 | A Summer Christmas and a Sonnet upon The S.S. "Ballaarat." |  |
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December 27th.
Last night before they went to bed
A picnic they'd determinèd
Into the forest, some to seek
A dish of yabbers from the creek,
And some to gather maiden-hair,
And some to shoot and some to share
In laying lunch and brewing tea.
Phil drove the buggy, and much he
Entreated Kit his mate to be,
Which, seeing that it held but two,
She steadily refused to do;
And as his pride would not submit
Beside her in a trap to sit
With any driving but his own,
He had to take Maud Morrison,
Only too pleased to have the chance
Of watching two swift ponies prance
Before a deft whip, while she sate
With her prime favourite tête-à-tête.
A thorough bushman, Albert Hall,
Had scarce been lured to go at all,
He'd too much of the real thing
To care about this picnicing.
He liked to picnic on a chair
At table with a dinner fair,
And would have not gone had not Kit,
Gauging him with a woman's wit,
Offered her horse, the fiery grey,
Which she on the preceding day
Had mastered with such horsemanship
And without martingale or whip.
For well-contested stand-up fight
'Twixt man and horse was his delight,
And much of it was waged in sight
Of one or other, because Will
Had asked him to keep up until
All gates were passed. Their road at first
Lay between paddocks interspersed
With few trees, rung, and mostly dead;
But when some miles were passed it led
Into a forest track which oft
Was block'd with “tea-tree bottom” soft
Or fallen trunk, compelling them
To make detours, and thrice a stem
Some inches through had to be topped,
Or they would have been wholly stopped.
Kit eyed the “new-chum” carefully
To see if he was scared thereby,
But when her gaze upon him turned
She found him wholly unconcerned.
He had gone up in her esteem
Because, although he did not seem
Well used to horses, yet he shewed
So much nerve when he drove or rode.
A picnic they'd determinèd
Into the forest, some to seek
A dish of yabbers from the creek,
And some to gather maiden-hair,
And some to shoot and some to share
In laying lunch and brewing tea.
Phil drove the buggy, and much he
Entreated Kit his mate to be,
Which, seeing that it held but two,
She steadily refused to do;
And as his pride would not submit
Beside her in a trap to sit
With any driving but his own,
He had to take Maud Morrison,
Only too pleased to have the chance
Of watching two swift ponies prance
Before a deft whip, while she sate
With her prime favourite tête-à-tête.
A thorough bushman, Albert Hall,
Had scarce been lured to go at all,
He'd too much of the real thing
To care about this picnicing.
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At table with a dinner fair,
And would have not gone had not Kit,
Gauging him with a woman's wit,
Offered her horse, the fiery grey,
Which she on the preceding day
Had mastered with such horsemanship
And without martingale or whip.
For well-contested stand-up fight
'Twixt man and horse was his delight,
And much of it was waged in sight
Of one or other, because Will
Had asked him to keep up until
All gates were passed. Their road at first
Lay between paddocks interspersed
With few trees, rung, and mostly dead;
But when some miles were passed it led
Into a forest track which oft
Was block'd with “tea-tree bottom” soft
Or fallen trunk, compelling them
To make detours, and thrice a stem
Some inches through had to be topped,
Or they would have been wholly stopped.
Kit eyed the “new-chum” carefully
To see if he was scared thereby,
But when her gaze upon him turned
She found him wholly unconcerned.
He had gone up in her esteem
Because, although he did not seem
Well used to horses, yet he shewed
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Will drove, and the Oxonian
Shared the box-seat with her, to scan
Whate'er there was of scenery,
Or unfamiliar to the eye.
Kit drove upon the road and track,
But, when they left it, Will took back
The reins, because he knew the lie
Of gaps in the vicinity.
Inside were Lil and Margaret
And Lachlan Smith on one side set,
And on the other Chesterfield
And Mrs Forte and Ida pealed
Glad laughter. So they came at last
To where a muddy creek ran past
An open space, of brushwood clear,
Where they could kindle without fear
A fire to boil the “billy” on.
Here Phil Forte and Maud Morrison
Were camped already—Phil, in spite
Of his first disappointment, bright.
Maud was so pretty, and then she
Snubbed many men so ruthlessly
That preference from her conferred
A kind of honour. She had heard
His overtures by Kit declined
And had forthwith made up her mind,
If he asked her, to exercise
Her repertoire of witcheries
To make him in his own despite
Enjoy himself—and won the fight.
It took Hall some time to enforce
Complete obedience from his horse,
But then the noble beast confessed
The masterhand and ceased contest.
Shared the box-seat with her, to scan
Whate'er there was of scenery,
Or unfamiliar to the eye.
Kit drove upon the road and track,
But, when they left it, Will took back
The reins, because he knew the lie
Of gaps in the vicinity.
Inside were Lil and Margaret
And Lachlan Smith on one side set,
And on the other Chesterfield
And Mrs Forte and Ida pealed
Glad laughter. So they came at last
To where a muddy creek ran past
An open space, of brushwood clear,
Where they could kindle without fear
A fire to boil the “billy” on.
Here Phil Forte and Maud Morrison
Were camped already—Phil, in spite
Of his first disappointment, bright.
Maud was so pretty, and then she
Snubbed many men so ruthlessly
That preference from her conferred
A kind of honour. She had heard
His overtures by Kit declined
And had forthwith made up her mind,
If he asked her, to exercise
Her repertoire of witcheries
To make him in his own despite
Enjoy himself—and won the fight.
90
Complete obedience from his horse,
But then the noble beast confessed
The masterhand and ceased contest.
When he arrived he volunteered
To go with any who preferred
Shooting to fishing. Only one
Went with him, Lachlan Smith—the gun
Was the Professor's, which he'd brought
In case some specimen he sought
Flew by him. The young barrister
Quite equalled any Londoner
In cockneyism, though he was
Australian-born, and gave Hall cause
To take the gun for all their sakes,
In terror at his wild mistakes,
Upon the pretext (which was true)
That the great common cockatoo,
Which Lachlan wanted most to shoot,
Was a most shy and wary brute,
Till one was wounded and its cries
Brought others round to sympathise.
To go with any who preferred
Shooting to fishing. Only one
Went with him, Lachlan Smith—the gun
Was the Professor's, which he'd brought
In case some specimen he sought
Flew by him. The young barrister
Quite equalled any Londoner
In cockneyism, though he was
Australian-born, and gave Hall cause
To take the gun for all their sakes,
In terror at his wild mistakes,
Upon the pretext (which was true)
That the great common cockatoo,
Which Lachlan wanted most to shoot,
Was a most shy and wary brute,
Till one was wounded and its cries
Brought others round to sympathise.
“Give me the gun,” he said, “and I
Will sneak along until I spy
One within easy shot. My eye
Will note them much more easily
Than yours.” And then he plunged into
The scrub and soon was lost to view.
He had not fired a single shot
When he returned, though in one spot
A huge black snake he'd seen as near
As horn to horn upon a deer.
He'd passed it lest the gun's report
Should scare the birds and spoil his sport.
So wholly was he without dread
Of what, had he not been bush bred,
Might have appeared like courting death.
'Twas fortunate that he not Smith
Came on it. What that legal sun
In his excitement might have done
Made the stout bushman shudder more
Than coming on black snakes, a score.
Will sneak along until I spy
One within easy shot. My eye
Will note them much more easily
Than yours.” And then he plunged into
The scrub and soon was lost to view.
He had not fired a single shot
When he returned, though in one spot
A huge black snake he'd seen as near
91
He'd passed it lest the gun's report
Should scare the birds and spoil his sport.
So wholly was he without dread
Of what, had he not been bush bred,
Might have appeared like courting death.
'Twas fortunate that he not Smith
Came on it. What that legal sun
In his excitement might have done
Made the stout bushman shudder more
Than coming on black snakes, a score.
The ferners too had seen a snake,
A small one, which contrived to make
Escape into its hole unhurt.
Chesterfield's nails were full of dirt
But he and blue-eyed Margaret
And Mrs Forte had not as yet
Much else results for toil to show,
Though Albert, when they told him so,
Plunged back into the scrub and brought
An armful of the prize they sought,
With roots attached and fronds as large
As oak-ferns grow beside the marge
Of dripping rocks and welling rills,
Beneath the blue Dumfriesshire hills.
A small one, which contrived to make
Escape into its hole unhurt.
Chesterfield's nails were full of dirt
But he and blue-eyed Margaret
And Mrs Forte had not as yet
Much else results for toil to show,
Though Albert, when they told him so,
Plunged back into the scrub and brought
An armful of the prize they sought,
With roots attached and fronds as large
As oak-ferns grow beside the marge
Of dripping rocks and welling rills,
Beneath the blue Dumfriesshire hills.
Ida was cook and parlour-maid,
And with Will's help the lunch-cloth laid,
But not the luncheon: for the ants
Were eager as annuitants,
As, not to be particular,
Ants in Australia always are.
In fact, the ant has far more right
To have its portrait opposite
The picture of the kangaroo
Upon our Arms than the Emu,
In that the latter every year
Less and less commonly appear,
A statement which does not apply
To the ant's busy family.
Will lit the fire, and Ida boiled
The tea and the potatoes spoiled,
Which in the ashes were to be
Toast-roasted so deliciously.
And with Will's help the lunch-cloth laid,
But not the luncheon: for the ants
Were eager as annuitants,
As, not to be particular,
92
In fact, the ant has far more right
To have its portrait opposite
The picture of the kangaroo
Upon our Arms than the Emu,
In that the latter every year
Less and less commonly appear,
A statement which does not apply
To the ant's busy family.
Will lit the fire, and Ida boiled
The tea and the potatoes spoiled,
Which in the ashes were to be
Toast-roasted so deliciously.
In the meantime the other five
Were catching stores of “fish-alive,”
That is to say that two were, Lil
And the Professor. Kit and Phil
And Maud were far too worryish
To do much good at catching fish,
Proving the proverb's truth and fun
That “two are company, three none.”
For Phil Forte wished Maud Morrison,
Who, as his drive's companion
Had wooed him so engagingly,
Right at the bottom of the sea,
Or anywhere but where she was,
And Maud at all events had cause
To wish Kit anywhere but there,
While Kit would rather that the pair
Would take themselves post haste elsewhere
And let her fish escape at will
In trying to escape from Phil.
Were catching stores of “fish-alive,”
That is to say that two were, Lil
And the Professor. Kit and Phil
And Maud were far too worryish
To do much good at catching fish,
Proving the proverb's truth and fun
That “two are company, three none.”
For Phil Forte wished Maud Morrison,
Who, as his drive's companion
Had wooed him so engagingly,
Right at the bottom of the sea,
Or anywhere but where she was,
And Maud at all events had cause
To wish Kit anywhere but there,
While Kit would rather that the pair
Would take themselves post haste elsewhere
And let her fish escape at will
93
But meanwhile, higher up the stream
Lil and her partner, in a dream
Of happiness, could scarcely pull
Their lines up fast enough, so full
Of yabbers seemed the creek where they
Had pitched their quarters for the day.
Their plan was simple and complete,
To tie a piece of lean raw meat
To a long stick, and leave between
A yard of string, and when they'd seen
Their quarry strike to raise the bait,
And a land-net insinuate
Behind the yabber, which darts back
Whenever it suspects attack.
Lil and her partner, in a dream
Of happiness, could scarcely pull
Their lines up fast enough, so full
Of yabbers seemed the creek where they
Had pitched their quarters for the day.
Their plan was simple and complete,
To tie a piece of lean raw meat
To a long stick, and leave between
A yard of string, and when they'd seen
Their quarry strike to raise the bait,
And a land-net insinuate
Behind the yabber, which darts back
Whenever it suspects attack.
Lil taught the piscatorial art,
And the Professor lent his heart
As well as his intelligence
To mastering its rudiments.
He tried the baits, she used the net
With practised skilfulness, and met
With most unqualified success
Till luncheon came compassionless.
And the Professor lent his heart
As well as his intelligence
To mastering its rudiments.
He tried the baits, she used the net
With practised skilfulness, and met
With most unqualified success
Till luncheon came compassionless.
The lunch was hardly packed away
When picnic-making for the day
Was stopped most unexpectedly
With heavy rain. The morn was dry,
And not a sign of rain had there
Appeared on the barometer,
And when they reached the house again
They found that not a drop of rain
Had fallen on the open plain,
Thus showing how undoubtedly
Forests attract humidity.
When picnic-making for the day
Was stopped most unexpectedly
With heavy rain. The morn was dry,
And not a sign of rain had there
Appeared on the barometer,
And when they reached the house again
They found that not a drop of rain
94
Thus showing how undoubtedly
Forests attract humidity.
Maud Morrison, in angry fit
At Phil's neglect of her for Kit,
Said she preferred the waggonette,
And so it fell to Margaret
To soothe his temper through a drive
Of miles not less than twenty-five,
Soaked to the skin before the start,
And with a big lump in her heart
Of pity for her brother's woe,
Which every one divined although
No one had put the thought in words.
If gaudy feathers make fine birds
There were no fine birds present there
Excepting Lil, and her welfare
Was due to the Professor's cloak,
Which he, accustomed to the soak
So imminent on any day
In Cumberland or Galloway,
Had, mid much laughter, stowed away
Before he left, beneath a seat.
Now he reaped thirty-fold, so sweet
Looked a fair face amid the tweed,
And gratitude for his kind deed.
At Phil's neglect of her for Kit,
Said she preferred the waggonette,
And so it fell to Margaret
To soothe his temper through a drive
Of miles not less than twenty-five,
Soaked to the skin before the start,
And with a big lump in her heart
Of pity for her brother's woe,
Which every one divined although
No one had put the thought in words.
If gaudy feathers make fine birds
There were no fine birds present there
Excepting Lil, and her welfare
Was due to the Professor's cloak,
Which he, accustomed to the soak
So imminent on any day
In Cumberland or Galloway,
Had, mid much laughter, stowed away
Before he left, beneath a seat.
Now he reaped thirty-fold, so sweet
Looked a fair face amid the tweed,
And gratitude for his kind deed.
Her mother too escaped the whole
Beneath a cotton parasol,
The food for many a biting jest
When she for its inclusion pressed
(To save her from the sun, not rain).
Beneath a cotton parasol,
The food for many a biting jest
When she for its inclusion pressed
(To save her from the sun, not rain).
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The sunshine soon revived again
Kit's dress of ‘homespun’ cheviot:
But all that sun could shine could not
Restore the cherry and pale blue
Washed from their sashes broad into
Ida's and Maud's white dainty skirts,
Or heal irreparable hurts
In outraged ostrich-feathered hats,
With plumes reduced from rounds to flats.
Kit's dress of ‘homespun’ cheviot:
But all that sun could shine could not
Restore the cherry and pale blue
Washed from their sashes broad into
Ida's and Maud's white dainty skirts,
Or heal irreparable hurts
In outraged ostrich-feathered hats,
With plumes reduced from rounds to flats.
They meant to start at half-past four,
But started back two hours or more
Before the time, because the rain
Fell too hard for them to remain.
And thus the clock shewed scarcely five
When they passed up the carriage drive.
But started back two hours or more
Before the time, because the rain
Fell too hard for them to remain.
And thus the clock shewed scarcely five
When they passed up the carriage drive.
So tennis was proposed, and Will,
Giving him credit for more skill
Than he, at any rate, possessed
When out of form, politely pressed
The Oxford man to form a set
With him, his brother Phil and Kit,
Assigning him, as most expert,
To Kit, whose pride was nowise hurt
By the insinuation thus
Launched at her tennis genius
By Will unwittingly. But they
Proved quite unequal to the fray,
As all thought likely. Phil could play
A ‘finished’ game, with ‘low return,’
And ‘service’ regular and stern,
Dealt ‘overhand’ and much neat ‘out,’
While Will excelled in ‘reach’ and ‘put,’
And had he practised with his peers
Need certainly have had no fears
From Phil, though Phil was champion
That year in Melbourne. But Phil won
Set after set whene'er they played
Against each other, for he made
Fewer mistakes, and seldom gave
A ‘loose-ball’ quarter. Kit was brave,
But soon perceived the hopelessness
Of winning even scant success,
Though the Professor now and then
Fairly out-paced her countrymen
With a half volley quick and low,
Which few lawn-tennisers can do
Who were not racquet-bred in youth,
And he could give more ‘cut’ in truth
Than Phil himself, but then he ‘served’
So many faults that he observed
That if ‘cut’ only won the day
He might be somewhere in the play,
But while returning ‘overnet’
And into ‘court’ won ev'ry set,
He would have hardly any chance
With Phil's cool, well-timed elegance.
Giving him credit for more skill
Than he, at any rate, possessed
When out of form, politely pressed
The Oxford man to form a set
With him, his brother Phil and Kit,
Assigning him, as most expert,
To Kit, whose pride was nowise hurt
By the insinuation thus
Launched at her tennis genius
By Will unwittingly. But they
Proved quite unequal to the fray,
As all thought likely. Phil could play
A ‘finished’ game, with ‘low return,’
And ‘service’ regular and stern,
Dealt ‘overhand’ and much neat ‘out,’
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And had he practised with his peers
Need certainly have had no fears
From Phil, though Phil was champion
That year in Melbourne. But Phil won
Set after set whene'er they played
Against each other, for he made
Fewer mistakes, and seldom gave
A ‘loose-ball’ quarter. Kit was brave,
But soon perceived the hopelessness
Of winning even scant success,
Though the Professor now and then
Fairly out-paced her countrymen
With a half volley quick and low,
Which few lawn-tennisers can do
Who were not racquet-bred in youth,
And he could give more ‘cut’ in truth
Than Phil himself, but then he ‘served’
So many faults that he observed
That if ‘cut’ only won the day
He might be somewhere in the play,
But while returning ‘overnet’
And into ‘court’ won ev'ry set,
He would have hardly any chance
With Phil's cool, well-timed elegance.
Kit, for a lady, played with skill
Hardly inferior to Phil,
‘Served’ well and ‘took her balls backhand
And front’ with wonderful command,
And ‘cut’ well: her great weakness lay
In her not ‘getting back’ to play
A fast ball ‘volleyed’ straight at her.
Hardly inferior to Phil,
‘Served’ well and ‘took her balls backhand
And front’ with wonderful command,
And ‘cut’ well: her great weakness lay
In her not ‘getting back’ to play
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After the first set it was clear
That she must play with Phil to make
An even match, which for all's sake
Was better. The Oxonian
Was much ashamed to be the man
To spoil a lady's game, and Phil
Had sulked at being given Will
Instead of Kit.
That she must play with Phil to make
An even match, which for all's sake
Was better. The Oxonian
Was much ashamed to be the man
To spoil a lady's game, and Phil
Had sulked at being given Will
Instead of Kit.
The other court
Had Lachlan Smith and Lily Forte
On one side, and Maud Morrison
And Chesterfield in union
Upon the other. Neither he
Nor Smith played very skilfully,
And he was much the worst. Howe'er
His partner did not seem to care,
Although she hated as a rule
One who was clumsy or a fool.
In truth most girls it gratifies
To have the chance to patronise
A man so marked in any walk,
As to attract the great world's talk.
She herself played lawn tennis well,
Though she did not like Kit excel.
And though Lil, when she played her best,
Played better, but then Maud possessed
So much more self-reliant ‘pluck’
That in a match, without good luck,
Lil would succumb submissively.
Maud took her cue with rapid eye,
And, seeing that they could not win,
Determined lightly to give in
In play, and her whole strength to wield
In fascinating Chesterfield.
When they had done one set they went
To watch the other tournament,
Which in the time was almost through
The last game of set number two.
Had Lachlan Smith and Lily Forte
On one side, and Maud Morrison
And Chesterfield in union
Upon the other. Neither he
Nor Smith played very skilfully,
And he was much the worst. Howe'er
His partner did not seem to care,
Although she hated as a rule
One who was clumsy or a fool.
In truth most girls it gratifies
To have the chance to patronise
A man so marked in any walk,
As to attract the great world's talk.
She herself played lawn tennis well,
Though she did not like Kit excel.
And though Lil, when she played her best,
Played better, but then Maud possessed
So much more self-reliant ‘pluck’
That in a match, without good luck,
Lil would succumb submissively.
Maud took her cue with rapid eye,
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Determined lightly to give in
In play, and her whole strength to wield
In fascinating Chesterfield.
When they had done one set they went
To watch the other tournament,
Which in the time was almost through
The last game of set number two.
Will, who had noticed Lachlan Smith
Looking at the Professor with
A glance of scorn and pity mixed
At his mis-strokes, was so much vexed
That he invited him to be
His partner in set number three,
At the same time inviting Kit
And Phil, who entered into it
Most thoroughly, with telling glance
To make him rue the circumstance,
Which they did, playing every ball
Hard back to him, till his downfall
Was rendered final and complete
By Will's suggesting that the net
Might suit him better, where the two
Bade fair to beat him black and blue
With well-directed volleyings.
Nor was the altered state of things
Unpleasing to the other set
Where Lil and the Professor met
In fascinating rivalry,
Each wishing to be outdone by
The rival. Lil looked prettier
For the excitement and the stir
As she did ever, when there came
Into her cheeks the rosy flame,
The charm she most lacked: and the game
Served to display the native grace
Of all her motions, while her face
Was wreathed in smiles which now gave place
To merry laughter, now were still
Because a stroke taxed all her skill.
Looking at the Professor with
A glance of scorn and pity mixed
At his mis-strokes, was so much vexed
That he invited him to be
His partner in set number three,
At the same time inviting Kit
And Phil, who entered into it
Most thoroughly, with telling glance
To make him rue the circumstance,
Which they did, playing every ball
Hard back to him, till his downfall
Was rendered final and complete
By Will's suggesting that the net
Might suit him better, where the two
Bade fair to beat him black and blue
With well-directed volleyings.
Nor was the altered state of things
Unpleasing to the other set
Where Lil and the Professor met
In fascinating rivalry,
Each wishing to be outdone by
The rival. Lil looked prettier
99
As she did ever, when there came
Into her cheeks the rosy flame,
The charm she most lacked: and the game
Served to display the native grace
Of all her motions, while her face
Was wreathed in smiles which now gave place
To merry laughter, now were still
Because a stroke taxed all her skill.
The audience was less by two,
For Phil and Hall had sauntered out
To smoke and chat and stroll about,
Liking their own society
Better than sitting idly by,
While the Professor on demand
Told what they scarce could understand,
And did not care for in the least.
And even Will was ill at rest,
Although he thought it impolite
Not to be present. On that night
Ida was chosen queen, but said,
That as a queen already had
Thrice worn the crown, 'twas time for it
Upon three gentlemen to sit,
And acclamation hailed the thought
And chose the host first, who besought
The story-teller for a tale
Romantic and historical.
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THE LAST OF THE BRITONS, OR THE LEGEND OF DUNMAIL RAISE.
