Away, away, the chords are mute,_The poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed. [selected]

The bond is rent in twain;

You cannot wake that silent lute,

Nor clasp those links again;

Love’s toil, I know, is little cost,

Love’s perjury is light sin;

But souls that lose what I have lost,

What have they left to win?

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day through Fancy’s telescope,

Which is my richest treasure,

I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope

Set out in search of pleasure:

All mirth and smiles I saw them go;

Each was the other’s banker;

For Hope took up her brother’s bow,

And Love, his sister’s anchor.

They rambled on o’er vale and hill,

They passed by cot and tower;

Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,

Through sunshine and through shower:

But what did those fond playmates care

For climate, or for weather?

All scenes to them were bright and fair

On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless

Some Muse and her wild numbers,

Or breathe a dream of holiness

On Beauty’s quiet slumbers:

“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,

“I teach my friends to doubt you:”

“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,

“My heart is cold without you.”

When Poverty beset their path

And threatened to divide them,

They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath

Ere she had breath to chide them,

By vowing all her rags were silk,

And all her bitters, honey,

And showing taste for bread and milk,

And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way

Upon a ruin seated;

Before him kings had quaked that day,

And armies had retreated:

But he was robed in such a cloud

As Love and Hope came near him,

That though he thundered long and loud,

They did not see or hear him.

A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;

And Love was nearly crazy

To find that he was very lame,

And also very lazy:

Hope, as he listened to her tale,

Tied wings upon his jacket;

And then they far outran the mail,

And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed

O’er many a land and billow,

Before a grave they stopped at last,

Beneath a weeping willow:

The moon upon the humble mound

Her softest light was flinging;

And from the thickets all around

Sad nightingales were singing.

“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,

As hoarse as any raven;

And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme

Upon the rude stone graven:

But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,

And whispered, “Dearest brother--

We’re parted on this side the grave,--

We’ll meet upon the other.”

STANZAS.

O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower;

But, heedless of the wintry air,

One little bud shall linger there,

A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,

Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,

And sparkle in the moonlight, wet

With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,

Instead of ’scutcheon or of stone,

It rises o’er thee, lonely one,

Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as Zephyr’s breath,

Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!

But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded

In the cold breeze of death!

Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!

But now decay hath stilled its glancing;

Warmly thy little heart was dancing,

But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months--and thou wert here!

Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;

And what is thy memorial now?

A flower--and a Tear.

CASSANDRA.

They hurried to the feast,

The warrior and the priest,

And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;

The minstrel’s harp and voice

Said “Triumph and rejoice!”--

One only mourned!--many are mourning now!

“Peace! startle not the light

With the wild dreams of night!”--

So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,

When I, in their dull ears,

Shrieked forth my tale of tears,

“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”

Ye watch the dim smoke rise

Up to the lurid skies;

Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;

Ye listen to the fall

Of gate, and tower, and wall;

Sisters, the time is come!--alas, it is no dream!

Through hall, and court, and porch,

Glides on the pitiless torch

The swift avengers faint not in their toil:

Vain now the matron’s sighs,

Vain now the infant’s cries;--

Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?

Not Pyrrhus, though his hand

Is on his father’s brand;

Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;

Not Nestor’s hoary head,

Nor Teucer’s rapid tread,

Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

Visions of deeper fear

To-night are warring here;--

I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:

Minerva’s lightning frown,

And Juno’s golden crown,

And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!

Through wailing and through woe

Silent and stern they go;

So have I ever seen them in my trance:

Exultingly they guide

Destruction’s fiery tide,

And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.

Lo, where the old man stands,

Folding his palsied hands,

And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:

“Where is my noble son,

My best my bravest one--

Troy’s hope and Priam’s--where is Hector, where?”

Why is thy falchion grasped?

Why is thy helmet clasped?

Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!

The altar reeks with gore;

O sisters, look no more!

It is our father’s blood upon the shrine!

And ye, alas! must roam

Far from your desolate home,

Far from lost Ilium, o’er the joyless wave;

Ye may not from these bowers

Gather the trampled flowers

To wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.

Away, away! the gale

Stirs the white-bosomed sail;

Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;

Labour must be your doom,

Night-watchings, days of gloom,

The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

Even now some Grecian dame

Beholds the signal flame,

And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;

“Why lingers yet my lord?

Hath he not sheathed his sword?

Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”

Me too, the dark Fates call:

Their sway is over all,

Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:--

I tell of others’ lot;

They hear me, heed me not!

Hide, angry Phœbus, hide me from mine own!

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high;

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:

Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,

And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter on our ears.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,

And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,

And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.

Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,

As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran,

As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.”

“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,

Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;

The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,

And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,

When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,

And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!”--

’Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;

They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:

Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;

And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,

“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”

The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain;

But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout--

“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”

And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave,

And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.

The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,

“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”

“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty sword

This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”--

The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;

The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.--

“What news, what news, old Anthony?”--“The field is lost and won,

The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;

And a wounded man speeds hither,--I am old and cannot see,

Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”--

“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,

As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,

Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor _quantum suff_:

I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;

Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,

Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!

Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,

That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”

THE COVENANTER’S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIDGE.

The men of sin prevail!

Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;

Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne

Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where

The good and true, the terrible and fleet?

They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,

With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie

Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;

Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest

Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;

We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,

Will call for comfort; to the God of hosts

We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;

For we are wandering o’er our native land

As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand

Of wicked men is strong.

Only to Thee we bow:

Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;

And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up

To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,--oh! not our years

Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,

The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,

The maiden’s silent tears.

The babe’s bread torn away,

The harvest blasted by the war-steed’s hoof,

The red flame wreathing o’er the cottage roof,

Judge not for these to-day!--

Is not Thine own dread rod

Mocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained,

Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned?

Avenge Thyself, O God!

Break Pharaoh’s iron crown;

Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings:

Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,

And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in Thine own good time!

We will abide; we have not turned from Thee,

Though in a world of grief our portion be,

Of bitter grief and crime.

Be Thou our guard and guide!

Forth from the spoiler’s synagogue we go,

That we may worship where the torrents flow

And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves

We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.--

On, brethren, to the mountains! seek we there

Safe temples, quiet graves!

[Illustration]

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze

In silence on the glorious pile,

And the glad thoughts of other days

Come thronging back the while.

To me dim memory makes more dear

The perfect grandeur of the shrine;

But if I stood a stranger here,

The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,

As reverently their feet have trod

On any spot where man hath knelt

To commune with his God;

By sacred spring, or haunted well,

Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,

Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,

Or the false Prophet’s tomb.

But when was high devotion graced

With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,

Than here the limner’s art hath graced

From the time-honoured stone?

The Spirit here of worship seems

To bind the soul in willing thrall,

And heavenward hopes and holy dreams

Come at her voiceless call;

At midnight, when the lonely moon

Looks from a vapour’s silvery fold;

At morning, when the sun of June

Crests the high towers with gold;

For every change of hour and form

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,

And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,

Are all Religion there.

ANTICIPATION.

“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;

He’s been returning thanks;

You can’t conceive the time he’s spent

Already on his franks.

He’ll think of nothing, night and day,

But place, and the _Gazette_:”--

No matter what the people say,--

You won’t believe them yet.

“He filled an album, long ago,

With such delicious rhymes;

Now we shall only see, you know,

His speeches in the _Times_:

And liquid tone and beaming brow,

Bright eyes and locks of jet,

He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”

Oh! don’t believe them yet!

“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,

By that disgusting Bill;

He’ll never make another pun;

He’s danced his last quadrille.

We shall not see him flirt again

With any fair coquette;

He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”--

Psha!--don’t believe them yet.

“Last week I heard his uncle boast

He’s sure to have the seals;

I read it in the _Morning Post_,

That he has dined at Peel’s;

You’ll never see him any more,

He’s in a different set:

He cannot eat at half-past four:”--

No?--don’t believe them yet.

“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,

And infinitely wise;

He’ll grow next year extremely old,

He’ll tell enormous lies;

He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,

To feign and to forget:”--

O whisper--or my heart will break--

You won’t believe them yet!

MARS DISARMED BY LOVE.

(1830.)

Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child,

Though dire the burden be,

And hide it in the pathless wild,

Or drown it in the sea;

The ruthless murderer prays and swears;

So let him swear and pray;

Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,

And take the sword away.

We’ve had enough of fleets and camps,

Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,

Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,

Huzzas and epaulettes;

We could not bear upon our head

Another leaf of bay;

That horrid Buonaparte’s dead:

Yes, take the sword away,

We’re weary of the noisy boasts

That pleased our patriot throngs;

We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts,

And tame to Dibdin’s songs;

We’re quite content to rule the wave

Without a great display;

We’re known to be extremely brave;

But take the sword away.

We give a shrug, when fife and drum

Play up a favourite air;

We think our barracks are become

More ugly than they were;

We laugh to see the banners float:

We loathe the charger’s bray;

We don’t admire a scarlet coat;

Do take the sword away.

Let Portugal have rulers twain,

Let Greece go on with none,

Let Popery sink or swim in Spain

While we enjoy the fun;

Let Turkey tremble at the knout,

Let Algiers lose her Dey,

Let Paris turn her Bourbons out:

Bah! take the sword away.

Our honest friends in Parliament

Are looking vastly sad;

Our farmers say with one consent

It’s all immensely bad;

There was a time for borrowing,

And now it’s time to pay;

A budget is a serious thing;

So take the sword away.

And, oh, the bitter tears we wept

In those our days of fame,--

The dread that o’er our heart-strings crept

With every post that came,--

The home affections, waged and lost

In every far-off fray,--

The price that British glory cost!

Ah, take the sword away!

We’ve plenty left to hoist the sail

Or mount the dangerous breach,

And Freedom breathes in every gale

That wanders round our beach;

When duty bids us dare or die,

We’ll fight, another day;

But till we know the reason why,

Take--take the sword away.

WATERLOO.

“On this spot the French cavalry charged, and broke the English

squares!”--_Narrative of a French Tourist._

“Is it true, think you?”--_Winter’s Tale._

Aye, here such valorous deeds were done

As ne’er were done before;

Aye, here the reddest wreath was won

That ever Gallia wore;

Since Ariosto’s wondrous knight

Made all the Paynims dance,

There never dawned a day so bright

As Waterloo’s on France.

The trumpet poured its deafening sound,

Flags fluttered on the gale,

And cannon roared, and heads flew round

As fast as summer hail;

The sabres flashed their light of fear,

The steeds began to prance,

The English quaked from front to rear,--

They never quake in France.

The cuirassiers rode in and out

As fierce as wolves and bears;

’Twas grand to see them slash about

Among the English squares!

And then the Polish Lancer came

Careering with his lance;

No wonder Britain blushed for shame

And ran away from France!

The Duke of York was killed that day;

The King was sadly scarred;

Lord Eldon, as he ran away,

Was taken by the Guard;

Poor Wellington with fifty Blues

Escaped by some strange chance;

Henceforth I think he’ll hardly choose

To show himself in France.

So Buonaparte pitched his tent

That night in Grosvenor Place,

And Ney rode straight to Parliament

And broke the Speaker’s mace;

“Vive l’empereur” was said and sung,

From Peebles to Penzance;

The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,

Which made folk laugh in France.

They pulled the Tower of London down,

They burnt our wooden walls,

They brought the Pope himself to town,

And lodged him in St. Paul’s;

And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,

Awaking from a trance,

And grumbled out in great surprise,

“Oh, mercy! we’re in France!”

They sent a Regent to our Isle,

The little King of Rome;

And squibs and crackers all the while

Blazed in the Place Vendôme;

And ever since in arts and power

They’re making great advance;

They’ve had strong beer from that glad hour,

And sea-coal fires, in France.

My uncle, Captain Flanigan,

Who lost a leg in Spain,

Tells stories of a little man,

Who died at St. Helène.

But bless my heart, they can’t be true;

I’m sure they’re all romance;

John Bull was beat at Waterloo!

They’ll swear to that in France.

THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS.

“Incipiunt magni procedere menses.”--VIRGIL.

(1830.)

We’re sick of this distressing state

Of order and repose;

We have not had enough of late

Of blunders or of blows;

We can’t endure to pass our life

In such a humdrum way;

We want a little pleasant strife:

The Whigs are in to-day!

Our worthy fathers were content

With all the world’s applause,

They thought they had a Parliament,

And liberty, and laws.

It’s no such thing; we’ve wept and groaned

Beneath a despot’s sway;

We’ve all been whipped and starved and stoned:

The Whigs are in to-day!

We used to fancy Englishmen

Had broken Europe’s chain,

And won a battle now and then

Against the French in Spain;

Oh no! we never ruled the waves,

Whatever people say;

We’ve all been despicable slaves:

The Whigs are in to-day!

It’s time for us to see the things

Which other folks have seen,

It’s time we should cashier our kings,

And build our guillotine;

We’ll abrogate Police and Peers,

And vote the Church away;

We’ll hang the parish overseers:

The Whigs are in to-day!

We’ll put the landlords to the rout,

We’ll burn the College Halls,

We’ll turn St. James’s inside out

And batter down St. Paul’s.

We’ll hear no more of Bench or Bar;

The troops shall have no pay;

We’ll turn adrift our men-of-war;

The Whigs are in to-day!

We fear no bayonet or ball

From those who fight for hire,

For Baron Brougham has told them all

On no account to fire;

Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,

But Baron Brougham, we pray,

Will strip the ermine from his back:

The Whigs are in to-day!

Go pluck the jewels from the crown,

The colours from the mast;

And let the Three per Cents come down,

We can but break at last;

If Cobbett is the first of men,

The second is Lord Grey;

Oh, must we not be happy, when

The Whigs are in to-day!

SONG.--WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?

AIR--“Sweet Kitty Clover.”

Where is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?