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173

Lyrical and Descriptive Poems.

AIREDALE'S BEAUTIES.

Poets in varied verse may sing
The rivers, vales, and hills,
The dimpled lake, the crystal spring,
The groves and rippling rills;
The ancient domes, the lofty tow'rs,
The moss-robed ruins grey,
The sylvan shades, the rosy bow'rs,
Where native beauties play.
To those and twice ten thousand more,
The lyre has often rung;
But since the ancient bards gave o'er,
Was ever Airedale sung?
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Why, O, ye youths—ye virgins fair,
Have you so long been mute?
Nor touched it with some lovely air
To tremble on the lute?
Are there no beauties glowing round,
No Heliconian springs,
No echoes, answering ev'ry sound,
To animate your strings?
No scenes where mountains' lofty heads
Like famed Parnassus rise?
No crystal streams, on pebbly beds,
Reflecting half the skies?
No rocks soft cushioned o'er with moss,
As sofas for the fair?
No daisy-spangled meads to cross,
Within the vale of Aire?
Yes! here are bow'rs where eglantines
The fragrant roses bear;
And here the honeysuckle twines,
Perfuming sweet the air.
The lilacs and laburnums wave
Each beauteous flow'ry plume;
And evergreens, that winter brave,
The healthful breeze perfume.
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Here are green woods, and springs, and bow'rs,
And purple-vestured hills,
And fields, in yellow robes of flow'rs,
Made bright with glitt'ring rills.
The crimson-crested grouse are there,
The whirring partridge grey,
The pheasants haunt the fountains clear,
And frisking leverets play.
The treble sings the lark on high,
In tenor joins the thrush;
The bass the mellow blackbirds try
Upon the blossomed bush.
How sweet the scent the zephyrs bring
From fields of clover white!
Not gardens of an Eastern king
Can yield him such delight.
But not the heather's crimson bloom
Can with the cheeks compare,
Of those sweet maids, who nought assume,—
The nymphs of Yorkshire Aire!
Great Nature's hand has decked the scene
With silv'ry rich cascades;
But what had all these beauties been,
Without the lovely maids?
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The cowslip meads, the daisied fields,
The fragrant rosy bow'rs,
And all the sweets the valley yields,
When spring descends in show'rs,
Are all outshone with lovely maids,
That bloom when these grow pale,
Whose virtues live when beauty fades,—
The glory of the vale.

BINGLEY'S BEAUTIES.

Thy beauties, Bingley! never have been sung
By stranger-bard, or native poet's tongue;
Then may my humble muse with thee prevail
To pardon my presumption, if I fail
In this attempt thy beauties to rehearse
In rustic strains of my untutor'd verse.
Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent
To distant seas, or some far continent,
Though these on thee have thought in other climes,
All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes.
When on thy lovely vale I stand to gaze,
I feel thou need'st from me no meed of praise:
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Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bowers,
Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flowers,
Thy bold grey rocks, thy heathy purple fells,
Where silent solitude with beauty dwells;
Thy homes where honest worth stills finds a seat,
And love and virtue a serene retreat—
Such scenes as these should plume the poet's wing,
And swell his heart while he attempts to sing.
O may Religion, life's best hope and stay,
The maids of Bingley teach the better way!
Their minds instruct, their innocence protect,
Their manners soften, and their paths direct;
May they be like the turtles of the wood,
That dip their bills in Aire's meandering flood;
Then, at the last, faith's sunshine on each breast,
Soar to the mansions of eternal rest!
Their inborn principles of truth and love,
Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove,
Sweet as the flowers when bending to the sun,
Are Bingley's daughters when they love but one.
We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring;
The woods where every British bird doth sing;
Wild plants and flowers, wild birds, and scenes as wild,
Or soft as any on which Nature smiled;
Blooming and lovely, as the moon is fair,
And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire.
The weeping birch, the great majestic oak,
Where dark green ivy forms a winter's cloak;
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The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow;
The sylvan vales, with timid hares below,
The brooding pheasant, beauty of the wood,
And spotted trouts that cleave the amber flood.
For finer walks, for more sequestered bowers,
For cooler grottos, and for richer flowers,
For streams that wind more beautiful along,
For birds with louder chorus to their song,
For all that gen'rous Nature can bestow,
All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley Vale must bow.

FAIRY SONG.

Let us trip in airy dances,
While the weary mortals sleep;
See the waning orb advances,
Lighting those that vigils keep.
In the nectar drown all trouble,
Sweetened by the honey'd bee;
Make a punch-bowl of a bubble,
Underneath our fav'rite tree.
We have not the cares of mortals,
Nature's self our tailor is;
Sorrow enters not our portals,—
All our fairy-nights are bliss.
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Some fine peacock's lovely feather,
Brightest that was ever seen,
With its edge adorned with heather,
Forms a carpet for our queen.
Stop the dance—a beetle's coming,
We must take his sable wing;
Stop his flight and mournful humming,
He must arm the fairy king.
Now a moment's mirth and dancing,—
We of songs have got no more;
When the moon, so high advancing,
Shows the fairy dance is o'er.
Wings of insects on the river,
We can borrow when we please;
Then we fly away for ever,
To the shades of joy and peace.

JANUARY.

Now bleak winter on the mountains
Whirls on heaps the powder'd snow,
Seals with ice the sandy fountains,
While the streams can scarcely flow.
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Starving grouse forsake the rushes,
Covered is their winter store,
Seek for shelter in the bushes,
While the heath is drifted o'er.
Trees beneath their loads are bending;
Firs like ostrich plumes appear;
Partridge tame the barn attending,
Pick the grain with stealthy fear.
Hares the snow-drifts wander over,
Forced the hawthorn buds to eat;
Lost in snow the sprigs of clover,
Covered are the blades of wheat.
Now the thrasher, old and weary,
Stops the northern door with straw;
But the tempest, wild and dreary,
Finds a way through ev'ry flaw.
Notes of bass the cattle humming,
Patient for their fodder call,
Waiting long to see it coming,
White with snow within the stall.
Starved from woods, the beauteous pheasant
Leaves the icy boughs and mourns,
Haunts the cottage of the peasant,—
Snows may melt, it ne'er returns.
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Thus the maids, their parents leaving,
Wanton to the city fly,
Soon with woes their breasts are heaving,—
Virtue, honour, beauty, die!

EVENING IN APRIL.

(ON FIRST HEARING A BEE, 1824.)

Welcome with thy monotone,
Black and yellow lab'rer sweet!
Thou this night hast nearly done
Dancing with thy little feet
On the willow's honeyed flower,
On the daisy's crimson side,
On the crocus near the bower,
Which thy velvet coat has dyed.
Thou thy little sable bill
Hast in April blossoms dipped;
From the cups upon the hill,
Luscious drops of honey sipped:
Thou hast slept the winter long,
But thy merit is not lost;
Thou hast yet the vernal song,
Spite of winter's chilling frost.
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Thus the poet, as he sings,
While the storm of sorrow low'rs,
Finds that friendship gladness brings
Sweet as dew on honeyed flow'rs.

MAY-DAY.

See the nymphs in May-day dresses,
Dancing on the daisied green!
Sloe-thorn blossoms grace their tresses,
Brightest blue-bells deck their queen.
While of thyme and unblown roses,
Twined among the leaves of bay,
Each a fragrant wreath composes,
On the joyful holiday.
Lyra tunes the rural measure,
While the cowslips at her feet
Dance, as if they felt the pleasure
Of her trills and cadence sweet.
See!—the lark her song suspending,
Drops and listens to the air,
While the snow-white lambs, attending,
Strive to imitate the fair.
183

Blithe and gay each nymph appearing,
See, how innocent they smile!
Each a branch of myrtle bearing
On a breast that knows no guile.
Where's the youth that could deceive them,
Smiling on their morn of May,
Gain their love, then scorning leave them,
Like their garlands, to decay?

MORNING IN MAY.

The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is uprearing
Its white curling head from the valley below,
The bright glitt'ring dew-drops, like em'ralds appearing,
All waken at once with Aurora to glow!
The dark low'ring tempests of winter are over,
And sweet is the breath of the high mountain gale;
The hare leaves her favourite fields of white clover,
And starts as she treads the dry leaves in the vale.
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The rooks and the ring-doves are flown to the fallow;
From their dew-sprinkled pillows the daisies awake;
From the thatch of the cottage skims forth the swift swallow,
And strikes into circles the smooth polished lake.
Near the stream the winds move not the weak-waving willow;
The cattle are laid on the bright dewy hill;
On the clear rippled stream hushed to rest ev'ry billow,—
The day-busy sons of the hamlet are still.
Hark! the birds are all chanting their song of the morning,
Ye virgins, inviting to fields decked with dew!
The fresh op'ning flowers will greet your returning,
And bow their sweet heads in pure homage to you.
Blithe Health on the mountain sits smiling thus early,
With young Vernal Sweetness, her sister, in green,
While Virtue, their mother, who loves them so dearly,
Points out to her daughters the beautiful scene.
They call on the youths and the innocent lasses
To see the rich beauties of nature half dressed,
Forget all their joy-killing grief as it passes,
Live happy and love, for such moments are blessed.
185

They sit on the hill where the bullfinch is bending,
In beautiful plumage, the weak birchen bough;
With gay feathered songsters their mellow notes blending,
In sweet rural chords, where the sloe-blossoms grow,
But to sing of the rich varied landscape before us,
With all the fine beauties that Nature displays,
Requires all the muses to join in the chorus,
And sweet smiling cherubs to chant in its praise!

MARY OF MARLEY.

At Marley stood the rural cot,
In Bingley's sweet sequestered dale,
The spreading oaks enclosed the spot
Where dwelt the beauty of the vale.
Blessed with a small, but fruitful farm,
Beneath the high majestic hill,
Where Nature spread her every charm
That can the mind with pleasure fill.
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Here bloomed the maid nor vain nor proud,
But like an unapproached flower,
Hid from the flattery of the crowd,
Unconcious of her beauty's power.
Her ebon locks were richer far
Than is the raven's glossy plume;
Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star;
Her lovely cheeks the rose's bloom.
The mountain snow, that falls by night,
By which the bending heath is pressed,
Did never shine in purer white
Than was upon her virgin breast.
The blushes of her innocence
Great Nature's hand had pencilled o'er;
And Modesty the veil had wrought
Which Mary, lovely virgin, wore.
At early morn each fav'rite cow
The tuneful voice of Mary knew;
Their answers hummed,—then wand'ring slow,
From daisies dashed the pearly dew.
When lovely on the green she stood,
And to her poultry threw the grain,
Ring-doves and pheasants from the wood
Flew forth, and glittered in her train.
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The thrush upon the rosy bow'r
Would sit and sing while Mary stayed;
Her lambs their pasture gamboll'd o'er,
And on the new-sprung clover fed.
She milked beneath the beech-tree's shade,
And there the turf was worn away,
Where cattle had for cent'ries laid,
To shun the summer's sultry ray.
Lysander, from the neighbouring vale,
Where Wharf's deceitful currents move,
To Mary told a fervent tale,
And Mary could not help but love.
The richest might have come and sighed;
Lysander had her favour won,—
Her breast was constant as the tide,
And true as light is to the sun.
When winter, wrapped in gloomy storm,
Each dubious path had drifted o'er,
And whirled the snow in ev'ry form,
To Mary oft he crossed the moor.
When western winds and pelting rain
Did mountain snows to rivers turn,
These swelled, and roared, and foamed in vain,
Affection helped him o'er the bourne.
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Until the last, the fatal night,
His footsteps slipped—the cruel tide
Danced and exulted with its freight,
Then lifeless cast him on its side!
How changed is lovely Mary now!
How pale and frantic she appears!
Description fails to paint her woe,
And numbers to recount her tears.

THE MAID OF LOWDORE.

The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary,
The winds roared aloud near the hoarse raven's nest,
The strongest with reaching its top would be weary,
And like the young lover, be wishful to rest,—
The lover that wandered, his breast with love burning,
For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore,
Who watched the clouds as she wished his returning,
But night came too soon—he returned no more.
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Beneath him the dark mist rolled rapid in motion;
Above was the evening star seen through the cloud;
But the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean,
When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten shroud.
A wand'rer he roamed, where the curlew was screaming,
Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain flood;
Of danger approaching he little was dreaming,
Though on the high verge of dire terror he stood.
He thought on his Anna, with earnest endeavour
Tried to reach the blest spot his soul did adore;
He steps—shrieks, and falls!—but the shepherd can never
Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore.
His Anna now nightly sits list'ning with wonder,
To hear in the tempest the high cataract's roar;
And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder,
Her shepherd call “Anna, the Maid of Lowdore!”
190

LINES ON AN OLD OAK TREE,

LATELY STANDING IN SPINK WELL WOOD, NEAR BRADFORD.

[_]

(WRITTEN IN 1819.)

Behold the place, ye youths and virgins, see
Where stood your ancient oak, your fav'rite tree!
How changed is now the place from whence it sprung,
And, like yourselves, grew vig'rous, stout, and strong!
Unmoved it stood each storm and wint'ry blast,
While o'er its head revolving cent'ries passed,—
Perhaps two hundred years it still improved,
Two hundred more by wasting time unmoved;
But recently, as greatest mortals die,
It met its fate—see where its fragments lie!
What veneration once the tree received,—
Respected by the rich and poor it lived:
Beneath its shade the pious breathed their pray'rs;
Beneath its shade the wretched shed their tears;
Beneath its shade have parting lovers stood,
While from the fair one's eyes escaped the flood.
Beneath the shelter of the fav'rite oak,
What vows were made, by faithless lovers broke!
But now, alas! ye antiquarians, mourn,
Your tree is gone, and never can return.
191

No more can you its ancient arms behold,
Withered by time, and crumbling into mould.
Its infancy, its youth, and manhood past,
Though British oak, 'tis forced to yield at last.
But, had it lived in Studley's peaceful shades,
Nor delvers' mattocks, hammers, nor their spades
Had e'er been raised by the unfeeling clown,
To strike this only ancient vestige down.
Had it been mine, it should not yet have dropped,
But, where 'twas weak, I had its weakness propped,
Told o'er its story to the feeling breast,
And kept the tree while Bradford keeps its crest.
But why lament? since Nature says that all
That springs from earth, to earth again must fall.
So must the stately tow'rs of polished stone
Crumble to earth, and wear a mossy crown,
While nettles form their canopies of state,
And rankest weeds but mock their change of fate.
The sculptured marble monuments decay,
And crowns, and thrones, and statues fade away.
The mighty monarch, and the warrior brave,
The greatest sultan and the meanest slave,
The wretched miser and most beauteous fair,
The rich possessor and succeeding heir,
Princes and courtiers, chiefs of ev'ry state,
Both high and low, must all submit to fate.
So, rest in peace, famed oak, though doomed to fall,
For such a mighty change awaits us all!
192

ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE.

Allowed to walk into the sad retreat
Where tott'ring age and foolish fair ones meet,
I heard deep sighs from those bent down with years,
Whose cheeks were deeply furrowed o'er with cares.
To see their locks, by ruthless Time turned grey,
Melted my heart, and took my pride away:
For who was seated in the corner chair,
But one who in my youth I held most dear.
Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy,
Handled the knife and made me many a toy;
For me he caught the sparrows on the snow,
And made my youthful heart with raptures glow!
Oft had I danced around him with delight,
While he had balanced well my little kite:
But now, my aged friend, when he should eat,
His palsied hands can scarcely bear his meat,—
His pleasures lost, to life he's but a slave,
And only waits his passport to the grave.
Here I beheld how mortals waste away,
Shoot up to manhood, blossom, and decay!
In woolsey gown, close seated by his side,
His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride,
Beauteous and fair,—upon her bridal day
The wealthy countess scarce appeared more gay;
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But the fine brow that bore the glossy hair,
Which once she dressed with such assiduous care,
Was furrowed o'er by Time's all-changing plough,
And her few locks were nearly white as snow.
When I had stood a while, and dried the tear,
I spoke, but John my words could scarcely hear;
At length he cried, in exclamation strong,
“Ay! is that thee?” for still he knew my tongue.
His age-dimmed eyes then brightened with a ray,
Which like a wasted taper died away.
Dotage had seized upon his feeble brain,
As he revolved to infancy again.
A while he spoke of heav'n and things divine,
Then laughed—and stopped a moment to repine;
Wished for the grave,—next talked of things to come,
Then wept—and thought of his once happy home,
But his poor heart was most of all subdued
With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude.
“Alas!” said he, “that those who owe me all,
“Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call
“To spend one hour, to mitigate my grief,
“To bring one cordial, or afford relief.
“Though they neglect a father, old and poor,
“They yet may have to enter at this door;
“Yet oh, avert it, Heav'n! blessed may they live;
“Oh teach an injured father to forgive!”
Touched with the scene, I turned aside to weep,
And like a child he calmly fell asleep!
194

THE MALT-KILN FIRE.

When friends who loved from infant years,
Whose friendship ne'er went wrong,
Are met to tell their joys and cares,
Or join the cheerful song,
What bard but to the utmost height
Would string the rustic lyre,
When friends with home-brewed drink are met
Around the Malt-kiln fire?
Sometimes we're faring low at home,
Then feasting with a squire;
But we've as much as we can wish
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
From this warm, happy, cheerful place,
Old sorrow must retire,
And nought but joy dare show her face
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
We talk of friends we long have known,
Some fall'n, and some ris'n higher;
Happy as monarchs on the throne,
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
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What means our food? we pass away—
Of life begin to tire;
But never was a mournful day
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
With snuff, tobacco, and a pipe,
And all we can desire,
Old Care's forgot, and pleasure shines
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
No wife to scold, none to intrude,
We laugh until we tire;
With good strong drink as e'er was brewed,
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
Let blackguards swear, and rage, and fight,
And scuffle in the mire;
No angry word, for all is right,
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
Had we but spent more evenings there,
Our spirits had been higher,
And drunk less brandy, and more beer
Around the Malt-kiln fire.
196

THE SNOWDROP.

Pretty little modest gem,
First in Nature's diadem;
Pressed with snow, the first to rise,
Pure as stars that deck the skies.
With thy crown of spotless white,
Like a fairy of the night,
Bending down thy modest head,—
Frost thy pillow, snow thy bed.
'Mid the hail, the sleet, the frost,
In the snow-storm sometimes lost;
But thy beauteous head appears
Lovelier with its icy tears.
So thou gentle, modest fair,
Brav'st the storm with truth and care;
Though not like the roses drest,
Virtue blossoms in thy breast,
Brighter than the brightest star,
Seen to glitter from afar:
Guilt can never hang on thee;
Truth lives through eternity.
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He that made the snowdrop knows
When the storm of sorrow blows:
And with all His mighty care,
Will protect the virtuous fair.

A PLACE OF RURAL RETIREMENT.

Hail, thou sequestered rural seat,
Which ever beauteous dost appear,
Where the sweet songsters oft repeat
Their varied concerts, wild and clear!
Upon thy crystal-bosomed lake
Th' inverted rocks and trees are seen,
Adorned with many a snowy flake,
Or in their leafy robes of green.
Oh could a rural rhymer sing
The beauteous scene so richly dressed,
Where piety may plume her wing,
And sweet seclusion form her nest!
Here may the contemplative mind
Trace Nature and her beauties o'er,
And meditation rest reclined,
To hear the neighbouring cat'ract roar.
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Here, tired of the gay scenes of life,
The sire may see his children play,
While Heav'n has blessed him with a wife,
Who smiles his happy hours away.
If ever fairies tripped along,
Or danced around in airy mirth,
They surely to this place would throng,—
Or else they never danced on earth.
The loves and graces here might stay;
Th' enamoured pair, with bosoms true,
Unseen appoint the nuptial day,
Among those scenes for ever new.
The poet tune his rustic lyre,
If genius trembled on the strings;
And merit modestly aspire,
Where friendship dwells to plume his wings.
Oh that I could this tribute pay
As 'tis upon my heart impressed!
My song of friendship here would stay,
When waves the grass above my breast.
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THE VALE OF ILKLEY.

“The heavens appear to love this vale.”
—Wilson.

Why does not some great bard, whose potent mind
No earthly passions in its sphere can bind,
Take the tun'd lyre, which wakes at genius' spells,
And sing in praise of Ilkley and its wells?
Had I a Shakespeare's pen, a Byron's powers,
Nor mountains, woods, nor valleys, trees, nor flowers,
Nor all that poets have for ages sung,
Since Homer's harp or Sappho's lyre was strung,
Should tempt my muse, on ocean or on shore,
Till I had sung the charms of Rom'lies' Moor;
Where sits Retirement—Silence at her side—
Upon the rocks, which frown at human pride,
Grey with old Time and with the northern blast,
And firm remain'd while changing empires pass'd;
Before the massive pyramids they stood,
Old as clear Wharf, and ancient as the Flood.
Thou who giv'st light, and life, and nature's springs,
Who art ador'd while all creation sings,
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Lend me Thine aid, Eternal Father! be
My muse, my helper, while I sing of Thee!
But how I sink beneath Thy wond'rous pow'r,
A poor, weak, mortal insect of an hour!
Though all Thy works are glorious, as sublime,
Too great to celebrate in feeble rhyme,
Yet of Thy lesser beauties will I sing,
The mountain's sweetness, the unchanging spring,
Healthful as pure, and plentiful as free,
As one great gift in wide infinity.
Such is thy Well, thou place of health and peace!
And so it must be till all motion cease;
Till time and tides, obedient to His will,
Shall pause, and all the universe stand still!
Thus speaks the rushing fountain in its pride:
“Mortals, let nature ever be your guide!
Rise with the sun on spring's delightful morn,
When nature's concerts on the winds are borne!
See the broad river shining with His rays,
And glitt'ring dew-drops trembling to His praise!
Millions of flowers, in all their varied dyes,
Offer their sweets in one great sacrifice!”
Pure as the henna is the mountain thyme,
And all too rich for poor descriptive rhyme.
Upon these hills the botanist may range
Amongst the various mosses as they change;
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The alpine plants, unknown in valleys green,
Creeping among the purple heath are seen;
And, Rom'lies' Moor! the home of the curlew,
Cloth'd with the clouds, thy beauties are not few.
Nor Skiddaw's top, nor great Helvellyn's height,
Shows greater grandeur to the ravish'd sight,
Than does the crown of wide-spread Rom'lies' Moor,
Where the vast scene is stretched to either shore.
There we behold the hills of many a shire;
The lofty mountains to the clouds aspire;
Whernside uprears on high his snow-clad crest,
While the blue Pendle trembles in the west;
The hills of Derbyshire are southward seen,
Though vales divide, and rivers roll between;
Old Ingleborough lifts his time-worn head,
And Yorkshire as one spacious map is spread:
Yonder the towers of Ebor's fane appear,
And Cleveland hills their broad blue tops uprear;
Leeds, wrapt in smoke, dark-looming, eastward lies;
But here the air is pure as are the skies.
Far from the noise of all created things,
No sound is heard but from the moorcock's wings;
The pomp of human greatness here is lost,
Or falls like mites beneath the winter's frost.
A scene like this, within old England's coast,
Nor Matlock, Buxton, nor proud Bath can boast.
202

