Edward FitzGerald: an aftermath/Bredfield Hall

by Edward FitzGerald

Lo, an English mansion founded

In the elder James's reign,

Quaint and stately, and surrounded

With a pastoral domain.

With well-timber'd lawn and gardens

And with many a pleasant mead,

Skirted by the lofty coverts

Where the hare and pheasant feed.

Flank'd it is with goodly stables,

Shelter'd by coeval trees

So it lifts its honest gables

Toward the distant German seas

Where it once discern'd the smoke

Of old sea-battles far away :

Saw victorious Nelson's topmasts

Anchoring in Hollesley Bay.

But whatever storm might riot,

Cannon roar, and trumpet ring,

Still amid these meadows quiet

Did the yearly violet spring

Still Heaven's starry hand suspended

That light balance of the dew,

That each night on earth descended,

And each morning rose anew

And the ancient house stood rearing

Undisturb'd her chimneys high,

And her gilded vanes still veering

Toward each quarter of the sky :

While like wave to wave succeeding

Through the world of joy and strife,

Household after household speeding

Handed on the torch of life

First, sir Knight in ruff and doublet,

Arm in arm with stately dame

Then the Cavaliers indignant

For their monarch brought to shame

Languid beauties limn'd by Lely;

Full-wigg'd Justice of Queen Anne :

Tory squires who tippled freely ;

And the modern Gentleman :

Here they lived, and here they greeted,

Maids and matrons, sons and sires,

Wandering in its walks, or seated

Round its hospitable fires :

Oft their silken dresses floated

Gleaming through the pleasure ground :

Oft dash'd by the scarlet-coated

Hunter, horse, and dappled hound.

Till the Bell that not in vain

Had summon'd them to weekly prayer,

Call'd them one by one again

To the church — and left them there !

They with all their loves and passions,

Compliment, and song, and jest,

Politics, and sports, and fashions,

Merged in everlasting rest !

So they pass — while thou, old Mansion,

Markest with unaltered face

How like the foliage of thy summers

Race of man succeeds to race.

To most thou stand'st a record sad,

But all the sunshine of the year

Could not make thine aspect glad

To one whose youth is buried here.

In thine ancient rooms and gardens

Buried — and his own no more

Than the youth of those old owners,

Dead two centuries before.

Unto him the fields around thee

Darken with the days gone by :

O'er the solemn woods that bound thee

Ancient sunsets seem to die.

Sighs the selfsame breeze of morning

Through the cypress as of old

Ever at the Spring's returning

One same crocus breaks the mould.

Still though 'scaping Time's more savage

Handywork this pile appears,

It has not escaped the ravage

Of the undermining years.

And though each succeeding master,

Grumbling at the cost to pay,

Did with coat of paint and plaster

Hide the wrinkles of decay

Yet the secret worm ne'er ceases,

Nor the mouse behind the wall ;

Heart of oak will come to pieces,

And farewell to Bredfield Hall !

"These verses on his old home were written originally by FitzGerald as early as 1839, and communicated to Bernard Barton. They were circulated in slightly differing forms among his friends, and probably never received the final touches of his hand, but they contain what, Professor Cowell informs me, were in his own judgment the best lines he had ever written, as shewing real imagination, and it seems better to print them though imperfect. In reply to an old friend, who had heard some of the lines quoted and supposed them to be from Tennyson, he wrote: 'I was astonisht to find I had three sheets to fold up; and now one half "cheer" more, only to prevent you wasting any more trouble in looking through Tennyson for those verses – I myself having been puzzled at first to what you alluded by that single line. No : I wrote them along with many others about my old home more than forty years ago, and they recur to me also as I wander about the Garden or the Lawn. Therefore I suppose there is some native force about them, though your referring them to A. T. proves that I was echoing him." —Letters and Literary Remains (1889), Vol. III., pp. 458-461