Round Grisedale's mountain-girdled mere
The latest moon of all the year
Lights in its wane an ancient host,
Each warrior an armour'd ghost,
Arm'd with the arms our country bore
E'er its first foeman touch'd its shore:
Of bronze their sword, of flint their spear,
Their leathern shield a hide of deer,
A British host, the last that held
The land, that all was theirs of eld.
The latest moon of all the year
Lights in its wane an ancient host,
Each warrior an armour'd ghost,
Arm'd with the arms our country bore
E'er its first foeman touch'd its shore:
Of bronze their sword, of flint their spear,
Their leathern shield a hide of deer,
A British host, the last that held
The land, that all was theirs of eld.
Ten hundred years scarce pass'd away
After that first great Easter-day
E'er not a Keltic lord was known
Through all the coasts of Albion,
Save in the stormy hills of Wales,
And Cornwall's mines, and Cumbria's dales,
And Mona's citadel;
And Saxon was in league with Scot
From this his last and best lov'd lot
The Briton to expel.
Then all at once the loyal men
Of Cymri leapt from rock and glen
To join their king Dunmail;
From saddle-back'd Blencathra's height,
Where, hidden from the sun's good light,
The tarn they call Bowscale
Reflects the stars at middle day,
While in its depths unfathom'd play
That strange immortal twain,
The only fish in this wide earth
That liv'd at our Redeemer's birth:
They know not death or pain,
But live until he comes again,
For they, they only, did remain
Of that world famous seven
Wherewith the ‘Lord of Life’ did feed
Those thousands four—this precious meed
To them alone is given.
At once did Cumbria's noblest pour
From all the peaks of huge Skiddaw,
From Skiddaw's cub, since called Latrigg,
From Windermere and Newby Brig.
High in the west from grim Sca'fell,
And wild Wastwater's lonely dell,
The dalesmen hurried down to bring
Arms, few but faithful to their king.
High in the east along that road,
The highest ever built, they strode:
And not a few from Langdale Pikes,
And Furness Fells and Furness Dykes,
Which now the sea doth hold,
But flocks and beeves and giant trees,
And corn that shimmered in the breeze,
Held in the days of old.
Ten thousand—good men all, and true—
Came where his royal standard flew,
To fight for hearth and home;
A home they'd held a thousand years
'Gainst Dane and Saxon, and the spears
E'en of Imperial Rome.
Hard by Helvellyn's mountain-steep,
After that first great Easter-day
E'er not a Keltic lord was known
Through all the coasts of Albion,
Save in the stormy hills of Wales,
And Cornwall's mines, and Cumbria's dales,
And Mona's citadel;
And Saxon was in league with Scot
From this his last and best lov'd lot
The Briton to expel.
Then all at once the loyal men
Of Cymri leapt from rock and glen
To join their king Dunmail;
From saddle-back'd Blencathra's height,
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The tarn they call Bowscale
Reflects the stars at middle day,
While in its depths unfathom'd play
That strange immortal twain,
The only fish in this wide earth
That liv'd at our Redeemer's birth:
They know not death or pain,
But live until he comes again,
For they, they only, did remain
Of that world famous seven
Wherewith the ‘Lord of Life’ did feed
Those thousands four—this precious meed
To them alone is given.
At once did Cumbria's noblest pour
From all the peaks of huge Skiddaw,
From Skiddaw's cub, since called Latrigg,
From Windermere and Newby Brig.
High in the west from grim Sca'fell,
And wild Wastwater's lonely dell,
The dalesmen hurried down to bring
Arms, few but faithful to their king.
High in the east along that road,
The highest ever built, they strode:
And not a few from Langdale Pikes,
And Furness Fells and Furness Dykes,
Which now the sea doth hold,
But flocks and beeves and giant trees,
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Held in the days of old.
Ten thousand—good men all, and true—
Came where his royal standard flew,
To fight for hearth and home;
A home they'd held a thousand years
'Gainst Dane and Saxon, and the spears
E'en of Imperial Rome.
Where Leathes' mere begins to peep,
Rises a knoll, in later days
Call'd in the dale King Dunmail's Raise.
Here 'neath the mountain's shoulders sheer
The road that runs from Windermere
Is one long hill from Grasmere shore
To Wy'burn town, six miles or more.
In such a pass three hundred men
Might drive ten thousand back again:
Upon this rise did Dunmail post
His faithful, but too scanty, host.
But what avails devotion high,
Or chivalrous fidelity,
When tenfold is the foeman's rank,
And pouring in on front and flank.
'Twas thus that royal Dunmail's might
Was shattered in that fatal fight;
For while ten times ten-thousand men,
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Down huge Helvellyn's rugged side
Pour'd the fierce Scot as pours the tide
Of some long-prisoned mountain stream
When broken is th' opposing beam
That damm'd its flood and turn'd its flow
To drive the miller's wheel below;
Or like the Cyclon blasts that sweep
Over the face of India's deep.
