 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
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THE FLOWERS OF TOWTON FIELD.
A BALLAD OF BATTLE ACRE.
There is a patch of wild white roses that bloom on a battle-field,
Where the rival rose of Lancaster blushed redder still to yield;
Four hundred years have o'er them shed their sunshine and their snow,
But in spite of plough and harrow, every summer there they blow;
Though rudely up to root them with hand profane you toil,
The faithful flowers still fondly cluster around the sacred soil;
Though tenderly transplanted to the nearest garden gay,
Nor cost, nor care, can tempt them there to live a single day!
Where the rival rose of Lancaster blushed redder still to yield;
Four hundred years have o'er them shed their sunshine and their snow,
But in spite of plough and harrow, every summer there they blow;
Though rudely up to root them with hand profane you toil,
The faithful flowers still fondly cluster around the sacred soil;
Though tenderly transplanted to the nearest garden gay,
Nor cost, nor care, can tempt them there to live a single day!
I ponder o'er their blossoms, and anon my busy brain,
With bannered hosts and steel-clad knights re-peopled all the plain—
I seemed to hear the lusty cheer, of the bowmen bold of York,
As they marked how well their cloth-yard shafts, had done their bloody work;
And steeds with empty saddles came rushing wildly by,
And wounded warriors staggered past or only turned to die;
And the little sparkling river, was cumbered as of yore,
With ghastly corse of man and horse, and ran down red with gore.
With bannered hosts and steel-clad knights re-peopled all the plain—
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As they marked how well their cloth-yard shafts, had done their bloody work;
And steeds with empty saddles came rushing wildly by,
And wounded warriors staggered past or only turned to die;
And the little sparkling river, was cumbered as of yore,
With ghastly corse of man and horse, and ran down red with gore.
I started as I pondered, for loudly on my ear
Rose indeed a shout like thunder, a true good English cheer;
And the sound of drum and trumpet came swelling up the vale,
And blazoned banners proudly flung their glories to the gale;
But not, oh! not to battle did those banners beckon now—
A baron stood beneath them, but not with helmed brow,
And Yorkshire yeomen round him thronged, but not with bow and lance,
And the trumpet only bade them to the banquet and the dance.
Rose indeed a shout like thunder, a true good English cheer;
And the sound of drum and trumpet came swelling up the vale,
And blazoned banners proudly flung their glories to the gale;
But not, oh! not to battle did those banners beckon now—
A baron stood beneath them, but not with helmed brow,
And Yorkshire yeomen round him thronged, but not with bow and lance,
And the trumpet only bade them to the banquet and the dance.
94
Again my brain was busy: from out those flow'rets fair,
A breath arose like incense—a voice of praise and prayer!
A silver voice that said, “Rejoice! and bless the God above,
Who hath given thee, those days to see, of peace and joy and love.
Oh, never more by English hands may English blood be shed,
Oh! never more be strife between, the roses white and red.
The blessed words the shepherds heard, may we remember still,
‘Throughout the world be peace on earth, and towards man good will’!”
A breath arose like incense—a voice of praise and prayer!
A silver voice that said, “Rejoice! and bless the God above,
Who hath given thee, those days to see, of peace and joy and love.
Oh, never more by English hands may English blood be shed,
Oh! never more be strife between, the roses white and red.
The blessed words the shepherds heard, may we remember still,
‘Throughout the world be peace on earth, and towards man good will’!”
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |