Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 1. SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY, by GEORGE CRABBE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 1. SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Within a village, many a mile from town
Last Line: So pass'd the happy boy, that day at silford hall.


WITHIN a village, many a mile from town,
A place of small resort and no renown; --
Save that it form'd a way, and gave a name
TO SILFORD HALL, it made no claim to fame; --
It was the gain of some, the pride of all,
That travellers stopt to ask for SILFORD HALL.
Small as it was, the place could boast a School,
In which Nathaniel Perkin bore the rule.
Not mark'd for learning deep, or talents rare,
But for his varying tasks and ceaseless care;
Some forty boys, the sons of thrifty men,
He taught to read, and part to use the pen;
While, by more studious care, a favourite few
Increased his pride -- for if the Scholar knew
Enough for praise, say what the Teacher's due? --
These to his presence, slates in hand, moved on,
And a grim smile their feats in figures won.
This Man of Letters woo'd in early life
The Vicar's maiden, whom he made his wife.
She too can read, as by her song she proves --
The song Nathaniel made about their loves:
Five rosy girls, and one fair boy, increased
The Father's care, whose labours seldom ceased.
No day of rest was his. If, now and then,
His boys for play laid by the book and pen,
For Lawyer Slow there was some deed to write,
Or some young farmer's letter to indite,
Or land to measure, or, with legal skill,
To frame some yeoman's widow's peevish will;
And on the Sabbath, -- when his neighbours drest,
To hear their duties, and to take their rest --
Then, when the Vicar's periods ceased to flow,
Was heard Nathaniel, in his seat below.
Such were his labours; but the time is come
When his son Peter clears the hours of gloom,
And brings him aid: though yet a boy, he shares
In staid Nathaniel's multifarious cares.
A king his father, he, a prince, has rule --
The first of subjects, viceroy of the school:
But though a prince within that realm he reigns,
Hard is the part his duteous soul sustains.
He with his Father, o'er the furrow'd land,
Draws the long chain in his uneasy hand,
And neatly forms at home, what there they rudely plann'd.
Content, for all his labour, if he gains
Some words of praise, and sixpence for his pains.
Thus many a hungry day the Boy has fared,
And would have ask'd a dinner, had he dared.
When boys are playing, he, for hours of school
Has sums to set, and copy-books to rule;
When all are met, for some sad dunce afraid,
He, by allowance, lends his timely aid --
Taught at the student's failings to connive,
Yet keep his Father's dignity alive:
For ev'n Nathaniel fears, and might offend,
If too severe, the farmer, now his friend;
Or her, that farmer's lady, who well knows
Her boy is bright, and needs nor threats nor blows.
This seem'd to Peter hard; and he was loth,
T' obey and rule, and have the cares of both --
To miss the master's dignity, and yet,
No portion of the school-boy's play to get.
To him the Fiend, as once to Launcelot, cried,
'Run from thy wrongs!' -- 'Run where?' his fear replied:
'Run!' -- said the Tempter, 'if but hard thy fare,
Hard is it now -- it may be mended there.'
But still, though tempted, he refused to part,
And felt the Mother clinging at his heart.
Nor this alone -- he, in that weight of care,
Had help, and bore it as a man should bear.
A drop of comfort in his cup was thrown;
It was his treasure, and it was his own.
His Father's shelves contained a motley store
Of letter'd wealth; and this he might explore.
A part his mother in her youth had gain'd,
A part Nathaniel from his club obtain'd,
And part -- a well-worn kind -- from sire to son remain'd.
He sought his Mother's hoard, and there he found
Romance in sheets, and poetry unbound;
Soft Tales of Love, which never damsel read,
But tears of pity stain'd her virgin bed.
There were Jane Shore and Rosamond the Fair,
And humbler heroines frail as these were there;
There was a tale of one forsaken Maid,
Who till her death the work of vengeance stay'd;
Her Lover, then at sea, while round him stood
A dauntless crew, the angry ghost pursued;
In a small boat, without an oar or sail,
She came to call him, nor would force avail,
Nor prayer; but, conscience-stricken, down he leapt,
And o'er his corse the closing billows slept;
All vanish'd then! but of the crew were some,
Wondering whose ghost would on the morrow come.
A learned Book was there, and in it schemes
How to cast Fortunes and interpret Dreams;
Ballads were there of Lover's bliss or bale,
The Kitchen Story, and the Nursery Tale.
His hungry mind disdain'd not humble food,
And read with relish keen of Robin Hood;
Of him, all-powerful made by magic gift,
And Giants slain -- of mighty Hickerthrift;
Through Crusoe's Isle delighted had he stray'd,
Nocturnal visits had to witches paid,
Gliding through haunted scenes, enraptured and afraid.
A loftier shelf with real books was graced,
Bound, or part bound, and ranged in comely taste;
Books of high mark, the mind's more solid food,
Which some might think the owner understood;
But Fluxions, Sections, Algebraic lore,
Our Peter left for others to explore,
And quickly turning to a favourite kind,
Found, what rejoiced him at his heart to find.
Sir Walter wrote not then, or He by whom
Such gain and glory to Sir Walter come --
That Fairy-Helper, by whose secret aid,
Such views of life are to the world convey'd --
As inspiration known in after-times,
The sole assistant in his prose or rhymes.
But there were fictions wild that please the boy,
Which men, too, read, condemn, reject, enjoy --
Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales were there,
One volume each, and both the worse for wear;
There by Quarles' Emblems, Esop's Fables stood,
The coats in tatters, and the cuts in wood.
There, too, 'The English History,' by the pen
Of Doctor Cooke, and other learned men,
In numbers, sixpence each; by these was seen,
And highly prized, the Monthly Magazine; --
Not such as now will men of taste engage,
But the cold gleanings of a former age,
Scraps cut from sermons, scenes removed from plays,
With heads of heroes famed in Tyburn's palmy days.
The rest we pass -- though Peter pass'd them not,
But here his cares and labours all forgot:
Stain'd, torn, and blotted every noble page,
Stood the chief poets of a former age --
And of the present; not their works complete,
But in such portions as on bulks we meet,
The refuse of the shops, thrown down upon the street.
There Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton found a place,
With some a nameless, some a shameless race,
Which many a weary walker resting reads,
And, pondering o'er the short relief, proceeds,
While others lingering pay the written sum,
Half loth, but longing for delight to come.
Of the Youth's morals we would something speak;
Taught by his Mother what to shun or seek:
She show'd the heavenly way, and in his youth
Press'd on his yielding mind the Gospel truth,
How weak is man, how much to ill inclined,
And where his help is placed, and how to find.
These words of weight sank deeply in his breast,
And awful Fear and holy Hope imprest.
He shrank from vice, and at the startling view,
As from an adder in his path, withdrew.
All else was cheerful. Peter's easy mind
To the gay scenes of village life inclined.
The lark that soaring sings his notes of joy,
Was not more lively than th' awaken'd boy.
Yet oft with this a softening sadness dwelt,
While, feeling thus, he marvell'd why he felt.
'I am not sorry,' said the Boy, 'but still,
The tear will drop -- I wonder why it will!'
His books, his walks, his musing, morn and eve,
Gave such impressions as such minds receive;
And with his moral and religious views
Wove the wild fancies of an Infant-Muse,
Inspiring thoughts that he could not express,
Obscure sublime! his secret happiness.
Oft would he strive for words, and oft begin
To frame in verse the views he had within;
But ever fail'd: for how can words explain
The unform'd ideas of a teeming brain?
Such was my Hero, whom I would portray
In one exploit -- the Hero of a Day.
At six miles' distance from his native town
Stood Silford Hall, a seat of much renown --
Computed miles, such weary travellers ride,
When they in chance wayfaring men confide.
Beauty and grandeur were within; around,
Lawn, wood, and water; the delicious ground
Had parks where deer disport, had fields where game abound.
Fruits of all tastes in spacious gardens grew;
And flowers of every scent and every hue,
That native in more favour'd climes arise,
Are here protected from th' inclement skies.
To this fair place, with mingled pride and shame,
This lad of learning without knowledge came --
Shame for his conscious ignorance -- and pride
To this fair seat in this gay style to ride.
The cause that brought him was a small account,
His father's due, and he must take the amount,
And sign a stamp'd receipt! this done, he might
Look all around him, and enjoy the sight.
So far to walk was, in his mother's view,
More than her darling Peter ought to do;
Peter indeed knew more, but he would hide
His better knowledge, for he wish'd to ride;
So had his father's nag, a beast so small,
That if he fell, he had not far to fall.
His fond and anxious mother in his best
Her darling child for the occasion drest:
All in his coat of green she clothed her boy,
And stood admiring with a mother's joy:
Large was it made and long, as meant to do
For Sunday-service, when he older grew --
Not brought in daily use in one year's wear or two.
White was his waistcoat, and what else he wore
Had clothed the lamb or parent ewe before.
In all the mother show'd her care or skill;
A riband black she tied beneath his frill;
Gave him his stockings, white as driven snow,
And bade him heed the miry way below;
On the black varnish of the comely shoe,
Shone the large buckle of a silvery hue.
Boots he had worn, had he such things possest --
But bootless grief! -- he was full proudly drest;
Full proudly look'd, and light he was of heart,
When thus for Silford Hall prepared to start.
Nathaniel's self with joy the stripling eyed,
And gave a shilling with a father's pride;
Rules of politeness too with pomp he gave,
And show'd the lad how scholars should behave.
Ere yet he left her home, the Mother told --
For she had seen -- what things he should behold.
There, she related, her young eyes had view'd
Stone figures shaped like naked flesh and blood,
Which, in the hall and up the gallery placed,
Were proofs, they told her, of a noble taste;
Nor she denied -- but, in a public hall,
Her judgment taken, she had clothed them all.
There, too, were station'd, each upon its seat,
Half forms of men, without their hands and feet;
These and what more within that hall might be
She saw, and oh! how long'd her son to see!
Yet could he hope to view that noble place,
Who dared not look the porter in the face?
Forth went the pony, and the rider's knees
Cleaved to her sides -- he did not ride with ease;
One hand a whip, and one a bridle held,
In case the pony falter'd or rebell'd.
The village boys beheld him as he pass'd,
And looks of envy on the hero cast;
But he was meek, nor let his pride appear,
Nay, truth to speak, he felt a sense of fear,
Lest the rude beast, unmindful of the rein,
Should take a fancy to turn back again.
He found, and wonder 'tis he found, his way,
The orders many that he must obey:
'Now to the right, then left, and now again
Directly onward, through the winding lane;
Then, half way o'er the common, by the mill,
Turn from the cottage and ascend the hill,
Then -- spare the pony, boy! -- as you ascend --
You see the Hall, and that's your journey's end.'
Yes, he succeeded, not remembering aught
Of this advice, but by his pony taught.
Soon as he doubted he the bridle threw
On the steed's neck, and said -- 'Remember you!'
For oft the creature had his father borne,
Sound on his way, and safe on his return.
So he succeeded, and the modest youth
Gave praise, where praise had been assign'd by truth.
His business done, -- for fortune led his way
To him whose office was such debts to pay,
The farmer-bailiff, but he saw no more
Than a small room, with bare and oaken floor,
A desk with books thereon -- he'd seen such things before;
'Good day!' he said, but lingered as he spoke
'Good day,' and gazed about with serious look;
Then slowly moved, and then delay'd awhile,
In dumb dismay which raised a lordly smile
In those who eyed him -- then again moved on,
As all might see, unwilling to be gone.
While puzzled thus, and puzzling all about,
Involved, absorb'd, in some bewildering doubt,
A lady enter'd, Madam Johnson call'd,
Within whose presence stood the lad appall'd.
A learned Lady this, who knew the names
Of all the pictures in the golden frames;
Could every subject, every painter, tell,
And on their merits and their failures dwell;
And if perchance there was a slight mistake --
These the most knowing on such matters make.
'And what dost mean, my pretty lad?' she cried,
'Dost stay or go?' -- He first for courage tried,
Then for fit words, -- then boldly he replied,
That he would give a hundred pounds, if so
He had them, all about that house to go;
For he had heard that it contain'd such things
As never house could boast, except the king's.
The ruling Lady, smiling, said, 'In truth
Thou shalt behold them all, my pretty youth.
Tom! first the creature to the stable lead,
Let it be fed; and you, my child, must feed;
For three good hours must pass e'er dinner come,' --
'Supper,' thought he, 'she means, our time at home.'
First was he feasted to his heart's content,
Then, all in rapture, with the Lady went;
Through rooms immense, and galleries wide and tall,
He walk'd entranced -- he breathed in Silford Hall.
Now could he look on that delightful place,
The glorious dwelling of a princely race;
His vast delight was mixed with equal awe,
There was such magic in the things he saw.
Oft standing still, with open mouth and eyes,
Turn'd here and there, alarm'd as one who tries
T' escape from something strange, that would before him rise.
The wall would part, and beings without name
Would come -- for such to his adventures came.
Hence undefined and solemn terror press'd
Upon his mind, and all his powers possess'd.
All he had read of magic, every charm,
Were he alone, might come and do him harm:
But his gaze rested on his friendly guide --
'I'm safe,' he thought, 'so long as you abide.'
In one large room was found a bed of state --
'And can they soundly sleep beneath such weight,
Where they may figures in the night explore,
Form'd by the dim light dancing on the floor
From the far window; mirrors broad and high
Doubling each terror to the anxious eye? --
'Tis strange,' thought Peter, 'that such things produce
No fear in her; but there is much in use.'
On that reflecting brightness, passing by,
The Boy one instant fix'd his restless eye --
And saw himself: he had before descried
His face in one his mother's store supplied;
But here he could his whole dimensions view,
From the pale forehead to the jet-black shoe.
Passing he look'd, and looking, grieved to pass
From the fair figure smiling in the glass.
'Twas so Narcissus saw the boy advance
In the dear fount, and met th' admiring glance
So loved -- But no! our happier boy admired,
Not the slim form, but what the form attired, --
The riband, shirt, and frill, all pure and clean,
The white ribb'd stockings, and the coat of green.
The Lady now appear'd to move away --
And this was threat'ning; for he dared not stay,
Lost and alone; but earnestly he pray'd --
'Oh! do not leave me -- I am not afraid,
But 'tis so lonesome; I shall never find
My way alone, no better than the blind.'
The Matron kindly to the Boy replied,
'Trust in my promise, I will be thy guide.'
Then to the Chapel moved the friendly pair,
And well for Peter that his guide was there!
Dim, silent, solemn was the scene -- he felt
The cedar's power, that so unearthly smelt;
And then the stain'd, dark, narrow windows threw
Strange, partial beams on pulpit, desk, and pew:
Upon the altar, glorious to behold,
Stood a vast pair of candlesticks in gold!
With candles tall, and large, and firm, and white,
Such as the halls of giant-kings would light.
There was an organ, too, but now unseen;
A long black curtain served it for a screen;
Not so the clock, that both by night and day,
Click'd the short moments as they pass'd away.
'Is this a church? and does the parson read' --
Said Peter -- 'here? -- I mean a church indeed.' --
'Indeed it is, or as a church is used,'
Was the reply, -- and Peter deeply mused,
Not without awe. His sadness to dispel,
They sought the gallery, and then all was well.
Yet enter'd there, although so clear his mind
From every fear substantial and defined,
Yet there remain'd some touch of native fear --
Of something awful to the eye and ear --
A ghostly voice might sound -- a ghost itself appear.
There noble Pictures fill'd his mind with joy --
He gazed and thought, and was no more the boy;
And Madam heard him speak, with some surprise,
Of heroes known to him from histories.
He knew the actors in the deeds of old, --
He could the Roman marvels all unfold.
He to his guide a theme for wonder grew,
At once so little and so much he knew --
Little of what was passing every day,
And much of that which long had pass'd away; --
So like a man, and yet so like a child,
That his good friend stood wond'ring as she smiled.
The Scripture Pieces caused a serious awe,
And he with reverence look'd on all he saw;
His pious wonder he express'd aloud,
And at the Saviour Form devoutly bow'd.
Portraits he pass'd, admiring; but with pain
Turn'd from some objects, nor would look again.
He seem'd to think that something wrong was done,
When crimes were shown he blush'd to look upon.
Not so his guide -- 'What youth is that?' she cried,
'That handsome stripling at the lady's side;
Can you inform me how the youth is named?'
He answer'd, 'Joseph;' but he look'd ashamed.
'Well, and what then? Had you been Joseph, boy!
Would you have been so peevish and so coy?'
Our hero answer'd, with a glowing face,
'His mother told him he should pray for grace.'
A transient cloud o'ercast the matron's brow;
She seem'd disposed to laugh -- -- but knew not how;
Silent awhile, then placid she appear'd --
''Tis but a child,' she thought, and all was clear'd.
No -- laugh she could not; still, the more she sought
To hide her thoughts, the more of his she caught.
A hundred times she had these pictures named,
And never felt perplex'd, disturb'd, asham'd;
Yet now the feelings of a lad so young
Call'd home her thoughts and paralysed her tongue.
She pass'd the offensive pictures silent by,
With one reflecting, self-reproving sigh;
Reasoning how habit will the mind entice
To approach and gaze upon the bounds of vice,
As men, by custom, from some cliff's vast height,
Look pleased, and make their danger their delight.
'Come, let us on! -- see there a Flemish view,
A Country Fair, and all as Nature true.
See there the merry creatures, great and small,
Engaged in drinking, gaming, dancing all,
Fiddling or fighting -- all in drunken joy!' --
'But is this Nature?' said the wondering Boy.
'Be sure it is! and those Banditti there --
Observe the faces, forms, the eyes, the air:
See rage, revenge, remorse, disdain, despair!'
'And is that Nature, too?' the stripling cried. --
'Corrupted Nature,' said the serious guide.
She then display'd her knowledge. -- 'That, my dear,
Is call'd a Titian, this a Guido here,
And yon a Claude -- you see that lovely light,
So soft and solemn, neither day nor night.'
'Yes!' quoth the Boy, 'and there is just the breeze,
That curls the water, and that fans the trees;
The ships that anchor in that pleasant bay
All look so safe and quiet -- Claude, you say?'
On a small picture Peter gazed and stood
In admiration -- ''twas so dearly good.'
'For how much money think you, then, my Lad,
Is such a "dear good picture" to be had?
'Tis a famed master's work -- a Gerard Dow --
At least the seller told the buyer so.'
'I tell the price!' quoth Peter -- 'I as soon
Could tell the price of pictures in the moon;
But I have heard, when the great race was done,
How much was offer'd for the horse that won.' --
'A thousand pounds: but, look the country round,
And, may be, ten such horses might be found;
While, ride or run where'er you choose to go,
You'll nowhere find so fine a Gerard Dow.'
'If this be true,' says Peter, 'then, of course,
You'd rate the picture higher than the horse.'
'Why, thou 'rt a reasoner, Boy!' the lady cried;
'But see that Infant on the other side;
'Tis by Sir Joshua. Did you ever see
A Babe so charming?' -- 'No, indeed,' said he;
'I wonder how he could that look invent,
That seems so sly, and yet so innocent.'
In this long room were various Statues seen,
And Peter gazed thereon with awe-struck mien.
'Why look so earnest, Boy?' -- 'Because they bring
To me a story of an awful thing.' --
'Tell then thy story.' -- -- He who never stay'd
For words or matter, instantly obey'd. --
'A holy pilgrim to a city sail'd,
Where every sin o'er sinful men prevail'd;
Who, when he landed, look'd in every street,
As he was wont, a busy crowd to meet;
But now of living beings found he none,
Death had been there, and turn'd them all to stone;
All in an instant, as they were employ'd,
Was life in every living man destroy'd --
The rich, the poor, the timid, and the bold,
Made in a moment such as we behold.'
'Come, my good lad, you've yet a room to see.
Are you awake?' -- 'I am amazed,' said he;
'I know they're figures form'd by human skill,
But 'tis so awful, and this place so still!
'And what is this?' said Peter, who had seen
A long wide table, with its cloth of green,
Its net-work pockets, and its studs of gold --
For such they seem'd, and precious to behold.
There too were ivory balls, and one was red,
Laid with long sticks upon the soft green bed,
And printed tables, on the wall beside --
'Oh! what are these?' the wondering Peter cried.
'This, my good lad, is call'd the Billiard-room,'
Answer'd his guide, 'and here the gentry come,
And with these maces and these cues they play,
At their spare time, or on a rainy day.'
'And what this chequer'd box? -- for play, I guess?' --
'You judge it right; 'tis for the game of Chess.
There! take your time, examine what you will,
There's King, Queen, Knight, -- it is a game of skill:
And these are Bishops; you the difference see.' --
'What! do they make a game of them?' quoth he. --
'Bishops, like Kings,' she said, 'are here but names;
Not that I answer for their Honours' games.'
All round the house did Peter go, and found
Food for his wonder all the house around.
There guns of various bore, and rods, and lines,
And all that man for deed of death designs,
In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly --
Life in these last must means of death supply;
The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die.
'God gives man leave his creatures to destroy.' --
'What! for his sport?' replied the pitying Boy. --
'Nay,' said the Lady, 'why the sport condemn?
As die they must, 'tis much the same to them.'
Peter had doubts; but with so kind a friend,
He would not on a dubious point contend.
Much had he seen, and every thing he saw
Excited pleasure not unmix'd with awe.
Leaving each room, he turn'd as if once more
To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before --
'What then must their possessors feel? how grand
And happy they who can such joys command!
For they may pleasures all their lives pursue,
The winter pleasures, and the summer's too --
Pleasures for every hour in every day --
Oh! how their time must pass in joy away!'
So Peter said. -- Replied the courteous Dame:
'What you call pleasure scarcely owns the name.
The very changes of amusement prove
There's nothing that deserves a lasting love.
They hunt, they course, they shoot, they fish, they game;
The objects vary, though the end the same --
A search for that which flies them; no, my Boy!
'Tis not enjoyment, 'tis pursuit of joy.'
Peter was thoughtful -- thinking, What! not these,
Who can command, or purchase, what they please --
Whom many serve, who only speak the word,
And they have all that earth or seas afford --
All that can charm the mind and please the eye --
And they not happy! -- but I'll ask her why.
So Peter ask'd. -- ''Tis not,' she said, 'for us,
Their Honours' inward feelings to discuss;
But if they're happy, they would still confess
'Tis not these things that make their happiness.
'Look from this window! at his work behold
Yon gardener's helper -- he is poor and old,
He not one thing of all you see can call
His own; but, haply, he o'erlooks them all.
Hear him! he whistles through his work, or stops
But to admire his labours and his crops:
To-day as every former day he fares,
And for the morrow has nor doubts nor cares;
Pious and cheerful, proud when he can please,
Judge if Joe Tompkin wants such things as these.
'Come, let us forward!' and she walk'd in haste
To a large room, itself a work of taste,
But chiefly valued for the works that drew
The eyes of Peter -- this indeed was new,
Was most imposing -- Books of every kind
Were there disposed, the food for every mind.
With joy perplex'd, round cast he wondering eyes,
Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise.
Above, beneath, around, on every side,
Of every form and size were Books descried;
Like Bishop Hatto, when the rats drew near,
And war's new dangers waked his guilty fear,
When thousands came beside, behind, before,
And up and down came on ten thousand more;
A tail'd and whisker'd army, each with claws
As sharp as needles, and with teeth like saws, --
So fill'd with awe, and wonder in his looks,
Stood Peter, 'midst this multitude of Books;
But guiltless he and fearless; yet he sigh'd
To think what treasures were to him denied.
But wonder ceases on continued view;
And the Boy sharp for close inspection grew.
Prints on the table he at first survey'd,
Then to the Books his full attention paid.
At first, from tome to tome, as fancy led,
He view'd the binding, and the titles read;
Lost in delight, and with his freedom pleased,
Then three huge folios from their shelf he seized;
Fixing on one, with prints of every race,
Of beast and bird most rare in every place, --
Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey
Are giants too -- a wild ox once a day;
Here the fierce tiger, and the desert's kings,
And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings --
Most rare and strange; a second volume told
Of battles dire, and dreadful to behold,
On sea or land, and fleets dispersed in storms;
A third has all creative fancy forms, --
Hydra and dire chimera, deserts rude,
And ruins grand, enriching solitude:
Whatever was, or was supposed to be,
Saw Peter here, and still desired to see.
Again he look'd, but happier had he been,
That Book of Wonders he had never seen;
For there were tales of men of wicked mind,
And how the Foe of Man deludes mankind.
Magic and murder every leaf bespread --
Enchanted halls, and chambers of the dead,
And ghosts that haunt the scenes where once the victims bled.
Just at this time, when Peter's heart began
To admit the fear that shames the valiant man,
He paused -- but why? 'Here's one my guard to be;
When thus protected, none can trouble me:' --
Then rising look'd he round, and lo! alone was he.
Three ponderous doors, with locks of shining
brass,
Seem'd to invite the trembling Boy to pass;
But fear forbade, till fear itself supplied
The place of courage, and at length he tried.
He grasp'd the key -- Alas! though great his need,
The key turn'd not, the bolt would not recede.
Try then again; for what will not distress?
Again he tried, and with the same success.
Yet one remains, remains untried one door --
A failing hope, for two had fail'd before;
But a bold prince, with fifty doors in sight,
Tried forty-nine before he found the right;
Before he mounted on the brazen horse,
And o'er the walls pursued his airy course.
So his cold hand on this last key he laid:
'Now turn,' said he; the treacherous bolt obey'd --
The door receded -- bringing full in view
The dim, dull chapel, pulpit, desk, and pew.
It was not right -- it would have vex'd a saint;
And Peter's anger rose above restraint.
'Was this her love,' he cried, 'to bring me here,
Among the dead, to die myself with fear!' --
For Peter judged, with monuments around,
The dead must surely in the place be found:
'With cold to shiver, and with hunger pine --
"We'll see the rooms," she said, "before we dine;"
And spake so kind! That window gives no light:
Here is enough the boldest man to fright;
It hardly now is day, and soon it will be night.'
Deeply he sigh'd, nor from his heart could chase
The dread of dying in that dismal place;
Anger and sorrow in his bosom strove,
And banish'd all that yet remain'd of love;
When soon despair had seized the trembling Boy,
But hark, a voice! the sound of peace and joy.
'Where art thou, lad?' -- 'Oh! here am I, in doubt,
And sorely frighten'd -- can you let me out?'
'Oh! yes, my child; it was indeed a sin,
Forgetful as I was, to bolt you in.
I left you reading, and from habit lock'd
The door behind me, but in truth am shock'd
To serve you thus; but we will make amends
For such mistake. Come, cheerly, we are friends.'