The Briton bravely met the charge
With levell'd spear and sturdy targe:
But vain—for, hemm'd on every hand,
Nought could avail the gallant band:
Not all the valour and the might
Of Arthur and each boasted knight
Nam'd of the Table Round;
Not all King Charlemagne's array
Of Paladins that on a day
A grave with Roland found.
A fiercer charge—his host gives way,
And Scot and Saxon fierce to slay
Cut down the Britons man by man,
Till scarce a tithe of all the clan
Fight their way through to tell the tale
And save the crown of King Dunmail.
For he has lost his faithful brand,
And now is in the foeman's hand,
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Doom'd to a conqueror's cruelty,
Their only crime that they did fight
To keep the realm that was their right.
Bound hand and foot with cords they lay
Until the ending of the fray
Should give their conqueror liberty
To revel in his cruel glee.
Then—such the custom of his day—
With his own hand does Edmond slay
The sire before the children's eyes
And blinds them soon as e'er he dies.
The Britons who escap'd the fray
Hid on the hills till close of day,
Then dug a grave twelve fathoms deep
And laid their monarch down to sleep,
And rais'd a cairn of boulders high
In homage to his memory:
Then wended in procession drear
To hide his crown in Grisedale mere.
With weapons fiercely clench'd they strode
Three miles along the Grasmere road,
Until they came to Grisedale burn,
And up the Faery glen did turn:
Awhile upon Seat-Sandal pause,
Then slowly wind through Grisedale Hause
Down to the mere and through the crown
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Fierce was the wave and fierce the storm,
And mist-besieg'd the mountain's form;
The Spirits of the Lake and hills
Were anger'd at their country's ills,
Anger'd that stranger-hands had ta'en
The Briton's last, best loved domain.
That night o'er forest, lake, and fell
Resounded many a ghostly yell;
Around Helvellyn's giant man
With threat'ning glare the marsh-fire ran.
In becks, that yester summer's night
Scarce trickled down in shallows bright,
By deep and furious floods were borne
Great rifted rocks and trees uptorn:
The wind that scarce was heard at noon
Roared like an Indian typhoon,
And westward over Langdale Pikes
The breakers fell on Furness Dykes,
And with one wild tremendous sweep
Encompass'd in their greedy deep
Tree, corn and cot, and grassy down
From Lancaster to Barrow town.
And by the forked fire from heaven
The oldest Druid oak was riven.
The oak-tree gods might reign no more
Upon their native Britain's shore,
But now must fly, to stay awhile
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And thence be driven in wild unrest
For ever further, further west.
Till, when five hundred years were gone,
The land that tombs the setting sun
Should feel the conquering foot of Spain;
Then, ousted from their home again
With other byegone godheads lie
In Limbo to eternity.
The Britons ere the day was light
Scal'd the o'erhanging mountain-height,
And climbing, just as dawn began,
Held council on Helvellyn Man.
Full little did they deem that night
That ev'ry eve, ere dawn was bright,
Their souls must go to Dunmail's cairn
And through the glen to Grisedale tarn;
Then over Dollywaggon seek
The high Helvellyn's highest peak.
Yet so it is—for there are souls
Whom some almighty hand controls
To haunt some too-eventful scene,
Where in their lifetime they have been;
Nor ever rest within their tomb
Until they have fulfill'd their doom:
The souls of all who've follow'd Cain,
The souls of all by murder slain,
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For him that fell and him that slew;
The soul of him whose life was ill,
Who perish'd unrepentant still,
And him who treasure has conceal'd,
Until his treasure be reveal'd.
And so it is that Dunmail's host
Still haunt the battle-field in ghost.
Did they but deign betray their trust
Their souls might rest in hallow'd dust,
But while they guard their monarch's crown
May never to their tomb go down.
And so each day from fall of night
Until the morrow-morn is bright,
Through Grisedale-pass that ghostly clan
March grimly to Helvellyn Man.
And ev'ry night from Grisedale tarn
They bring a stone to Dunmail's cairn,
To show their sovereign that still
They're faithful to his royal will:
And when the cairn doth reach as high
As Dunmail 'neath the earth doth lie,
Once more shall be his flag unfurl'd
For the great Battle of the World,
For that great battle that must be
Before the day of Equity
When ev'ry man shall have his own
Each proud usurper overthrown,
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Upon the promised country's shore,
And Cossack, Georgian, and Pole
Be freed from Muscovite control.
Then Dunmail with his British spears
Again shall sally from the meres,
And free his own, his native land
From Saxon, Dane, and Norman hand.
From southmost Cornwall to Carlisle,
From Mona to the Kentish Isle
The Cymri, as in days of yore,
Shall rule our land from shore to shore;
And all the Cymri clans bow down
Before the might of Dunmail's crown;
The crown that erst in Grisedale's deep
His trusty host did nightly keep,
Now, after many a hundred years,
Again upon his head appears.
But never shall appear again
The gods that ruled our island then;
Their day is past, their oaks are fell'd
In which their ritual was held.
No other gods shall be adored
Through all the earth but Judah's Lord,
And they be in that lifeless spot
For ever and for aye forgot.
But though that British army range
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No eye can see their forms, no ear
Their footfall or their voices hear,
Save on one night—upon that night
When dies away the waning light
Of the last moon of all the year:
Then if thou stand by Grisedale mere,
Betwixt the midnight hour and dawn,
When spirits move and graveyards yawn,
Through Grisedale Hause to Grisedale tide
Thou'lt see a ghostly army glide
In Keltic harness—such a host
Fought the first Roman on our coast.
See thou provoke them not to strife,
'Twere likeliest to cost thy life.
But should'st thou venture to accost
By Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
And bid them show thee where the crown
In Grisedale mere lies low a-down,
They needs must show thee; and if then
Thou take the crown, they ne'er again
Shall leave their grave for Grisedale tarn,
Nor Dunmail ever leave his cairn;
But other king shall free the land
From Saxon, Dane, and Norman hand.
So, if thou see that spirit host,
In pity do not thou accost,
Nor to indulge an idle whim
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But gaze with awe and tell the tale
Of that weird army of Dunmail.
Kit said, “Professor you can tell
A good ghost story very well:
But is it true?” He shook his head.
“I would not vouch it. Dunmail's dead,
If e'er he lived, and no one sights
His host on any other nights.
I can't say more: the legend's old,
And on the Cumbrian mountains told
Close by the cairn. Your course is clear,
If you want more, to take ship there,
And on the trysting night camp out
On Mount Helvellyn. It's about
As cold a place and cold a time
As any in the English clime.”
Kit laughed back that she'd “take his word,
And treat as gospel all she heard,”
And fearing Phil, and sparing Lil
Her dear Professor, challenged Will
To billiards, while the scouted one
Fell back upon Maud Morrison,
To dance his disappointment off,
Impatient as a Romanoff
At being crossed, no better pleased
Because his friends had often teased
Will as a lover undeclared.
Far better the Professor fared,
He had plain sailing, no one shared
His fancy. All were blinded by
The brighter light that was so nigh.
These nights were golden nights for Lil,
She thought she ne'er could have her fill
Of the bright stream of wit and lore
Which from his honied lips did pour.
He seemed to have lived everywhere,
And to know all things great and fair.
Then he was manly, and he seemed
Like one who, while he did much, dreamed
Of higher spheres for him in store.
Lil oft had been in love before,
But not for men with hopes sublime
Of leaving their impress on time.
A good ghost story very well:
But is it true?” He shook his head.
“I would not vouch it. Dunmail's dead,
If e'er he lived, and no one sights
His host on any other nights.
I can't say more: the legend's old,
And on the Cumbrian mountains told
Close by the cairn. Your course is clear,
If you want more, to take ship there,
And on the trysting night camp out
On Mount Helvellyn. It's about
As cold a place and cold a time
As any in the English clime.”
Kit laughed back that she'd “take his word,
And treat as gospel all she heard,”
And fearing Phil, and sparing Lil
Her dear Professor, challenged Will
To billiards, while the scouted one
Fell back upon Maud Morrison,
To dance his disappointment off,
Impatient as a Romanoff
At being crossed, no better pleased
Because his friends had often teased
Will as a lover undeclared.
Far better the Professor fared,
He had plain sailing, no one shared
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The brighter light that was so nigh.
These nights were golden nights for Lil,
She thought she ne'er could have her fill
Of the bright stream of wit and lore
Which from his honied lips did pour.
He seemed to have lived everywhere,
And to know all things great and fair.
Then he was manly, and he seemed
Like one who, while he did much, dreamed
Of higher spheres for him in store.
Lil oft had been in love before,
But not for men with hopes sublime
Of leaving their impress on time.
And he, what did he think of her?
A ray of light, a soft zephyr,
A fair wild flower not too bright
Or large for love, an exquisite
And simple air reminding him
Of ballads sung in twilight dim
By Tweedside, the Breton Ysolde,
Or Enid of the legend old.
A ray of light, a soft zephyr,
A fair wild flower not too bright
Or large for love, an exquisite
And simple air reminding him
Of ballads sung in twilight dim
By Tweedside, the Breton Ysolde,
Or Enid of the legend old.
| A Summer Christmas and a Sonnet upon The S.S. "Ballaarat." | |