Heard from tower to tower thro’ the island, carried a sorrow,
Felt by all like a private grief, which, sleeping or waking,
Will not be shaken away; but possesses the soul and disturbs it.
There was our late-lost Queen, the nation’s example of virtue;
In whose presence vice was not seen, nor the face of dishonour,
Pure in heart, and spotless in life, and secret in bounty,
Queen, and Mother, and Wife unreproved... The gentle Amelia
Stretch’d her arms to her father there, in tenderness shedding
Tears, such as Angels weep. That hand was toward him extended
Whose last pressure he could not bear, when merciful Nature,
As o’er her dying bed he bent in severest anguish,
Laid on his senses a weight, and suspended the sorrow for ever.
He hath recover’d her now: all, all that was lost is restored him;..
Hour of perfect bliss that o’erpays all earthly affliction!
They are met where Change is not known, nor Sorrow, nor Parting.
Death is subdued, and the Grave, which conquers all, hath been conquer’d.
When I beheld them meet, the desire of my soul overcame me;
And when with harp and voice the loud hosannahs of welcome
Fill’d the rejoicing sky, as the happy company enter’d
Through the everlasting Gates; I, too, press’d forward to enter:...
But the weight of the body withheld me. I stoopt to the fountain,
Eager to drink thereof, and to put away all that was earthly.
Darkness came over me then at the chilling touch of the water,
And my feet methought sunk, and I fell precipitate. Starting,
Then I awoke, and beheld the mountains in twilight before me,
Dark and distinct; and instead of the rapturous sound of hosannahs,
Heard the bell from the tower, toll! toll! thro’ the silence of evening.
OLIVER NEWMAN: A NEW ENGLAND TALE
AN UNFINISHED EPIC POEM
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
I. FUNERAL AT SEA.
II. THE VOYAGE.
III. CAPE COD.
IV. THE CAPTIVES RANSOMED.
V. THE PORTRAIT.
VI. FUTURE PROSPECTS.
VII. THE INDIAN WAR.
VIII. PARTING WORDS.
IX. JOURNEY THROUGH THE FOREST.
X.
APPENDIX TO OLIVER NEWMAN.
PREFACE.
THE principal Poem of this volume, OLIVER NEWMAN, was well known to many friends of the late Poet Laureate: and it is presumed that those persons at least, who have heard him read portions of it, with his peculiar and highly expressive intonation, will welcome with pleasure, not however unmingled with melancholy, this his last poetical work, imperfect as it is. Oliver Newman was not a rapid production: the first idea of it seems to have arisen in his mind in 1811; it was commenced in January, 1815; and having been continued at different intervals, amid the pressure of more urgent business, received its last additions in September, 1829. Although this is not the place to speak critically, one observation perhaps may be pardoned — that this poem seems to possess in a considerable degree a quality which some of the Author’s other poems were judged by several critics to be deficient in, viz., a human interest: we feel that we are among persons of a like nature with ourselves, and their sufferings touch the heart. A general account of the story upon which it is based, and the intended plan, has been drawn up from the Author’s notes, and printed as an Appendix. It was thought better to do this, than to leave the reader entirely without information: yet the sketch is presented with considerable misgivings; because it is likely, that to some persons, notwithstanding that the Author’s own words are used wherever it is possible, the dry bones of a poem may seem not only uninteresting, but even repulsive. Neither can such a sketch be certainly a true representation of the mere story of the perfect work; because, even of the few particulars there noted, several might, in the working out of the poem, be altered or expunged.
Of the other pieces here collected, the “Fragmentary Thoughts occasioned by his Son’s Death,” and the “Short Passages of Scripture,” are printed as much for the purpose of giving fresh proof of the purity and elevation of his character, as for their own intrinsic beauty. His son Herbert — of whom he wrote thus in the Colloquies, “I called to mind my hopeful H — too, so often the sweet companion of my morning walks to this very spot, in whom I had fondly thought my better part should have survived me, and
‘With whom it seem’d my very life
Went half away’”
died 17th April, 1816, being about ten years old, a boy of remarkable genius and sweetness of disposition.
These Fragments bear a date at their commencement, 3rd May, 1816, but do not seem all written at the same time. The Author at one time contemplated founding upon them a considerable work, of a meditative and deeply serious cast. But, although he, like Schiller, after the vanishing of his Ideals, always found “Employment, the never-tiring,” one of his truest friends, — yet this particular form of employment, which seemed at first attractive to him, had not, when tried, the soothing effect upon his feelings which was needful; and in March, 1817, he writes, that he “had not recovered heart enough to proceed with it.”
Schiller’s “Die Ideale,” Merivale’s translation, p. 61. —
“Thou too, his mate, with him conspiring
To quell the bosom’s rising storm,
Employment — thou, the never-tiring,
Who toilsome shap’st, nor break’st the form.”
The “Passages of Scripture” are found in one of his latest note-books: they were evidently not written with any view to publication, but arose simply from the pure pleasure which he took in marking down, after his own fashion, verses that attracted his poetical taste, either by the force of some peculiar idea, or by the musical harmony of the words in our English version. Moreover, these passages seem illustrative of the structure and choice of language in some of his poems; for they lead us to observe in them also the effects of habitual study of the Holy Scriptures, evidenced not only by the references, which are frequently given, but also, which is more important, by the apparently unconscious use of a diction borrowed from the poetical and imaginative portions of the Bible.
It was natural that a writer of so energetic a mind as the late Poet Laureate, would leave many unfinished projects. Besides the Fragments here published, he had commenced a poem on “Robin Hood,” the manuscript of which is not among his other poetical papers. He had also thought of a series of “Inscriptions in honour of English Poets,” the notice of which, as it is short, may be here inserted, for the use of those who may take pleasure in cultivating that style, of which Akenside is the prototype.
“Tuesday, 6th Sept. 1814.
“Inscriptions for the Poetical Ground of these Kingdoms; i e., a tribute of respect to all those poets who deserve it. This, I think, would be a worthy task.
Chaucer — at Woodstock? Blenheim will become an empty name, and that palace a pile of ruins, while he remains.
Malvern — Piers Ploughman.
Lydgate — at Bury.
Spenser — by the Mole.
Surrey — at his place of burial, if that be known; otherwise, at the chief seat of the Howards.
Amwell — Warner and Walton and Scott.
T. Warton — by the Cherwell.
Rokeby — Mason and Scott and Morritt himself.
Davenant — Cowes Castle.
Sylvester — Donnington; buried at Middleburg.”
Lastly, it may be not unfitly recorded, that some notes exist, preparatory to a poem in honour of her Majesty Queen Victoria. During the first years of this reign, severe reflections were from time to time made upon the Poet Laureate, for his silence.
Now, the solemn events which have happened since that time, allow us to suppose that the Spirit of Poe
try was then too dead within him, to permit him to undertake this new labour.
It only remains to be said, that these poems are printed as he left them; and that, as none of them had received his final corrections for the press, there may be defects of language which he himself would have removed. At the same time it is honestly avowed that, deservedly high as his reputation, both as a poet and a man, has stood among the writers of his generation — now, alas! fast departing from us, — a strong confidence is felt that this small volume will in no way derogate from it; and in this hope it is committed to the world.
Herbert Hill.
Warwick, Nov. 4. 1845.
OLIVER NEWMAN.
A NEW-ENGLAND TALE.
I. FUNERAL AT SEA.
The summer sun is riding high
Amid a bright and cloudless sky;
Beneath whose deep o’er-arching blue
The circle of the Atlantic sea,
Reflecting back a deeper hue,
Is heaving peacefully.
The winds are still, the ship with idle motion
Rocks gently on the gentle ocean;
Loose hang her sails, awaiting when the breeze
Again shall wake to waft her on her way.
Glancing beside, the dolphins, as they play,
Their gorgeous tints suffused with gold display;
And gay bonitos in their beauty glide:
With arrowy speed, in close pursuit,
They through the azure waters shoot;
A feebler shoal before them in affright
Spring from the wave, and in short flight,
On wet and plumeless wing essay
The aërial element:
The greedy followers, on the chase intent,
Dart forward still with keen and upturn’d sight,
And, to their proper danger blind the while,
Heed not the sharks, which have for many a day
Hover’d behind the ship, presentient of their prey.
So fair a season might persuade
Yon crowd to try the fisher’s trade;
Yet from the stern no line is hung,
Nor bait by eager sea-boy flung;
Nor doth the watchful sailor stand
Alert to strike, harpoon in hand.
Upon the deck assembled, old and young,
Bareheaded all in reverence, see them there;
Behold where, hoisted half-mast high,
The English flag hangs mournfully;
And hark! what solemn sounds are these
Heard in the silence of the seas?
“Man that is born of woman, short his time,
And full of woe! he springeth like a flower,
Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime,
Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour;
Never doth he continue in one stay,
But like a shadow doth he pass away.”
It was that awful strain, which saith
How in the midst of life we are in death:
“Yet not for ever, O Lord God most High!
Saviour! yet not for ever shall we die!”
Ne’er from a voice more eloquent did prayer
Arise, with fervent piety sincere.
To every heart, of all the listening crew,
It made its way, and drew
Even from the hardy seaman’s eyes a tear.
“God,” he pursued, “hath taken to himself
The soul of our departed sister dear;
We then commit her body to the deep;”
He paused, and, at the word,
The coffin’s plunge was heard.
A female voice of anguish then brake forth
With sobs convulsive of a heart opprest.
It was a daughter’s agonising cry:
But soon hath she represt
The fit of passionate grief,
And listening patiently,
In that religious effort gain’d relief.
Beside the grey-hair’d captain doth she stand;
One arm is linked in his; the other hand
Hid with the handkerchief her face, and prest
Her eyes, whence burning tears continuous flow.
Down hung her head upon her breast,
And thus the maiden stood in silent woe.
Again was heard the preacher’s earnest voice:
It bade the righteous in their faith rejoice,
Their sure and certain hope in Christ; for blest
In Him are they, who from their labours rest.
It rose into a high thanksgiving strain,
And praised the Lord, who from a world of pain
Had now been pleased to set his servant free;
Hasten thy kingdom, Lord, that all may rest in thee!
In manhood’s fairest prime was he who pray’d,
Even in the flower and beauty of his youth.
These holy words and fervent tones portray’d
The feelings of his inmost soul sincere;
For scarce two months had fill’d their short career
Since from the grave of her who gave him birth
That sound had struck upon his ear;
When to the doleful words of “Earth to earth.”
Its dead response the senseless coffin gave: —
Oh! who can e’er forget that echo of the grave!
Now in the grace of God dismiss’d,
They separate as they may,
To narrow limits of the ship confined:
Nor did the impression lightly pass away,
Even from the unreflecting sailor’s mind.
They pitied that sweet maiden, all bereft,
Alone on shipboard among strangers left.
They spake of that young preacher, day by day
How while the fever held its fatal course,
He minister’d at the patient sufferer’s side,
Holding of faith and hope his high discourse;
And how, when all had join’d in humble prayer,
She solemnly confided to his care,
Till to her father’s hands she could be given,
Her child forlorn, — and blest him ere she died.
They call’d to mind, how peaceful, how serene,
Like one who seem’d already half in heaven,
After that act she yielded up her breath;
And sure they wish’d their end like her’s, I ween,
And for a comforter like him in death.
II. THE VOYAGE.
THE maiden on her narrow bed
To needful solitude hath fled;
He who perform’d the funeral prayer
Leans o’er the vessel’s head, and there
Contemplating the sea and sky,
He muses of eternity.
The captain paces to and fro
The deck with steady step and slow,
And at his side a passenger,
Conversing as they go.
Their talk was of that maid forlorn,
The mournful service of the morn,
And the young man, whose voice of heartfelt faith
Breathed hope and comfort o’er the bed of death.
“Captain,” quoth Randolph, “you have borne,
Ere this, I ween, to Boston’s shore,
Saints by the dozen, and the score:
But if he preach as he can pray,
The Boston men will bless the day
On which you brought this treasure o’er:
A youth like him they well may call
A son of thunder, or a second Paul.”
Thereat the captain smiled, and said,
Oh hang the broad face and round head,
Hard as iron, and heavy as lead!
I have whistled for a wind ere now,
And thought it cheap to crack a sail,
If it sent the canting breed below.
Jonah was three days in the whale,
But I have had fellows here, I trow,
With lungs of brazen
power,
Who would not fail to preach a whale
Dead sick in half an hour.
One Sunday, when on the banks we lay,
These Roundheads, think ye, what did they?
Because, they said, ‘t was the sabbath day,
And hallowed by the Lord,
They took the fish, which their servants caught,
And threw them overboard.
Newman is made of different clay;
He walks in his own quiet way:
And yet beneath that sober mien
Gleams of a spirit may be seen,
Which show what temper lies supprest
Within his meek and unambitious breast:
He seemeth surely one of gentle seed,
Whose sires for many an age were wont to lead
In courts and councils, and in camps to bleed.”
Randolph replied, “He rules his tongue too well
Ever of those from whom he sprung to tell:
Whatever rank they once possessed
In camps and councils, is, I ween, suppress’d
In prudent silence. Little love that pair
Could to the royal Martyr bear,
Be sure, who named their offspring Oliver.
Yon have mark’d that volume, over which he seems
To pore and meditate, like one who dreams,
Pondering upon the page with thought intense,
That nought, which passes round him, can from thence
His fix’d attention move:
He carries it about his person still,
Nor lays it from him for a moment’s time.
At my request, one day, with no good will,
He lent it me: what, think ye, did it prove?
A rigmarole of verses without rhyme,
About the apple, and the cause of sin,
By the blind old traitor Milton! and within,
Upon the cover, he had written thus,
As if some saintly relic it had been,
Which the fond owner gloried in possessing:
‘Given me by my most venerable friend,
The author, with his blessing!
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 191