved brow,
She is calm as he is now.
Angel-wings in glory sweep
O’er the coming of that sleep—
Let him close his weary eyes,
They will open in the skies.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
“The solemnities of a dying chamber are some of the most melancholy scenes imaginable: there lies the affectionate husband, the indulgent parent, the faithful friend, and the generous master. He lies in the last extremities, and on the very point of dissolution. Art has done it all. The raging disease mocks the power of medicine. It hastens, with resistless impetuosity, to execute its dreadful errand: to rend asunder the silver cord of life, and the more delicate tie of social attachment, and conjugal affection.”—HERVEY.
A LEGEND OF TEIGNMOUTH
A STORY of the olden time, when hearts
Wore truer faith than now—a carved stone
Is in a little ancient church which stands
'Mid yonder trees, 'tis now almost defaced ;
But careful eye may trace the mould'ring lines,
And kind tradition has preserv'd the tale ;
I tell it nearly in the very words
Which are the common legend.
Some few brief hours, my gallant bark,
And we shall see the shore ;
My native, and my beautiful,
That I will leave no more.
And gallantly the white sails swept
On, on before the wind ;
The prow dash'd through the foam and left
A sparkling line behind.
The sun look'd out through the blue sky,
A gladsome summer sun ;
The white cliffs like his mirrors show
Their native land is won.
And gladly from the tall ship's side,
Sir Francis hail'd the land,
And gladly in his swiftest boat,
Row'd onward to the strand.
" I see my father's castle walls
Look down upon the sea ;
The red wine will flow there to-night,
And all for love of me.
" I left a gentle maiden there :
For all the tales they say
Of woman's wrong and faithlessness
To him who is away ;
" I'll wager on her lily hand,
Where's still a golden ring ;
But, lady, 'tis a plainer one
That o'er the seas I bring."
His bugle sound the turret swept
They meet him in the hall ;
But 'mid dear faces where is here,
The dearest of them all !
Ah ! every brow is dark and sad,
And every voice is low ;
His bosom beats not as it beat
A little while ago.
They lead him to a darken'd room.
A heavy pall they raise ;
A face looks forth as beautiful
As in its living days.
A ring is yet upon the hand,
Sir Francis, worn for thee.
Alas ! that such a clay-cold hand,
Should true love's welcome be !
He kiss'd that pale and lovely mouth,
He laid her in the grave ;
And then again Sir Francis sail'd
Far o'er the ocean wave.
To east and west, to north and south,
That mariner was known ;
A wanderer bound to many a shore,
But never to his own.
At length the time appointed came,
He knew that it was come ;
With pallid brow and wasted frame,
That mariner sought home.
The worn-out vessel reach'd the shore,
The weary sails sank down ;
The seamen clear'd her of the spoils
From many an Indian town.
And then Sir Francis fired the ship ;
Yet tears were in his eyes,
When the last blaze of those old planks
Died in the midnight skies.
Next morning, 'twas a Sabbath morn
They sought that church, to pray ;
And cold beside his maiden's tomb
The brave Sir Francis lay.
O, Death ! the pitying that restored
The lover to his bride ;
Once more the marble was unclosed,
They laid him at her side.
And still the evening sunshine sheds
Its beauty o'er that tomb ;
Like heaven's own hope, to mitigate
Earth's too unkindly doom.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834
ome few brief hours, my gallant bark,
A LEGEND OF TINTAGEL CASTLE
ALONE in the forest, Sir Lancelot rode
O'er the neck of his courser the reins lightly flowed
And beside hung his helmet, for bare was his brow
To meet the soft breeze that was fanning him now.
And "the flowers of the forest" were many and sweet,
Which, crushed at each step by his proud courser's feet,
Gave forth all their fragrance, while thick over-head
The boughs of the oak and the elm-tree were spread.
The wind stirred its branches, as if its low suit
Were urged, like a lover who wakens the lute,
And through the dark foliage came sparkling and bright
Like rain from the green leaves, in small gems of light.
There was stillness, not silence, for dancing along,
A brook went its way like a child with a song;
Now hidden, where rushes and water-flags grow;
Now clear, while white pebbles were glistening below.
Lo, bright as a vision, and fair as a dream,
The face of a maiden is seen in the stream;
With her hair like a mantle of gold to her knee,
Stands a lady as lovely as lady can be.
Short speech tells a love-tale;--the bard's sweetest words
Are poor, beside those which each memory hoards;
Sound of some gentle whisper, the haunting and low,
Such as love may have murmured--ah, long, long ago.
She led him away to an odorous cave,
Where the emerald spars shone like stars in the wave,
And the green moss and violets crowded beneath,
And the ash at the entrance hung down like a wreath.
They might have been happy, if love could but learn
A lesson from some flowers, and like their leaves turn
Round their own inward world, their own lone fragrant nest,
Content with its sweetness, content with its rest.
But the sound of the trumpet was heard from afar,
And Sir Lancelot rode forth again to the war;
And the wood-nymph was left as aye woman will be,
Who trusts her whole being, oh, false love, to thee.
For months, every sunbeam that brightened the gloom,
She deemed was the waving of Lancelot's plume;
She knew not of the proud and the beautiful queen,
Whose image was treasured as hers once had been.
There was many a fair dame, and many a knight,
Made the banks of the river like fairy-land bright;
And among those whose shadow was cast on the tide,
Was Lancelot kneeling at Genevra's side.
With purple sails heavily drooping around
The mast, and the prow, with the vale lily bound;
And towed by two swans, a small vessel drew near
But high on the deck was a pall-covered bier.
They oared with their white wings, the bark thro' the flood,
Till arrived at the bank where Sir Lancelot stood:
A wind swept the river, and flung back the pall,
And there lay a lady, the fairest of all.
But pale as a statue, like sunshine on snow,
The bright hair seemed mocking the cold face below:
Sweet truants, the blush and the smile both are fled—
Sir Lancelot weeps as he kneels by the dead.
And these are love's records; a vow and a dream,
And the sweet shadow passes away from life's stream:
Too late we awake to regret--but what tears
Can bring back the waste to our hearts and our years?
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
LONE in the forest, Sir Lancelot rode
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY
“A fair young face- yet mournful in its youth-
Brooding above sad thoughts.”
It is the last token of love and of thee !
Thy once faith is broken, them false one to me.
I think on the letters with which I must part ;
Too dear are the fetters which wind round my heart.
Thy words were enchanted—and ruled me at will ;
My spirit is haunted, remembering them still.
So earnest, so tender—the full heart was there ;
Ah ! song might surrender its lute in despair.
I deemed that I knew thee as none ever knew ;
That 'twas mine to subdue thee, and thine to be true.
I deem'd to my keeping thy memory had brought
The depths that were sleeping of innermost thought.
The bitter concealings life's treacheries teach,
The long-subdued feelings the world cannot reach—
Thy mask to the many was worn not for me ;
I saw thee—can any seem like unto thee ?
No other can know thee as I, love, have known ;
No future will show thee a love like mine own.
That love was no passion that walketh by day,
A fancy—a fashion that flitteth away.
'Twas life's whole emotion—a storm in its might—
'Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night.
It swept down life's flowers, the fragile and fair,
The heart had no powers from passion to spare.
Thy faults but endear'd thee, so stormy and wild ;
My lover ! I fear’d thee as feareth a child.
They seemed but the shrouding of spirit too high,
As vapours come crowding the sunniest sky.
I worshipped in terror a comet above ;
Ah ! fatal the error—ah ! fatal the love !
For thy sake life never will charm me again ;
Its beauty forever is vanish'd and vain.
Thou canst not restore me the depth and the truth
Of the hopes that came o'er me in earliest youth.
Their gloss is departed—their magic is flown,
And sad and faint-hearted I wander alone.
‘Tis vain to regret me—you will not regret ;
You will try to forget me—you cannot forget.
We shall hear of each other—oh! misery to hear
Those names from another that once were so dear !
What slight words will sting us that breathe of the past,
And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to last.
The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead,
But the iron has enter'd the soul where they fed.
Like others in seeming, we'll walk through life's part,
Cold, careless, and dreaming,—with death in the heart.
No hope—no repentance ; the spring of life o'er ;
All died with that sentence —I love thee no more !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
LINCOLN CATHEDRAL
'Twas the deep forest bodied forth that fane,
So rose the arches of the old oak trees,
So wreathed the close set branches at their side,
So through the open spaces gleamed the sun ;
While like an anthem sang the morning birds.
All nature teacheth worship unto man,
And the first instinct of the heart is faith.
Those carved aisles, so noble in their state,
So graceful in each exquisite device,
Are of the past ; a rude and barbarous past,
And yet they rose to heaven. Though the red sword
Flashed in the sun, and with unholy flash
Disturbed the silver moonlight's quiet hour ;
Yet even then men craved for peace and heaven.
Hence rose these glorious temples, where the Cross
Still sanctifies its merciful domain.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
It is curious to observe how much the aspect of nature has in every country given its aspect to architecture. The colossal proportions of Indian scenery have not more given their likeness to the vast temples of the Hindoos, than our own northern forests have given their own character to the Gothic cathedral.
