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258

Miscellaneous Poems.

THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD.

[_]

(written in 1820.)

Hail, glorious Commerce! goddess of our isle!
Thou, who hast rais'd her to the tow'ring height
Where, thron'd she sits, the empress of the world,—
Britannia's glory, hail! of thee I sing:
Thou, who with swiftest pinions wing'st thy way
To every distant port throughout the seas,
Then back return'st, with every blessing fraught
The kingdoms of the fruitful earth can yield.
Thou hast a daughter, whose industrious hands
Supply the earth with stuffs of richest hues,
In which are dress'd the sultan and the slave,—
Princes and Kings, Jews, Pagans, Turk, and Priest,
The Indian ladies and the Persian dames,—
Bradford her name, now known throughout the world.
259

Small was her fame, her trade and wealth were small,
When, from a few thatch'd cottages she rose,
To form a street, the shadow of a town;
But view her now—behold her bursting forth
In far extending streets, majestic built,
Wherein the mould'ring bricks are seldom seen,
While polish'd stones compose her rising walls,
And, speak in silent accents, through our land—
Where Commerce reigns, old England's sons are bless'd!
Oh what a change in this most favour'd town,
Since its brave sons lay lifeless on the field,
With gory wounds, by civil discord dealt—
Scenes almost now forgotten and unknown—
When trembling virgins sought their lovers brave,
And on their mangled bosoms, frantic, wept;
While mothers mingled with the streaming blood
Tears of deep anguish and unutter'd woe
On the soak'd earth where their dear sons were slain.
When peace return'd, and civil discord ceas'd,
On Bradford, then, the sun of Commerce dawn'd:
But faint and few its beams.—Few were the goods
Which then, with toil and weary steps, were brought
On the jaded pack-horse to the little town,—
A public house the only piece-hall was,
And one small table held the merchant's store.
Behold, how chang'd! so many now her goods,
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That she can form a zone to gird the world;
With rich moreens, can deck the Russian court;
In lighter goods adorn the Japanese;
Can far outshine the tint of Persian dyes,
And clothe the world from Zembla's coldest shores,
To hottest tracts of Afric's sultry plains.
When envious minds, by proud presumption curs'd,
With dire seditious trash the country fill'd,
Aiming to shake the basis of our throne,
Drew thousands into error and to shame,
Old Bradford stood,—yes, like its motto, stood,
Which deck'd the banner of the volunteers,
“Ready” to arm, and “steady” to the king.
While bless'd with Commerce, Bradford never dreads
Pale-visag'd poverty, nor meagre want;
Her sons are free, and, when in war engag'd,
Their wealth and hearts are open to the king:
Freely they give—as freely as they join
The joyful shouts, when vict'ry crowns our hosts,
And England echoes with triumphant joy.
Bless'd is that king, who, in his subjects' hearts,
Has fix'd the steadfast basis of respect!
Then let rebellion rise—'tis crush'd at once;
Or let proud hostile fleets loom on our seas,
And foreign foes approach with ev'ry wind,
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While on each deck their glist'ning arms are seen,
Our constitution, commerce, and our king
Become the trumpets that arouse our souls:
The king our Jove, our constitution Mars,
Our trade Minerva, and our God our shield,
And, led by chiefs to English bosoms dear,—
The threat'ning fleets, whatever flags they bear,
Soon spread the bottom of the trembling deeps
With wreeks and trophies of their shatter'd pride!
Oh that my feeble pen could half describe
The num'rous blessings Bradford's sons enjoy!
In chill December's cold and piercing nights,
When all the diamonds of yon spangled arch
Shine brilliant through the air, by frost made pure,—
When the bright moonbeams on the candied snow,
Create unnumber'd gems of ev'ry hue,
And beautify the scene,—then is the time
The starv'd inhabitants of heath-crown'd hills
Cling round the shimm'ring light of turfy fires;
And, as they shudder with the piercing blast
That penetrates their crazy tenements,
Oft wish that coals were near, but wish in vain.—
But, blest with her exhaustless mines of coal,
Were Bradford plac'd where mitred hills of snow
Raise their white heads beyond the Arctic line,
Where the green sea is one vast wild of ice,
She would defy a winter at the pole.
262

Prompted by Commerce, in the summer months,
When bleating flocks are lighten'd of their load,
The manufacturers and staplers seek,
Through ev'ry shire, the farmer's woolly store,
Happy employment!—when, beneath the shade
Of lofty trees, the shepherd shears his sheep,
While, smiling o'er the group, his master stands,
And hears with joy the shearer's festive song,
Pours out the ale, and joins their rustic mirth;
Then makes them wrap, with honesty, each fleece,
Which, when unloos'd, may like his heart be found,
Nought to contain but equity and truth.
T' augment the pleasure of the rural scene,
After a year of absence, now arrives
From marts of commerce his accustom'd friend.
Upon the carpet of the verdant earth,
With joy the long-tried friends together meet,
Admire the fleece—the source of England's wealth—
Which all the climates of the world beside
Can ne'er surpass in quality and strength.
The farmer's blooming daughter, too, is there,
Blushing with modesty and virgin grace,
Great Nature's self the painter of her cheeks:—
The stapler's youthful and enamour'd son
Sees all the world a blank but her fair form;
While from her eyes the swift-wing'd darts of love
Fly quick, and pierce his inexperienc'd heart.
Poor youth!—he, like a ship with colours gay,
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Just launch'd upon the ocean of the world,
Knows nothing of its tempests and its storms,
But thinks the main as tranquil as the port.
Meanwhile the fathers bargain for the wool;
The price is asked—'tis set—disputed—giv'n;
And soon the swelling sheets are homeward sent,
And half the vessels that the Humber bears,
Are fraught with wool, Britannia's wealth and boast.
When at its destin'd place 'tis landed safe,
The sorter first consigns each various kind,
With nice exactness, to its proper bin—
Emblem of man! who, in this chequer'd world,
According to appearance takes his place;
The great to palaces, the proud to courts;
To fine-built mansions some, and some to huts
Lowly and mean, yet fill'd with greatest peace,
Their residence like bins where wool is thrown;
And the partition which divides each class,
Death soon breaks down, commixing ev'ry sort.
The comber next employs his ancient art,
Which no machinery can supersede.
In vain the ingenious stretch their utmost skill:
As oft as tried, the expensive schemes of art
Abortive prove;—the comber still employ'd,
264

Sings at his work, and triumphs o'er them all;
Then plans for ale; and when the quart goes round,
Talks of his travels, happier than a king.
The spinners, too, in times which now are pass'd,
With many a weary step spun out the yarn,
Singing to pass the tedious hours away;
Or on the pleasant evenings of the spring,
Tranquillity pervading all the scene,
Upon the verdant earth their wheels were plied;
And village spinsters, with their rural songs,
Charm'd their lov'd swains, and labour turn'd to joy.—
But now, with wheels as num'rous as the stars,
With motion multiform as heavenly spheres,
The invention of the skill'd mechanic's mind,
Our wool has drawn out to the finest thread,
Unequall'd in the world. But time would fail
Minutely to describe each process of our trade.
May Bradford's Commerce prosper still,
Her greastest boast, her glory, and her all!
Let Commerce flourish, then we stand secure—
Destroy it, and the seas defend in vain
From foreign foes Britannia's favour'd isle.
 

In 1820, it was the general opinion that no machine could ever supersede hand-combing.

265

LOW MOOR IRON WORKS.

Ye that have trembled with the nerves unstrung,
The theme neglected which you should have sung;
With fearful gloom the mind encircled round,
Or sunk in fears amid the deep profound;
Pardon the timid mind that now indites,
The pen that trembles as your poet writes.
'Tis not of stars, nor distant orbs I sing,
Parnassus' mountain, nor the muses' spring;
Nor smoking Ætna, nor the constant light
Of Strombolo, that gilds Sicilian night.
A thousand wants, a thousand fears are mine,
A bard that has to struggle for the Nine;
But hence, ye cares—anxieties avaunt—
Be drown'd, ye sorrows, and be banish'd, want;
False fancied ills, disturb no more this breast,
For whilst I treat of genius I'm blest.
When first the shapeless sable ore
Is laid in heaps around Low Moor,
The roaring blast, the quiv'ring flame,
Give to the mass another name:
White as the sun the metal runs,
For horse-shoe nails, or thund'ring guns;
266

The trembling hair-spring of a watch,
An anchor, or a cottage latch—
Most implements the farmers have,
And those of steamers on the wave;
The tailor's needle, or the shell
That levell'd once where princes dwell;
The engine, boiler, cobbler's awl,
The carronade, the pond'rous ball;
The place where steam first moves his wings,
The nails in beggars' shoes and kings';
The anchor's chain, the fisher's hook,
The sword—the hatchet—and the crook,
The sounding anvil, all the blades,
The cause of many thousand trades;
No pen can write, no mind can soar
To tell the wonders of Low Moor.
Wrapp'd in dark clouds that curling rise on high,
Mix'd with the quiv'ring flames of ev'ry dye,
Noble in blackness, great, and wide, and deep,
Not like mankind, thou never art asleep;
Thy sun-white flames for years have been awake,
Thy mighty hammers all the mountains shake—
Here from the mine, as when Mount Ida's flame
Lighted the coal, and liquid iron came;
Thy coal, thy stone, and Craven's flinty rock,
Join'd with the powerful blasts, the hammer's shock,
267

Mould into masses, which shall ever stand,
Or to improve, or to defend our land.
In every clime, through every varied zone,
Throughout the world thy heavy guns are known:
From the Pacific to the Indian shore,
Nations have heard their dread tremendous roar.
Here, wond'ring strangers, while they view around,
See mighty moulds promisc'ous on the ground:
Struck with astonishment they wildly gaze,
Amid thy thunders and each quiv'ring blaze.
Here lie the cannon, peaceful, all asleep,
Which yet shall thunder on the mighty deep;
The mortars there, and bombs of every size,
Which yet with flames shall streak the distant skies.
The place where armour by the gods was form'd,
Ere round old Troy the Grecian warriors storm'd,
Was silent to the echoes of each stroke,
And noise of hammers, heard amid thy smoke.
Here pow'rful levers raise the pond'rous guns,
And pulleys, where a boy can play with tons.
How slow, yet sure, the boring wheels appear,
And soon the new-form'd cannon glitters there;
But should a flaw within the piece be found,
When it has mov'd ten thousand times around,
Soon with the massive ball, the piece is broke—
The whole foundation trembles with the stroke.
268

Since thy first smoke arose and infant blast,
What hosts have fled, what hostile days have pass'd—
What guns once thine are buried in the deep,
Where anchors, balls, and many a sailor, sleep;
Their fury quench'd in ocean's deepest bed,
With worlds of billows rolling o'er the dead.
Thy strong artill'ry, which at Woolwich lies—
Should its arsenal once in fury rise,
Nations would tremble, fleets and navies fly,
For there Britannia stores her thunder by—
There pyramids of balls for battle form'd,
By which each fortress of our foes is storm'd;
The bursting bombs of every size are there,
To guard the land Britannia holds so dear.
When Romans sway'd the sceptre o'er this land.
Near some small brook the infant blast was fann'd;
The boughs of trees were cut to melt the ore,
Cent'ries ere Britons heard a cannon roar.
But what a change—in sixteen hundred years,
No more the flinty or the brazen spears;
The art of war to such perfection grown,
Death flies on air, and sweeps whole squadrons down.
But let the dead the iron balls have slain
In dust among the warriors remain;
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These times of peace require a milder song,
Than when through carnage armies march along:
The days are past when dreadful terror smil'd,
The useless balls are rusting where they're pil'd,
Silent the cannon, peaceful all the hosts,
And long eighteens now form a line of posts.
Thousands of these that on the batt'ry spoke,
To form a railway, will be shortly broke;
The rusty engines that for years have stood,
Shall be conducive to the public good—
Castings of old machin'ry shall be sought,
Melted again and into action brought;
The rapid wheels far fleeter than the wind,
Shall leave the show'r in distance far behind.
Swift as the rapid stock-dove, engines fly,
Gliding as smooth as meteors in the sky:
The shining salmon, near the Mersey caught,
With wings of steam shall be so swiftly brought,
The poor can buy them when they get so cheap,
And show their freshness as they try to leap.
The grocer, when his sugar is all sold,
When coffee's out—if he has got the gold,
May breakfast in old Leeds—the paper take,
And land in Liverpool without a shake;
His lunch at Manchester may take at ten,
Buy goods in Dale Street—then home again—
His goods all safe, he guards them on the way,
No lessen'd weight, and not one hour delay.
270

Ye panting horses, smoking on the road,
Mark'd with the whip, and struggling with your load;
Your race of cruelty will soon have done,
The mail without you soon will swiftly run,
The useless coaches, which have made you tire,
Shall form a sofa near some kitchen fire;
The Courier, Pilot, or the Duke of Leeds,
May cross the furrows fill'd with various seeds,
A load of turnips for the sheep convey,
Or bear the cattle, through the snow, some hay.
But see the engine on the railroad play,
Two hundred tons force swiftly on the way!
The Menai Bridge was late a wonder thought,
The greatest work mechanics ever wrought!
But locomotive power all else transcends,
And every proof the first endeavour mends—
Of much more use the cannon then will be,
Molten again, than roaring on the sea:
The world at peace, and commerce spreading far,
Nor dread of ruin, from the deeds of war.
O had I genius! that, Low Moor, to thee
The debt of gratitude should then be paid:
But care and grief, and deep anxiety,
Have thrown poetic vigour into shade.
271

Place of true genius, where invention springs,
And where the mathematics spread their wings:
Where swift revolve, like motion of the spheres,
The potent wheels, and all their pow'r appears;
A moving wonder!—where all things are brought
To such perfection, they o'erpow'r the thought—
Steady and swift the pond'rous masses turn,
And with their weight the solid axles burn.
Matur'd by sage experience, here combine,
And first of genius—great Low Moor, is thine!
Firm perseverance, and a master's skill,
Through change of time, have conquer'd every ill.
Thy fame for noblest engines far is known,
Where greatest skill and high perfection's shown;
Strong to propel the vessels on the sea,
Or move ten thousand wheels in harmony.
Strength of our commerce, these are truly fix'd,
Where coal and ironstone are richly mix'd,
In mines of wealth, an unexhausted store,
Such as for ages yet shall bless Low Moor.
What millions sterling have been made,
What tens of thousands have been paid,
What thousands here has genius fed,
Since the first blast has rear'd its head,
Crown'd with the flame that soar'd on high,
And cheer'd the midnight cloudy sky.
272

But for Low Moor, old Bradford town,
Had never like a city grown,
Her streets so wide had never spread,
Nor Commerce rais'd so high her head;
In days, and years, and times gone by,
Had not her sable coal been nigh—
Oh! for a Milton's pen—a Milton's mind,
To tell what friendship all the brothers bind.
When winter comes, and shining nature sees
The frost hang hoary on the naked trees,
Amid the blackness, there is yet one charm,
In frost and winter storms, thy sons are warm;
How blest the workmen, though the labour's hard,
Their wages sure—the poor man's best reward;
Cheerful they sing, their labour is delight;
Blest with their families, at home at night—
While some uncertain, with an aching breast,
Far from their wives and children, take no rest;
O useful labour, mine of richest wealth,
Man's truest friend, the keeper of his health.
273

APPEAL OF THE SPANISH REFUGEES.

The brave band of Mina's no more!
Riego is laid in the grave!
Iberia's freedom is o'er,—
'Tis now but the land of the slave!
The grapes need not hang on the vine,
The orange nor lemon appear;
Let riches remain in the mine,
For many a traitor is there!
Ye warriors of Albion! could we
But march in your columns to Spain,
The coward—the traitor would flee,
And liberty triumph again!
But now from our country afar,
For the loss of our freedom we mourn;
Who once were the first in the war,
And scorned like the traitor to turn!
Freedom's banners we once bore on high,
And then were of warriors the pride;
But now are we forced to fly
From the home—from the arms of the bride.
274

Now humbly we make the appeal
To the sons of blest liberty's isle;
Our wants they in sympathy feel,
And anguish is changed to a smile!
Oh what are Iberia's fields,
Or what are the grapes on the vine,
To the joy which true liberty yields?
And, Britain, such blessings are thine!
Our struggle for freedom is o'er;
The learned—the wealthy—the brave,
Have fled from Iberia's shore,—
'Tis now but the land of the slave!

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

The greatest bard is fall'n that ever strung
The mighty lyre that swell'd from hell to heav'n,—
The sweetest minstrel mute that ever sung,
Since from the skies Apollo's harp was giv'n!
275

Though little minds may not lament his fall,
Nor bring one flow'r to form the mournful wreath—
He needs no wreath! for Fame has wove it all;
Wet with her tears—it blossoms at his death!
Its amaranthine leaves through time shall bloom,
Beyond the reach of Envy's ruthless hand!
Love, Liberty, and Genius guard his tomb,
And weeping there shall Grecian Freedom stand.
He sung of storms, and of the tempest wave,—
No theme on earth his mighty pen passed by;
From victory's height—down to the warrior's grave,
From earth's dark centre to the lofty sky!
Ye minor bards, unstring the feeble lyre!
Nor strive in Byron's lofty verse to mourn:
Four mighty poets only had the fire
Fit to inscribe the lines beneath his urn!
 

Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton.

276

LINES SPOKEN AT THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING AT LEEDS, TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS, 1826.

Learning has many a rhymer made,
To flatter near the throne,
But Scotia's genius has displayed
A poet of her own.
His lyre he took to vale and glen,
To mountain and to shade;
Cent'ries may pass away, but when
Will such a lyre be play'd?
His native strains each bard may try,
But who has got his fire?
Why, none—for Nature saw him die,
Then took away his lyre.
And for that lyre the learned youth
May search the world in vain:
She vowed she ne'er would lend it more
To sound on earth again;
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But called on Fame to hang it by—
She took it with a tear,
Broke all the strings to bind the wreath
That Burns shall ever wear.

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S CHILD IN LONDON.

A solemn scene was here!
Absorb'd in anguish wild,
Weeping upon the bier
Of his departed child,
The father stood—parental grief was there—
He kiss'd the corse—a prey to sad despair.
O Death! O cruel Death!
In fearful garb array'd,
How could'st thou snatch the breath
Of this sweet babe, here laid!
See, see thy victim! on her cold pale face,
A smile yet dwells, though clasp'd in thy embrace.
278

Clos'd are those sparkling eyes:
Fled is my baby's bloom;
Her cherub form now lies
Enshrouded for the tomb.
Martha is gone—has breath'd her last—her thread
Of life is spun—is snapp'd;—the babe is dead.
Angels! take her soul above,
And, as you bear her through the sky,
Sing a seraph's song of love,
A song of heav'nly harmony.
Now let celestial music sound,
Strike, strike the lyre! ye heav'nly choir!
Angelic music breathe around!

ON RETURNING FROM LONDON.

How oft the glorious morning broke
On rock-crown'd hills—Time's paintings grey—
When from his bed the lark awoke,
And warbled to the clouds his lay.
The hills rejoice—with glory blush,
Like gold the crystal rivers shine,
The blackbird carols with the thrush,—
Sweet Bingley vale, such scenes are thine;
279

And such they were when all its woods
Had bow'd not to the woodman's stroke,
When salmon in its winding floods,
The smooth still deeps to surges broke.
Give me a cot, a garden near,
By kindred silent in the tomb;
Should greatest monarch ask me where,
I'd answer—this shall be my home.
The works of art I oft have seen,
The touches of a master's hand,
But never like the hills so green,
Or Alpine rocks of Cumberland.
See the pale features of the town,
With all their fine exterior grace,—
Though deck'd with jewels and a crown,
To Yorkshire lasses must give place.
Then be content, 'tis always best,
From wives, from neighbours, ne'er remove;
It takes long years to try the breast,
Then who can judge a stranger's love?
The eagles mounting to the sun,
While on the rocks the ravens cry,
As goats along the ledges run,
And falcons perch with piercing eye:—
280

These have we seen, and may we long
Gaze on each native hill and vale;
And listen to the rural song,
And smile to hear our children's tale.

WAKENING OF THE POET'S HARP.

With harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along,
Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its strings among;
Then stronger in his measure and bolder in his rhyme,
Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling chime.
He wakens then the echo as in grander verse he sings,
And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering strings;
His rhyme is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes the lyre;
His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings of fire.
She leaves all earthly grandeur and o'er the hills she soars—
What cares he then for slander when every star adores:
281

Here, singing strains unborrowed, the poet's verse can claim
A wreath that's everlasting, of never-dying fame.
In his own path of glory he sweetly chants along,
And every son of genius can comprehend his song;
Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains,
His verse has greater grandeur as higher heights he gains:
Till lost in the creation—surrounded by its gems—
He sees the heaven of heavens bedeck'd with diadems;
And though sometimes in sorrow despised and turned to shame,
He wins his wreath of glory, composed of endless fame.

FROM A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER IN LONDON.

How thoughtful oft I sit alone,
My only child, and think of thee;
I bear thee to th' Almighty's throne,
Whene'er in prayer I bow the knee.
282

A mother's blessings and her prayers,
Are more than words can e'er express;
A father's love, a father's cares,
Though less display'd, are still no less.
The midnight hour oft comes and goes,
And tells the death of each short day;
I hear it oft before I close
Mine eyes, while thou art far away.
But why should I o'er this complain?
For many a friend with God is there;
Thou art not lost amid the main,
As many a mother's daughters are.
Thou hast not with the worthless fled,
On folly's miserable way;
No word arrives, “Your Betsy's dead,”
In distant climes, far, far away.
But, blest with health, O let us praise
The Lord! and not repine and mourn;
For swiftly pass away the days,
Which bring my daughter's dear return.
Then I again shall hear her sing,
In mutual labour's sweet employ,
While Time flies swiftly on the wing,
And evenings pass away with joy.
283

When there is so much good and ill,—
O may the good by her be lov'd!
May heav'nly wisdom guide her will,
And may she bring a mind improv'd.

LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

Lovely darlings! can you dry
The sweat-drops from your father's brow?
Can you wipe his faded eye,
Sunk with pain and sickness low?
Oh! my little prattling boy,
Gladly thou would'st ease my pain;
Pleased, would'st give thy father joy,
But thy infant arts are vain.
Must I leave you here to mourn,
With a mother deep distress'd,
While I to the dust am borne,
Where this aching head shall rest?
Yes! methinks I hear you say,
“Mother, when will father come?
“Why is he so long away,
“Nor brings his weekly wages home?”
284

Must I leave you?—O thou Pow'r
Supreme! who seest the orphan's tears,
Guard them through each infant hour,
Watch them in maturer years!

IMPROMPTU.

Did my estates extend for miles around,
And in my mansion all things great abound;
Did gold enrich me, or did rubies shine;
Were greatest titles, wealth, and honour, mine;
Though crystal rivers through my pastures run,
Reflecting back the glories of the sun;
Were beauteous gardens mine, and ev'ry breeze
Brought fragrant odours from the spicy trees;
Did high majestic hills the landscape grace,
And finest scenes adorn great Nature's face,
In sweet variety of hill and dale;
The crystal fountain and the fruitful vale;
And cloak'd in ivy were the ancient towers,
And sweet enchantment us'd her utmost powers:—
Nor my estates, my titles, wealth, nor fame,
The breath of honour, nor the greatest name;
285

Nor high majestic hills, nor flow'ry vale,
Nor crystal rivers, winding through the dale;
Nor all that Nature, all that Art can give,
Nor merriest life a mortal e'er can live,
Can make me bless'd when this short life shall end,
Unless my Maker prove to be my friend.

IMPROMPTU ON A LANDLORD.

Beneath this stone lies Harry Rinder,
Whose heart would light as soon as tinder;
And a bright spark from beauty's eye
Kindle his soul to ecstasy.
At length he took a loving wife,
And then commenced a landlord's life;
And all the time he was a brewer,
No man to wife was ever truer.
Death came at last and made him quail,
And conscience spoke about his ale:
Had he sent tippling souls to ruin
By putting drugs in every brewing?
Then truth of blame did Harry clear;
For never, in his ale or beer,
Did he put berries, drugs, or drops,
But simply water, malt, and hops.
286

LINES TO A FRIEND.

Where's my harp my soul to cheer;
Its tones were wont to glad my breast?
Where's my friend, who dried each tear,
Encourag'd me, and I was blest?
Is he gone? my only stay,
On whom my brightest hopes were plac'd;
Is that friendship fled away,
And its heavenly form defac'd?
Has some action, undesign'd,
Quench'd the spark that once was bright?
Or my wild eccentric mind
Thrown a veil 'twixt me and light?
Friendship! Oh, thou glorious star!
Though deep clouded, yet appear;
Wander not from me so far,
Nor leave me thus oppress'd with care.
If thou art for ever fled,
I in darkness long must mourn;
Pleasure, hope, and comfort dead,
Raptures never can return.
287

LINES ON “LONG TOM,” BRAMHAM PARK.

O great Long Tom! when thou with foam art crown'd,
Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground;
Despair thou buriest deep within the grave;—
Thy contents sure would make the coward brave.
When gloomy Winter, with his roaring floods,
Sends his fierce tempests through the leafless woods;
When sleet falls cold and when the night is dark,
Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramham Park.
Across the moors I then could cheerful go,
Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow;
In sharpest frost I yet should take no harm—
In spite of all, Tom's soul would keep me warm.
When verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift,
And ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift,
Send them Long Tom, and they will sing so loud,
The larks will stop to listen in the cloud.
If from its verge could sip the mellow thrush,
How strong his notes upon the topmost bush!
Could nature's songsters drink, Long Tom, from thee,
They'd cheer the groves with louder harmony.
When Summer comes with all her scorching fires,
And on his way the thirsty trav'ller tires,
288

Though sweat fall from his locks like drops of rain,
Thy soul would cheer him till he walk'd again.
In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away
With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day,
He would, when weary, better hit his mark,
Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park.
In Winter thou art good to kill the frost;
Through circling years thy merit ne'er is lost.
If war should ever rage, or Britons fight
For their lov'd monarch or their country's right,
Their ancient British courage would not fail,
Were they but filled with horns of Fox's ale:
Then would their bosoms need no more t' inspire
Their souls to fight with true heroic fire;
Rapid as whirlwinds they would sweep along,
Vanquish their foes, however fierce and strong.
May British tars for ever have such ale,
While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail;
Then will the cannons roar till every wave
Curls back and owns itself Britannia's slave:
May no disloyal, no dishonest hand,
Touch thee, O Tom! while here thou hold'st thy stand.
But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire,
Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest fire,
With grateful bosom may he walk along,
And never be too drunk to sing a song!
289

How I could write, wert thou but hither borne,
Full as I saw thee on the opening morn,
When slow thy contents lessen'd every draught,
And those who knew thy power stood by and laugh'd!
Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye,
And fill'd the humble bard with ecstasy.
For generations, firm as Eldwick rocks,
Be thou the far-fam'd mighty horn of Fox!

WRITTEN AT TONG HALL,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE MARRIAGE OF COL. AND MRS TEMPEST, 1829.

All the joys of months and years
Shall this day remember'd be;
While old Sorrow with her cares,
Sinks in past eternity.
Some have in the tempest sunk,
Deep within the ocean's bed;
Others, with proud fame made drunk,
Shone an hour, the next have fled.
290

But the stars which smiling shone
On your horoscope of birth,
Circling find you both as one;
None can sever you on earth.
And as days and years go round,
Like two strings in unison,
Trembling to affection's sound,
True as when it first begun.
Parents of a happy race;
May your children's children shine,
Till each orb has chang'd its place,
And the world be all divine.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY RICKITTS.

Well may the tears of overwhelming woe
Down the pale cheeks of num'rous mourners flow!
They fall for one whose beauty and whose worth
Exceeded all I ever knew on earth.
291

In vain I turn in hopes to hear the strings
Responsive wake to her sweet carollings;
Then to the marble which in silence stands;
Then to the harp that trembled 'neath her hands;
Then to her tomb, where all that art can give,
Stands in pure love to make her mem'ry live.
In vain my spirit strives to track her flight
To the far regions of eternal light:
The awful bourn of death my friend hath pass'd,
And rests beyond dark sorrow's keenest blast;
She views no more the changing scenes of earth,—
She only liv'd to give a cherub birth,
Then flew away to heaven's most blest abode,
To rest upon the bosom of her God.
 

Daughter of Col. Tempest of Tong Hall, and wife of Sir Cornwallis Rickitts.

THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

Weep, all ye birds, ye bowers!
Ye friends, a vigil keep!
Send forth your tears, ye flowers!
All ye who knew her weep,
That she is gone who in your circle smil'd,
Far from her husband and her lovely child!
292

The lov'd, the virtuous wife,
Has enter'd into rest;
Too weak for cares of life—
Call'd to her Father's breast;
While like a cherub her sweet babe appears,
And smiles, unconscious of a father's tears.
Her bounty cheer'd the poor,
Her hands the needy fed;
Now all her pains are o'er,
Now that sweet flower is dead,
And her glad spirit, borne on seraph's wing,
Attunes the Christian's harp where angels sing.

THE MUSE.

What means it though the poet's cot
Be placed in some sequester'd spot,
Where oaks, and elms, and beeches grow,
Or on the heath, where rushes bow,
In vales, where peaceful graze the flocks,
Or near the mossy-vestur'd rocks?
Romantic scenes can ne'er indite,
Nor situations make him write.
293

'Tis genius must his breast inspire,
And light the true, poetic fire.
Without it he may read and pore
Ancient and modern classics o'er,
May walk in ruins late or soon,
While through the arches shines the moon,
Where sleeps the abbot, monk, or friar;
But if he has not Nature's lyre,
Nor ancient ruins, nor the woods,
The rippling rills, the foaming floods,
Embattled fields, nor ancient hall,
Romantic scenes, where cat'racts fall,
Nor works of other authors' pens,
Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor Highland glens,
Nor all the scenes which ever graced
The paintings of a man of taste,
Not all the arts the scribblers use
Can make a bard without the Muse.

MELPOMENE.

The Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd,
Majestically great above the rest,
With thoughtful look, and tears, and pallid cheek,
A comic line is scarcely heard to speak;
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For higher themes her feeling breast inspire
Than lyric measures or the keen satire.
The widow's woes,—the virgin's love, she sings,
The fate of heroes and the fall of kings;
Or palaces in ruins, where the throne
Which now is broke, with regal grandeur shone,
Where once the beauteous chequer'd marble floor
With blood of kings was deeply crimson'd o'er;
There like a widow on her husband's tomb,
She sits enshrin'd amid the tragic gloom,—
Paints ev'ry scene of ancient tyrants' deeds,
Then gazes on the ruins wrapp'd in weeds,
Till her rich mind replaces ev'ry stone,
And seats the murder'd monarch on the throne,
Musters his guards—which long in dust have been,
Beholds his knights, his heroes, and his queen;
Sees the vile traitor, with his murd'ring train,
Act all his deeds of darkness o'er again;
The courtiers lov'd to-day, and rais'd on high,
Frown'd on to-morrow, and their glories die;
The dauntless heroes, mark'd with many a scar,
Rush on in search of glory to the war,
And on their arms the dread suspended fates
Of empires, kingdoms, or contending states;—
Shrouded in terrors, while around her plays,
In ev'ry form, the lightning's vivid blaze.
Wading in blood, she marks the hero's fall,
While with her crimson pen she minutes all.
295

When to the charge the furious steeds advance,
And red with noble blood the glitt'ring lance—
The drums, the trumpets, and the clang of arms,
The rattling mail, and war's most dread alarms;
The banners waving over either host,
The day hung doubtful—neither won nor lost;
The smoking tow'rs, the city wrapp'd in fire—
With loftier themes the Tragic Muse inspire—
The noise of battle plumes her tow'ring wings,
And gives terrific grandeur while she sings!

DIRGE.

Blest may my children be,
When death shall carry me
Into eternity,
Ne'er to return;
When the fast-falling tear
Drops on their father's bier,
May some true friend be near,
While they all mourn.
296

I now have had my prime,
Till there is nought in time
But Care's high hill to climb,
Weary and faint;
Pleasure is fled away,
Grief is resolv'd to stay
With me by night and day,
Terrors to paint.
What is bright glory's beam?
Why, 'tis an empty dream,
Or as the meteor's gleam
Crossing the sky.
Can riches pleasure bring?
No—cares oppress a king:
All earthly joys but sting
Deep as they fly.
Nothing but virtue can
Give comfort unto man,
Whose life is scarce a span,
Wasting away:
Honour is but a shade,
Like beams on rain display'd,
Whose colours quickly fade,
Ere ends the day.
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Thus shall our sorrows end:
May we have one great Friend,
Through whom we can ascend
Far beyond pain;
There may my children come,
May we all find a home,
Far, far beyond the tomb,
In bliss to reign!

SONG. (WRITTEN FOR A WOUNDED SEAMAN, WHO FOUGHT AT THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.)

With my limbs in the deep,
And my locks all grown hoary,
By cowards insulted, and poor,
Few think how I fought
For my country and glory,
Or know half the hardships I bore.
When the wars are all o'er
I am thought of no more,
The deeds of my valour are lost;
Forgot is the day
Of Trafalgar's dread bay,
When my comrades to Neptune were toss'd.
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Where the waves stood aghast
At the cannon's dread roaring,
And the white curling surges retir'd,
Brave Britons their broadsides
Were rapidly pouring,
By Nelson and glory inspir'd!
Then the prince of the deeps
His trident uprear'd,
A moment in wonder he gaz'd;
But, struck with great terrors,
He soon disappear'd,
Our cannon so dreadfully blaz'd!
In the midst of the conflict
Great Nelson undaunted,
Regarded nor balls nor the wave,
But order'd the grog
When the British tars wanted,
And told us what England expects from the brave!

THE STORM.

When gentle breezes kiss the tide,
And waft the vessel o'er the deep,
Silent beneath her stately side,
The peaceful waters seem to sleep.
299

The sluggish waves just heave along,
While swift she cuts the yielding main;
The sailors' hearts with hope beat strong
To reach their long-left homes again.
But gath'ring clouds the sun o'erspread,
While he with crimson gilds the west;
The storm appears, whose awful head
With terror chills each sailor's breast.
The frighted billows seem to know
The dreadful tempest ere it comes;
And, where the whirling hail descends,
The frothy sea in madness foams.
Nearer and nearer rolls the storm,
And wraps in darkness all the sky;
While o'er its frowning awful cheek,
The dazzling flashes frequent fly.
The azure vault is seen no more;
But, wrapp'd in deepest gloom of night,
The waves return, the thunders roar,
And lightnings glare—their only light!
Then buried deep beneath the waves,
The shatter'd rigging and the shrouds,
While, mad with rage, the tempest raves—
Her helm is lost among the clouds.
300

No steady course the vessel keeps,
By such a dreadful tempest driv'n;
But, like a cork upon the deeps,
Uplifted by the waves to heav'n.
What fervent prayers, in that dread hour!
For worlds unknown, they all prepare!
And to appease the Almighty Power,
Is ev'ry trembling seaman's care.
At last she strikes—and floats no more,
But sinks a wreck amidst the deep;
And, far from England's happy shore,
Beneath the waves the sailors sleep.
In vain their friends, with bosoms true,
Expect with joy their bless'd return;
For them no more their friends shall view,
But for their loss in anguish mourn.

MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK, 1825.

THE ORATORIO.

Genius of Music! whom, as poets say,
Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey!
Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme,
Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time!
301

Fade from my mind, ye country concerts all,
Church oratorios, and each private ball;
Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor
As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar,
Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain
As Britain's sons may never hear again!
Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old,
The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold;
The carriages through dust swift rolled along,
Bearing their inmates to the scene of song.
The good old city, deck'd in modern grace,
Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face,
But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again,
If any cloud let fall a shower of rain.
Had some great bard been there, he might have seen
Hundreds of instruments, encased in green;
Or boxes, from all parts of England sent,
Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent,
All ranks of people throng to the hotel,
And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell;
And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill,
To grace their owners in the gay quadrille;
Servants in every various colour dressed,
And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest;
Most brilliant equipages throng each street,
And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet;
302

Astonished thousands on the Minster gaze,
And join to give the noble structure praise:
For far beyond description is the pile—
The queen of buildings in our native isle,—
Whose grandeur and magnificence unite
To strike with awe, or fill us with delight!
How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young,
Assemble there to listen to the song,
And youth and hoary-headed age combine
To call the scene magnificently fine!
Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads,
When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads.
All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill,
Were imitated there with nicest skill;
But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes
Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes.
The hour arriv'd—high up above the throng,
Stood the Euterpean votaries of song.
All was still as death!—a solemn awe
Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they saw!
Proud titles and distinctions were forgot,
Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot;
Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze,
Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise.
The distant organ glorious to behold,
King of all instruments, shone bright in gold;
303

Trombones and double basses, placed around,
Waiting the signal for majestic sound.
And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near
His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear?
O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song,
If in imagination I am wrong!
The gorgeous splendour now I all forget,
And view the shades of great composers met—
Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir,
Descend to touch the chords with genial fire;
Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim,
Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn.
The assembled thousands, wrapp'd in silence all,
See the grand host obey their leader's call.
Within the instruments lies music's fire,
And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir;
Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet,
In one stupendous choral phalanx meet!
Silent they stand, until the signal's given;
And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n,
Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds,
And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds.
Those who have met the foes on foreign hills
Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills,
Which shining cuirassiers could never bring,
Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing;
304

But, here, the mighty strains the stoutest melt,
And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt—
Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud,
Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud.
Viols and voices swell the chorus forth,
And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth.
All parts so full—the mind can wish no more,
Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar.
The organ swells—what more can earth perform?
Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm!
The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound
Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd;
And “Gloria Patri” in such strains is giv'n,
As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n.
O for a power that I to all could tell
The praise of those who play'd and sung so well!
First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song,
And Mori's praise should to my theme belong;
Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise,
Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise:
And, with the warmest feelings I would write
Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White.
Had I but time, each name I would put in,
Of all who play'd a choral violin—
Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain,
While these my verses last, should here remain;
305

Lindley, and Crouch, and Richardson, and Sharp,
Moxon, and Platt, and Bochsa, with his harp;
And those of foreign climes, all great in song,
Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong,
And fail due praise to genius to impart—
'Tis useless—since they live in ev'ry heart.
Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet,
Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet.
The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire
To touch, in graceful strains, sweet “Jubal's lyre.”
“Let the bright seraphim,” sweet Stephens sung,
As though the notes from angel-voices sprung.
His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise,
That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise.
When Braham sung with all his power and skill,
He turned the blood of all the audience chill.
The great and noble, young, and old, and fair,
Felt the full charm of his sublimest air;
While beauteous Caradori stood alone
For warbling trills, and melody of tone.
In music's art, I have but little skill,
Yet oft I find its powers old Care can kill;
Though distant, fancy yields me some delight—
Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright,
306

With many a singer from a foreign land—
The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand!
As when on seas the storm begins to lower,
And the dread tempest brings forth all its power
Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore,
Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar;
But as to land the billows roll along,
Louder and louder bursts the awful song,
Until the rocky cavern on the beach
The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach;
Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze,
And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze:
So did the finest solos of the choir
Send forth their strains, and then again retire;
The trio breaks still more distinct and clear,
And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear;
The swelling semi-chorus louder grows,
And then it dies away in graceful close.
“He is the King of Glory” next we hear,
As though deep thunder and the storm were there.
All know their parts—the chorus swells with ease
From voices louder than “the sound of seas.”
Though far-fam'd Catalina be not here,
Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear;
For shall our native poets' words give way
To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day?
307

To foreign pride shall British genius bend,
While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend?
No—British songs, well touched in ev'ry part,
Are those which please the best, and reach the heart:
Italian trills may loud applauses reap,
But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep.
Where is the tow'ring soul can comprehend
Those scenes, which never truly can be penned,
Where grandeur and sublimity appear,
To charm the eye, or to astound the ear?
When were the tones of such an organ drowned,
And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound?
When were a hundred viols played in vain?
Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain?
The chorus bursts!—it shakes the massive walls—
The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls,
O'erpowers the double basses and trombones,
The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones.
Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs,
Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues,
His thrilling accents can be heard no more
Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar.
When Yorkshire's choral sons their powers unite,
Their tones astonish, and their chords delight;
Healthful and strong, their voices may defy
In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
308

Yes, when they sung the song which Israel sung
On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung,
Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain,
The chorus bursts—“The Lord shall ever reign!”
Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed
'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again!
And, as the strains increase, still more and more
We seem transported to the distant shore,
Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song,
And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
In heaven itself, must be the highest strain!
 

Luther's Hymn.

THE CONCERT.

The beams of day retire o'er western hills;
The concert room with gayest fashion fills;
The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer,
With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear.
The choral strength to-night is left behind,
While the delicious song enchants the mind.
The overture, performed in grandest style,
Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile.
Next come the songs which youthful lovers want,
In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
309

No instrument, but some great master's hand
Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band;
No fault is there, in music or in words,
For nothing added could improve the chords:
All is complete—the grand performance such,
Nothing there is too little or too much.
The world's forgot, and grief and sorrow fly;
Anguish and care and melancholy die,
When music sweet thus trembles on the strings,
And lifts the mind above created things;
Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast,
Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd.
The double drums we now distinctly hear,
The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear;
The strong viola, and the serpent's tones;
The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones;
The violoncello, and the double bass;
The viols, sweetest music of the place;
And on the air the varying notes are borne,
From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn;
Then comes the song, with soft Italian chords,
Though sweet, yet few can understand the words.
How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead,
To Braham's “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
Or “Rule Britannia,” which was heard before
In such like strains as England hears no more,
310

When Catalani sung it in such style
As made the concert room seem Britain's isle,
And all its millions met in one great throng,
To hear the grandeur of the noble song.
But let the concert be whate'er it will,
Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill;
Though all the parts in richest style we hear,
And solemn grandeur, they approach not near
In boldness and magnificence, to these
Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze—
Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung
While music lasts, or instruments are strung.
But human minds variety pursue,—
Music itself attracts the most when new;
But, when the praise of present music's pass'd,
Handel's grand choruses shall ever last.

THE BALL.

The Ball Room emulates the light of day—
All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay;
Each instrument to finest tones is set,
For leader of quadrilles is Collinet.
So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair,
All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there.
Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along,
Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng;
311

The Highland chieftain, in his tartan plaid,
And some like warriors of the old crusade.
Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes,
And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes;
Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews,
Peasants and players, in costumes out of use.
Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor,
Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more,
But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail,
And future generations tell the tale,
How their great ancestors had danc'd with lords,
Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words;
And many a smile which in the dance was seen,
May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green:
For such a sly insidious imp is Love,
He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove;
Where peasants dance upon the festive day,
He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away.
In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind,
And wounds in parties of the most refin'd;
Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair,
But often sends his strongest arrows there.
Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers,
Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers;
While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep—
Their only tears are those which daisies weep.
But oh, may none who figured at this ball,
Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall;
312

But on this night, should any hearts be joined,
May such through life know happiness refined;
And when they with fantastic dresses part,
Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart,
In which, when worldly cares the passions try,
May love increase, till death dissolve the tie!
How changed old Ebor, since the Roman foe
Entered her gates, and laid her glories low!
Her warriors slain, or carried captive far,
Who knew no dance except the dance of war;
Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn,
That called them to the chase at early morn;
While this, in war-songs, raised their courage high,
They rushed to battle, not afraid to die.
Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung,
The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung;
The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head,
While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled;
Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home,
Beating their swords against the shields of Rome;
While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears,
And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears;
But now, no foreign foes approach her walls,
No Danish ruffians revel in her halls;
Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance;
Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
313

Adorn'd in fancy dresses, show their skill
To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille.
Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke,
And arms! to arms! the piercing trumpet spoke.
To arms! to arms! the rattling drums reply—
The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh.
They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu,
But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew.
The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field,
With breasts unarm'd—their valour was their shield;
And Europe's shield these warriors proved to be;
For on their helms danced fame and victory.
But what has York's grand festival to do
With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo,
Except to tell the great how bless'd they are—
Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war?
For then was many a fair, who loved the brave,
Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave.
And ladies of the purest virtue there,
Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear.
Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet,
And hundreds show the graces of their feet;
Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around,
Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound.
Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known
Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
314

Old age and wisdom there sat smiling, fain,
And wished to try if they could dance again;
E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned
That such accomplishments they never learned.
Now viols' notes in softest cadence die—
The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry:
For be musician's genius e'er so fine,
It always fails, except improved with wine—
Wine, which gives poetry and music wings,
Inspires with animation all the strings;
Makes each wind instrument have better tone,
And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone.
Now they repose—and what each clime affords
Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords;
And every dainty that can please the fair,
With choicest wines, is in profusion there.
Old York had ransacked every vale and hill,
To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill.
The far-famed band their viols, tune again,
And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain;
With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves,
And fans are waved around like poplar leaves,
In all the colours which the rainbow bears,
When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears.
Had I been there, I might have sung of all
The glory and the grandeur of the ball;
315

But, fettered fast, far distant forced to stay,
My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way.
No muse I boast, no great poetic skill,
Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille;
But this I know, in humble country reels
Care cannot stick a feather on their heels;
Time wings away, while all forget his speed;
While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed.
The music bursts again!—the diamond's blaze,
And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze.
Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost,
Such lovely forms could Athens never boast;
The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced,
Had they but seen how British ladies danced;
And great Raphael should there have present been,
To keep through ages the imposing scene,
When those who tripped along no more can move
In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love.

SPORTS OF THE FIELD.

When oaks are brown and birches bare,
And not a bird is singing,
The sportsman drives away his care,
The speckled woodcocks springing.
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True joy he in the country knows,
His faithful springers ranging
Among the hazel's yellow boughs,
Or holly, never changing.
And when the long-bill'd woodcock springs,
Mark!—the sportsman calling,—
The blue smoke curls,—its useless wings
Through the trees are falling.
Full many a man at this would sigh,
As sore against religion;
But at a feast just let him try
Roast woodcock, grouse, or widgeon.

ENGLAND'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HER CONSTITUTION.

Let verse, in wild, harmonious numbers flow:
My muse descend to pay the debt I owe.
Long hast thou taken far thine airy flight,
And left me wrapp'd in gloomy shades of night;
317

But when commotions in our nation blaze,
When England's sun is robb'd of half its rays,
Again these drowsy, torpid passions shake—
Rouse every nerve—let all their powers awake.
Bring me the magic shell, the native lyre,
And warm my bosom with a patriot's fire.
For where's the breast that feels not anguish rise?
And where the Protestant, but thinks and sighs?
The bells that once in cheerful peals could turn,
Have changed their notes, and in their changes mourn;
The flags, that once waved glorious on each tower,
Now, drooping, weep, and shrink from Papal power;
Around their staves, now motionless are furl'd,
That waved in victory o'er a conquer'd world.
Learning and art, come hang your heads and weep,
Cambridge be closed—a fast let Oxford keep;
Muses be clad in emblems of despair;
Ye trees we love, no British roses bear;
A foreign serpent's nestling at your roots,
To kill your branches while the shamrock shoots;
And myriads that have long been open foes
To heroes decorated with the rose,
Conspire to make our churches tumble down,
And place that emblem on the triple crown.
Old Ebor's patriot Duke is now no more:
The colours which the noble Frederick bore,
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In death, are dusty: every shatter'd shred
Speaks volumes; for the Church's friend is dead.
No more of England's glory let us sing,
Let Nelson rest, nor touch the vocal string;
Let patriots' tears, in torrents flow like rain,
For all is lost our fathers fought to gain.
Old England mourns; our wives—our children mourn,
While patriot hearts with double fury burn
To see the far-famed chief of Waterloo
(Adorned with laurels taken from the foe),
Bring by that arm that oft made tyrants fall,
Creatures of Rome to Stephen's ancient hall.
In ruined abbeys soon will be fresh souls,
Monks in their glory, boasting in their cowls:
Where nightly shouting birds have hatching been,
Soon will the chisel and the square be seen.
Spain will rejoice—in Paris friars dance;
Old England's weakness will enliven France.
Through all the Continent it will be said:
“The ocean's rulers are at last afraid.
“Proceed, proceed, the British lion teaze,
“He seems to sleep supinely at his ease;
“Tug at his ears, and pluck his aged mane,
“Close up his eyes, he cannot war again.
“Ye peers, new-made, bring shamrock for his food,
“Goad him with pikes, and try to rouse his blood:
“Bind him with beads, place thistles on his paws;
“Then make him bow his head to Papal laws;
319

“And shout on Dover's cliff—let Calais hear—
“Another step is gained—another cheer!”
Watch him, ye Churchmen! see him move to rise,
His nostrils smoke, there's lightning in his eyes;
Long has he heard the restless beings moan,
In silence watch'd them till they shook his throne.
With awful voice he asks, “What wish you more?”
And three broad kingdoms tremble at his roar.
They answer—“Half the jewels of your crown,
“And all the abbeys that are tumbled down;
“That abbots, monks, and friars all may be
“True English subjects, and as Britons free.
“We wish the trident from Britannia's hand,
“We wish to place her on some rocky strand;
“Take sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight,
“With blood of martyrs make her blot the date;
“And as with mournful steps she wanders slow,
“Drown her deep wailings with ‘Erin go Bragh!’
“And when in deepest anguish she appears,
“Throw her a nun's rich veil to wipe her tears.”
The lion shook his mane—a rocket flew;
Each hill and dale the flaming signal knew.
Woolwich awoke, its latent voice to try;
Thames trembled with the dread artillery.
The five large cannons in the centre placed,
With Oriental hieroglyphics graced,
320

Spoke all at once—the deep and sullen roar
Awoke the heaviest metal at the Nore:
The ships on Medway, and old muddy Thames,
Turned into rage, and bellowed forth in flames.
The guns on every batt'ry of the land,
Enwrapp'd in smoke, vowed England's Church should stand:
From hill to hill the thundering echoes ran,
Till Ebor heard, and every Highland clan,
The Tower's old guns spoke last—the massive walls
Felt the fierce shock—though destitute of balls.
Then old John Bull, awaking, rises slow:
“Why all this thunder? I could wish to know.”
A British patriot answer'd with a sigh,
“Rome o'er our nation's gained the victory;
“The Pope and all the Cardinals can boast,
“Their feet again have touch'd Britannia's coast.”
“Never,” said John, “while this strong arm of mine
“Can carve a sirloin, or my lips taste wine.”
Then from his eyes burst forth the manly tear,
Sprung from the heart, which showed that grief was there.
He oft had heard, at distance, of the storm,
But now he views it in its darkest form,
Borne on the winds, and in religion wrapp'd;
Design its lightnings; every mountain capp'd
321

With clouds of darkness, such as once o'erspread
The hearts of cardinals, when martyrs bled.
He saw unchanging Eldon leave his place;
The people mourned; and grief on every face
Of noblest subjects, plainly could be seen;
And sorrow reigned where loyalty had been.
Let eloquence, supporter of each cause,
Lose all its powers, and make a solemn pause;
Forget all figures of three thousand years,
And every Churchman's heart dissolve to tears,
Yet unto Eldon silent honour give,
Whose honesty and truth shall ever live.
Let monuments of praise to Eldon rise,
Whose truth on earth shall glitter in the skies.
In every true, unchanging, loyal breast,
His bright, unshaken virtue long shall rest.
Like the strong watch-tower, when the tempests rage,
He firmly stood—the beacon of the age!
When seas of eloquence to storms are wrought,
Raging in all the sophistry of thought;
When princes, dukes, and heroes, changed as wind,
Firm as a rock was Eldon's patriot mind:
The Liturgy—the Church—the Word of God—
The sure foundation where Lord Eldon stood.
Nor does he stand alone—for millions yet
Retain what memory cannot well forget.
322

Firm is their hope; though clouds may now obscure
Old England's glory—yet she rests secure,
While patriots like Sadler brave the storm,
With fury tossed in every varied form.
He scorns the varying scribblers of his day,
Unmindful what the editors can say.
Secure in rising merit, all their scorn
Fades like the mist that hides the light of morn;
The more their envy, higher he ascends,
His mind unmoved, the glory of his friends.
Oh for a thousand more in Stephen's hall,
Like him to listen when the people call:
Old England would not long in dust be laid,
Press'd to the earth, and perishing for trade.
No! all would join with mind, with heart, with hand,
To send prosperity through all the land.
Then would the glory of old England be
Again restored to its own dignity,
And sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight
Would burst again with its own glorious light.
With patriot spirit, Churchmen never fear,
Unmoved, unchanged, let bishops persevere.
Secure for ages have their churches stood,
Their doctrines pure, and ratified with blood.
There sleep our fathers, there the heroes sleep,
And shall we not the Church in safety keep?
Ye deists, or ye atheists, tell me where
Does honesty or sterling worth appear,
323

If not in those who at the church attend,
Whose prayers all other prayers on earth transcend.
Take every volume, every book away,
The flow'ry verses lasting scarce a day,
Or bring all books creation could contain,
With all the records of the martyrs slain—
Mahomet's Alkoran—or creeds of popes—
Can these support the fearful Christian's hopes?
All fail—ye know it—Latin prayers when read,
Not understood, nor reach the heart, nor head.
Take every ship that ever fought in war—
Take England's honours—garter—crown—and star—
Take the broad pennants—let them all be furl'd,
And to some dark abyss be quickly hurl'd—
Take all—then ask what made old Albion stand
When war and blood stained every popish land?
Why, nothing ever made us rest secure
But true religion and the Church kept pure.
Take from our favoured land the vital part,
She falls, like Nelson, wounded in the heart.
Oft have we heard the hills, the valleys ring
With England's anthem of “God save the King;”
But now the children have forgot the song,
Or weakly sounds the chorus from each tongue.
Oh! what a change:—and this the total cause,
For England cannot bend to popish laws.
324

The hated deed we know was quickly done,
That darkly clouded England's glorious sun,
The clouds shall yet disperse, the shadows flee,
The Constitution gain the victory!
Shall every lord, shall every earl turn fool?
These noble Britons of the ancient school:
Shall sterling worth, the glory of our land,
Plant a false banner on the sea-beat strand?
No, never! woman with her richest smiles,
Who sometimes kings, and often lords, beguiles,
Shall fail to bring the Vatican's rich crown
To glitter on our great archbishop's throne.
Popes never more, while eagles rise with wings,
Shall have their stirrups held by British kings.
O Ireland! every blessing has been given
That England e'er could grant on this side heaven,
And now thou wouldst with England's goodness play,
Cut the strong cable, and then launch away.
Thy bonds and ties to England thou wouldst break,
Tow thyself off, and leave the nation weak:
That must not be:—thou canst not have thy will;
In every storm our chiefs are Britons still.
Long have they borne thy insults till they tire,
Patience has quenched their thunders and their fire.
When these no more can bear, ye all will fly;
An arch of flame will quiver on the sky.
325

When vengeance rouses from the British shore,
Liffey shall tremble with the dismal roar:
To mountains, rocks, and caves, ye all shall flee,
Wrapp'd in the gloom of your own infamy.
If ever Britons loved the Brunswick line,
If Eldon's honesty did ever shine,
If ever war brought terrors on our shore,
If on the coasts the waves did ever roar,
Now is the time for faithful priests to stand,
The strength—the bulwark—of a sinking land.
O'er that loved monarch let your sighs be heard,
And bless the memory of King George the Third,
Who loved not monarchy, but who could part
With throne and crown, ere he could yield his heart
To break the oath, the seal, that placed the crown
Upon that head, which care and grief bore down.
See old John Bull with all his sons around,
His honest brow with silv'ry honours crowned.
Upon the ceiling is the church portrayed,
Where his dear partner low in dust is laid:
The portrait of the priest he loved, hung there,
His hand contains the Book of Common Prayer;
And on the ceiling all exposed to view,
The scene from Milton's paradise perdu;
326

Where monks' and friars' robes are toss'd on high
“Through the wild limbo of light vanity.”
He thinks of all the struggles that have been;
In various wars, what changes he has seen.
He sighs at the condition of the realm,
Without a chief with pow'r to guide the helm.
Let all the papers, journals of the day,
Use all their eloquence to lead astray
The reading multitude: 'tis all but wind,
And cannot move the honest patriot's mind.
The various sects that wish to have the pow'r,
Whose plans have sprung and perish'd in an hour,
And never take old Oxford's glory down:
The Church has friends in every British town:
The poor—the rich—will join the Church to save,
And guard the relics of a father's grave.
No inquisition ever shall be here;
Nor heretics in prisons drop a tear;
Nor popish darkness ever quench the light
That tells the British subject what is right.
Then cease to murmur—Britons rest secure,
For ages yet shall England's Church endure;
Infallibility she does not boast,
Believing not in relics—saints—nor host,
What these have gained is but the weakest part,
For “Church and State” fill every loyal heart.
327

But is all settled?—do they wish no more?
And is the great, the mighty struggle o'er?
No!—what they've gained, with patience must be tried;
Till then, beware ye grant them aught beside;
For if your boon will not their envy kill,
There is no peace—nor ever! ever will!!

OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD.

