The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 2

There, echoed once the merriest orgies known, Since the frank Norman won grave Harold's throne; There, bloom'd the mulberry groves, beneath whose shade His easy loves the royal Rowley made; Where Villiers flaunted, and where Sedley sung, And wit's loose diamonds dropp'd from Wilmot's tongue!

All at rest now--all dust!--wave flows on wave; But the sea dries not!--what to us the grave?

It brings no real homily, we sigh, Pause for awhile and murmur, "All must die!"

Then rush to pleasure, action, sin once more, Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the sh.o.r.e.

And o'er the altered scene Calantha's eye Roves listless--yet Time's Great the pa.s.sers by!

Along the road still fleet the men whose names Live in the talk the moment's glory claims.

There, for the hot Pancratia of Debate Pa.s.s the keen wrestlers for that palm,--the State.

Now, "on his humble but his faithful steed,"

Sir Robert rides--he never rides at speed-- Careful his seat, and circ.u.mspect his gaze; And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.

Wise is thy heed!--how stout soe'er his back, Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack![G]

Next, with loose rein and careless canter view Our man of men, the Prince of Waterloo; O'er the firm brow the hat as firmly press'd, The firm shape rigid in the b.u.t.ton'd vest; Within--the iron which the fire has proved, And the close Sparta of a mind unmoved!

Not his the wealth to some large natures lent, Divinely lavish, even where misspent, That liberal suns.h.i.+ne of exuberant soul, Thought, sense, affection, warming up the whole; The heat and affluence of a genial power, Rank in the weed as vivid in the flower; Hush'd at command his veriest pa.s.sions halt, Drill'd is each virtue, disciplined each fault; Warm if his blood--he reasons while he glows, Admits the pleasure--ne'er the folly knows; If Vulcan for our Mars a snare had set, He had won the Venus, but escaped the net; His eye ne'er wrong, if circ.u.mscribed the sight, Widen the prospect and it ne'er is right, Seen through the telescope of habit still, States seem a camp, and all the world--a drill!

Yet oh, how few his faults, how pure his mind, Beside his fellow-conquerors of mankind; How knightly seems the iron image, shown By Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne!

Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear, Stern if his heart, still "Man" is graven there; No guile--no crime his step to greatness made, No freedom trampled, and no trust betray'd; The eternal "I" was not his law--he rose Without one art that honour might oppose, And leaves a human, if a hero's, name, To curb ambition while it lights to fame.

But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed, Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?

With that vast bulk of chest and limb a.s.sign'd So oft to men who subjugate their kind; So st.u.r.dy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on; So burly Luther breasted Babylon; So brawny Cleon bawl'd his Agora down; And large-limb'd Mahmoud clutch'd a Prophet's crown!

Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye, The stage-mime's plastic lip your search defy-- He, like Lysander, never deems it sin To eke the lion's with the fox's skin; Vain every mesh this Proteus to enthrall, He breaks no statute, and he creeps through all;-- First to the ma.s.s that valiant truth to tell, "Rebellion's art is never to rebel,-- Elude all danger but defy all laws,"-- He stands himself the Safe Sublime he draws!

In him behold all contrasts which belong To minds abased, but pa.s.sions roused, by wrong; The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile, The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile.

One after one the lords of time advance,-- Here Stanley meets,--how Stanley scorns, the glance!

The brilliant chief, irregularly great, Frank, haughty, rash,--the Rupert of Debate; Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy, And Time still leaves all Eton in the boy;-- First in the cla.s.s, and keenest in the ring, He saps like Gladstone, and he fights like Spring; Ev'n at the feast, his pluck pervades the board, And dauntless game-c.o.c.ks symbolize their lord.

Lo where atilt at friend--if barr'd from foe-- He scours the ground, and volunteers the blow, And, tired with conquest over Dan and Sn.o.b, Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob; Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove, Suggests fresh fighting in the next remove, And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool, To the prim benches of the Upper School:

Yet who not listens, with delighted smile, To the pure Saxon of that silver style; In the clear style a heart as clear is seen, Prompt to the rash--revolting from the mean.

Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach, Comes the calm "Johnny who upset the coach."[H]

How form'd to lead, if not too proud to please,-- His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.

Like or dislike, he does not care a jot; He wants your vote, but your affection not; Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats, So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.-- And while his doctrines ripen day by day, His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;-- From the starved wretch its own loved child we steal-- And "Free Trade" chirrups on the lap of Peel![I]-- But see our statesman when the steam is on, And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!

When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses dress'd, Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous breast; When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,-- And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!

VII.

What gives the Past the haunting charms that please Sage, scholar, bard?--The shades of men like these!

Seen in our walks;--with vulgar blame or praise, Reviled or wors.h.i.+pp'd as our faction sways: Some centuries hence, and from that praise or blame, As light from vapour, breaks the steady flame, And the trite Present which, while acted, seems Time's dullest prose,--fades in the land of dreams, G.o.ds spring from dust, and Hero-Wors.h.i.+p wakes Out of that Past the humble Present makes.

And yet, what matter to ourselves the Great?

What the heart touches--_that_ controls our fate!

From the full galaxy we turn to one, Dim to all else, but to ourselves the sun; And still, to each, some poor, obscurest life, Breathes all the bliss, or kindles all the strife.

Wake up the countless dead!--ask every ghost Whose influence tortured or consoled the most: How each pale spectre of the host would turn From the fresh laurel and the glorious urn, To point where rots beneath a nameless stone, Some heart in which had ebb'd and flow'd its own!

So one by one, Calantha listlessly Beheld and heeded not the Great pa.s.s by.

But now, why sudden that electric start?

She stands--the pale lips soundless, yet apart!

She stands, with clasped hands and strained eye-- A moment's silence--one convulsive cry, And sinking to the earth, a seeming death Smites into chill suspense the senses and the breath: Quick by the unconscious hostess knelt the guest, Bathed the wan brows, and loosed the stifling vest; As loosed the vest,--like one whose sleep of fear Is keen with dreams that warn of danger near,-- Calantha's hand repell'd the friendly care, And faintly clasp'd some token h.o.a.rded there, Perchance some witness of the untold grief,-- Some sainted relic of a lost belief, Some mournful talisman, whose touch recalls The ghost of time in Memory's desolate halls, And, like the vessels that, of old, enshrined The soil of lands the exile left behind,-- Holds all youth rescues from that native sh.o.r.e Of hope and pa.s.sion, life shall tread no more.

Calantha wakes, but not to sense restored, The mind still trembled on the jarring chord, And troubled reason flicker'd in the eye, As gleams and wanes a star in some perturbed sky.

Yet still, through all the fever of the brain, Terror, more strong, can Frenzy's self restrain.

Few are her words, and if at times they seem To touch the dark truths shadow'd on her dream, She starts, with whitening lip--looks round in fear, And murmurs, "Nay! my brother did not hear!"

Then smiles, as if the fear were laid at rest, And clasps the token treasured at her breast, And whispers, "Lucy, guard my sleep;--they say That sleep is faithless, and that dreams betray!"

Yet oft the while--to watch without the door, The brother's step glides noiseless o'er the floor,-- There meekly waits, until the welcome ray Of Lucy's smile gives comfort to the day, Till Lucy's whisper murmurs, "Be of cheer,"

And Pity dupes Affection's willing ear.

Once, and but once, within the room he crept, When all was silent, and they deem'd she slept, Not softer to the infant's cradle steals The mother's step;--she hears not, yet she feels, As by strange instinct, the approach;--her frame Convulsed and shuddering as he nearer came; Till the wild cry,--the waiving hand convey The frantic prayer, so bitter to obey; And with stern brow, belying the wrung heart, And voiceless lips compress'd, he turns him to depart.

VIII.

Much wondering Lucy mused,--nor yet could find Why one so mournful shrunk from one so kind.

