Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 20 No. 556 July 7 1832 by Various

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PETITION TO TIME.

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three--

THE SPIRIT OF SONG-WRITING.

LORD BYRON'S EARLY POEMS.

THE ADIEU.

Adieu, thou hill! where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow; Where science seeks each loitering boy With knowledge to endow. Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, Partners of former bliss or woes; No more through Ida's path we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day.

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Where learning robed in sable reigns, And melancholy pale. Ye comrades of the jovial hour, Ye tenants of the classic bower, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu! while memory still is mine, For offerings on oblivion's shrine, These scenes must be effaced.

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime, Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home?

Hall of my sires! a long farewell; Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view; The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy hall Forgets its wonted simple note; But yet the lyre retains the strings, And sometimes on Aeolian wings, In dying strains may float.

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet along whose rippling surge, My youthful limbs were wont to urge At noontide heat their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force.

And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise, and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd: Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my friend! whose gentle love Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above Description's power of words! Still near my breast thy gift I wear, Which sparkled once with feeling's tear. Of Love, the pure, the sacred gem; Our souls were equal, and our lot In that dear moment quite forgot; Let Pride alone condemn!

All, all is dark and cheerless now! No smile of Love's deceit Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Can bid Life's pulses beat: Not e'en the hope of future fame Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Mine is a short inglorious race, To humble in the dust my face, And mingle with the dead.

Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart: On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the earth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, My life a short and vulgar dream: Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My fate is Lethe's stream.

Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven; There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven, To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; To Him address thy trembling prayer: He who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although his meanest care.

Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calms't the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.

Harrow.

The river Grete at Southwell.

Mary Duff.

Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

Thou power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part, Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return--alas, never!

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blast; 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early affection and love is o'ercast: Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet; The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.

RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS

FUNERAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

The death of William, almost every reader knows, was occasioned by a hurt in the belly from the pummel of his saddle, while reducing the town of Mantes to ashes, at Rouen on Sep. 9, 1086, in the 63rd year of his age and 21st of his reign.

The king's decease was the signal for general consternation throughout the metropolis of Normandy. The citizens, panic struck, ran to and fro as if intoxicated, or as if the town were upon the point of being taken by assault. Each asked counsel of his neighbour, and each anxiously turned his thoughts to the concealing of his property. When the alarm had in some measure subsided, the monks and clergy made a solemn procession to the abbey of St. George, where they offered their prayers for the repose of the soul of the departed duke: and Archbishop William commanded that the body should be carried to Caen, to be interred in the church of St. Stephen, which William had founded. But the lifeless king was now deserted by all who had participated in his bounty. Every one of his brethren and relations had left him; nor was there even a servant to be found to perform the last offices to his departed lord. The care of the obsequies was finally undertaken by Herluin, a knight of that district, who, moved by the love of God and the honour of his nation, provided at his own expense, embalmers and bearers, and a hearse, and conveyed the corpse to the Seine, whence it was carried by land and water to the place of its destination.

Upon the arrival of the funeral train at Caen, it was met by Gislebert, bishop of Evreux, then abbot of St. Stephen's, at the head of his monks, attended by a numerous throng of clergy and laity; but scarcely had the bier been brought within the gates, when the report was spread that a dreadful fire had broken out in another part of the town, and the duke's remains were a second time deserted. The monks alone remained; and, fearful and resolute, they bore their founder "with candle, with book, and with knell," to his last home. Ordericus Vitalis enumerates the principal prelates and barons assembled upon this occasion; but he makes no mention of the Conqueror's son Henry, who, according to William of Jumieges, was the only one worthy of succeeding such a father. Mass had now been performed, and the body was about to be committed to the ground, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," when, previously to this closing part of the ceremony, Gislebert mounted the pulpit, and delivered an ovation in honour of the deceased. He praised his valour, which had so widely extended the limits of the Norman dominion; his ability, which had elevated the nation to the highest pitch of glory; his equity in the administration of justice; his firmness in correcting abuses; and his liberality towards the monks and clergy; then finally addressing the people, he besought them to intercede with the Almighty for the soul of their prince. At this moment, one Asselin, an obscure individual, starting from the crowd, exclaimed with a loud voice, "the ground upon which you are standing was the site of my father's dwelling. This man, for whom you ask our prayers, took it by force from my parent; by violence he seized, by violence he retained it; and, contrary to all law and justice, he built upon it this church, wherein we are assembled. Publicly, therefore, in the sight of God and man, do I claim my inheritance, and protest against the body of the plunderer being covered with my turf." The appeal was attended with instant effect: bishops and nobles united in their entreaties with Asselin; they admitted the justice of his claim; they pacified him; they paid him sixty shillings on the spot by way of recompense for the place of sepulture; and, finally, they satisfied him for the rest of the land.

But the remarkable incidents doomed to attend upon this burial were not yet at an end; for at the time when they were laying the corpse in the sarcophagus, and were bending it with some force, which they were compelled to do, in consequence of the coffin having been made too short, the body, which was extremely corpulent, burst, and so intolerable a stench issued from the grave, that all the perfumes which arose from all the censers of the priests and acolytes were of no avail; and the rites were concluded in haste, and the assembly, struck with horror, returned to their homes.

The latter part of this story accords but ill with what De Bourgueville relates. We learn from this author, that four hundred and thirty years subsequent to the death of the Conqueror, a Roman cardinal, attended by an archbishop and bishop, visited the town of Caen, and that his eminence having expressed a wish to see the body of the duke, the monks yielded to his curiosity, the tomb was opened, and the corpse discovered in so perfect a state that the cardinal caused a portrait to be taken from the lifeless features. It is not worth while now to inquire into the truth of this story, or the fidelity of the resemblance. The painting has disappeared in the course of time: it hung for awhile against the walls of the church, opposite to the monument, but it was stolen during the tumults caused by the Huguenots, and was broken into two pieces, in which state De Bourgueville saw it a few years afterwards, in the hands of a Calvinist, one Peter Hode, the gaoler at Caen, who used it in the double capacity of a table and a door. The worthy magistrate states, that he kept the picture, "because the abbey-church was demolished."

The melancholy end of the Conqueror, the strange occurrences at his interment, the violation of his grave, the dispersion of his remains, and the demolition and final removal of his monument, are circumstances calculated to excite melancholy emotions in the mind of every one, whatever his condition in life. In all these events, the religious man traces the hand of retributive justice; the philosopher regards the nullity of sublunary grandeur; the historian finds matter for serious reflection; the poet for affecting narrative; and the moralist for his tale.

J.R.S.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE PICNIC AT TEMPE.

"In her dressing room," replied Venus, "trying on some of my new beautifying inventions."

"Ah," smiled Jupiter, "you women are never easy but when you're beautifying yourselves: well, go and tell her I think we may as well take a trip down to Tempe, by way of employment this hot day; and send Iris to tell all the other gods to meet us there."

Away tripped Venus to execute her commission, and the Thunderer turned again to doze; but suddenly a thought struck him: "Here, Pallas, go and borrow Mars's curricle for Juno and myself to ride in, for it is much too hot to think of walking, such a day as this, and tell him to put some bottles of nectar in the driving box, d'ye hear?"

"Here's a pretty note," said Jupiter, and he proceeded to read it aloud for the amusement of the company--

"Dear Jove,

"Knowing you are going to have a feast at Tempe I have sent my favourite Cerberus to pick up the crumbs as he gets but poor living in the shades here at Tartarus. Proserpine sends her love to Ceres.

"Yours ever,

"PLUTO."

N.B. "Send Cerberus back at night."

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