Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/120

6, 1859.] Milton, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Spenser. Down the wall hung little miniature engravings of Sir R. Inglis, Mr. Poole, Rogers, Wordsworth, Charles Lamb, and Armstrong. Next to them Chantry’s bust of the poet, an engraving of Haydon’s picture with open collar and bare neck, and some sketches of Sir George Beaumont. Over the old oaken sideboard was a bust of Scott, and near it engravings of the Queen and the royal children, given by her Majesty.

The rarest piece of furniture in the room was an old almery carved over with circles emblematic of the Trinity and the monogram I. H. S. It bore this inscription:

Within reach of the fire-place were Cottonian volumes, and volumes of his own poems, which Wordsworth carried with him, mused over, pencilled, and (unfortunately) altered.

Ascending the staircase, were two pictures of Giordano Bruno, of remarkable tone and beauty; Endymion asleep, with his dogs and hunting-spear; and Godfrey lying wounded, with Armida fondly bending over him; in the blue distance is Jerusalem.

Hush! here is a room which has never been opened for months. Here William Wordsworth died; and here died Mary Wordsworth, in a calm and good old age. The room is of an austere simplicity: on that sofa Wordsworth was lifted out to die: and in a niche close to the window is the cross which blind old Mrs. Wordsworth asked to feel before she died. “Vale, vale, iterumque valete.”

Let us pass into the garden, which glossy laurels make all the year cheerful. To the right a terrace leads to an arbour lined with fir-cones and overhung with pines. You pass along a winding walk, and there the little lake shines below in all its beauty. In spring, daffodils light the ground at your feet, and you hear the wild dove “brooding over his soft voice” in the woods below. Below is a garden flush with anemonies, and below that a field which bears the name of the poet’s daughter. There are the trees which he planted, and his favourite flowers. Over a little pool in which some golden fish were set free, an oak, all knotted and gnarled, hangs. In one of its arms grows a mountain ash and a holly. Everything in the grounds sings of liberty, and a mossy stone records a wish we cannot but echo:—

2em

I was washing, the stream hard by, Sudden I heard the death-bird’s cry.

Wot you, Tina, the story goes, You are sold to the Lord of Jauïoz?”

Is’t true, dear mother, the thing I’m told? Is’t true that to Lord Jauïoz I’m sold?”

My poor little darling, nought I know,— Go, ask your father if this be so.”

Father, dear father, say is it true That Lord Jauïoz I am sold unto?”

My darling daughter, nought I know, Go, ask your brother if it be so.”

Lannick, my brother, oh, tell me, pray! Am I sold to that Lord the people say?”

You are sold to that Lord the people say, You must up and ride without delay;

You must up and ride to his castle straight, For your price has been paid by tale and weight:

Fifty crowns of the silver white, And as many crowns of the gold so bright.”

Now tell me, tell me, mother dear, What clothes is’t fitting I should wear?

My gown of grain, or of grey, shall’t be, That my sister Helen made for me?

My gown of grain, or my gown of white, And my bodice of samite so jimp and tight?”

Busk thee, busk thee, as likes thee best, Small matter, my child, how thou art drest.

A bonny black horse is tied at the gate, And there till the fall o’ the night he’ll wait,—

Till the fall o’ the night that horse will stay, All fairly saddled to bear thee away.”

Short space had she rode when the bells of St. Anne,— Her own church bells—to ring began.

Then sore she wept, as she sat in selle: “Farewell, Oh sweet St. Anne, farewell!

Farewell, dear bells of my own countrie, Dear bells of the church I no more shall see!”

As on she rode by the lake of Pain, ’Twas there she saw of ghosts a train,—

A train of ghosts all robed in white, That in tiny boats on the lake shone bright,—

A crowd of ghosts—that all for dread Her teeth they chatter’d in her head.

As on she rode through the valley of Blood, The ghosts stream’d after like a flood;

Her heart it was so sad and sore, That she closed her eyes to see no more;

Her heart it was so full of woe, That she fell in swoon as she did go.

Now, draw anigh, and take a seat, Until ’tis time to go to meat.”

The Baron he sat in the ingle-place, And black as a raven was his face;