'Oh! yes,' said Peter, quite alive to be
So kindly used, and have so much to see,
And having so much seen; his way he spied,
Forgot his peril, and rejoin'd his guide.
Now all beheld, his admiration raised,
The lady thank'd, her condescension praised,
And fix'd the hour for dinner, forth the Boy
Went in a tumult of o'erpowering joy,
To view the gardens, and what more was found
In the wide circuit of that spacious ground,
Till, with his thoughts bewilder'd, and oppress'd
With too much feeling, he inclined to rest.
Then in the park he sought its deepest shade,
By trees more aged than the mansion made,
That ages stood; and there unseen a brook
Ran not unheard, and thus our traveller spoke, --
'I am so happy, and have such delight,
I cannot bear to see another sight;
It wearies one like work;' and so, with deep
Unconscious sigh -- he laid him down to sleep.
Thus he reclining slept, and, oh! the joy
That in his dreams possess'd the happy boy, --
Composed of all he knew, and all he read,
Heard, or conceived, the living and the dead.
The Caliph Haroun, walking forth by night
To see young David and Goliath fight,
Rose on his passive fancy -- then appear'd
The fleshless forms of beings scorn'd or fear'd
By just or evil men -- the baneful race
Of spirits restless, borne from place to place:
Rivers of blood from conquer'd armies ran,
The flying steed was by, the marble man;
Then danced the fairies round their pygmy queen,
And their feet twinkled on the dewy green,
All in the moon-beams' glory. As they fled,
The mountain loadstone rear'd its fatal head,
And drew the iron-bolted ships on shore,
Where he distinctly heard the billows roar, --
Mix'd with a living voice of -- 'Youngster, sleep no more,
But haste to dinner.' Starting from the ground,
The waking boy obey'd that welcome sound.
He went and sat, with equal shame and pride,
A welcome guest at Madam Johnson's side.
At his right hand was Mistress Kitty placed,
And Lucy, maiden sly, the stripling faced.
Then each the proper seat at table took --
Groom, butler, footman, laundress, coachman, cook;
For all their station and their office knew,
Nor sat as rustics or the rabble do.
The Youth to each the due attention paid,
And hob-or-nob'd with Lady Charlotte's maid;
With much respect each other they address'd,
And all encouraged their enchanted guest.
Wine, fruit, and sweetmeats closed repast so long,
And Mistress Flora sang an opera song.
Such was the Day the happy Boy had spent,
And forth delighted from the Hall he went:
Bowing his thanks, he mounted on his steed,
More largely fed than he was wont to feed;
And well for Peter that his pony knew
From whence he came, the road he should pursue;
For the young rider had his mind estranged
From all around, disturbed and disarranged,
In pleasing tumult, in a dream of bliss,
Enjoy'd but seldom in a world like this.
But though the pleasures of the Day were past, --
For lively pleasures are not form'd to last, --
And though less vivid they became, less strong,
Through life they lived, and were enjoy'd as long.
So deep the impression of that happy Day,
Not time nor cares could wear it all away;
Ev'n to the last, in his declining years,
He told of all his glories, all his fears.
How blithely forward in that morn he went,
How blest the hours in that fair palace spent,
How vast that Mansion, sure for monarch plann'd,
The rooms so many, and yet each so grand, --
Millions of books in one large hall were found,
And glorious pictures every room around;
Beside that strangest of the wonders there,
That house itself contain'd a house of prayer.
He told of park and wood, of sun and shade,
And how the lake below the lawn was made:
He spake of feasting such as never boy,
Taught in his school, was fated to enjoy --
Of ladies' maids as ladies' selves who dress'd,
And her, his friend, distinguish'd from the rest,
By grandeur in her look, and state that she possess'd.
He pass'd not one; his grateful mind o'erflow'd
With sense of all he felt, and they bestow'd.
He spake of every office, great or small,
Within, without, and spake with praise of all --
So pass'd the happy Boy, that Day at Silford Hall.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net