William Lisle Bowles, 1794 (1762-1850)
“On Shakespeare.”
O sovereign master, who with lovely state
Dost rule as in some isle’s enchanted land,
On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,
Whilst scenes of faerie bloom at thy command!
On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,
And list, till earth dissolved, to thy sweet minstrelsy!
Called by thy magic from the hoary deep,
Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend,
And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;
While sounds that the earth owned not, seem to blend
Their stealing melodies, that when the strain
Ceased, I should weep, and would so dream again!
The charm is wound: I see an aged form,
In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;
O’er the careering surge he waves his wand:
Upon the black rock bursts the bidden storm.
Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay,
Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger, come away.
Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale?
Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath?
Hark! hark! is the deed done? the deed of death!
The deed is done—hail, king of Scotland, hail!
I see no more;—to many a fearful sound
The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.
Pity! touch the trembling strings,
A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings:
“They laid him in the ground so cold,
Upon his breast the earth is thrown;
High is heaped the grassy mould,
Oh! he is dead and gone.
The winds of the winter blow o’er his cold breast,
But pleasant shall be his rest.”
The song is ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou,
Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night?
Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow;
So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white;
So wildly thou dost cry, “Blow, bitter wind,
Ye elements, I call not you unkind.”
Beneath the shade of nodding branches grey,
And rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn,
The merry hunters wear the hours away;
Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!
Joyous to all, but him who with sad look
Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.
But mark the merry elves of fairy land!
To the high moon’s gleamy glance,
They with shadowy morris dance;
Soft music dies along the desert sand;
Soon at peep of cold-eyed day
Soon the numerous lights decay;
Merrily, now merrily,
After the dewy moon they fly.
Let rosy laughter now advance,
And wit with sparkling eye,
Where quaint powers lurking lie
Bright fancy, the queen of the revels, shall dance,
And point to the frolicsome train
And antic forms that flit unnumbered o’er the plain.
O sovereign master! at whose sole command
We start with terror, or with pity weep;
O! where is now thy all-creating wand?
Buried ten thousand fathoms in the deep.
The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled,
And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.
Sonnets, with other Poems. 3rd edition. 1794, pp. 67-70.
This poem appears in later editions of Bowle’s sonnets in a different form. Stanza 9 is omitted, and the remaining stanzas are arranged thus: 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 3, 4, 5, 10:
“Come to these yellow sands.” Ferdinand. See The Tempest.
“The weird sisters.” See Macbeth.
“A beauteous maniac.” Ophelia. See Hamlet.
“Blow, bitter wind.” See King Lear.
“Him, who with sad look.” Jacques. See As You Like It.
“Elves of fairy land.” See Midsummer Night’s Dream.