Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

'Tis a wild tale--and sad, too, as the sigh
That young lips breathe when Love's first dream-
ings fly;

When blights and cankerworms,and chilling showers, Come withering, o'er the warm heart's passionflowers.

Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee,

Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears; What thou hast ever been, and still will be,Life's best, but most betraying witchery !

To this succeeds a landscape, on which Claude might look with delight—

It is a night of summer,-and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone, Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks Some face it loves yet fears to dwell upon. The waves are motionless, save where the oar, Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, Has broken in upon their azure sleep.

Odours are on the air :-the gale has been Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep.Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours. Afar the distant city meets the gaze,

Where tower and turret in the pale light shine, Seen like the monuments of other daysMonuments Time half shadows, half displays.

This is the very soul of poesy. How many charming similies in a few short lines!

The sleeping sea like a child; the breaking moonlight like Beauty's changeful smile; the oar light and transient as Love's anger; and all the other delicious images which are raised within so small a compass of song, meet with not many parallels even among our greatest masters of the lyre. Nor is the portrait of the lovers introduced into this Neapolitan scene less beautiful:

There was a bark a little way apart

From all the rest, and there two lovers leant:-
One with a blushing cheek, and beating heart,
And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent;
She might not meet the gaze the other sent
Upon her beauty ;-but the half-breathed sighs,
The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes,
Told that she listened Love's sweet flatteries.
Then they were silent-words are little aid
To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made
By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is
Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!-

[ocr errors]

Music passes and awakes in the breast of Rosalie the memory of her distant home and widowed mother, whose age she had left

---- to weep

When that the tempter flattered her and wiled Her steps away.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Then ROSALIE thought on her mother's age,-
Just such her end would be with her away:
No child the last cold death-pang to assuage-
No child by her neglected tomb to pray!
She asked-and like a hope from Heaven it came !--
To hear them answer with a stranger's name.

She reached her mother's cottage; by that gate
She thought how her once lover wont to wait
To tell her honied tales!-and then she thought
On all the utter ruin he had wrought!
The moon shone brightly, as it used to do
Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been untrue;
But it shone o'er the desolate! The flowers

were dead; the faded jessamine, unbound,
Trailed, like a heavy weed, upon the ground;
And fell the moonlight vainly over trees,
Which had not even one rosé,-although the breeze,
Almost as if in mockery, had brought

Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught!

[bare!

She entered in the cottage. None were there! The hearth was dark,-the walls looked cold and All-all spoke poverty and suffering! All-all was changed; and but one only thing Kept its old place! ROSALIE'S mandolin Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. There was one other room, and ROSALIE Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame Gleamed from a dying lamp; a cold air came Damp from the broken casement. There one lay, Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray! And ROSALIE drew near. One withered hand Was stretched, as it would reach a wretched stand Where some cold water stood! And by the bed She knelt-and gazed-and saw her mother-dead!

Were there any thing like art in the effusions of L. E. L., we should praise the contrasts of this affecting poem, and the dramatic art of its conclusion; but we praise her for nothing but pure nature and true genius. The gay and sombre scenery spring alike from the same untutored perceptions of what is appropriate; and the affecting turns in the conduct of the catastrophe are simply transcribed from the vivid feelings of the writer. But admire as we may, even our pleasant duties must have an end; and we come now to bid our youthful bard farewell, and wish the utmost prosperity to her bark's onward course. From the storms of criticism it can have nothing to fear; but the sea of literature is not altogether like a child in slumber; and now she has fairly un

furled her sails, she must abide by the perils of the winds and waves.

From the minor pieces we have now space for only one short example; and we take a pretty and graceful one

THE VIOLET.

Violets!-deep-blue Violets!
April's loveliest coronets!

There are no flowers grow in the vale,
Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,-
None by the dew of the twilight wet,
So sweet as the deep-blue Violet !
I do remember how sweet a breath
Came with the azure light of a wreath
That hung round the wild harp's golden chords,
Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words.
I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the East and bands of gold;
But it never was sweeter than when set
With the leaves of the deep-blue Violet !
And when the grave shall open for me,-
I care not how soon that time may be,-
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and of bloom!-
But there be that flower's meek regret,
The bending and deep-blue Violet !

With this we conclude, rejoicing that so far the public opinion has coincided with ours upon the genius of the author and the merits of this volume; for on the first day of its appearance nearly the whole of a large impression was rapidly disposed of, and other editions, we have not the slightest doubt, will follow in quick succession.

FOREST LEGENDS No. I.
(Lon. Mag.)

THE ARCHER OF ULVESCROFT.

IN N the forest of Charnwode, at a considerable distance from any public road, deeply situated in a vale whose bosom is watered by a meandering stream, stands all that now remains of the once goodly priory of Ulvescroft !

In the time of the Edwards, the Henrys, and even Mary, this priory possessed no mean advantage in point of monastic grandeur. It was the abode of Eremites, of the order of St. Augustine, and was endowed with many privileges, amongst which an unbounded right of hunting or hawking over the adjoining wastes was none of the smallest. 4

ATHENEUM VOL. 2. new series.

The forest in which this edifice was erected, though still abounding in bold and beautiful yet somewhat barren scenery, at the period alluded to bore no want of vegetation; it was covered with foliage, so thick and verdant as to exhibit one ample grove of stately oaks, softened and variegated by the birch, the beech, and the clustering ash. The vicinity of Ulvescroft still preserves a large portion of this interesting foliage, partly, we will hope, from a respect to the ruined pile which graces its valley, and partly from the rocky surface, that bids defiance to all agricultural improvements. Whichever

[ocr errors]

motive may have actuated its owners, chace, and he entered into them with

the dell in which the priory stands is of itself sufficiently picturesque to attract the notice of every lover of woodland scenery. Retired and solitary, it is enclosed on almost every side by high and rocky eminences, about whose sides the twisted and knotty oaks assume a thousand grotesque forms, according as their roots have found the means of penetrating their granite beds. A gentle brook waters this lovely spot-a brook so fair, so romantic in its course, that Leland in his writings has taken occasion to mention it. As it approaches the little town of Newtown Linford, it assumes a bolder surface; but here, it murmurs softly and peacefully over its rocky beds.

The ruins of Ulvescroft priory stand in solemn grandeur, betwixt this stream and the adjoining eminence, rather to the west. One tower and a considerable portion of one side of the building yet remain, and seem in tolerable preservation, at least as far as regards its pointed arched door-way and windows. The tower may even yet be ascended nearly to its summit, although some of its steps are in a precarious condition. Two stone niches which seem to have contained benches, are likewise perceptible within the interior of the building, probably belonging to the chancel. Although this ruin is neither so extensive in its dimensions, nor in such high preservation as many others, it exhibits so chaste and solemn an appearance, in the midst of its lonely situation, that it is impossible to look upon it without the mind reverting to what it must have been in former ages.

About the middle of the fifteenth century, the priory of Ulvescroft was in its glory; it was rich in lands and high in reputation, not only as regarded the piety and good conduct of its superior, but for the charity extended to the neighbouring poor. Prior Whatton was in truth a good and a pious man,-but he had one failing, if failing it might be termed, where an unbounded latitude was given; he loved the pleasures of the

an avidity hardly to be looked for even in those more connected with the world. Yet, although this might be termed a failing on the part of Whatton, it was not considered incompatible with his situation as Prior, such diversions being allowable in the heads of monastic institutions at that period; but Whatton followed his privilege to its extent.

The red deer of Charnwode were in high estimation, not only on account of their superior flavour, but for the superior sport they yielded in the field; and the Earls Ferrers and Leicester, as well as the Lord Hastings, at that time the possessor of Witwicke, looked with no small jealousy upon the encroachments made by the Superior on this their favourite breed. But Whatton cared little for the rebuffs of these noblemen; he held his right of chacing the deer by grants from his sovereign. It was immaterial to him who winced under these privileges, and he spared neither the red nor the fallow, when it suited him to indulge in the recreation. Indeed, so freely and so frequently did he hunt, that it became proverbial in the mouths of his enemies:

Seeke the deere in his lair,
Friar Whatton is there.

In hunting, hawking, or netting, Prior Whatton was indeed an adept. Every corner of the forest rang at intervals with the notes of his bugle. The swift-footed animals started at the sound of it; they left their leafy beds, and shook the dew from their haunches, with the terror and the fleetness of those who fly for freedom! The very trice cock fluttered his plumage, and fled fearfully from the branch on which he was reposing, as its lengthened tones were echoed through the vallies.

Yet expert as the friar was at his favourite diversion, he could not always boast of success; there were seasons when the wary animal, despite of the most active exertions of his enemies, would keep long at bay, and finally baffle the skill of the pursuers.

It was on an occasion of this kind, after a lengthened chase, when the stag had made good his retreat and found a secure covering in the wiles of the forest, when both men and dogs were at fault, that Whatton, disgusted by the ill success of the morning's amusement and scarcely conscious of what he was about, turned his horse's head from the party who had accompanied him, and, striking suddenly into another part of the forest, motioned as though he would be alone. No one presumed to follow him; the Prior of Ulvescroft was too exalted in situation to admit of his orders being treated with neglect; and Whatton, with that listlessness which usually attends the disappointment of our wishes, rode for some time alone. But the defeat of his morning's exertions was not the only cause for chagrin that Whatton at that moment had in his heart;-he had recently received intelligence that the owner of Witwicke, whose ample possessions, and fair park, rendered him as formidable as any nobleman on that side the county, and with whom the inhabitants of the priory were at variance, had suddenly visited his castle with a numerous company of friends, and it was a circumstance of too much import not to dwell upon the mind of the Prior.

Their quarrel had its source, like many others, from a question concerning forest rights, and it had been pursued so long, and with so much acrimony on both sides, that a total estrangement had taken place between them; the monks not choosing to yield one inch of their prerogative, and the Lord Hastings, in the plenitude of his power, looking for, and exacting more than seemed consistent either with good nature or generosity. Whatton had rode over several miles of hill and dale before he became really conscious that he had left his companions-so much had his mind been engrossed by internal reflection. A brace of tired dogs paced sluggishly at his horse's heels, the one a stag-hound, the other an old blood-hound; their coats were soiled, their tails down, their heavy eyes

[ocr errors]

The

were bent constantly upon the ground, and, though not endowed with the the gift of speech, their motions seemed to indicate that they partook largely in the chagrin of their master. When Whatton paused, which at length he did, on the summit of a small knoll, it was to fix his eyes on the mansion of his enemy. proud walls of Witwicke were indeed before him, they towered over the trees with which they were surrounded, and seemed to frown defiance upon the Prior. The pace of Whatton unconsciously quickened; he spurred the beast that bore him, and the towers of Witwicke were soon lost in the distance. It was not, however, the disposition of the Prior to urge either man or beast to extremity; his horse had undergone much fatigue that morning; he had rode hard; and, being pretty certain that he could not now be in much danger of encountering any one, whose presence might be unpleasant to him, he once more gave a slackened rein. As he patted the neck of the high spirited animal, and smoothed his sleek mane with the butt, end of his whip, his attention was arrested by one of his quadruped companions, whose eyes at that moment met his, and there seemed so much of mute expression in them, that Whatton read, or fancied he read, the creature's meaning.

"Chantress," he said, "thou wert wont to do thy duty without failing, my old girl. But thou hast baulked thy master this morning. We must have more mettle another time."

Accustomed to his voice, the hound fawned upon him, but while in the act of so doing, she turned round with a celerity that showed there was no want of animation, and that neither age nor fatigue had yet dulled her senses. With one car thrown back upon her neck, and her nose to the ground, she gave the usual deep tongue when in pursuit of game, and in an instant was lost to the sight of her master. Surprised by the action of the dog, the Prior remained irresolute what course to pursue the hound had fled in the direction of the

castle, and Whatton, vexed by the circumstance, felt strongly inclined to leave her to her fate. But affection for an old favourite made him hesitate; there was also another strong incitement towards his pursuing her, the propensity of the bloodhound for tracking the human foot; and Whatton, though the towers of Witwicke were so closely at hand, had a heart too much alive to humanity, to risk the mischief so dangerous a propensity might occasion. After a few seconds given to consideration, therefore, he turned short by the way the animal had taken, not however without some internal feelings of the unpleasant encounter which must necessarily take place, should the lordly owner of the domain present himself before him.

But he was not doomed to meet with him. On reaching the summit of a slight eminence that overlooked a romantic dell, he found Chantress indeed engaged, but with a youth of so slender an appearance, that the Prior trembled as he beheld them.

It truth it was a boy, a fair boy, of such few years, that it seemed as if one onset alone of the enraged animal were sufficient to destroy him: but he parried her attack so adroitly, twisting round and round, as the dog bore furiously towards him; at the same time, defending himself with so much skill, and attacking Chantress in his turn with a cross-bow he held in his hand with such violence, as to send her several paces from him howling with pain. But Chantress was no coward;-as she was usually foremost in the chace, so was she in fight. She returned to the attack again and again, with redoubled energy; and was as often as successfully repelled by the dexterous boy. It was after a severe struggle, in which Chantress had been thrown to a considerable distance, that her fate must have been inevitably decided, had not the Prior at that instant arrived and saved her.

66 Hold, hold, brave youth, harm not the dog; spare her, I beseech you." "Down, Chantress, down. Back, good lass, back with you."

The youngster had found time to aim a bolt which would the next instant have been fixed in her heart, had not the voice of Whatton arrested his intention. Accustomed to the word of command, the animal slunk behind her master; and, having reduced her to obedience by the usual harsh tones of authority, the Prior turned his regards on her antagonist.

[ocr errors]

The boy was standing in a low dingle or bottomą beside a thicket of evergreens. His cap was off, and a profusion of light brown hair that fell around a forehead of the most dazzling whiteness, and flowed in natural ringlets to his shoulders, formed so strong a contrast to the dark shades of the holly which grew behind him, that Whatton thought he had scarcely ever beheld so beautiful a figure. Indeed, the whole appearance of this youth exhibited a whimsical and incongruous medley. The rich colour and fantastic style of his dress, so different from any thing worn by lads of his age, excepting those attached to the court, joined to his native grace, forcibly impressed the Prior. The cross-bow he held in his hand, though its bolt had been thus hastily arrested from its purpose, was still grasped in an attitude of defiance, and as he returned the gaze of Whatton, it was with so saucy and independent an air, that the latter could scarcely suppress a smile as he observed it.

The retreat of the dog, however, had the desired effect, the extended arm gradually sunk to its natural position, and, after a short interval, given as it should seem to the consideration of who and what was the rank of the person who addressed him, the youth replied:

"May I ask, Sir Friar, who it is, that so authoritatively woos me from the chastisement of an enemy?

"One who leans to the side of mercy, good boy."

"Indeed ?" said the lad tartly, "it were an act of mercy truly, to spare the life of one who would take yours in return! I hold it no sin to kill your blood-hound, Sir Monk, since doubtless she left your side for

« ПредишнаНапред »