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 VALE OF ILKLEY. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
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THE VALE OF ILKLEY.
“The heavens appear to love this vale.”
—Wilson.
—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.
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,
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.
Who art ador'd while all creation sings,
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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;
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.
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.
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;
201
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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,
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.
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,
Not a voice disturbs the scene.
Where is raised dark Hober Hill,
Rising from its base of green,
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On these heights Retirement reigns,
Far above all mortal ills;
While upon the mountain plains
Wild birds drink from purest rills.
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.
'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.
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.
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.
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.
Dread the loud tremendous roar;
Deeper still its echoes wake
On the heights of Rom'lies' Moor.
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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!”
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!
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;
And health has liv'd where exercise has been,
In thy old castle, through each varied scene.
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;
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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.
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 poetical works of John Nicholson | |