Its better feelings no blight can blast,
For their strength is in storms the strongest.
But in storm or sunshine 't is theirs alone
To leave that enchantment behind them
Which gives them an influence all must own,
By Nature herself assigned them.
Thou art noble yet, thou desolate pile!
For the trophies of fame enwreathe thee;
But that fame is not worth one tear or smile
Of some who have passed underneath thee.
Bernard Barton.
FOR A COLUMN AT NEWBURY.
CALL
YALL'ST thou thyself a patriot? On this field
Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave,
Beneath the banners of that Charles whom thou
Abhorrest for a tyrant. Dost thou boast
Of loyalty? The field is not far off
Where, in rebellious arms against his king,
Hampden was killed, that Hampden at whose name
The heart of many an honest Englishman
Beats with congenial pride. Both uncorrupt,
Friends to their common country both, they fought,
Traveller!
They died, in adverse armies.
If with thy neighbor thou shouldst not accord,
Remember these, our famous countrymen,
And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.
Robert Southey.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST.
THIS
HIS is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The inhabitants of all the fertile tract
Far as these wilds extend. He levelled down
Their little cottages, he bade their fields
Lie waste, and forested the land, that so
More royally might he pursue his sports.
If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then
What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred
Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power
Drives on his bloodhounds to the chase of Man;
And, as thy thoughts anticipate that day.
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
O'ER
'ER the New Forest's heath-hills bare,
Down steep ravine, by shaggy wood,
A pilgrim wandered; questing where
The relic-tree of Rufus stood.
Whence in our England's day of old,
Rushing on retribution's wing,
The arrow - so tradition told.
Glanced to the heart of tyrant-king.
Some monument he found, which spoke
What erst had happened on the spot;
But for that old avenging oak,
Decayed long since, he found it not.
Yet aye, where tyrants grind a land,
Let trees like this be found to grow;
And never may a Tyrrel's hand
Be lacking there to twang the bow!
THE RED KING.
THE
HE King was drinking in Malwood Hall, There came in a monk before them all; He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight, Stood over against the dais aright;
And, "The word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King, The word of the Lord to thee I bring.
A grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen;
I saw thee lie under the hollins green,
And thorough thine heart an arrow keen;
And out of thy body a smoke did rise,
Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies;
So if thou God's anointed be
I rede thee unto thy soul thou see.
For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,
False knight to Christ, for gain and gold;
And for this thy forest were digged down all,
Steading and hamlet and churches tall;
And Christés poor were ousten forth,
To beg their bread from south to north.
So tarry at home, and fast and pray,
Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day."
The monk he vanished where he stood; King William sterte up wroth and wod; Quod he, "Fools' wits will jump together; The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather Have turned the brains for us both, I think; And monks are curst when they fall to drink. A lothly sweven I dreamt last night, How there hoved anigh me a griesly knight, Did smite me down to the pit of hell; I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell. There's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie, So he of you all shall hunt with me; A grimly brace for a hart to see."
The Red King down from Malwood came; His heart with wine was all aflame,
His eyne were shotten, red as blood,
He rated and swore, wherever he rode.
They roused a hart, that grimly brace,
A hart of ten, a hart of grease,
Fled over against the kingés place.
The sun it blinded the kingés ee,
A fathom behind his hocks shot he:
"Shoot thou," quod he, "in the fiendés name, To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame," And he hove up his hand to mark the game. Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;
For whether the saints they swerved the shot,
Or whether by treason, men knowen not,
But under the arm, in a secret part,
The iron fled through the kingés heart.
The turf it squelched where the Red King fell;
And the fiends they carried his soul to hell,
Quod, "His master's name it hath sped him well."
Tyrrel he smited full grim that day,
Quod "Shooting of kings is no bairns play";
And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away.
As he pricked along by Fritham plain,
The green tufts flew behind like rain;
The waters were out, and over the sward:
He swam his horse like a stalwart lord;
Men clepen that water Tyrrel's ford.
By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through glade and furze-brake fast drove he,
Until he heard the roaring sea;
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