Loe raamatut: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 347, December 20, 1828», lehekülg 2

ANCIENT OATHS

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

It will be recollected, that in a former volume I gave you the form of the oath taken by the appellee in the ancient manner of trial by battle. The appellee, when appealed of felony, pleads not guilty and throws down his glove, and declares he will defend the same by his body; the appellant takes up the glove, and replies that he is ready to make good the appeal body for body; and thereupon the appellee, taking the book in his right hand, makes oath as before mentioned. To which the appellant replies, holding the Bible and his antagonist's hand in the same manner as the other, "Hear this, O man, whom I hold by the hand, who callest thyself Thomas by the name of baptism, that thou art perjured; and therefore perjured, because that thou feloniously didst murder my father, William by name. So help me God and the Saints, and this I will prove against thee by my body, as this court shall award." And then the combat proceeds.

There is a striking resemblance between this process and that of the court of Arcopagus, at Athens, for murder, where the prisoner and prosecutor were both sworn in the most solemn manner—the prosecutor, that he was related to the deceased, (for none but near relations were permitted to prosecute in that court,) and that the prisoner was the cause of his death; the prisoner, that he was innocent of the charge against him.

In time I hope to be able to furnish you with other specimens of our curious ancient oaths.

W.H.H.

SONNET

(For the Mirror.)

 
Whose heart is not delighted at the sound
Of rural song, of Nature's melody,
When hills and dales with harmony rebound,
While Echo spreads the pleasing strains around,
Awak'ning pure and heartfelt sympathy!
Perchance on some rude rock the minstrel stands,
While his pleased hearers wait entranced around;
Behold him touch the chords with fearless hands,
Creating heav'nly joys from earthly sound.
How many voices in the chorus rise,
And artless notes renew the failing strains;
The honest boor his vocal talent tries,
Approving love beams from his "fair one's eyes,"
While age, in silent joy, forgets its pains.
 

J.J.

THE DEATH OF SALADIN. ⁹

(For the Mirror.)

 
The angel of death hath too surely prest
His fatal sign on the warrior's breast—
Quench'd is the light of the eagle-eye,
And the nervous limbs rest languidly—
The eloquent tongue is silent and still,
The deep clear voice again may not chill
The hearers' hearts with its own deep thrill.
 
 
Ah, who can gaze on death, nor inward feel
A creeping horror through the bosom steal,
Like one who stands upon a precipice,
And sees below a mangled sacrifice,
Feeling that he himself must ere long fall,
With none to save him, none to hear his call,
Or wrest him from the agonizing thrall?
 
 
And yet it is but sleep we look upon!
But in that sleep from which the life is gone
Sinks the proud Saladin, Egyptia's lord.
His faith's firm champion, and his Prophet's sword;
Not e'en the red cross knights withstand his pow'r,
But, sorrowing, mark the Moslem's triumph hour,
And the pale crescent float from Salem's tow'r.
 
 
As the keen arrow, hurl'd with giant-might,
Rends the thin air in its impetuous flight,
But being spent on earth innoxious lies,
E'en its track vanish'd from the yielding skies—
So lies the soldan, stopp'd his bright career,
His vanquish'd realms their prostrate heads uprear,
And coward kings forget their servile fear.
 
 
Ere yet stern Azrael¹⁰ cut the thread of life,
While Death and Nature wag'd unequal strife,
Spoke the expiring hero:—"Hither stand,
Receive your dying sovereign's last command.
When that the spirit from my frame is riven,
(Oh, gracious Alla! be my sins forgiven,
And bright-eyed Houris waft my soul to heaven,)
Then when you bear me to my last retreat,
Let not the mourners howl along the street—
Let not my soldiers in the train be seen,
Nor banners float, nor lance or sabre gleam—
Nor yet, to testify a vain regret,
O'er my remains let costly shrine be set,
Or sculptur'd stone, or gilded minaret;
But let a herald go before my bier,
Bearing on point of lance the robe I wear.
Shouting aloud, 'Behold what now remains
Of the proud conqueror of Syria's plains,
Who bow'd the Persian, made the Christian feel
The deadly sharpness of the Moslem steel;
But of his conquests, riches, honours, might,
Naught sleeps with him in death's unbroken night,
Save this poor robe.'"
 

D.A.H.

BANQUETTING HOUSE, WHITEHALL

(For the Mirror.)

This splendid pile which is at present under repair, was erected in the time of James I. Whitehall being in a most ruinous state, he determined to rebuild it in a very princely manner, and worthy of the residence of the monarchs of the British empire. He began with pulling down the banquetting rooms built by Elizabeth. That which bears the above name at present was begun in 1619, from a design of Inigo Jones, in his purest style; and executed by Nicholas Stone, master mason and architect to the king; it was finished in two years, and cost £17,000. but is only a small part of a vast plan, left unexecuted by reason of the unhappy times which succeeded. The ceiling of this noble room cannot be sufficiently admired; it was painted by Rubens, who had £3,000. for his work. The subject is the Apotheosis of James I. forming nine compartments; one of the middle represents our pacific monarch on his earthly throne, turning with horror from Mars, and other of the discordant deities, and as if it were, giving himself up to the amiable goddess he always cultivated, and to her attendants, Commerce, and the Fine Arts. This fine performance is painted on canvass, and is in high preservation; but a few years ago it underwent a repair by Cipriani, who had £2,000. for his trouble. Near the entrance is a bust of the royal founder.

Little did James think (says Pennant) that he was erecting a pile from which his son was to step from the throne to the scaffold. He had been brought in the morning of his death, from St. James's across the Park, and from thence to Whitehall, where ascending the great staircase, he passed through the long gallery to his bed-chamber, the place allotted to him to pass the little time before he received the fatal blow. It is one of the lesser rooms marked with the letter A in the old plan of Whitehall. He was from thence conducted along the galleries and the banquetting house, through the wall, in which a passage was broken to his last earthly stage. Mr. Walpole tells us that Inigo Jones, surveyor of the works done about the king's house, had only 8s. 4d. a day, and £46. a year for house-rent, and a clerk and other incidental expenses. The present improvements at Whitehall make one exclaim with the poet, Pope—

 
"I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample brow, a new Whitehall ascend."
 

Again,

 
"You too proceed, make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before."
 

P.T.W.
THE UNIVERSE

(For the Mirror.)

 
O light celestial, streaming wide
Through morning'd court of fairy blue—
O tints of beauty, beams of pride,
That break around its varied hue—
Still to thy wonted pathway true,
Thou shinest on serenely free,
Best born of Him, whose mercy grew
In every gift, sweet world, to thee.
 
 
O countless stars, that, lost in light,
Still gem the proud sun's glory bed,
And o'er the saddening brow of night
A softer, holier influence shed—
How well your radiant march hath sped.
Unfailing vestals of the sky,
As smiling thus ye weed from dread
The soul ye court to muse on high.
 
 
O flowers that breathe of beauty's reign,
In many a tint o'er lawn and lea,
That give the cold heart once again
A dream of happier infancy;
And even on the grave can be
A spell to weed affection's pain—
Children of Eden, who could see.
Nor own His bounty in your reign?
 
 
O winds, that seem to waft from far
A mystic murmur o'er the soul,
As ye had power to pass the bar
Of nature in your vast control,
Hail to your everlasting roll—
Obedient still ye wander dim,
And softly breathe, or loudly toll,
Through earth and sky the name of Him.
 
 
O world of waters, o'er whose bed
The chainless winds unceasing swell,
That claim'st a kindred over head,
As 'twixt the skies thou seem'st to dwell;
And e'en on earth art but a spell,
Amid their realms to wander free—
Thy task of pride hath speeded well,
Thou deep, eternal, boundless sea.
 
 
O storms of night and darkness, flung
In blackening chaos o'er the world,
When thunderpeals are dreadly rung,
Mid clouds in sightless fury hurl'd,
Types of a mightier power, impearl'd
With mercy's soft, redeeming ray,
Still at His voice your wings are furl'd,
Ye wake to own and to obey.
 
 
O thou blest whole of light and love,
Thou glorious realm of earth and sky,
That breath'st of blissful hope above,
When all of thine hath wander'd by,
Throughout thy range, nor tear nor sigh
But breathes of bliss, of beauty's reign,
And concord, such as in the sky
The soul is taught to meet again.
 
 
O man, who veil'd in deepest night
This beauty-breathing world of thine,
And taught the serpent's deadly blight
Amid its sweetest flowers to twine,
Thou, thou alone hast dared repine,
And turn'd aside from duty's call,
Thou who hast broken nature's shrine,
And wilder'd hope and darken'd all.
 

ANNETTE TURNER.

A half-pint of wine for young men in perfect health is enough, and you will be able to take your exercise better, and feel better for this abstinence.—Dr. Babington.