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 |  |
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:
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:
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The noble hall, where beauty reigns,
The hall that's now a peaceful home,
Shall soon be lost, and youth and bliss
Shall fade, and ruin hither come.
The hall that's now a peaceful home,
Shall soon be lost, and youth and bliss
Shall fade, and ruin hither come.
This night I saw a spectre bard
In martial chords sweep o'er his lyre;
I saw the warrior chiefs prepared,
In shining arms and bright attire.
In martial chords sweep o'er his lyre;
I saw the warrior chiefs prepared,
In shining arms and bright attire.
I saw the lovely lady fair,
Weep as she parted with her knight;
And heard her breathe to Heav'n a prayer
That Heav'n would shield him in the fight.
Weep as she parted with her knight;
And heard her breathe to Heav'n a prayer
That Heav'n would shield him in the fight.
I heard the whizzing arrows fly,
And saw the battle-axes broke;
The stoutest of the warriors die,
When death was victor ev'ry stroke.
And saw the battle-axes broke;
The stoutest of the warriors die,
When death was victor ev'ry stroke.
I saw the great portcullis fall,
Which shook the gateway with its power;
Beheld the engines at thy wall,
Whose force could shake the topmost tower.
Which shook the gateway with its power;
Beheld the engines at thy wall,
Whose force could shake the topmost tower.
My fancy saw the bloody field,
Which stretches into yonder plain;
On its dread space was many a shield,
And pale the features of the slain.
Which stretches into yonder plain;
On its dread space was many a shield,
And pale the features of the slain.
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I thought in this dread scene I stood,
Though trembling yet I longed to stay,
Though moonbeams glittered on their blood,
And plund'rers took their spoil away.
Though trembling yet I longed to stay,
Though moonbeams glittered on their blood,
And plund'rers took their spoil away.
The harper struck a martial air,
Ruin and desolation came;
A brand was hurled by wild despair,
And every tow'r was soon on flame.
Ruin and desolation came;
A brand was hurled by wild despair,
And every tow'r was soon on flame.
Their arms were nerved with dying pain,
And every blow they struck the last,
The soldiers lay with nobles slain—
So this portentous phantom past.
And every blow they struck the last,
The soldiers lay with nobles slain—
So this portentous phantom past.
No cheerful strains upon my lyre
The bard this night can bring to you,
The scene of Barden, wrapt in fire,
Has made me think 'twill soon be true.
The bard this night can bring to you,
The scene of Barden, wrapt in fire,
Has made me think 'twill soon be true.
Prepare—prepare these arms in rust,
Bring forth St George's banner red!
These towers must shortly kiss the dust—
He ceased—and all their joys were fled.
Bring forth St George's banner red!
These towers must shortly kiss the dust—
He ceased—and all their joys were fled.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |