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 |  |
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.
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,
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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.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |