# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Oxford

OXFORD.
Turret, and spire, and dome!
 How proud they rise,
Clasped in the arms of elmy avenues,
Each with its robe of wisdom or of power
Around it, like a mantle. Glorious thoughts,
Born of the hoary past, and mighty shades
Nurtured in silence, and made eloquent
Here, in these cloistered cells, for after times,
Meet him, who museth here.
 I sat me down
Upon a quiet seat, o'erhung with boughs
Umbrageous, at my feet a dimpling stream,
The silver Cherwell, verdant meadows spread
Broadly around, where roamed the antlered deer
At pleasure, while serene a snowy flock
Reposed or ruminated.
 Did some cloud
Burst with an inborn melody? Or harp,
Instinct with numbers of the minstrel king,
Pour forth an echo strain? It was thy song,
Oh Addison! and this the chosen spot
Where thou didst sing of Him, who should prepare
Thy pasture, and by living waters lead,
And the unslumbering Shepherd of thy soul
Be evermore.
 And then there seemed to pass
In shadowy host the great of other days,
Arm linked in arm, in high communion sweet,
Blessing the haunts where Learning forged for them
Imperishable armor!
 But we turned
From their entrancing company, to walk
Among the living, and to scan the tomes
In halls and alcoves hoarded, row on row,
Which in their plenitude might half confuse
The arithmetician's skill; and see the light
With rainbow pencil through the storied panes
Of old St. Magdalen, so solemnly
Teach the cold pavement of the things of heaven,
A tender, tinted lesson, which the heart
Sometimes in deeper flintiness receives,
Unkindled, unreflected. Next, to hear
St. Mary's wondrous chant, at evening hour,
As though the earth to angels bade good night,
And they replied, hosanna; then, to stand
Beneath the pure eye of the watching stars,
Where on the winds their eddying ashes rose,
Who earthly mitre for a martyr's crown
In flames exchanged.
 Methought the scene returned
Unfadingly before us. Then, as now,
Fled was the summer-flush, though Autumn's breath
Delayed to sear the leaf, that o'er the tide
Of gentle Isis hung. Up through the mass
Of woven foliage went the holy towers,
And classic domes, where throned Science points
To Alfred's honored name.
 See the rude throng,—
Dark glaring brows, and blood-shot, fiery eyes,
And preparations dire for fearful pangs
Of ignominious death. Yet all around,
The sparkling waters, and benignant skies,
And trees, with cool, embracing arms, allure
To thoughts of mercy. Still unpitying man
Heeds not, relents not, though sweet Nature kneels,
And sheds her holy tear-drops on his heart,
To melt the savage purpose.
 Through dense crowds
Exulting led, there comes a noble form,
Majestic of demeanor, and arrayed
In sacerdotal robe. Those lips, which oft 'Neath some cathedral's awe-imposing arch
Warned with heaven's eloquence a tearful throng,
Now, in this deep adversity, essay
The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check
The unfinished sentence, they who used to crouch
To his high fortunes, or with shouts partake
His flowing bounty. Smitten on the mouth,
In silent dignity of soul he stands
Unanswering, though reviled.
 Lo! at his side,
Worn out with long imprisonment, they place
The venerable Latimer. With years
His footsteps falter, but his soul is firm,
And his fixed eye, like the first martyr's, seems
To read unfolding heaven. The gazing throng,
The stake, the faggot, and the cutting sneer,
Are nought to him. Wrapped in his prison-garb,
The scorn of low malignity is he,
Whom pomp and wealth had courted, at whose voice
The pious Edward wept that childlike tear,
Which works the soul's salvation, and his sire,
Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved
Like a chained lion.
 Now the narrow space 'Twixt life and death the dial's point hath run,
And quick, with sacrilegious hand they bind
The guiltless victims.
 But the one, who seemed
The lowest bent with age, now strongest rose
To give away his spirit joyously;
And throwing off his prison-garments stood
In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day.
Then Ridley, in whose veins the pulse beat strong
With younger life, girded himself to bear
The burning of his flesh, while Faith portrayed,
In glorious vision to his dazzled sight,
The noble army of those martyred ones,
Who round God's altar wait.
 With wreathing spires
Up went the crackling flame, and that old man,
Triumphant o'er his anguish, boldly cried,
"Courage, my brother! We this day do light
A fire in Christendom, that ne'er shall die."
Then on his shriveled lip an angel's smile
Settled, and life went forth as pleasantly
As from a couch of down.
 But Ridley bore
A longer sorrow. Oft with sigh and prayer
He gave his soul to Jesus, ere the flame
Dissolved that gordian knot which bound it fast
To tortured clay. At length his blackened corse
Fell at the feet of Latimer, who raised
Still a calm brow to heaven. Almost it seemed
That even in death the younger Christian sought,
By posture of humility, to pay
Deep homage to his venerated guide
And father in the gospel.  'T was a sight
To curb demoniac rage. Low stifled sounds
Of pity rose, and many a murmurer mourned
For good king Edward, to the grave gone down
In early sanctity. And some there were
To ban the persecuting Queen, who fed
The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints,
And dared to kindle in these hallowed vales
Her bigot wrath.
 A chosen few there were,
Who sad and silent sought their homes, to weep
For their loved prelates; yet no railing word,
Or vengeful purpose breathed, but waiting stood
For their own test of conscience and of faith
Inflexible.
 This was the flock of Christ.
Tuesday, Oct. 27, 1840.
On the evening of our arrival at Oxford, we were admonished of being in the classic atmosphere of the University, by the tones of the "Mighty Tom," the great bell of Christ Church, which weighs 17,000 lbs., and at ten minutes after nine tolls 101 times, the number of the established students, or fellows of that College. In our subsequent visit to that Institution, where the sons of the nobility are educated, we saw their tables spread in the spacious hall, 115 feet in length, and 50 in height, built by Cardinal Wolsey, in the days of his magnificence. His portrait, in crimson robes, was hanging near that of his Master, Henry the Eighth, whose capricious temper wrought his destruction. A rude, triangular garden-chair, which he used to occupy, when superintending the workmen upon the grounds, or the edifice, is still preserved in the library; and seating myself within its no very luxurious purlieus, the pathos of his dying words seemed to come freshly over me:
"Give me a little earth for charity."
Our researches in the Bodleian and Radcliffe libraries, the former of which contains 400,000 volumes, with countless manuscripts, delighted us exceedingly; as did also the architecture of those time-honored structures, in which, and in the illustrious men nurtured within their walls, Oxford so justly glories. The evening before our departure, after listening to the sublime chants in the beautiful chapel of New College, we went to stand on the spot, near Baliol, where, on the 16th of October, 1555, Latimer, bishop of Worcester, and Ridley, bishop of London, expired at the stake. And it seemed, if not a natural combination, surely a touching climax, for thought to rise from the high, historical associations that cluster around the fanes of learning and piety, to the unshrinking faith of that "blessed company of martyrs," who through much tribulation entered into eternal rest.