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 |  |
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.
The gleam of many a beacon's pointed flame.
Then every knight, and every northern squire
Soon knew the cause of each portentous fire.
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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.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |