Читать книгу Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845 - Various - Страница 3

Proud Julian towers! ye whose grey turrets rise

In hoary grandeur, mingling with the skies —

Whose name — thought — image — every spot are rife

With startling legends — themes of death in life!

Recall the voices of wrong'd spirits fled —

Echoes of life that long survived their dead;

And let them tell the history of thy crimes,

The present teach, and warn all future times.

Time's veil withdrawn, what tragedies of woe

Loom in the distance, fill the ghastly show!

Oh, tell what hearts, torn from light's cheering ray,

Within thy death-shades bled their lives away;

What anxious hopes, strifes, agonies, and fears,

In thy dread walls have linger'd years on years —

Still mock'd the patient prisoner as he pray'd

That death would shroud his woes — too long delay'd!

Could the great Norman, with prophetic eye,

Have scann'd the vista of futurity,

And seen the cell-worn phantoms, one by one,

Rise and descend — the father to the son —

Whose purest blood, by treachery and guilt,

On thy polluted scaffolds has been spilt,

Methinks Ambition, with his subtle art,

Had fired his hero to a nobler part.

Yes! curst Ambition — spoiler of mankind —

That with thy trophies lur'st the dazzled mind,

That 'neath the gorgeous veil thy conquests weave,

Would'st hide thy form, and Reason's eye deceive —

By what strange spells still dost thou rule the mind

That madly worships thee, or, tamely blind,

Forbears to fathom thoughts, that at thy name

Should kindle horror, and o'erwhelm with shame.

Alas, that thus the human heart should pay

Too willing homage to thy bloody sway;

Should stoop submissive to a fiend sublime

And venerate e'en the majesty of crime!

How soon to those that tempt thee art thou near —

To prompt, direct, and steel the heart to fear!

Oh, not to such the voice of peace shall speak,

Nor placid zephyr fan their fever'd cheek;

Sleep ne'er shall seal their hot and blood-stain'd eye,

But conscious visions ever haunt them nigh;

Grandeur to them a faded flower shall be,

Wealth but a thorn, and power a fruitless tree;

And, as they near the tomb, with panting breast,

Shrink from the dread unknown, yet hope no rest!

Stern towers of strength! once bulwarks of the land,

When feudal power bore sway with sovereign hand —

Frown ye no more — the glory of the scene —

Sad, silent witness of what crimes have been!

Accurst the day when first our Norman foe

Taught Albion's high-born Saxon sons to bow

'Neath victor-pride and insolence — learn to feel

What earth's dark woes — when abject vassals kneel;

And worse the hour when his remorseless heir,

Alike uncheck'd by heaven, or earthly prayer,

With lusts ignoble, fed by martial might,

Usurp'd man's fair domains and native right.

Ye generous spirits that protect the brave,

And watch the seaman o'er the crested wave,

Cast round the fearless soul your glorious spell,

That fired a Hampden and inspired a Tell —

Why left ye Wallace, greatest of the free,

His hills' proud champion — heart of liberty —

Alone to cope with tyranny and hate,

To sink at last in ignominious fate?

Sad Scotia wept, and still on valour's shrine

Our glistening tears, like pearly dewdrops, shine,

To tell the world how Albyn's hero bled,

And treasure still the memory of her dead.

Whose prison annals speak of thrilling deeds,

How truth is tortured and how genius bleeds?

Whose eye dare trace them down the tragic stream —

Mark what fresh phantoms in the distance gleam,

As dark and darker o'er th' ensanguined page

The ruthless deed pollutes each later age?

See where the rose of Bolingbroke's rich bloom

Fades on the bed of martyr'd Richard's tomb!

Look where the spectre babes, still smiling fair,

Spring from the couch of death to realms of air!

Oh, thought accurst! that uncle, guardian, foe,

Should join in one to strike the murderous blow.

Ask we for tears from pity's sacred fount?

"Forbear!" cries vengeance — "that is my account."

There is a power — an eye whose light can span

The dark-laid schemes of the vain tyrant, man.

Lo! where it pierces through the shades of night,

And all its hideous secrets start to light —

In vain earth's puny conquerors heaven defy —

Their kingdom's dust, and but one throne on high.

See heaven's applause support the virtuous wrong'd,

And 'midst his state the despot's fears prolong'd.

Thou tyrant, yes! the declaration God

Himself hath utter'd — "I'm the avenging rod!"

Words wing'd with fate and fire! oh, not in vain

Ye cleft the air, and swept Gomorrah's plain,

When, dark idolatry unmask'd, she stood

The mark of heaven — a fiery solitude!

And still ye sped — still mark'd the varied page

In every time — through each revolving age —

Wherever man trampled his fellow man,

Unscared by crimes, ye marr'd his ruthless plan —

Still shall ye speed till time has pass'd away,

And retribution reigns o'er earth's last day.

Methinks I hear from each relentless stone

The spirits of thy martyr'd victims groan,

And eager whispers Echo round each cell

The oft repeated legend, and re-dwell,

With the same fondness that bespeaks delight

In childhood's heart, when on some winter's night,

As stormy winds low whistle through the vale,

It shuddering lists the thrilling ghostly tale.

It seems but now that blood was spilt, whose stain

Proclaims the dastard soul — the bloody reign

Of the Eighth Harry — vampire to his wife,

Who traffick'd for his divorce with her life;

So fresh, so moist, each ruddy drop appears

Indelible through centuries of years!

And who is this whose beauteous figure moves,

Onward to meet the reeking form she loves;

Whose noble mien — whose dignity of grace,

Extort compassion from each gazing face?

'Tis Dudley's bride! like some fair opening flower

Torn from its stem — she meets fate's direst hour;

Still unappall'd she views that bloody bier,

Takes her last sad farewell without a tear.

Each weeping muse hath told how Essex died,

Favourite and victim, doom'd by female pride.

How courtly Suffolk spent his latest day,

And dying Raleigh penn'd his deathless lay.

Here noble Strafford too severely taught

How dearly royal confidence is bought;

Received the warrant which demands his breath,

And with a calm composure walk'd — to death.

Nor 'mong the names that liberty holds dear,

Shall the great Russell be forgotten here;

His country's boast — each patriot's honest pride —

For them he lived — for them he wept and died.

And must we yet another page unfold,

To glean fresh moral from the deeds of old?

Ye busy spirits that pervade the air,

And still with dark intents to earth repair;

That goad the passions of the human breast,

And bear the missives of Fate's stern behest —

Say, stifle ye those thoughts that Heaven reveals —

The tears of sympathy — the glow that steals

O'er the young heart, or prompts soft pity's sigh —

The prayer to snatch from harsh captivity

The virtuous doom'd — teach but to praise — admire —

Forbid to catch one spark of generous fire?

The godlike wish of genius, man to bless,

With rank and wealth still leaguing to oppress!

Oh! when shall glory wreathe bright virtue's claim,

And both to honour give a holier fame?

Ye towers of death! — the noblest still your prey,

Here spent in solitude their sunless day;

In your wall'd graves a living doom they found;

Broke o'er their night no ray, no gladd'ning sound.

Yet the mind's splendour, with imprison'd wings,

Rose high, and shone where the pure seraph sings;

Where human thought taught conscience it was free,

And burst the shackles of the Romish See.

Oh, sweetest liberty! how dear to die!

Bound by each sacred link;, each holy tie;

To save unspotted from the spoiler's hand,

Child of our heart — our own — our native land!

And, oh! how dear life's latest drop to shed,

To free the minds by superstition led; —

To spread with holy earnest zeal abroad,

That priceless gem — freedom to worship God!

To keep unmingled with the world's vain lore,

The faith that lightens every darken'd hour;

That faith which can alone the sinner save,

Prepare for death, and raise him from the grave;

Show how, by yielding all, we surest prove,

How humbly, deeply, truly, we can love;

How much we prize that hope divinely given,

The key — the seal — the passport into heaven.