Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Runnimede

'T was beautiful, in English skies,
    That changeful April day,
When beams and clouds each other chased,
    Like tireless imps at play,
And father Thames went rolling on,
    In vernal wealth and pride,
As in our slender boat we swept
    Across his crystal tide.

And then, within a tasteful cot,
    The pictured wall we traced,
With relics of the feudal times,
    And quaint escutcheons graced
Of fearless knights, who bravely won
    For this sequestered spot
A name from wondering History's hand,
    That Death alone can blot.

Methought a dim and slumbrous veil
    Enwrapt the glowing scene,
And strangely stole our wearied eyes,
    And each bright trace between,
And at our side, behold! a king
    His thronging minions met,
Arrayed in all the boasted power
    Of high Plantagenet.

See! see! his sceptered hand is raised
    To shade a haggard brow,
As if constrained to do a deed
    His pride would disallow.
What now, false John! what troubleth thee?
    Finds not thine art some way
To blind or gull the vassal train,
    And hold thy tyrant-sway?

He falters still, with daunted eye
    Turned toward those barons bold,
Whose hands are grappling to their swords
    With firm indignant hold;
The die is cast; he bows him down
    Before those steel-girt men,
And Magna Charta springs to life
    Beneath his trembling pen.

His white lip to a smile is wreathed,
    As their exulting shout
From 'neath the broad, embowering trees
    Upon the gale swells out,
Yet still his cowering glance is bent
    On Thames' translucent tide,
As if some sharp and bitter pang
    He from the throng would hide.

Know ye what visiteth his soul,
    When midnight's heavy hand
Doth crush the emmet cares of day,
    And wield reflection's wand?
Forth stalks a broken-hearted sire,
    Wrapt in the grave-robe drear,
And close around his ingrate heart
    Doth cling the ice of fear.

Know ye what sounds are in his ear,
    When wrathful tempests roll;
When heaven-commissioned lightnings search,
    And thunders try the soul?
Above their blast young Arthur's shriek
    Doth make the murderer quake,
As if anew the guiltless blood
    From Rouen's prison spake.

Away, away, ye sombre thoughts!
    Avaunt, ye spectres drear;
Too long your sable wing ye spread
    In scenes to memory dear.
So, quick they vanished all away,
    Like visioned hosts of care,
As out on the green sward we went,
    To breathe the balmy air.

Then from its home, in English soil,
    A daisy's root I drew,
Amid whose moistened crown of leaves
    A healthful bud crept through;
And whispered in its infant ear
    That it should cross the sea,
A cherished emigrant, and find
    A western home with me.

Methought it shrank, at first, and paled;
    But when on ocean's tide
Strong waves and awful icebergs frowned,
    And manly courage died,
It calmly reared a crested head,
    And smiled amid the storm,
As if old Magna Charta's soul
    Inspired its fragile form.

So, where within my garden-plat
    I sow the choicest seed,
Amid my favorite shrubs I placed
    The plant of Runnimede,
And know not why it may not draw
    Sweet nutriment, the same
As when within that noble clime
    From whence our fathers came.

Here's liberty enough for all,
    If they but use it well,
And Magna Charta's spirit lives
    In even the lowliest cell;
And the simplest daisy may unfold,
    From scorn and danger freed;
So make yourself at home, my friend,
    My flower from Runnimede.