[ 236. J 
(Oct. 1, 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
—— 
DARTMOOR; 
From the Prize Poem of the “Royal Society of 
Literature.” 
Sepulchral Cairns and Druidical Remains on 
the Moor. 
YET what avails it, tho’ each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its ealy vigils keep, 
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath, 
(Nor need such care) from each cold season’s 
breath? 
Where is the voice to tell ¢Acir tale who rest, 
Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them?—Hath there 
een 
A sound of battle midst the silent scene 
Where now the flocks repose ?—Did the scyth’d car 
Here reap its harvest in the rank of war? 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain, 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain ? 
{t may be thus :—the vestiges of strife, 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, 
And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell 
How by its stroke perchance the mighty fell, 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride, P 
The chieftain’s power—they had no bard, and died. 
Bat other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
TW’ eternal stars of night have witness’d here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptur’d stone, 
Far on the Moor, a thing of ages gone, 
Propp’d on its granite a whence the rains, 
And pure bright dews, have lav’d the crimson stains, 
Left by dark rites of blood; for here of yore, 
When the bleak waste a robe of forests wore, 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Wav’d its wild wreath of sacred misletoe; 
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade, 
On Druid harps the quivering moonbeam play’d, 
And oa were breath’d, that fill’d the deepening 
oom 
With the pale shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night, 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height. 
Like battle-signals, whose acpi gleams 
Threw o’er the desert’s hundred hills and streams 
Asavage grandeur; while the starry skies 
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies, 
As the loud harp its deep-ton’d hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling. powers,—the War-gods of the 
North, 
* * * * * * 
Prisoners of Far confined on Dartmoor. 
But ages roll’d away; and England stood 
With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood, 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas; 
And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank 
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave 
Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave. 
2Twas then the eaptives of Britannia’s war, 
Here, for their lovely southern climes afar, 
In bondage pin’d; the ageleishated throng, 
Dragg’d at Ambition’s chariot-wheels so long, 
To die,—because a de-pot could not clasp 
A sceptre, fitted to bis boundless grasp. 
Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient 
thrones - 
And temples of the world; the deepeuing tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes, 
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose 
dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
streams, A 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
‘And festal melody of Loire or Seine ; 
And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept, 
When on the field th’ unshelcer’d conscript slept, 
Bath’d with the midnight dews. And some were 
there, r 
Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair, 
Who, in their dark imaginings, again 
Fir'd the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in the victim’s shriek as music’s breath, 
And liv’d o’er scenes, the festivals of Death! 
And ere was mirth, too!—strange and savage 
mirth, 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth! 
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring 
From minds to which there is no sacred thing, 
And transient bursts of fierce exulting glee,— 
The lightning’s flash upon its blasted tree. 
But still, howe’er the soul’s disguise were worn, 
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe. 
Yet was this all?—amidst the dungeon-gloom, 
The void, the stillness, of the captive’s doom, 
Were pic no deeper thoughts?—and that dark 
ower, 
To whom Guilt owes one late, but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d, 
But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls,—Remorse? 
Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony ; 
Lost, when the swift, triamphant wheels of day, 
In light and sound are hurrying on their way ; 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, 
The voice that sleeps, but never dies, might start, 
Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill, 
With accents heard not, save when all is still! 
The voice inaudible, when Havoc’s train 
Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute when Sierras to the war-whoop rung, 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung, 
From the South’s marble cities;—bhush’d, midst 
cries 
That told the Heavens of mortal agonies ; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last, 
In the concentred thunders of the past. 
And there, perchance, some long-bewilde1’d mind, 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confin’d, 
Of€ village duties, in the Alpine glen, 
Where Nature cast its lot ’midst peasant men; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce Ruler blent 
The earthquake power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high 
One impulse more of desp’rate energy; 
Might, when the billow’s awful rush was o’er, 
Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, 
Won from its wand’rings past, by suffering tried, 
Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified ; 
Have fix’d at length its troubled hopes and fears 
On the far world, seen brightest throngh our tears! 
And in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn, but none declare, 
When of the things to come a deeper sense 
Fills the rais’d eye of trembling Penitence, 
Have turn’d to Him, whose bow is in the cloud, 
Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud; 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, 
And by the tempest calls it to repose. 
Who visited that death-bed ?—who can tell 
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons ?—who beheld 
The struggling bope, by shame, by doubt repell’d— 
The agony of prayer,—the bursting tears,— 
The dark remembrances of guilty years, 
Crowding apo the spirit in their might,— 
He, ee the storm who look’d,—and there was 
ight? 
ee * * * * ro 
Prospects of Cultivation and Improvement. 
Yes! let the Waste lift up the exulting voice! 
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice! 
And thou, lone Moor! where no blithe reaper’s song 
F’er lightly sped the summer hours along, 
Bid the wild rivers, from each mountain source, 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course! 
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barb’rous rites in ages dark, 
And of some nameless combat; Hope’s bright eye 
Beams o’er thee in the light of Prophecy! 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast; 
Yet shall thy cottage smoke at dewy morn, 
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn, 
And, 
