Craven Blossoms :: :: University of Virginia Library

[That the reader may understand the following extracts, it is necessary to give him some idea of the Poem from which they are taken. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, nearly the whole of Craven was divided between the two great families of Clifford and Percy. The Poem opens with the arrival, about that time, and in that part of Yorkshire, of Lady Margaret Percy, attended by a number of Nobles and Gentlemen, from Northumberland, who have come with the double view of seeing the beauties of the district, and of partaking with the Cliffords, as had long been the wont, in the pleasures of the CHASE. From the latter circumstance the Poem derives its name.—I have selected, for present publication, that part which describes their appearance in the vicinity of Malham, the curiosities of which may be supposed to have attracted considerable notice, even in the rude era to which the Poem relates. They are led by a Guide in the habit of a Monk

of Bolton Priory; but who that personage is, or who they are whom the reader will find acknowledging him their Chief,—as a disclosure would lessen the interest of the Poem itself, should that ever appear,—I must be permitted for the present to conceal.]

[OMITTED]

XI.

“Not Cheviot shows a sterner dell
Than that on which the moonshine fell,
Shadowy and soft, of yesternight:
How rose its rocks—o'er mist—in light,
Gleaming in dew like cavern-spars,
And soaring towards the vault of stars!”
“'Twas the Moon's flattery, Lady, threw
Along that dell enchantment's hue,”
Remarked the Guide. “The beams of day
Had ta'en its majesty away,
Though, truth to own, had left it still
Each rocky ledge and barren hill.

Poor is that spot, in contrast shown
With many a scene to Craven known.
And if the love—a taste divine—
Of Nature and her works be thine;
In Craven's numerous wilds thou mayst
To rapture's verge indulge that taste.
If softened scenes with thee avail—
Here brightly blooms the grassy dale;
If thou wouldst view a scene of power—
Go where the crags of Gordale lower;
If grandeur mixed with beauty please—
View Barden's woods, or Bolton's leas;
If hoar antiquity you seek—
Let Skipton's fort of ages speak;
If wildness bleak and lonely give
Its feeling in thy breast to live—
A solitary journey take
To Rhombald's waste, or Malham's lake.
There's scarce a charm, stern, wild, or fair,
But frowns or blooms 'twixt Wharf and Aire.”

XII.

“Sooth hast thou spoke,” the Lady said,
As moved the Northern cavalcade
Some high upon the valley's side,
And some along the brooklet's tide,—
“Sooth hast thou spoke, Sir Guide; for there
Seem met the stern, the wild, the fair!
See, Fenwick, Swinburne, Ridley, all;
Behold that rock like castle-wall—
But never castle reared such front
To meet and scorn the battle's brunt.
Yet well it suits that fancy. Look,
May not the arch that gives the brook
Mark its sole portal, dark and stern?
And yon long trails of briar and fern,
Waved from its clefty summit high,
The place of martial flag supply?
While yonder deer with antlers tall
Might seem the warders on the wall.

Ye smile—and, certes, I will own
The water from its summit thrown,
And, rushing from its base, this stream
May well dissolve my castle-dream.
Yet, viewed as Nature meant, it stands
A wonder worthy of her hands!”

XIII.

She spoke of Malham Cove sublime:
She saw it in auspicious time;
For heavy and incessant rain
Had swelled the neighbouring Lake amain;
And its superfluous waves—perforce
Turned from their subterranean course—
With dash and foam that morning broke
(A sight unwonted) o'er the rock.
In sunbeams sparkling—bright and sheen
As shivered crystal—part was seen;
Part, whirled in air, like spring showers fell
On the soft verdure of the dell;

Or hung on shrubs beneath that grew,
Like early drops of vernal dew.
[OMITTED]

XVIII.