To combat error in each varied form,
Which comes o'er England as a sweeping storm,
Engages now the minds, the time, the breath,
Of those that should be comforters in death.
Of all the various volumes in the land—
In every language—by whomever plann'd—
However great or wise the author be—
However penn'd—Great Book! there's none like thee.
There the sublime, with majesty and awe,
Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law;
And there the songs the mighty prophets sung,
The masterpiece of either mind or tongue,
Beyond the reach of any other pen,
As furthest stars are lost to human ken.
328

And are there men in Christian England born,
That laugh the authors of that book to scorn;
Dispute its origin, and vainly say
'Tis preach'd by priests for lucre and for pay?
Reject its history of Adam's fall?
Deny His Godhead who redeem'd us all?
Is Homer like the Bible; or that thing
Call'd Alkoran, and brought on pigeon's wing,
For which Mohammedans may fret and fight,
Groping their way in atheistic night?
The ten commandments you may cast away,
And tell the Christian 'tis in vain to pray;
Then rear the mosque, and Mahomet believe—
Confucius worship, and yourselves deceive;
Adore the stars, or yet the larger lights,
And for the Scriptures read th' “Arabian Nights;”
State—if you dare—that Christ did ne'er ascend
To His high throne—the dying Christian's friend;
In Owen, say—is all our faith and hope,
He is our teacher, patriarch, and pope!
Say that he form'd us, gave us breath and life—
Despises marriage and the name of wife;
Say from the azure he the comets hurl'd—
So great, he nearly can create a world;
Then scoff at priests, and o'er professors boast,
Until pale death demands the trembling ghost.
329

Ah! then's the time the Socialist to try;
Without a Christian's hope, where can he fly?
Your pity for our priests is but your scorn,
The church lands you would take to grow your corn;
Let Canterbury's wealth to you be giv'n,
The Owenites might try their fancied heav'n.
Could Durham's riches, or old Ebor's fee,
Be giv'n to Chartist demagogues and ye;
Still not content, old Chester you would want,
And great Llandaff's estate, to sow and plant.
The sacred edifices you would let fall,
Or make each choir a Scientific Hall,
Ye then would ape the deeds of deist France,
Make mirth in churches—in cathedrals dance;
Then would some sophist leader lift his voice,
And, as he broke the cross, would shout—“Rejoice;”
While ancient statues that have stood for years,
Would almost blush, and marble melt to tears.
But had you all the wealth and power you want—
Were England yours, to sow, to reap, to plant—
In your new system, would no writs be sent?
Must Owenites live free from tax and rent?
Would every debt be cancell'd in one day,
By those wise chiefs who sing, but never pray?
If so, 'twould not be heav'n—the human mind
Would yet be craving, fretful, and unkind;
Then would be contests for the richest town,
Who must be chiefs, and who must wear the crown;
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All social order, and all rule be lost,
And England's greatness into ruin toss'd.
This baseless system never can succeed,
Unless all nations turn to Owen's creed;
For should no troops be kept to guard the strand,
No fleets, how soon the enemy would land;
The foreign foe would ransack hill and vale,
Famine and death would then our ports assail,
England, brave England, would be downwards hurl'd,
And scorn'd would be the mistress of the world.
From days of Adam to the present hour,
Mankind has ever been averse to pow'r;
The wise, the prudent, ever envied were,
For demagogues in every age appear.
Long centuries since, the golden calf was made,
And Moses' priesthood might be called a trade:
Not pleas'd with Joshua in everything,
They slighted judges, and desir'd a king;
A king was granted, but he reign'd not long
Ere king and all his government was wrong.
From man's beginning to the present hour,
Has human nature always envied pow'r;
In every nation of this little world,
What kings, what queens, have to the dust been hurl'd,
Till reason teaches, and great learning's shown,
The serpent nestles nearly in the crown;
And should the Moral World be fairly tried,
So long as mortal bosoms harbour pride,
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Thousands to mar the plan would there conspire,
And in this Moral World would each aspire;
To mount ambition's ladder men would try;
The top gain'd, others at the bottom lie.
So 'tis with all of every creed and state,
For wealth and honour, hundreds rush to fate;
But those that take a premium on heav'n,
Which on this earth was never, never giv'n,
To purchase land, to lay it out in farms,
To make new nature, with ten thousand charms,
To lead their dupes into the silken snares,
Gain fifty pounds; to join the common shares
Is beauteous, when in imagination seen,
But see the chasm that years must roll between.
Vain as the Southern Bubble it will be—
As soon expect a bridge across the sea.
The mind of man, the learned sophists say,
Is like the cotton, which unstain'd to-day,
To-morrow circumstances twist it round,
And in another shape the bulk is found.
Perhaps it runs in each disciple's head,
The spinning of New Lanark, and the thread
Which broke in forming, spun with so much haste,
That its material snapp'd, and went to waste.
But let us see the process further yet,
The warp and woof, the finest we can get,
Is formed in calico; a conscience made,
And dyed, in colours just to suit its trade.
332

If 'tis a lawyer's, it must dark appear;
If for a nun, unspotted, white, and clear;
Or should it deck the Turkish heart or head,
A turban it must form, of white and red.
As unstain'd snow upon the frosty morn,
Glitt'ring with gems, when by a princess worn;
But coarsest waste, its colours dim and grave,
Is that which suits the bosom of the slave.
Thus Socialists the various creeds would make
To suit all states, and every colour take;
Stain it with dyes of every varied hue;
Print it with doctrines, either false or true;
Stretch it from north to south, from east to west,
Then call it conscience—place it in the breast,
Say the human mind is like cotton dyed,
And show that atheist doctrine is their pride;
So spiders weave the net to catch the fly—
Entangled once, they flutter, tire, and die;
When 'tis too late they feel the fatal snare,
And e'en in death to others cry—“Beware!”
Go on, great Brindley, and expose their wiles,
Attack their system, gain eternal smiles;
Join with the phalanx of the Christian band,
To drive this specious doctrine from the land.
Why all their eloquence, their shallow praise?
'Tis but to set the nation in a blaze.
333

Among the aged, first O'Connor tries,
Then Owen makes our youth his sacrifice.
The demagogues have talked till they are hoarse,
And led their dupes to arms and bloody force.
With milder tones, but yet as base and low
As depths of schism and discontent can go,
These say that paradise on earth would be,
Were their New World but spread from sea to sea;
Then palaces would rise on every hand,
The poor be rich, and rulers of the land:
The Gospel ministers, their silks might weave;
The bishops of the state, their mitres leave;
All things in common, then the rich, the brave,
Might stoop to elevate the vagrant slave;
The gen'rous lord, that bounteous gives his store,
Must have his carriage and his halls no more;
The first-born sons must be no longer heirs,
And equal all in such a creed as theirs;
The links of social ties, for ages join'd,
Must be drawn out to suit an Owen's mind;
The marriage rite be called no more divine,
Nor He that chang'd the water into wine.
What dire confusion in the land would be,
Should Owen's doctrine make the married free;
If stronger ties than caprice did not bind
The evil passions of the human mind,
Faults would be found with every virtuous wife,
Her dowry vanish'd in a six months' strife;
334

What innocence would on the wilds be thrown,
That to the Moral World would ne'er be known;
No guard nor guide, no home, no help or stay,
When palling passions cast the wife away.
The thought's prepost'rous, that the good, the fair,
Should not through life an equal burden share;
With every joy be more encircled round,
With every sorrow yet more closely bound,
With every smile of daughter or of son
Consider nuptial life but just begun.
And are there those would marriage set at nought,
And let creation's fairest gems be bought?
The bird of paradise may be encag'd,
But should the lark the keeper's mind engage,
The beauteous bird, well fed and blessed to-day,
To-morrow's sold, or left to birds of prey:
So would it be with woman good and fair;
Her fortune spent, then lost her partner's care;
Hopeless, in penury, the wife be left,
Of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry stay, bereft;
Then sorrow rests upon the mother's cheeks,
While the base Owenite a richer seeks.
No legal tie, and all the chain is broke,
The marriage rite is priestism, or a joke.
But is our being to this world confin'd?
Then farewell all the wisest of mankind,
335

All men are equal, both the wise, the good,
And Hindoo priests, with deities of wood;
The great apostles, and the prophets slain,
Had equal hope with Volney or Tom Paine.
Man's a machine, and as a puppet mov'd,
Helvetius, Godwin, Owen, say 'tis prov'd.
If some may ask, why all this great parade?
'Twould seem to say that Christians are afraid;
Else, why should champions of the greatest power
Combat the doctrines fleeting as an hour;
But recollect, the mosquito can bite,
And adders sting, though little is their might;
A fly, the noblest steed can much annoy;
The asp, with death can blast a parent's joy;
And should their doctrine now corrupt the young,
The deadly poison lurks beneath the tongue.
And must our Bible blaze at their command?
Will kings let fall their sceptres from their hand?
Will masters their authority forego,
And let their servants teach them what to do?
Buchanan of his eloquence may boast,
As second leader of the impious host,
That would the Sacred Scriptures supersede,
And pour contempt on every Christian's creed;
Dash down the font, and say that baptism's vain;
Make marriage void—then deluge hill and plain
With doctrines base as infidels can bring,
To ruin virgins, or dethrone a king.
336

Let Christian ministers of every creed
Conjointly rise, and then will they succeed;
But, when divided, vain is all their power,
The fold is weak, and sophists can devour.
Let party spirit now be laid aside,
Unite in one, without sectarian pride.
O England! where are all thy mighty fled?
Where are thy patriarchs—thy illustrious dead:
Thy Latimers and Cranmers, where are they?
Such noble minds are surely passed away,
Who in the flames firm and exulting stood,
And seal'd the Scriptures with a martyr's blood!
Where is the Socialist so bold, so brave,
That for his creed would triumph o'er the grave?
If Owen be your guide, with him go on
Till life's last quiv'ring, trembling taper's done.
Then ask his aid, when struggling hard for breath,
What consolation he can give in death;
Laugh then at ministers, and wish to stay—
That is the time when mortals learn to pray.
When eloquent and just, great, awful Death
Comes as Heaven's sheriff to demand our breath;
He then persuades, whom none could yet advise;
Serves all alike, the foolish and the wise.
The honour'd great, for whom the flatterers shout,
Thou hast despised, and from the world shut out;
Thou draw'st together all the pomp, the pride,
Cruelty, ambition, and all else beside;
337

The poor, the rich, the feeble, and the strong;
The sons of sorrow, and the sons of song;
Lay'st them in dust, and shroud'st them with thy pall,
And two short words, “Hic jacet,” cover all.
But without Christ, where would the soul be cast?
How bear the power of Heav'n's o'erwhelming blast?
For conscience is the fuel of the fires
And bears the vengeance, when the dust expires.
At such a scene—when every hope is lost,
And the eternal part to ruin tost—
Could yon bright sun to double darkness turn—
The ocean, in a robe of sackcloth mourn—
Were nature all to howl, lament, and sigh,
And blackness shroud the brilliant orbs on high—
She could not heave a sigh, too vast, too deep,
O'er one that's lost, and must for ever weep.
 

Prideaux's Life of Mahomet.

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER, ESQ.,

SURGEON, BINGLEY.

How bootless are our tears, though ev'ry drop
Springs from the fountain of a sorrowing heart!
No sorrow death's relentless hand can stop,
Or, for a moment, turn aside his dart.
338

Affection's ties, without remorse, he breaks:
Lo! 'neath his feet, our friend, dear Cooper, lies!
He moves not, when a tender sister speaks,
Nor sees a father's hopeless agonies.
Death! thou hast slain the noblest of thy foes—
One who oft rescued victims mark'd by thee—
One who could sympathise in others' woes,
And forms of beauty from thy grasp set free.
Friend of our soul! in him we could confide
In weal or woe—but now our friend is gone!
We ask by whom his place can be supplied;
And hopeless sorrow, weeping, answers—none!
Nor midnight hour, nor wildest winds of heaven;
Nor pelting showers of rain, or snow, or hail;
Nor perilous paths through forests, tempest-riven;
Nor raging hurricanes could aught avail
His visits to the afflicted to restrain:
Through these he rode, regardless of his health,
The blessed harbinger of ease to pain,
Alike to homes of poverty or wealth.
Hundreds, on sickbeds, oft have yearn'd to hear
His welcome step, and bless'd him when he came!
Hope dawn'd when their Samaritan stood near,
With soothing balsams for the suffering frame.
339

But 'tis the last, the last sad solemn day,
When by his mourning friends, his dear remains
To their last home, are slowly borne away,
And the deep death-knoll peals in dirge-like strains.
Alas! he who has oft renew'd the springs
Of life in bosoms sickness had oppress'd,
The comforter, with healing on his wings—
Has pass'd from earth to his eternal rest.
But he has left a blessed name,
That long shall live in many a grateful heart:
His good deeds are his monumental fame,
Which will survive all boasted works of art.
We feel, what words in full can ne'er explain,
A weight of woe at loss of one so lov'd;
But hope our loss is his eternal gain,
In the bright land to which he is remov'd.
The grave receives his dust, which there shall lie,
Till in the clouds appear the great white throne;
And the last trumpet pealing from the sky,
Bid “mortal immortality put on.”
Oh! shall no meet memento of our love
Mark the dear spot where his remains repose?
Yes, we will plant his honour'd dust above,
The early snow-drop, and the fragrant rose;
340

And there, when to God's house we come to pray,
On holy Sabbaths, in the circling years,
We will at early morn our visits pay,
And bathe the flowers with true affection's tears.

ON A YOUNG LADY, DROWNED IN THE STRID.

The lovely group adorn'd with ev'ry grace,
With health and pleasure beaming in each face,
Upon the river's brink in rapture stood,
And saw their charms reflected in the flood,
With trees of ev'ry size and varied hue,
And grey rocks blent with heaven's azure blue:
Whilst mellow blackbirds and the tuneful thrush
Sang dulcet strains on ev'ry blossom'd bush;
There happy hearts throbb'd fast with mirth and glee,
Enjoy'd the scene and Nature's harmony.
But hark! what piercing, what terrific cries;
Shriek answers shriek, affrighted echo flies,
Tells every rock, and all the streams that flow
From all the hills and through the vale below,
“Eliza's lost in Strid's dark rocky deeps,”
The mountains mourn, and every valley weeps.
341

Despairing, to the Strid the virgins go,
And every bird chants plaintive notes of woe;
Courageous Dean true heroism display'd,
And struggled hard to save the drowning maid,
Plung'd headlong 'neath the rocks, and div'd away
To rob the roaring torrent of its prey;
He caught her strings with mingled hope and fear,
They quickly broke—he saw her disappear—
Again urg'd on the sinking maid to find,
He deeper plung'd and left all light behind,
Explor'd the basin to its deepest bed,
The thund'ring waters rolling o'er his head,
He search'd the eddying gulf in vain to find
The lovely maid, till faint and almost blind,
At last exhausted he could bear no more,
Nor scarce had strength to reach the rocky shore;
Grasp'd by cold death upon his watery bed,
Insensible to pain, Eliza's life had fled.
Hoarse roar the surges o'er the lady's grave,
The foam glides swiftly on the circling wave,
A thousand bubbles burst amidst the strife,
As floating emblems of man's fleeting life;
In richest colours these a moment play,
Then mingling with the current, pass away;
How like the world! when greatest joys appear,
Death, or deep anguish, oft are lurking near.
342

Ye angry surges and ye foaming deeps,
Where watchful death his awful station keeps;
How could ye dance, and sport with form so fair;
Exult o'er beauty sinking in despair,
Take her from friends without a last adieu,
And there expose her lifeless form to view?
And did they weep? Ah no! their cheeks were dry,
Grief froze the tears before they reach'd the eye;
The modest blushes from each face depart;
And, join'd with anguish, centre in the heart.
Insatiate deep! who like the stormy main
No pity know'st for youth and beauty slain;
Clad in white foam with death thou could'st rejoice,
Laughing at sorrow with thy hideous voice,
Dancing to thine own music, deep and hoarse,
Thy whirlpools sporting with the lifeless corpse:
 

The strings of her bonnet which broke and she sank.

When Romili fell, and in thy current slept,
His mother mute with woe, all Craven wept;
Tears from the willows dropt into the flood,
And weeping nymphs near thy dark palace stood.
'Twas thus when lov'd, when fair Eliza fell,
The valley echoed with the alarming bell,
The vale of Bolton all suffus'd with tears,
In sable robe and mourning weeds appears;
In solemn strains each feather'd warbler sings,
343

The soaring skylark pensive drops his wings;
The varied trees, the shrubs of Wharfdale weep;
The high cascades with sorrow murmur deep,
Each pensive muse mourns o'er Eliza's tomb,
And Strid's dark shades are wrapt in deeper gloom:
The ravens croak, and on the guilty stream
Each shadowing light now sheds a lurid gleam.
The trembling peasant thinks he sees her shade,
Expecting every step to meet the maid;
But, vain his fears; her soul is far away,
And her fair form now rests in kindred clay.
 

The boy of Egremont, son of Cecelia de Romille, sole heir and last of the family.

THE POET'S SICKBED.

How little looks the world to him in pain,
Whose whole estate is sorrow's darkest train,
With mind in ruins and his soul o'erthrown,
When friends retire as though they were not known.
How deep the anguish when his genius wastes,
As early, trembling, to the grave he hastes;
With quiv'ring pulse—an appetite destroy'd—
All pleasure fled which once he most enjoy'd.
344

The stars no pleasure give, no orb on high
Inspires his soul with highest ecstasy;
The vast unfathom'd sea he views no more,
The heavens' beauty in his bosom's o'er.
With landscapes, rocks, and hills, he so much lov'd,
His trembling anxious bosom is not mov'd;
His unsubstantial friends, who once were sweet,
The lonely bard now tread beneath their feet.

THE BIBLE.

Of all the various volumes in the land—
In ev'ry language—by whomever plann'd—
However great or wise the author be—
However penn'd—Great Book! there's none like thee.
There the sublime, with majesty and awe,
Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law;
And there the songs the mighty prophets sung,
The masterpieces of both mind and tongue,
Transcend the reach of any other pen,
As farthest stars are lost to human ken.
345

A PRAYER.

O Thou, whose name, with trembling, angels use—
A name no human language can express!
Be Thou my light, my glory, and my muse,
And stoop the meanest worm on earth to bless.
Thron'd in the heaven of heavens, eternal Sire!
I less than nothing in Thy sight appear;
Thine is this spark of immaterial fire,
That warms my breast, and acts the umpire there.
To Thee, great Source of being and of light,
May I this heart in adoration raise!
Bow down before Thy majesty and might,
And with deep rev'rence give Thee worthy praise!
Where I have err'd, as I too oft have done,
May deep repentance for my errors flow!
While with sincerity I mourn alone,
Far from the crowd of ostentatious show.
In yon vast region of unbounded space,
Thine arm, unseen, sustains each flaming ball;
And shall proud mortals circumscribe Thy grace,
As insufficient for the wants of all?
346

What is this earth, with all it doth contain,
Its lofty mountains and unfathom'd sea?—
The sea a drop, the earth itself a grain,
Weigh'd in the balance with immensity.
Such is Thy mercy's sea, without a shore,
That ev'ry soul in ev'ry human breast
Needs but to ask (Thou dost require no more),
To give that mercy, and to make it bless'd.
Mine be that boon when life's short day shall end,
And to some unknown world my soul shall soar!
Be Thou my God, my Father, and my Friend,—
Oh grant me this, and I can ask no more!

TO THE CRITICS.

Sat down by my wee rusted lyre,
And musing which way to get through,
Ye quenchers of poets' best fire,
How oft have I trembled at you!
347

The vulture may seize the young lamb,
The raven may torture the dove,
And critics may tell what I am,
But oh, let your censures be love!
Ye weighers of man's little wit,
Which comes in a book to your eye,
Like spiders on cobwebs you sit,
To mangle and murder a fly.
Write your praise or dispraise for the great,
And rail on the muse of a lord,
Shoot at those who are laughing at fate,
And strike with your fame-killing sword.
But come to my cottage, and view
What feathers I have for my wings;
And then you will own there are few
So lowly durst strike at the strings.
I gaze on my children asleep,
Assur'd that their lot is but hard;
Yes, while I write verses I weep
To think their best friend is the bard.
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