University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

AIREDALE IN ANCIENT TIMES.

Though greatest bards have sung most earthly things,
And scarcely left me room to touch the strings,
Yet humbly would I from the crowd retire,
And strike, though feebly, the responsive lyre.
By Nature's hand, O, may my harp be strung,
While I attempt the Vale that ne'er was sung!
Spirit of Ancient Times! my genius turn
To scenes long past—and make my fancy burn!
Genius of History! Learning's loveliest maid,
Around me let thy mantle be displayed;—
Let all thy powers together be combined,
My soul t' illumine, and support my mind!
Lead me, O Muse, along Aire's winding course,
To sing of Gordale—its tremendous source,
Where terror sits, and scorns the poet's pen,
The painter's pencil,—all the pow'rs of men:
Where sons of science oft confounded stand,
To view this wonder of the Almighty's hand!
Here, in dark shade, the rifted rocks appear,
The bursting cataracts assail the ear;
Projecting masses to the clouds are piled,
And Grandeur revels in her palace wild!
E'en those that to description would aspire,
Gaze mute with awe, and silently retire.
Here fierce banditti once securely slept,
And joyous revelled, while the plundered wept.
We now, secure, these awful cliffs survey,
Nor dread to fall the base assassin's prey.
But softer scenes on Malham Water view,
When its smooth breast reflects the azure blue;
Or when the skiffs, departing from its shore,
Convey the lovely nymphs of Craven o'er
The still lake ruffled by each rower's stroke,
And its smooth surface into surges broke,—
The circling woods return their cheerful song,
As nymphs and swains harmonious glide along;
While at the flies the glittering fishes bound,
And twice ten thousand eddies circle round.
Anon 'tis ruffled like the foam-white sea,
Then smooth as glass, reflecting ev'ry tree;
The lofty fells upon its breast are seen,
Brown here with heath, and there with brackens green;
Health, rosy Health, diseases drives away,
And Pleasure loves amid those scenes to stray.
Firm fixed near, like the great throne of Jove,
Stands, rudely great, old Malham's lofty Cove,
From whence, in storms, the bursting streams are hurled,
Met by the winds, to misty vapours whirled.
Here the brave Percies, foremost in the chase,
Were followed by the sons of Clifford's race;
Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn,
Obeyed the cheerful summons of the horn;
Malhams and Martons, on their hunters fleet,
Scattered the moorland moss beneath their feet,—
Rode down the rocky hills with rapid force,
And still undaunted held their ardent course,
While nodding antlers of the mountain deer
Topped the high hills,—the hounds, the hunters near;
Next took the vale, and with ambition tried
Which rider durst o'erleap Aire's infant tide.
The shepherds in the valley left their flocks,
Climbed the high hills, and shouted on the rocks.
But, oh! how soon does human greatness fall!
What years has ruin dwelt in Clifford's hall!
The lord, the baron, and the warrior still,
And mute the horn on Elso's lofty hill!
The sons of Craven now are happier far,—
No Scottish warriors wage the cruel war,
As when the sons of Gargrave sallied forth
To meet the fierce invaders from the north;
When on the shields the battle-axes rung,
Spears broke, helms cleft, and many a bow was strung!
Death through Northumbria's fields had marked their way,
And mothers wept where lifeless husbands lay;
Friends, kindred, lovers, on the earth expired,
Their dwellings plundered, and their churches fired;
The holy crucifix away was borne,
And from the shrines the sacred relics torn;
The sacramental wine they rudely quaffed,
Smiled o'er the flames, and at destruction laughed!
But when these hordes arrived on Craven's height,
The sons of Gargrave met them in the fight;
Percy and Garri made a noble stand,
And fought their threefold numbers hand to hand.
His well-tried sword brave Garri whirled around,
And brought three Scottish leaders to the ground;
The blade of Percy bore the fray so well,
Beneath his arm five Northern warriors fell,
Their helms he cleft with many a mighty stroke,—
His tempered weapon bent—but never broke.
No banner waved, no trumpets sounded clear,
T' inspire their breasts—'twas silent conflict there!
The brackens green, where the hot battle burned,
To crimson with the warriors' gore were turned;
But soon of Percy's band but ten remained,
The mountain stream with streaks of blood was stained;
The deep-dyed waters crept, meandering slow,
As loth to tell the tragic tale below;
There many a wounded youth, oppressed with pain,
Laid on the earth—their pillows were the slain.
With conquest fired, the Northerns sallied down,
To plunder Gargrave's lone deserted town;
The blazing brands within the church they hurled,
And soon the flames around the altar curled,
While from the burning roof the molten lead
Dropped on the ancient tombstones of the dead;
The blood-red sun sank slowly in the west,
As by the dreadful scene of woe oppressed:
But plunder ceased not in the shades of night,
The blazing ruins lent a baleful light,
Till Skipton's sons appeared, with banners red—
The Scots beheld their glitt'ring arms and fled!
What little cause have moderns to complain,
Throughout our isle!—no native warriors slain;
Our fertile valleys, in improving charms,
With Commerce smile, secure from war's alarms.
How changed, since Skipton's ancient towers arose,
Their country's strength, and terror of its foes!
Where Meschinès, the long-ejected heir,
Led to the altar Cicily the Fair,
Obtaining thus, what many a life had cost,
With his fair bride, the lands his father lost;—
All those domains which Edwin once possessed,
Where famed Romili fixed his place of rest.
By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought,
The arms with which the Norman warriors fought;
Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigantine,
Worn by the warriors of the Norman line,
Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear,
Lances and swords, have oft been polished there;
Banners, which waved when shields and helmets rung,
Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung
High in the tower, as in a place of trust,
Now wasted all, and worn away with rust.
Here, gorgeous, glittered, once in days of old,
Satins of various dyes, adorned with gold;
The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er,
And silvered robes the ancient Cliffords wore;
Their hangings were of silk, with silver tinged,
And velvet canopies with gold were fringed;
Whole butts of wine were in the cellar stowed,
And in the hall the vessels oft o'erflowed,
Upon each dish the dragon was portrayed,
And underneath a gory lion laid,
Warriors and arms were 'graven on the plate,
To show their fathers wished them to be great;
Upon their cups, embossed, was many a shield,
And this strong charge—“Let Cliffords never yield!”
Upon the wall their bright steel armour hung,
With dimples marked, where many a spear had rung.
Then many a sumptuous lordly feast was kept,
And ladies here o'er warriors slain have wept;
Here lords have hunted through their wide domains,
Rode o'er the rocks, and galloped on the plains;
Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard,
Passed not unheeded nor without regard;
Here many a night of jollity has been,
And festive mirth was stamped on every scene:
But how can scenes of centuries long gone by,
With all the ancient feats of chivalry,
Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport,
Their imitations of the monarch's court;
Their priest, revered, by superstition fed,
Who, they believed, could liberate the dead;
The sieges which the lofty towers sustained,
Till on their tops no battlement remained;
Their great possessors, since the Norman king?—
Crowd all at once—too much for me to sing:
Then, oh forgive a feeble rustic bard,
When he admits the mighty task too hard!
Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive hours,
In walking round these desolated towers,
Where late such greatness and such valour dwelt,
Reflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt.
But to the vale I'll turn, where Aire winds slow,
And its pure waters scarcely seem to flow;
Where cattle fed, and scarce a wall was seen,
But all one wide extended park of green;
Or, when the native butter-flow'rets blew,
The valley shone in robes of golden hue,
The mountain's side with ash was spotted o'er,
Which Nature planted centuries before;
Above, the huge grey rocks, which ne'er had broke
Since the creation with the hammer's stroke,
Where prickly furze for ages blossomed round,
And the brown heath the lofty mountains crowned,
From whence the crystal rills did gushing flow,
To seek repose within the vale below;
Where the young shepherds sought the cooling shade,
And underneath the far spread branches laid,
Tuned their sweet pipes, their flocks all grazing round,
While their loved nymphs stood list'ning to the sound.
Then near some lonely grange upon the green,
Where the old yew-trees had for cent'ries been,
In rural bliss the loving pairs would play,
And quite forget the labours of the day,—
Sing of some ancient warriors whom they knew,
Firm to their king, and to their country true;
Or of some maid, who loved, but could not gain
The fickle heart of her too haughty swain,—
How oft she wandered in the fields alone,
Till reason and her beauty all were gone.
They sung, till tears stood trembling in each eye,
And not a heart was there but heaved a sigh.
Next, on his staff, oppressed with weight of years,
The father comes, and calls them in to prayers;
His reverend looks they dare not disobey,—
The worst from ev'ning worship could not stay:
Then from his heart the Pater Noster flows,—
He worships God as truly as he knows;
No new fanatics can with him compare,
In true devotion, and the fervent prayer.
Thus, when the Picts or Romans came in sight,
The Britons rushed like torrents to the fight;
Their chariot wheels with sharpest weapons hung,
And from each car were darts and arrows flung;
Death marked the way where'er the chariots turned,
And round each chief the bloody battle burned:
But if the artful cohorts gained the field,
The Britons made the woods their nightly shield,
And when the Romans thought the battle won,
They found, next morn, the conflict scarce begun.
Thus Britons fought,—by Boadicea led,
And on the slain the wolves and eagles fed.
Say, winding Aire, ye rocks, ye woods, and hills,
How you were stained—and how your crystal rills
Ran crimsoned with your native warriors' blood,
When on the heights the Roman eagles stood,
Where Olicano's rocky station rose,
And Briton bowed, reluctant, to her foes!
But now, could Greece her ancient grandeur gain,
Could Roman chiefs once more resume their reign;
Could Cæsar leap on shore to invade our land,
And all his legions pour upon the strand;
Should Alexander, with his mighty host,
With Xerxes in the rear—all threat'ning boast
To bring the myriads of their warriors here,
The troops of Waterloo would never fear,
For one dread day like that at Trafalgar,
Had brought to peace the ten years' Trojan war!
O Nature! be my muse—to touch the scene
Of Bingley's glories, which long since have been:
When in full splendour were its ancient halls,
And high achievements graced their massy walls;
When oaks, which now the whirlwind's force withstand,
Had bent to earth beneath an infant's hand,
Where winding Aire, enamoured of the place,
Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze;—
To leave the scene the glitt'ring river mourns,
And shows reluctance in its varied turns,
Till, forced at last, it rushes down the steep,
Turns into rage, as if too proud to weep!
Could I but call some venerable shade,
Whose earthly part a thousand years has laid
Within the tomb, in silent, soft repose,
Perhaps it might such things as these disclose:
Where rolls the stream above yon sacred fane,
And where the hills, in Time's all-wasting reign,
Have changed their forms; while, struggling for its way,
The furious flood has torn a part away
Of yonder fields, which bear a castle's name,—
There once a castle stood, though lost to fame:
But, safely sheltered from the feudal rage,
It gained no place in the historian's page;
And as the greatest temples rise and fall,
So none can tell where stood its ancient hall;
Its Gothic arches and strong-built keep,
Within th' adjacent floods are buried deep;
The strong foundations of its lofty towers,
Crumbled to sand, and washed away with showers!
The river's course a thousand times has changed,
Since on its banks the ancient Druids ranged;
The fords, which once the Roman cohorts crossed,
Filled up with sand, are now for ever lost.
The course, now fields, where once the river ran—
Emblem of empires, and of changing man!
The streams of Science once through Egypt flowed,
When Thebes in all its ancient grandeur glowed;
Then left the margin of the fruitful Nile,
Crossed o'er to Greece, and made great Athens smile.
Athens and Corinth fell—and Rome appeared,
Stretched forth her empire, and no danger feared,
Till Gothic ignorance, with sable robe
Of darkest superstition, wrapt the globe.
Then bigot Fury reared its hydra head;
Then Science sunk, and all the Muses fled
To their own shades, and there for cent'ries mourned,
Nor to Parnassus have they yet returned:
At length on earth again they deigned to smile,
And fixed their residence on Albion's isle.
But stop, my Muse—haste not so far away!
I'll woo thee in my native vale to stay.
Its beauties be thy theme—the woods and dells,
Sequestered bowers, and sweet melodious bells;
The flow'r-deck'd lawn, the distant heath-crowned hills,
Stupendous rocks, and softly-murmuring rills;
The woodland echoes whispering in the trees,
Or floating loudly on the fitful breeze;
Where nought of sameness the charmed sight offends,
But every scene the former scene transcends;
Where rocks in rich variety are dressed,
Some in the grey, and some the auburn vest;
Where varying Nature gives the lovely tinge,
And on the banks suspends the mossy fringe.
But where's the bard can sing of Bingley's vale,
And never once in his descriptions fail?
'Tis here the modest snow-drop first appears,
Drooping its head, and wet with icy tears,
Like some poor bard, unknown to public fame,
It shrinks and withers on its native stem.
And here the primrose, from its mossy bed,
Silver'd with dew lifts up its lovely head,
Where springing woodbine to the hazel cleaves,
With snow still pressing down its velvet leaves.
How pleasant here to walk, when daisies spring,
While the sweet bells in tuneful changes ring,
When ev'ry tone the echoing woods receive,
And thus delightfully the ear deceive,
Reverberating, mellow, sweet and clear,
As though a far more dulcet peal was there!
Could I describe the days of olden time,
When first this valley heard the varying chime;—
I hear them yet—am present at the hour
When zealous crowds from every village pour,
At early morn, upon the holy day,
To worship God, confess their sins, and pray.
No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find,
But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind.
The Church, establish'd, is their favourite place,
And reverence dwells on every varied face.
The manor's lord, with all his household, comes,—
His honest tenants leave their distant homes;
The rural peasant takes his frugal wife,
And ev'ry child, without religious strife.
The aged come, with years of labour worn,
Nor stop, though distant, on the holy morn.
The daughter here an aged mother bears,
Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers;
And there the son leads on his pious sire,
Warmed with devotion's purest, holiest fire.
'Tis reverence all—no lightsome smile appears,
See them, and blush, ye modern worshippers!
Your fathers met their Maker to adore,
Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er,
And from the priest words of affection flowed—
He prayed, he wept—until the list'ning crowd
Melted to tears; and tears that were not feigned,
Like crystal drops, from all the audience rained.
Such were the days when churches were rebuilt,
Though days of darkness, not so great their guilt.
Though history has shaded o'er with crimes
The long past period of the feudal times,
Here foreign luxuries were yet unknown,
And all they wished was in the valley grown,—
Their wholesome food was butter, cheese, and milk,
And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk;
The line they grew their own soft hands prepared,
The wool unheeded to the poor was spared;—
But few the poor, unless by age oppressed,
At little rent some acres each possessed.
When from the fields the golden sheaves were led,
The lovely fair could glean their winter's bread;
The husbandman could to his cottage bear
The withered boughs, his frugal hearth to cheer,
Or oft at eve his willow basket, stored
With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord;
Or did he want for Lent a proper dish,
Aire's silv'ry streams produced unnumbered fish;
Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore,
And plum-trees bended with the sable store;—
The ills which crowded population brings,
Had never broke, sweet rural bliss, thy wings!
Then on the green the nymphs and swains would dance,
Or, in a circle, tell some old romance;
And all the group would seriously incline
To hear of Saracens and Palestine,—
Of knights in armour of each various hue,
Of ladies left, some false, and others true.
Their pure descriptions showed how warriors bled,
How virgins wept to hear of heroes dead—
The furious steeds swift rushing to the war,
The turbann'd Turks, the bloody scimitar,—
The cross-marked banners on the lofty height,
The impious struck with terror at the sight!
Then told what spectres grim were seen to glide
Along this dale, before its heroes died,
Then marked their fall within the holy vale,
Described them, lifeless, in their coats of mail,—
Told how some lady, frantic with despair,
Shriek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire,
When tidings reach'd her from the Holy Land,
That her lov'd lord lay deep in Jordan's sand—
And how her shrieks flew echoing through the wood,
While her rich jewels glittered in the flood!
Thus happy they their summer's evening spent,
Parted in peace, and homeward singing went;
Their voices, soft as th' Æolian strings,
Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's wings.
Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone,
And who can help but sigh that they are gone?
'Tis pleasant yet to see how ivy clings
Around the walls where night birds clap their wings;
A solemn awe pervades the feeling breast,
To view the sacred earth with ruins pressed—
The fallen arch, the shatter'd tower on high,
Remind us of the days and years gone by;
Imagination sees the whole entire—
The smoke yet curling in the ancient choir,
And slowly as the clouds of incense roll,
The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole,
While the great organ, solemn, deep, and strong,
Joins with the worshippers in sacred song;—
Beholds the Abbot in his robes arrayed,
The altar wet, where once Turgesius prayed,
The tapers burning, till each holy shrine
More brilliant than the thrones of monarchs shine.
The glitt'ring cross, the Virgin's image there,
Before the imagination all appear;
The veiled nuns, on some grand solemn night,
Ranged on each side, in vests of purest white.
Though centuries intervene, yet fancy hears
The Abbot reading o'er the Latin prayers;
How still—how awful! as the solemn strain
Now swells, and now to whispers falls again!
Till the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd,
Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud,
In all the diapasons deep or clear,
Man could invent, or his weak passions bear!
The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen,
Is cover'd with a mossy robe of green;
Elms in the cloisters grow, and like a pall,
Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall;
Upon the place where many a knight lies low,
Weeds, nettles, and the baneful nightshade grow,
While on the cornice wildly waves the fern,
Like verdant plumes, in many a graceful turn.
How chang'd is Kirkstall, since to ruin turned,
And slow departing the last abbot mourned;
When ancient records, kept with pious care,
Clung to the boughs which overhung the Aire,
Or, tossed in flames, or into pieces torn,
Like autumn leaves upon the winds were borne;
Its income gone, and lost its fruitful land,
Which was bequeathed by many a dying hand;
The granges ruined, and the cattle sold,
The sheep removed to a far distant fold;
All that was good and precious swept away,
And seiz'd by desolation as its prey!
Of all its wealth the once famed place bereft,
And but the walls were to the artist left,
While many a pensive stranger, passing by,
Stops to admire, then leaves them with a sigh!
The scenes how changed, since Loidi's castle stood
Encircled by the ancient park and wood!
Where streets are now, the shining pheasants flew,
Or cattle cropped the daisies closed with dew;
Commerce, to Albion's modern sons so dear,
Had never spread her golden pinions there.
Where churches stand, some centuries ago,
The swift-wing'd arrow left the archer's bow,—
A village small, no vessel then could ride,
The sails unfurling in commercial pride,
A place of little note and scarcely known,
Whose fame now widely spreads through ev'ry zone.
The village youth then heard but Kirkstall's bells,
And rustics sported where the organ swells;
Where now extends the great commercial street,
The virgins pluck'd the hawthorn blossoms sweet,
And where the spacious public halls are seen,
In times remote was once the village green,
Where noontide hours, and many a summer's night,
Were danc'd away with feelings of delight.
Upon the hills where oaks for cent'ries grew,
Years, undisturbed, the glossy pheasants flew;
Partridge and hares in ev'ry field were bred,
And never fell, struck by the murd'ring lead.
From aged furze, or from the lonely rocks,
Oft nightly wander'd forth the wily fox;
The valleys echoed on the early morn,
With hounds, with huntsman, and the cheerful horn!
Then, as they crossed the vale, fleet as the air,
Forsaken, lagg'd behind, old wrinkled Care,
Joy joined the chase, and cheered each sportive mind,
And Sorrow there could no companion find.
The life-inspiring cries the hunter knew,
And from each breast dark melancholy flew;
Pleasure and Mirth the foremost led the chase,
And rosy health was shining on each face.
With all our modern concerts, parties, balls,
Assembly rooms, our theatres and halls,
Are we more happy than the ancient lord,
With good October sparkling on his board,
His warriors round him, and the tuneful lyre
Strung by the bards, who sang his valiant sire;—
A lady lov'd, who strove her lord to please;
A priest at hand his troubled breast to ease?
One wife he lov'd, the chase, and moral song,—
No follies broke his constitution strong:
His guests true hearted, each a warrior brave,
And not a heart but scorn'd to be a slave.
To-day they to the chase or feasting yield,
To-morrow duty calls them to the field.
With learning unrefined, they knew no fear,
When front to front they met the shining spear.
Such were the sons of Leeds when Towton's plain
Was crimsoned o'er with thirty thousand slain;
Their king they lov'd, and for their king they died,
While Wharf's clear stream roll'd on a purple tide;
And if our favoured isle continue free,
Such must the modern lords of Britain be.

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.”

THE POACHER:

A TALE FROM REAL LIFE.

This subject wants no Muse the breast t' inspire,
Deep learning,—nor the Apollonian lyre;
Fine tropes and figures here can nought avail,
'Tis but a plain and simple rustic tale,—
A tale of poachers, partridge, grouse, and hares,
Gamekeepers' acts, their dangers and their fears;
And who the persons that are most to blame,
Or those who buy, or those who steal the game.
But in description little is my pow'r,—
I never took a hare at midnight hour;
Experience cannot teach me how to sing,—
My shot ne'er broke the pheasant's glossy wing:
No partridge in my hands, resigned its breath,
Nor moor-cock closed its beauteous eyes in death;
For when I found them young upon the bent,
Far from their nests in sympathy I went.
Though low the theme, yet lords it has engaged,
And famous knights have oft at poachers raged.
They act such deeds as make e'en barons swear,
Break down their fine park walls and take the deer;
In every hedge suspend the murd'ring snares,
And from their best preserves fetch bags of hares.
Nor is it strange—a child may know the cause
Why daring poachers break the nation's law;
When for one night they gain far more reward
Than for a week of honest labour hard.
Game laws, they think, are made by greedy elves,
Who want the free-created game themselves;
The partridge, snipe, and grouse, for aught they know,
Belong to them just equal with the crow.
The youthful poacher first a terrier keeps,
And where the conies haunt oft slily creeps,
Till one is caught,—and then the foolish boy
Is elevated with a ruinous joy.
His parents chide not, nor his actions blame,
But praise his skill, and gladly take the game.
Growing in vice, such implements he gets
As powder, shot, a fowling-piece, and nets.
His parents then too late their follies see,
Pass days of grief, and nights of misery!
Absent from home—he ranges far and wide,
His comrades are his ruin and his pride;
Daily they spend the money they obtain;
Half drunk at night they sally forth again:
Dangers on ev'ry side they heedless scorn,
If they with hares and pheasants can return!
Ignotus was a man who work could get,
Had he not more than working loved his net;
On the brown fallow he the grain could throw,
Could use a flail, a sickle, scythe, or hoe;
To rustic youths he had no cause to yield,
A better workman seldom took the field;
Had not his failing been the death of hares,
Keeping a dog, and making nets and snares.
An old experienced poacher, nearly done,
Who scarce could walk, yet gloried in the fun,
Learnt him to call, and how to temper wire,
With rushes, straw, or shavings set on fire;
Told him what money on a night he made,
When he was young, and fewer of the trade;
An evening long he lengthened out his tale,
Spoke of his feasts on spirits, beef, and ale,
Then praised the persons who had bought his hares,—
Forgot his wants, his mis'ries, and his cares!
Though old, infirm, and racked with many a pain,
He almost wished to pass such nights again!
When sportsmen some notorious poachers fine,
On game at taverns they should never dine,
For fear it was their own the week before,
Hung in their parks, or shot upon the moor!
But here we scarce can tavern-keepers blame—
They wish to have a wide extended fame;
And but for poachers, what could such men do,
When for a feast they want a hare or two?
If there be supper, or a private ball,
Be there no game, it does not please at all;
The beaux and belles go home dissatisfied
With ev'ry dainty, roasted, baked, or fried.
The ladies blame the master of the house,
If in the feast there be nor snipes nor grouse;
For that is ever held the choicest dish,
That comes in secret, be it game or fish!
The ladies then in ecstasy declare
What part they took of partridge, grouse, or hare;
Describe the dainties when they each get home,
But ne'er consider how those dainties come:
For whether poachers steal from 'squires or kings,
This is the cause whence most of poaching springs.
The epicures of ev'ry trading town,
Who get a hare or pheasant for a crown,
Have done more harm than all the murd'ring wire
That e'er was tempered in the poacher's fire.
The bards of genius sing the orphan's woe,
The rise of nations, or their overthrow;
Others describe the shipwrecked sailor's fate,
The terrors of th' ensanguined field relate.—
Mine be the task to paint unto the life,
The deep distress of a poor poacher's wife,
Who in the worst of huts is forced to live
Where winter snow comes through it like a sieve;
The furniture, were it put up for sale,
Would scarcely make a crown to buy him ale;
His children to the utmost famine driv'n,
Quite destitute of clothes but what were giv'n
By one whose heart could at misfortunes melt,
Who knew their wants, and for their suff'rings felt.
He sees them shiv'ring oft without a fire,
And what should buy them coals is spent in wire;
Two-thirds laid out in powder, shot, and nets,
The other part the well-fed landlord gets,—
And when the night of danger's passed away,
While others work, he sleeps throughout the day:
But oft his sleep is broke by sudden fears,
He starts,—and thinks some bailiff's voice he hears,—
He lifts his head,—'tis famine all and dearth,
His famished children clinging round the hearth;
Disease destroying all his partner's charms,
And tears fall on the infant in her arms.
His conscience wakes, though nearly hard as stone—
He turns him o'er, and heaves a heavy groan;
Vows like an honest man's his days shall be—
At last convinc'd his deeds bring misery.
His weeping wife hears the repentant sighs,
In anguish t'ward him turns her tear-drenched eyes,
Thus speaks, with looks that would the marble move,
While weeping o'er the pledges of their love:
“Thou once dear youth, for whom I all forsook,
“To me and mine, O give one thoughtful look!
“Where shall we fly?—our credit all is o'er,
“Thy evil deeds have made and keep us poor.
“My mother, wearied out, no more can do,
“My father's bosom wasting with his woe!
“Thou, while at enmity with ev'ry friend,
“Dost only to the worst advice attend.
“Bring thou but constant wages, I could rest,
“And with a certain pittance should be blest.
“While others sit in plenty and at peace,
“As years roll on their nuptial joys increase.
“Here is our eldest and our only son,
“Who blessed us first ere sorrow had begun,
“Without a shoe to travel in the snow,
“By rags defended when the cold winds blow;
“Who knows not yet an alphabet or pray'r,
“Nor ever yet engrossed a father's care.
“Such things as these sink in my bosom deep,
“And hours unseen I sorrowing sit and weep.
“And see those little innocents beside,
“More than half naked, while clothes are washed and dried.
“While other children are with raiment blessed,
“And twice upon a Sabbath day are dressed,
“Ours stand aloof, upon the holy day,
“Or weep, upbraided with their rags at play.
“Debts undischarged, while thou enjoy'st thy cheer,
“Forgetful of the wants and sorrows here.
“How well could we be clothed,—how well be fed,
“If like an honest man's thy life was led;
“O that the purchasers of game could know
“My children's wants—the burden of my woe!”
While thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came,
Extensive orders he had got for game,
From a rich man in whom they could confide,
Theander, whom the poachers long had tried.
To those who bought his goods he presents made
Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betrayed
The youths who brought them from the distant wood,
And risked their lives to bear them o'er the flood!
Then to the distant parks with steps of haste,
They cheerful crossed the wide-extended waste.
The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high,
Though hid were half the diamonds of the sky;
While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air,
Shrouded the heav'ns, excepting here and there
The moonbeams darted through a misty veil,
And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale.
Two dogs attended them across the moor,—
A double-barrelled gun each poacher bore:
The hares were feeding on the turnips green,
But Wharf's broad stream rolled rapidly between,—
So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed,
They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost.
But soon they found the horse they oft had tried,
Which ne'er refused to cross the torrent wide;
Without a bridle to adorn his head,
The peaceful creature by his mane was led.
A while they on the brink consulting stood,
Then mounted both, and ventured at the flood.
The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong,—
Yet in the midst, they hummed the poacher's song,
To kill their fears; for who could help but fear?
Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near.
The aged horse, his oft-tried strength now lost,
And on the rapid stream they both were tossed!
Their homes the poachers ne'er had reached again,
Had not Ignotus grappled fast the mane;
Desparo seized his friend—'twas all he could,
And thus, half drowned, they ferried o'er the flood.
Upon the bank they search the ball and string,
And in the oil-case wrapped, they quickly bring
Across the stream their implements of sport,
And with them to the farmer's house resort.
The frugal, aged dame is filled with fear,
Lest some should say they harboured poachers there.
Her son—a sporting youth, then goes and draws
A jug of ale—regardless of the laws:
Then vows,—nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop,
Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop!
He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat,
And soon the poachers' clothes smoke with the heat.
The aged farmer, grieved, with locks turned grey,
Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away;
Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out,
To listen if the keepers are about;
While down his furrowed cheeks the tears run fast,
Afraid with him that year will be the last.
His landlord angry,—now no hope appears;
But his good farm, possessed for forty years,
He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone,
Through the bad actions of a wicked son.
With eyes suffused with tears, the poor old man
To reason with his son then thus began:
“O that I could persuade thee to give o'er
“This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor!
“Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live,
“My little all to thee I'd freely give:
“But now each field, untilled, neglected lies;
“Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies.
“While thou art ranging with thy nets and gun,
“Our cattle and our farm to ruin run;
“Among thy comrades all that little spent
“Which should have paid my long arrears of rent.
“Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot;
“I would have lived at this my native spot,
“Where I so many years of labour passed,
“And where I first drew breath, have breathed my last!
“But now, the workhouse”—here his anguish strong,
O'ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue!
The hardened poachers could not help but think;
But soon they took the quart, and swore “Let's drink!”
Ignotus vowed that was no time for fears,
The 'squire must have his score of living hares.
The rich Theander, grown by commerce great,
Had purchased with his wealth a wide estate;
Then down came ev'ry hedge, and ev'ry wall,
And ev'ry humble cot was doomed to fall.
Upon the rising hill each plan was drawn,
Of villa, gardens, grove, and sweeping lawn;
And planted were the trees of ev'ry hue,
The oak, the ash, the sycamore, and yew;
The fir, the larch, and plants not native here,
The poplar, with its waving leaves, was there.
The rills collected, formed a lake for trout,—
And who that has a park would be without?
With the high fence the whole was circled round,
But in the modern park no hares were found;
No pheasants in the new plantation bred,
Nor partridge chirruped its young brood to bed.
But what's the villa, garden, or park wall,
Except the hares are frisking round them all?
What pleasure in the grove and cooling breeze,
Except the pheasants glitter in the trees?
The partridge whirring from beneath our feet,
In our own grounds, is surely pleasure sweet!
So thought Theander,—who from poachers bought
With cheerful heart, all living game they brought.
But stop, my pen—O let it not be said
That great Theander would have bought them dead!
The poachers, with their nets, their dogs, and gun,
Directed truly by the farmer's son,
Then left the house, and hastened to the wood;
In silence there a while they list'ning stood,
Just when the hammer of the village bell
Twelve times heaved back, the midnight hour to tell.
Then Nature such an awful silence kept—
The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept;
The withered rushes on the heathy hill
Were scarcely moved—the tallest pines were still.
The waning moon a bloody vesture wore,
The only sounds the distant cataract's roar,
And deep-mouthed mastiffs, struggling in the chain,
Fierce barking to their echoed noise again.
This solemn scene no deep impression made
On hearts of flint, so hardened with the trade.
Then through the thick-grown briers they wandered slow,
Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough.
Ignotus swore they would not fire that night,
Till they beheld between them and the light
Ten glist'ning birds within the trees at rest;
For oft before they numbered many a nest,
And when the powder flashed, and shot had flown,
Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled down.
The number in the wood was quickly found;
They left them there, and ranged the open ground.
That night the poachers did their utmost strive
To catch the rich Theander hares alive.
Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went,
Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent:
And when the flying hare was just before,
Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more.
But fatal for poor Stormer was the night,
Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight,
Levelled their pieces at the vital part,
And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart;
While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued,
And left her partner struggling in his blood.
The echoing woods conveyed the swift report,—
The poachers guessed the end of that night's sport.
Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries,—
Rage filled each breast, and blazed within their eyes;
Ignotus swore, “This luckless night I'll die,
“Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie;
“And should a legion of gamekeepers come,
“The shot of both my barrels shall fly home!”
Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew,
As to the fatal place the poachers flew;
And, when arrived, Ignotus raised his head,
Then heaved a sigh, and deeply swore, “He's dead!
“O friend, Desparo! such a dog ne'er went
“Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent.
“Poor Stormer! look, Desparo, where he bled!—
“How oft to us he has the hares conveyed!
“How oft have I, with exultation great,
“Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet;
“But now his turnings of the hares are o'er,
“And he must pant close at their heels no more!”
No sooner had these words escaped his tongue,
Than four armed keepers, lusty, stout, and strong,
Leaped from the bushes with the full design
To make these bold marauders pay the fine.
O'er Stormer's death their bosoms were enraged;
In desperation, one with two engaged.
Around the poachers many a pellet flew,
Before in war they either trigger drew;
Then all at once their double barrels went;
The shot whizzed past,—its force in air was spent;
No time to load again,—they met in blows,
The poachers struggling with superior foes.
His piece Ignotus by the barrel took,
One adversary's arm in splinters broke;
He groaned and fled, his piteous case to tell;
Another stroke,—and strong Ignotus fell!
While bold Desparo, with his strong butt-end,
Made his antagonist to earth descend.
Now two disabled, furious was the fray,
Both sides were stupid, neither would give way,
The barrels broken from their carved stocks,
And on the field were strewed the torn-off locks.
Enraged, Ignotus rose, and drew his knife,
And cried, “Desparo's freedom or your life!”
The keepers, dreading much the fatal blow,
Took to their heels, and let the poachers go,
And where the 'squire who can such keepers blame?
They fought, 'tis true,—but who would die for game?
Next night, of game Desparo made a feast,
And every well-known brother was a guest.
Not to the ale-house did the group retire,
But drank and smoked around the poacher's fire:
Pheasants and grouse, and Stormer's last-caught hare,—
Domestic fowls, unbought, were roasted there.
Their liqour, home-brewed ale, and smuggled rum;
And each was armed had the excisemen come;
But these as soon durst fierce banditti meet,
As force their way into the lone retreat!
The supper ended, what a jovial crew!
Each showed his nets, of those they had not few.
From friend to friend the cheering bumpers ran,
The viol tuned, the merry dance began.
O that some greater bard had present been,
And touched with verse burlesque the festive scene!
Their tattered clothes were such as might have graced
Some farmer's scarecrow in a wheat field placed:
Thus doth misconduct bring the richest down,
And clothe with rags the poacher and the clown.
Ducando was a man of careful heart,
He seldom paid a sixpence for his quart;
To sip the smuggled drops was his delight,—
With such a group he spent the jovial night.
The keeper of the neighbouring 'squire was there,
Enjoyed the sport, and drowned all his care.
Inspired by drink, who can be silent long?
The poachers could not, but began their song

SONG.

The song was ended;—and Ignotus drew
The plan of ev'ry distant park he knew;
Described each gateway where he hung the net,
And ev'ry hedge, where oft his wire he set;
Marked out the fish-ponds, and the river's flood,
The pheasants' haunts, and where the villa stood.
“Upon this spot,” said he, “one stormy night,
“When darkest clouds obscured the moon's pale light,
“I stood alone, while Stormer ranged the plain,
“And five strong hares within my net were slain!
“And here the place where I my tackling hide
“When lusty keepers press on ev'ry side;
“And here, within the wood, the lonely dell,
“Where oft I fired, and sleeping pheasants fell.
“Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied,
“And there my game across the river ride;
“Then I the bridge securely travel o'er,
“And none take oath that murdered game I bore.”
The junior poachers silent sit and gaze,
And give with joy the senior poacher praise.
They laughed—they shouted—when the rhymer ceased,
(For fools, half drunk, with feeblest verse are pleased).
Then four strong keepers burst the shattered door,
And stood well armed upon the dirty floor.
Desparo and Ignotus forced their way;
The rest, o'erpowered, were captives forced to stay.
Game, newly killed, was in the cellar found,
Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread around:
The poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport,
To meet the dreadful audit of a court.
Desparo and Ignotus knew their cares,
Supplied their wants, and killed the 'squire his hares;
Death and destruction through his grounds were spread,
Till scarce a leveret on the clover fed.
With sorrows worn, and ebbing fast her life,
Unhelped, unheeded, lay the poacher's wife!
He spent his days in revelry and mirth;
While she, too weak to give her infant birth,
O'ercome with grief, and of her suff'ring tired,
Neglected, starved, and pitiless, expired!
No husband there, her fading eyes to close,—
Confess his guilt, though author of her woes.
When he was told the period of her pain,
He smiled, and had the tankard filled again!
Untouched with sorrow, anguish, or remorse,
One tear he never dropped upon her corse.
He left his home the two succeeding nights,
To make expenses for the fun'ral rites.
His starving children o'er their mother mourned,—
A neighbouring peasant o'er the infant yearned,
In pity took and nursed it as her own,—
And sure such deeds are worthy of renown.
Loosed from his wife, with whom he jarring lived,
His children bread through charity received.
One night he spent where lies famed Robin Hood,
The next where Harewood's ancient castle stood;
The beauteous vale of Wharf he wandered o'er,—
Expecting wealth, but still was always poor.
What he in dangers got at taverns went,
Or in rich treats was on his comrades spent.
Read this, ye rich,—who stolen game receive,
And think how wretchedly the poachers live:
Far from your feasts prohibit lawless game,
Caught in disgrace,—and purchas'd too with shame!
Ye rustic plunderers, who sport by night,
And fearlessly invade another's right,
Cold winds and storms your frame will soon impair,
Your robust limbs will soon in sickness wear;
Though firm your sinews as the hardest steel,
Your constitution must your follies feel:
The sport, the bowl, the glass, the cheering quart,
Soon, soon will fail to animate the heart.
Ye who purloin by night the harmless game,
Ere youth is past, old age shall rack your frame.
No days well spent can you look back to view,
At last convinced this axiom is true,—
“If injured lords no punishment prepared,
“Drinking and poaching bring their own reward.”
On lost Ignotus' fate a moment gaze,
Who in his cups oft gained the drunkard's praise;
He swiftly hasted with his pilfered load
The bridge to shun and oft-frequented road.
Beneath a sheet of ice the river slept,
Half o'er its course the thoughtless poacher stepped,
Around his feet the yielding crystal bends,
And dreadful in a spreading circle rends!
He heard—he trembled,—but it was too late,
The ice gave way, and locked him up with fate.
Till morning came his faithful lurcher stopped,—
Howled near the chasm through which his master dropped.
His frantic children viewed the fatal cleft,
Though injured,—their affection still was left;
Their grief,—their woe,—can never be expressed,—
Imagination must depict the rest.
His corse, though sought, was never brought to land,
But somewhere lies deep shrouded in the sand!
His neighbours wept not, though he ne'er returned,
And for his loss his children only mourned.
No distant parks but ev'ry shade he knew,
From whence at morn the waking pheasants flew;
The lonely streams where speckled fishes played,
And where the hares upon the mountains fed.
The dark brown heath, upon the trackless moor,
With dog and gun he often travell'd o'er;
In winter's frost, upon some rocky spot,
He called the list'ning grouse within his shot,
Then on his upraised knee he levelled true,—
The trigger pulled,—the moor-cock never flew:
But now—the hares may feed, the fishes play,
The pheasants sleep upon the lofty spray;
The grouse, secure, may in the rushes rest,
The speckled pairs of partridge form their nest;
The keepers now their watchings may give o'er,
Ignotus, prince of poachers, is no more!

ELWOOD AND ELVINA.

GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE.

Death and Disease my solemn muses be;
Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canopy;
Let Sorrow dictate every mournful line,
And, true Repentance, let the strains be thine!
Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain,
O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain.
Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were,
Before their infant eyes could drop a tear;
And when they felt the first of earthly joys,
When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys,
Plucked in each other's gardens flowers they chose,
And smiled together, when they knew not woes.
How oft their parents talked of future times,
And prayed that they might e'er be clear from crimes,
Pleased to behold them in a garment new,
And loved them better as they older grew!
Young Philo joined them—then the happy three
In pleasure lived, and knew not misery.
Far on the hills, amid the purple bloom
Of honeyed heath, they talked of bliss to come;
Then bathed amid the mountain's crystal spring,
Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing.
A thousand sports were there to make them blest,
The happiest moments when the heath they pressed;
When the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew,
Screaming around their heads in circles flew,
And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath,
To save their little broods from instant death;
But when the cruel youths once came too nigh,
They spread their wings, and showed they yet could fly:
An emblem these of joys seen just before,
We grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more.
Oft in mischievous sport these took delight,
And made the sable evening clouds be bright
With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry.
The heath soon blazed, and seemed to light the sky;
As if some great volcano there had been,
And blushed the clouds as they beheld the scene.
Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame,
When blazed the woods, and liquid iron came;
Compare it then to Ætna in his mirth,
And spoke of Herculaneum swept from earth;
Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze,
And wished that he could on its terrors gaze.
The furious flames now to a circle spread
A mile around, and tinged the smoke with red:
Then came the besom-makers with a shout,
And with their besoms strove to dash it out;
Singed with the flames, they could not heat abide,
For they with brooms as soon had stopped the tide.
The ling was deep, and old and strong the bed,
Dry was the night—the flames in fury spread
To such extent, that nought could stop their force,
Till not a branch of heath was in their course.
Where first the fire began the youths were lain,
Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again.
Their other fires some acres swept away,
This blackened many hundreds ere 'twas day:
An emblem this of drink—we take a quart,
Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part,
And then another glass, perhaps the same,
Till folly spreads into a foolish flame.
My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys,—
They spent their lives in play, like other boys.
Young Philo was to learning most inclined,
But Amphorus to music turned his mind.
Paros, a lovely youth, within his breast
Of mortal feeling surely had the best.
He never mis'ry saw, but shed a tear,
He had no friends, but loved them far too dear;
Believed all flatterers were such as he,
So honest, man's deceit he could not see.
The evening sun of summer seldom set,
But these three youths in purest friendship met,
Talked till the light was faded in the sky,
Or listened Amphorus' wild melody.
Sometimes young Philo struggling with his theme,
An evening from his comrades would redeem;
His mind expanded as his knowledge grew,
And learning's every step more pleasant grew.
He saw the hidden stores of Grecian lore—
Each draught he took but made him thirst for more.
Amphorus said, “For nought on earth I'll live
“But those sweet pleasures harmony can give;
“Whate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent
“On music, and the noble instrument
“Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone
“Which shakes foundations of the firmest stone.
“The viol's varied tones I yet will know,
“The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow;
“Each varied part my bosom shall inspire,
“Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir;
“And marches for the army I'll compose,
“Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes.
“The music of the ancient school I'll learn,
“And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn;
“Mozart, Von Weber, in each varied flight
“I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight.”
Young Paros, smiling, looked on Nature's face,
And with his eye her outlines he could trace;
In youth he begged for colours to be bought,
To place upon the canvas what he thought.
With practice now he can in shades portray
The varied tints of soft departing day,
Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade,
That many thought the pencilled objects played.
The youths and virgins, in the bowers of love,
Were so like nature, that they seemed to move.
Whene'er the landscape was by Paros shown,
The varied trees and every shrub were known.
Send Paros where you would, in every place
His lively eyes were fixed on Nature's face;
But such his application for a name,
Deep study shook at last his tender frame,
And for his health, and for the art he loved,
From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he removed.
Pleased with the paintings where the masters shone,
He gazed upon them as a chiselled stone
Formed to a statue; so engaged his mind,
He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind;
But when the time arrived that he must part,
The thoughts of Grasmere rushed upon his heart.
No scenes in Paris gave him such delight
As he had found upon Helvellyn's height,
Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high,
And round its rocks the croaking ravens fly.
Grandeur may be at Paris in fine forms,
But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms.
Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er,
What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore,
Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high,
The cataract seems as rushing from the sky?
These Paros saw—retiring in despair,
He durst not try such grandeur as was there.
Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake
Slow curling to the hills in many a flake,
And as the morning sun sent forth his rays,
The scene was far above the greatest praise;
Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows,
When the pure lake upon its surface shows
Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high—
Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy.
Oft Paros viewed the yellow orb of night,
When rising on the lake with golden light,
Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame,
And with the scene soft Meditation came.
Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore,
Oft Paros sat, and heard its torrent roar,
Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell
Hummed through the valley with a solemn swell.
The hills returned the sound with weakened power,
And told the artist 'twas the midnight hour.
He thought upon the peace he left behind—
The thoughts of Ellen pressed upon his mind;
Ellen, that ever was to Paros true,
At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew.
Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height,
Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white
As is the snow where British eagles yell,
Upon the mighty rocks where Goothë fell.
When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars,
He thought of France and all her bloody wars,
With all the arts,—to Paros these gave pain,
While admiration mingled with disdain,
To think what noble works to France were brought,
The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought,
When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine
Such works were torn as, France, were never thine;
While the great artists slept within the tomb,
By study hastened to an early home,
Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears,
With by-past actions of a thousand years,—
Adam and Eve, the flaming sword behind,
So well portrayed, it seemed as if the wind
Bended the flames, or as Eve's flowing hair
Waved with the blast of vengeance that was there,—
The Saviour dead—before the sheet was thrown
O'er Him that made all worlds, and wears the crown.
Great is the imitation!—but I shrink
That greatest artists ever dared to think
To paint the Saviour, giver of all bliss,—
Raphael ne'er could form a face like His,
Could he have seen how fair in death He slept—
The hardest heart that viewed it would have wept.
These things are nothing to the present theme;
Paros believed his Saviour would redeem
Poets and painters, though they wildly roved,
For genius sure in heaven must be beloved.
When o'er Brussels dark Night had cast her shade,
Hundreds were dressing for the masquerade,
In all the varied costumes nations wear
In every clime throughout each hemisphere.
As great Apollo Philo's head was crowned,
Who led the dance, with Muses circled round.
With grand, majestic step Apollo trod—
The sons of song paid homage to the god.
First Homer came, a venerable form,
Upon his breast portrayed the ocean storm,
Above, the gods, descending from the sky,
Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy;
Across the poet's breast a robe was flung,
And there portrayed the battles that he sung.
Next ancient Hesiod, whose mighty strains
Were heard from earth to the celestial plains;
Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear,
Horace and Pindar pay their homage there.
Then Shakespeare comes, with a majestic mien,
The trumpet's sounds the greatest bard proclaim;
Apollo bows, and reaches forth his hand,
Around the Muses and the poets stand;
Apollo crowns him with a wreath of light,
Whereon is written, “Nature, Depth, and Height.”
Cupid is on his robe, the dying maid
Within the tomb of Capulets portrayed;
The field of battle, and the ocean storm,
The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied form;
The meeting armies, and the murdered kings,
E'en some short sketch of all created things.
Philo, to praise the mighty bard, displayed
The noblest scene of all the masquerade;
His robes he changed, the merry dance he joined
With fair French belles, as lovely as refined.
Through every stage of life he strove to pass,
Resolved to see how varied Nature was:
But here the youth was foolish, learned, and vain,
His genius drowned in the bright champagne;
Wisdom departed, riot took her place,
And led young Philo into deep disgrace.
The scene must drop, and hide him from our sight,
With all the follies of a drunkard's night.
Learning is not true wisdom. Youths may be
Refined and polished to a high degree;
Genius may mark the scholar for her own,
Yet by her brightest sons is often shown
Minds that can soar in rapture to the skies,
On Learning's wings—feel noblest ecstasies,
Then sink to earth; and mixing with the throng,
In Folly's path with drunkards roll along.
With best of resolutions Philo came,
And deeply sighed, through grief and inward shame.
Oppressed with sickness, his ideas fled,
His memory weakened, and an aching head;
A ruined appetite, a trembling hand,
His pen obeying not his mind's command.
To drive away the melancholy train
Of dark ideas, he flew to wine again;
An ecstasy he felt in getting drunk—
To what a depth his learned mind was sunk!
Then horror seized him, and his eyes rained tears,
That all the learning of his youthful years,
With which his father hoped to make him blessed,
Should only leave his bosom more oppressed.
Oft would his mind upon the muses' wings
Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things;
Beyond mortality were Philo's strains
Tuned to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains.
He sung not love's soft passion, lovers' care,
His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and air;
In deepest bursts of passion he could shine,
And power and harmony filled every line.
With thoughts original, with words at will,
His verses made his readers' blood run chill,
But not with horror,—'mid the stars he trod,
And sung th' omnipotence of Nature's God;
On wings of fancy his unfettered soul
Flew far as comets soar or planets roll.
Where undescribed Infinity had birth,
He looked in vain for this small spot of earth,
Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide,
Then asked—“What am I? what is human pride,
What our conceptions, learn whate'er we can,
What is the pomp, the dignity of man,
Compared with Him? How mighty is the thought!
He spoke—the worlds, the systems sprung from nought?
Rolling in darkness all the heavenly spheres,
He says, ‘Let there be light!’ and light appears;
And when it shall be the Creator's will,
A word can make the rolling orbs be still.
At His command the orbs burst out in flame,
Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came.”
At intervals, the muse of Philo sung
In strains like these, then silent was her tongue.
The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes,
Invention's fled, the nervous feeling wakes;
His eyes have lost their fire, his faltering tongue
Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong,
His memory's fled, invention laid at rest—
His heart-strings quiver in his weakened breast;
But still the thoughts of other bards' despair,
The sons of misery and rankling care,
Prompted a last, though enervated lay,
And this the substance of his weak essay:
“Where merit lives, the greatest sorrow swells,
Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dwells;
Obscure in life the man of letters mourns,
While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns;
Or if his reputation widely spread,
Oft has he starved, and even wanted bread,
Perished in poverty, of little note,
While others profited by what he wrote.
“The poor blind Homer, noblest bard of all,
Or moved by want, or pressed by hunger's call,
Mourning in shame, he scarce durst raise his head,
But spoke immortal verse to gain his bread.
Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile,
A miller was—then sat, and wrote awhile;
It was no shame that he, a poet born,
Should sometimes sing, whilst others ground the corn.
Xylander studied at eighteen for fame,
His hope, his glory, was a poet's name:
His notes on Dion Cassius, every line,
Were sold for want, that he once more could dine;
Then his young vanity for ever fled,
He thought, he studied, how to write for bread.
Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head,
But soon they found the great Agrippa dead;
Forced from his native valleys to depart,
Despair and poverty had broke his heart.
The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his lyre—
Dimmed was the poet's eye, and quenched his fire;
He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet,
Perished from hunger in the public street;
Child of the muses! he, a poet born,
Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn!
Upon the bard the haughty, wealthy gaze,
And those who most neglected, gave him praise.
He heard it not, his noble soaring mind
Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind.
Tasso, in great distress, had nought to spend,
Till he a crown had borrowed from a friend;
And when in study he sat up at night,
So poor, he oft was destitute of light;
But soared above all want, he wrote—and praise
Has formed his chaplet in succeeding days.
Great Ariosto bitterly complains
Of poets' misery, of poets' gains,
Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot,
And built the bard a little rustic cot;
When these were done, the poet's soul was glad,
Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad;
He found few riches flow from poets' strings,
And palaces and verse are different things.
See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen,
When Spenser was approaching, step between
Her and the bard whose fame through lands resounds,
Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds:
He thought his clerks deserv'd far more than he—
The child of genius and of poverty.
But Burleigh's name detested shall be read,
Who caused the bard to die for want of bread.
O poets! hope not favour from the great,
These merit often cast beneath their feet.
Savage, unfortunate, by want distressed,
When cares and sorrows on his bosom pressed,
Th' eccentric ‘Wand'rer’ he had studied years,
Smiled on its lines, or wet them with his tears,
Starving through want, no silver he nor gold,
For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold;
And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven,
For his great work, had just the same sum given.
Otway and Butler suffered here in time,
One starved, and one imprisoned for his rhyme;
But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth,
Whose genius soared in hyperbole or truth,
Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings,
As o'er the clouds he touched his powerful strings,
Oppressed with misery, o'ercome with care,
Fell, early victim to a dark despair!
A luxury he thought a single tart,
And study and long starving broke his heart.
He who to water got sometimes no bread,
We see applauded, when the youth is dead.
Poor Boyce, who wrote ‘Creation,’ see him stand,
White as the paper, while Death shook his hand!
Cold in the garret, destitute of fire,
This son of song the world left to expire.
No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread
Found in his garret, when the bard was dead!
Here had he died in penury alone,
O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown,
A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast,
And in his hand was found his pen at last!
The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride,
In his youth's bloom full prematurely died,
Too independent was his mind to bend
To ask a favour even from a friend;
He struggled hard against his adverse fate,
And when assistance came, it came too late:
Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceased its sounds,
They heaped upon his dust seven thousand pounds!
I speak the truth, what every man must feel—
This would have bought and stocked for him Mossgiel;
But poets seldom rise while here they live,
The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they give.”
Philo, irresolute, is still led on,
Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone.
The rosy cheek is pale, the manly face,
Where Health had stamped her own strong masc'line grace,
Fast shrinks away, and difficult the breath—
He feels the woeful harbingers of death.
Fain would he turn to his once healthful food,
But nought he sees can do the smallest good.
Life would die out, as tapers do expire,
Did not strong spirits keep alive the fire.
His old companions, true to him when young,
Come to inquire, but when he hears each tongue,
Oh, how he weeps!—he knows what is the cause
Of his strong system making such a pause,
Wishes that all the spirits e'er he drunk,
Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk.
I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind,
When he must leave his dearest love behind.
The cares of earth with him will soon be o'er,
But what a boundless ocean lies before.
Amph'rus beheld his early grave, but grief
Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief.
The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead,
Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom bled.
The days of youth, but newly left behind,
With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind.
Young Philo's sister he before had loved—
From her his constant bosom never moved;
But long had absence torn their hearts in twain,
And deep the grief when these can meet again.
With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke,
And all the sister in her bosom woke:
“Philo is now no more—oh! Amph'rus, hear
This last request—I make it with a tear.
Philo, my brother, is untimely gone,
And Paros' sand of genius too is run—
Oh! drink no more—stop, ere the hour come soon,
Which makes your morning sun go down at noon!”
He heard and wept—he trembled for his fate—
He would return, but feared it was too late.
His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost,
His mind from music to despair was tost.
Just like a youth when running down a hill,
And shows his action and his youthful skill,
Who sees, at length, a gulf where he must drop,
But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop;
He takes a spring, to live or rise no more—
He's saved—his effort brings him safely o'er.
Amph'rus beheld before the gulf of death,
The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath,
Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer,
He lives—and yet his noble notes I hear.
When in the minster all the octaves swell,
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well;
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute,
'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute.
In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines,
And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines.
But, oh! what morals do the writers make!—
'Tis better far to give advice than take.
Oh! could I write that I myself could save
From this one curse, this sure untimely grave,
This endless want, that soon must stop my breath,
These flaming draughts, which bring disease and death,
Then should my Muse upon her wings advance,
And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
I know there's mirth, and oft a flash of joy,
When friends with friends a social hour employ,
When the full bowl is circled all around,
And not a single jarring string is found;
But truest wisdom of a young man's heart,
Is well to know the moment to depart.
Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin
To mix with friends in this bewitching sin,
Soon lose their resolution, and what then?
Their privilege is gone to other men,
Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where
They seemed so happy with his social cheer,
When all is spent, and all resources o'er,
Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door.
I could employ my pen for weeks, for years,
Write on this subject, wet it with my tears;
For spacious as the ocean is the scope,
For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope,
Lays best of characters below the dust,
And fills connections with a deep distrust.
But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told—
Eternity alone can these unfold.
That I may know these ills, and stop in time,
Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.

THE DRUNKARD'S RETRIBUTION.

Where is the ink so sable in its hue,
That can portray the picture dark and true;
The horrid state which language fails to tell,
The dark confusion, and the earthly hell!
In such sad state how often have I thought—
O! that I could sink backward into nought!
Reason o'erthrown and anguish in its place,
I thought myself below the reach of grace.
Despair o'erwhelm'd my soul, and keen remorse:
To know I lived, became my bitt'rest curse;
My sorrowing friends appear'd my greatest foes,
And cheerful songs but added to my woes.
The phantom trumpets, the imagin'd band,
Methought I heard, which summon'd me to stand
High in the pillory—to meet disgrace;
My trembling heart shrunk back from every face.
Thus swiftly did imagination rove,
And o'er the prostrate throne of reason drove.
Afraid of poison from a mother kind,
I durst not drink,—suspicion fill'd my mind.
Each trembling leaf, if shaken by the blast,
Struck me with terror as I hurried past.
I deemed myself the cause of all the guilt
That fills the earth—of all the blood e'er spilt,
And that kind Heaven would deign on earth to dwell,
Were I but hurried to the deepest hell.

THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR.