Nor, o'er our heads when silvering years are Whose empty dwellings through the hush'd mid
While quiet as the depth of spotless snow, A pensive calm contentment fills his breast! O wayward man! were he not truly blest! That Lake so still below-that Sky above! Unto his heart a sinless Infant prest, Whose ringlets like the glittering dew-wire
Floating and sinking soft amid the breath of love!
CASTLE-OBAN is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light That linger'd on the stormy even, A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave, Hath sunk into the weltering grave. Castle-Oban is dark without and within, And downwards to the fearful din, Where Ocean with his thunder-shocks Stuns the green foundation rocks, Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye Oft hath the eerie watchman sent A shuddering look, a shivering sigh, From the edge of the howling battlement !
Therein is a lonesome room, Undisturb'd as some old tomb That, built within a forest glen, Far from feet of living men, And shelter'd by its black pine-trees, From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas, Flings back its arched gateway tall, At times to some great funeral. Noiseless as a central cell
In the bosom of a mountain, Where the fairy people dwell, By the cold and sunless fountain! Breathless as a holy shrine
When the voice of psalms is shed! And there upon her stately bed, While her raven rocks recline O'er an arm more pure than snow, Motionless beneath her head,- And through her large fair eyelids shine Shadowy dreams that come and go, By too deep bliss disquieted,- There sleeps in love and beauty's glow, The high-born Lady Edderline.
Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light, Glide, gliding round the golden rim! Restored to life, now glancing bright, Now just expiring, faint and dim! Like a spirit loath to die, Contending with its destiny. All dark! a momentary veil Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale Uncertain beauty glimmers faint, And now the calm face of the saint, With every feature re-appears, Celestial in unconscious tears!
Another gleam! how sweet the while, Those pictured faces on the wall, Through the midnight silence smile! Shades of fair ones, in the aisle Vaulted the castle cliffs below, To nothing moulder'd, one and all, Ages long ago!
From her pillow, as if driven By an unseen demon's hand Disturbing the repose of heaven,
Hath fallen her head! The long black hair,
From the fillet's silken band
In dishevell'd masses riven,
Is streaming downwards to the floor. Is the last convulsion o'er? And will that length of glorious tresses, So laden with the soul's distresses, By those fair hands in morning light, Above those eyelids opening bright, Be braided nevermore? No! the lady is not dead,
Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed; Like a wreck'd corse upon the shore, That lies until the morning brings Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings; Or haply, to all eyes unknown, Is borne away without a groan, On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries Of birds that pierce the sunny skies With seaward dash, or in calm bands Parading o'er the silvery sands, Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells, Pausing to burnish crest or wing, No fading foot-mark see that tells Of that poor unremember'd thing!
O dreadful is the world of dreams, When all that world a chaos seems
Of thoughts so fix'd before!
When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! And friends cross o'er our solitude,
Now friends of ours no more!
Or, dearer to our hearts than ever,
Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands,
To clasp up phantoms, as we go Along the void like drifting snow, To far-off nameless lands! Yet all the while we know not why, Nor where those dismal regions lie, Half hoping that a curse so deep And wild can only be in sleep, And that some overpowering scream Will break the fetters of the dream, And let us back to waking life, Fill'd though it be with care and strife; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Assured that no mock shower is shed Of tears upon the real dead,
Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss,
When bending o'er the death-like cheek Of one who scarcely seems alive, At every cold but breathing kiss, He hears a saving angel speak "Thy Love will yet revive!"
Eager to speak-but in terror mute, With chained breath and snow-soft foot, The gentle maid whom that lady loves,
Like a gleam of light through the darkness
And leaning o'er her rosy breath, Listens in tears-for sleep-or death! Then touches with a kiss her breast- "O Lady, this is ghastly rest! Awake! awake, for Jesus' sake!" Far in her soul a thousand sighs Are madly struggling to get free; But that soul is like a frozen sea That silent lies in ice and snow, Though the deep waters boom below! And yet a clear and silvery well, By moonlight glimmering in its cell; A river that doth gently sing Around the cygnet's folded wing; A billow on the summer deep
That flows, yet scarcely seems to flow, Not calmer than that lady's sleep, One blessed hour ago!
So, gently as a shepherd lifts From a wreath of drifted snow, A lamb that vainly on a rock Up among the mountain clefts, Bleats unto the heedless flock Sunwards feeding far below.- Even so gently Edith takes The sighing dreamer to her breast, Loving kisses soft and meek Breathing o'er bosom, brow, and cheek, For their own fair, delightful sakes, And lays her lovely limbs at rest; When, stirring like the wondrous flower That blossoms at the midnight hour, And only then-the Lady wakes! From the heavy load set free Of that fearful phantasy, Edderline lifts up her head, And, in the fitful lustre lent
By the lone lamp, gazing round, As listening to some far-off sound, Leans it on her lily hand, In beautiful bewilderment! "Am I in some foreign land?
And who art thou that takest thy stand Like a minister of grace By the prisoner's haunted bed? Walking mute thy nightly round! Oh! speak-thy voice was like a sound Elsewhere beloved! That pitying face Reminds me of the dead!"
Again she hears her Edith speak- Doubt, fear, and trouble leave her cheek, And suddenly returning Remembrances all bright and fair, Above the darkness of despair, Like morning lights are burning: Even as a gloomy mountain lake From its dark sleep at once doth break, And while afar the mists are driven, In new-born beauty laughs to heaven! So rising slowly from her couch, Like a nun in humblest guise,
With one light and careless touch, O'er the snow above her eyes Her long dishevell'd hair she tricks, And with low sobs of gratitude To Him who chased her dreams away, Down kneels she in the solitude, And with raised hands and eyes doth pray Before the holy crucifix!
"My soul hath been disquieted, And welter'd with the weltering dead! Floating all night with a corse Over high blood-crested waves, Or driven by a fiendish force Down into unfathom'd caves: Blessed be God who rescued me From that wild world of misery! Oh! it is heaven to wake again, To know that I have wept in vain! That life yet warms that noble breast Which I in mortal pangs carest, Hurried along the foaming path, In face of horror, fear, and wrath! Whether his ship in roaring motion Roll tempest-driven o'er the ocean, Or rocking lie in pleasant sleep, Anchor'd beneath the palmy steep, Temper, O God! the sun and air To him, my home-bound Mariner; And gently breathe the midnight dew O'er him and all his gallant crew!"
The lamp is dead, but the morning peep Faintly dawning far away, Slowly, slowly wins its way Through the window buried deep In its gloomy glen of stone- A little point that shines afar,
Like a dim-discover'd star,
When other lights in heaven are none.
To that little cheerful shine
Turn the eyes of Edderline;
And as a cloud that long hath lain Black amid the sullen sky, Suddenly dissolves in rain, And stricken by the sunlight, shines With a thousand gorgeous lines, Blended and braided gloriously- So fair, so pure, so bright appears That kneeling Lady's face of tears, For the rain is fallen, the gloom is gone, And her soul hath risen with the sun.
Hark! the martlet twittering by The crevice, with her twittering brood Beneath some shadowy wall-flower lie, In the high air of solitude! She alone, sky-loving bird, In that lofty clime is heard;
But loftier far from cliff remote,
Up springs the eagle, like a thought, And poised in heaven's resplendent zone, Gazes a thousand fathom down, While his wild and fitful cry Blends together sea and sky. And a thousand songs, I trow, From the waken'd world below, Are ringing through the morning glow.
Music is there on the shore, Softening sweet the billowy roar ; For bold and fair in every weather, The sea-mews shrill now flock together, Or wheeling off in lonely play, Carry their pastimes far away, To little isles and rocks of rest, Scatter'd o'er the ocean's breast,
Where these glad creatures build their nest. Now hymns are heard at every fountain Where the land-birds trim their wings, And boldly booming up the mountain, Where the dewy heath-flower springs, Upon the freshening gales of morn Showers of headlong bees are borne, Till far and wide with harp and horn The balmy desert rings!
This the pensive Lady knows,
So round her lovely frame she throws The cloud-like float of her array, And with a blessing and a prayer She fixeth in her raven hair The jewel that her lover gave, The night before he cross'd the wave To kingdoms far away!
Soft steps are winding down the stair, And now beneath the morning air Her breast breathes strong and free; The sun in his prime glorious hour Is up, and with a purple shower Hath bathed the billowy sea!
Lo! morning's dewy hush divine Hath calm'd the eyes of Edderline! Shaded by the glooms that fall From the old grey castle wall, Or, from the glooms emerging bright, Cloud-like walking through the light, She sends the blessing of her smiles O'er dancing waves and steadfast isles, And, creature though she be of earth, Heaven feels the beauty of her mirth. How seraph-like the silent greeting, Streaming from her dark-blue eyes, At their earliest matin meeting Upwards to the dark-blue skies! Quickly glancing, gliding slowly, Child of mirth or melancholy, As her midnight dream again, Of the hush'd or roaring main,
Comes and goes across her brain. Now she sees the ship returning, Every mast with ensigns burning Star-bright o'er the cloud of sails,
As, queen-like, down the green sea-vales She stoops, or o'er the mountains green Re-ascending like a queen!
Glad the heart of hoary ocean In the beauty of her motion ! Now through midnight's deepest noon, Howling to the wild monsoon,
She sees God's anger flash around her, And the glorious vessel founder
To one vain signal-gun!
While in the lightning's ghastly glow The shipless ocean rolls below, As in the mid-day sun!
Far, far below, in rocky cell Doth a seër-hermit dwell. In solitude and in despair
He sits, with long, black, rusty hair, Face dim as death, and his fix'd eye Red-flashing with futurity.
A holy madman! with no chain But those forged in his burning brain- Shuddering, close beside his feet, To see the frequent winding-sheet- Spite of the water's din, to hear Steps trampling gravewards with a bier- Or like a sweep of wintry weather, Wailing at midnight o'er the heather Cloud-coronachs that wildly rise When far away a chieftain dies.
Down-downwards to his savage cave, By steps the goat doth almost fear To lead her little kids to browse On wild herb that there thinly grows 'Mid spray-showers from the dashing wave So dreadful 'tis the din to hear, The Lady with a quaking prayer Descends, as if upon the air,
Like sea-mew with white rise and fall, Floating o'er a waterfall!
And now doth trembling Edith wait Reluctant at the closing gate, And wipes away her tears; For the Lady motions her to stay, Then with a wan smile sinks away, And, ghost-like, disappears.
THIS writer is better known, both at home and | Barry Cornwall became a great favourite with the in foreign countries, by the appellation of BARRY public. The subject of this tale is derived from CORNWALL, usually prefixed to his works for the inexhaustible Decameron, and it is treated reasons known only to himself. No plausible ex- very happily; but there is a sombre tone runs cuse has been given for his concealment of his through all, which in this writer is not feigned or real name. No biography of this poet has yet assumed, as it has been by others. Ill health is appeared, and little respecting his early life is generally understood to be the cause of that known even by his friends. Bryan Waller Proctor species of melancholy which pervades most of his was born in London, and is of a respectable family works, or perhaps a constitutional tendency that in the northern part of England. He received way. In 1820 appeared his "Marcian Colonna." the first rudiments of his education at Ealing, a This poem is not so felicitous in the plot as in the village near London, and was removed from execution. It has excellencies of the highest thence to Harrow Grammar School, where he remained four years, and numbered among his school-fellows Lord Byron, Mr. Peel, the minister for the home department, and several individuals who subsequently became noted in the world. Dr. Drury was head-master of Harrow, at that time, and his encomiums have been sounded in high terms by more than one of his scholars. This Dr. Drury it was who became the means of the introduction of Kean the actor on the London stage, having seen him acting in Devonshire and conceived a high opinion of his talents.
order; the descriptions of nature are noble, and the passion of love delineated with a rich sense of feeling. "Mirandola" was his next published work; it came out in 1821, well sustaining the author's previous reputation.
The models on which Barry Cornwall has founded his poetic style may be found among the older lyric and dramatic poets of England. Beaumont and Fletcher, Webster, Decker, Marlow, and Massinger, among our writers on the drama, and Milton in the epic walk, he seems to have read with more than common care, and to have studied some portions of their work so closely as to have imitated them unconsciously, as may be
From the school at Harrow, Proctor was sent to the town of Calne, in Wiltshire, where he was placed with a solicitor to learn his business. The observed in his printed works. In stature Proctor solicitor's name was Atherston, a clever and excellent man. With this master he remained four years, and then proceeded to London.
At the time Proctor resided at Calne, several characters well known to the literary world dwelt in the neighbourhood; among them were Crabbe, Moore, and Bowles. Dr. Priestley, the philosopher, once occupied a house opposite to that in which Mr. Atherston resided. Coleridge, after Mr. Atherston quitted it, dwelt in the house where Proctor had undergone his legal probation. This is not a little curious as a coincidence, for it does not appear that any of these celebrated men were natives of the town of Calne, the very aspect of which is as little poetical or literary or philosophic as it can well be.
On leaving Calne and the drudgery of the initiatory part of his profession, the poet became the pupil of a conveyancer in one of the inns of court, it is generally reported of Lincoln's-Inn. He had also determined to go to the bar, but circumstances intervening to change his resolution, Proctor pursued his original profession of a con
The "Dramatic Scenes," published under the assumed name of Barry Cornwall, first appeared in 1815, and about the end of the same year he published his "Sicilian Story." In the short interval which elapsed between these publications,
is below the middle height rather than above. His physiognomy is mild, and displays with that sedateness and melancholy cast which is observable in his poetry, the indications of kindness of heart and an amiable although somewhat of a feeble, rather than masculine character. He is married recently, and much of his time is necessarily occupied with the affairs of business. It is probably owing to this that his appearance before the public has been so rare of late. A page or two in the New Monthly Magazine," or an occasional contribution to some of the literary annuals, are all in which, for several years, his pen is to be recognized by the public.
The poetry of Barry Cornwall, as has been already intimated, is built entirely upon the dramatists of the sixteenth century, and all he writes is deeply imbued with their spirit. There is little or none of their energy it is true, but there is much of their fine character, their pathos, their sadness, and their gentle passion. There is a propensity in Barry Cornwall to select subjects from among the morbid feelings of our nature, or from her erratic wanderings, rather than from her master-pieces in intellect and passion. Of the most perfect humanity he is shy; and even prefers to revel, in one instance, amid the dreams of an insanity which is not the offspring of calamity, but inherent from his heroine's birth, born with (378)
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