The thickets, at her touch, gave way, and made
A wake of moonlight through their deepest shade.
Anon he found himself on Newbury's plain,
Walking among the dying and the slain;
At every step in blood his foot was dyed,
He heard expiring groans on every side.
The battle-thunder had roll'd by; the smoke
Was vanish'd; calm and bright the morning broke,
While such estrangement o'er his mind was cast,
As though another day and night had past.
There, midst the nameless crowd, oft met his view
An eye, a countenance, which Falkland knew,
But knew not him ;-that eye to ice congeal'd,
That countenance by death's blank signet seal'd:
Rebel and royalist alike laid low,
Where friend embraced not friend, but foe grasp'd foe;
Falkland had tears for each, and patriot sighs,
For both were Britons in that Briton's eyes.
Silent before him trod the lofty dame,
Breathlessly looking round her, till they came
Where shatter'd fences mark'd a narrow road:
Tracing that line, with prostrate corpses strow'd,
She turn'd their faces upward, one by one,
Till, suddenly, the newly-risen sun
Shot through the level air a ruddy glow,
That fell upon a visage white as snow;
Then with a groan of agony, so wild,
As if the soul within her spake,—“ My child!
My child!" she said, and pointing, shrinking back,
Made way for Falkland.-Prone along the track
(A sight at once that warm'd and thrill'd with awe)
The perfect image of himself he saw,
Shape, feature, limb, the arms, the dress he wore,
And one wide, honourable wound before.
Then flash'd the fire of pride from Falkland's eye,
"Tis glorious for our country thus to die;
'Tis sweet to leave an everlasting name,
A heritage of clear and virtuous fame."
While thoughts like these his maddening brain possess'd,
And lightning pulses thunder'd through his breast;
While Falkland living stood o'er Falkland dead,
Fresh at his feet the corse's death-wound bled,
The eye met his with inexpressive glance,
Like the sleep-walker's in benumbing trance,
And o'er the countenance of rigid clay,
The flush of life came quick, then pass'd away;
A momentary pang convulsed the chest,
As though the heart, awaking from unrest,
Broke with the effort;-all again was still;
Chill through his tingling veins the blood ran, chill.
"Can this," he sigh'd, "be virtuous fame and clear?
Ah! what a field of fratricide is here!
Perish who may,-'tis England, England falls;
Triumph who will,—his vanquish'd country calls,
As I have done, as I will never cease,
While I have breath and being-Peace! peace! peace!"
Here stoop'd the matron o'er the dead man's face,
Kiss'd the cold lips, then caught in her embrace
The living Falkland;-as he turn'd to speak,
He felt his mother's tears upon his cheek:
He knew her, own'd her, and at once forgot
All but her earliest love, and his first lot.
Her looks, her tones, her sweet caresses, then
Brought infancy and fairy land again,
-Youth in the morn and maidenhood of life,
Ere fortune curst his father's house with strife,
And in an age when nature's laws were changed,
Mother and son, as heaven from earth, estranged.*
“Oh, Falkland! Falkland!" when her voice found speech,
The lady cried; then took a hand of each,
And joining clasp'd them in her own,-"My son !
Behold thyself, for thou and he are one."
*There had been unhappy divisions in the family, both with respect to an inheritance which Falkland held from his grandfather, and the religion of his mother, who was a Roman Catholic.
The dead man's hand grasp'd Falkland's with such force,
He fell transform'd into that very corse,
As though the wound which slew his counterpart
That moment sent the death-shot through his heart.
When from that ecstasy he oped his eyes,
He thought his soul translated to the skies;
The battle-field had disappear'd; the scene
Had changed to beauty, silent and serene;
City nor country look'd as heretofore;
A hundred years and half a hundred more
Had travell'd o'er him while entranced he lay;
England appear'd as England at this day,
In arts, arms, commerce, enterprise, and power,
Beyond the dreams of his devoutest hour,
When, with prophetic call, the patriot brought
Ag
Ages to come before creative thought.
With doubt, fear, joy, he look'd above, beneath,
Felt his own pulse, inhaled, and tried to breathe:
Next raised an arm, advanced a foot, then broke
Silence, yet only in a whisper spoke :-
"My mother! are we risen from the tomb?
Is this the morning of the day of doom?"
No answer came; his mother was not there,
But, tall and beautiful beyond compare,
One, who might well have been an angel's bride,
Were angels mortal, glitter'd at his side.
It seem'd some mighty wizard had unseal'd
The book of fate, and in that hour reveal'd
The object of a passion all his own,
-A lady unexistent, or unknown,
Whose saintly image, in his heart enshrined,
Was but an emanation of his mind,
The ideal form of glory, goodness, truth,
Imbodied now in all the flush of youth,
Yet not too exquisite to look upon :
He kneel'd to kiss her hand, the spell was gone.
Even while his brain the dear illusion cross'd,
Her form of soft humanity was lost.
-Then, nymph nor goddess, of poetic birth,
E'er graced Jove's heaven, or stept on classic earth,
Like her in majesty ;-the stars came down
To wreathe her forehead with a fadeless crown;
The sky enrobed her with ethereal blue,
And girt with orient clouds of many a hue;
The sun, enamour'd of that loveliest sight,
So veil'd his face with her benigner light,
That woods and mountains, valleys, rocks, and streams,
Were only visible in her pure beams.
While Falkland, pale and trembling with surprise,
Admired the change, her stature seem'd to rise,
Till from the ground, on which no shadow spread,
To the arch'd firmament she rear'd her head;
And in th' horizon's infinite expanse,
He saw the British islands at a glance,
With intervening and encircling seas,
O'er which, from every port, with every breeze,
Exulting ships were sailing to all realms,
Whence vessels came, with strangers at their helms,
On Albion's shores all climes rejoiced to meet,
And pour their native treasures at her feet.
Then Falkland, in that glorious dame, descried
Not a dead parent, nor a phantom bride,
But her who ruled his soul, in either part,
At once the spouse and mother of his heart,
-His country, thus personified, in grace
And grandeur unconceived, before his face.
Then spake a voice, as from the primal sphere,
Heard by his spirit rather than his ear:—
"Henceforth let civil war for ever cease;
Henceforth, my sons and daughters, dwell in peace;
Amidst the ocean-waves that never rest,
My lovely Isle, be thou the halcyon's nest;
Amidst the nations, evermore in arms,
Be thou a haven, safe from all alarms;
Alone immovable 'midst ruins stand,
Th' unfailing hope of every failing land:
To thee for refuge kings enthroned repair;
Slaves flock to breathe the freedom of thine air.
Hither, from chains and yokes, let exiles bend
Their footsteps; here the friendless find a friend;
The country of mankind shall Britain be,
The home of peace, the whole world's sanctuary.”
The pageant fled; 'twas but a dream: he woke,
And found himself beneath the Druid-oak,
Where first the phantom on his vigil broke.
Around him gleam'd the morn's reviving light;
But distant trumpets summon'd to the fight,
And Falkland slept among the slain at night.
On the achievement of Arnold de Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, in which the Swiss insurgents secured the freedom of their country, against the power of Austria, in the fourteenth century.
"MAKE way for liberty!" he cried,
Made way for liberty, and died.
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood;
A wall,-where every conscious stone
Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown,
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear:
A wood,-like that enchanted grove*
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possess'd
A spirit imprison'd in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Might startle into hideous life:
So still, so dense, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
* Gerusalemme Liberata, canto xviii.
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