Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L E L)
Poems published in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Books - 6
THE VOLCANO OF KI-RAU-E-A
An ebbing tide of fire, the evil powers
In fear and anger here are paramount,
Rending the bosom of the fertile earth,
And spreading desolation. Black as night,
And terrible, as if the grave had sent
Its own dark atmosphere to upper air,
The heavy vapours rise ; from out the smoke
Break the red volumes of the central flame,
And lava floods and burning showers descend,
Parching the soil to barrenness.
And yet there is the principle of life
Within that fiery waste : when years have pas,.
And Time, the beautifier, has been there,
Then will the fierce volcano have consumed
Its depths of flame, and there the coral reef
Will spread ; at first a bleak and dangerous waste;
Until the wind bear on its wandering wings
The fertilizing seeds; the salt sea tide
Leave shells and weeds behind, to vegetate.
The birds will come o'er ocean, and delight
To find a tranquil home remote from men.
Flowers will spring up, and trees ; and last some ship
Will penetrate the waste of waters round,
And marvel at the lovely solitude.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
EXTRACT FROM STEWART’S JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE IN THE SANDWICH ISLANDS.
" Standing at an elevation of one thousand five hundred feet, we looked into a black and horrid gulf, not less than eight miles in circumference, so directly beneath us, that, in appearance, we might, by a single leap, have plunged into its lowest depth. The hideous immensity itself, independent of the many frightful images which it embraced, almost caused an involuntary closing of the eyes against it. But when to the sight is added the appalling effect of the various unnatural and fearful noises, the muttering and sighing, the groaning and blowing, the every agonized struggling, of the mighty action within, as a whole, it is too horrible. And for the first moment I felt like one of my friends, who, on reaching the brink, recoiled, and covered his face, exclaiming, " Call it weakness, or what you please, but I cannot look again."—p. 375.
According to the theory generally received at present among scientific men, the numerous coral islands of the Pacific are supposed to be formations upon extinct volcanoes.
WARKWORTH CASTLE,
NORTHUMBERLAND
Come, up with the banner, and on with the sword,
My father's first-born of his castle is lord ;
No knight, I will say, that e'er belted a brand,
Was ever more worthy of lady or land.
Ring the horns through the forest that girdles our hall.
Let the glades of the green oaks re-echo the call;
And many a morning with dew on the plain,
And the red sun, just rising, shall hear them again.
Fill up the clear wine cup that dances in light,
One name, and one only, shall crown it to-night :
‘Tis the health of the young knight just come o'er the main :
He will cross it an earl, if he cross it again.
Farewell ! O my brother ; farewell ! mine abode—
The hawk that I flew—the horse that I rode—
They are safe—I commend them, my brother, to thee;
But my white greyhound goes with me over the sea.
For a thousand white crowns I have mortgaged my land,
And fifty bold seamen await my command ;
My letters of marque are now sign'd by the queen,
I hasten where Drake and where Raleigh have been.
Away to the south is the course that I hold,
If the sea has its storm—why, the Spaniard has gold.
Afar in the distance I sec its light shine,
And all is fair warfare that crosses the Line.
One last charge, my brother, you only may hear,
'Tie the hope to my soul the most deep, the most dear:
Be my Blanche to thy heart like a sister, in love ;
I leave in thy shadow the nest of my dove.
No doubt of her truth, and no fear of her change,
Can darken my pathway where'er it may range ;
My heart is my omen—I know, o'er the main,
I return to her side, and to England, again.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838
This extensive Fortress, now in ruins, is supposed to have been erected by the Bertram family ; it occupies the summit of a bold eminence rising from the river, and presents an aspect at once venerable and magnificent ; the moat, by which it is surrounded, encloses more than five acres ; and the keep, which appears on the apex of a lofty mound, is encompassed by a wall thirty-five feet high : this part is in excellent preservation. The grand gate of entree has been a stately structure, but a few only of its apartments now remain. For several ages, Warkworth Castle continued to be the favourite residence of the noble family of Percy, who derive the title of Baron from this ancient manor.
WARKWORTH HERMITAGE
The lonely cavern, like a chapel carved,
Is situate amid the lonely hills ;
The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock ;
And by the altar is a cenotaph.
In marble there a lovely lady lies ;
An angel, with a welcome at her side,
A welcome to the soul he beareth heaven.
And near a warrior stands—the desolate !
The wide earth only holds one tomb for him.
Such must have been his history, who first
Cut this sad hermitage within the rock:
Some spirit-broken and world-weary man,
Whose love was in the grave—whose hope in heaven.
Yet a fine nature must have been his own ;
A sense of beauty—and a strong delight
In the brave seeming of the visible world,
Whose loveliness is like a sympathy.
Winds the fair river through the vale below,
With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods
Hang the far summits with their changeful shade.
In the soft summer fields are many flowers,
Which breathe at evening on the scented wind.
Still the wild cherry-trees are growing round,
Which first he planted, — yet he loved the world—
The bright—the beautiful—the glorious world—
But loved it as those love who love on earth,
Only the hope that looketh up to heaven.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
Warkworth Hermitage is situated about half a mile above Warkworth Castle, on the brink of the Coquet river. This venerable retreat is probably the best preserved and the most entire work of its kind now remaining in the kingdom. It contains three apartments, all of them formed by excavation of the solid rock, and impends over the river clothed in a rich mantle of ancient trees, remains of the venerable ruins which in olden times sheltered the inmates of this romantic solitude. Mr. Grose, in his Antiquities, " ventures to call the three apartments, by way of distinction, the chapel, the sacristy, and antechapel."
The chapel is eighteen feet in length, by about seven and a half in width and height; and is beautifully modelled in the Gothic style of architecture. The sides are adorned with neat octagon pillars, branching off to the ceiling, and terminating in small pointed arches at the groins. At the east end is a plain altar, ascended by two steps ; and behind is a little niche, in which was probably placed the crucifix.
The sacristy is a plain oblong apartment, running parallel with the chapel. The remains of an altar may still be seen at the east end, at which mass was occasionally performed. Between this room and the chapel is a small opening, whence the hermit might make confession, and behold the elevation of the host. Near this opening is a door leading into the chapel, and over it a small escutcheon with all the emblems of the passion—the cross —the crown of thorns—the nails— the spear—and the sponge. On the south side of the altar is a cenotaph supporting three figures; the principal one being that of a female, over whom an angel is hovering; the remaining figure is a warrior, in an erect position, at the lady's feet.
The beautiful ballad by Bishop Percy, in which he has recorded the traditional history of this hermitage, is familiar to the readers of English poetry.
he lonely cavern, like a chapel carved,
THE WATER PALACE, MANDOO
He built it, for he was a king,
And wealth was at his will;
He had another mountain hold
Upon a mighty hill:
But that was built in times of war
With high and armed walls,
With midnight watchers in its towers,
And warriors in its halls ;
But this sweet palace was for peace,
Built by the water-side,
When Zerid sheathed the sword and won
The Persian for his bride.
And beautiful round Ispahan
Spread gardens of the rose,
And 'mid her guarded solitude
The young queen pined for those ;
The conqueror sought a lovely spot,
And built a lovely home ;
Of porphyry was the shining floor,
Of crystal was the dome.
But lovelier were the cypresses
That hung the lake beside ;
As beauties o'er their mirror bend,
So bent they o'er the tide.
Those giant warriors of the wood,
Palms with their leafy crest,
Like waving feathers caught each breeze,
That wandered from the west;
And every breeze, of red rose leaves
Brought down a crimson rain,
And fields of rice and scented grass
Made green each distant plain ;
And cool and bright adown the stream
The water lilies swept,
As if within each silvery hold
The god Camdeo slept.
She came, the young and royal bride,
And if the place was fair,
Before her eyes shed sunshine round,
How fair when she was there!
An hundred maidens and their lutes
Came with their queen along;
The mornings passed, the evenings passed,
With story and with song :
His sword the conqueror forgot,
Her early home his bride—
Whenever they and summer sought
Their palace by the tide.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
The early history of Mandoo is involved in much obscurity: it was first possessed by the Dhar Rajahs ; to one of these the above verses refer.
Camdeo is the Indian Cupid. He is represented by the Hindoo writers as a beautiful youth, sometimes floating down the Ganges on a lotus ; or, at others, riding on a loorie by moonlight, attended by dancing nymphs, the foremost of whom carries his banner, which displays a fish on a red ground. He bears four arrows, each headed by a different flower ; his bow is formed of a sugar-cane, and strung with bees.— Sir W. Jones.
The lotus is a species of large lily, of which there are many varieties ; some of a pure white, others tinged with a faint, others with a deep red. On a clear wave, the rich crimson has a splendid effect.— Asiatic Annual Register.
THE WIDOW'S MITE
It is the fruit of waking hours
When others are asleep,
When moaning round the low thatched roof
The winds of winter creep.
It is the fruit of summer days
Past in a gloomy room,
When others are abroad to taste
The pleasant morning bloom.
'Tis given from a scanty store
And missed while it is given :
'Tis given—for the claims of earth
Are less than those of heaven.
Few save the poor feel for the poor,
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness ;
They sleep on silk and down,
And never think how heavily
The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal
With small pale faces round ;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth,
When snow is on the ground.
They never by their window sit,
And see the gay pass by ;
Yet take their weary work again,
Though with a mournful eye.
The rich, they give—they miss it not—
A blessing cannot be
Like that which rests, thou widowed one,
Upon thy gift and thee !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
WM. WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
BORN AUGUST 14TH, 1759.— DIED JULY 19Th, 1833.
"THERE are those who first started this mighty question, (slave emancipation,) and broached its godlike principles, who have not lived to see the triumph which is reserved for it in these our days. They laboured in their generation strenuously and vigorously for that fulfilment which we are now about to accomplish, — they were satisfied with the foundation which it was their fortune to lay, and they trusted that it would be strong enough to support the glorious superstructure which is now about to be reared upon it. Like the prophets of old, they hailed the day-star from on high, and exulted in that prospect, which they saw through a glass darkly, and not, as we do, face to face. It is not, however, without feelings of the deepest and most heartfelt satisfaction that I recall to your recollection the fact that one man, the most religiously inspired, the most conscientiously influenced of all who laboured in the dawn and the rising of this great and glorious cause — Wilberforce, — still remains, to witness the final consummation of that important triumph to which his last energies were devoted, and to exclaim, like the last of the prophets to whom I have before alluded, ' Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." — Lord Stanley's Speech, May 14th, 1833.
The following anecdote is very characteristic of this truly great and christian philanthropist : " A friend told me that he found him once in the greatest agitation, looking for a despatch which he had mislaid, one of the royal family was waiting for it : — he had delayed the search to the last moment ; he seemed at last quite vext and flurried. At this unlucky instant, a disturbance in the nursery overhead occurred. My friend, who was with him, said to himself, Now, for once, Wilberforce's temper will give way. He had hardly thought thus, when Mr. Wilberforce turned to him and said, ' What a blessing it is to have these dear children ! — only think what a relief amidst other hurries to hear their voices, and know they are well.'" — Christian Keepsake for 1836.
He sleeps — yet little of him sleeps below,
Earth has its share, dust unto dust we throw.
His soul is in its native heaven, his mind
Remains with us, to benefit mankind.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
WINDLESHAW ABBEY (or THE FUNERAL)
MARK you not yon sad procession,
'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom,
Hastening to the worm's possession,
To the dark and silent tomb !
See the velvet pall hangs over
Poor mortality's remains ;
We should shudder to discover
What that coffin's space contain«.
Death itself is lovely—wearing
But the colder shape of sleep ;
Or the solemn statue bearing
Beauty that forbids to weep.
But decay—the pulses tremble
When its livid signs appear :
When the once-loved lips resemble
All we loathe, and all we fear.
Is it not a ghastly ending
For the body's godlike form,
Thus to the damp earth descending,
Food and triumph to the worm ?
Better far the red pile blazing
With the spicy Indian wood,
Incense unto heaven raising
From the sandal oil's sweet flood.
In the bright pyre's kindling flashes,
Let my yielded soul ascend ;
Fling to the wild winds my ashes
'Till with mother earth they blend.
Not so,—let the pale urn keep them ;
Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine ;
Let there be some one to weep them ;
Wilt thou keep that urn ? Love mine !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835
THE WISHING GATE
Wishes, no ! I have not one,
Hope's sweet toil with me is done ;
One by one have flitted by,
All the rainbows of the sky.
Not a star could now unfold
Aught I once wished to be told.
What have I to seek of thee?
Not a wish remains for me.
Let the soldier pause to ask,
Honour on his glorious task ;
Let the parting sailor crave
A free wild wind across the wave ;
Let the maiden pause to frame
Blessings on some treasured name ;
Let them breathe their hopes in thee,
Not a wish remains for me.
Not a wish ! beat not my heart,
Thou hast bade thy dreams depart ;
They have past, but left behind
Weary spirit, wasted mind.
Ah ! if this old charm were sooth,
One wish yet might tax its truth
I would ask, however vain,
Never more to wish again.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834
I believe that to this haunted gate a common superstition is attached, namely, that to wish and to have that wish fulfilled, is the result of such wish being uttered while passing.
THE WOODLAND BROOK
THOU art flowing, thou art flowing,
Oh, small and silvery brook;
The rushes by thee growing,
And with a patient look
The pale narcissus o'er thee bends,
Like one who asks in vain for friends.
I bring not back my childhood,
Sweet comrade of its hours;
The music of the wild wood,
The colour of the flowers;
They do not bring again the dream
That haunted me beside thy stream.
When black-lettered old romances
Made a world for me alone;
Oh, days of lovely fancies,
Are ye for ever flown?
Ye are fled, sweet, vague, and vain,
So I cannot dream again.
I have left a feverish pillow
For thy soothing song;
Alas, each fairy billow
An image bears along;
Look where I will, I only see
One face too much beloved by me.
In vain my heart remembers
What pleasure used to be
My past thoughts are but embers
Consumed by love for thee.
I wish to love thee less--and feel
A deeper fondness o'er me steal.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837
HOU art flowing, thou art flowing,
THE YOUNG DESTRUCTIVE
In truth, I do not wonder
To see them scatter'd round ;
So many leaves of knowledge—
Some fruit must sure be found.
The Eton Latin Grammar
Has now its verbs declin'd ;
And those of Lindley Murray
Are not so far behind.
O ! days of bread and water—
How many I recall,
Past—sent into the corner ;
Your face towards the wall.
Oh! boundaries of Europe !
Oh! rivers great and small !
Oh! islands, gulfs, and capitals !
How I abhorr'd ye all!
And then those dreadful tables
Of shillings, pence, and pounds !
Though I own their greater trouble
In after life abounds.
‘Tis strange how memory lingers
About those early hours;
And we talk of happy childhood,
As if such had been ours.
But distance lends enchantment
To all we suffer'd then ;
Thank Heaven, that I never
Can be a child again !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836
Appendix:
HOMES OF SPLENDOUR
When I see Homes, of Beauty and of Splendour,
I, that am merely rich in being loved,
By one whose wealth is in a heart too tender,
To let me share his poverty unmoved:
Sighing, I marvel, what such chance of fortune,
Can add too happiness, or take away;
And whether all the cloying gifts, importune,
Or bless the wealthy, through the livelong day!
Happy, were WE! In times, now living only
Amid the memories garnered at my heart,—
In the small garden—quiet, and so lonely,
Where fruit and flowers had each an equal part.
There was no fountain over marble falling
But the bees murmured one perpetual song,
Like soothing waters, and the birds were calling
Amid the fruit-tree blossoms all day long.
Near was the well, o’er whose damp walls were creeping
Stonecroft and groundsel, and pale yellow flowers,
While o’er the bank the strawberry plants were sweeping,
In the white beauty of June’s earliest hours.
The current-bush and lilac grew together,
The bean’s sweet breath was blended with the rose;
Alike rejoicing in the pleasant weather
That brought the fruit to these—the bloom to those!
Children, we gathered cowslips in the meadow,
And, loitering, bore them to the ancient seat,
Moss-grown, beneath the apple-tree’s soft shadow,
Which flung its snowy blossoms at our feet:
While on the sunny grass-plat stood the dial,
Whose measured time, with ours, strange contrast made.
Ah! was it omen of life’s after-trial,
That even then, the hors were told by shade?
Little we recked, dear Cousin, of these fancies,
To which the weary spirit later yields;
Our world was of the fairies and romances,
With which we wandered o’er the summer fields.
When did we question of the down-ball’s blowing,
To know if some slight wish would come to pass;
And if we feared a storm, we sought where growing
Some weather flower, to be our weather-glass.
Now, THOU, far off, with ceaseless toil art reaping,
The slow scant harvest which shall give us bread:—
I,—amid strangers left,—refrain from weeping,
In sorrow for the living or the dead:—
Because I trust thee, as when first I knew thee,
Good, honest, frank, impassioned, child-like heart;
And fondly hope, that fate shall yet endue thee,
With store sufficient not to bid us part!
Oft shall my full heart, feeling all it wanteth,
Turn sickly from the little joy it hath:
Oft, when the mellow sunlight faintly slanteth,
Miss thy dear shadow from the lonely path:
But in the murkiest hour, for ever shineth
The stedfast light of Love’s consoling star
Saying, OUR home shall be, when life declineth,
Happier, perhaps, than Homes of Splendour are!
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1849
The greater portion of this poem is by the lamented L.E.L., with alterations and additions by the Editor (The Hon. Mrs. Norton).
[The illustration below was also appended, although L. E. L. obviously never had sight of this. I don't believe Letitia was as miserable as Mrs Norton implies in the last verse, which I presume was her addition.]
THE PRINCESS VICTORIA
And art thou a Princess?—in sooth, we may well
Go back to the days of the sign and the spell,
When a young queen sat on an ivory throne
In a shining hall, whose windows shone
With colours its crystals caught from the sky,
Or the roof which a thousand rubies dye;
Where the summer garden was spread around,
With the date and the palm and the cedar crowned ;
Where fountains played with the rainbow showers,
Touched with the hues of their comrade flowers ;
Where the tulip and rose grew side by side,
One like a queen, and one like a bride;
One with its own imperial flush,
The other reddening with love's sweet blush;
When silver stuffs for her step were unrolled,
And the citron was served on a plate of gold ;
When perfumes arose from pearl caskets filled
With odours from all sweet things distilled ;
When a fairy guarded the throne from ill,
And she knew no rule but her own glad will:
Those were the days for a youthful queen,
And such, fair Princess, thou should'st have been.
But now thou wilt fill a weary throne,
What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own :
An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be,
Eternal debate is the future for thee.
Lord Brougham will make a six-hours' oration,
On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation ;
Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place
Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race ;
O'Connell will tell Ireland's griefs and her wrongs,
In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore's songs :
Good patience ! how weary the young queen will be
Of "the flower of the earth, and the gem of the sea !"
Mr. Hume, with his watchwords 'Retrenchment and Waste',
Will insist that your wardrobe in his care be placed;
The silk he will save! the blonde he will spare—
I wish he may leave Your Grace any to wear.
That feminine fancy, a will of your own,
Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne ;
And this is your future—how soon time will trace
A change and a sign on that fair and young face!
Methinks the best wish to be offered thee now,
Is—God keep the crown long from that innocent brow !
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832
ST. MICHAEL’S MOUNT
This poem is not by L. E. L. but by her friend C., as she acknowledges in the Preface to the 1832 Scrap Book. I have not been able to put a name to the author yet.
" The romantic Castle of St Michael's, situated upon a lofty insulated hill, in Mount's Bay, is the theme of many a Cornish legend; the most prevalent supposes that their ' long-lost Arthur' resides there, under the immediate guardianship of the archangel, until the time appointed for his return to earth; and it is to this Milton alludes, when he says—
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks to Namancos and Bayona's hold."
[Note to Verses privately printed by the late Sir Hardinge Giffard, at the Wesleyan Mission Press, Colombo.]
O For the glorious days of old,
When Arthur and his champions bold,
With iron hand, from cup of gold,
Drank to the table round !
Entranced beneath St. Michael's keep,
Now Arthur and his warriors sleep
Their charmed slumber, long and deep
In magic thraldom bound.
Say, when shall come the fated morn,
To rouse them from the rest they scorn ?
Say, when shall sound the wizard horn,
To wake them to the strife ?*
" When on her base of noble rock,
Britain shall yield to ocean's shock,
Fate will their prison-door unlock,
And call them into life :"
" But not 'till then—and while unfurl'd
Is Britain's flag throughout the world,
She will not from her throne be hurled,
Or need St. Michael's host."
So sleep ye on, ye ancient men !
Entombed within your murky den,
‘Tis dull enough ; if not tell then
Ye quaff the circling toast.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833
* According to the legend concerning the sleep of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, they are to be awakened by the sound of a magic horn, when England is on the point of being conquered ; and they will then rush to the fight, and overcome the invaders.—A similar legend is related in Wales, of Owen Lawgoch, or Owen of the Bloody Hand, who, like Arthur in St. Michael's Mount, is supposed to sleep in the Mountain of Mynnydd Mawr near Llandilo in Carmarthenshire.—" Almost in our days," says a writer in the Quarterly Review, No. xliv. " it was thought that Sebastian of Portugal would one day return, and claim his usurped realms.—Thus also the three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells, and say that they lie there in their antique garb in quiet slumber, and, when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken, and regain the liberties of the land,"—In the same work, we are told that " The Emperor (Frederick Barbarosa, or Red-beard) is secluded in the Castle of Kyffhaüsen, in the Hercynian forest, where he remains in a state not much unlike the description which Cervantes has given of the inhabitants of the Cavern of Moutesinos : he slumbers on his throne; his red beard has grown through the stone table on which his right arm reclines ; or, as some say, it has grown round and round it.—A variation of the same fable, coloured according to its locality, is found in Denmark; where it is said, that Holger Danske, whom the French romances call Ogier the Dane, slumbers in the vaults beneath Cronenburgh Castle. A villain was once allured by splendid offers to descend into the cavern, and visit the half-torpid hero. Ogier muttered to the visitor, requesting him to stretch out his hand. The villain presented an iron crow to Ogier, who grasped it, indenting the metal with his fingers. 'It is well!' quoth Ogier, who imagined he was squeezing the hand of the stranger, and thus provoking his strength and fortitude ; ' there are yet men in Denmark.'"
It has been recently and justly remarked by Sir Walter Scott, in one of his notes on Peveril of the Peak— that " Superstitions of various countries are in every respect so like each other, that they may be referred to one common source ; unless we conclude that they are natural to the human mind, and, like the common orders of vegetables, which naturally spring up in every climate, these naturally arise in every bosom ; as the best philologists are of opinion, that fragments of an original speech are to be discovered in almost all languages in the globe."
LISMORE CASTLE
This poem is also by L. E. L.'s friend C. For this and the preceding poem, the annotations are presumably by Miss Landon, who was acting editor.
How calmly, Lismore, do thy battlements rise
O'er the light woods around thee, whose changing leaves quiver,
As the sad wind of Autumn, with fitful gust sighs,
And mingles its voice with the rush of the river.
Though thou art unmoved, like a warrior's crest
By the rustle of leaves, or the dark water's flowing,*
The music of Autumn awakes in my breast
A flutter of thoughts, at once gloomy and glowing!
I see thee, Lismore, if I dream of the past,
And look at thy fame thro' a vista of ages ;
I see thee, when Europe with night was o’ercast,
The chosen retreat of her students and sages.**
Tho' saints and tho' bishops, the holy and pure,
With the mighty of nations,% came here to be schooled
Yet—O may the benefit longer endure,
Here was it that England o'er Ireland first ruled.§
And here did the poet, the bard of old Mole,^
In the magic of converse delightedly wander,
With "the shepherd of ocean," whose chivalrous soul
But dared and but conquered, more bravely to squander.<
Here dwelt "the great Earl,"> who, if credit to Laud
May be given, God's gifts did most strangely inherit,||
Retaining by force what he pounced on by fraud—
Though I love the romance of young Broghill's bright spirit.$
And here did philosophy welcome a Boyle,
Whose name is by science encircled with glory ;+
And here did the runaway monarch recoil
At a peep of that river, seen from the ground-story.@
When sages, kings, nobles, and soldiers thus crowd,
With the bard, of whose fancy I never shall weary,
Am I wrong, if I feel of these names the most proud,
To be Spenser, the titleless minstrel of Faery ?
* "Swift Awniduff, which of the Englishman
Is called Blackwater." Spenser's Fairy Queen, b. iv. c. xi.
** "Nothing is better established in history, than that Ireland, during part of the sixth, the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries, was the chief seat of learning in the west. The authorities upon this head are very numerous. They are of all nations, and above all suspicion. Students from every part of the christian world resorted to Ireland for the purposes of study, and crowded the balls of Armagh, Timologue, Lismore, and other schools and colleges." O’Driscol's History of Ireland,
% "Lismore," says Mr. Ryland in his history of Waterford is, "the school from which it is believed Alfred derived the knowledge which has since immortalized his name."—Popular tradition asserts that two Greek princes were educated at Lismore in the seventh century.
§ In 1172, Henry II. first promulgated English law in Ireland, after the conquest, or invasion of the country. I hope I may be forgiven the pedantry of a quotation from the venerable Matthew Paris "Rex antequam ab Hibernia redibat, concilium congregavit apud Lismore, ubi leges Angliae ab omnibus gratenter, sunt acceptae et
juratoria cautione praestita confirmatae."
^ Kilcoleman, the residence of Edmund Spenser, is not more than twenty miles distant from Lismore. And as the Castle of Lismore, which was an episcopal residence, had been, as some old letter-writer, whose quaint phraseology haunts my memory, expresses it, " torne from that See by the power of Sir Walter Raleigh ;" it is no stretch of imagination to picture the mental intercourse which existed between Raleigh and Spenser, upon the romantic banks of the Blackwater.—" The poem called 'Colin Clouts came home again,' in which Sir Walter is described under the name of 'the Shepherd of the Ocean,' " is, remarks Dr. Smith, "a beautiful memorial of this friendship, which took its rise from a likeness of taste in the polite arts, and is thus agreeably described by him (Spenser) after the pastoral manner.
" I sat, as was my trade,
Under the fort of Mole, that mountain hore ;
Keeping my sheep amongst the coolly shade
Of the green alders, by the MuIIa's shore.
There a strange shepherd chanced to find me out,
Whether allured with my pipe's delight,
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about;
Or thither led by chance, I know not right:
Whom when 1 asked, from what place he came,
And how he hight ? himself he did ycleep
The Shepherd of the Ocean by name,
And said he came far from the main sea deep.”
< How the considerable estates in Ireland granted to Sir Walter Raleigh, (above 12,000 acres, in the richest parts of the counties of Cork and Waterford,) passed into other hands, is a piece of secret history yet unexplained by Mr. D'Israeli and his associates, in this valuable and interesting department of our literature. Perhaps Mr. Lemon of the State Paper Office would have no difficulty in finding a petition from Lady Raleigh, written after her husband's execution, and praying to have his Irish estates restored to her ; Sir Walter having been swindled out of them by Lord Cork.—This document would throw new light upon Lord Cork's history ; and such, I have good reason for believing, exists.
> Of Cork.
|| "Over the gate" of Lismore castle " are the arms of the great Earl of Cork, with this humble motto, 'God's Providence is our Inheritance.' Archbishop Laud thus addresses Lord Cork,—'And whereas your Lordship writes at the latter end of your letters, that you bestow a great part of your estates and time in charitable works ; I am heartily glad to hear it : but withal, your Lordship will, I hope, give me leave to deal freely
with you. And then I must tell your Lordship, if you have done as you write, you have suffered strangely for many years together by the tongues of men, who have often and confidently affirmed that you have not been a very good friend to the church, in the point of her maintenance.—I hope these reports are not true : but if they be, I cannot call your works charitable, having no better foundation than the livelihood of the church
taken away to do them." Strafford's State Letters.
$ Lord Broghill, afterwards Earl of Orrery, the third son of the first Earl of Cork defended the Castle of Lismore for his father in the disturbances of 1641, to whom he thus concludes a letter on the subject:— " My Lord, fear nothing for Lismore ; for, if it be lost, it shall be with the life of him that begs your Lordship's blessing, and styles himself your Lordship's most humble, most obliged, and most dutiful son and servant, Broghill." Orrery's State Letters.
+ Robert Boyle, the philosopher, and one of the founders of the Royal Society, was born in the Castle of Lismore, on the 25th January, 1026-7. To those who are superstitious, it may be interesting to know that he was the seventh son, and fourteenth child, of Lord Cork.—Ryland, says Lismore, is also the birth-place of Congreve.
@ James II. on his retreat to Waterford, after the battle of the Boyne, dined in Lismore Castle, and, going to look out at the window, started back in surprise—"One does not," says Dr. Smith, "perceive at the entrance into the Castle that the building is situated on such an eminence, nor can a stranger know it till he looks out of the window, which in respect to the Castle is but a ground-floor." History of Waterford
THE SISTERS
THE morning light is in their hair,
Golden as ever sunbeams were;
The morning light is in their eyes,
Azure as ever were the skies:
And every thing in each sweet face
Is touched with gladness and with grace;
The tones are such as might beseem
The colours of a noontide dream;
Some dream, that from external things
Borrows the hues that light its wings,
And some young sleeper’s head is laid
On violets in a pleasant shade.
So like they are—as roses grow
Self-same upon the self-same bough,
While just some slight shades intervene,
To mark a change more felt than seen—
As like they are—as nature loth
To make a difference, modelled both
To the same shape—it was so fair
That not a grace was left to spare.
With the same fantasy she hung
Like music upon either tongue;
And when their silver laughter came,
Whose sweet laugh was it, none might name.
So much for every outward sign,—
The inward world hath deeper shrine;
And never beating heart was known
Without a likeness of its own.
Only in face the same—each heart
Had a sweet empire kept apart.
Change infinite asserts its claim—
Like—lovely—loved,— but not the same.
Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839