LINES ON CURRAN'S PICTURE
Oh ! is it not a gallant sight to mark
A little vessel breast the stormy sea,
With sails triumphant swelling to the wind ?
Dashing the waters from her side in scorn,
She cleaves the ocean, and, with arrowy prow.
Scattering the snowy foam, a sparkling shower,
And leaving a bright track behind, in sign
Of victory. Our human pride delights
In such a triumph over wind and wave,
Because she knows 'tis not the plank and sail
But human mind that holds the mastery.
The canvass has been spread by human hand,
And human hand it is that guides the helm.
Methinks with nobler triumph we should mark
Some gallant spirit through the sea of life
Shape its successful course. Sustained, impelled
By energy unconquerable within,
A life like Curran's has enough to make
Humanity ashamed and proud. 'Tis strange
To think what toil is wasted upon some,
How ancient scrolls unfold their precious store,
The learned folio yields its silver clasp,
The modern page marks out its easy way
Some learned man to aid, assist, explain,
And all to prove some fool is also dunce.
Now watch the progress of a nobler mind :
It has no aid, except from obstacles
To conquer which invigorates : learned wealth
As much debarred as golden ; every step
Made difficult by want of help ; and books
Things more of a desire than of a hope.
And yet that boy will rise into a man.
The honoured of his country, and will leave
A name imperishable as the soul.
And such was Curran ; 'twas a glorious sight
To see him when his soul was on its spring,
Gifted with all the mighty strength of words,
Wit from his lip, and lightning from his eye,
Flashing together—scorn enthroned on power—
I'd rather have such stirring life as theirs,
Who make their own way, and delight to make,
Win wealth and honour by their own bright mind,
Whose destiny is in itself—than bear
The noblest name that ever belted Earl
Left honoured to his son—
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING NEWSTEAD ABBEY
What makes the poet? — Nothing but to feel
More keenly than the common sense of feeling;
To have the soul attuned to the appeal
Of the dim music through all nature stealing.
Ah ! poetry is like love, its own avenger ;
Sweet thoughts, fine fancies, by its footsteps roam,
It wanders through the world a lonely stranger,
To find this weary world is not its home.
Cares, envyings, blame, disturb its bright dominion ;
Fretted, it labours with its own unrest ;
The wounded dove folds up its drooping pinion,
And pines and fevers on its lonely nest.
Or rather say, it is the falcon, scorning
The shaft by which he met his mortal blow;
Stately he rose to meet the golden morning —
Ere noontide came, the gallant bird lay low.
Ah ! who may know what gloomy guests, unbidden,
Await such spirits in their unstrung hours !
Thoughts by the better nature vainly chidden,
Forcing allegiance to the darker powers.
And who may know how sad and how subdued
When, with its own o’ertasking, faint and weary,
The mind sinks down into that gloomy mood,
To which all future hours seem dark and dreary!
The soul is out of tune—its sweet notes scattered—
Vexed—irritable—harsh—its power is flown:
Like some fine lute, whose higher chords are shattered
By forcing too much music from their tone.
But few can pity such a mood as this,
Because they know it not—calm is their sadness,
Tranquil their joy ; they know not how it is
Genius is feverish in its grief and gladness.
It has no quiet; for it could not live
In the far sunlight of some placid ocean;
It asks the warring winds and waves that give
Need for its strength, and life to its emotion.
And then it suffers bitterly—consuming
With the fierce struggle which itself hath sought;
While fame the future’s mighty world illuming
Is never wholly by the present bought.
Fame is a noble vision, fixed for ever—
Praise is its mockery—the one word of praise
A thousand come, of blame for each endeavour
That turns the mind’s pure light on coming days.
All daily ills beset its daily path:
Poverty—toil—neglect—dislike—and sorrow;
The many visit it with scorn and wrath—
Its hopes come never nearer than the morrow.
Vainly did he resist—half mirth—half rage,—
The weight with which the world on genius presses;
What bitter truths are flung upon his page,
Truths which the lip denies—the heart confesses.
Life is a fable, with its lesson last ;
Genius, too, has its fable and its moral:
Of all the trees that down their shadows cast,
Choose you a wreath from any but the laurel.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
Newstead Abbey, celebrated as having been the paternal estate of Lord Byron, is situated in Nottinghamshire, within a short distance of Mansfield. It was founded in 1170, by Henry II as a priory for Black Canons, and was granted, at the period of the dissolution of religious houses, to Sir John Byron, lieutenant of Sherwood forest, in Henry the Eighth’s time. The grantee incorporated part of the Abbey with its dwelling-house, but suffered the Church to fall into decay. Although the estate continued in the Byron family until 1815, the mansion and offices, which are all in the ecclesiastical style, were much neglected, and the antique and valuable furniture of the chief apartments, alienated by the representatives of the family. The eccentric author of Childe Harolde disposed of this patrimonial inheritance to T. Clawton Esq., for the sum of £140,000, by whom it was resold to Colonel Wildman for £100,000. It is now in a most perfect state of repair, and, independent of the interest it derives from having once belonged to, perhaps, the first of English poets, it possesses very considerable claim to admiration, as a splendid and beautiful private residence.
LINMOUTH (or THE COUNTRY RETREAT)
OH lone and lovely solitude,
Washed by the sounding sea !
Nature was in a poet's mood,
When she created thee.
How pleasant in the hour of noon
To wander through the shade;
The soft and golden shade which June
Flings o'er thy inland glade :
The wild rose like a wreath above,
The ash-tree's fairy keys,
The aspen trembling, as if love
Were whispered by the breeze;
These, or the beech's darker bough,
For canopy o'er head,
While moss and fragile flowers below
An elfin pillow spread.
Here one might dream the hours away,
As if the world had not
Or grief, or care, or disarray,
To darken human lot.
Yet 'tis not here that I would dwell,
Tho' fair the place may be,
The summer's favourite citadel:—
A busier scene for me !
I love to see the human face
Reflect the human mind,
To watch in every crowded place
Their opposites combined.
There's more for thought in one brief hour
In yonder busy street,
Than all that ever leaf or flower
Taught in their green retreat.
Industry, intellect, and skill
Appear in all their pride,
The glorious force of human will
Triumphs on every side.
Yet touched with meekness, for on all
Is set the sign and seal
Of sorrow, suffering, and thrall,
Which none but own and feel:
The hearse that passes with its dead,
The homeless beggar's prayer,
Speak words of warning, and of dread,
To every passer there.
Aye beautiful the dreaming brought
By valleys and green fields ;
But deeper feeling, higher thought,
Is what the city yields.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
Pope's hackneyed line of " An honest man's the noblest work of God," has a companion in Cowper's " God made the country, but man made the town;" both are the perfection of copy-book cant. I am far from intending to deprecate that respectable individual, " an honest man," but surely genius, intellectual goodness and greatness, are far nobler emanations of the Divine Spirit than mere honesty. This is just another branch of that melodramatic morality which talks of rural felicity, and unsophisticated pleasures. Has a wife been too extravagant, or a husband too gay, all is settled by their agreeing to reform, and live in the country. Is a young lady to be a pattern person; forsooth, she must have been brought up in the country. Your philosophers inculcate it, your poets rave about it, your every-day people look upon it as something between a pleasure and a duty—till poor London has its merits as little understood as any popular question which every body discusses. I do own I have a most affectionate attachment for London—the deep voice of her multitudes " haunts me like a passion." I delight in observing the infinite variety of her crowded streets, the rich merchandise of the shops, the vast buildings, whether raised for pomp, commerce, or charity, down to the barrel-organ, whose music is only common because it is beautiful. The country is no more left as it was originally created, than Belgrave Square remains its pristine swamp. The forest has been felled, the marsh drained, the enclosures planted, and the field ploughed. All these, begging Mr. Cowper's pardon, are the works of man's hands ; and so is the town—the one is not more artificial than the other. Both are the result of God’s good gifts—industry and intelligence exerted to the utmost. Let any one ride down Highgate Hill on a summer's day, see the immense mass of buildings spread like a dark panorama, hear the ceaseless and peculiar sound, which has been likened to the hollow roar of the ocean, but has an utterly differing tone; watch the dense cloud that hangs over all—one perpetual storm, which yet bursts not—and then say, if ever was witnessed hill or valley that so powerfully impressed the imagination with that sublime and awful feeling which is the epic of poetry.
LIVERPOOL
WHERE are they bound, those gallant ships,
That here at anchor lie,
Now quiet as the sleeping birds,
Beneath a summer sky ?
Their white wings droop, their shadows rest,
Unbroken on the deep,
As if the airy elements
Had their own hour of sleep.
A little while the wind will rise,
And every ship will be,
With plashing prow, and shining sail,
Afar upon the sea.
Some will go east, and some go west,
Some to the Indian isles,
Where spring is lavish of her bloom,
And summer of her smiles ;
And some will seek the latitudes
Where northern breezes blow,
And winter builds a throne of ice
Upon a world of snow :
Some will come back with plume, and pearl,
The attar, and the gem;
Little do the gay wearers think
How brave men toil for them.
The product of far distant lands,
Nurst by far distant skies,
Are here the triumph and reward
Of human enterprise.
Amid the ships that bear around
The wealth of half the world,
Are those that, for the Quorra bound,
Have just their sails unfurled.
Freighted with goods that new-found climes
May envy English skill,
They bear no thunders o'er the deep
To work our nation's will.
In peace they go, with pure intent,
And with this noble aim ;
Barbaric hordes to civilize,
By traffic to reclaim.
Not as they went in former days,
To bear the wretched slave ;
To pine beneath a foreign sky,
Or perish on the wave.
They go for knowledge, and in hope
Such knowledge may avail,
To draw the savage and unknown
Within the social pale.
A deep and ardent sympathy,
The heart has with the bold ;
The cheek is flushed, the eye is bright,
Whene'er their deeds are told.
We half forget the conqueror's crime,
In honour of the brave,
And raise the banner and the arch,
Although upon the grave.
But here the danger and the toil
Of no false light have need,
Tho' courage and tho' constancy
Deserve the highest meed.
The dreary day, 'mid trackless wood,
The lion at their side,
The gloomy night, when rocks, and foes,
Were on the faithless tide.
Mid slav'ry, suffering, deserts, death,
It has been theirs to roam,
Led onward by that general thought,
" What will they say at home ?”
Science, thy own adventurers
Again are on their way—
And but for thy most glorious hopes,
What were our mental day ?
Sail on, proud bark, a lofty aim
It was that freighted thee,
And for their sake who tread thy decks,
God speed thee o'er the sea !
July, 1832
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
It need scarcely be stated, that the above verses refer to the Expedition which has been equipped by the enterprising merchants of Liverpool, to carry British commerce to the interior of Africa; and which is accompanied by the elder Lander, the faithful companion of the lamented Captain Clapperton. Although the direct object of this Expedition is to establish, by means of the river Quorra or Niger, an intercourse with hitherto inaccessible nations, the advancement of our geographical knowledge has not been neglected, as a naval officer, distinguished for his scientific attainments, proceeds with it, in order to take observations and make surveys.
LONG LONKIN
The lord said to his ladie.
As he mounted his horse.
Beware of Long Lonkin
That lies in the moss.
The lord said to his ladie
As he rode away.
Beware of Long Lonkin,
That lies in the clay.
What care I for Lonkin,
Or any of his gang,
My doors are all shut,
And my windows penn'd in ?
There were six little windows.
And they were all shut.
But one little window.
And that was forgot.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
And at that little window
Long Lonkin crept in.
Where's the lord of the hall ?
Says the Lonkin ;
He’s gone up to London,
Says Orange to him.
Where are the men of the hall ?
Says the Lonkin ;
They are at the field ploughing,
Says Orange to him.
Where are the maids of the hall ?
Says the Lonkin ;
They are at the well, washing,
Says Orange to him.
Where are the ladies of the hall ?
Says the Lonkin ;
They are up in their chambers,
Says Orange to him.
How shall we get them down ?
Says the Lonkin ;
Prick the babe in the cradle,
Says Orange to him.
Rock well my cradle,
And be-ba my son ;
You shall have a new gown
When the lord he comes home.
Still she did prick it.
And be-ba she cried ;
Come down, dearest mistress,
And still your own child.
Oh! still my child Orange,
Still him with a bell ;
I can't still him, ladie.
Till you come down yoursell.
Hold the gold bason
For your heart's blood to run in ;
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
To hold the gold bason.
It grieves me fall sore ;
Oh, kill me, dear Lonkin,
And let my mother go.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
HONISTER CRAG, CUMBERLAND
The country in this part is filled with traditions that record, and ballads that celebrate anecdotes of the predatory warfare then so general. The following ballad was communicated to me by a friend, who has the usual vivid memory of childhood on subjects connected with its early impressions. Not only has it never been published, but it is so curious and quaint, that I cannot resist its insertion here. At least, it is illustrative of the wild scenery haunted by yet wilder memories.
LORD AND LADY DERBY
THE times are peaceful, and we know
No unsheathed sword, no bended bow;
No more upon the quiet night
Flashes the beacon's sudden light,
No more the vassals in the hall
Start at the trumpet's fiery call;
And undisturbed the ivy wreath
Hangs o'er the battlements beneath.
Years have gone by since English hand
Spilt English blood on English land.
—We see the armed warriors ride,
But only in their plumed pride,
The actual agonies of war,
Thank God, have been from us afar.
We have not seen the silvery flood
Run crimson with our kindred's blood;
We have not seen the stranger's tread
Profane the church where slept our dead ;
Nor watched the red and kindled air,
And known our home was blazing there.
Our soldiers to a foreign soil
Kept the wild warfare's blood and toil,
And news of some proud victory
Was all that ever crost the sea.
—But England has known other days,
Has seen her own home dwellings blaze,
Has heard the thundering volleys come,
And trembled at the beaten drum.
Father and son stood side by side,
Yet not as by their blood allied,
Each stern in his adopted cause,
For feudal or fanatic laws.
—Aye led by some high-sounding name,
Man has been ever but the same,
Fighting for altar, or for throne,
For any rights, except his own.
—'Tis in such troubled times, the few
Find they have powers they never knew;
And yonder highborn dame, who stands
With flowerets in her graceful hands,
With broidered robe, and ringlet fair,
Scarce breathed on by the fragrant air,
Dreamed not that she should stand alone
When pikes were raised, and trumpets blown,
And gathered foes around the wall,
And she sole chief in Lathom Hall.
But ere she put aside her fears,
And woman's weakness—woman's tears,
How many a long; and anxious hour
She must have passed in secret bower,
Till she stept forth, the calm and proud
To meet and animate the crowd.
—Ah, woman's is another lot,
Where ruder cares and strife come not;
Her hand upon the silvery lute,
Winning sweet answer to its suit,
Or bidding mimic flowers arise
Mid the embroidery's rainbow dyes ;
Her step the music of the hearth,
Soul of its sorrow or its mirth,
Who hath of time its dearest part,
The one charmed circle of the heart.
Evil must be the cause and day,
That takes her from such life away ;
Then, Lady, while we honour thee.
And to thy faith and chivalry
Give high and honourable fame,
We wish no rival to thy name.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
" The story of this illustrious Lady," remarks Mr. Lodge, " exhibits a character so abounding in sagacity, prudence, loyalty, grandeur of spirit, and active heroism, as to beguile us for a moment into a feeling of regret, that the social policy of all climates and ages should have agreed to restrict the amiable sex to the power of pleasing, and
to repress those energies which, in spite of its regulations, occasionally burst forth, and always with a degree of splendour, which is rarely found to adorn even the finest of masculine sentiments or actions.
During the absence of the Earl of Derby in the Isle of Man, Lathom was invested by the parliamentary forces in 1644. Sir Thomas Fairfax offered them honourable terms of surrender—the terms, however, to be adjusted by himself. These the Countess indignantly rejected, and forthwith prepared for every extremity, saying, " That though a woman, and a stranger, divorced from her friends, and robbed of her estate, she was ready to receive their utmost vyolence, trusting in God both for protection and deliverance." Ill supplied with provisions, she yet continued to hold
out, though the walls were nearly battered to pieces about her ears. On one occasion, a ball entered into her ladyship’s chamber, where she and the children were at breakfast. With as little emotion as Charles the Twelfth on a like occasion, she merely remarked, that " since they were likely to have disagreeable intruders, she must even seek a new lodging, but I will keep my house while a building is left above my head." A MS. journal of the time quaintly states, " The litle ladyes had stomack to digest cannon." At length her constancy was rewarded; for on the approach of Prince Rupert, after his victory at Newark, the siege was raised, and the enemy retreated upon Bolton. Twenty-two of the colours, which three days before had been displayed against the castle, were presented to her from his Highness, by Sir Richard Crane, as a memorial of her deliverance, and " a happy remembrance of God's mercy and goodness to her and her family." Vide Roby's Traditions of Lancashire.
HE times are peaceful, and we know
LORD MELBOURNE
It is a glorious task to guide
The vessel thro’ the dashing tide
When dark is the tumultuous sea
And thunder-clouds are on the lea,
While war notes mount upon the wind
From the fierce storm that rides behind.
And such a task it is to steer
A people in their high career,
When old opinions war, and change
Is sudden, violent, and strange ;
And men recall the past, to say,
So shall not be the coming day.
Such time is passing o'er our land,
New thoughts arise—new hopes expand,
And man knows in his own strong will
It is his purpose to fulfil :
In the fierce contest of such hour,
How mighty is the leader's power.
More glorious than the conqueror's brand,
The rule entrusted to such hand.
From it the past and present claim
The rights they teach, the hopes they frame :
Do what the island of the free ;
What England should expect of thee !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
LOUISE, DUCHESS OF LA VALLIERE
ALONE—again alone—ah! let me kneel
In prayer, or rather, penitence, to heaven.
Yet dare I pray for love that still I feel
Sin, and yet ask that sin to be forgiven?
I kneel to pray – I only pray for him,
His coldness more than my own fault bewailing;
Night after night my weary eyes are dim
With vain fond tears o’er passion unprevailing.
My love no longer makes his happiness,
That happiness of which my love thought only;
Back on my heart let its emotions press,
Not their withdrawal that will leave him lonely.
I could not bear his wretchedness – my own
Is but the bitter penalty of loving
As I have loved – flung at an idol’s throne,
With the deep voice within the soul reproving.
The shadow darkens round me of my fate,
I hear the choir upon the midnight swelling;
There closes on me the eternal grate,
Where banished and where broken hearts are dwelling.
Ah! but for him, how glad I were to seek
The peace the holy convent cell possesses!
To draw the veil above my cold, pale cheek,
To shred from this bowed head the golden tresses!
In the pale Carmelite would be no trace
Of guilty beauty or of guilty splendour;
There might long years with many tears efface
Love still too passionate and still too tender.
Perhaps this grief is merciful, and sent
To win me from a cold and changed affection,
In vain—though hope its sunny wealth hath spent,
Love needs it not—it lives on recollection.
I know that I deserve what I endure;
But harsh it is when such a blow is given
By him for whom I’d die, could that secure
One joy on earth, or win one hope from heaven.
Too utterly beloved! too much adored,
Since first beneath thy eagle glance I trembled!
What griefs have swelled my sorrow’s silent hoard!
How many secret tears have I dissembled!
Ah! never yet the heart of woman knew
Love more intense—life had but one emotion.
My God! to thee had this scorned heart been true,
Not so had been repaid its deep devotion.
I never could have left him, had I left
Within his soul the agony of parting;
But I shall be the only one bereft—
Only within my eyes the tears are starting.
How have I hung upon a single look!
How has a single word disturbed my sleeping!
Each hour its colour from thy greeting took—
What days for thee have passed away in weeping!
And thou art changed to me— thou for whose sake
My soul has perilled all it should have cherished.
Ah! dare I to the quiet convent take
The human love, that should long since have perished?
God will forgive what man may well despise:
The moral step may turn aside and falter;
But there is pity in the azure skies,
And there is hope on that eternal altar.
I will take with me prayers and tears—if love
Yet lingers in the heart I cannot harden;
It will but raise a suppliant look above,
That looks beyond the grave to ask for pardon.
Long penitence may set the worn one free—
Oh, my lost spirit! make this last endeavour;
Thanks for thy coldness, Louis, but for thee
I had not borne to say, Farewell for ever!
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839
Louise Frances de la Baume le Blanc, Duchess de la Vallière, favourite of Louis XIV. descended from the ancient noble family of De la Baume, was lady of honour to Henrietta of England, wife of the Duke of Orleans. For two years she cherished a secret affection for the King, who finally placed her in the possession of power, which she only exercised for benevolent objects, her conduct never contradicting her gentle disposition. Superseded in the affections of Louis by Madame de Montespan, she retired, at the age of twenty-eight years, into a Carmelite convent hear Paris, where she assumed the name of “ Sister Louisa de la Miséricorde,” and died there in 1710. She is the author of “Reflexions sur la Miséricorde de Dieu.—The Abbé Choisi applies to her figure this verse of Fontaine, “Grace that charm’d still more than ‘beauty:’”—Madame de Sevignè bestowed on her the appellation of “the humble violet:”—Madame de Genlis has founded a romance on the events of her life; and Lebrun executed a penitent Màgdalen, the face of which is from her portrait.
THE LOVE LETTER
'PRAY thee, maiden, heed him not,
Is not thine a happy lot ?
Darling of my aged heart,
Canst thou be so glad to part,
Where thou art the sole delight,
From a home by thee made bright ?
These are selfish words, and vain,
'Tis not thus I would restrain
Her, whose will I never curbed,
Whose young joy I ne'er disturbed :
But, for thine own sake, I say,
Fling that faithless scroll away.
Dost thou wish for nights that keep
Weary watch, to wake and weep ?
Wouldst thou have thy bright cheek bear
Witness to its own despair,
With a dim and sunken eye,
Which is fain to close and die ?
And, yet are not these the things,
Soon or late, love ever brings ?
I have seen a careless smile
Hide a breaking heart the while,
Watched so much of youth and bloom
Sink to an untimely tomb;
Dearest one ! and must there be
Such a destiny for thee ?
Spare thyself such burning tears,
Pity thou thy own few years.
Vain these words ! love never yet
Shunned or spared its own regret:
Thou art saddened and estranged,
And thy whole sweet nature changed
Love has other love exiled,
Fare thee well, alas, my child.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
MACAO
GOOD Heaven! whatever shall I do ?
I must write something for my readers:
What has become of my ideas ?
Now, out upon them for seceders!
Of all the places in the world,
To fix upon a port in China;
Celestial empire, how I wish
I had been christened Celestina !
The wish however's served for rhyme,
But here again invention falters :
Had it but been a town in Greece;
I might have raved about its altars,
And talked of liberty and mass,
Of tyrants and Romaic dances,
Of Athens with a German king,
And fifty thousand other chances :
Or had it only been in Spain;
A few night-stars the midnight gemming,
And a guitar, I might have scribbled
The rest from Contarini Flemming :
Or Italy, the land of song;
Of myrtle, pictures, and of passion—
Ah ! that was for mine earlier lute,
I write now in another fashion :
Or France, which, like an invalid,
Goes patching up a constitution;
Those three most glorious days in June,
Might have lain under contribution :
Or had it only been Madeira;
I might have made a charming fiction,
Of some young maiden crossed in love,
And dying of the contradiction.
I'm like a sailor sent to sea,
Sent with " no, nothing" for his sea-hoard ;
What on earth can I find to say,
Of a pagoda, or a tea-board?
No love, no murder, no description,
Their only " old association"
Is with the willow-pattern plates,
That on the dresser have their station.
I give it up in pure despair;
But well the muse may turn refractory,
When all her inspiration is—
A Chinese Town, and an English Factory.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
MANCHESTER
Go back a century on the town,
That o'er yon crowded plain,
With wealth its dower, and art its crown,
Extends its proud domain.
Upon that plain a village stood,
Lonely, obscure, and poor ;
The sullen stream rolled its dull flood
Amid a barren moor.
Now, mark the hall, the church, the street,
The buildings of to-day ;
Behold the thousands now that meet
Upon the peopled way.
Go, silent with the sense of power,
And of the mighty mind
Which thus can animate the hour,
And leave its work behind.
Go through that city, and behold
What intellect can yield,
How it brings forth an hundred-fold
From time's enduring field.
Those walls are filled with wealth, the spoil
Of industry and thought,
The mighty harvest which man's toil
Out of the past has wrought.
Science and labour here unite
The thoughtful and the real,
And here man's strength puts forth its might
To work out man's ideal.
The useful is the element
Here laboured by the mind,
Which, on the active present bent,
Invented and combin'd.
The product of that city, now
Far distant lands consume;
The Indian wears around his brow
The white webs of her loom.
Her vessels sweep from East to West ;
Her merchants are like kings ;
While wonders in her walls attest
The power that commerce brings.
From wealth hath sprung up nobler fruit,
Taste link'd with arts divine;
The Gallery and the Institute
Enlighten and refine.
And many an happy English home
With love and peace repays
The care that may be yet to come,
The toil of early days.
Had I to guide a stranger's eye
Around our glorious land,
Where yonder wondrous factories lie
I'd bid that stranger stand.
Let the wide city spread displayed
Beneath the morning sun,
And in it see for England's trade
What yonder town hath done.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
" In a speech last year, at the British Association, Mr. Brand well advised the members to take the manufacturing districts of England on their way to the north, and to explore the wonders there accumulated. Manchester is the great miracle of modern progress. Science, devoted to utility and industry, have achieved the must wonderful results. Intellectual advancement denoted in a taste for literature and the fine arts,—employment for the highest as well as the lowest;—public buildings, liberal institutions, and all that can mark wealth, and a knowledge of its best purposes ;— all this is the growth of a single century."
MARDALE HEAD
Why should I seek these scenes again, the past
Is on yon valley like a shroud ?
Weep for the love that fate forbids,
Yet loves unhoping on,
Though every light that once illumed
Its early path be gone.
Weep for the love that must resign
The heart's enchanted dream,
And float, like some neglected bark,
A down life's lonely stream.
Weep for the love these scenes recall,
Like some enduring spell ;
It rests within the soul which loved
Too vainly, and too well.
Weep for the breaking heart condemn'd
To see its youth pass by,
Whose lot has been in this cold world
To dream, despair, and die.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
" Among the mountains which form the southern boundary of Haweswater is Mardale Head, a wild and solitary region, wherein nature, working with a master hand, seems to have produced the very beau ideal of romantic grandeur and sublimity."
