The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Though history has shaded o'er with crimes
The long past period of the feudal times,
Here foreign luxuries were yet unknown,
And all they wished was in the valley grown,—
Their wholesome food was butter, cheese, and milk,
And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk;
The line they grew their own soft hands prepared,
The wool unheeded to the poor was spared;—
But few the poor, unless by age oppressed,
At little rent some acres each possessed.
When from the fields the golden sheaves were led,
The lovely fair could glean their winter's bread;
The husbandman could to his cottage bear
The withered boughs, his frugal hearth to cheer,
Or oft at eve his willow basket, stored
With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord;
Or did he want for Lent a proper dish,
Aire's silv'ry streams produced unnumbered fish;
Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore,
And plum-trees bended with the sable store;—
The ills which crowded population brings,
Had never broke, sweet rural bliss, thy wings!
Then on the green the nymphs and swains would dance,
Or, in a circle, tell some old romance;
And all the group would seriously incline
To hear of Saracens and Palestine,—
Of knights in armour of each various hue,
Of ladies left, some false, and others true.
Their pure descriptions showed how warriors bled,
How virgins wept to hear of heroes dead—
The furious steeds swift rushing to the war,
The turbann'd Turks, the bloody scimitar,—
The cross-marked banners on the lofty height,
The impious struck with terror at the sight!
Then told what spectres grim were seen to glide
Along this dale, before its heroes died,
Then marked their fall within the holy vale,
Described them, lifeless, in their coats of mail,—
Told how some lady, frantic with despair,
Shriek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire,
When tidings reach'd her from the Holy Land,
That her lov'd lord lay deep in Jordan's sand—
And how her shrieks flew echoing through the wood,
While her rich jewels glittered in the flood!
Thus happy they their summer's evening spent,
Parted in peace, and homeward singing went;
Their voices, soft as th' Æolian strings,
Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's wings.
Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone,
And who can help but sigh that they are gone?
The long past period of the feudal times,
Here foreign luxuries were yet unknown,
And all they wished was in the valley grown,—
20
And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk;
The line they grew their own soft hands prepared,
The wool unheeded to the poor was spared;—
But few the poor, unless by age oppressed,
At little rent some acres each possessed.
When from the fields the golden sheaves were led,
The lovely fair could glean their winter's bread;
The husbandman could to his cottage bear
The withered boughs, his frugal hearth to cheer,
Or oft at eve his willow basket, stored
With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord;
Or did he want for Lent a proper dish,
Aire's silv'ry streams produced unnumbered fish;
Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore,
And plum-trees bended with the sable store;—
The ills which crowded population brings,
Had never broke, sweet rural bliss, thy wings!
Then on the green the nymphs and swains would dance,
Or, in a circle, tell some old romance;
And all the group would seriously incline
To hear of Saracens and Palestine,—
Of knights in armour of each various hue,
Of ladies left, some false, and others true.
Their pure descriptions showed how warriors bled,
How virgins wept to hear of heroes dead—
21
The turbann'd Turks, the bloody scimitar,—
The cross-marked banners on the lofty height,
The impious struck with terror at the sight!
Then told what spectres grim were seen to glide
Along this dale, before its heroes died,
Then marked their fall within the holy vale,
Described them, lifeless, in their coats of mail,—
Told how some lady, frantic with despair,
Shriek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire,
When tidings reach'd her from the Holy Land,
That her lov'd lord lay deep in Jordan's sand—
And how her shrieks flew echoing through the wood,
While her rich jewels glittered in the flood!
Thus happy they their summer's evening spent,
Parted in peace, and homeward singing went;
Their voices, soft as th' Æolian strings,
Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's wings.
Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone,
And who can help but sigh that they are gone?
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |