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 |  |
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:
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,
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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:
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I have been on the stormy wave,
And fought upon the gory field;
Laid many a warrior in his grave,
My lovely Jane of Hellifield.
And fought upon the gory field;
Laid many a warrior in his grave,
My lovely Jane of Hellifield.
On northern hills I met the foe,
Where furious strength my sword did wield,
And she who made me use it so,
Was my dear Jane of Hellifield.
Where furious strength my sword did wield,
And she who made me use it so,
Was my dear Jane of Hellifield.
I thought upon her lovely form,
And knew 'twas death, should I once yield;
Love, honour, glory, like a storm,
Raged for my Jane of Hellifield.
And knew 'twas death, should I once yield;
Love, honour, glory, like a storm,
Raged for my Jane of Hellifield.
I thought each warrior gains the praise
Of all, if he's the country's shield;
Then rushed amid the battle's blaze,
To fight for Jane of Hellifield.
Of all, if he's the country's shield;
Then rushed amid the battle's blaze,
To fight for Jane of Hellifield.
The Highland Scots came boldly forth,
And bravely did their claymores wield,
Fierce as the tempest of the north—
Then I forgot sweet Hellifield.
And bravely did their claymores wield,
Fierce as the tempest of the north—
Then I forgot sweet Hellifield.
We met ofttimes, each side pursues,
And many a steel-cased warrior reeled;
At last they fled—I hoped the news
Would reach my Jane of Hellifield.
And many a steel-cased warrior reeled;
At last they fled—I hoped the news
Would reach my Jane of Hellifield.
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The English ranks they could not break,
While these with spears and lances kneeled;
And Scotland's army soon grew weak,
Or I had ne'er reached Hellifield.
While these with spears and lances kneeled;
And Scotland's army soon grew weak,
Or I had ne'er reached Hellifield.
But, marked with scars, with pension blest,
My heart's with scenes of battle steeled;
Yet, there's a place within my breast
That still loves Jane of Hellifield.
My heart's with scenes of battle steeled;
Yet, there's a place within my breast
That still loves Jane of Hellifield.
Now will I drink unto my king,
May subjects ever be his shield,
And time fly sweetly on the wing
With me and Jane of Hellifield!
May subjects ever be his shield,
And time fly sweetly on the wing
With me and Jane of Hellifield!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |