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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| ON A YOUNG LADY,
DROWNED IN THE STRID. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
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.
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.
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
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:
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:
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 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 poetical works of John Nicholson | |