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 |  |
72
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:
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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,
74
They heap upon it, brighter yet will glow.”
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |