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Ebook has 593 lines and 53971 words, and 12 pages

Editor: Henry Morley

Transcribed from the 1889 Cassell and Company edition by David Price, ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

THE VISIONS OF ENGLAND: LYRICS OF LEADING MEN AND EVENTS IN ENGLISH HISTORY

TANTA RES EST, UT PAENE VITIO MENTIS TANTUM OPUS INGRESSUS MIHI VIDEAR

THE VISIONS OF ENGLAND: Seventy Lyrics on leading Men and Events in English History: 8vo. 7/6

LYRICAL POEMS, Four Books: Extra Fcap. 8vo. 6/-

ORIGINAL HYMNS: 18mo. 1/6

THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY: 18mo. 4/6

THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY, with Notes and Glossary: 18mo. 2/6. Or in two parts, 1/- each

SHAKESPEARE'S LYRICS. SONGS FROM THE PLAYS AND SONNETS, with Notes: 18mo. 4/6

SELECTION FROM R. HERRICK'S LYRICAL POETRY, with Essay and Notes: 18mo. 4/6

LYRICAL POEMS BY LORD TENNYSON, selected and arranged, with Notes: 18mo. 4/6

GLEN DESSERAY AND OTHER POEMS, by J. C. Shairp, late Principal of the United College, S. Andrews, and Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. With Essay and Notes. 8vo.

Messrs. MACMILLAN, Bedford St., Covent Garden

THE TREASURY OF SACRED SONG, selected from the English Lyrical Poetry of Four Centuries, with Notes Explanatory and Biographical

INTRODUCTION.

Here, then, Mr. Palgrave re-issues, for the help of many thousands more, his own songs of the memories of the Nation, addressed to a Nation that has not yet forfeited the praise of Milton. Milton said of the Englishman, "If we look at his native towardliness in the roughcast, without breeding, some nation or other may haply be better composed to a natural civility and right judgment than he. But if he get the benefit once of a wise and well-rectified nurture, I suppose that wherever mention is made of countries, manners, or men, the English people, among the first that shall be praised, may deserve to be accounted a right pious, right honest, and right hardy nation." So much is shown by the various utterances in this NATIONAL LIBRARY. So much is shown, in the present volume of it, by a poet's vision of the England that has been till now, and is what she has been.

H. M.

PREFACE As the scheme which the Author has here endeavoured to execute has not, so far as he knows, the advantage of any near precedent in any literature, he hopes that a few explanatory words may be offered without incurring censure for egotism.

Our history is so eminently rich and varied, and at the same time, by the fact of our insular position, so stamped with unity, that from days very remote it has supplied matter for song. This, among Celts and Angles, at first was lyrical. But poetry, for many centuries after the Conquest, mainly took the annalistic form, and, despite the ability often shown, was hence predoomed to failure. For a nation's history cannot but present many dull or confused periods, many men and things intractable by poetry, though, perhaps, politically effective and important, which cannot be excluded from any narrative aiming at consecutiveness; and, by the natural laws of art, these passages, when rendered in verse, in their effect become more prosaic than they would be in a prose rendering.

My attempt has therefore been to revert to the earlier and more natural conditions of poetry, and to offer,--not a continuous narrative; not poems on every critical moment or conspicuous man in our long annals,--but single lyrical pictures of such leading or typical characters and scenes in English history, and only such, as have seemed amenable to a strictly poetical treatment. Poetry, not History, has, hence, been my first and last aim; or, perhaps I might define it, History for Poetry's sake. At the same time, I have striven to keep throughout as closely to absolute historical truth in the design and colouring of the pieces as the exigencies of poetry permit:--the result aimed at being to unite the actual tone and spirit of the time concerned, with the best estimate which has been reached by the research and genius of modern investigators. Our island story, freed from the 'falsehood of extremes,'--exorcised, above all, from the seducing demon of party-spirit, I have thus here done my best to set forth. And as this line of endeavour has conducted and constrained me, especially when the seventeenth century is concerned, to judgments--supported indeed by historians conspicuous for research, ability, and fairness, but often remote from the views popularized by the writers of our own day,--upon these points a few justificatory notes have been added.

A double aim has hence governed and limited both the selection and the treatment of my subjects. The choice has necessarily fallen, often, not on simply picturesque incident or unfamiliar character, but on the men and things that we think of first, when thinking of the long chronicle of England,--or upon such as represent and symbolize the main current of it. Themes, however, on which able or popular song is already extant,--notably in case of Scotland,--I have in general avoided. In the rendering, my desire has been always to rest the poetry of each Vision on its own intrinsic interest; to write with a straightforward eye to the object alone; not studious of ornament for ornament's sake; allowing the least possible overt intrusion of the writer's personality; and, in accordance with lyrical law, seeking, as a rule, to fix upon some factual picture for each poem.

The world has cycles in its course, when all That once has been, is acted o'er again;

It remains only to add, that the book has been carefully revised and corrected, and that nineteen pieces published in the original volume of 1881 are not reprinted in the present issue.

THE VISIONS OF ENGLAND

PRELUDE

England, fair England! Empress isle of isles! --Round whom the loving-envious ocean plays, Girdling thy feet with silver and with smiles, Whilst all the nations crowd thy liberal bays; With rushing wheel and heart of fire they come, Or glide and glance like white-wing'd doves that know And seek their proper home:-- England! not England yet! but fair as now, When first the chalky strand was stirr'd by Roman prow.

On thy dear countenance, great mother-land, Age after age thy sons have set their sign, Moulding the features with successive hand Not always sedulous of beauty's line:-- Yet here Man's art in one harmonious aim With Nature's gentle moulding, oft has work'd The perfect whole to frame: Nor does earth's labour'd face elsewhere, like thee, Give back her children's heart with such full sympathy

--On marshland rough and self-sprung forest gazed The imperial Roman of the eagle-eye; Log-splinter'd forts on green hill-summits raised, Earth huts and rings that dot the chalk-downs high:-- Dark rites of hidden faith in grove and moor; Idols of monstrous build; wheel'd scythes of war; Rock tombs and pillars hoar: Strange races, Finn, Iberian, Belgae, Celt; While in the wolds huge bulls and antler'd giants dwelt.

--Another age!--The spell of Rome has past Transforming all our Britain; Ruthless plough, Which plough'd the world, yet o'er the nations cast The seed of arts, and law, and all that now Has ripen'd into commonwealths:--Her hand With network mile-paths binding plain and hill Arterialized the land: The thicket yields: the soil for use is clear; Peace with her plastic touch,--field, farm, and grange are here.

And Thou--O whether born of flame and wave, Or Gorlois' son, or Uther's, blameless lord, True knight, who died for those thou couldst not save When the Round Table brake their plighted word,-- The lord of song hath set thee in thy grace And glory, rescued from the phantom world, Before us face to face; No more Avilion bowers the King detain; The mystic child returns; the Arthur reigns again!

--Now, as some cloud that hides a mountain bulk Thins to white smoke, and mounts in lighten'd air, And through the veil the gray enormous hulk Burns, and the summit, last, is keen and bare,-- From wasted Britain so the gloaming clears; Another birth of time breaks eager out, And England fair appears:-- Imperial youth sign'd on her golden brow, While the prophetic eyes with hope and promise glow.

Then from the wasted places of the land, Charr'd skeletons of cities, circling walls Of Roman might, and towers that shatter'd stand Of that lost world survivors, forth she calls Her new creation:--O'er the land is wrought The happy villagedom by English tribes From Elbe and Baltic brought; Red kine light up with life the ravaged plain; The forest glooms are pierced; the plough-land laughs again.

Each from its little croft the homesteads peep, Green apple-garths around, and hedgeless meads, Smooth-shaven lawns of ever-shifting sheep, Wolds where his dappled crew the swineherd feeds:-- Pale gold round pure pale foreheads, and their eyes More dewy blue than speedwell by the brook When Spring's fresh current flies, The free fair maids come barefoot to the fount, Or poppy-crown'd with fire, the car of harvest mount.

Again with life the ruin'd cities smile, Again from mother-Rome their sacred fire Knowledge and Faith rekindle through the isle, Nigh quench'd by barbarous war and heathen ire:-- --No more on Balder's grave let Anglia weep When winter storms entomb the golden year Sunk in Adonis-sleep; Another God has risen, and not in vain! The Woden-ash is low, the Cross asserts her reign.

--Land of the most law-loving,--the most free! My dear, dear England! sweet and green as now The flower-illumined garden of the sea, And Nature least impair'd by axe and plough! A laughing land!--Thou seest not in the north How the black Dane and vulture Norseman wait The sign of coming forth, The foul Landeyda flap its raven plume, And all the realms once more eclipsed in pagan gloom!

--O race, of many races well compact! As some rich stream that runs in silver down From the White Mount:--his baby steps untrack'd Where clouds and emerald cliffs of crystal frown; Now, alien founts bring tributary flood, Or kindred waters blend their native hue, Some darkening as with blood; These fraught with iron strength and freshening brine, And these with lustral waves, to sweeten and refine.

Now calm as strong, and clear as summer air, Blessing and blest of earth and sky, he glides: Now on some rock-ridge rends his bosom fair, And foams with cloudy wrath and hissing tides: Then with full flood of level-gliding force, His discord-blended melody murmurs low Down the long seaward course:-- So through Time's mead, great River, greatly glide: Whither, thou may'st not know:--but He, who knows, will guide.

THE FIRST AND LAST LAND

Thrice-blest, alone with Nature!--here, where gray Belerium fronts the spray Smiting the bastion'd crags through centuries flown, While, 'neath the hissing surge, Ocean sends up a deep, deep undertone,

As though his heavy chariot-wheels went round: Nor is there other sound Save from the abyss of air, a plaintive note, The seabirds' calling cry, As 'gainst the wind with well-poised weight they float,

Or on some white-fringed reef set up their post, And sentinel the coast:-- Whilst, round each jutting cape, in pillar'd file, The lichen-bearded rocks Like hoary giants guard the sacred Isle.

--Happy, alone with Nature thus!--Yet here Dim, primal man is near;-- The hawk-eyed eager traders, who of yore Through long Biscayan waves Star-steer'd adventurous from the Iberic shore

Or the Sidonian, with their fragrant freight Oil-olive, fig, and date; Jars of dark sunburnt wine, flax-woven robes, Or Tyrian azure glass Wavy with gold, and agate-banded globes:--

Changing for amber-knobs their Eastern ware Or tin-sand silvery fair, To temper brazen swords, or rim the shield Of heroes, arm'd for fight:-- While the rough miners, wondering, gladly yield

The treasured ore; nor Alexander's name Know, nor fair Helen's shame; Or in his tent how Peleus' wrathful son Looks toward the sea, nor heeds The towers of still-unconquer'd Ilion.

PAULINUS AND EDWIN

Again the gaunt Paulinus To ruddy Edwin spake: 'God offers life immortal For His dear Son's own sake! Wilt thou not hear his message Who bears the Keys and Sword?' --But Edwin look'd and ponder'd, And answer'd not a word.

Rose then a sage old warrior; Was five-score winters old; Whose beard from chin to girdle Like one long snow-wreath roll'd:-- 'At Yule-time in our chamber We sit in warmth and light, While cavern-black around us Lies the grim mouth of Night.

'Athwart the room a sparrow Darts from the open door: Within the happy hearth-light One red flash,--and no more! We see it born from darkness, And into darkness go:-- So is our life, King Edwin! Ah, that it should be so!

'But if this pale Paulinus Have somewhat more to tell; Some news of whence and whither, And where the Soul may dwell:-- If on that outer darkness The sun of Hope may shine;-- He makes life worth the living! I take his God for mine!'

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