The poetical works of Henry Alford

Front matter

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THE

POETICAL WORKS

Preface

I HAVE been requested to write a Preface for the American Edition of my collected Poems : in other words, to make a first speech, on my own behalf, to a company who have kindly shown that they knew me before I knew them.

In so doing, I will say a little of myself, but more of that common interest which has made us, at the distance of the wide Atlantic, mutually acquainted.

Some years since, none would have ventured to predict the delight with w'hich some of us in England now read American poetry. Certainly, as far as present promise augurs, the graft will ere long be prolific of more and goodlier fruit than the parent stock. In this country, poetry is fast passing out of the field of the public view as a subject of interest. The modern school here is one of intensely artificial thought, and diction elaborately obscure ; and even the highly-seasoned viands which it serves up, find but few who think them worth tasting. For the events and habits of our day, we have no recognised poetic utterance. Our poets walk on stilts too high, to admit of their seeing the fresh flowers which are springing up over the level swards of English society. We want an infusion of boldness and freedom into our poesy : a new invasion of Saxon truthful-

Vlll PREFACE.

ness and plain-spokenness, which, at the risk of some poetical indecorums, may re-invigorate the decline, and at least postpone the fall of our republic of letters. And it is on this account, that our real lovers of song hail the freshness and vigor of your recent American bards, and look to them or their foil owners for the rise of a genuine new school of English poesy. We want metres and diction which, not having been wedded by the association of ages to classic proprieties, shall not be afraid to sing of railways, and steamers and telegraphs, and to recognise the vast changes which Providence is making among men ; and these things you are beginning to give us.

Art is as wide as Man : every world-reality, may be also made a reality in art : if it is not so made, the poverty is in the artists. Artists come to perfection through trials and failures : many a mirror is broken, before the perfect reflector comes forth which gives us, glorified and cleared, the bright distant luminary of truth. You may have many poets before you have a great poet : but if they be real ones, their power will wax onward, and culminate at last. In the analogies of His works, who made both the heaven above us and the heaven of thought, the rising of many stars gives at least hope of the rising of a sun.

The Poems here printed are scattered, and for the most part crude fragments of song, dating many years since. The longest among them would, in my present view, much better have formed a series of smaller pieces, than have been joined, as now, by imperfect and easily-distinguished cement into the semblance of what it is not, a continuous poem on one subject. But a writer of twenty years' standing has no

PREFACE. IX

right to alter and re-cast works to his present liking, which, whether good or bad, have long ago become the property of! the public.

The few recent pieces, are records, as their name and' contents imply, of severe domestic sorrow,

I have of late been prevented from writing poetry, not so much by affliction (which, whatever the world may say, is rather suggestive of true poetic thought, than repressive), as by laborious mental employment on a biblical w^ork, which will demand the best years of my life. But I yet look forward, if spared, to a tranquil evening, during which the * promise of more' may be fulfilled.

LONDON, JL'NE 10, 1852.

CONTENTS,

The Ballad of Glastonbury .

Lady Maky

Hymn to The Sun

Hymn to The Sea .

To A Drop of Dew

To A Mountain Stream

On the aged Oak

OxV THE Evening of a Village Festival

Last Words

Father, wake

The Ancient Man

The little Mourner

A Dream .....

A Spring Scene .

Inscription . • . .

The Dead .

Written on Christmas Eve, 1836

. 17

. 44

. 49

. 54

. 58

. 61

. 64

. 74

. 80

. 84

Xll

Contents

The National Prayer .... 86

The Dirge of the Parting Year, 1840 . . .87

Nottingham Mechanics' Exhibition, 1840 . . 90

II

Before the rosy streak had vanished From the last cloud that look'd upon the sun, In yonder abbey-pile the mass was said, The psalm was chanted, and the vespers done : The holy men are singly pent each one In chamber climbed by solitary stair ; And he who labor' d in far fields alone Late passing, hears upon the twilight air Tu, Jesu^ salva me — their deep and secret prayer.

III

The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone. But now he laid his sacred vestment by, And leaned his crosier on the fretted stone ; He prayeth not, but out into the sky He looketh forth with wild and dreamful eye. Under the quatre -foils of many hues Carved in the clustered muUions broad and high ; Full sorrowfully seems his heart to muse. And fetches other sighs than holy abbots use.

VI.

Belike he hath called up his youthful days, Before he gave his soul to wait on Heaven, When his steps wandered into downward ways ; And he has thought of sins to be forgiven. Like thunder-strokes athwart his conscience riven ; But all the fond admissions of his youth Long since by prayer and penance have been shriven ; And he hath offered up, in shame and sooth. His sad and peccant soul at the bright shrine of Truth.

V

But he hath much to do with earthly sighs ; There is a vision of pure loveliness, Link'd to a thousand painful memories That sear his inner soul with deep distress ; He kneeleth to his prayer, but not the less That rising sorrow will not be represt : He prayeth, but his lot he may not bless ; He drops his arms, erewhile that crossed his breast, And counsels how his sad heart he may lighten best.

VI

Yet time has been when he was bold and gay, A boy of open brow and lordly mien ; Him on his proud steed, at the rise of day. First in the field his father's hills have seen, To rouse the forest deer ; and time has been When he hath whispered words in lady's bower. And wandered not alone in sward-paths green, What time he wooed and won, in luckless hour, The high-born Lady Agnes of St. Dunstan's tower.

VII

One life-consuming thought his peace destroys ; Before his memory pass in wild arra}-. As they have passed full often, all the joys That rose and set upon his bridal day ; Oh, might he see that priest, who could betray The secret trusted to his troth to keep. And could that morn the solemn service say With inward plot of treachery dark and deep ; — But let him rest — for vengeance will not alway sleep.

VIII

That form of saintly beauty, robed in white, With yielded hand; his heart in bliss intense High-throbbing with the triumph of delight ; Those downward eyes of maiden innocence ; That first sweet look of wedded confidence ; — And then the armed grasp, the short reply, — The dizzy swoon that fetter' d all his sense ; — The waking underneath the portal high. In the faint glimmering light, with pale monks standing by.

IX

He hath had power; but, all athirst for love, He passed it by, and tasted not : the earth Each summer-tide, in meadow and in grove, Teemed with the riches of her yearly birth ; — High music and the sounds of holy mirth. Evening and morning, fell upon his ear; — But all this, heard or seen, was nothing worth. So there were wanting one sweet voice to cheer ; Were this his Eden-ground, he finds no helpmate here.

His not ^ the sickening pang of hope deferred/

Nor calm dismission of a treasure lost ;

But anguish deep, unwritten and unheard,

Of the full heart amidst fulfilment crost ;

When most assured, then downward smitten most.

Yet did the lamp of love burn upward bright;

Yet did the flame, though by fierce tempest tost,

With ever-constant and consoling light In solitude pierce through his spirit's darkest night.

XI

His waking thoughts with sorrow trafficked most : But when the gentle reign of sleep began, Then through a varied and uncounted host Of pleasant memories his free fancy ran ; Sometimes the heavenly harps their strain began, Responsive quiring to each angel-hand ; And brightest throned amidst the high divan, Sweetest in voice of all the sainted band, Was she — his wedded spouse — the glory of that land.

XII

Sometimes through twilight fields or summer grove They went in converse ; and the wondrous power Of world-creation viewed by light of love ; Sometimes he saw her with a blessed dower Of fairest children, and each little flower Grow into beauty, and its station keep Around their common life ; — thus the night-hour Would pass dream-hallowed, and then faithless sleep Steal from his widowed couch, and he would wake and weep.

Canto The Second. I

It is the solemn midnight ; and the moon Hard by the zenith holds her solemn state.

22 THE ABBOT OF MIJCHELNAYE.

And yon flushed star will westward dip full soon Behind the elms that gird the abbey-gate ; — There stair and hall are drear and desolate ; And even Devotion doth her votaries spare, Save the appointed ones on Heaven that wait, Wafting upon the hushed unlistening air Tu^ JesUj salva nos — their deep and night-long prayer.

II.

In low flat lines the slumbering dew-mist broods Along the reaches of the Parret-stream ; ^ And on the far-off vales and clustered woods Dwells, like the hazy daylight of a dream ; Piled over which, the dusky mountains seem As a new continent, whose headlands steep Within his day's fair voyage now doth deem Some mariner, whose laden vessels creep Across the dim white level of the severing deep.

III.

In the mid prospect, from its shadowy screen Rises the abbey-pile ; each pinnacle Distinct with purest light; save where, dark green, The ivy-clusters round some buttress dwell. The sharp and slender tracery varying well ; Perfect the group, and to poetic gaze Like a fair palace, by the potent spell Of old magician summoned from the haze. Some errant faery knight to wilder with amaze.

1 The river Parret, which, rising in the Dorsetshire hills, flows across the moors of Somersetshire, and empties itself into the Bristol Channel, below Bridgewater.

IV.

But list ! the pendant on the wlcket-latch Hath rung its iron summons ; and the sight Through the uncertain shadowings may catch A muffled figure, as of some lone wight Belated in the flats this summer night, And seeking refuge in the abbey near : Again those strokes the slumbering band affright, And cause the wakeful choir, in doubt and fear. To pause amid their chant, and breathless bend to hear.

V.

Slow moves the porter, heavy with the load Of age and sleep ; some newly happened ill — Some way-side murder — doth his heart forebode ; And at the wicket come, he pauseth still, And on his brow the icy drops distil ; Till a faint voice admission doth implore — * Open, blest fathers, — the night-damps are chill ; So may your abbot's holy aid restore One whose life falters now at death's uncertain door/

VI.

The smaller wicket first he inward turns For caution and assurance ; then as slow By the dim taper-light that flickering burns. Scans well the stranger, whether friend or foe ; Then stooping draws the massy bolt below. Well satisfied that such a form as stands Before him now no treachery can know. Can bear no weapon in those trembling hands. Nor be the wily scout of nightly prowling bands.

VII.

A holy woman is it, who desires Speech with the abbot's reverence : ' For fear Of God in heaven, who each one's life requires At each one's brother's hand, call thou him here, Or point me where he rests, that I may clear My soul of that wherewith I am in trust ; For she who sent me to her end is near : And who shall make amendment, or be just. When the pale eye hath mingled with its kindred dust ? *

VIII.

* Sister, — for by thy russet garb I guess^ Thou art of yonder saintly company Whose frequent hymns our holy Mother bless, Borne hither from St. Mary's Priory,^ — Hard is it for one chilled with age like me To do thine urgent bidding ; close behind The landing of yon steep stair dwelleth he Of whom thou speakest ; sleep doth seldom bind His eyelids ; wakeful unto prayer thou shalt him find.'

IX.

Up the strait stair the long-robed figure glides,

The while the aged man his taper's light

Trims, and with friendly voice the stranger guides,

Till the dark buttress hides her from his sight ;

And then he peers abroad into the night.

Crossing himself for fear of aught unblest;

For sprites and fairies, when the moon is bright,

1 Its ruins yet remain, within sight of the abbey at Muchelney, just across the river.

Weave their thin dances on the meadow's breast, And sharp rays pierce the tombs, and rouse the dead from rest.

X.

He looks not long, — for down the stairs of stone Footsteps are sounding, and from forth the pile Passes the stranger, but not now alone. ' Here, brother Francis, let thy keys aw^hile Rest in my keeping ; I will thee assoil From aught that in mine absence may befall ; So wilt thou spare thyself thy watch and toil For my return ; my blessing guards ye all ; For I must forth, when sorrow for my help doth call.*

XI.

The abbot speaks ; and they two glide along In the dim moonlight, till the meadow haze Enwraps them from the sight : the trees among, And down the windings of the gleamy ways They pass ; and cross the Parret-stream, ablaze With flickering ripples ; then they track the moor, Even till they reach St. Mary's Priory ; Ere which, the dark-robed stranger goes before. And without speech admits them through a lowly door.

XII.

It is an humble chamber ; and a group Of holy sisters, in their work of love, Over some prostrate form are seen to stoop, And in the feeble glimmering slowly move ; And now the abbot sees, bending above,

One stretched in anguish on the pavement there ; In wild unrest her white arms toss and rove ; On the dank floor is spread her tangled hair, And with convulsive gasps she draws the sounding air.

XIII

But see, she beckons, and he draweth near ; Again she beckons ; and that sisterhood Slowly retreat from what they may not hear ; The last is gone ; — and now, with life endued, The abbot's form that lady rose and viewed ; ' Sir monk, I am not as I seem this hour ! ' He trembles — nay, let no chill doubt intrude — It is, it is — thine own, thy bride, thy flower. The high-born Lady Agnes of St. Dunstan's tower !

Canto The Last

* Here is no place for greeting : fly afar Before the absent sisterhood return. In my well-sembled agony, yon star I watched, whose westering rays now faintly burn : It symbols forth my fate ; and would st thou learn What bodes this meeting, ere it dips below The mountain-range which thou canst just discern, Safe refuge must be won ; for as we go. Shining, it bodeth joy — but sunken, tears and woe.'

II.

She speaks, and forth into the gleamy night

They pass together ; dim and ill-defined

Their thoughts ; — now wandering with the mazy

light Of the wan moon, now with the moaning wind. Thus do great issues of a sudden joined Benumb men's spirits ; who in thrall endure Waiting the judgment of the ordering mind. Who clears the vision with her influence pure, And lights up memory's lamps along the steep obscure.

III.

But whither shall they fly ? — the night's high noon Hath past, and she is faint and weary grown : * Lady, the abbey-gate is reached full soon : There can I hide thee ; in those towers of stone Are secret chambers kenned by me alone. Where I can tend thee, while the coming day Shall bring thee rest ; then when its light hath flown, Mine be it, in maturer thought, to say How we may shape our course to regions far away.'

IV.

With hurried steps to gain those towers they press ; But ere they reached them, had that lady's sight Not earthward drooped for very weariness. She might have seen that clear symbolic light First fainter wane, then vanish from the night. The other marked its dying radiance well ; But he was one whom omens could not fright :

But, 'spite his better judgment, sooth to tell, Faintness struck through his heart, and broke joy's rapturous spell.

The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone, And by him sits the lady of his love ; The crosier leans upon the fretted stone, Swept by the sacred vestment from above : He prayeth not — for he can never move His fond eyes from that lovely lady's brow ; Whose downcast looks seem gently to reprove The scheme that riseth in their wishes now — To doff the saintly veil, and break the chartered vow.

VI.

They gaze upon each other earnestly. Scarce daring to discover but in look What each might read of in the other's eye. Belike ye wonder, what such question shook The firm resolve that erst their spirits took ; — In sooth, God's vows were on them both; but yet The first law in the heaven-descended book, Firmer than veil or chartered vow, is set — Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet.

VII.

Oh, who can sound the depth of human joy, The fathomless tranquillity of bliss ! Clear shine the eyes, when in their calm employ They scan some form which they have wept to miss ;

Quick through the being thrills the mystic kiss Of wife, or clinging child ; light pass the days Though sad, with such to cheer; and sweet it is To sit, and even unto tears to gaze On flowers which Love hath given to bloom beside our ways.

VIII.

Long hours have flown, to wedded rapture given ; And now upon the dusk and dawning air. Which murmurs, with its quick shrill pulses riven, The matin-bell sounds forth, calling to prayer The abbey-brotherhood and hamlets near : Then spoke the abbot : ' Part we for an hour ; Then follow me into a refuge near, A hiding-place within this solid tower. Known but to those who here have held this highest power.'

IX.

He leadeth her a dark and narrow way, Along the windings of that hidden stair; They might see nothing of the rising day, Until that he had brought his lady dear Unto a chamber, rudely fashioned, near The top roof of the abbey -pile, and lit By one small window, where the hour of prayer Secure from rude intrusion she might sit. And watch the morning clouds along the landscape flit.

X.

' Say ye, she left Saint Mary's Priory This night ? — perchance she roameth in the glade, Or seeketh some lone cottage wearily : Strict search for her in this our abbey made Hath found no trace ; each hiding-place displayed Shows no such tenant : and our holy chief Tells how he left her on your pavement laid, What time she sunk exhausted by her grief, After confession gave her prisoned woes relief.'

XI.

Past is all peril now — the search is done, Past the spare meal, and spent the hour of prayer; The holy men are singly pent each one In chamber climbed by solitary stair : And quickly as the anxious lover dare He seeks with throbbing heart that nest secure : * Rejoice, my wedded love, my life, my fair ! Our way is straight, our course is safe as pure, Our life of love and joy from disappointment sure.'

XII.

He found her, — as ye find some cherished bud Of early primrose, when the storm is past. Crushed by the vexing of the tempest-flood ; — Prostrate and pale she lay, for Death had cast

THE ABBOT OF MUCHEL^'AYE. 31

His gorgon-spell upon her : thick and fast The abbot's bursting heart did upward beat. A while benumbed he stood : Reason at last Fled wdth the wild crash from her central seat, And all his soul within him burned with maddening heat.

XIII.

Three hundred years, above the tall elm-wood One ivied pinnacle hath signified The place where once the abbey-pile hath stood. A hundred years before, the abbot died, — A man of many woes : one summer-tide They found his coffin in the churchyard-w^all ; And w4ien they forced the stony lid aside, Gazed on his face beneath the mouldered pall, Even as the spirit left it — pale and tear- worn all.

XIV

And often, down that dark and narrow w^ay, Along the windings of that hidden stair. Sweeps a dim figure, as the rustics say. And tracks the path even to the house of prayer : What in the dusky night it doeth there, None may divine, nor its return have met ; Only, upon the hushed and listening air Strange words, as men pass by, are sounding yet ; Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet.

THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY.

Introduction

Glastonbury, anciently called Avalon, is a place much celebrated both in tradition and history. It was here, according to old legends, when the neighboring moors were covered by the sea, that St. Joseph of Arimathea landed, and built the first church in England. It was here that the glorious king Arthur was buried, with the inscription :

It was here that the scarcely less glorious King Alfred took sanctuary, and hence that he went into voluntary obscurity when the Danes invaded England. Here also was built that magnificent abbey, whose riches and hospitality were known to all Christendom. Its last abbot was murdered on the Tor-hill by order of Henry the Eighth, and the building was sacrificed to the misguided fury of the Reformation. The very ruins are now fast perishing.

The Quantock Hills, alluded to in the following poem, are in the autumn profusely covered with the mingled blossoms of heath and furze.

I.

The pros- ^jjE hills have on their royal robes

pect of the -^

western Qf Durple and of s^old,

And over their tops the autumn clouds

In heaps are onward rolled ; Below them spreads the fairest plain

That British eye may see — From Quantock to the Mendip range,

A broad expanse and free.^

1 The magnificent views from the Quantock hills above Nether Stowey, where this poem was written, embrace the whole of the moor district of Somersetshire, with the bare hills and wooded capes which bound this singular tract of country, and the Tor of Glastonbury and Mendip hills in the distance.

THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY.

As from those barriers, grey and vast,

Rolled off the morning mist, Leaving the eyesight unrestrained

To wander where it list, So roll, thou ancient chronicler,

The ages' mist away ; Give me an hour of vision clear,

A dream of the former day.

An invocation of Time, to open the days past.

III.

At once the flood of the Severn sea

Flowed over half the plain, And a hundred capes, with huts and trees,

Above the flood remain: 'T is water here and water there,

And the lordly Parrot's way Hath never a trace on its pathless face —

As in the former day.

A vision is vouchsafed.

IV.

Of shining; sails that thronged that stream 1}^ ?^^p ?^

° ^ St. Joseph,

There resteth never a one : and how it

' sped.

But a little ship to that inland sea

Comes bounding in alone ; With stretch of sail and tug of oar

It comes full merrily, And the sailors chant, as they pass the shore,

Eihi jjloria Bomfne. 3

* Nights and days on the watery ways

Our vessel hath slidden on, Our arms have never tired of toil,

Our stores have long been done ; Sweet Jesus hath sped us over the wave,

By coasts and along the sea, And we sing, as we pass each rising land,

STiIitjaloria IBomlne.

yi.

^ Sweet Jesus hath work for us to do

In a land of promise fair ; Our vessel is steered by an angel-hand

Until it bring us there : To our Captain given, a sign from heaven

Our token true shall be ; And we sing, as we wait for the Promise -sign,

STiM fllorfa ilBomine, |

VII.

IrojSir^ 'When a dark green hill shall spire aloft given ta j^to the pure blue sky.

Most like to Tabor's holy mount

Of vision blest and high ; Straight to that hill our bounding prow

Unguided shall pass and free ; Sweet Jesus hath spoken, and we believe ; ElU jjlotia Momint *

VIII.

Thus far they sung, and at once a shout ^^^ ^^^^^i-

Peeled upward loud and clear; For, lo ! the vessel onward ran

With never a hand to steer ; And full in sight that Promise-hill

Towered up into the sky, Most like to Tabor's holy mount

Of vision blest and high.

IX.

Now raise the song, ye faithful crew,

Let all the uplands hear ; It fitteth Salvation's messengers

To be of joyous cheer; For Avalon isle ye make the ^vhile.

By angel-pilot's hand ; Right onward for that pointed hill.

Straight to the sloping land.

Each arm is resting, and every eye

With thankful tear is bright ; Thus spake one high upon the prow,

Feeding his forward sight : * The word of God is just and true.

And the mountains green that stand To the left and right in the morning light

Lead on to our Promise-land.

XI.

* Sweet Jesus hath broken the sepulchre,

And pours His golden grace, Clothing the earth with the joy of birth,

In every fairest place : His servant asked a token sure,

And a token sure is given ; And He that lay in the garden-tomb

Is Lord of earth and heaven.^

XII.

Go7on^?he ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ floated nigh strand of fo the turf uDon the strand,

Ayalon. ^ ^ '

And first that holy man of joy

Stepped on the Promise-land ; Until the rest, in order blest.

Were ranged, and kneeling there. Gave blessing to the God of heaven In a lowly chanted prayer.

XIII.

Then over the brow of the seaward hill

In their order blest they pass, At every change in the psalmody

Kissing the holy grass ; Till they come where they may see full near

That pointed mountain rise.

The light of the eastern skies.

THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY.

XIV.

' This staiF hath borne me long and well,'

Then spake that Saint divine, ^ Over mountain and over plain,

On quest of the Promise-sign ; For aye let it stand in this western land,

And God do more to me If there ring not out from this realm about,

EM jjlotfa 33omme,'

St. Joseph planteth his staff as a token.

XV

A cloud is on them — the vision is changed, ^^ ^^^^. ^f

^ ' the ancient Church of

And voices of melody.

And a ring of harps, like twinkles bright,

Comes over the inland sea ; Long and loud is the chant of praise —

The hallowed ages glide ; And once again the mist from the plain

Rolls up the Mendip side.

Britain.

XVI. With mourning stole and solemn step

Up that same seaward hill.

There moved of ladies and of knights

A company sad and still ; There went before an open bier,

And, sleeping in a charm, With face to heaven and folded palms

There lay an armed form.

The mort d'Arthur.

THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY.

St. Joseph's staff hath budded, and bloometh at Christmastide.

XVII. It is the winter deep, and all

The glittering fields that morn In Avalon's isle were over-snowed

The day the Lord was born ; • And as they cross the northward brow,

See white, but not with snow, The mystic thorn beside their path

Its holy blossoms show.

XVIII. They carry him where from chapel low

Rings clear the angel-bell — He was the flower of knights and lords.

So chant the requiem well : His wound was deep, and his holy sleep

Shall last him many a day, Till the cry of crime in the latter time

Shall melt the charm away.

The chronicle passeth to the pillage by the Panes.

XIX. A cloud is on them — the vision fades

And cries of woe and fear.

And sounds unblest of neighboring war,

Are thronging on mine ear : Long and loud was the battle-cry,

And the groans of them that died ; And once again the mist from the plain

Rolls up the Mendip side.

THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY.

XX. From the postern-door of an abbaye pile

Passes with heavy cheer A soldier-king in humble mien,

For the shouting foes are near ; The holy men by their altars bide,

In alb and stole they stand ; The incense-fumes the temple fill