Poems (David)/Christ Church
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CHRIST CHURCH.
THE "Great Tom's" noble tower salutes my gaze,
As to its noble arch my eyes I raise,—
In mighty grandeur it doth upward spring,
And o'er the silent quad its shadows fling!
In its far-famed hall, with pride I have seen,
Bishops and Cardinals, with Kings and Deans,
Noble Knights, Chancellors, and British Queens.
Before the portrait of a handsome knight,
Truthful to nature and full of life,
My mother stood, her eyes suffused with tears,
Pale with emotion, and with heart-felt sigh
She pressed my hand, drew me to her side,—
With gentle accents, and voice so mild,
Whisper'd, "It is my Father,a my own dear child,
Would that he could speak—for a moment live,—
That I once more could hear his kindly voice,
And to my only child his blessing give:—
Oh! Canada, how short his sovereign rule o'er thee!
Beloved and honoured, regretted, mourned was he,
When far from his own fair land, alas!
Away from earth to Heaven's bliss he passed;
From Canada, thy faithful pine-clad shore,
A sad and cheerless burden 'The Warspite' bore,
Its governor, beneath whose too short sway
Thy faithful and rich verdant province lay;
The fatal sign, lowered o'er the main,
With swelling sails she sweeps once more again!"
We leave the hall, descend the steps with care,
To breathe once more the soft and balmy air:
Yet, ere I turn, while on the mighty Wolsey's fate,
I pause to muse upon the fallen "great,"—
Once the proud favourite of a haughty king,
Sunk midst disgrace—what lessons doth it bring!
He who had ruled with unrelenting sway,
O'er king and peasant in his palmy day;
By man forsaken, of every hope forlorn,
Midst Leicester's noble towers, died, alas! unmourn'd.
How valueless is worldly wealth and great fame!
They die perchance alone—some empty name
Are the sad records of the human soul,
That make this vain world its highest goal.
There is a lamp that too often dimly shines
O'er the wide waste of swiftly-rolling Time.
When true ambition fires the soul of man,
What glorious thoughts and mighty deeds are plan'd!
The noble offspring of a good and generous mind,
With true love-cords our affections to bind,—
Grand in each vast idea, it ever fondly seems
To seize on our brightest hope, the passing gleam,
Moulded and formed to hold its glorious sway,
And with gentle hands it rules too short a day!
Alas! when fled for ever to a heavenly home,
We catch the glories which around it shone:—
The ever thoughtless self, whose memories show
The generous worth, scarce valued here below;
Each noble deed and word for ever chain'd
To the regretted object of an honoured name!
As to its noble arch my eyes I raise,—
In mighty grandeur it doth upward spring,
And o'er the silent quad its shadows fling!
In its far-famed hall, with pride I have seen,
Bishops and Cardinals, with Kings and Deans,
Noble Knights, Chancellors, and British Queens.
Before the portrait of a handsome knight,
Truthful to nature and full of life,
My mother stood, her eyes suffused with tears,
Pale with emotion, and with heart-felt sigh
She pressed my hand, drew me to her side,—
With gentle accents, and voice so mild,
Whisper'd, "It is my Father,a my own dear child,
Would that he could speak—for a moment live,—
That I once more could hear his kindly voice,
And to my only child his blessing give:—
Oh! Canada, how short his sovereign rule o'er thee!
Beloved and honoured, regretted, mourned was he,
When far from his own fair land, alas!
Away from earth to Heaven's bliss he passed;
From Canada, thy faithful pine-clad shore,
A sad and cheerless burden 'The Warspite' bore,
Its governor, beneath whose too short sway
Thy faithful and rich verdant province lay;
The fatal sign, lowered o'er the main,
With swelling sails she sweeps once more again!"
We leave the hall, descend the steps with care,
To breathe once more the soft and balmy air:
Yet, ere I turn, while on the mighty Wolsey's fate,
I pause to muse upon the fallen "great,"—
Once the proud favourite of a haughty king,
Sunk midst disgrace—what lessons doth it bring!
He who had ruled with unrelenting sway,
O'er king and peasant in his palmy day;
By man forsaken, of every hope forlorn,
Midst Leicester's noble towers, died, alas! unmourn'd.
How valueless is worldly wealth and great fame!
They die perchance alone—some empty name
Are the sad records of the human soul,
That make this vain world its highest goal.
There is a lamp that too often dimly shines
O'er the wide waste of swiftly-rolling Time.
When true ambition fires the soul of man,
What glorious thoughts and mighty deeds are plan'd!
The noble offspring of a good and generous mind,
With true love-cords our affections to bind,—
Grand in each vast idea, it ever fondly seems
To seize on our brightest hope, the passing gleam,
Moulded and formed to hold its glorious sway,
And with gentle hands it rules too short a day!
Alas! when fled for ever to a heavenly home,
We catch the glories which around it shone:—
The ever thoughtless self, whose memories show
The generous worth, scarce valued here below;
Each noble deed and word for ever chain'd
To the regretted object of an honoured name!