Robert Hawker (poet)

Hawker in 1864

Robert Stephen Hawker (3 December 1803 – 15 August 1875) was a British Anglican priest, poet, antiquarian and reputed eccentric, known to his parishioners as Parson Hawker.

Quotes

• A good sword and a trusty hand!
    A merry heart and true!
  King James’s men shall understand
    What Cornish lads can do.
  And have they fix’d the where and when?
    And shall Trelawny die?
  Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
    Will know the reason why!
  Out spake their Captain brave and bold,
    A merry wight was he:
  ‘If London Tower were Michael’s Hold,
    We’ll set Trelawny free!
  ‘We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land,
    The Severn is no stay;
  With “One and All” and hand to hand.
    And who shall bid us nay?
  ‘And when we come to London Wall,
    A pleasant sight to view,
  Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all!
    Here’s men as good as you.
  ‘Trelawny he’s in keep and hold,
    Trelawny he may die:
  But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold
    Will know the reason why.’
      And shall Trelawny die?
      And shall Trelawny die?
      Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
      Will know the reason why!
  • "The Song of the Western Men" (wr. 1824; pub. 1826)

• Waes-hael for knight and dame!
    O merry be their dole!
  Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name
    We fill the tawny bowl;
  But cover down the curving crest,
  Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.
  Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:
    Drain ye the reeds for wine.
  Drink-hael! the milk was hid
    That soothed that Babe divine;
  Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows,
  He drew the balsam from the rose.
  Waes-hael! thus glow’d the breast
    Where a God yearn’d to cling;
  Drink-hael! so Jesu press’d
    Life from its mystic spring;
  Then hush and bend in reverent sign
  And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.
  Waes-hael! in shadowy scene
    Lo! Christmas children we:
  Drink-hael! behold we lean
    At a far Mother’s knee;
  To dream that thus her bosom smiled,
  And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child.
  • "King Arthur’s Waes-hael"

• We see them not—we cannot hear
    The music of their wing—
  Yet know we that they sojourn near,
    The Angels of the spring!
  They glide along this lovely ground
    When the first violet grows;
  Their graceful hands have just unbound
    The zone of yonder rose.
  I gather it for thy dear breast,
    From stain and shadow free:
  That which an Angel’s touch hath blest
    Is meet, my love, for thee!
  • "Are they not all Ministering Spirits?"

• They rear’d their lodges in the wilderness,
  Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea,
  And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream!
  So they unroll’d the Volume of the Book
  And fill’d the fields of the Evangelist
    With thoughts as sweet as flowers.
  • "The First Fathers"

• There lies a cold corpse upon the sands
    Down by the rolling sea;
  Close up the eyes and straighten the hands
    As a Christian man’s should be.
  Bury it deep, for the good of my soul,
    Six feet below the ground;
  Let the sexton come and the death-bell toll
    And good men stand around.
  Lay it among the churchyard stones,
    Where the priest hath bless’d the clay:
  I cannot leave the unburied bones,
    And I fain would go my way.
  • "Death Song"

• Thus said the rushing raven,
    Unto his hungry mate:
  ‘Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven:
    There be corpses six or eight.
  Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper
    Are wallowing in the sea:
  So there’s a savoury supper
    For my old dame and me.’
  ‘Cawk! gaffer! thou art dreaming,
    The shore hath wreckers bold;
  Would rend the yelling seamen,
    From the clutching billows’ hold.
  Cawk! cawk! they’d bound for booty
    Into the dragon’s den:
  And shout, for “death or duty,”
    If the prey were drowning men.’
  Loud laughed the listening surges
    At the guess our grandame gave:
  You might call them Boanerges,
    From the thunder of their wave.
  And mockery followed after
    The sea-bird’s jeering brood:
  That filled the skies with laughter,
    From Lundy Light to Bude.
  ‘Cawk! cawk!’ then said the raven,
    ‘I am fourscore years and ten,
  Yet never in Bude Haven,
    Did I croak for rescued men.—
  They will save the captain’s girdle,
    And shirt, if shirt there be;
  But leave their blood to curdle,
    For my old dame and me.’
  So said the rushing raven,
    Unto his hungry mate:
  ‘Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven:
    There be corpses six or eight.
  Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper
    Are wallowing in the sea:
  O, what a savoury supper
    For my old dame and me.’
  • "A Croon on Hennacliff" (1864)