Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 10. THE ANCIENT MANSION, by GEORGE CRABBE


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POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 10. THE ANCIENT MANSION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
Last Line: Then lead me to my cot again.'
Subject(s): Landscape


I

TO part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
Ev'n to a favourite spot is painful too.
That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around,
Oft have I view'd with reverence so profound,
As something sacred dwelt in that delicious ground.
There, with its tenantry about, reside
A genuine English race, the country's pride;
And now a Lady, last of all that race,
Is the departing spirit of the place.
Hers is the last of all that noble blood,
That flow'd through generations brave and good;
And if there dwells a native pride in her,
It is the pride of name and character.
True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal,
Of stainless honour; that she needs must feel;
She must lament, that she is now the last
Of all who gave such splendour to the past.
Still are her habits of the ancient kind;
She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind:
She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust;
And being kind, with her, is being just.
Though soul and body she delights to aid,
Yet of her skill she's prudently afraid:
So to her chaplain's care she this commends,
And when that craves, the village doctor sends.
At church attendance she requires of all,
Who would be held in credit at the Hall;
A due respect to each degree she shows,
And pays the debt that every mortal owes;
'Tis by opinion that respect is led,
The rich esteem because the poor are fed.
Her servants all, if so we may describe
That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe,
Who with her share the blessings of the Hall,
Are kind but grave, are proud but courteous all --
Proud of their lucky lot! behold, how stands
That grey-haired butler, waiting her commands;
The Lady dines, and every day he feels
That his good mistress falters in her meals.
With what respectful manners he intreats
That she would eat -- yet Jacob little eats;
When she forbears, his supplicating eye
Intreats the noble dame once more to try.
Their years the same; and he has never known
Another place; and this he deems his own, --
All appertains to him. Whate'er he sees
Is ours! -- 'our house, our land, our walks, our trees!'
But still he fears the time is just at hand,
When he no more shall in that presence stand;
And he resolves, with mingled grief and pride,
To serve no being in the world beside.
'He has enough,' he says, with many a sigh,
'For him to serve his God, and learn to die:
He and his lady shall have heard their call,
And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.'
But, leaving these to their accustom'd way,
The Seat itself demands a short delay.
We all have interest there -- the trees that grow
Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe;
They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow:
They hide a part, but still the part they shade
Is more inviting to our fancy made;
And, if the eye be robb'd of half its sight,
Th' imagination feels the more delight.
These giant oaks by no man's order stand,
Heaven did the work; by noman was it plann'd.
Here I behold no puny works of art,
None give me reasons why these views impart
Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart.
These very pinnacles, and turrets small,
And windows dim, have beauty in them all.
How stately stand yon pines upon the hill,
How soft the murmurs of that living rill,
And o'er the park's tall paling, scarcely higher,
Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire.
Unnumber'd violets on those banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year.
The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the labouring wing.
Then comes the Summer with augmented pride,
Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide:
Her richer Flora their brief charms display;
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.
Then shall th' autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden'd sheaf:
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around,
All save the distant sea's uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun whose loud report
Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport:
And then the wintry winds begin to blow,
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow,
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale,
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale,
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character.
Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see,
But much must meet in that which equals thee!

II

I LEAVE the town, and take a well-known way,
To that old Mansion in the closing day,
When beams of golden light are shed around,
And sweet is every sight and every sound.
Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold
The Seat so honour'd, so admired of old,
And yet admired -- --
Alas! I see a change,
Of odious kind, and lamentably strange.
Who had done this? The good old Lady lies
Within her tomb: but, who could this advise?
What barbarous hand could all this mischief do,
And spoil a noble house to make it new?
Who had done this? Some genuine Son of Trade
Has all this dreadful devastation made;
Some man with line and rule, and evil eye,
Who could no beauty in a tree descry,
Save in a clump, when stationed by his hand,
And standing where his genius bade them stand;
Some true admirer of the time's reform,
Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm,
Strips it of all its dignity and grace,
To put his own dear fancies in their place.
He hates concealment: all that was enclosed
By venerable wood, is now exposed,
And a few stripling elms and oaks appear,
Fenced round by boards, to keep them from the deer.
I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene,
And see not what these clumps and patches mean!
This shrubby belt that runs the land around
Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound?
The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay,
And some would praise; I wish they were away,
That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray.
The things themselves are pleasant to behold,
But not like those which we beheld of old, --
That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain,
Unbound and unsubdued! -- but sighs are vain;
It is the rage of Taste -- the rule and compass reign.
As thus my spleen upon the view I fed,
A man approach'd me, by his grandchild led --
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.

And thus with gentle voice he spoke --
'Come lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook;
For well I know the sound it made,
When dashing o'er the stony rill,
It murmur'd to St. Osyth's Mill.'

The Lass replied -- 'The trees are fled,
They've cut the brook a straighter bed:
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake.'

'Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fasten'd to the stone,
And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes,
And green its mossy passage makes.'

'The holy spring is turn'd aside,
The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plough has levell'd all around,
And here is now no holy ground.'

'Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide
To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o'erlook;
A boy, I climb'd the topmost bough,
And I would feel its shadow now.

'Or, lassie, lead me to the west,
Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest --
Deliberate birds, and prudent all:
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they're a social multitude.'

'The rooks are shot, the trees are fell'd,
And nest and nursery all expell'd;
With better fate the giant-tree,
Old Bulmer's Oak, is gone to sea.
The church-way walk is now no more,
And men must other ways explore:
Though this indeed promotion gains,
For this the park's new wall contains;
And here I fear we shall not meet
A shade -- although, perchance, a seat.'

'O then, my lassie, lead the way
To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn:
That something holds, if we can pay --
Old David is our living kin;
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves.'

'Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate:
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more.
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound.'
'O then,' the grieving Man replied,
'No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here's nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay:
But all is chang'd, is lost, is sold --
All, all that's left is chilling cold.
I seek for comfort here in vain,
Then lead me to my cot again.'





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