3. The Duke of Mercia, an historical Drama. The Lamentation of Ireland, and other Poems

Sir Aubrey de Vere published "The Duke of Mercia, an historical Drama. The Lamentation of Ireland, and other Poems" in 1823.

He dedicated his tome (London: Hurst and Robinson, 1823) to his father-in-law "as a memorial of gratitude for an inestimable gift."

The following excerpt from The Duke of Mercia illustrates the work's narrative style.

The setting is the Danish camp. Canute the king of the Danes converses with two earls, Turkill and Gothmund, on the eve of battle against Edmund, surnamed Ironside, king of England.

CANUTE

Roll'd in her shadows, the wan spirit of night
Descends: so frowningly our fortunes lour;
And angry nature heralds in a day
Of danger, it may be of doom, to us.

GOTHMUND

The road is open to retreat.

CANUTE

Not so.
From a fair field the brave have no retreat.
I have consider'd deeply, and here plant
My standard—on this rock.

(Enter BULLOIGN, introduced)

CANUTE

The Earl of Bulloign?
Welcome, brave soldier!

BULLOIGN

Royal sir, my errand
Is of such nature as a princely heart,
Swoln with the blood of warlike ancestry,
Will glory to make good. Our valiant Edmund,
Who in this tug of war hath well approved
His noble lineage, and may proudly deem
Canute his glorious peer, hath long in tears
Of blood deplored this desolating strife;
And, even in death, would gladly seal a peace
By his best blood cemented: therefore it is,
And with no sanguinary, vengeful thought,
Or vain disparagement of Canute's prowess,
He hath commanded me—waving all vantage
The chance of this unequal field allows—
To dare his rival to the mortal lists:
There, hand to hand, as well becomes brave men,
To terminate this quarrel. In such spirit,
Here I fling down his stainless knightly gage.

CANUTE

My lord! my heart leaps to requite your challenge
As its brave bearing well deserves. What say ye,
My Danish men? Shall we not fitly thus
Purchase triumphant peace? Nay, nay, good Turkill,
Obstruct me not—the tide of common blood,
Could that suffice, too freely has been pour'd.
—Eustace of Bulloign, take this glove of mine
Back to the King of England: pledge that to-morrow
The Danish or the Saxon sun shall set.
On our part we appoint Earls Turkill, Gothmund,
And Anlaffe, marshals of the lists.

BULLOIGN

On ours, We shall depute Lords Frithegist and Morcar,
And (though scarce worthy of such fellowship)
Myself, poor Eustace Bulloign, brother of England.

CANUTE

Bulloign, your hand? I know none worthier.
Farewell!

(Exit Bulloign)

The time, my lords, 'twixt heaven and me
May be but brief; which, for our kingdom's welfare,
And our soul's comfort, must be husbanded.

(Exeunt Turkill, Gothmund, and company)

CANUTE

(after pacing apart for some time, with hurried step)

I thank ye, spirits of my ancestors!
Now look ye down on my aspiring soul,
And make me dreadful as the icy winds
That slay whate'er they breathe upon! Just vengeance!
Rush to my heart! make all my muscles steel—
Keen as my wrongs, as pliant as my will!
Spirit of Odin! to my life-blood leap—
And with thine ancient terrors light mine eyes,
That with my port I may appal all hearts!—
Thou gory mace! thou trenchant sword! twin ministers
Of fate and glory, to my heart I catch ye—
Fonder than ever father clasp'd his first-born!
—Ha! at the touch, the hot blood through my veins
Rushes like molten metal—Vengeance, thou’rt mine!
Glory, thou art my mate! empire, my guerdon!
—Lash your o'erwearied team, thou sluggish day,
And light me to the goal!—I tread on air!

(Exit into his tent)

(The Duke of Mercia, pp. 171-75)
The Lamentation of Ireland opens the book's section titled "Poems."

It is dedicated to the Right Honourable Maurice Fitzgerald, knight of Kerry.

The setting is the delta of the Shannon River on a calm, soothing summer evening. The author strolls absent-minded along the river's bank and lays down on a wave-worn rock. A blind old man, guided by a boy, approaches the seashore with faltering steps, drooping form and low, dejected head, "to pour a requiem to the dead, at the still close of day"; the aged bard blurts out a lament for Ireland.

A brief excerpt follows,

The Lamentation of Ireland
(fragment)

"And why unstrung, unheeded, lies the lute?
Why does the warlike harp in silence sleep?
Cold is the slave's sad heart—and his lips mute—
Dishonour'd woman bows her head to weep:
Music has lost its charms of yore:
The martial hymn can kindle hearts no more,
Nor steal from memory scenes that make the flesh to creep.

"It cannot now restore lost liberty!
Th' oppressive yoke hath still'd each pulse of flame,
Whose fiery current once, tumultuously,
Had flash'd through every vein in tides of shame.
If but the hoary harper sang
The deeds of early days, or wildly rang
His country's living woes, his country's dying fame.

"Oh! say not weaker fires glow’d in each breast
Of those subdued yet honourable men:
That patriotic love more lightly prest—
That agonising thoughts of home were vain.
But we were not united, and they came
With all Ambition's singleness of aim—
How could unmarshal’d hosts their firm phalanx sustain!

"No—we might boast in our long lineage,
All that we love and reverence in mankind:
Hero and bard, the patriot and the sage,
With strength of arm, and energy of mind;
And, in the homeward bowers of love,
Fond wives and bashful maids were seen to move,
In every virtue strong, by every grace refined.

"Alas! dim shadows of immortal mind,
That, cloud-like, sweep o'er memory's silent waste,
Mark'd by no eye but his, the unconfined,
Bold votary of song!—how swift ye haste,
Upon the subtle winds of Time,
(Fast fading pageants of a fickle clime)
To yon dark bound, whence ye may never more be traced!"

(The Duke of Mercia, pp. 223-24)
The Poems section contains fifteen poems and eighteen sonnets. This next one honours his wife.

To M.

YOU ask, for what I love thee, dearest!
Thy mind's unspotted purity.
You ask me, why I call thee fairest?
Because that mind is in thine eye.

'Tis not the sober claim of duty,
Nor feature's charm, nor wit's gay flight,
That binds me;—'tis the moral beauty
That clothes thee in an angel-light.

And yet thou art as fair a creature
As ever sprang from Nature's hand;
Of faultless form, and blooming feature,
With wit and wisdom at command.

But, oh! thou hast a richer treasure—
Thy gentle heart, thy soul, for me!
For these I'll love thee without measure,
And love thee—to eternity!

(The Duke of Mercia, pp. 252-53)

Sir Aubrey de Vere would not write another historical drama until 1844. It was published posthumously.

In the year 1844 De Vere was confined to bed with a painful disease and while here composed his greatest work, Mary Tudor: An Historical Drama. He completed it in September of the same year and Cardinal Manning wrote: "Perhaps my feeling may be tinged with a sympathy, but Gladstone's is not, and we agree in considering Mary Tudor the finest drama since Shakespeare's time."

(Limerick City Library)
Supplement to Lenore: Answers To Some Questions On The Raven