Читать книгу Old Castles - Smith Mary Campbell - Страница 6

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AREL! O canny Carel of the past, How sweetly flow the streams that bound thee round: The Eden fair, upon whose waves are cast Thy oft repeated chimes–a pleasant sound To the worn wanderer on its rock-bound sides; And, east and west, its affluents, whose soft tides, Flow where they will, are still with beauty crowned. And every beck and little streamlet found, Or far or near thy fell-bound precincts round, Has something more, a something quite apart From every other streamlet, the great heart Of Nature, in her freest fairest moods, Throbs in their flow, and fills their solitudes. Beauteous for ever! Time on them has laid No trace of age or change; they brightly fall As glide the seasons, either swift or staid. As when the Roman cohorts fierce and tall First made these valleys ring with Latian sounds. And everywhere about them still abounds Their virgin Beauty, by the years unspoiled. Art’s modern wonder, which no more astounds, (Showing the heights to which the world has toiled,)

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But adding grace to grace, and charm to charm,

Its viaducts most rare across them spanned,

And linking field to field, and farm to farm–

The ornaments of all the pleasant land–

But heightening what at first they seemed to harm,

Beauty with beauty still delighting well.

But thou hast more, O Carlisle, than thy streams!

Thy castled heights crown many a charming rood,

Renowned in olden story; field and fell,

Through many a league of gracious solitude,

Where yet perchance some genuine bard still dreams,

Bearing sure witness to the ancient feud

Of Scot and Briton, and the Roman strength

That interposed between them, and subdued

The vagrant Pict to British force at length.

And age by age the gathering centuries round,

Thy history’s written still upon the ground,

Which compasses thee around, or far or near,

The travelled wanderer catching something here

To-day, if skilful, of the ancient sound,

Of the fierce strife of Saxon and of Gael,

Which through long centuries kept thee desolate.

And intermixed with these of far off date,

Wrought in with antique zeal, flows many a tale

Of Dane and Druid, and the famous state

In which King Arthur kept his Yule feast here.

Nor is there wanting in the grammary

Of that far age, the names of holier fame,

Or tales of purer import; where we dwell

Within these walls, the holy Cuthbert came,

The guest of Egfrid, visiting the well–

True relic of the times–the Romans made;

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And Ermengard, his friend and faithful aid,

The wife of Egfrid, here wrought piously,

Herself and sister–names which through the shade

Of many storms and centuries still run free.

And, all about, tradition decks thee out,

This castled county, rich in antique lore,

Bearing on all its face the land about

Strange tales of wonder of the times of yore.

Here may be heard sublimely from the past

The voices old of heroes and of kings–

The Bruce and Wallace, and, not least, though last,

Cromwell, who caught their spirit, and who flings

An air of health o’er British rule to-day.

And, joined with these their fellows in the fray,

Circling thy walls to-day the echo rings

Of Norman and Plantagenet, and the array

Of armies vast, whom Scotia’s Bard still sings,

Though he, with his immortal Marmion,

A traveller here, long since has passed away.

Nor must we quite forget the lady fair

Who hither came a queen without a crown

The royal Mary, yet most desolate;

Her hopes from their high altitude cast down,

And burd’ning all her spirit with the weight

Such ruin brings, of wild tumultuous care.

Her name is linked to thine, O Carlisle, still

Linked with thy ancient walls, thy castle old;

Linked with thy bounds from far, o’er vale and hill,

Piercing their deeps and distance manifold,

Her vision wandered; Caledonia wild,

Home of her heart, her childhood’s airy nest,

Winning her bosom soft, by pride beguiled,

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To longings once again for its true rest,

To thoughts of peace, perchance by crowns unspoiled.

She was thy captive sad, this lady fair,

And thou hadst many captives in those days,

Noteless and notable; thy dungeons old,

Close cavern’d in from all the sun’s sweet rays,

And all devoid of lightest breath of air,

Have borne upon their basements dank and cold

The wearying form of many a child of care.

Here came the Jacobite still unsubdued,

A patriot brave, and all devoid of fear,

His heart still rising, neither chain nor cell

His hopes despoiling; long the terror here

Of all this Border Country, his old feud

Oft ending in vast file on Gallows Hill,

As did the brave McDonald, long renowned

As the McIvor of the Scottish tale.

And in these times, and often with these found,

Nor short of them in resolution hale,

Was the moss trooper–brigand most profound,

Yet something more than brigand all the while.

His was the feud of races; clan with clan–

Stern hater of the British name and isle.

His mode of action still the good old plan,

That they should take who have the greatest power,

And they who can should keep–a rule which wrought

Full often his own ruin; hour by hour

O’er field and fell and moorland waste and wild

The war note rising, and the blood-hounds’ yell.

Such were the means the troubled country sought

To capture him; and often he was brought

In chainéd bands, to die in durance here;

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Or, standing through slow months, from earth exiled,

At last to perish on some gibbet near.

Sad were those times for thee, O Carlisle, then

Thy battlements and towers and gates all o’er

Were clothed with blanching skulls and features fair,

Distorted by the halter, fixed as when

Death did his solemn deed, were left to glare

On the meek face of all thy unstained life.

Yet with this rigour stern thou hadst no rest,

Still were thy gates the scenes of martial strife,

Nor didst thou prosper; war is still unblest;

Its crown is still a ruin, and its knife

Is still insatiate, moving in death’s sphere

A track of desolation. Many a tear

Has orphaned sorrow, blasted by its fate,

Shed in thy walls; and weeping women here,

Spared by its doom, left lorn and desolate,

Have sunk insensibly to early death

(Of love deprived, seeking no other mate);

And age, bereft by it, its straitened breath

Has here drawn all alone uncomforted.

Such are war’s tragic fortunes; and more drear,

Could the great past arise, and, through its dead,

Tell all the horrid tale, would they appear.

Here in thy gates of eld, war’s fiery sphere,

Have horrors dread been done, to shock the light,

And make the stars recoil the living day,

Polluted by them, and the holy night

By them all seared and tortured with mad fear.

Think for one instant of the frightful deed

Ohanging twelve fair boys in open day,

In one dread cluster, without stain or crime,

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Because their sires, perchance by some foul play,

Had failed to ransom them in their sore need

As their own hostages, at the just time.

Or think again of some fair lady’s form,

With hands all jewelled, and soft silken tire,

Enclosed in mortar, while the young blood warm,

Wandered within it, and its eyes’ pure fire

Still kept its native lustre unbedimmed.

These things are sad; but here, as though o’er-brimmed,

Just at their verge two nations’ wrath run o’er,

And cruelty ran riot, centring all its strength

Upon this city’s borders, till at length

Change soothed time’s temper, and, from shore to shore,

The twain became one kingdom, never more

To rage together, but henceforth to be

Helpers together in the world’s great fight

For peace, for freedom, and for amity;

And, above all, for progress, and the right

Man claims of man, has in his nature free

To use the privileges and gifts of light.

Such is thy past, O Carlisle, yet things fair,

Brave Seeds, and noble, large enduring life

Have been its firm attendants; wise and well,

Heroic still through all that age long strife,

Thy sires have borne them and this Border air

With all that nature owns of rare most rife,

Has borne upon its currents the sweet swell

Of Piety calm hearted, and of prayer,

And sweet domestic kindness. “Belted Will,”

The best known name of all of Border fame,

Was a most tender lover, where his heart

Had tender dues and duties to fulfil,

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In his own castle, where his husband’s part

Was played out with a zeal that gladdens still,

Worthy his Howard blood, his Howard name.

And here have Science and sweet Poesy,

Born of the soul despoilers still of ill,

Hung out their purer ensigns, the old wound

Of sorrow healing with the pleasant thrill

Of native harmony, whose modern round

Poor Anderson essayed, nor without skill,

To trance the native heart with native thought,

And give it back the life it erst had found

In Cumbria’s homely pleasures, all unfraught

With the soft manners of an age refined.

But Blamire did this best; her woman’s mind,

Soul of her song, its burden’s tender type,

Blent with her native lyre the touch and tone

Of purer genius; and her numbers ripe

All up and down this Border country strewn,

Have pierced the deeps of Cumbria’s gentler heart,

Refining it to virtue; and her song,

Sung here in pleasant guise with her sweet friend,

The gentle Gilpin, who in all had part,

Will in these hills and valleys linger long,

And cheer the native Cumbrian to the end.

Nor has there failed the bard of loftier fame;

For Wordsworth here, of Eden eloquent,

Sang as the poet should, with the true swell

Of a true heart, wrapt in its own intent;

The castled cliff, the craggy hill and dell,

All loud with voice of streams of Cumbrian frame,

Still gave his muse content, and here he found

His spirit still inspired, where’er he went.

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Nor has this city, in still older times,

Wanted its singer; “Carel” still has been

The theme of song, the burden of old rhymes,

The quickening word of numbers rashly wrought,

Giving its living spirit to the sheen

Of all the Poet’s music and his thought.

Here ’twas lived Percy, who o’erwrought by love

Of Border Minstrelsy, around it threw

A band protecting, gathering a sweet store

Of all its beauties, neither scarce nor few,

For common delectation, which he wove

Into his “Reliques”–songs which here of yore

Out of the people’s common customs grew.

So sanctified by song has all thy past,

Fierce though it seems, been shaped to something true,

Its rigours and its sorrows brought at last,

As doth the storm cloud in the rainbow’s hue,

To minister to pleasure, and create

Another mind, which, on the future cast,

Shall lipen into power, and subdue

War, and war’s spirit, either soon or late.

And still, still other names await my line;

Thy race of bards, O Carlisle, still flows on–

Thy last and latest, Lonsdale, of his sires,

The Border Poets, a most worthy son.

He sleeps too soon; but still his numbers pure,

Fraught with the love that ’mongst these mountains grows,

Shall still be honoured, still from door to door,

Spread the sweet sympathy that through them flows.

And thou hast had thy Paley, clear and strong,

Not quite a poet, but poetical:

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He fed his thought thy ancient towers among,

Making it clear and simple, of a fall

That catches common hearing. Well he wrote,

And in the lists of fame his name is filed–

A Theologic Wordsworth, who took note

How God in all the world Himself has soul’d.

He sleeps in thy cathedral, ’mong the dust

Of many noble fathers, whose pure fame

Is its best consecration, and whose hearts,

Still mingling with its worship, light the flame

Of pure devotion, where the heart’s strong trust,

One with their own in its pure heavenward aim,

The letter from the spirit wisely parts,

Finding the eternal substance, the bright Name

In which all worship centres, and all rest.

Nor in these spheres alone hast thou been blest,

Thy stock’s been fruitful in a varied life,

Varied, yet kindred; the same generous fires

Have run through all thy heroes, the old strife

Finding new objects, as the changing times

Have changed in their ambitions, giving zest

For things more purely noble–Art and Thought,

Destined to lead the world a purer way,

And ransom it from evil, consecrate

With all the true pure life religion yields.

So the brave artist, Watson, crowned thy state–

A lowly boy, inspired by Art’s pure ray–

Bringing fresh garlands from her fairy field,

To honour thy old walls, thy towers grey,

Flushing afresh with the new vivid light

Of the worlds onward genius, and his own.

Peace to his memory! He was a true knight

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Of worthy labour; and his name, deep sown

In thy now peaceful annals, the low sight

Of youth irresolute, in sloth upgrown,

May lead to purer vision; all his thought

Imbuing with the sense of the vast power

There lives in man, as man–a power fraught

With life to quicken every passing hour

Into divinest action, and to speed–

Such is the substance of the human flower–

Even in the lowliest mind, ambition’s seed.

Nor must the Muse forget the gentle Steel,

Who in the ranks of genius, Mentor mild,

Marshall’d the powers of progress rising here,

With Journalistic Science; prone to feel

How vast earth’s bondage from those powers exiled,

How great earth’s sorrows when usurped by fear.

He rose by effort to the worthiest fame;

One of the people, a brave son of toil,

Whose heart aspiring unto knowledge bound,

Was quickened into hope by its pure flame,

Spreading at length its fruit o’er all the soil

Of this fair country, all the Border round.

So flows thy list of worthies–not half done–

A list too long for such a line as this;

For thou than these, of daughter and of son,

Hast boasted many; and thy sires I wis

Could tell of thy renowned ones without end,

Fostering their pride and thine with every word,

And every word a truth, for virtue lies

In a green covert, whose fair boughs, soft stirred

With only its own breath, no motions lends

To the loud trumpeting which through the skies

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With names of noisier note and honours blends.

Who knows who’s honoured thee? Who’s made thee strong?

Who’s lifted up thy head and made thee great?

What prayer or speech or unremembered song

Has helped the current of thy life’s new date.

Here influences have wrought, untold, unknown,

The holy breath of thought, that never grew

Into a verbal framing; the dear love

Which but the heart that held it ever knew;

The hope which brings true rest, the peace that’s wove

Into domestic manners pure and free,

Blessing the inner spirit; far above,

In its unnoted strength, the ecstasy

Of joys of grander import, its soft tone

Working in ways of good continually,

Soothing the sighs of grief, and pain’s shrill groan,

And healing the vexed heart of poverty.

These, and a thousand more of gentler force,

Sweet influences in thine own heart upgrown,

Powers all ignored by fame, their silent course

Keeping unseen around life’s common day,

Into thy deeper soul a charm have thrown,

Keeping it even in the grander way

Of Public Progress and of Modern Life.

So hast thou grown illumined by the ray–

Deep in thy bosom still, through all thy strife–

The ray of heavenly wisdom, whose soft sway

Has changed thy destinies, thy spirit rife

With old barbaric hate, and wrought in thee

The life and purpose of a city free.

Henceforth thy path is onward. Victory

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Is thine in other fields than those of blood;

Thy heart is strong, and the loud loom to-day

Stands where of eld thy skull-crowned ramparts stood

And Commerce in thy streets in peaceful mood

Pursues its hopeful customs now secure

Of loss of property and loss of peace:

And more than these–firm root of thine increase,

The blessing of thy people rich and poor–

Fair Knowledge reigns in thee, her rest and ease

Spreading from gate to gate, from door to door.

Thy sons have led her banners, first again,

In deeds of valour and of bravery,

The same in spirit as those stalwart men

Who here of old still held their own in thee;

And she, fair Knowledge, honouring their zeal,

Has led them on to vie with cities great:

Thy Exhibition, equal to the hour,

Proving by its fair circumstance and state,

That for thy honour and thy people’s weal,

Thou still hast hearts to strive, to pray, to wait,

Firm hearts, most strong where love alone is power.

O “merrie city” of the ancient past,

City of pleasant scenes and old renown,

How sweetly art thou compassed! Here at last

The tired wayfarer may at last sit down,

All Cumbria in his heart, and see again

All the fair scenes of this fair Border land:

Skiddaw and Criffel and Helvellyn’s steeps–

Thy southern ramparts, one long mountain band,

Enlaced all round from their dark sombrous deeps

With tree-sloped vale and stream-engirdled glen,

A flower clad, brightening vista, on each hand.

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Here too the silver Solway from thy heights,

Soft mantling on the distance, may be seen;

And Scotland’s purple hills–long misty flights,

Where oft of yore her brave ones’ feet have been,

Or where her bards have dwelt, their sounds and sights

The joy that blest them, kept their souls serene;

And nearer, fell on fell around thee creeps,

Their dark brows steeping in the radiant blue

Of the sweet summer; or when winter keeps

His storm-clouds marshalled, looking grandly through

The silver braiding of their swelling sweeps,

Half lost in its pale glory, but still true

To their stern form and features, better seen

When those dark clouds have fall’n, and the pale snow

Rests on their rugged shoulders, its pure sheen

Gracing their grandeur, the fair marble show,

The soul from far of the rude wintry scene

Of this north country, while the dark months flow.

And nearer still, still ready for the feet

Of wearied artizan, or o’ertasked child,

Or raptured lovers, bringing sweet to sweet,

Thou hast thy beauteous walks and scenes more mild;

The “Scaur,” athwart whose heights the Romans piled

Their masonry enduring, the grand Wall

Which kept the Pict abeyant, o’er which frowned

The Roman legions, ready one and all,

From east to west, to keep this ancient bound

From foot incursive, where’er foot might fall.

Hard by where Hyssop Holme’s green mantled steeps

Crown the famed “Well,” most honoured of thy haunts,

This fabric ponderous paced the Eden’s deeps,

Flying far on to where the Solway chants

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Its monologue eternal, its bright bars

The terminus of this stupendous work,

Which here stood vast and awful ’neath the stars;

A splendid structure! which nor spear nor dirk,

But the strong hand of time at last threw down.

The tale in stone of these old nations’ wars,

Of all the Roman works the head and crown.

This is a scene of beauty, soft and still,

Thy noises hushed by the prevenient space:

Thou liest across the river, street and mill

Behind the nobler features of thy face,

Thy fair cathedral and thy castle’s tower–

From hence most fitly seen, its towering grace,

And massive ramparts, bringing back the hour

Of thy past triumphs, when this very place,

Loud with the artillery of war and death,

Flashed out their fearful flames, where now the flower

Gladdens the wanderer with its easeful breath.

O pleasant are these haunts, not less, but more

I love them for the past that here has been;

The life that ebbed out here in days of yore

Will keep these hills and vales for ever green

In human interest, brightening them all o’er

To days far distant, with the imagined scene

Of the great peaceless past, steeped to the core

In broils and turmoils, all its blazing sheen

Now dimmed and darkened, and its reeking roar

Silenced for ever by a hand serene.

Tales are there many of this Border Land,

And of this Border city fair and free;

Tradition’s subtle tongue, and time’s dim hand,

Have woven about them things of mystery;

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And in the winter, when the fire bums dim,

And garrulous guests have lost their wonted glee,

And the long night, far sloping to its rim,

Grows lone and awesome, mixing melancholy

With every breath, the peasant old and grey,

His heart fear palsied as his palsied limb,

Will tell, with the due meed of gaunt and grim

That makes a tale a tale–the flickering ray

And the weird silence all assisting him–

Such ghastly tragedies, that even fear

Itself exceeding, will itself o’erbrim,

Easing itself with the unbidden tear,

That at such times in listeners’ eyes will swim.

But there are others of a softer frame,

Which deep in Cumbria’s heart lie fast and sweet–

Tales of true love and trust and woman’s name,

Which told, make winter hours as summer’s fleet.

These are for female hearts and female tongues,

For household gatherings where the gentle meet–

Sweet ditties sweetly sung in Cumbria’s songs,

With simple truth and trust and love replete;

Tales unto which the virtue still belongs

To make the heart with genuine pleasure beat.

So art thou girt about, strong on each hand

In Border lore and Border bravery;

Thy sons, as any in this Border land.

Valiant and hopeful, resolute and free.

And in the coming time, the time of peace–

The time hope paints, which yet in truth shall be–

Their virtues firm, their scorn of fireside ease,

Their swift decision, and their energy

Shall be thy strength again, and thy old might

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In every need shall still return to thee.

Thy past has been a struggle stern and strong;

The Danes of old turned their fierce fires on thee,

And thou laidst black and waste for centuries long,

A refuge but for want; thy poverty

Bringing thee strange acquaintance; and since then

Since Rufus raised thy walls of unknown date,

Raised long before by Rome, and yet again

By the good Egfrid, thou both soon and late

Hast oft been troubled, oft destroyed in part,

Thy fiery neighbour, the marauding Scot,

Still constant at thy gates; but still thy lot

Has been to prosper; and thy purer heart,

Strengthened by sorrow, unto virtue bound,

Nor undevoid of feelings which create

Religion’s purer thought and purer life,

Shall still be thy protection, still thy state

Increase and prosper, and thy future strife

Enrich with nobler meed of nobler thought,

Bringing thee guerdon of things truly great–

A nobler spirit, and a wisdom fraught

With purposes diviner, of a reach

With the great coming ages, which shall teach

All men new doctrines, and shall all men free

With the pure power of purest Charity.