WIN-HILL
Or
THE CURSE OF GOD
A Poem by Ebenezer Elliott, Corn Law Rhymer and Poet of the Poor
Elliott's Statue in Sheffield
To Francis Place,
Esq., author of "Illustrations of the Principle of
Population," I
respectfully dedicate this Poem.
This day, ye mountains! is a holiday;
Not the bless'd Sabbath, yet a day of rest,
Though wrung by cant from sordid men, who pay
Their homage to the god whom cant loves best:
I hallow it to Heaven, and make it bless'd.
Wild Moscar Dell, receive me! headlong Wye,
Let my soul hear thee from the mountain's breast,
Telling thy streamlets, as they leap from high,
That richer, lovelier vales, and nobler hills, are nigh!
Now quit thy home, thou bread-tax'd Artisan!
Drink air and light, pale victim, while thou may'st!
What dost thou hence, umbrella'd Englishman,
Bound to thy pagod in the streeted waste?
Deem'st thou that God dwells only where thou pray'st?
Come worship here, while clouds the hill-tops kiss!
Death numbereth them who linger where thou stay'st,
Bliss-praying supplicant! why shunn'st thou bliss?
O can ye hope for heaven, and scorn a scene like this?
Thy sisters, in the vales left far behind,
Are dead, late-coming Primrose! months ago,
They faded slowly in the pensive wind:
Thou smilest---yes, the happy will do so,
Careless of others' wrongs, and others' woe.
Carnation'd childhood's favourite! thou too here?
Ay, roses die, but daisies always grow.
Skeleton ash! why lag behind the year?
Where Don and Rother meet, no half-clad boughs appear.
Nor there are children of the young year seen;
But tawdry flowers flaunt where they grew, and tell
How soon they died! even as the base and mean
Laugh o'er a good
man's grave. But near the well
That never fails, the golden pimpernel
Enjoys the freshness of this Alpine clime;
And violets linger in each deep cool dell,
As lowly virtues of the olden time
Cling to their cottage-homes, and slowly yield to crime.
Last windflower! knew'st thou April? Infant June
Sees thee, and reddens at thy modest smile;
And o'er thee still May's chaffinch sings his tune,
Well-pleased thy musing idlesse to beguile,
Where two streams meet beneath thy lonely isle;
And cottony bog-rush, and the antler'd moss,
And the brake's lady cluster round thee, while
Their heads at thee the rising foxgloves toss,
Where gnarl'd and lichen'd oaks the shadow'd torrent
cross.
So bad men frown! but can their frowns compel
The cowslip to remain beneath the sod?
Can they prevent the mosses of the dell
From lifting up their tiny hands to God?
No; to the soul these point its far abode,
And humbly tell us what the angels are;
Immortal flowers! as dewdrops on the sod
Pure; or the beams that hymn, from star to star,
The King who paves with suns his wheelless, noiseless
car.
O thou great Scotsman, with the meteor-pen!
Come from thy Trosachs, Wilson, come, and paint
Yon monarch of our Alps! that little men
May feel thy Titan soul in theirs, and faint
Almost with inspiration; from the taint
Of worldly vileness freed, as by a spell;
And made, at once, half-prophet and half-saint,
When reading thee to town-sick hearts, they tell
Of scenes few love like thee, and none can paint so well.
How wildly start the wild flocks as we gaze!
How softly sleeps upon the lap of noon
The cloud-couch'd lightning! and how sweetly plays
The laughing blue above the blackness; soon
To melt in fire and horror, where, aboon
This lesser giant's storm-swoll'n floods and firs,
Yon distant giant fronts the mid-day moon,
While solemnly the wind-fed wigan
Its flapping leaves alone, o'er fern and sun-bright
furze!
To bathe with married waves their monarch's feet,
See, where the Ashop and the Derwent haste;
And how he rears him from the vale, complete
In all his time-touch'd majesty, embraced
By the blue, bright blue heavens; his proud brow graced
With that stone diadem which Nature made,
Ages before her practised hand had graced
With living gems the bluebell-haunted shade;
Or, high in lucid air, her wind-swift wings display'd!
King of the Peak! Win-Hill! thou, throned and crown'd,
That reign'st o'er many a stream and many a vale!
Star-loved, and meteor-sought, and tempest-found!
Proud centre of a mountain-circle, hail!
The might of man may triumph or may fail;
But, Eldest Brother of the Air and Light,
Firm shalt thou stand when demigods turn pale!
For thou, ere Science dawn'd on Reason's night,
Wast, and wilt be when Mind shall rule all other might.
To be a crown'd and sceptred curse, that makes
Immortals worms! a wolf, that feeds on souls!
