English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 48Thomas Warton
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Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Where through some western window the pale moon Pours her long-levelled rule of streaming light, While sullen, sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower Amid the mouldering caverns dark and damp, Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread Its neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of old The cloistered brothers: through the gloomy void That far extends beneath their ample arch As on I pace, religious horror wraps My soul in dread repose. But when the world Is clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe, 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare O'er the wan heaps, while airy voices talk Along the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape, At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand, My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults. Nor undelightful is the solemn noon Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch I start: lo, all is motionless around! Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie; All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep: O then how fearful is it to reflect That through the still globe's awful solitude No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, My senses lead through flowery paths of joy: But let the sacred genius of the night Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw When through bewildering Fancy's magic maze, To the fell house of Busyrane, he led Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, When in abstracted thought he first conceived All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim Come towering, armed in adamant and gold.
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Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe, And happiest art adorn his Attic page, Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined, In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song I see deserted Una wander wide Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames Launches in all the lustre of brocade, Amid the splendours of the laughing sun: The gay description palls upon the sense, And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.
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The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer, Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice The many-sounding organ peals on high The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn, Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies And lapped in Paradise. Or let me sit Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome; There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds, Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults, In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear. Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night, And solitude returns, would I forsake The solemn mansion, but attentive mark The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway, Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound.
From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR
O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared, High the screaming sea-mew soared; On Tintagel's topmost tower Darksome fell the sleety shower; Round the rough castle shrilly sung The whirling blast, and wildly flung On each tall rampart's thundering side The surges of the tumbling tide: When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: By Mordred's faithless guile decreed Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! Yet in vain a paynim foe Armed with fate the mighty blow; For when he fell, an Elfin Queen All in secret, and unseen, O'er the fainting hero threw Her mantle of ambrosial blue; And bade her spirits bear him far, In Merlin's agate-axled car, To her green isle's enamelled steep Far in the navel of the deep. O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew From flowers that in Arabia grew: On a rich enchanted bed She pillowed his majestic head; O'er his brow, with whispers bland, Thrice she waved an opiate wand; And to soft music's airy sound, Her magic curtains closed around, There, renewed the vital spring, Again he reigns a mighty king; And many a fair and fragrant clime, Blooming in immortal prime, By gales of Eden ever fanned, Owns the monarch's high command: Thence to Britain shall return (If right prophetic rolls I learn), Born on Victory's spreading plume, His ancient sceptre to resume; Once more, in old heroic pride, His barbed courser to bestride; His knightly table to restore, And brave the tournaments of yore.
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, Of painful pedantry the poring child, Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled, Intent. While cloistered Piety displays Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores New manners, and the pomp of elder days, Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle! Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile: Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enriched with savage spoil, To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, Reared the rude heap: or, in thy hallowed round, Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line; Or here those kings in solemn state were crowned: Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, We muse on many an ancient tale renowned.
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun, Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! While pensive Memory traces back the round, Which fills the varied interval between; Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road! Yet still one joy remains: that not obscure Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.