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Not so Ladurlad; he could trace,

Accordant to the melancholy wares.
Though brighten'd with angelic grace,

Wondering, he stood awhile to gaze
His own Yedillian's earthly face;

Upon the works of elder days.
He ran and held her to his breast!

The brazen portals open stood,
Oh joy above all joys of Heaven,

Even as the fearful multitude
By death alone to others given,

Had left them, when they fled
This moment hath to him restor'd

Before the rising flood.
The early-lost, the long-deplor'd.

High over-head, sublime,

The mighty gateway's storied roof was spreed,
They sin who tell us Love can die.

Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time.
With life all other passions fly,

With the deeds of days of yore
All others are but vanity.

That ample roof was sculptur'd o'er,
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,

And many a godlike form there met bis eye,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell;

And many an emblem dark of mystery.
Earthly these passions of the earth,

Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode They perish where they have their birth;

Triumphant from his proud abode,
But Love is indestructible.

When, in his greatness, he bestrode
Its holy flame for ever burneth,

The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

The Aullay-horse, that in his force,
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

With elephantine trunk, could biod
At times deceiv'd, at times opprest,

And lift the elephant, and on the wind
It here is tried and purified,

Whirl him away, with sway and swing,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest;

Even like a pebble from the practis'd sliag.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.

Those streets which never, since the days of yore.
Oh! when a mother meets on high

By human footstep had been visited;
The babe she lost in infancy,

Those streets which never more
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

A human foot shall tread,
The day of woe, the watchful night,

Ladurlad trod. In sun-light, and sea-green,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,

The thousand palaces were seen
An over-payment of delight!

Of that proud city, whose superb abodes
Seem'd rear’d by giants for the immortal goos.
How silent and how beautiful they stand,

Like things of Nature! the eternal rocks

Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the end Such was the talk they held upon their way, Drifted within their gates, and choak'd their doors Of him to whose old city they were bound; Nor slime defild their pavements and their foors And now, upon their journey, many a day

Did then the ocean wage
Had risen and clos'd, and many a week gone round, His war for love and envy, not in rage,
And many a realm and region had they past,

O thou fair city, that he spares thee thus?
When now the ancient towers appear’d at last.

Art thou Varounin's capital and court, Their golden summits, in the noon-day light,

Where all the sea-gods for delight resort, Shone o'er the dark green deep that rollid between; A place too godlike to be held by us, For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen The poor degenerate children of the earth! Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight!

So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around, Well might the sad beholder ween from thence

Weening to hear the sound
What works of wonder the devouring wave

Of Mermaid's shell, and song
Had swallowed there, when monuments so brave Of choral throng from some imperial hall,
Bore record of their old magnificence.

Wherein the immortal powers, at festival,
And on the sandy shore, beside the verge

Their high carousals keep. Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane

But all is silence dread, Resisted in its strength the surf and surge

Silence profound and dead,
That on their deep foundations beat in vain.

The everlasting stillness of the deep.
In solitude the ancient temples stood,
Once resonant with instrument and song,

Through many a solitary street,
And solemn dance of festive multitude ;

And silent market-place, and lonely square,
Now as the weary ages pass along,

Arm’d with the mighty curse, behold him fare. Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood,

And now his feet attain that royal fane
Which roars for ever on the restless shores;

Where Baly held of old his awful reign.
Or, visiting their solitary caves,

What once had been the garden spread around, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around Fair garden, once which wore perpetual grees.

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Where all sweet flowers through all the year were Upon a smooth and grassy plat below, found,

By Nature there as for an altar drest, [earth And all fair fruits were through all seasons seen; They joined their sister stream, which from the

A place of Paradise, where each device Welled silently. In such a scene rude man
Of emulous art with nature strove to vie ; With pardonable error might have knelt,
And nature, on her part,

Feeling a present Deity, and made
Callid forth new powers wherewith to vanquish art. His offering to the fountain Nymph devout.

The Swerga-God himself, with envious eye, The arching rock disclosed above the springs
Survey'd those peerless gardens in their prime; A cave, where hugest son of giant birth,
Nor ever did the Lord of Light,

That e'er of old in forest of romance
Who circles Earth and Heaven upon his way, 'Gainst knights and ladies waged discourteous war,
Behold from eldest time a goodlier sight

Erect within the portal might have stood.
Than were the groves which Baly, in his might,

The broken stone allowed for band and foot
Made for his chosen place of solace and delight.

