University of Virginia Library

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.