Grandeur and peace upon the Station dwell,
And Health sits smiling at the mountain well;
Rock, river, mountain, valley, hill, and tree,
Contend for beauty as for majesty.
Ye British beauties, of fair Eden's mould,
Come, see the grandeur that these vales unfold.
Daisies spring in modest pride,
With the cowslips at their side!
Roses blush and lilies shine—
Wharfdale! blooming health is thine.
Days of Romans, in the shade,
As far distant objects fade:
When their polish'd shields did shine,
Days of warriors once were thine.
On the towers, now long unseen,
Have the steel-clad warriors been,
Hurling weapons at the foe,
While the Saxons fought below.
Danes have drunk at Ilkley wells;
Hosts have fought where Lister dwells!
Many a trumpet's piercing tone
Echo'd loud from Hanging Stone.
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In his link-mail armour bright,
Myddleton, the warrior knight,
Some five hundred years ago,
Glitt'ring rode to meet the foe.
But the trumpet now is still;
Not a rock from yonder hill
Echoes back the piercing blast,
As when Fairfax' troopers pass'd.
Briton, Druid, Roman, Dane,
Knight, and warrior, all are gone—
Saxon, Norman, bard, and thane,
Thou survivest Myddleton!
Those whom trade as vot'ries owns—
Who have hung the counter o'er—
Who have crav'd for wealth in towns,
Till their comforts are no more,
Let them come and dine on trout—
Lovely Wharfdale's famous fishes;
Give relief to anxious doubt—
Taste the best of Wharfdale's dishes.
On each side the world is still;
Not a voice disturbs the scene.
Where is raised dark Hober Hill,
Rising from its base of green,
204

On these heights Retirement reigns,
Far above all mortal ills;
While upon the mountain plains
Wild birds drink from purest rills.
At the foot of Simon's seat,
'Mid the shades, sits silent Thought:
Glitt'ring in this lone retreat
Darts the gold-bespangled trout.
There the peaceful ruin stands
Underneath the mighty hill,
Where the priors had their lands,
Where the abbots rang'd at will.
Dark, amid the shadowy woods,
Are the jaws of terror hid,
Where Wharf's rapid, foaming floods
Thunder through the yawning Strid.
See what grandeur—terror, hung
On the dark electric cloud,
From the waves of ocean sprung,
O'er yon distant woodlands bowed.
Deep it rolls upon the Stake;
Dread the loud tremendous roar;
Deeper still its echoes wake
On the heights of Rom'lies' Moor.
205

When the whirlwind rends the woods,
And the lightning's vivid glare
Glances on the glitt'ring floods,
Ev'ry hill says, “God is here!”
Where is He not?—the earthquake shows His power;
He rules the thunder, lives in ev'ry flower;
Rides on the rapid tempests as they pass,
And shines in glory on each blade of grass.
The whole creation—ev'ry distant sphere—
Immensity proclaims, “Lo! God is here!”
Dark-brooding clouds, precursors of the storm,
O'er mortals pass ashamed, and cry, “Reform!”
Priest, lord, and king, and ye ungrateful poor—
Let reformation enter ev'ry door!
Let every heart that swells a Briton's breast,
Receive that pure, that bright, immortal guest,
For ever constant and for ever free,
Which sav'd a world—sweet, smiling Charity!
O Ilkley! noble are thy ancient halls,
Thy beauteous valleys—grand thy waterfalls;
Lovely thy groves, thy grottos, crystal rills;
Thy antique church, and all thy woodland hills.
Round thee have all the pleasures of the chase
Smil'd in past ages on a happy race;
The huntsman's horn, the shout, the bay of hounds,
Have fill'd thy valleys with their merry sounds;
206

And health has liv'd where exercise has been,
In thy old castle, through each varied scene.
But times have chang'd—old customs are no more,
The mirth and pomp in ancient hall are o'er;
Dumb are the minstrels, mute the harpers' lays,
And fled the sports of Ilkley's festive days,
When yearly its old church with music rung,
And the high mass by Bolton's priests was sung.
No modern fane, on consecrated ground,
Can ever echo such a solemn sound
As that which peal'd within the ancient choir,
When all its tapers shone with hallow'd fire.
 

