Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood By its winding banks was sweeping;
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.
How lonely and lovely their resting-place seemed! An enclosure which care could not enter;
And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleamed On the solitary tomb in its centre!
When at morn or at eve I have wandered near, And in various lights have viewed it, With what differing forms, unto friendship dear, Has the magic of fancy endued it!
Sometimes it has seemed like a lonely sail, A white spot on the emerald billow; Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale, Stretched in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife, Has it ever given birth to one minute; For lamented in death, as beloved in life, Was he who now slumbers within it.
He was one who in youth on the stormy seas Was a far and a fearless ranger;
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, Counted lightly of death or of danger.
Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept All the freshness of gentle feeling;
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept More of softness and kindness revealing.
And here, when the bustle of youth was past,
He lived, and he loved, and he died too; Oh! why was affection, which death could outlast, A more lengthened enjoyment denied to?
But here he slumbers! and many there are Who love that lone tomb and revere it; And one far off who, like eve's dewy star, Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.
BRYAN WALTER PROCTER, better known by his assumed name of Barry Cornwall, published, in 1815, a small volume of dramatic scenes of a domestic character, 'in order,' he says, 'to try the effect of a more natural style than that which had for a long time prevailed in our dramatic literature.' The experiment was successful; chiefly on account of the pathetic and tender scenes in Mr Procter's sketches. He has since published Marcian Colonna, The Flood of Thessaly, and other poems: also a tragedy, Mirandola, which was brought out with success at Covent Garden theatre. Mr Procter's later productions have not realised the promise of his early efforts. His professional avocations (for the poet is a barrister) may have withdrawn him from poetry, or at least prevented his studying it with that earnestness and devotion which can alone insure success. Still, Mr Procter is a graceful and accomplished writer. His poetical style seems formed on that of the Elizabethan dramatists, and some of his lyrical pieces are exquisite in sentiment and diction.
Address to the Ocean.
O thou vast Ocean! ever sounding sea! Thou symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep
Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth hath nought of this: no chance or change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-wakened air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go: Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow: But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their wonted home; And come again, and vanish; the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. Oh! wonderful thou art, great element: And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, And lovely in repose; thy summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
Eternity-Eternity-and Power.
It was a dreary place. The shallow brook
That ran throughout the wood, there took a turn And widened: all its music died away, And in the place a silent eddy told
That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, And spicy cedar) clustered, and at night
Shook from their melancholy branches sounds
And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for through the
They stood quite motionless, and looked, methought, Like monumental things, which the sad earth From its green bosom had cast out in pity, To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves Disowned their natural green, and took black And mournful hue; and the rough brier, stretching His straggling arms across the rivulet, Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching With his tenacious leaf straws, withered boughs, Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which Swam with the current, and with these it hid The poor Marcelia's deathbed. Never may net Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope, For not a fish abides there. The slim deer Snorts as he ruffles with his shortened breath The brook, and panting flies the unholy place, And the white heifer lows, and passes on; The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds Go higher up the stream. And yet I love To loiter there: and when the rising moon Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks Red and dilated through the evening mists, And chequered as the heavy branches sway To and fro with the wind, I stay to listen, And fancy to myself that a sad voice,
Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, as 'twere For some misdeed. The story goes that some Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world
Frowned upon) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought Cast herself in the stream: you may have heard Of one Marcelia, poor Nolina's daughter, who Fell ill and came to want? No! Oh, she loved A wealthy man, who marked her not. He wed, And then the girl grew sick, and pined away, And drowned herself for love.
Now to thy silent presence, Night!
Is this my first song offered: oh! to thee That lookest with thy thousand eyes of light
To thee, and thy starry nobility
That float with a delicious murmuring (Though unheard here) about thy forehead blue; And as they ride along in order due, Circling the round globe in their wandering, To thee their ancient queen and mother sing. Mother of beauty! veiled queen! Feared and sought, and never seen Without a heart-imposing feeling, Whither art thou gently stealing! In thy smiling presence, I Kneel in star-struck idolatry, And turn me to thine eye (the moon), Fretting that it must change so soon: Toying with this idle rhyme, I scorn that bearded villain Time, Thy old remorseless enemy, And build my linked verse to thee. Not dull and cold and dark art thou: Who that beholds thy clearer brow, Endiademed with gentlest streaks
Of fleecy-silvered cloud, adorning Thee, fair as when the young sun 'wakes, And from his cloudy bondage breaks,
And lights upon the breast of morning, But must feel thy powers; Mightier than the storm that lours, Fairer than the virgin hours
That smile when the young Aurora scatters
Her rose-leaves on the valleys low, And bids her servant breezes blow.
Not Apollo, when he dies, In the wild October skies,
Red and stormy; or when he In his meridian beauty rides
Over the bosom of the waters, And turns the blue and burning tides To silver, is a peer for thee, In thy full regality.
The Sleeping Figure of Modena.
Upon a couch of silk and gold A pale enchanted lady lies, And o'er her many a frowning fold Of crimson shades her closed eyes; And shadowy creatures round her rise; And ghosts of women masqued in wo; And many a phantom pleasure flies; And lovers slain-ah, long ago!
The lady, pale as now she sleeps, An age upon that couch hath lain, Yet in one spot a spirit keeps His mansion, like a red-rose stain; And, when lovers' ghosts complain, Blushes like a new-born flower, Or as some bright dream of pain Dawneth through the darkest hour.
Once-but many a thought hath fled, Since the time whereof I speak- Once the sleeping lady bred Beauty in her burning cheek, And the lovely morn did break Through the azure of her eyes, And her heart was warm and meek, And her hope was in the skies.
But the lady loved at last, And the passion pained her soul, And her hope away was cast, Far beyond her own control;
And the clouded thoughts that roll Through the midnight of the mind, O'er her eyes of azure stole, Till they grew deject and blind.
He to whom her heart was given, When May music was in tune, Dared forsake that amorous heaven, Changed and careless soon! O, what is all beneath the moon When his heart will answer not! What are all the dreams of noon With our love forgot!
Heedless of the world she went, Sorrow's daughter, meek and lone, Till some spirit downwards bent And struck her to this sleep of stone. Look! Did old Pygamalion Sculpture thus, or more prevail, When he drew the living tone From the marble pale?
Come, all ye feathery people of mid air, Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool; And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs For suns to ripen, come! O phenix rare! If death hath spared, or philosophic search Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest, Perfect Arabian-lonely nightingale! Dusk creature, who art silent all day long, But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs Until they waken; and thou, cuckoo bird, Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape Material, but dost wander far and near, Like untouched echo whom the woods deny Sight of her love come all to my slow charm! Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn, Who springest like a thought unto the sun, And from his golden floods dost gather wealth (Epithalamium and Pindarique song), And with it enrich our ears; come all to me, Beneath the chamber where my lady lies, And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!
SCENE I. A Room. WENTWORTH-AMELIA.
Amelia. You have determined, then, on sending Charles
To India?
Wentworth. Yes.
Amel. Poor boy! he looks so sad and pale, He'll never live there. 'Tis a cruel lot At best to leave the land that gave us birth, And sheltered us for many a pleasant year; The friends that loved us, and the spots we loved, For such a distant country. He will die. Remember-'tis Amelia's prophecy.
Oh! do not be so harsh to the poor youth. Do not desert your better nature. Nay- You will not send him, Wentworth? Went. He will sail
Went. I say your tenderness, your folly for
This boy becomes you not.
These tender-friendships must be laid aside. Oh! you can smile. By-
Amel. Mr Wentworth, you
(I must believe it) jest; you jest with me.
Went. Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool.
Woman, my eyes are open; wide awake To you and all my infamy. By heaven
I will not be a by-word and a mock
In all the mouths of men for any-Pshaw!
I still respect your ears, you see; I
Amel. You
Insult me, sir.
Went. Forgive me: I indeed
Am somewhat of a prude; you'll scorn me for it. I still think women modest in the mass.
Amel. Sir-Mr Wentworth-you have used me ill. Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot All-what is due to me what to your wife. You have forgot-forgot can I forget All that I sacrificed for you?-my youth, My home, my heart-(you know, you knew it then) In sad obedience to my father's word? You promised to that father (how you kept That promise, now remember) you would save His age from poverty: he had been bred In splendour, and he could not bow him down, Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune. He gave me up, a victim; and I saw Myself (ah! how I shuddered) borne away By you, the evil angel of my life, To a portentous splendour. I became A pining bride, a wretch-a slave to all Your host of passions; but I swore (may God Forgive me!) to love you-you, when I loved Another, and you knew it: Yes, you knew My heart was given away, and yet you wed me. Leave me, sir!
Went. Have you done? Woman, do you think This mummery is to work me from my purpose- My settled will? Mistress, I leave you now: But this remember, that your minion-Oh, I do not heed your frowni frowning-your boy-love Will visit India shortly, or, it may be, (You are his guide) a prison here, in England. Farewell.
Amel. Yet stay-a word more ere we quit. I do beseech you (though my wrongs are great, And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this), You take your malediction from this youth. He is as innocent-I think he's innocent Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am Too innocent to sue; yet let me say, Since the sad hour I wed you, I have been As faithful to our cold communion
As though my heart had from the first been yours, Or you been generous after. Once more, sir,
I would implore you for your comfort-for Your honour and my name, to spare this boy. In the calm tone of one who has not erred
I do require this of you.
