Craven Blossoms :: :: University of Virginia Library

There was a time when Craven saw,
From Bingley all to Outershaw,
One forest stretch o'er hill and dale
Unlimited by wall or pale,
Where free by dell and greenwood glade
The deer of stout De Clifford strayed.
From peasant's bolt or outlaw's spear,
That lord to save his forest-deer,
Had many a ranger tried and bold
In hamlets scattered o'er the wold.

Of these blithe guardians of the game
Lived one, Fitz-Harcla was his name.
The Wharf in fury and in foam
Impetuous passed his sylvan home.
For length of wind and length of limb,
No ranger trod the wild like him.
No boar so fierce in Barden-dell,
But young Fitz-Harcla's spear could quell;
There lived not man beneath the sun
Fitz-Harcla's spear would seek to shun;
On to the mark he kept in view
His cross-bow's bolt unerring flew;
His arrow, fledged with gray goose wing,
The sky-lark from the cloud could bring,
Or, from a hundred paces' stand,
Divide the hazel's slender wand.
In short 'twas said the feats so long
Preserved in Sherwood's tale and song—
And long unrivalled—shrunk at length
Before Fitz-Harcla's skill and strength.

The sun was set. The tints of eve
The western sky began to leave.
Like thread of silver, faint and far,
The new moon hung beside her star.
Of hawthorn-blossoms bursting round,
Of wild flowers viewless on the ground,
The soft gale breathed. Fitz-Harcla stood
Delighted 'mid the fresh green wood.
He stood—no maiden had a part
In young Fitz-Harcla's simple heart;
The evening star 'twas his to spy
Without a dream of Beauty's eye;
The flowers might blossom—scent nor streak
Told him of Beauty's breath or cheek;
And yet that night in loitering mood
Amid the grove Fitz-Harcla stood.

A deeper and a deeper shade
Fell round him. Wondering why he stayed,
He called his dog and hastened on;
But not ten paces had he gone

When a tall rock, abrupt and gray,
Arose and barred his further way.
Fitz-Harcla paused—no spot of ground
To him was strange for leagues around,
And well he weened no day had e'er
Looked on the rock ascending here!
Yet here it was—immense, though dim—
And thrown betwixt his path and him!

While yet he wondered, from the rock
Sounds of the dance and music broke—
Music so soft, so sweet as ne'er
Before had charmed Fitz-Harcla's ear!
And then, too, with the mirthful din,
A beam of light, shot from within,
Showed to the ranger, half-entranced,
The elfin forms of those that danced!
—The youth to many a fairy tale
Had listened in his native dale
With doubt, and oft with scorn,—but here
Fitz-Harcla saw, and saw with fear;

For the “green people” well he knew
Though sometimes kind, malignant too.
He crossed himself, and tried to say
An Ave Mary as he may,
Then peeped, 'twixt joy and fear, to see
The fairies at their revelry!

Wide—lofty—long—the cavern seemed,
But there no lamp nor taper gleamed—
Along the sides, and overhead,
Brilliants, as thick as dew-drops, shed
A rich and tender light, as though
Ten thousand glowworms lent the glow!
In that undazzling light serene
Were tiny knights and ladies seen,
Arrayed, as wont, in robes of green,
Who, fast as gnats in sunshine glance,
Blended the ever-varying dance.

As gazed Fitz-Harcla curiously,
The minstrels ceased their minstrelsy.

The dancers at the sign divide,
Disposed in ranks on every side,
Leaving all clear the space between—
And the young ranger's eye hath seen
A pair upon a natural dais
Of turf and flowers assume their place.
The one a knight—with gems and gold
Glittering upon his mantle's fold;
And that a lady, young and fair,
With what seemed jewels in her hair,
And o'er whose shoulders, freshly wreathed,
Garlands of wild flowers bloomed and breathed.

Fitz-Harcla gazed, admiring, till
He saw, set forth by fairy skill,
What seemed a table, raised between
The rows, and all of turf so green,
Which soon was decked by nimble hands
With cups, like shells from Ocean's sands:
When now one rose, and wildly rung
The echoing cavern as she sung.

Fairy's Song.

We have been at the sea, where the billows foamed free,
To gather the pearls for our hall;
Their love-lighted lamps from hawthorns and swamps
The glowworms have brought at our call.

The bee we have spoiled—her stinging we foiled—
Of the very best hoard to-day;
And the milk from the dam, that she meant for the lamb,
We have drained and brought it away.

But noble and great, with honours and state,
That man shall suddenly be,
Whose dairy unsealed the butter shall yield
That pleases our fair Ladye.

And yellow as gold, or the king-cup's fold,
And sweet as the dews of May,
The butter must be to please our Ladye
In the eve of her bridal day!

“To Burnsall go!” Fitz-Harcla cried,
“And from my dairy be supplied.”
He spoke forgetful, and a space
His heart beat quick—when all the place
Echoed as from a thousand lips—
“Thanks, mortal, thanks! Fate's dark eclipse
No more shall dim thy merit! Be
A son of immortality!
Rich in thy life, and in thy death
Encircled with Affection's breath!
And borne to distant times along
By warm tradition and by song!
Mortal! approach,—and let this token
Confirm the truth that we have spoken;

Withdraw, and all that we have said
Shall turn to curses on thy head!”

Forward the bold Fitz-Harcla went,
Much marvelling no impediment
Of rock opposed his step. He took
The proffered cup, though tremour shook
His out-stretched hand and paley lip—
St. Mary! will Fitz-Harcla sip?
He sipped, rash youth! and saw no more,
But sank upon the cavern floor.
—Morn, with her warm and rosy beam
Awakened him as from a dream—
The birds sung sweet—the fresh'ning breeze
Opened the flowers and stirred the trees.
Amazed he rose. The rock immense—
The cavern's wild magnificence—
Were vanished all; and sunbeams played
Upon a vacant forest glade!

He called his dog—it came not nigh;
He wound his horn with summons high;

Then, thoughtful, through the lonely strath,
He slowly traced his homeward path.
His simple mind bewildered all,
He strove the vision to recall.
The rock—the cave—the light—the song—
The charmëd cup—the fairy throng
Came o'er him all in rich confusion:
It could not be!—'twas all delusion!
Some fairy tale, in memory kept,
Had formed the picture while he slept.
He came to this conclusion wise
Just as his cottage met his eyes—
Its woodbined casement glancing bright—
Its azure smoke ascending light—
Its opening door, from whence a train
Of dogs their welcome barked amain,
All blithe—save one, whose drooping plight
Betrayed the recreant of the night.

Long since Fitz-Harcla's sire had been
Interred in Burnsall's church-yard green.

His mother, mistress of the dome,
Industrious, ruled the ranger's home;
And much alarm the good old dame
Had suffered till Fitz-Harcla came.
Yet her inquiries led him not
To mention of the fairy grot—
He told of being, and he smiled,
O'erta'en by sleep in forest wild,
And how he slept till morning broke,
And hungry as a grey-hound woke.

The matron then produced her cheer—
A pasty, like a peel, of deer;
Of rich and unskimmed milk a bowl;
A mighty cheese supports the whole.
“Butter! and then”—the ranger cried,
“Butter—St. Mark!” the dame replied,
“The pantry, though so stored last night,
Of butter now is empty quite!

Thieves! thieves!”—and dread denouncings ran,
For when was woman slow to ban?
—Much mused Fitz-Harcla now, yet nought
Allowed to 'scape of what he thought.
'Twas plain his 'venture, though it seem
So wild, had been no idle dream—
He had beheld the fairy throng,
Tasted their cheer, and heard their song—
Had gift bestowed, and, more than all,
Had heard their thanks in blessings fall.
Where might it end? Hopes new and bright
Danced in Fitz-Harcla's mental sight!

Peel, a small castle.

2. PART SECOND.

When spring's green buds to leaves had grown,
And wild briar roses all were blown,
On couch of heath, with thoughtful mind,
One night Fitz-Harcla lay reclined.
The moon looked in with calmest beam;
And, but for Wharf's resounding stream,
Upon Fitz-Harcla's ear arose
No sound to break the still repose.
—At once was dimmed the moonshine's fall,
At once a voice was heard to call—
“Fitz-Harcla, rise and come away!
The cause forbids a moment's stay—
A precious life's in jeopardy—
Fitz-Harcla, rise and follow me!”
Upsprung the youth. With hurried hand
He seized and buckled on his brand,
His quiver fixed, and round him threw
His mighty bow of trusty yew,—

Then followed, with his swiftest stride,
The flying footsteps of his guide,
Who, as they crossed the dewy plain,
Trilled, softly wild, the sequent strain:

Song.

“'Tis lovely! for on high
A thin mist scares the sky,
And gives richness to the mild yellow moon,
And the gentle light of day
Seems scarcely gone away,
But mingles with the summer night's noon.

“'Tis lovely! for the wood
Throws its shadow on the flood,
And the flood lies so calm and so pure—
From its depth it seems to show
Yet a sweeter world below,
More delicately bright and obscure!

“Away—away—away!
There is night, and there is day,
And villains veil their crimes from the one;
But guilt that shuns the light
Will do its deed by night—
Away, happy youth, hasten on!”

Such was the song his leader sung;
Fitz-Harcla knew the fairy's tongue.

They paused where trees a shadow made;
A shriek was heard from neighbouring shade;
And soon Fitz-Harcla's eye could mark,
Beneath a pine-tree broad and dark,
A lady struggling in the gripe
Of ruffians—“Mortal, fate is ripe!”
Exclaimed the fairy. “Bend thy bow,
And lay the shameless villains low;
And if no meed thy effort crown,
'Twill be because thou art a—clown.

