The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
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!
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!
58
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.”
59
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!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |