PART II.
High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, 1 A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone, And half-revealed its ivied stone.
Amid the beechen wood.
Here often, when the mountain trees 2 A leafy murmur made, Now still, now swaying to the breeze, (Sounds that the musing fancy please), The widowed mourner strayed.
And many a morn she climbed the steep, 3 From whence she might behold, Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep, And mingling with the mighty deep, The sea-broad Severn rolled.
Her little boy beside her played, 4 With sea-shells in his hand; And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed, And sometimes running onward, said, Oh, where is Holy Land! My child, she cried, my prattler dear! 5 And kissed his light-brown hair; Her eyelid glistened with a tear, And none but God above could hear, That hour, her secret prayer.
As thus she nursed her secret woes, 6 Oft to the wind and rain She listened, at sad autumn's close, Whilst many a thronging shadow rose, Dark-glancing o'er her brain.
Now lonely to the cloudy height 7 Of the steep hill she strays; Below, the raven wings his flight, And often on the screaming kite She sees the wild deer gaze.
The clouds were gathered on its brow, 8 The warring winds were high; She heard a hollow voice, and now She lifts to heaven a secret vow, Whilst the king of the storm rides by.
Seated on a craggy rock, 9 What aged man appears! There is no hind, no straggling flock; Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock, And shake my soul with fears?
Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn; 10 A pale man stands confessed; With look majestic, though forlorn, A mirror in his hand, and horn Of ivory on his breast.
Daughter of grief, he gently said, 11 And beckoned her: come near; Now say, what would you give to me, If you brave Hoel's form might see, Or the sound of his bugle hear! Hoel, my love, where'er thou art, 12 All England I would give,[137] If, never, never more to part, I now could hold thee to my heart, For whom alone I live! He placed the white horn to her ear, 13 And sudden a sweet voice Stole gently, as of fairies near, While accents soft she seemed to hear, Daughter of grief, rejoice! For soon to love and thee I fly, 14 From Salem's hallowed plain! The mirror caught her turning eye, As pale in death she saw him lie, And sinking 'mid the slain.
She turned to the strange phantom-man, 15 But she only saw the sky, And the clouds on the lonely mountains' van, And the Clydden-Shoots,[138] that rushing ran, To meet the waves of Wye.
Thus seven long years had passed away,-- 16 She heard no voice of mirth; No minstrel raised his festive lay, At the sad close of the drisly day, Beside the blazing hearth.
She seemed in sorrow, yet serene, 17 No tear was on her face; And lighting oft her pensive mien, Upon her languid look was seen A meek attractive grace.
In beauty's train she yet might vie, 18 For though in mourning weeds, No friar, I deem, that passed her by, Ere saw her dark, yet gentle eye, But straight forgot his beads.
Eineon, generous and good, 19 Alone with friendship's aid, Eineon, of princely Rhys's blood, Who 'mid the bravest archers stood, To sooth her griefs essayed.
He had himself been early tried 20 By stern misfortune's doom; For she who loved him drooped and died, And on the green hill's flowery side He raised her grassy tomb.
What marvel, in his lonely heart, 21 To faith a friendship true, If, when her griefs she did impart, And tears of memory oft would start, If more than pity grew.
With converse mild he oft would seek 22 To sooth her sense of care; As the west wind, with breathings weak, Wakes, on the hectic's faded cheek A smile of faint despair.
The summer's eve was calm and still, 23 When once his harp he strung; Soft as the twilight on the hill, Affection seemed his heart to fill, Whilst eloquent he sung: When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind, And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe, In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find, All that friendship and kindness and truth could bestow.
Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed, But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine, Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast, And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.
He paused, then with a starting tear, 24 And trembling accent, cried, O lady, hide that look severe,-- The voice of love, of friendship hear, And be again a bride.
Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,-- 25 Lady, he is dead, is dead,-- Far distant wanders his pale ghost,-- His bones by the white surge are tossed, And the wave rolls o'er his head.
She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled, 26 Since thus brave Hoel spake, When last I heard his voice, Behold, This ring,--it is of purest gold,-- Then, keep it for my sake.
When summers seven have robed each tree, 27 And decked the coombs with green, If I come not back, then thou art free, To wed or not, and to think of me As I had never been.
Those seven sad summers now are o'er, 28 And three I yet demand; If in that space I see no more The friend I ever must deplore, Then take a mourner's hand.
The time is passed:--the laugh, the lay, 29 The nuptial feast proclaim; From many a rushing torrent gray, From many a wild brook's wandering way, The hoary minstrels came.
From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed; 30 From Skirid, bleak and high; From Penalt's shaggy solitude; From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude, That frowns o'er mazy Wye.
With harps the gallery glittered bright,-- 31 The pealing rafters rung; Far off upon the woods of night, From the tall window's arch, the light Of tapers clear was flung.
The harpers ceased the acclaiming lay, 32 When, with descending beard, Scallop, and staff his steps to stay, As, foot-sore, on his weary way, A pilgrim wan appeared.
Now lend me a harp for St Mary's sake, 33 For my skill I fain would try, A poor man's offering to make, If haply still my hand may wake Some pleasant melody.
With scoffs the minstrel crowd replied, 34 Dost thou a harp request! And loud in mirth, and swelled with pride, Some his rain-dripping hair deride, And some his sordid vest.
Pilgrim, a harp shall soon be found, 35 Young Hoel instant cried; There lies a harp upon the ground, And none hath ever heard its sound, Since my brave father died.
The harp is brought: upon the frame 36 A filmy cobweb hung; The strings were few, yet 'twas the same; The old man drawing near the flame, The chords imperfect rung: Oh! cast every care to the wind, And dry, best beloved, the tear; Secure that thou ever shalt find The friend of thy bosom sincere.
She speechless gazed:--he stands confessed,-- 37 The dark eyes of her Hoel shine; Her heart has forgotten it e'er was oppressed, And she murmurs aloud, as she sinks on his breast, Oh! press my heart to thine.
He turned his look a little space, 38 To hide the tears of joy; Then rushing, with a warm embrace, Cried, as he kissed young Hoel's face, My boy, my heart-loved boy! Proud harpers, strike a louder lay,-- 39 No more forlorn I bend! Prince Eineon, with the rest, be gay, Though fate hath torn a bride away, Accept a long-lost friend.
* * * * * This tale I heard, when at the close of day The village harper tuned an ancient lay; He struck his harp, beneath a ruin hoar, And sung of love and truth, in days of yore, And I retained the song, with counsel sage, To teach _one_ lesson to a wiser age! [137] "Wales, England, and Llewellyn, All would I give for a sight of William." _Giraldus_, vol.i.p.

46.
[138] "Nearly through the centre of the hill that backs the village (Landoga) is a deep ravine, called Clydden-Shoots, which, when the springs are full, forms a beautiful cascade."-- _Heath._ AVENUE IN SAVERNAKE FOREST.
How soothing sound the gentle airs that move The innumerable leaves, high overhead, When autumn first, from the long avenue, That lifts its arching height of ancient shade, Steals here and there a leaf! Within the gloom, In partial sunshine white, some trunks appear, Studding the glens of fern; in solemn shade Some mingle their dark branches, but yet all, All make a sad sweet music, as they move, Not undelightful to a stranger's heart.
They seem to say, in accents audible, Farewell to summer, and farewell the strains Of many a lithe and feathered chorister, That through the depth of these incumbent woods Made the long summer gladsome.
I have heard To the deep-mingling sounds of organs clear, (When slow the choral anthem rose beneath), The glimmering minster, through its pillared aisles, Echo;--but not more sweet the vaulted roof Rang to those linked harmonies, than here The high wood answers to the lightest breath Of nature.
Oh, may such sweet music steal, Soothing the cares of venerable age,[139] From public toil retired: may it awake, As, still and slow, the sun of life declines, Remembrances, not mournful, but most sweet; May it, as oft beneath the sylvan shade Their honoured owner strays, come like the sound Of distant seraph harps, yet speaking clear! How poor is every sound of earthly things, When heaven's own music waits the just and pure! [139] The Earl of Aylesbury.
DIRGE OF NELSON.
Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more brave Ne'er triumphed on the green-sea wave! Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave, Toll Nelson's knell! The ball of Death unerring flew; His cheek has lost its ardent hue; He sinks, amid his gallant crew! Toll Nelson's knell! Yet lift, brave chief, thy dying eyes; Hark! loud huzzas around thee rise; Aloft the flag of conquest flies! The day is won! The day is won--peace to the brave! But whilst the joyous streamers wave, We'll think upon the victor's grave! Peace to the brave! DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOKE, OF "THE BELLEROPHON," KILLED IN THE SAME BATTLE.
When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore, From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar; When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke The haze incumbent, and the clouds of smoke, As oft the volume rolled away, thy mien, Thine eye, serenely terrible, was seen, My gallant friend .-- Hark! the shrill bugle[140] calls, Is the day won! alas, he falls--he falls! His soul from pain, from agony release! Hear his last murmur, Let me die in peace![141] Yet still, brave Cooke, thy country's grateful tear, Shall wet the bleeding laurel on thy bier.
But who shall wake to joy, through a long life Of sadness, thy beloved and widowed wife, Who now, perhaps, thinks how the green seas foam, That bear thy victor ship impatient home! Alas! the well-known views,--the swelling plain, Thy laurel-circled home, endeared in vain, The brook, the church, those chestnuts darkly-green,[142] Yon fir-crowned summit,[143] and the village scene, Wardour's long sweep of woods, the nearer mill, And high o'er all, the turrets of Font Hill: These views, when summer comes, shall charm no more Him o'er whose welt'ring corse the wild waves roar, Enough: 'twas Honour's voice that awful cried, Glory to him who for his country died! Yet dreary is her solitude who bends And mourns the best of husbands, fathers, friends! Oh! when she wakes at midnight, but to shed Fresh tears of anguish on her lonely bed, Thinking on him who is not; then restrain The tear, O God, and her sad heart sustain! Giver of life, may she remember still Thy chastening hand, and to thy sovereign will Bow silently; not hopeless, while her eye She raises to a bright futurity, And meekly trusts, in heaven, Thou wilt restore That happiness the world can give no more! [140] He bore down into the thickest fight with a bugle-horn sounding.
[141] His own words, the last he spoke.

If I have here been more particular in this description than in that of the great commander, it will be attributed to private friendship, Captain Cooke having lived in the same village.
[142] Portrait of Captain Cooke's place, at Donhead.
[143] Barker's Hill, near Donhead.
BATTLE OF CORRUNA.
The tide of fate rolls on!--heart-pierced and pale, The gallant soldier lies,[144] nor aught avail, The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave, From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save, Land of illustrious heroes, who, of yore, Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore, Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurled Defiance to the conquerors[145] of the world! Oh, when we hear the agonising tale Of those who, faint, and fugitive, and pale, Saw hourly, harassed through their long retreat, Some worn companion sinking at their feet, Yet even in danger and from toil more bold, Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled;-- While tears of pity mingle with applause, On the dread scene in silence let us pause; Yes, pause, and ask, Is not thy awful hand Stretched out, O God, o'er a devoted land, Whose vales of beauty Nature spread in vain, Where misery moaned on the uncultured plain, Where Bigotry went by with jealous scowl, Where Superstition muttered in his cowl; Whilst o'er the Inquisition's dismal holds, Its horrid banner waved in bleeding folds! And dost thou thus, Lord of all might, fulfil With wreck and tempests thy eternal will, Shatter the arms in which weak kingdoms trust, And strew their scattered ensigns in the dust?
Oh, if no human wisdom may withstand The terrors, Lord, of thy uplifted hand; If the dark tide no prowess can control, Yet nearer, charged with dread commission, roll; Still may my country's ark majestic ride, Though sole, yet safe, on the conflicting tide; Till hushed be the wild rocking of the blast, And the red storm of death be overpast! [144] Sir John Moore.
[145] "Near Mount Medulio, the remains of a great native force destroyed themselves in sight of a Roman army, rather than submit to bondage."-- _Southey's Travels in Spain and Portugal._ SKETCH FROM BOWDEN HILL AFTER SICKNESS.
How cheering are thy prospects, airy hill, To him who, pale and languid, on thy brow Pauses, respiring, and bids hail again The upland breeze, the comfortable sun, And all the landscape's hues! Upon the point Of the descending steep I stand.
How rich, How mantling in the gay and gorgeous tints Of summer! far beneath me, sweeping on, From field to field, from vale to cultured vale, The prospect spreads its crowded beauties wide! Long lines of sunshine, and of shadow, streak The farthest distance; where the passing light Alternate falls, 'mid undistinguished trees, White dots of gleamy domes, and peeping towers, As from the painter's instant touch, appear.
As thus the eye ranges from hill to hill, Here white with passing sunshine, there with trees Innumerable shaded, clustering more, As the long vale retires, the ample scene, Warm with new grace and beauty, seems to live.
Lives! all is animation! beauty! hope! Snatched from the dark and dreamless grave, so late, Shall I pass silent, now first issuing forth, To feel again thy fragrance, to respire Thy breath, to hail thy look, thy living look, O Nature! Let me the deep joy contrast, Which now the inmost heart like music fills, With the sick chamber's sorrows, oft from morn, Silent, till lingering eve, save when the sound Of whispers steal, and bodings breathed more low, As friends approach the pillow: so awaked From deadly trance, the sick man lifts his eyes, Then in despondence closes them on all, All earth's fond wishes! Oh, how changed are now His thoughts! he sees rich nature glowing round, He feels her influence! languid with delight, And whilst his eye is filled with transient fire, He almost thinks he hears her gently say, Live, live! O Nature, thee, in the soft winds, Thee, in the soothing sound of summer leaves, When the still earth lies sultry; thee, methinks, Ev'n now I hear bid welcome to thy vales And woods again! And I will welcome them, And pour, as erst, the song of heartfelt praise.
From yonder line, where fade the farthest hills Which bound the blue lap of the swelling vale, On whose last line, seen like a beacon, hangs Thy tower,[146] benevolent, accomplished Hoare, To where I stand, how wide the interval! Yet instantaneous, to the hurrying eye Displayed; though peeping towers and villages Thick scattered, 'mid the intermingling elms, And towns remotely marked by hovering smoke, And grass-green pastures with their herds, and seats Of rural beauty, cottages and farms, Unnumbered as the hedgerows, lie between! Roaming at large to where the gray sky bends, The eye scarce knows to rest, till back recalled By yonder ivied cloisters[147] in the plain, Whose turret, peeping pale above the shade, Smiles in the venerable grace of years.
As the few threads of age's silver hairs, Just sprinkled o'er the forehead, lend a grace Of saintly reverence, seemly, though compared With blooming Mary's tresses like the morn; So the gray weather-stained towers yet wear A secret charm impressive, though opposed To views in verdure flourishing, the woods, And scenes of Attic taste, that glitter near.[148] O venerable pile,[149] though now no more The pensive passenger, at evening, hears The slowly-chanted vesper; or the sounds Of "Miserere," die along the vale; Yet piety and honoured age[150] retired, There hold their blameless sojourn, ere the bowl Be broken, or the silver chord be loosed.
Nor can I pass, snatched from untimely fate, Without a secret prayer, that so my age, When many a circling season has declined, In charity and peace may wait its close.
Yet still be with me, O delightful friend, Soothing companion of my vacant hours, Oh, still be with me, Spirit of the Muse! Not to subdue, or hold in moody spell, The erring senses, but to animate And warm my heart, where'er the prospect smiles, With Nature's fairest views; not to display Vain ostentations of a poet's art, But silent, and associate of my joys Or sorrows, to infuse a tenderness, A thought, that seems to mingle, as I gaze, With all the works of GOD.

So cheer my path, From youth to sober manhood, till the light Of evening smile upon the fading scene.
And though no pealing clarion swell my fame, When all my days are gone; let me not pass, Like the forgotten clouds of yesterday, Nor unremembered by the fatherless Of the loved village where my bones are laid.
[146] Sir Richard Hoare's tower at Stourhead.
[147] Lacock Abbey.
[148] Bowood, Mr Dickenson's and Mr Methuen's magnificent mansion.
[149] Lacock Abbey.
[150] The venerable Catholic Countess, who resides in the abbey.
SUN-DIAL, IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.
So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade, Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade, And like a summer vapour steal away! And have not they, who here forgotten lie (Say, hoary chronicler of ages past!) Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye, Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast! Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath; The pastor and his flock alike have slept, And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death.
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile, As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power; So smiling and so perishing the while.
I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound, When to these scenes a stranger I drew near, Proclaim the tidings to the village round, While memory wept upon the good man's bier.[151] Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone; While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, And strangers gaze upon my humble stone! Enough, if we may wait in calm content, The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O God! [151] My predecessor, Rev.Nathaniel Hume, canon residentiary and precentor of Salisbury, a man of exemplary benevolence.
THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY BY SEA: A DESCRIPTIVE AND HISTORICAL POEM.
INTRODUCTION.[152] I need not perhaps inform the reader, that I had before written a Canto on the subject of this poem; but I was dissatisfied with the metre, and felt the necessity of some connecting idea that might give it a degree of unity and coherence.
This difficulty I considered as almost inseparable from the subject; I therefore relinquished the design of making an extended poem on events, which, though highly interesting and poetical, were too unconnected with each other to unite properly in one regular whole.

But on being kindly permitted to peruse the sheets of Mr Clarke's valuable work on the _History of Navigation_, I conceived (without supposing _historically_ with him that all ideas of navigation were derived from the ark of Noah) that I might adopt the circumstance _poetically_, as capable of furnishing an unity of design; besides which, it had the advantage of giving a more serious cast and character to the whole.
To obviate such objections as might be made by those who, from an inattentive survey, might imagine there was any carelessness of arrangement, I shall lay before the reader a general analysis of the several books; and, I trust, he will readily perceive a leading principle, on which the poem begins, proceeds, and ends.
I feel almost a necessity for doing this in _justice_ to myself, as some compositions have been certainly misunderstood, where the _connexion_ might, by the least attention, have been perceived.