One of the names which vengeance whips with snakes,
Whose venom cannot die! a king of ghouls,
Whose drink is blood! To be clear-eyed as owls,
Still calling darkness light, and winter spring!
To be a tiger-king, whose mercy growls!
To be of meanest things the vilest thing!
Throned asp o'er lesser asps! What grub would be a king?
But, crown'd Win-Hill! to be a king like thee!
Older than death! as God's thy calm behest!
Only heaven-rivall'd in thy royalty!
Calling the feeble to thy sheltering breast,
And shaking beauty from thy gorgeous vest,
And loved by every good and happy thing!
With nought beneath thee that thou hast not bless'd,
And nought above thee but the Almighty's wing!
O glorious god-like aim! Who would not be a king?
But, lo, the Inn! the mountain-girded Inn!
Whose amber stream is worth all Helicon!
To pass it fasting were a shame and sin;
Stop! for the gate hangs well that hinders none;
Refresh, and pay, then stoutly travel on!
Ay, thou hast need to pree the barley-wine;
Steep is th' ascent, O bard! thou look'st upon;
To reach that cloud-capt seat, and throne divine,
Might try a stronger frame and younger limbs than thine.
Now, having drunk of jolly ale enough,
To climb Win-Hill is worth ambition---yea!
Ambition, e'en if made of jolly stuff,
Should drink strong ale, or never will he say
To rival climbers---"Follow on my way!"
Old ale and jolly, be it dark or pale,
Drink like a toper, be thou green or grey!
Drink oft and long, or try to climb, and fail!
If thou would'st climb Win-Hill, drink old and jolly ale!
"Blow, blow, thou breeze of mountain freshness,
blow!"
Stronger and fresher still, as we ascend
Strengthen'd and freshen'd, till the land below
Lies like a map!---On! on! those clouds portend
Hail, rain, and fire! --- Hark, how the rivers send
Their skyward voices hither, and their words
Of liquid music!---See, how bluely blend
The east moors with the sky!---The lowing herds,
To us, are silent now, and hush'd the songful birds.
This spot is hallow'd; sacred are these rocks,
To death and sorrow. Here, amid the snow,
A stranger died, where seldom the wild flocks
Ascend to feed. Clouds! for ye only know
His griefs and wrongs, tell me his name of woe,
The mutter'd history of his broken heart;
That of a thing so noble we may owe
To you a relic, never to depart---
A tale o'er which proud men may sometimes pause and
start!
From the hard world that scorn'd to scorn him, he
Retired, to die in solitude, as dies
The royal eagle in his majesty,
Where no mean bird may peck his fading eyes;
And told the mournful winds, with tears and sighs,
That so fall'n man should ever die, alone
And undegraded. O'er his cheek the skies,
Stooping in pity, wept to hear him groan,
And drown'd in faithful tears his soul's last lowbreathed
moan.
Nor other tears for him were ever shed,
Except by her who, dying, to her breast
Clasp'd him, her child, and mourn'd his father dead;
And kiss'd and kiss'd that babe, and bless'd and bless'd
The orphan'd worm that suck'd her into rest;
And still, almost with hope her grief beguiled,
And tried to pray, till death her eyeballs press'd---
But could not pray, amid her ravings wild,
That God would take the life she gave to that poor child?
He died; but still the winds that loved him came
And whisper'd, though he made them no reply;
And still his friends, the clouds, bedew'd his frame
With frozen tears, less cold than charity.
But little men, whom summer brought to see
The heathcock's plumes, beheld him where he lay,
And robb'd him of that glorious tomb, which he
Chose in his pride; bearing his bones away---
His proud, insulted bones---to mix with common clay.
And I will not loathe man---although he be
Adder and tiger!---for his sake who died
Here, in his desolation great and free,
And with a fall'n immortal's might and pride,
On human nature's dignity relied,
When all else failed. No workhouse menial's blows
Check'd his last sob! No packthread-mockery tied
His sunken chin! Oh, sick of mortal woes,
I bless the pillow which his Hampden-spirit chose!
High on the topmost jewel of thy crown,
Win-Hill! I sit bareheaded, ankle-deep
In tufts of rose-cupp'd bilberries; and look down
On towns that smoke below, and homes that creep
Into the silvery clouds, which far-off keep
Their sultry state! and many a mountain stream,
And many a mountain vale, "and ridgy steep;"
The Peak, and all his mountains, where they gleam
Or frown, remote or near, more distant than they seem!
There flows the Ashop, yonder bounds the Wye,
And Derwent here towards princely Chatsworth trends;
But, while the Nough steals purple from the sky,
Lo! northward far, what giant's shadow bends?
A voice of torrents, hark! its wailing sends;
Who drives yon tortured cloud through stone-still air?
A rush! a roar! a wing! a whirlwind rends
The stooping larch! The moorlands cry "Prepare!
It comes! ye gore-gorged foes of want and toil,
beware!"
It comes! Behold!---Black Blakelow hoists on high
His signals to the blast from Gledhill's brow.
Them, slowly glooming on the lessening sky,
The bread-tax'd exile sees, (in speechless woe,
Wandering the melancholy main below,
Where round the shores of Man the dark surge heaves,)
And while his children's tears in silence flow,
Thinks of sweet scenes to which his soul still cleaves,
That home on Etherow's side, which he for ever leaves.
Now expectation listens, mute and pale,
While, ridged with sudden foam, the Derwent brawls;
Arrow-like comes the rain, like fire the hail;
And, hark! Mam-Tor on shuddering Stanage calls!
See, what a frown o'er castled Winnat falls!
Down drops the death-black sky! and Kinderscout,
Conscious of glory, laughs at intervals;
Then lifts his helmet, throws his thunders out,
Bathes all the hills in flame, and hails their stormy
shout.
Hark! how my Titan guards laugh kings to scorn!
See, what a fiery circle girds my state!
Hail mountains! River-Gatherers! Eldest born
Of Time and Nature, dreadful, dark, and great!
Whose tempests, wing'd from brows that threaten fate,
Cast shadows, blacken'd with intensest light,
Like the despair of angels fallen, that wait
On God's long-sleeping wrath, till roof'd with night,
The seas shall burn like oil, and Death be waked with
fright.
Storm! could I ride on thee, and grasp thy mane,
A bitless bridle, in my unburnt hand;
Like flax consumed, should fall the bondman's chain,
Like dust, the torturers of each troubled land;
And Poland o'er the prostrate Hun should stand---
Her foot upon his neck, her falchion's hilt
Beneath her ample palm. Then every strand
Should hear her voice: "Our bulwark is rebuilt,
Europe! but who shall gauge the blood these butchers
spilt?"
And what are they, O land of age-long woes!
Who laid the hope of thy redemption low?
Are they not Britain's sons, and Labour's foes,
Who, sowing curses, ask why curses grow,
And league with fate for their own overthrow?
When will their journey end? They travel fast!---
Slow Retribution! wherefore art thou slow?
When will the night of our despair be past?
And bread-tax'd slaves become Men, godlike Men, at last?
Thy voice is like thy Father's, dreadful storm!
Earth hears his whisper, when thy clouds are torn;
And Nature's tremor bids our sister-worm
Sink in the ground. But they who laugh to scorn
The trampled heart which want and toil have worn,
Fear thee, and laugh at Him, whose warning word
Speaks from thy clouds, on burning billows borne;
For, in their hearts, his voice they never heard,
Ne'er felt his chastening hand, nor pined with hope
deferr'd.
O Thou whose whispering is the thunder! Power
Eternal, world-attended, yet alone!
O give, at least, to labour's hopeless hour
That peace, which Thou deny'st not to a stone!
The famine-smitten millions cease to groan;
When wilt Thou hear their mute and long despair?
Lord, help the poor! for they are all thy own.
Wilt Thou not help? did I not hear Thee swear
That Thou would'st tame the proud, and grant their
victims' prayer?
Methought I saw Thee in the dreams of sleep.
This mountain, Father, groan'd beneath thy heel!
Thy other foot was placed on Kinder's steep;
Before thy face I saw the planets reel,
While earth and skies shone bright as molten steel;
For under all the stars Thou took'st thy stand,
And bad'st the ends of heaven behold and feel,
That Thou to all thy worlds had'st stretch'd thine hand,
And cursed for evermore the Legion-Fiend of Land!
"He is accursèd!" said the sons of light,
As in their bowers of bliss they listen'd pale;
"He is accursèd!" said the comets, bright
With joy; and star to star a song of bale
Sang, and sun told to sun the dismal tale,
"He is accursèd! till the light shall fade
To horror in heaven's courts, and glory veil
Her beams, before the face of Truth betray'd;
Because he cursed the land, which God a blessing made!
"He is accursèd!" said the Prince of Hell;
And---like a Phidian statue, mountain-vast---
Stooping from rocks, black, yet unquenchable,
The pale shade of his faded glory cast
Over the blackness of black fire, aghast---
Black-burning seas, that ever black will burn;
"He is accursèd! and while hell shall last,
Him and his prayer heaven's marble roof will spurn,
Who cursed the blessèd sod, and bade earth's millions
mourn!"