What is commonly distinguished by the name of Rombles Moor, I have called Romilies' Moor, as I believe the appellation to have been derived from the Romilies, its Norman possessors.

The Station is the highest point on Romilies' Moor, from which place Captain Mudge took his observations nearly seventy years ago.

The eastern promontory of Ilkley Crag.

A well-known mountain in Wharfdale.

THE HUNTERS' DIRGE.

Ye woods, in Rishworth's verdant vale,
Which oft have echoed to the horn!
Ye rocky hills, that blushed so deep,
From hunters gay at early morn!
Weep, till your tears in crystal rills
Make winding Aire with grief run o'er,
That on the brown-robed heathy hills,
The huntsman's shout is heard no more.
207

Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds
By changing echoes borne away,
Who crossed the moors in joyful chase,
And pleasure, on the sportive day!
Go sit, where you unearthed the fox,
And mourn till echo hear and weep;
Wet, with your tears, the time-worn rocks,
That modern squires no huntsmen keep;
Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient race;
Round Marley Hall in sorrow tread;
Where dwelt the glory of the chase,
Who oft the noble sportsmen led.
Then take the horn, the requiem blow,
O'er rural bliss that now is lost,
And sound the dirge o'er those laid low,
Who never sighed at hunting's cost!
208

FEMALE CONSTANCY.

Stars through rolling centuries shine,
Nor does their lustre ever fade;
And thus the virtues of the maid
Glitter when her form's decayed,
With beauteous radiance divine,
Who never sighed to any swain
But one, and constant doth remain,
Still rememb'ring him with care,
Before the Maker of the spheres
She breathes for him incessant prayers,
And not another youth appears,
That wounds the bosom of the fair:
And can the youth deceive such love,
And conscience never once reprove?
Maids to flowers have been compared,
But flowers of sweetest scent decay:
So doth the fair, who runs astray
From Virtue's sweet sequestered way,
Whose heart to many a youth is shared;
While she who true through life has been,
Falls like a branch of evergreen.
209

THE FAITHFUL WIFE.

From times of ancient Greece, the fair
By greatest poets have been sung,—
The virgins with the lovely air,
And all their beauties fresh and young;
But praises greater far are due
To her who braves the storms of life,
In ev'ry state her bosom true—
At ev'ry age the faithful wife.
How many nymphs have gained the praise
When blithe sixteen upon them shone;
But soon the transient bloom decays,
And ev'ry outward beauty's gone.
While she who in her bosom bears
A spark of virtue's sacred fire,
Which like the purest gem appears,
When love's impetuous flames expire,
Is lovelier far when pale and cold—
She falls like autumn's ripened grain;
Our mem'ries then her worth unfold,
And wish her here to shine again.
210

SONG.

[The birks may wave, the heath may bloom]

The birks may wave, the heath may bloom,
The lasses trip the mountains o'er,
And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom,
But I can touch my harp no more.
The lambs may skip, the fishes sport,
And glitter in their woodland rills,
But I no more the muse can court,
Where thyme perfumes the purple hills.
There oft my sweet Elvina sung,
And softly trill'd the rural lay,
Till raptures in my bosom sprung,
“As pleasure wing'd my hours away.”
But Nature now is fresh in vain;
The richest gifts to me are poor,
For bliss can never come again,
And I can touch my harp no more.
No more with joy can I behold
Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom;
The hand which oft I press'd is cold,
The heart that lov'd me in the tomb.
But still she lives in realms of day,
Far distant from a world of pain:
Oh! could I soar to her away,
Then would I touch my harp again.
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