This chance thy kindness gains from me;
Farewell—the rest depends on thee!”
His trusty bow Fitz-Harcla drew,
The whizzing dart unwavering flew;
One ruffian fell—the other fled;
But one more arrow vengeful sped—
A stifled groan, a shiver more,
And life and agony are o'er!

Fitz-Harcla ran and raised the maid
Extended in the pine-tree's shade.
He waked her from a death-like swoon,
Then stood astonished, by the moon
To mark, with life's returning glow,
The eye of light—the neck of snow—
The lovely brow—the sunny hair
Of bold De Clifford's daughter fair!
—Oft had he seen her with his lord,
By thronging knights almost adored,
On palfrey light with silver bells
Urge the gay chace in Craven's dells;

Himself the while, amid such stir,
Not all unmarked of them and her.
His archer-skill, his bearing bold,
By all that saw them were extolled;
And she has said he walked the earth
With the free step of lofty birth.

Glad was, I ween, the lady fair
To waken in the Ranger's care.
With voice more mellow than the tone
Of redbreast in the woods alone,
She thanked him for her life—or, yet
More dear, her honour; spoke of debt
Immense which, far as riches may,
Her father would, she knew, repay.
Fitz-Harcla said what any one
So placed, so feeling, might have done,
But with a grace unknown to all
Save those who move in courtly hall—
Such is the effect of fairy charm!
The lady took his proffered arm,

And as they traced the moonlight wold
Her 'venture to her saviour told.

“The wretch your timely arrow sent,
Unshrived, alas! to punishment,
Of high and noble lineage came,
And bore, himself, a noble name.
But what is name, or fame—if vice
Deprives the jewel of its price?
This worthless heart to win he strove,
And felt or feigned the warmth of love.
Fitz-Harcla, hear my soul avow
I hated him I pity now!
Piqued by my scorn, this evening he
Stole on my walk's green privacy—
Seized both my hands with sudden clasp—
Stifled my shriek with rudest grasp—
And bore me through the forest shades;
That other wretch, his menial, aids.
Some angel sent thee, sure, in time
To mar the meditated crime!”

Such was her tale. Romances light
Have made, to us, the story trite;
But to Fitz-Harcla it was new,
And strange, and villanous, and true—
And as he walked, emotions high
Now flushed his cheek—now dewed his eye.
'Tis whispered, too, though scarce I dare
My credit in the tale declare,
That while they to his cottage stepped,
And while by turns he chafed and wept,
The lady, by his feeling moved,
With tenderest looks the same approved;
That one time, but, no doubt, by chance,
She cast a most alluring glance,
Which he, by chance, paid with a mute,
Respectful, though a warm salute!

I may not linger to proclaim
The welcome of the good old dame.
'Twere meeter here to tell of all
That happed in Skipton's castle-hall,

Where mourned, with lamentation wild,
De Clifford for his vanished child—
How horsemen thence were hurried forth
To east, to west, to south, to north,
And all returning as they went
Increased the clamour and lament.
'Twere better still, had I the power,
To paint the joy at morning's hour,
When leaning on Fitz-Harcla's arm
Returned the maid devoid of harm—
When bold De Clifford heard her tell
The 'venture o'er as it befell—
Heard her most eloquent justice do
To young Fitz-Harcla's courage true—
And vowed, by every saint above,
To guerdon well the deed of love.

Fitz-Harcla's to the greenwood gone
To sigh by cliff and stream alone.
The lady, in her father's bower,
Sighs too, or weeps away the hour.

Her cheek is pale—her eyes of blue
Have lost the glance they lately threw—
Her harp is seldom touched—her lute
Is now at eve in turret mute.
De Clifford sees a shadow dim
The fairest light that shines for him!
—The young were summoned to his hall;
Tried were the banquet and the ball;
But nought, beyond the moment, e'er
Her heart's despondence seemed to cheer.
At length the truth, by all discerned
Or guessed, the startled father learned:
“Blows the wind thence?” De Clifford cried,
“My daughter be a ranger's bride!
Where, then, were that pure blood sent down
From many a noble of renown?
Sullied by that of peasants? No!
But gaining thence a healthier flow,
Courage and worth the ennoblers are,
Not the vain title or the star.

For once, at least—though sneer the proud—
A peasant's worth shall be allowed;
For once shall Rank his hosts remove,
And leave the field to conquering Love!”

Brightly the summer sunbeams fell
On Skipton's tower and fair chapelle,
When, blushing, to the altar's side
Fitz-Harcla led his lovely bride.
—All o'er the path they walked upon
Were fresh and dewy flowers bestrown;
But, to the wonder of the train,
The hands that strewed unseen remain,
Though still, as on the bridal passed,
New blooms descended thick and fast!
None but Fitz-Harcla knew that fair
And fairy hands were busy there—
A happy omen thence he drew,
Which many a brilliant year proved true.