University of Virginia Library

THE LYRE OF EBOR.

Let Northern Poets sing of Highland glens,
Their rocky caverns, and their sombre dens;
The heath-clad mountains, and their high cascades,
Their gurgling streams, and moonlight fairy shades;
Their rugged tow'ring rocks, grown grey with years,
On whose rough front the bilberry bloom appears;
Their ancient oaks, by Nature tumbled down,
O'er whose huge trunks the mossy robe is thrown;
And scenes which triumph o'er description's power—
All these are seen near Barden's ancient tower,
Where peaceful, dwelt, some centuries ago,
Those that durst meet in arms the Border foe.
Or climb the hills, in ancient hawking skilled,
And bear the bow with brazen quivers filled,
Then send the arrow from the powerful string,
That stopped the fleeting salmon's finny wing;
Or, did the eagle soar above his head,
A shaft flies swift—the soaring eagle's dead.
Oft, when at eve, he wandered near the rocks,
And on their shelves beheld the wily fox,
Swift flew the arrow from the well-strung bow,
And brought his victim to the vale below.
In this romantic, wild, and hidden place,
The sons of Craven oft enjoyed the chase;
When Cliffords for a time hung by their arms,
And lived secure amidst their valley's charms.
The deer and fox they seldom then pursued,
But monsters, that oft stained their tusks with blood,
To which the traveller feared to fall a prey,
And mothers wept for children borne away.
A crimson robe o'er Sol's bright orb was spread,
Which tinged the hills, and every mountain's head,
When near the rural stables, formed of wood,
With horses fleet, the humble vassals stood;
Then the old horn, with long-forgotten sound,
Sent forth its notes to all the woods around;
The woods, as though they each possessed a horn,
Gave softer tones, t' improve the jocund morn.
The ancient Cliffords, with the bow and spear,
In hunting dress of bristled hides appear;
Their vassals send to range the forest o'er,
And find the cavern of the furious boar.
Primo gave mouth, as down the hills they went,
Where the rough monster late had left his scent:
As bees, when swarming, near their queen are found,
So sung around the best, each favourite hound.
The various deep-mouthed notes, distinct and strong,
Flew to the woods, as echo flies along;
The deer, affrighted, climbed the park's high hill,
Ranged for the worst, in silence all stood still.
The boar, enraged, the loosened earth upheaves,
Shows his huge fangs, his den reluctant leaves;
Ten years of rapine had improved his strength—
His tusks and bristles each a foot in length.
Then were the sons of ancient Barden near,
And those of Buckden, who the chase could cheer.
Bolton's strong youths, and those of Hazelwood,
In rustic pride upon the mountains stood;
And on their steeds old Skipton's sons came o'er
The rocky hills, to hunt this mighty boar.
Then were no dandies, delicately laced,
With all the beauty of a Frenchman graced;
But each was such as might have met in war
Foes on the rock, the mountain, or the scar,
And such as for their country had been tried,
With those who for their constitution died;
Such as had fought, but none could make them yield,
When front to front they met on Flodden field,
Where many left their nearest kindred slain,
But ne'er refused to meet their foes again.
The sand young Clifford held was half run down,
When for the chase the cheerful horn was blown;
Then was the best of Craven hunts begun,
The lords e'er saw, or hounds could ever run.
Down bent the bushes as he ran along,
While every hound joined in the enlivening song,
Old Barden's oaks so low their branches spread,
That none could ride, but each his hunter led.
Ofttimes the monster stopped, as in disdain,
Then heard the shouts, and hastened on again;
Till from the woody shades he burst away,
And with him burst the glories of the day!
Some sunk in bogs, and nearly buried, stood,
While others, shouting, issued from the wood;
Beheld the hounds spread on their scented way,
While Posforth Gill just kept them from their prey.
Clifford rode first, and swift the chase he led,
While the black heath was dimpled as he fled;
Next Skipton's sons, and those of Barden Fell,
Followed in quick succession through the dell:
Anon, the youths of Bolton led the way,
Then Eastby hunters rode the first that day;
While Rilstone riders showed themselves to be
Far better horsemen than the moderns see.
The footmen stopped behind, half filled with fears
That his rough hide was proof against their spears;
Then high o'er Hober's hill, whose sable crest
Oft with the furious monster had been prest,
The cheerful tenants of the woody vale
Shouted sometimes, then told a hunting tale;
Till, swelling on the breeze, they hear the sounds
Of hunters' shouts, and cry of eager hounds.
The answering shouts from its high top arise,
And hats and caps are cast toward the skies!
Ofttimes the boar would strive to seek repose,
Then front to front would meet his coming foes;
And, as he found his every effort vain,
He hastened, panting, further up the plain.
At length he found a chasm, where oft he'd lain,
Half filled with bones of victims he had slain.
The hunters came, and raised their shining spears—
His blazing eye-balls showed he knew no fears.
The fiercest British bull-dogs stood around,
At last a mastiff his deep cavern found;
Three bull-dogs followed, two of which were slain,
Before they brought him to the light again.
A rash young hunter would have thrown his spear,
But Clifford raised his arm, and cried, “Forbear!
The sun has reached not the meridian sky,
Let there be nobler sport before he die.”
The streams of Wharf roared not in rapid flood,
But sung in semichorus through the wood.
The hunters saw him rise the western hill,
Then those were tried who had true horsemen's skill.
Clifford stopped not at Wharf to ask how deep,
When each had swiftly galloped down the steep,
But crossed the ford, and on the sporting day,
His followers whitened Wharf's broad streams with spray.
The waters curled around each horse's mane,
While the beat foam fell on their heads like rain;
But soon all forded safe, and every care
Was thrown like feathers to the empty air.
The calling of the Muse has grown so stale,
And in the foremost lines of every tale,
Such invocations by each scribbler's penned,
That she'll no more to poets' prayers attend;
Else for her aid would I sincerely pray,
T' inspire me while I sing that glorious day,
When swift to Simon Seat's dark rocky height,
The bristly monster took his rapid flight;
Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near,
As oft he turned, and stopped their speed with fear.
Since Wharf's clear stream within the Strid was bound,
The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a sound;
Nor all the hunting of the fox and deer
Could equal this in true heroic cheer.
The hills and vales in echoing concert sung,
Till near the rocks the hunters' bows were strung;
Then was the glory of the hunting crowned,
And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hound.
All on an acre of the rocky hill,
Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill.
Low on the earth the savage monster sate,
And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate;
Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide,
But, weary, thrice fell panting at his side.
Though better steeds for hunting never met,
The brightest bays were changed to brown with sweat;
And such had been the chase, the stoutest there
Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear.
But brave young Clapham, of old Beamsley Hall,
Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall.
While low was laid the tyrant of the wood,
Each hound seemed greedy to devour his blood:
But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain,
And dared his various foes to approach again;
Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath,
Before the mighty monster fell in death.
Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead,
Took his bright spear, and pierced him through the head.
In death his bloody jaws were opened wide,
While the red foam was thrown on every side;
The vale of Barden now with shouting rung—
This song the harpers have for ages sung:
Young Clifford, the hunter, who rode on that day,
From Barden's strong portals first hasted away;
His horse was the fleetest that e'er trod the moss,
And the best that the streams of a river could cross:
Whether hounds were pursuing the fox or the boar,
He seldom was left on the wild heathy moor.
Three times to the Strid his brave master he bore,
And thrice on that day the deep gulf he leaped o'er.
Whenever they hunted the boar or the fox,
The hoofs of his hunter would ring on the rocks;
A better in Craven there never was tried,
And none but brave Clapham could come near his side.
The foam from his mouth as the feathers he throws,
Or white as the flakes, when it silently snows;
He is fit for the mountain, the valley, or scars,
And he champs his bright bits when he goes to the wars;
As good as the steed was the rider he bore,
And his equal in Craven shall never be more.
Strike the harp to his praise, and the praise of the fair,
May blessings attend them wherever they are!
If the soft kiss of peace be the lot of the bride,
Or the tear-drop of love, when affection is tried,
When happy at home, or engaged on the field,
May her prayers be all answered, and Heaven his shield!
The monster dead, the valleys rung with praise,
In louder shouts than those of modern days;
Then from this dreaded powerful beast of prey,
With Clifford's sword, the head was cut away:
Then vassal, tenant, shepherd, lord and knight,
To Barden haste to spend the festive night.
Whate'er great Clifford's table could afford,
Was then enjoyed by vassal, knight and lord;
Then o'er old Barden Bridge young Clifford led
His comrades, shouting, with the monster's head.
But clouds obscured the fast declining sun,
To rumble deep the thunder had begun;
The pouring torrents, lightning, hail, and rain,
Hid Whernside's top, and deluged all the plain.
The mountain rocks, clad in their moss array,
Reared their high heads, by time half worn away.
The pond'rous blocks were hurried down the steep,
Hurled o'er the cat'racts to the foaming deep.
Old oaks, which long in Bolton Park had stood,
Forced from their stations, rolled upon the flood;
What once were weak and tinkling crystal rills,
Rolled rumbling, foaming, dashing down the hills,—
Clothed in a brown and muddy robe of spray,
Bearing the rocks, like captives forced away.
The pond'rous bridge, perhaps three centuries old,
Gave way, and on the dashing flood was rolled,
And stones which on the battlements had stood,
Were hurried far down Wharf's deceitful flood:
While every torrent from the heathy brow,
Gushed in grand cat'racts to the floods below.
The Vale of Desolation was a scene
Which for long ages never once had been.
The massive rocks, which had for ages stood,
Were tossed like pebbles in the boiling flood;
The mossy robes torn off they'd borne for years—
And left the valley as it now appears,
Rough, waste, and wild, in every varied form
Marked with the terrors of the thunderstorm.
The river's brink with withered roots is hung,
Roots which had lived perhaps ere Chaucer sung.
Broad in the east the sable cloud was spread,
The lightnings flashed o'er Chevin's lofty head;
While o'er the west an azure robe was cast,
Spangled with stars, which showed the storm was past.
Then mirth began in Barden's ancient hall,
The huntsman gave again the morning call;
Inspired with good old ale his horn he took—
They shouted till the massive pillars shook.
When Clifford brought the boar's terrific head,
With whose huge fangs a thousand deer had bled;
Then, as in mirth the evening passed along,
A Craven warrior sang his favourite song:
The bard was called—to Craven then unknown,
Who oft his fingers o'er the harp had thrown;
Nature to him had such a genius given,
That his wild fancy almost soared to heaven.
The bard appears, and with a modest air
He struck his harp, as merit's self was there;
True native genius beamed in either eye,
And on his lyre hung wildest melody.
He borrowed not his airs, nor learnt the chords,
But both composed, while nature brought the words;
His harp he touched in ancient concert fine,
While soft attention hung for every line—
They hoped to hear some cheerful sportive air,
But wildly thus he sung, as in despair:
But Clifford's noble soul was not opprest,
His father's fire yet glowed within his breast;
He said—“Though long in rust our arms have lain,
Turn point to hilt, they spring out straight again.
Now let the song of Craven knights be sung
As when on Scottish shields their weapons rung.”
Come forth from thy hall, gallant Lister, come forth,
Let thy sons of the Ribble be armed for the north;
Tell Tempest, the Borderer's standard is nigh,
And the downfall of Craven's the Highlanders' cry.
The shade of some bard late has been near our hall,
He has sung to the winds that these turrets shall fall;
But not by the Northerns, for Wharf's crystal flood
Ere we yield, shall be changed to a torrent of blood.
Let Hammerton mount on his high-mettled steed,
And gather the horsemen of Skipton with speed;
Let the Parkers below, in old Bingley's fine vale,
Bring their followers cased in the brightest of mail.
Brave Vavasour, rise from the oak-covered den,
Blow strong thy old horn, and the best of thy men
Will be cased in their armour, and as you march near
Give a shout, and bold Middleton's youths will appear.
Three times we have seen the great cross of our sires
Destroyed as a brand in the plunderers' fires;
But now we have armour, and now we will stand
Till the cold grasp of death keeps the sword in each hand.
Shall the pibrochs of Scotland be heard in our vale?
Shall the sound of her pipers be borne on the gale?
No—each one shall meet them where wild rushes wave,
And, instead of rich plunder, will give them a grave.
We have Eshton, as firm as the rocks where he dwells,
Who has many brave youths on the edge of the fells;
They will sound the war chorus till Hartlington know,
And the red plumes of Craven will wave on his brow.
The white rocks of Malham were never more strong
Than the lines of our knights, when once cheered with a song;
They need but a whisper, they all will awake,
And the rocks they ride o'er with their horses will shake.
Our children, our lasses, more blythe than the morn,
Should we yield, they would surely insult us with scorn;
Our steers and our heifers, our oxen and sheep,
Would join in the mourning, and help them to weep.
Where Simon, the warrior, looked down on the vale,
The flag of green Craven shall wave to the gale;
If once drawn our swords, the sun may go down,
But they shall not return till the day is our own.
By Surrey's order, o'er the mountains came
The gleam of many a beacon's pointed flame.
Then every knight, and every northern squire
Soon knew the cause of each portentous fire.
The blazing pitch on Penighent fell down,
And old grey Pendle bore a fiery crown;
Next Hober blazed, and its once dark brown head
Shone bright with fire, till Wharf's broad vale was red:
While Ingleborough, king o'er all the rest,
Upreared to heaven his mighty burning crest.
Then heralds mounted, and rode swift away—
Through the thick wood the beacons showed the way;
While those they left behind took little rest,
For other thoughts filled every warrior's breast.
“Our arms must be prepared,” brave Clifford cries,
“And now's the time for every knight to rise!”
The silver helms the noble ladies took,
And made them glitter as a crystal brook,
When springing from a mountain rock it runs,
And seems to glitter with a thousand suns;
Then on the whirling stone the swords were laid,
The metal brightened of each tempered blade;
And as they tried each edge with mighty stroke,
Down fell the boughs from many a stubborn oak.
As when the woodman, on the mountain top,
Makes the green honours of the forest drop,
His tempered axe grows brighter every stroke,
So stood each sword, and not a blade e'er broke.
Where Bolton Abbey rears its ancient head,
The field, ere noon, was quickly changed to red;
Brave dauntless Lister brought his hundreds there,
Who well could wield the sword or sharpened spear.
Pudsay and Hammerton, and Heber brought
Strong lusty warriors, who as bravely fought;
While Parker led his followers o'er the moor,
Shouting to see their comrades were before.
Though not adorned with lace of shining gold,
They each could fight as Britons fought of old;
Fearless of death, each bore a dauntless mind,
Which priests had blessed, but learning not refined.
The best old ale the Abbey could afford
Was brought in plenty to the warrior's board;
Wives, daughters, mothers, deep in grief were sunk,
But Craven youths grew cheerful as they drunk;
Told wives and lovers never more to mourn—
All crowned with fame, with Clifford would return.
The word was given, and as they marched along,
Huzzah'd, and left old Bolton with a song:
Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth,
Crossed o'er the Borders, and laid waste the north;
But dauntless Bulmer, with his little band,
Retook their spoils, and drove them from the land.
Eight times his numbers Bulmer met in fight,
And Scots' great Hume just saved himself by flight;
But, as some drops oft fall before the shower,
So this but warning gave of Scotland's power:
Her army, then a hundred thousand strong,
Shaded the mountains as they marched along;
Led by their king, their bosoms were on flame
For England's downfall, plunder, and for fame.
'Twas this great Clifford from Earl Surrey heard,
Then marched to meet them, nor their numbers feared.
The trumpets sound, the cheerful hautboys play,
As o'er the mountains Clifford leads the way;
The tale goes round in mirth, while others sing,
And when they halt, their bed's the purple ling;
And there they slept, though not on softest down,
Yet more at peace than he that wore the crown.
Six days they marched o'er mountains, rivers, rills,
Ere they met Percy on old Branston Hills.
Percy and Howard much rejoiced to see
Clifford lead up his horse and infantry;
Dacres and Stanley welcomed every knight.
Whose loyal men had come so far to fight.
Then Surrey gave to Percy, and the lords,
And those they led, these energetic words:
“Howard and Dacres, Percy, Clifford, Scroop,
In you is placed your country's firmest hope;
Let Yorkshire knights their ancient valour show,
And Durham's sons stand firm, though these be few!
Sons of old Cumbria, your brave valour show,
And, Westmoreland, lay many a Scotsman low!
Clifford! all Craven youths I leave to thee—
Fight like your fathers, yours is victory!”
The eagles from Helvellyn's craggy height,
Spread their broad wings, and hastened to the fight;
And from the rocks which overhung Lowdore
(Where in all forms the bursting cat'racts roar),
Croaked the dark ravens, as they flew away,
To feast at Flodden, on that bloody day.
The pibrochs sound, and every kilted clan
Grasped their broad claymores ere the fight began;
A thousand flashes from their blades arise,
Thick as the stars, when frost has cleared the skies.
In shining mail, and with a steed of fire,
From Barden went the noble-hearted Swire.
With horse and harness rode the sons of Carr,
Stout, brave, and fierce, as ever went to war.
From Langcliffe rode the fiery-hearted Browne,
Whose well-aimed shafts twice forty Scots struck down.
Fearful at first the meeting armies close,
But fear soon fled, and fierce confusion rose.
Brookden and Hammond, and determined Chew,
Through ranks of Scots like fiery meteors flew.
Garforth and Eastburn, Currer, Shaw, and Wood,
Fought till their horses' hoofs were wet with blood.
All those who would describe that bloody day,
Must from a task so mournful turn away.
Describe till death, no living mortal can
Give a true picture of each varied clan.
'Twas such a day as ne'er can be forgot
While live the lines of great Sir Walter Scott.
But I, an humble bard, had Flodden left,
Had not great Clifford many a helmet cleft;
And led a thousand warriors to the field,
Stout sons of Craven, who would never yield.
But Homer has such mighty battles sung,
Virgil and Lucan their grand harps have strung
To sing of Dido and Pharsalia's plain,
That few new thoughts for humbler bards remain.
To greater fancies humbly will I leave
The fight where many bosoms ceased to heave.
'Twas fierce as rage could blow revengeful fire—
'Twas deadly as the grave could e'er desire;
The field so gory, that the birds of prey
A moment stopped, then, sated, flew away.
There many a mother wandered near the field,
For fear the sons of Scotia should yield.
The mourning virgins see the battle's shock,
Their eyes just raised o'er some adjacent rock—
Trembling, when sounds of battle reach their ear,
Lest some dear father should lie slaughtered there.
Not like a battle where the warriors are
Wounded or slain in hostile lands afar,
Stretched bloody, cold, and pale, in deadly sleep,
With none to close their eyes—with none to weep.
Then fled the Scottish chiefs, and all was still,
Save dying groans on Flodden's gory hill.
Frantic among the slain the ladies ran,
To seek the wounded of each varied clan.
“Ochin Iro!” in Highland accents broke,
When youths were found, which never more awoke;
And many a Highland maid, in snowy vest,
Stained it with purple on a bleeding breast,
While banners of the victors waved on high,
And trumpets sounded o'er the victory.
The sons of Craven, anxious, marched away,
To tell at home the glory of the day;
Marton rejoiced, and Langcliffe youths were glad,
But Halton's warriors marched but slow and sad;
Few were their numbers—they had left the best
Cold on the field—Smith, Burley, Shyres, and West.
Garforths had fought till all their horses fell,
But at their side were Tempest, Scott, and Stell,
Or these four brothers had at once been slain,
Nor hunted in the vale of Aire again.
Hundreds of names with care great Clifford kept
Of those who centuries in the dust have slept,
Who fought at Flodden, by their chieftain led,
Nor sheathed their swords till every foe had fled.
Marton sent forth bold Arnold in his mail,
Four noble Tennants fought from Longstrodale;
Hawkswick and Flasby, and old Hellifield,
Sent Listers, who were never known to yield.
Arncliffe and Sutton of the triumph shared,
For these had sons who dangers never feared;
Old Giggleswick, beneath her craggy scar,
Had fifty sons, who bravely fought in war.
Stackhouse and Preston, with the bow and bill,
Fought, with the Brayshaws, on old Flodden hill;
The Summerscales, from Settle, cut their way
Through files of Scots on that eventful day;
And Keighley's warriors, led by Smith and Hall,
Unparted fought, and made the Northerns fall.
When these brave youths with Clifford marched away
O'er misty mountains, till the closing day,
They slept near fires of rushes, turf, and peat,
One side quite cold, the other scorched with heat;
Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork,
To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork:
And who would scorn to have the supper there,
With triumph, health, an appetite, and beer?
When rose the sun, and crimson was the morn,
While light and shade the western hills adorn,
The clouds of mist slow through the valleys rolled,
Tinged with the morning, like a sea of gold.
As in the east the beams of light advance,
Like burnished gold shines every polished lance;
All faces then a joyful aspect wear,
When native hills and native vales appear.
The heralds soon arrived at Barden tower,
And told the downfall of proud Scotland's power;
The virgins dance, the aged butler sings,
And Wharf's fine vale with shouts of triumph rings.
All Craven knows, as swift as sounds can fly—
Shout answers shout, that there's a victory!
Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough,
The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe;
The churn is stopped, while listening stands the maid—
The aged ditcher rests upon his spade;
While jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play,
Shout o'er the fields—to Barden haste away;
The frugal dame, who spins, some wealth to save,
Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave.
Then on the hill which overhangs the vale,
First glitters Clifford's bright and shining mail;
While on each head the plumes of Craven dance,
A thousand flashes varying from each lance.
The victors' shout is answered in the woods,
And echo bears the triumph down the floods;
Sweetly the mellow bells of Bolton rung,
Woods, hills, and dales, in joyful concert sung.
Panting, the nymphs and swains the hill ascend,
To meet a lover, brother, or a friend,
And many an armed head is turned aside
In loving glance to his intended bride.
Among the number, beautiful and fair,
Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire;
The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast,
And went to see her youth among the rest.
The Skipton troop rode past—he was not there,
The hardy sons of Wharfdale next appear;
She views each helmet, and is sore afraid,
But can't discern her lover's fine cockade,
Formed of the ribands which once decked her head,
But stained at Flodden, where her warrior bled.
She asked his fate, while heaved her snowy breast—
Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed:
“Anna, the worst prepare thyself to hear,
Nor ever hope to see thy Henry near.
We left him bleeding, and too near his heart
Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart;
Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes,
Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise.
Thus was he left upon the Northern hill,
His features pale—his pulse, his heart, were still.”
Poets may sing of woe, and painters try
To place the tear of sorrow on the eye;
Poets and orators, and painters too,
Would fail, though greatest—hers was Nature's woe;
Such as we feel when all on earth is done,
Our hopes all blasted, and all pleasures gone.
Poor Anna! yet methinks I see her stand,
The ring he bought her shining in her hand,
And his last letter blotted o'er with tears,
While on her cheeks the hectic flush appears:
But 'twas not long the virgin had to mourn,
Her soul soon met him over death's cold bourne;
Soon did she fade, and never smiled again,
But sung these verses over Henry slain:
Thus did she mourn and wander in the vale,
Till echo learnt her melancholy tale;
But few her days that mournfully she sung,
Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung.
The Hall of Barden now shines rich in state,
Her warriors march in triumph through her gate;
The ancient bard upon the rampart stands,
The willing strings obey their master's hands;
With eyes of rapture, loud their deeds he sings,
As if his soul was living in the strings.
All joined the chorus, till the neighbouring wood
Echoed their song to Wharf's fine rolling flood.
The song was ended—and brave Clifford sprung
From his black charger, and his armour rung;
The arms of Tempest answered to the sound,
And spears and scabbards clashed upon the ground.
Each brave foot-soldier then his arms uprears,
Till in the court they form a pile of spears.
The warriors enter, each a welcome guest—
The brave are ever worthy of a feast;
The strength of England, beef in Craven fed,
The spacious horns, with foam upon each head;
Ale such as slew grief, anguish, care, and woe—
Such as they brewed three hundred years ago.
Bereft of sons, the mothers came to mourn,
For many went who never could return;
The sorrowing fathers left the scene of mirth,
To seek the dead, ere they were lain in earth.
The harper's lyre, the victor's patriot song,
The widow's grief more poignant made and strong;
Music brought sorrow—triumph brought a tear—
Despair still whispering, “Oh! my son's not here!”
And, pale the widow stood, with grief opprest,
The child, unconscious, smiling at her breast.
Such are the mournful scenes the warriors see,
Though triumph crowns their arms with victory;
Such feasts in days gone by have often been,
With bursts of joy, and mournful thoughts between—
Joy for the conquest, then the solemn strain
Swelled on the lyre, as dirges o'er the slain.
What names extinct, and families no more,
Since Craven youths the vales and hills marched o'er!
Some names, who then to nothing could aspire,
Are titled now with baron, knight, or squire;
While those who noblest courage there displayed,
Are hid in Time's impenetrable shade—
Those who from Barden cheerful marched away,
To reach their homes the next approaching day,
When, through respect, the ladies carried far,
For those they loved, the weapons used in war.
One youth a quiver takes, and proudly walks,
While of the battle his brave brother talks;
Another in a helmet takes delight,
And sore regrets he was not at the fight.
Thus to their hamlet each one hastes away,
To tell their kindred of the bloody day;
Mothers, expectant, saw their sons return,
Wept tears of joy, and there forgot to mourn.
Peace and soft rural charms the warriors greet,
And Scotland never more durst Craven meet.
When Sabbath comes, to Bolton each repairs,
And praise is followed by the fervent prayers;
Warrior and yeoman, peasant, join the throng,
And help to make the Jubilate strong;
And hundreds went on Clifford's form to gaze,
Who for the triumph gave his God the praise.
O Bolton, what a change! but still thou art
Noble in ruin, great in every part!
When we behold thee, signs of grandeur, gone,
Live on thy walls, and shine on every stone;
Thy shades are lovely through each varied day,
Thy rocks, thy woods, thy streams, where beauties play;
Lovely, when, rosy in the east, the sun
Shows the high hills the cheerful day's begun.
Throughout the day, in all the hours which shine,
Peace, beauty, and rich scenery are thine;
But, when the evening shades, like curtains, are
Thrown o'er the wheels of day's resplendent car;
When the broad moon, as though she rose to see
The hoary columns of antiquity;
Then, solemn grandeur greets the changing queen,
And Wharf's reflection helps to light the scene.
At every well-selected point of view,
Fresh scenes appear, as beautiful as new;
There the broad river shining with the sun,
And there the streams in eddying circles run:
Deep roars the Strid in snow-white robe of spray,
At rest below the wearied waters stay.
Thus have I seen the rock-verged deep at rest,
The foam, like marble, varying on its breast;
The ivy bower, secure from summer's heat,
For contemplation, what a blest retreat!
Where the grey ruin, and each varied hill,
Exceed in beauty fine descriptive skill.
There may the rural poet sit and write,
The learned astronomer survey the night;
The love-sick lover here may sit and dream,
Lulled to his slumber by the murmuring stream:
But streams and woods, and waterfalls and flowers,
Lovers' retreats, rich lawns, and shady bowers,
Have all been sung in lovers' verse so fine,
No room is left to hold another line.
Muse of the sylvan shades, if yet thou dwell
Amid those scenes which make my bosom swell,
Descend, and to my pensive mind impart
Such thoughts as thrill the breast and warm the heart;
To sweetest measure tune my humble lyre,
Since Bolton's groves demand the purest fire!
The brave, the good, the noble warrior, now
Sleeps with his fathers in the tomb below;
The noble Clifford now no more can be
True to his king in honest loyalty;
The earl has left his helmet, sword, and shield,
And rides no more, undaunted, to the field,
To combat treason in its darkest form,
And meet, unmoved, the Northerns' fiercest storm.
Peace to the dust of those who bravely fight
In honour's cause, and for their country's right;
In praise of such the bard should ever sing,
Whose duty tells them to defend their king;
And worthy is the baron, knight, or lord,
Who in his country's cause unsheathes his sword!
Such lovely scenes has Wharfdale to enjoy,
When war is changed to peace and rural joy;
Here can the aged spend a peaceful day,
Beguile sad grief, and to their Maker pray;
The widow, weeping o'er departed love,
Is helped to mourn by many a mourning dove;
And hidden here from any mortal's ken,
May weep in silence o'er the best of men,
Whose cares, and joys, and sorrows, hopes, and fears,
Had bound them closer through successive years.
Here might the poet, Nature's “helpless child,”
Whose soul is boundless, and whose thoughts are wild,
Imagine things beyond the torrid zone,
And how the ancient Grecian temples shone;
How earth, and every orb, was formed on high,
Till his full soul burst out in ecstasy:
“Ye trees, ye leaves, and every varied flower,
Were nothing else, ye show Eternal Power!
The verdant grass on every hill that grows,
The goodness of the great Creator shows!
Insects and birds, that dwell amid the grove,
The creeping worm, and those that soar above;
All beasts, however varied their abode,
Proclaim the power, the majesty of God!
The shining orbs, that deck the arch of night,
Orb above orb, till distance dims their light;
Planets by circling motions show His skill,
While others burn through ages and are still.”
Grand are the heav'ns unto the feeble eye;
But when the poet can the tube apply,
New wonders open, and new worlds appear,
Which tell the mind Infinity is there!
Lost in the thought, his ardent fancy burns,
He thinks—and to himself with reverence turns;
His soul is filled with solemn hopes and fears,
To think he's co-existent with the spheres!
E'en when no more one ray of light they give,
His bosom holds what must for ever live,
When sun, and moon, and stars, and skies are lost,
And Nature's self is to old Chaos tost!
Now as the Wharf to Olicano moves,
And leaves the rocky Strid and Bolton's groves,
Old Castleberg, the torrent-wasted scar,
Uprears his head, where Romans met in war,
When on its topmost point the watch-tower stood,
And deep below, beheld the rolling flood.
Britons and Saxons have contended there,
And on the ramparts mixed spear with spear;
The warriors, tumbling headlong down the steep,
Pressed with their armour, plunged into the deep:
But Time, who leaves behind all earthly things,
And overtakes fresh objects with his wings,
Has left so far behind swift-pinioned Fame,
She could not reach us with a warrior's name.
Through shades of oak which have for centuries grown,
Wharf winds her way to Ilkley's ancient town;
No altars now unto her streams are raised,
As when the Roman sacrifices blazed;
Yet she rolls on, when Romans are no more,
Unworshipped, hastes to mix with ocean's roar.
More worthy is the mighty King of all,
Who raises kingdoms, speaks—and empires fall;
Who made all systems, and who formed the sun,
Who spoke, and bade yon crystal fountain run,
Praise to receive, and glory, power, and might,
Through Time, and in the blissful realms of light!
Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, wells, and air,
Can cure the nervous, trembling in despair!
Upon thy crags, to climb the granite rocks,
And see the sportive youths pursue the fox,
Would make the trembling limbs be firm again,
And banish Melancholy and her train.
To thee, how many on their crutches come,
Soon dance without them, and run smiling home:
Then to their friends in highest raptures tell
How strength improved at Ilkley and its well.
Here they can walk amid the valley fine,
The angler into crystal throw his line,
And watch the trout, though in the water deep—
Behold his eyes, which ne'er are closed in sleep;
Peace, Love, and Solitude near Ilkley dwell,
And Health sits smiling at her mountain well:
Thus did she sit, and made this vale her home,
Before invading Cæsar marched from Rome.
Denton, thou rural village, little known,
Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne!
When Fairfax, with a patriot feeling strong,
Was led by false designing Cromwell wrong,
A race courageous from thy shades arose,
Who feared nor foreign nor domestic foes.
In civil war, the numerous fields were red
Where Fairfax fought, and where his brothers bled;
But now 'tis peace, no warriors from thy hall
Ride forth in armour at the trumpet's call.
How blest the land, when martial days are o'er,
Like those of Towton or of Marston Moor;
When regal power, when law was laid aside,
And Britons by the swords of Britons died!
From Marston to old Tockwith spread the line
Of those who fought against the royal sign;
The stout right wing Sir Thomas Fairfax led,
And seemed another Hector at its head;
Lord Fairfax led the centre to the fray,
The left, proud Cromwell's stern commands obey.
Down in the plain the royal army stood,
Who for their monarch soon must shed their blood;
True loyalty was spread from wing to wing,
And each forgave the follies of his king.
Dreadful the sight, when thus two armies meet,
All friendly feelings sunk beneath their feet,
And those who hung upon the self-same breast,
Taught by one father, by one mother blest,
Waiting the signal for the deadly fray,
Where brothers take their kindred's lives away!
But so 'twas here, when young Prince Rupert led
The right wing, brave as e'er a banner spread.
While General Goring led the centre on,
To meet the Scots, as oft their sires had done,
Lucas and Porter often rode to cheer
The wings, the centre, vanguard, and the rear;
While those who marched at great Newcastle's word,
Were brave as any that unsheathed the sword.
Now ready stood each fierce embattled host,
When all distinction in their dress was lost,
When handkerchiefs, and slips of red or white,
Were all that showed the king's-men whom to fight.
The trumpet sounded, and the march began,
Fairfax and Cromwell leading forth the van;
Th' usurper cried—“For battle all prepare!”
Then the arch-hypocrite breathed forth a prayer;
As if Omnipotence could smile to see
Britons from Britons gain a victory.
While Cromwell's files marched rapid down the hill,
Firm in their lines the Royalists were still;
With no impetuous haste Lord Goring led—
The foes appeared, but not a king's-man fled.
Now front to front the hostile armies are,
Each bosom feels the dread of civil war;
Awful the silence—not a sound is heard
Of drum, or trumpet, or commander's word,
But just a solemn hum before they fire,
For brothers wished from brothers to retire;
And, truly, but for Cromwell's haughty pride,
All had been friends, and not a warrior died.
What anxious breasts were left in every hall,
Lest the loved lord should in the conflict fall!
The lady, often, with her children prays
For Heav'n's protection in the battle's blaze.
As when a thunderstorm the valley fills,
The rapid rivers tumble from the hills,
Falling impetuous from each rocky height,
So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight.
The Royalists, though few, like ramparts stood;
Or, as the sea-beat rock defies the flood,
From their close-serried files no warriors fled—
Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread:
His legions shout, then swift the ramparts scale,
And meet the Royalists with shot like hail;
But when the brave young Rupert spurred his horse,
The royal army burst with such a force,
Their foes gave way—but Fairfax quick as thought,
Wheeled round his steed, and man with man they fought.
As when young lions some fierce tigers meet,
With fiery eye-balls, and with gory feet,
Which strive at once the royal beast to slay,
And, unmolested, plunder for their prey,
So came the Scots;—but Rupert, like a flood,
O'erwhelmed the bold, and stained their flags with blood.
As when on seas two rolling channels fight,
And furious waves are turned to foaming white,
Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears,
Till Major Fairfax in the slain appears;
Till not a weapon but with gore was red—
So fought both wings, till great Sir Thomas fled.
When Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain,
In such a space were fewer warriors slain.
The noble Prince, whose loyalty was warm,
O'erwhelmed the sons of Scotland like a storm!
But see Lord Goring the firm centre lead,
While firm they follow his dark prancing steed;
Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn,
And Cromwell's musketry they meet with scorn;
Close are their ranks, so thick the warriors stand,
And hard the spears are grasped in ev'ry hand,
Rushing like fire, or, as the lightning red,
They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled!
Again the brave Sir Thomas Fairfax turns,
Meets Rupert's columns, and the battle burns.
The lines are broken—muskets useless lie,
Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly—
Rage, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood
Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood!
With more determined rage no armies met,
Nor earth with nobler gore was ever wet.
At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again,
Wounded himself, and his brave brother slain:
Thus Rupert fought, though loth to take the field,
Yet, when once warmed, his heart would never yield.
Now victory seemed the Royalists to crown—
The banners of their foes were trampled down;
The noble files whom valiant Porter led,
O'erwhelmed all force, and every general fled.
But as the thunderstorm, when once 'tis past,
Turns with a ten-fold fury on the blast,
While quiv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze,
And make the boldest that they dare not gaze,
So came proud Cromwell, leading on the horse,
Dark as the storm—what could withstand his force?
The Trojan warriors never better stood,
The Grecian phalanx never was as good,
As those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled,
And conquered oft, when great Newcastle led!
The heaviest charges of their foes they met,
And each succeeding charge their foes were beat;
Nor would they fly, nor would a warrior yield,
Till half their numbers fell upon the field.
Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast—
He need not glory that his foes had lost;
For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled
Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled.
Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease,
Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these:
“Oh! why should war, why should the sword and spear,
And hostile armies in the field appear?
Why should the haughty pride of man destroy
Youth, strength, and beauty, and a parent's joy?
Has not disease itself a rapid way
To turn the greatest mortals into clay,
But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire,
Against the race of mortals must conspire?
The soldier at the front of battle smiles,
Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files;
His fame, his honour, then his chiefest care,
And little leisure has he left for prayer:
A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies
Swift to his heart—the warrior falls and dies.
When shall the lovely days of peace appear,
That sheathes the falchion, and that breaks the spear?
I praise Thee!” and much more the usurper said,
Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head;
For God delights not in His creatures' pain,
Nor will He hear His praise sung o'er the slain.
With luckless fate, and in an evil hour,
The haughty conquered, not by skill or power,
But by superior numbers gained the day,
While braver youths were driven far away;
Youths, who their triple number often met,
And fought till all their swords with gore were wet.
Dacres and Lambton fell upon that day,
And Slingsly's noble soul was sent away;
Fenwick was lost, and Luddon was no more,
And Gledhill's corpse was scarcely known for gore.
Meetham, the brave, the loyal volunteer,
Heaved his last breath for his loved monarch there;
Then with near thirty wounds brave Graham bled,
Who never in the fiercest contest fled;
To Norton Hall his warriors bear him slow—
Then what a scene of undescribed woe!
I hear his lady's sighs—she cannot weep—
Hope, love, despair, sink in her bosom deep;
The bleeding stops—she hopes her lord will live,
And for his life would every blessing give.
Now a bright beam is lighted in his eyes,
Then pale, the brave, the dauntless Graham sighs!
The statues of the ancients ne'er could show
Such silent grief, such eloquence of woe,
As in his lady's features were exprest,
When the last struggle shook her warrior's breast;
When the last kiss inhaled the parting breath,
And all she loved on earth was still in death!
Slowly and sad the weeping servants come,
With noiseless feet, and look into the room,
To hear their master's voice, or once behold
The features of the loyal, brave, the bold;
But these no more behold his piercing eyes—
The only sounds are broken-hearted sighs
Of his sad widow, in wild agony,
In fervent prayer, that death would set her free.
Boast not, usurping Cromwell, o'er the dead—
With half his wounds thy bravest knights had fled.
Prince Rupert, then, whose valour ne'er would yield,
Again returns, in hopes to gain the field;
The firmest of his troops resolved to lie
Cold on the field, or gain the victory;
But not a friend they met—these all are fled,
Except the wounded, dying, and the dead;
While foes in thousands, stretched upon the plain,
Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain.
He had a heart, and such had all his men,
They'd not have shrunk to meet them one to ten;
But when five hundred must engage a host,
E'en Cromwell's self must own the day was lost.
When in the west the sun in grief had sunk,
That Marston Moor such noble blood had drunk,
The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh,
For Yorkshire then was friend to royalty.
Through every line the haughty conqueror rode,
Exhorting all to give the praise to God!
Thanking the men who had the victory gained,
When far from balls and swords the Earl remained.
He seemed to mourn the day so far was gone,
That nothing for the wounded could be done;
But, if they waited till the break of day,
All shattered limbs should then be cut away;
Balls be extracted, every wound be drest—
Both friends and foes with surgeons should be blest!
Then well to sup he galloped off the ground,
Felt not the pain, for he received no wound:
And so it is in battles, nine for ten,
Leaders get praise, and victory's gained by men.
The scene was awful, when the light began
To shine on features gory, pale, and wan;
Some, who had plundered in the shades of night,
Slunk swift away, as though to shun the light.
When morning, with a crimson colour, spread
Her beams upon six thousand warriors dead,
What would the feelings be of those who sought
A son or husband, who had bravely fought?
What shrieks were heard among the ghastly dead,
Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head,
O'erwhelmed with woe—of every hope bereft,
And nothing but her starving children left!
These were the scenes on Marston's gory plain,
And such would be in Anarchy's proud reign.
Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore,
When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore,
Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt,
Upbraided her with all the blood she spilt;
When the red bolts through Italy were hurled,
And half destroyed the garden of the world;
And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field,
Ere Russia to the pride of France would yield,
When Nature's self was armed with frost and snow,
And slew what Russians never could lay low.
When war the sword had borne through every land,
No hostile feet durst ever press the sand
Where rolling tides had washed old Albion's coast,
Nor durst they on the seas with Nelson boast,
Where Albion's waves upon the shores are broke,
And her deep thunder sleeps in heart of oak!
Oh! could that thunder rise into the cloud,
And deepest darkness hide it like a shroud,
That these might pass unnoticed through the air,
And save a noble people from despair!
Oh! that each mortar, and each heavy piece,
Might send its thunder in defence of Greece!
And Britons unto Corinth lend her aid,
While Athens sees Saint George's flags displayed;
Great Homer's spirit see the tyrants slain,
And wish to sing of Grecian wars again;
Clinton his Hector, his artillery
The gods of Greece, deep thund'ring from the sky!
The Turks would fly when British shot was rained,
And Greeks behold what ancient Homer feigned.
Oh! could we save old Grecia from her woes,
For slav'ry give her triumph o'er her foes!
She worships at the self-same sacred shrine,
Believes that Saviour, Britain, that is thine.
Where now her sculptured columns? where that tongue,
In which her warriors spoke, her poets sung?
All gone!—and youth gain wisdom from the land,
But let it sink beneath the spoiler's hand!
Europe! ye kings! could you but hear her cry,
Would you withhold from Greece her liberty?
Thousands of Britons feel their bosoms burn
To take the dust of Athens from her urn,
Throw it toward heav'n, till all her warriors see
Old Corinth triumph—ev'ry Grecian free.
Were great Demosthenes to speak one hour,
The very slaves would scorn the Turkish power;
And were the troops of old Britannia there,
Crescents would fall, and Moslems disappear.
O that the day would dawn that brings to thee,
Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty!
Then would thy bold improving language tell
How Britons fought, how Turkish tyrants fell.
Return, wild fancy, what is Greece to thee?
Thine be the task to paint antiquity;
Let Harewood's mutilated towers be sung,
Grey with old Time, with sober ivy hung—
Home of brave hunters, warriors, and the fair,
When mirth and song, and merry dance were there.
Here, in the ruins, sat the rustic bard,
Whose way through life was sorrowful and hard,
Still were the winds, and beautiful the night,
While in a large half circle spread the light,
The herald to the moon, night's modest queen,
Whose waning orb soon in the east was seen.
The shadows of the towers and rising wood
Stretched through the vale and trembled on the flood;
But as she rose, the trembling shades withdrew,
And showed the silv'ry Wharf broad in the view;
With wand'ring weary, tired with study deep,
The poet's eyes were soon seal'd fast in sleep.
He dreamt of airy praise, of empty fame,
And to his fancy ancient Hist'ry came;
A mural crown was placed upon her head,
A link-mail cuirass o'er her breast was spread,
A belt of silver'd silk around her waist,
From end to end with Saxon verses graced;
Saxo-Monastic words were on her vest—
The cross was ruby that adorned her breast;
A scroll of ancient parchment there she spread,
While to the poet's fancy thus she said:
“Take courage, youth, and I will give to thee
These dark-writ pages of antiquity;
Here are the records of these ancient towers—
No mortals fear, but try thy utmost powers.
Each passage read, nor o'er thy weakness mourn,
Strike thy wild harp, and soon will I return:
Let bold heroic measures be thy strain,
Sing on, nor think thy song will be in vain.
Take up thy harp—why is it thus unstrung?
'Tis thou must sing of deeds which ne'er were sung!”
The bard arose, as sweet she tuned his strings,
Then swiftly spread abroad her airy wings;
The moonbeams glitter'd on her robes of light,
But quick as lightning was the transient sight.
When he beheld the Saxon language there,
To him 'twas sealed—he sighed, and dropped a tear.
Awhile next day he in his grot reposed,
Then in despair the ancient records closed;
Anon, these words, borne on the wings of air,
Came softly whispering—“Never yet despair;
Why do these records fill thy breast with pain;
The latter will the former part explain.
There's not a bard that here his harp has strung,
But every verse is there, that e'er he sung;
There's not a tale of love, or lady fair,
But all their sorrows are in verses there:—
Nature attends, thy bosom to inspire,
And in thy bosom is a spark of fire,
That spite of coldest ice or frozen snow
They heap upon it, brighter yet will glow.”
He heard no more, but many a leaf he turned,
When soon his lightened heart with rapture burned.
The poet's muse had led him to the foam
Which is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb;
Where rolling thunder forms the sable cloud,
Which wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud,
Mocks the dread roaring of the raging deep,
When wild despair forbids the sailors weep.
There did he sing, as though he saw the storm,
Its varying terrors rage in every form.
He saw great Ætna to the clouds aspire,
Which seemed to set the arch of night on fire;
While on each hand the boiling waves appear
Red with the light, as if the flames were there.
Scylla below, the thunders from above,
Volcanoes bellowing till the mountains move;
As if great Jove had called his mighty choir,
And touched the strings with his tremendous fire.
He reads the verse the ancient scroll contains,
These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains,
When the fine arch is spread for miles each way,
And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May:
So soft the ancient bard his harp had played,
That to his verses listened many a maid;
He sung the dream of Mary on the hill,
Which showed the secrets of a lady's will.
Far weightier strains next tremble on the lyre,
Strains which the coldest bosoms would inspire!
'Twas on the evening of a hunting day,
The bard rehearsed the deeds of an affray,
Of which the warriors to their children spoke—
What lords were slain, what ladies' hearts were broke,
When two great hosts marched forth with sword and shield,
And met in conflict on old Towton's field.
The Earl of March, Plantagenet's true heir,
From Pont'fract came, and all his host was there;
At Ferrybridge the great Fitzwalter stood,
The pass to guard o'er Aire's fine rolling flood.
Northumberland and Clifford knew the plan,
And Somerset, the brave, the loyal man,
Led on his files—but fierce and short the fray—
Fitzwalter fell before the break of day:
High as the battlements were heaped the slain,
And few could meet at Pontefract again.
To Edward's camp the noble Warwick rode,
Then drew his sword, long, shining, sharp and broad,
Vowed from his monarch he would never part,
Then plunged the weapon to his charger's heart;
Which showed that for his monarch and his right,
On foot great Warwick never feared to fight.
Edward proclaimed, “Does any soldier fear?
Let such return, nor spread infection here;
March forth, ye brave, whose souls with valour burn,
Cowards, fall back, and you that fear return!
All you who fight, and me, your king, regard,
Shall each one find a bountiful reward:
But should a coward, when we meet in fight,
Turn from the foe, to save himself by flight,
Whoever shall such trembling dastard slay,
Shall be promoted when we gain the day.”
When morn first broke, dark, stormy, and unclear,
To Towton's plain all Edward's host are near;
Wild, gloomy, red, the awful morning came,
As though the east was painted o'er with flame:
Upon the western hills, in ev'ry form,
Hung the dark clouds, and hail was in the storm.
It was the Sabbath broke upon the plain,
Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain;
Not in warm tents, but on the damp cold ground—
Thousands of warriors sleeping there were found;
While others watched to feed with wood the fires,
And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires
Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azure smoke—
Such was the scene when first the morning broke.
The chiefs, each mounting on his prancing steed,
Rode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed.
A finer band of warriors never lay
Upon the plain, for war to sweep away;
Nor truer youths than Edward's ever found,
To guard, in war, the monarch these had crowned.
The trumpeters were ordered then to blow,
And every warrior that was sleeping low,
Stretched his strong limbs, half stiffened by the frost,
And many a soldier had all feelings lost,
And there had died, had not some good old wine
Warmed their cold bosoms ere they formed the line.
They rose—but not to dress, for that was done—
No hasty buckling of their armour on;
No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear—
All this was done before the host marched there.
Grand was the martial sight on Towton's plain!
A sight which England ne'er may see again.
Stars on a thousand breasts, gems on their swords—
In Henry's cause had armed a thousand lords;
His was no common cause—the king was crowned—
Thousands of youths for him lay on the ground.
Arrows were useless in the dreadful fray—
'Twas sword to sword on that eventful day.
The river, soon retarded by the slain,
Stood like a lake, and deluged half the plain.
How little thought the pious peasants near,
That York and Lancaster contended there!
At Saxton church the rustic peasants met,
When these returned, the willows all were wet
With noble blood—astonished there they stand—
Thousands are bleeding there on either hand.
Now the last effort of King Henry's host
Was such as warlike Britons never met,
Upon the plain they twenty thousand lost,
And those that fled, before were never beat.
The red rose fell before Prince Edward's force;
And when the storm was o'er, and clear the sky,
Of Henry's host was neither foot nor horse—
Terror, confusion, panic, made them fly.
Now evening came, and sorrow's darkest shade
Shrouded the lovely features of the fair;
Cold in their gore near forty thousand laid,
And many a brave young warrior was there.
Then ladies' cheeks were wet with many a tear,
And for their souls' release the Friars prayed;
All England mourned—e'en those that gained the fight,
Sighed o'er the slain, so awful was the sight!
Thousands of helmets, lances, swords, and spears,
Arrows, and breast-plates, and unnumbered shields,
Each stained with gore among the slain appears,
And richest gems are spread upon the fields.
At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields,
And eyes that seldom weep are wet with tears;
Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched plain
Groaned with the mighty burden of the slain!
The widows wept—but women soon forget
Their former husbands, when in dust they're lain;
Their cheeks with tears a month or two are wet,
But love within their bosoms lights again:
They reason thus—“We live not by the slain;
These ne'er return, though widows we remain:”
This did the bard observe through wasting years,
And placed but little faith in woman's tears.
Sad was the morning of the mournful day,
When relatives the dead and dying found;
Some from the field were lifeless borne away,
The rest promiscuous hurried to the ground.
And many—far from their loved place of birth,
By hands of foes were tumbled into earth.
To lighter strains the bard his harp now strung,
For he too much of bloody scenes had sung.
To Harewood Castle gallant Lisle returns—
No more with anxious grief his lady mourns;
His noble friends in brilliant armour shine,
And drown the terrors of the day in wine.
While York's strong gates were opened to their king,
And sounds of conquest swelled from ev'ry string,
High blazed the torches on the lofty towers,
And swiftly flew the glad triumphant hours;
And many a day, in festive mirth and glee,
Spent the brave knights o'er Edward's victory.
At length the dance, and love's soft joys gave place
To nobler sport—the pleasures of the chase.
From Harewood Castle, at the break of day,
With horse and hounds the knights rode swift away.
Then lord and baron, knight and banneret,
In honest true old English friendship met,
Returned to Harewood, talking of the chase,
And pleasure shone on every noble face:
For nothing drives old wrath so far away
As such a chase as these had seen that day.
No city's pomp, no pampered courtier's pride
Yields satisfaction like the sportive ride,
When the whole mind in hunting takes delight,
And Pleasure greets returning Health at night.
Songs of the chase that evening were not sung,—
To strains like these the minstrel's harp was strung:
Then rose the bard, his harp aside was lain,
And gravely spoke in this prophetic strain:
“These towers shall fall, and bury deep in earth
The floors where once was seen the dance of mirth;
But there shall rise a mansion richer far,
When England rests secure from civil war,
Whose lords shall be respected by their kings;
And here shall other minstrels touch the strings.
Below shall patriotic troops appear,
Led by commanders to the monarch dear;
True British valour firmly shall unite
The throne to guard, and every Briton's right.
A finer dance, a richer sight shall be,
Than all thy ancient masks and revelry;
A better chase, when these the fox pursue,
And fleeter hounds than ever Redman knew
Shall cross the hills, and in the valleys sing,
Till woods and vales with cheerful echo ring.
But what are all the trifling things of earth,
The highest pleasures, or the greatest mirth,
The fairest scenes, where ev'ry beauty is,
And all that can compose terrestrial bliss,
The love of sport, the finest dance or song?
All quickly fade, and cannot please us long.
The short-lived pleasures which this earth affords,
To poorest paupers or the greatest lords,
Are all but shadows, or like passing showers,
Transient their sweetness as night-blowing flowers;
While Virtue is more lasting than the sun,
And pleasure yields when earthly joys are gone.”