No difficult ascent, above the base

In height a tall man's stature, measured thrice.
It was a Garden still beyond all price, No holier spot than Covadonga, Spain
Even yet it was a place of Paradise :-

Boasts in her wide extent, though all her realms
For where the mighty Ocean

ould not spare,

Be with the noblest blood of martyrdom
There had he, with his own creation,

In elder or in later days enriched,
Sought to repair his work of devastation. And glorified with tales of heavenly aid
And here were coral bowers,

By many a miracle made inanifest;
And grots of madrepores,

Nor in the heroic annals of her fame
And banks of spunge, as soft and fair to eye

Doth she show forth a scene of more renown.
As e'er was mossy bed

Then, save the hunter, drawn in keen pursuit
Whereon the Wood-nymphs lay

Beyond his wonted haunts, or shepherd's boy,
Their languid limbs in summer's sultry hours. Following the pleasure of his straggling flock,
Here, too, were living flowers

None knew the place.
Which, like a bud compacted,

Pelayo, when he saw
Their purple cups contracted,

Those glittering sources and their sacred cave, And now in open blossom spread,

Took from his side the bugle silver-tipt, Stretch'd like green anthers many a seeking head. And with a breath long drawn and slow expired And arborets of jointed stone were there,

Sent forth that strain, which, echoing from the walls
And plants of fibres fine, as silkworm's thread; Of Cangas, wont to tell his glad return
Yea, beautiful as Mermaid's golden hair

When from the chase he came. At the first sound
Upon the waves dispread:

Favilia started in the cave, and cried,
Others that, like the broad banana growing, My father's horn ! -A sudden flame suffused
Rais’d their long wrinkled leaves of purple hue, Hermesind's cheek, and she with quickened eye
Like streamers wide out-flowing.

Looked eager to her mother silently;
And whatsoe'er the depths of Ocean hide But Gaudiosa trembled and grew pale,

From human eyes, Ladurlad there espied, Doubting her sense deceived. A second time
Trees of the deep, and shrubs and fruits and flowers, The bugle breathed its well-known notes abroad;
As fair as ours,

And Hermesind around her mother's neck
Wherewith the Sea-nymphs love their locks to braid, Threw her white arms, and earnestly exclaimed,

When to their father's hall, at festival 'Tis he!-But when a third and broader blast
Repairing, they, in emulous array,

Rung in the echoing archway, ne'er did wand,
Their charms display,

With magic power endued, call up a sight
To grace the banquet, and the solemn day. So strange, as sure in that wild solitude

It seemed, when from the bowels of the rock

The mother and her children hastened forth.

She in the sober charms and dignity
The ascending vale, Of womanhood mature, nor verging yet
Long straitened by the narrowing mountains, here Upon decay; in gesture like a queen,
Was closed. In front a rock, abrupt and bare, Such inborn and habitual majesty
Stood eminent, in height exceeding far

Ennobled all her steps, or priestess, chosen
All edifice of human power, by king

Because within such faultless work of Heaven
Or caliph, or barbaric sultan reared,

Inspiring Deity might seem to make
Or mightier tyrants of the world of old,

Its habitation known-Favilia such
Assyrian or Egyptian, in their pride :

In form and stature as the Sea Nymph's son,
Yet far above, beyond the reach of sight,

When that wise Centaur from his cave well-pleased
Swell after swell, the heathery mountain rose. Beheld the boy divine his growing strength
Here, in two sources, from the living rock

Against some shaggy lionet essay,
The everlasting springs of Deva gushed.

And fixing in the half-grown mane his hands,

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Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined. Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.
But like a creature of some higher sphere

The enemy in shriller sounds returned
His sister came; she scarcely touched the rock, Their Akbar and the Prophet's trusted name.
So light was Hermesind's aerial speed.

The horsemen lowered their spears, the infantry
Beauty and grace and innocence in her

Deliberately with slow and steady step (hissed,
In heavenly union shone. One who had held Advanced; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows
The faith of elder Greece, would sure have thought And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts
She was some glorious nymph of seed divine, Met in the shock of battle, horse and man (mace
Oread or Dryad, of Diana's train

Conflicting: shield struck shield, and sword and
The youngest and the loveliest: yea she seemed And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;
Angel, or soul beatified, from realms

Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,
Of bliss, on errand of parental love

And many a spirit from its mortal hold
To earth re-sent,-if tears and trembling limbs Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the chiefs
With such celestial natures might consist.

Of Julian's army in that hour support
Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there

Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,

Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
My horse!

Alphonso through the host of infidels
My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
Patting his high arched neck! the renegade, But there was worst confusion and uproar,
I thank him for't, hath kept thee daintily!

There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,

Of his recovered lord, Orelio plunged
Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse, Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet
Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord, The living and the dead. Where'er he turns
He who so oft hath fed and cherished thee,

The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,
He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen, Appalled they say, who to the front of war
Thou wert by all men honoured. Once again Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?
Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part

Replete with power he is, and terrible,
As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously, Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips
My beautiful Orelio, to the last-

Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes
The happiest of his fields !—Then he drew forth Strong in his immortality! Flyl fly!
The scymitar, and waving it aloft,

They said, this is no human foe!-Nor less
Rode toward the troops; its unaccustomed shape Of wonder filled the Spaniards when they saw
Disliked him; Renegade in all thingsl cried How flight and terror went before his way,
The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs

And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, Then said, if I have done ye service here,

With what command and knightly ease he sits Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!

The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis

His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed

Bestrode with such command and majesty
On this right hand !-Go some one, Gunderick cried, That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day
And bring Count Julian's sword. Whoe'er thou art, In death's black banner, shaking from its folds
The worth which thou hast shown avenging him Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mold
Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest

Is he who in that garb of peace affronts
For battle unequipped ;-haste there and strip

Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!
Yon villiau of his armour!

Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some saint
Late he spake,

Revisits earth!
So fast the Moors came on.
Replied the Goth; there's many a mountaineer,
Who in no better armour cased this day

Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found
In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouched

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The unguarded life he ventures—Taking then

The Holly Tree? Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist


eye that contemplates it well perceives The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel

Its glossy leaves With stern regard of joy, the African

Order'd by an intelligence so wise,
Under unhappy stars was born, he cried,

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Who tastes thy edge !-Make ready for the charge!
They come—they come!-On, brethren, to the field.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
The word is Vengeance !

Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round From man to man, and rank to rank it past,

Can reach to wound;
By every heart enforced, by every voice

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear.

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It matters not,

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Vengeance was the word;


I love to view these things with curious eyes, Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy And moralize:

Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, = And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree

Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore Can emblems see

Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, One which may profit in the after-time.

The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,

Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

His own delightful genius ever feign'd,
Harsh and austere,

Illustrating the vales of Arcady
To those who on my leisure would intrude

With courteous courage and with loyal loves. Reserved and rude,

Upon his natal day the acorn here Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be

Was planted. It grew up a stately oak, Like the bigh leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,

And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Some harshness show,

Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak = All vain asperities I day by day

Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's faine Would wear away,

Endureth in his own immortal works. = Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

This to a mother's sacred memory And as when all the summer trees are seen

Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year So bright and green,

Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display Of that dear voice which sooth'd his infancy: Less bright than they;

And after many a fight against the Moor But when the bare and wintry woods we see, And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

Which he had seen covering the boundless plain

Even to the utmost limits where the eye So serious should my youth appear among

Could pierce the far horizon,-his first thought The thoughtless throng,

In safety was of her, who when she heard
So would I seem amid the young and gay

The tale of that day's danger, would retire
More grave than they,

And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
That in my age as cheerful I might be

In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour As the green winter of the Holly Tree.

Of his return, long-look'd for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.

Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!

For ere he came the number of her days
Was full. O reader, what a world were this,

How unendurable its weight, if they
Stranger! whose steps have reach'd this solitude, Whoni Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard

The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move;
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock,

With grey and yellow lichens overgrown,

Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Often reclined; watching the silent flow

Breaking the highway stones,—and 'tis a task Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals

Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours! Along its verdant course,-till all around

Old Man.
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity,
And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd

Why yes! for one with such a weight of years A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance,

Upon his back—I've lived here, man and boy,

In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale

Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then

I can remember sixty years ago
The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.

The beautifying of this mansion here,
When my Inte Lady's father, the old Squire,

Came to the estate.
Are days of old familiar to thy mind,

Stranger. O reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour

Why then you have outlasted Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived All his improvements, for you see they're making With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, Great alterations here.




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Old Man.

Aye-great indeed!
And if my poor old Lady could rise up-
God rest her soul! 'would grieve her to behold
The wicked work is here.


They've set about it
In right good earnest. All the front is gone ;
Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road
Round to the door. There were some yew trees too
Stood in the court-

Old Man.

Aye, Master! fine old trees !
My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me;
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old Lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
And your pert poplar trees;-I could as soon
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!

But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage-now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh ;
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind: and when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ashi,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
Wither'd and bare !

Old Man.

Ah! so the new Squire thinks,
And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis
To have a stranger come to an old house !

It seems you know him not ?

Old Man.

No, sir, not I.
They tell me he's expected daily now;
But in my Lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had play'd about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sate in the porch threading the jesssamine

Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart
To mar all thus !

Old Man.

It did one good
To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom.
There was a sweet briar too that grew beside;
My Lady loved at evening to sit there
And knit; and her old dog lay at her ieet
And slept in the sun; 'twas an old far urite dog,-
She did not love him less that he wa 'd
And feeble, and he always had a pla.
By the fire-side; and when he died e
She made me dig a grave in the gardt

Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day
'Twas for the poor when to her grave 61

They lost a friend then ?


Old Man.

You're a snger here.
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were the , sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen,-how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So cheerful red,mand as for misseltoe,-
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,
And 'twas a noble one! God help me,
But I shall never see such days again.

Things may be better yet than you suppose,
And you should hope the best.


Old Man.

It don't look well.,

These alterations, sir! I'm an old man,

And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd

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