Craven Blossoms or, Poems chiefly connected with the district of Craven. By Robert Storey |
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| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
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| 1. |
| 2. |
PART SECOND.
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 | Craven Blossoms |  |
47
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:
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,—
48
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.
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!
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!
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“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!”
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.
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!
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.
50
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.
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;
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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.
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,
52
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!”
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!”
53
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!
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.
The welcome of the good old dame.
'Twere meeter here to tell of all
That happed in Skipton's castle-hall,
54
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!”
To sigh by cliff and stream alone.
The lady, in her father's bower,
Sighs too, or weeps away the hour.
55
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.
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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.
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.
| Craven Blossoms | |