The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
What little cause have moderns to complain,
Throughout our isle!—no native warriors slain;
Our fertile valleys, in improving charms,
With Commerce smile, secure from war's alarms.
How changed, since Skipton's ancient towers arose,
Their country's strength, and terror of its foes!
Where Meschinès, the long-ejected heir,
Led to the altar Cicily the Fair,
Obtaining thus, what many a life had cost,
With his fair bride, the lands his father lost;—
All those domains which Edwin once possessed,
Where famed Romili fixed his place of rest.
By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought,
The arms with which the Norman warriors fought;
Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigantine,
Worn by the warriors of the Norman line,
Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear,
Lances and swords, have oft been polished there;
Banners, which waved when shields and helmets rung,
Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung
High in the tower, as in a place of trust,
Now wasted all, and worn away with rust.
Here, gorgeous, glittered, once in days of old,
Satins of various dyes, adorned with gold;
The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er,
And silvered robes the ancient Cliffords wore;
Their hangings were of silk, with silver tinged,
And velvet canopies with gold were fringed;
Whole butts of wine were in the cellar stowed,
And in the hall the vessels oft o'erflowed,
Upon each dish the dragon was portrayed,
And underneath a gory lion laid,
Warriors and arms were 'graven on the plate,
To show their fathers wished them to be great;
Upon their cups, embossed, was many a shield,
And this strong charge—“Let Cliffords never yield!”
Upon the wall their bright steel armour hung,
With dimples marked, where many a spear had rung.
Then many a sumptuous lordly feast was kept,
And ladies here o'er warriors slain have wept;
Here lords have hunted through their wide domains,
Rode o'er the rocks, and galloped on the plains;
Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard,
Passed not unheeded nor without regard;
Here many a night of jollity has been,
And festive mirth was stamped on every scene:
But how can scenes of centuries long gone by,
With all the ancient feats of chivalry,
Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport,
Their imitations of the monarch's court;
Their priest, revered, by superstition fed,
Who, they believed, could liberate the dead;
The sieges which the lofty towers sustained,
Till on their tops no battlement remained;
Their great possessors, since the Norman king?—
Crowd all at once—too much for me to sing:
Then, oh forgive a feeble rustic bard,
When he admits the mighty task too hard!
Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive hours,
In walking round these desolated towers,
Where late such greatness and such valour dwelt,
Reflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt.
Throughout our isle!—no native warriors slain;
Our fertile valleys, in improving charms,
With Commerce smile, secure from war's alarms.
How changed, since Skipton's ancient towers arose,
Their country's strength, and terror of its foes!
Where Meschinès, the long-ejected heir,
Led to the altar Cicily the Fair,
6
With his fair bride, the lands his father lost;—
All those domains which Edwin once possessed,
Where famed Romili fixed his place of rest.
By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought,
The arms with which the Norman warriors fought;
Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigantine,
Worn by the warriors of the Norman line,
Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear,
Lances and swords, have oft been polished there;
Banners, which waved when shields and helmets rung,
Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung
High in the tower, as in a place of trust,
Now wasted all, and worn away with rust.
Here, gorgeous, glittered, once in days of old,
Satins of various dyes, adorned with gold;
The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er,
And silvered robes the ancient Cliffords wore;
Their hangings were of silk, with silver tinged,
And velvet canopies with gold were fringed;
Whole butts of wine were in the cellar stowed,
And in the hall the vessels oft o'erflowed,
Upon each dish the dragon was portrayed,
And underneath a gory lion laid,
Warriors and arms were 'graven on the plate,
To show their fathers wished them to be great;
Upon their cups, embossed, was many a shield,
And this strong charge—“Let Cliffords never yield!”
7
With dimples marked, where many a spear had rung.
Then many a sumptuous lordly feast was kept,
And ladies here o'er warriors slain have wept;
Here lords have hunted through their wide domains,
Rode o'er the rocks, and galloped on the plains;
Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard,
Passed not unheeded nor without regard;
Here many a night of jollity has been,
And festive mirth was stamped on every scene:
But how can scenes of centuries long gone by,
With all the ancient feats of chivalry,
Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport,
Their imitations of the monarch's court;
Their priest, revered, by superstition fed,
Who, they believed, could liberate the dead;
The sieges which the lofty towers sustained,
Till on their tops no battlement remained;
Their great possessors, since the Norman king?—
Crowd all at once—too much for me to sing:
Then, oh forgive a feeble rustic bard,
When he admits the mighty task too hard!
Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive hours,
In walking round these desolated towers,
Where late such greatness and such valour dwelt,
Reflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |