  By CHARLES BLATHERWICK. Helen’s tower, here I stand, Dominant over sea and land. Son’s love built me, and I hold Mother’s love engraved in gold. Love is in and out of time, I am mortal stone and lime. Would my granite girth were strong As either love, to last as long, I should wear my crown entire To and thro’ the Doomsday fire, And be found of angel eyes In earth’s recurring Paradise.—A. Tennyson. Halfway up Belfast Lough, on the high ground to the left you may see a remarkable landmark. This is Helen’s Tower, built by the present Earl of Dufferin as a tribute of filial affection to his mother, the late Countess of Gifford, and formally named after her on attaining his majority. Looking across from the grey old walls of Carrickfergus, it may be seen crowning the highest hill on the Claudeboye estate. Clear cut against the sky, there it stands, lashed by the winds or touched by the sun, ever firm and enduring—a fitting memorial of one of the best and noblest of women. Lady Gifford was a Sheridan, one to whom wit and beauty came as natural gifts, yet one who dipped deeply into the font of human knowledge, and by pure sympathy with all that was good and beautiful in life, exerted a lasting influence on all those whose privilege it was to know her. A short drive from Bangor, or, still better, a pleasant two-mile stretch across the turf from Claudeboye House, will bring you to the foot of the hill. Here, glimmering amid ferns, sedges, birches, and firs, very calm and peaceful on a golden autumn day, with Helen’s Tower reflected on its face, is a quiet lake. Then a smart climb through a fir wood, and the tower—a veritable Scotch tower, with “corbie stairs” and jutting turrets all complete—is before you. At the basement lives the old keeper with his wife; and here, after inscribing your name in the visitors’ book, you follow him up the stone steps. The sleeping chamber first. A cosy little room, remarkable for the fine specimen of French embroidery which decorates the bedstead, with the quaint inscription on the tester— “I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tent A . day’s . march . nearer . home.” From here you are taken to the top. Looking east on a clear day the view is superb. From Claudeboye woods and lakes, Belfast Lough and the Antrim hills on the left, the eye sweeps round to Cantire and the Scotch coast, till distance is lost in the dim range of Cumberland hills. Descending again, we enter the principal chamber—octagonal, oak-paneled, with groined pointed ceiling and stained-glass windows. On these are numerous quaint designs, intermixed with the signs of the zodiac, showing the pursuits of mankind during the progress of the seasons—from the sturdy sower of spring to the shrivelled old man warming his toes by the winter fire. Over the fire-place is a niche for a silver lamp, and flanking the west window are two poetical inscriptions—that on the left, printed in gold and having reference to the lamp, is by Lord Dufferin’s mother; and that on the right, printed in bold black type, is by the poet-laureate. On reading Lady Gifford’s graceful verses, we are pathetically reminded that she was not spared to see her son’s brilliant career. I give them here, and the laureate’s sonorous lines stand at the head of this paper. TO MY DEAR SON ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.[With a Silver Lamp.—“Fiat Lux.”] How shall I bless thee? Human Love Is all too poor in passionate words! The heart aches with a sense above All language that the lip affords! Therefore, a symbol shall express My love;—a thing nor rare nor strange, But yet—eternal—measureless— Knowing no shadow and no change! Light! which of all the lovely shows To our poor world of shadows given, The fervent Prophet-voices chose Alone—as attribute of Heaven! At a most solemn pause we stand! From this day forth, for evermore, The weak, but loving, human hand Must cease to guide thee as of yore! Then as through life thy footsteps stray And earthly beacons dimly shine, “Let there be Light” upon thy way, And holier guidance far than mine. “Let there be Light” in thy clear soul, When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail, When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll “Let there be Light” that shall not fail! So—angel guarded—may’st thou tread The narrow path, which few may find; And at the end look back, nor dread To count the vanished years behind! And pray, that she whose hand doth trace This heart-warm prayer, when life is past, May see and know thy blessed face In God’s own glorious Light at last!—Good Words. Mr. Robert Browning has also written lines upon this “Tower,” and has consented to their publication in a late issue of the Pall Mall Gazette. In an introduction to the poem, the Gazette remarks: “The difference in treatment of the same subject by the two poets will, we are sure, interest our readers. Mr. Browning’s tribute to the love-inducing qualities of the late Lady Gifford was no mere compliment, as all who knew her will bear witness.” “HELEN’S TOWER.”Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance, How the Greek Beauty from the ScÆan Gate Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance. Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance, Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate! Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance. The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange; A transitory shame of long ago, It dies into the sand from which it sprang; But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change; God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so, When all the morning stars together sang. —Robert Browning. decorative line The traces of human deeds fade swiftly away from the sun-lighted earth, as the transient shade of thought from the brow, but nothing is lost and dissipated, which the rolling hours, replete with secrets, have received into their dark creative bosom. Time is a blooming field; nature is ever teeming with life, and all is seed, and all is fruit.—Schiller. decorative line
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