Went. You but steel
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And I am here-oh! such a weary wretch. Oh! father, father, what a heart had you To cast me on the wide and bitter world
With such a friend as this! I would have toiled From the pale morning 'till the dusk of night, And lived as poorly, and smiled cheerfully, Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home. And there was one who would have loved you too, And aided with his all our wreck of fortune. You would not hear him; and and did I hear His passionate petitioning, and see His scalding tears, and fling myself away Upon a wintry bosom, that held years Doubling my own. What matters it?'tis past. I will be still myself: who's there?
Ch. 'Tis I.
You are in tears?
Amel. Away. Draw down the blinds; The summer evenings now come warmly on us. Go, pluck me yonder flower.
Ch. This rose-mean you? It fills the room with perfume: 'tis as red, And rich, and almost, too, as beautiful, As-
Amel. As Aurora's blushes, or my own. I see you want a simile.
Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here? Amel. No one; I will not tell; I've made a vow,
And will not break it, 'till-until I'm pressed. Ch. Then let me press you.
Amel. Silly boy, away;
Go gather me more flowers, violets.
Ch. Here let me place them in your hair. Amel. No, no;
The violet is for poets: they are yours. O rare! I like to see you bosom them. Had they been golden, such as poets earned, You might have treasured them.
Ch. They are far more
To me for they were yours, Amelia. Amel. Give me the rose.
Ch. But where shall it be placed ?
Amel. Why, in my hand-my hair. Look how it blushes!
To see us both so idle. Give it me. Where? where do ladies hide their favourite flowers But in their bosoms, foolish youth. Away- 'Tis I must do it. Pshaw! how sad you look, And how you tremble.
Amel. I do not think you have a heart: 'tis buried. Ch. Amelia, oh! Amelia, will you never
Know the poor heart that breaks and bursts for
Oh! do not take it ill; but now believe How fond, and true, and faithful
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Ch. Oh! by these burning tears, By all my haunted days and wakeful nights, Oh! by yourself I swear, dearest of all, I love love you, my own Amelia!
Once I will call you so. Do-do not scorn me And blight my youth-I do not ask for love; I dare not. Trample not upon my heart, My untouched heart-I gave it all to you, Without a spot of care or sorrow on it. My spirit became yours-I worshipped you, And for your sake in silence. Say but once You hate me not, for this-Speak, speak! Amel. Alas!
Ch. Weep not for me, my gentle love. You said Your husband threatened you. Come, then, to me; I have a shelter and a heart for you, Where, ever and for ever you shall reign. Amelia, dear Amelia! speak a word Of kindness and consenting to me-Speak! If but a word, or though it be not kindness: Speak hope, doubt, fear-but not despair; or say That some day you may love, or that if ever Your cruel husband dies, you'll think of me; Or that you wish me happy-or that perhaps Your heart-nay, speak to me, Amelia.
Amel. Is, then, your love so deep?
Ch. So deep? It is
Twined with my life: it is my life-my food- The natural element wherein I breathe- My madness-my heart's madness-it is all -Oh! what a picture have I raised upon My sandy wishes. I have thought at times That you and I in some far distant country Might live together, blessing and beloved; And I have shaped such plans of happiness, For us and all around us (you, indeed, Ever the sweet superior spirit there), That were you always-fair Amelia, You listen with a melancholy smile?
Amel. Let me hear all: 'tis fit I should hear all.
Ch. Weep not for me, my love.
I-I am nought: not worth a single tear: I will depart or may I kiss away
Shall never be so constant. I am all Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave, Not the cold hollow grave shall chill my love. It will survive beyond the bounds of death, The spirit of the shadow which may there Perhaps do penance for my deeds of ill. Amel. Stay this wild talk.
Ch. Men have been known to love
Through years of absence, ay, in pain and peril; And one did cast life and a world away For a loose woman's smile: nay, love has dwelt, A sweet inhabitant in a demon's breast, Lonely, amidst bad passions; burning there, Like a most holy and sepulchral light, And almost hallowing its dark tenement. Why may not I-
Amel. I thought I heard a step.
How strangely you speak now-again, again. Leave me; quick, leave me.
Ch. 'Tis your tyrant coming:
Fly rather you.
Amel. If you have pity, go.
Ch. Farewell, then: yet, should he repulse you
I will-but go: you torture me. Ch. I am gone.
Amel. Farewell, farewell, poor youth; so desolate That even I can spare a tear for you. My husband comes not: I will meet him, then, Armed in my innocence and wrongs. Alas! 'Tis hard to suffer where we ought to judge, And pray to those who should petition us. 'Tis a brave world, I see. Power and wrong Go hand in hand resistless and abhorred, And patient virtue and pale modesty, Like the sad flowers of the too early spring, Are cropped before they blossom-or trod down, Or by the fierce winds withered. Is it so? But I have flaunted in the sun, and cast
My smiles in prodigality away:
And now, and now no matter. I have done. Whether I live scorned or beloved-Beloved!
Better be hated, could my pride abate
Those drops of rain? Well, well, I will not pain you. And I consent to fly. It may be thus.
And yet-oh! what a paradise is love;
Secure, requited love. I will not go :
Or we will go together. There are haunts For young and happy spirits: you and I Will thither fly, and dwell beside some stream That runs in music 'neath the Indian suns; Ay, some sweet island still shall be our home, Where fruits and flowers are born through all the
And Summer, Autumn, Spring, are ever young, Where Winter comes not, and where nought abides But Nature in her beauty revelling. You shall be happy, sweet Amelia,
At last; and I-it is too much to think of. Forgive me while I look upon thee now, And swear to thee by Love, and Night, and all The gliding hours of soft and starry night, How much-how absolutely I am thine. My pale and gentle beauty-what a heart Had he to wrong thee or upbraid upbra thee! He Was guilty-nay, nay: look not so.
Been guilty of a cruel act toward you. Charles, I indeed am guilty. When to-day My husband menaced me, and told me of Public and broad disgrace, it met my scorn: But have I, my poor youth, been so unkind To you as not to see this love before!
Look, look! above: the canopy of the sky, Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal dress: A queen might envy that so regal blue Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas! I do remember in my follying days What wild and wanton wishes once were mine, Slaves-radiant gems-and beauty with no peer, And friends (a ready host) but but I forget. I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt, When I had hope to light me. Have you no song, My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear? There's one I've heard you sing: 'They said his eye'- No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit.
'His eye like the mid-day sun was bright'-
You've a good memory. Well, listen to me. I must not trip, I see.
Amel. I hearken. Now.
His eye like the mid-day sun was bright, Hers had a proud but a milder light, Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon: Alas! and must it fade as soon?
His voice was like the breath of war, But hers was fainter-softer far; And yet, when he of his long love sighed, She laughed in scorn:-he fled and died.
Mar. There is another verse, of a different air, But indistinct-like the low moaning Of summer winds in the evening: thus it runs-
They said he died upon the wave, And his bed was the wild and bounding billow: Her bed shall be a dry earth grave:
Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow.
Amel. How slowly and how silently doth time Float on his starry journey. Still he goes, And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away. He rises with the golden morning, calmly, And with the moon at night. Methinks I see Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings, Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men, Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath. Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on: To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing- Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours Will laugh as gaily on the busy world As though I were alive to welcome them. There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!
Amel. You come in time. My thoughts
I thought my heart was breaking-yet I lived: But I am weary now.
Mar. You must not talk,
Indeed, dear lady; nay
Ch. Indeed you must not.
Amel. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so.
ere we journey, ever should we take A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well, And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles, Wear the remembrance of Amelia.
She ever loved you-ever; so as might Become a mother's tender love no more. Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world Now almost thirty seasons: you have been A child to me for one-third of that time. I took you to my bosom, when a boy,
Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and
Not as I wish: you had a braver spirit.
Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk
Of war and danger-Ah!
[WENTWORTH enters.]
Mar. She's pale-speak, speak.
Ch. Oh! my lost mother. How! You here? Went. I am come
To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand. Amelia! she faints: Amelia!
Poor faded girl! I was too harsh-unjust. Ch. Look!
Mar. She has left us.
Ch. It is false. Revive!
Mother, revive, revive!
Mar. It is in vain.
Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Oh! mother, mother. I-I cannot weep.
Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother (now Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes,
I take that title), in her dying hour
Has privilege to speak unto your youth.
So I might not gaze on her. And has death Indeed, indeed struck her-so beautiful? So wronged, and never erring; so beloved By one-who now has nothing left to love.
There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm.
My husband has been harsh unto me-yet He is my husband; and you'll think of this If any sterner feeling move your heart? Seek no revenge for me. You will not?-Nay, Is it so hard to grant my last request? He is my husband: he was father, too, Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once. Do you remember how his eyelids closed When the first summer rose was opening? 'Tis now two years ago-more, more: and I- I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy! He was my only child. How fair he looked In the white garment that encircled him- 'Twas like a marble slumber; and when we Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,
Oh! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest, For lo! the brightest of thy host is gone- Departed-and the earth is dark below. And now I'll wander far and far away, Like one that hath no country. I shall find A sullen pleasure in that life, and when I say 'I have no friend in all the world,' My heart will swell with pride, and make a show Unto itself of happiness; and in truth There is, in that same solitude, a taste Of pleasure which the social never know. From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger, And, as the body gains a braver look,
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