Surrey in Captivity.
BY MARY HOWITT.
'WAS a May morning, and the joyous sun
Rose o'er the city with a proud array,
As though he knew the month of flowers begun,
And came bright vested for a holiday:
On the wide river barge and vessel lay,
Each with its pennon floating on the gale;
And garlands hung in honour of the May,
Wreathed round the mast, or o'er the furled sail,
Or scatter'd on the deck, as fancy might prevail.
And quick, on every side, were busy feet,
Eagerly thronging, passing to and fro;
Bands of young dancers gathering in the street;
And, ever and anon, apart and low,
Was heard of melody the quiet flow
As some musician tuned his instrument,
And practised o'er his part for masque or show; And dames and maidens o'er their casements bent, And scatter'd flowers about that a sweet perfume lent.
From every church the pealing bells rang out,
The gay parades were thronging every square,
With flaunting banners, revelry, and rout;
And, like a tide, the gale did music bear,
Now loud, then soften'd; and in that low air
Came, on the listener's ear, the regular tread
Of the gay multitude; the brave, the fair
Pass'd on, the high born and the lowly bred,
All, for one little day, a round of pleasure led.
Who saw that city on that joyous morn
Might deem her people held a truce with care;
What was there then to speak of those forlorn,
Who in her pastimes might not have a share;
Of her best nobles many were not there:
The heart of valour and the arm of might :
The sun shone on the tower in prison, where,
Wailing his hard hap, lay the worthiest knight,
The proudest and the best, at banquet or in fight.
There lay he, the young Surrey,-that brave heart
That knighthood might not peer. He chid the day
That, with its sunny light, could not impart
To him the freedom of its pleasant ray.
Oh, doom unmerited! There, as he lay,
Came on his ear the jocund sounds without;
He thought how once unnoted was the May,
Unless the merry people hail'd with shout
The gallant Surrey there, in revel and in rout.
He thought how he had been the one of all;
The knight in contest never yet unhorsed,
The courtliest gallant in the proudest hall,
His sword and name by no dishonour cross'd ;—
Alone, and captived now, from joy divorced,
The thought of Geraldine some solace lent;
How he, in foreign courts, made chivalrous boast,
Holding her beauty all pre-eminent,
And by his own good arm maintain'd where'er he went.
He thought of her, and of the magic glass
Wherein, by skill of secret science raised,
He saw her pale and faithful, as she was,
His own dear lady worthy to be praised:
He thought of times in memory undefaced— The pleasures of the woods—the royal sport— The cry of hounds—the hart each morning chased— The tennis-ground—the race—the tilting-court— And all the love-known scenes where ladies made resort.
His looks were such as ladies love to see,
For, as his spirit was his bearing bold;
His speech the “mirror of all courtesy ;”
Of such as he romance hath often told;
And in his hand a tablet he did hold,
Wherein he noted down, from time to time,
The heavy thoughts that o'er his spirit roll'd;
Grief seem'd to prey on him, and blight his prime,— His name without a blot, his heart without a crime.
From the dim window of his cell his eye
Gazed on the revel scene that lay below,
Then glanced upon the beautiful blue sky;
The gale blew fresh, 'twas free, he was not so:
He wept awhile the captive's bitter woe—
He sang the captive's bitter fate. Ere long,
Through street and square, moved a procession slow, A coffin'd noble, and a mourning throng,
With murmuring lament for gallant Surrey's wrong!
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
NOW to thy silent presence, night!
Is this my first song offer'd. Oh, to thee That lookest with thy thousand eyes of light-To thee, and thy starry nobility
That float with a delicious murmuring
(Though unheard here) about thy forehead blue;
And as they ride along in order due,
Circling the round globe in their wandering,
To thee their ancient queen and mother sing.
Mother of beauty! veiled queen!
Fear'd and sought, and never seen
Without a heart-imposing feeling,
Whither art thou gently stealing.?
In thy smiling presence, I
Kneel in star-struck idolatry,
And turn me to thine eye, (the moon,)
Fretting that it must change so soon.
Toying with this idle rhyme,
I scorn that bearded villain Time,
Thy old remorseless enemy,
And build my linked verse to thee.
Not dull and cold and dark art thou:
Who that beholds thy clearer brow,
Endiadem'd with gentlest streaks
Of fleecy-silver'd cloud, adorning
Thee, fair as when the young sun 'wakes,
And from his cloudy bondage breaks,
And lights upon the breast of morning,
But must feel thy powers;
Mightier than the storm that lours,
Fairer than the virgin hours
That smile when the young Aurora scatters
Her rose-leaves on the valleys low,
And bids her servant breezes blow.
Not Apollo, when he dies,
In the wild October skies,
Red and stormy; or when he
In his meridian beauty, rides
Over the bosom of the waters,
And turns the blue and burning tides
To silver, is a peer for thee,
In thy full regality.
The Sleeping Figure of Modena.
PON a couch of silk and gold
A pale enchanted lady lies,
And o'er her many a frowning fold
Of crimson shades her closed eyes;
And shadowy creatures round her rise ;
And ghosts of women masqued in woe;
And many a phantom pleasure flies;
And lovers slain-ah! long ago.
The lady, pale as now she sleeps,
An age upon that couch hath lain,
Yet in one spot a spirit keeps
His mansion, like a red-rose stain ;
And, when lovers' ghosts complain,
Blushes like a new-born flower,
Or as some bright dream of pain
Dawneth through the darkest hour.
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