Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 1. William Wordsworth

while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

        His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause;

        This is the happy Warrior; this is He

        Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.

* * * * *

      The above Verses mere written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious.

      THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

        When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,

        Eustace pointed with his lance

        To the Horn which there was hanging;

        Horn of the inheritance.

        Horn it was which none could sound,

        No one upon living ground,

        Save He who came as rightful Heir

        To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

        Heirs from ages without record

        Had the House of Lucie born, 10

        Who of right had claim'd the Lordship

        By the proof upon the Horn:

        Each at the appointed hour

        Tried the Horn, it own'd his power;

        He was acknowledged: and the blast

        Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.

        With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,

        And to Hubert thus said he,

        "What I speak this Horn shall witness

        For thy better memory. 20

        Hear, then, and neglect me not!

        At this time, and on this spot,

        The words are utter'd from my heart,

        As my last earnest prayer ere we depart."

        "On good service we are going

        Life to risk by sea and land;

        In which course if Christ our Saviour

        Do my sinful soul demand,

        Hither come thou back straightway,

        Hubert, if alive that day; 30

        Return, and sound the Horn, that we

        May have a living House still left in thee!"

        "Fear not," quickly answer'd Hubert;

        "As I am thy Father's son,

        What thou askest, noble Brother,

        With God's favour shall be done."

        So were both right well content:

        From the Castle forth they went.

        And at the head of their Array

        To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40

        Side by side they fought (the Lucies

        Were a line for valour fam'd)

        And where'er their strokes alighted

        There the Saracens were tam'd.

        Whence, then, could it come the thought,

        By what evil spirit brought?

        Oh! can a brave Man wish to take

        His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?

        "Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,

        "Deep he lies in Jordan flood." – 50

        Stricken by this ill assurance,

        Pale and trembling Hubert stood.

        "Take your earnings." – Oh! that I

        Could have seen my Brother die!

        It was a pang that vex'd him then;

        And oft returned, again, and yet again.

        Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace!

        Nor of him were tidings heard.

        Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer

        Back again to England steer'd. 60

        To his Castle Hubert sped;

        He has nothing now to dread.

        But silent and by stealth he came,

        And at an hour which nobody could name.

        None could tell if it were night-time,

        Night or day, at even or morn;

        For the sound was heard by no one

        Of the proclamation-horn.

        But bold Hubert lives in glee:

        Months and years went smilingly; 70

        With plenty was his table spread;

        And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

        Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;

        And, as good men do, he sate

        At his board by these surrounded,

        Flourishing in fair estate.

        And, while thus in open day

        Once he sate, as old books say,

        A blast was utter'd from the Horn,

        Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80

        'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!