Awe that had chill'd the grat.i.tude she felt For Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt: This tender patience in a man so stern, This love untiring--fear the sole return, This rough exterior, with this gentle breast, Awoke a sympathy that would not rest; The wistful eye, the changing lip, the tone Whose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own, Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heaves Its echo back to every sound that grieves.

Light as the gossamer its tissue spins O'er freshest dews when summer morn begins, Will Fancy weave its airy web above The dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.-- At length, Calantha's reason wakes;--the strife Calms back,--the soul re-settles to the life.

Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoice The anxious heart, so wistful for her voice; Not at his wonted watch the brother found, She seeks his door--no answer to her sound; She halts in vain, till, eager to begin The joyous tale, the bright shape glides within.

For the first time beheld, she views the lone And gloomy rooms the master calls his own; Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthralls With pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls; Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled, Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,-- And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrined The solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind.

The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors, And with amazed eye the gloomy lair explores; Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cells With G.o.ds dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells, From room to room her fairy footsteps glide, Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.-- With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quail Beneath his own, she hurries the glad tale, Then turns to part--but as she turns, still round She looks,--and lingers on the magic ground, And eyes each antique relic with the wild Half-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child; And as a child's the lonely inmate saw, And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe; And soften'd into kindness his deep tone, And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own, And said, "Nay, pause and task the showman's skill, What moves thee most?--come, question me at will."

Listening she linger'd, and she knew not why Time's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly; Never before unto her gaze reveal'd The Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd: Child of the sun, and native of the waste, Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced, His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar, As leaps the lion from the captive bar; And, as each token flash'd upon the mind, Back the bold deeds that life had left behind, The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along, Vivid as light, and eloquent as song; At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream, And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream.

"So," with sad voice he said, "my youth went by, Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky; What is my manhood?--curl'd and congeal'd, A stagnant water in a barren field: Gall'd with strange customs,--in the crowd alone; And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own.

In the far lands, where first I breathed the air,-- Smile if thou wilt,--this rugged form was fair, For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give grace To man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place,-- Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now, Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow; My boyhood tamed the panther in his den, The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men.

Like with its like, they say, will intertwine,-- I have not tamed one human heart to mine!"-- He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener sought To shape consoling speech from soothing thought, But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour came And went, as tenderness was check'd by shame!

At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised, And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed; Moved by her childlike pity, but too dark In hopeless thought than pity more to mark; "Infant," he murmur'd, "not for others flow The tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know; As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast, Opes a frank home to every angel guest; Soft Eve, look round!--The world in which thou art Distrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart-- Thy time will come!"--

He spoke, and from her side Was gone,--the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!

[A] Where now stands St. James's palace stood the hospital dedicated to St. James, for the reception of fourteen leprous maidens.

[B] Charles the First attended divine service in the Royal Chapel immediately before he walked through the park to his scaffold at Whitehall. In the palace of St. James's, Monk and Sir John Granville schemed for the restoration of Charles II.

[C] The Sanscrit term, denoting the mixture or confusion of cla.s.ses; applied to that large portion of the Indian population excluded from the four pure castes.

[D] According to Eastern commentators, the march of the Israelites in the Desert was in a charmed circle; every morning they set out on their journey, and every night found themselves on the same spot as that from which the journey had commenced.

[E] The Tilt-yard.

[F] Since this was written, to Buckingham Palace has been prefixed a front which is not without merit--in thrusting out of sight the other three sides of the building.

[G] The reader need scarcely be reminded, that these lines were written years before the fatal accident which terminated an ill.u.s.trious life. If the lines be so inadequate to the subject, the author must state freely that he had the misfortune to differ entirely from the policy pursued by Sir Robert Peel at the time they were written; while if that difference forbade panegyric, his respect for the man checked the freedom of satire. The author will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit--to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel's defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.

[H] Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occasion which now belongs to history,--"Johnny's upset the coach!" Never was coach upset with such perfect _sang-froid_ on the part of the driver.

[I] Written before Sir Robert's avowed abandonment of protection.

Prophetic.

PART THE SECOND.