Dark gather round the clouds of Eve,
As Gordale's jaws the train receive.
But ere they reached the cavern wild—
“Lady, the Saints to-day have smiled,”
Began the Monk. “The chance was thine
To see in morning's brilliant shine
The Cove's fair rock; 'twas thine to view
Of Malham's Lake the surface blue
Laughing in sunbeam and in breeze;
And now, as if the more to please,

The same kind day, its smile that gave
To gorgeous rock and placid wave,
Sends down its darkest glooms to suit
A scene that holds the gazer mute.”
He said, and turning to the right,
Stern Gordale burst upon their sight.
Three paces back the Strangers draw,
And pause in wonder mixed with awe.

I must here remind the reader that he is perusing a fragment, in which minor details have been omitted. He must be kind enough to suppose that, as the term cavalcade is discontinued, the party have left their horses at Malham.

XIX.

Like the vast area of some Tower
Which once hath been a place of power,
And where the hand of Ruin all
Hath rest of each interior wall,
Yet spared the outward barriers still,
High, massive, indestructible,
Upon the Strangers' glance at first
The rugged glooms of Gordale burst.
In front, and on the right, up-sprung
The living rock, and forward hung,

—Extending from its caverned base,
A darksome shade o'er half the space,—
Till, far above, it almost closed
With the gigantic rocks opposed,
Leaving small room through which to mark
A sky portentous, grim, and dark.
Beneath, the floor was all bestrown
With fragments which the cliffs had thrown,
As slow decay, or lightning-stroke
Disjoined them from the parent rock.
—The Guide observed the Lady's eye
With some alarm these omens spy,
And motioned—for a torrent near
Forbade a word to reach the ear—
That she and all should follow him:
He led them to the basis grim
Of that far-slanting rock, where—free
From aught save Earthquake's jeopardy—
They stood and saw with marvel new
Fresh scenery opened to their view.

XX.

Through vista wide and rugged, showed
A sight—the man that never glowed
Such to behold, needs ne'er aspire
To Painter's brush, or Poet's lyre!
—Still towered in front, and on each hand,
The rocks in masses high and grand,
Formless, or cast in every form
The granite takes from time and storm—
And where they towered most grand and high,
An opening gleamed that showed the sky,
And poured, as from a bursting cloud,
A cataract rapid, fierce, and loud;
Which, dashed from ledge to ledge, at last
With foam and brawl the Strangers passed.
So deep was now the cavern's night
That the broad fall of waters white
Resembled, dashing through the gloom,
A gush of moonshine from the womb

Of some huge cloud!

But soon a flash
More bright than comes from water's dash,
An instant clothed, with fiery gleam,
The startled cave and rushing stream;
And, swiftly following on the flame,
A crash of thunder o'er them came,
So fierce and loud that in its roar
The torrent's sound was heard no more,
And seemed as every separate rock
Returned an echo to the shock!

XXI.

“Lady, away!” with voice that far
Was heard amid the tempest's jar,
Exclaimed the Guide, with outstretched arm;
And pale and breathless with alarm,
The Lady Margaret almost sunk
On the firm bosom of the Monk,

Who bore her from that cavern wild
As father would sustain a child.
So deemed Lord Fenwick.— [OMITTED]
“Now shalt thou see my place of rest,”
(The Monk his beauteous charge addressed,)
“Now shalt thou know how fares the Youth
Who loves thee with eternal truth;
How mean his cave and couch, fair girl,
Who loves the Daughter of an Earl;
And—uncompelled—shalt soon decide
If thou canst be an Outlaw's bride!
Nay, Lady, blench not thus—nor dream
Of use were struggle, tear, or scream.
I have thee! but my cave shall be
As safe as Warkworth Towers to thee;
And youths that boast their noble line,
Could never love with love like mine.”

XXII.

“Talk not of love!” replied the Fair,
And there was passion and despair
In her dark glance,—“Of that no more!
If thus my foolish dream is o'er,
Thus let it end!—Thou hadst a part
Poor Youth, in Margaret Percy's heart:
I shame me not to say it now,
When I am miserable, and thou
Look'st on me for the last time—But
Thence, and for ever, art thou shut;
Nor thought nor dream of thee again
Shall ever cause me joy or pain!
Here then we part—for well I wot
Of wrong to me thou thinkest not.—
Here then we part. And yet”—she said,
Pausing—“My debt is still unpaid;

And I were loth that Outlaw told
Of Percy niggard of her gold.
Accept this purse. Or stay—thy life,
In actions spent of blood and strife,
May soon be forfeit. Take this ring,
And if thy crimes should ever bring
The dark emergence, it shall be
—Displayed—a talisman to thee,
If Margaret's prayer, or Percy's power
Can turn away the fatal hour.”

She alludes to his having saved her life on a former occasion. Canto I.

XXIII.

“Gold I can win with heart and blade;”
Sinking on knee the Outlaw said.
“The circlet bright be mine alone,
Which I will keep and gaze upon
With a devotion pure and true
As relic e'er from hermit drew!
And, Lady, were there aught could rear
My talents to a worthier sphere,

This gift the marvel might perform.
—But hark! still fiercer rolls the storm.
'Tis well—the Outlaw's caverned bower
Shall prove thy shelter from the shower.”
And as he spoke, hill, rock, and plain
Were striped in prone-descending rain;
While gleamed the bright incessant flash,
And the hills shook with crash on crash!
[OMITTED]

XXIV.

Beside a small green knoll they stood,
Washed by a brooklet's falling flood,
Around by many a wild shrub clomb,
And decked by many a flower, whose home
—Away from crowded town—is still
In the sweet glen and heathy hill.
A spot retired, but widely known;
To every wandering tourist shown,

Whom love of nature calls from far
To view the wondrous Cove and Scar.
The peasant, skilled in fairy lore,
Will tell of revels here of yore
—Ere yet the Gospel's holy light
Dispelled the shades of Pagan night—
By elves that love the wold and wave;
And hence he names it Gennet's Cave.
For Cave there is of ample room
In that green hillock's rocky womb;
Its entrance bare, polluted now—
But then so veiled by furze and bough,
The boldest guess would scarcely dare
To say that such existed there.
—The Outlaw, stooping, tore aside
The woodbine-twigs, in blossomed pride;

From the Cave's aperture; and bade
The Lady enter undismayed.
One glance she gave the flashing sky,
A second searched the Outlaw's eye—
Of purpose ill was nought to speak,
Calm was his glance, and calm his cheek;
And Margaret entered, glad to gain
A shelter from the fire and rain.

I have used a little poetic licence in the description of this Cave. Whatever it may have formerly been, it is certainly not now of sufficient magnitude for the transactions of which I have here made it the scene.

XXV.

On table rough of mountain stone
A single lamp of iron shone,
Discovering, as it flashed aloof,
Each point and angle of the roof;
And lighting many a visage grim,
And stalwart arm, and sinewy limb!
For, seated round on branches piled,
Or heath in bundles from the wild,
A savage group with can and pot,
Held deep carouse in Gennet's grot.

—St. Mary! does no sign of fear
In Margaret's countenance appear?
No—she whose heart had quailed of late,
When every flash seemed winged with sate,
Turned on her treacherous Guide an eye
Proud and majestic, calm and high,
As if to pierce his soul, and dare
One lawless thought to waken there!
As if, in rank and virtue strong,
Her glance could blast who offered wrong!
—With look of marvel blent with pride,
The Outlaw to her thought replied:
“Fear nothing, Lady, from my band;
None there will lift injurious hand
To do a gentle Maiden scathe,
Who claims their Chief's unbroken faith.
Up, knaves!” he added “to your feet,
And do this presence homage meet.”

XXVI.

Obedient to the Chief's command,
Arose at once the robber-band;
Formed a dark line, and lowly bent
With gesture mute and reverent;
Then stood, with folded arms, erect—
Their eyes cast down in deep respect,
Their steel-ringed jerkins, daggers bright,
And sword-hilts gleaming in the light.
“Retire an instant!” was the brief
And haughty mandate of the Chief.
They turned—but Margaret deemed they took
The word with sullen step and look.
“Now by our Lady!” muttered one,
“This insolence too far hath gone.
I could resolve”—“Hush fool! nor spoil
Our leader's chance by sudden broil;
I trust—but forward! We are left,
While our bold brethren thread the cleft.”

This dialogue apart was spoke,
Ere dived the lingerers through the rock;
And soon receding clank alone,
As armour jarred on bulging stone,
Announced the robbers' path was still
Within the bowels of the hill.

XXVII.

Margaret had nerved her to suppress
Each sign of terror and distress.
The peril past, revulsion came
With such a faintness through her frame,
As left her little power, 'tis said,
To spurn the Outlaw's proffered aid.
Thus on the rock, in thunder-shower,
Will lean the heath-bell's drooping flower,
Which, had the day been fair and dry,
On its own stalk had blossomed high.
“Heroic Maiden! thou hast here,
Believe me, not a cause of fear.

Soon as the storm is past, again
In safety shalt thou join thy train,
When we must part,—and I once more
Return to swell the boisterous roar
Of revel here;—in savage glee
To lose or stun all thoughts of thee;
And, issuing thence, in ruthless deed
To find my solace and my meed!”
“Yet why—O why should this be so?”
The Lady cried; and Pendle's snow
Gained ne'er such blush from morning's smile
As tinged her cheek and brow the while!
“Thy speech, thy manners bear no trace
To say thou com'st of vulgar race;
Still less art thou whom men would take
For one that skulks in cave and brake,
Cheering his crew to deeds abhorred,
Unworthy of a brave man's sword;
Then why not spurn the base career,
And rise—aye rise; for any sphere—

The meanest life presents—were great,
Were glorious—to thy present state!”

XXVIII.

“Ask the bruised wretch, convulsed with pain,
The precipice to climb again,
Down which his madness or his fate
Hath hurled his unresisting weight.
Alas! his limbs—all feeble now—
Can ill keep stance on ledge or bough.
The shoots by which uninjured hand
Might at slight risk the top command,
Spring greenly but to mock the eye
Of him who at the base must die!
If yet my heart, in spite of all
Bruise and exhaustion from my fall,
Retains enough of power to climb
Once more with hope and aim sublime,
How vain were e'en success, when thou—
The vision which above its brow

Shed there a radiance pure—art gone,
And all is dull, and blank, and lone!
No, no—that light no more on high,
Degraded, lost, I can but die!”

XXIX.

There was deep sorrow in his look;
His voice that tone of sadness took,
Whose rich and mournful cadence best
Wins entrance to the female breast;
And 'twas with kindly voice and eye
The noble Maiden gave reply:
“Thou talk'st romance,” she said, “poor youth;
But hear from woman's lips the truth.
A Daughter of the Percy race
Comes not in contact with disgrace,
Yet may I say,—nor, therefore, sink
Aught in th'esteem of those that think,—
If my poor smile can thee reclaim
From this low course of guilt and shame,

Believe me, were it as divine
As Flattery says—that smile is thine.
O re-ascend! Again be all
Thou wast at Linhope's waterfall,
Where the North saw outshone by thee
The choicest of her chivalry!
Whose eye, like mine, the change shall greet?
Whose heart, like mine, with pleasure beat?
And O! whose hand, but mine, reward
The struggle holy, high, and hard!”
“Enough, enough!” he, raptured, said,
And knelt before the noble Maid.
[OMITTED]

XXXV.

The storm had rolled away, but still
There lingered o'er the eastern hill
The rear of clouds—now glowing bright
Amid the set sun's latest light,

And glimmering on the glen beneath,
Where wild birds, roused from copse and heath,
Seemed to make up for silence long
By one consentient burst of song;
—Is it to hear the wild birds' lay
The Outlaw and the Lady stay,
Once more beside the hillock green?
No, hurrying down the glen are seen
The train so late deserted. One
Before the rest comes rushing on:
'Tis fiery Fenwick, who will deign
No question, but gives wrath the reign.
“Off, Ruffian, with that garb, profaned
E'en by the touch of one so stained—
Off, and the recreant life defend,
Which else this instant finds an end!”
Calmly, and with contemptuous smile,
And doffing frock and hood the while,
Until he stood with helm and sword,
The Leader of a robber-horde—

Calmly the Outlaw answered: “Fear
Moves not the man thou threaten'st here;
Though for so brave a knight, to tell
The truth, thou com'st supported well
Against a single arm! 'Twere good
To call assistance from the wood.”
He whistled, and from crag and scar
The sound was echoed wild and far.

XXXVI.

But other answer found the note
Than echoes on the breeze that float:
For, issuing from their secret hold
Came, man by man, his followers bold,
And, forming as his gesture bade,
Unsheathed at once each glittering blade,
In number nearly matching those
To whom this evening finds them foes.
In adverse line, each Northern lord
And knight hath bared his battle-sword;

And soon may fall far other shower
Than now impearls the mountain flower!
[OMITTED]

FITZ-HARCLA,

A TALE IN TWO PARTS, ILLUSTRATIVE OF A CRAVEN TRADITION.

1. PART FIRST.

“There were fairies in the land in those days.”

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.

THE YOUNG POET

DYING AT A DISTANCE FROM HOME.

O! bury me not in yon strange spot of earth—
My rest never sweet, never tranquil can be;
But bear me away to the land of my birth,
To a scene—O how dear and how pleasant to me!
If you saw how the sunbeams illumine the mountains,
How brightly they lie in the glen that I choose;
Could the song of its birds, and the gush of its fountains
Through your souls the rapture and freshness diffuse,
Which erst in life's morning they shed over mine—
O, your hearts would confess it is all but divine!

Nay—call it not raving. A stranger I came,
And a stranger amongst you I ever have been.
When I stepped from my circle, you found me the same
Vain trifler, as thousands besides, in the scene;
But I lived in a circle of fancy and feeling—
A world of fair forms—a creation of bliss,
Yet never to you the arcanum revealing—
My first and my latest disclosure is this,
This dying request, the last light of the dream—
O do not despise it, though wild it may seem!

I know it—the grave which to me you assign,
Is black in the shade of your dreary Churchwall,
Where nettle and hemlock their rankness combine,
And the worm and the sullen toad loathsomely crawl.
O! where is the primrose, so meet for adorning
The grave of a Minstrel cut off in his bloom?

O! where is the daisy, to shed in the morning
The tears it hath gathered by night for my doom?
And lastly, but dearer than anguish can tell,
Where, where are the friends that have loved me so well!

Thrice blest be those tears! they descend on my heart
Like the soft rain of Spring on a perishing flower—
And may I expire in the hope they impart,
That yet I shall rest by my favorite bower?
Heaven love you for that! Like the flower I have shown you,
No more to expand in the loveliest ray,
And breathing its last sigh of perfume upon you,
My spirit all grateful shall vanish away!
For, laid in the glen by the stream and the tree,
Deep, hallowed, and happy my slumber shall be!

See! one aged Mourner comes, trembling, to place
A weak, withered hand on the grave of her Son—
See! Friendship to tell how I strove in the race,
But died ere the chaplet of glory was won—
And Beauty—I plaited a wreath for that maiden,
When warm was my heart, and my fancy was high—
See Beauty approaches with summer-flowers laden,
And strews them when nought but the blackbird is nigh:
Thus, thus shall I rest with a charm on my name,
In the shower-mingled sunshine of Love and of Fame!

HOW SLEEP THE DEAD?

How sleep the Dead in yon Church-yard,
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall?
How sleep the Dead beneath the sward?
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!

In mute companionship they lie,
No hearts that ache—no eyes that weep;
Care—Sickness—Trouble come not nigh
The beds of those that yonder sleep.

Around, the world is passion-tost;
War, Murder, Crime forever reign;
Of central peace alone may boast
The Church-yard's undisturbed domain.

The stormy sea of human life,
With all its surges, roars around;
Their barrier-wall repels its strife,
No wave breaks o'er their hallowed ground.

Around, the summer sun may scorch—
The Dead feel not the sultriest ray;
Winter may howl in spire and porch—
The Dead are reckless of his sway.

Thus sleep the Dead in yon Church-yard,
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall;
Thus sleep the Dead beneath the sward,
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!

THE ROYAL MINSTREL.

Long within the Danish camp
Had the sound of wassail rung,
In their King's pavilion long
Had the Danish Minstrels sung,
When a Saxon Bard there came
With a Harp of simplest frame,—
But the notes were notes of flame
Which it flung!

I dare not give his Lay!
It hath suffered wrong from time,
And its spirit ill would brook
The chains of modern rhyme:
To old Denmark's name it rose,
In her glory rung its close,

And the cheers of England's foes
Drowned the chime.

But beneath the seeming praise
There lay irony and scorn,
Which the jealous Bards have caught,
And have round in whispers borne:
The King and Nobles laughed
At the hint they gave, and quaffed
But a deeper, merrier draught
Till the Morn.

The Morn had scarcely broke
On the land and on the wave,
When around the Danish camp
Thronged the best of England's brave—
Still beamed the Morning-star
From its misty heights afar,
When the Danes awoke to war—
And the grave!

That Minstrel led the fight!—
He was England's martial lord,
The glorious Alfred, famed
For the Lyre as for the Sword!
Joy! joy! to tower and town;
Joy! joy! to dale and down;
Our Monarch to his crown
Is restored!

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ---

If on some bright and breezeless eve,
When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf,
The moralizing bard will heave
A sigh that seems allied to grief,
Shall I be blithe—shall I be mute—
Nor shed the tear—nor pour the wail,
When Death has blighted to its root
The sweetest Flower of Malhamdale?

Her form was like the fair sun-stream
That glances through the mists of noon—
Ah! little thought we that its beam
Would vanish from our glens so soon!
Yet when her eye had most of mirth,
And when her cheek the least was pale,

They talked of purer worlds than earth—
She could not stay in Malhamdale!

The placid depth of that dark eye—
The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek—
Will still awake the long-drawn sigh
While Memory of the past shall speak.
And we can never be but pained
To think, when gazing on that vale,
One Angel more to Heaven is gained,
But one is lost to Malhamdale!

I may not tell what dreams were mine—
Dreams, laid in bright futurity—
When the full, soft, and partial shine
Of that fair eye was turned on me:
Enough, enough—the blooming wreath
Of Love, and Hope, and Joy is pale,
And now its withering perfumes breathe
O'er yon new grave in Malhamdale!

O WHY IS THERE WOE?

Look round on this world—it is sweet, it is fair—
There is light in its sky—there is life in its air—
Sublimity breathes from the forms of its hills,
And Beauty winds on with its rivers and rills—
The dew, as with diamonds, its meads hath besprent—
From its groves are a thousand wild melodies sent—
While flowers of each fragrance and hue are unfurled—
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?

Say not that the picture is drawn in a time
When Summer is Queen of the sky and the clime—

Remember young Spring, with her rainbows and songs,
The charm which to Autumn's bright foliage belongs,
And Winter's stern pomp—which no chilled feeling mars—
In his snow-shining land, and his concave of stars!
Yes, well may we question, whate'er sky's unfurled,
O why is there woe in so lovely a world?

Talk not of a Spectre whose skeleton hand
Robs the sun of his glory, and darkens the land—
His touch, with a power no talisman knows,
But wraps our worn souls in a moment's repose,
To wake in a region yet fairer than this,
Where the heart never beats but its throb is of bliss!
His flag is but Rapture's bright ensign unfurled;
Then why is there woe in so lovely a world?

It is not in Winter, with cloud and with storm—
There are passions yet wilder that stain and deform.
It is not in Death, with his fear-imaged darts—
There are vices yet deadlier far in our hearts.
These mar the Eternal's beneficent plan,
Who furnished this earth as the Eden of man,
And bade Pleasure's fair banner be ever unfurled—
O! these have brought woe to so lovely a world!

TO A ROBIN RIDBRUST

At E sa i'th Kirk at Sarvice Time.

Lile Robin, thou hes maunder'd whear
Thou'll nut finnd mich to pleease, I fear,
For thou, like maar beside,
Wod raather flee to triflin cares,
Thinkin at sarmons, psaums and prayers
Nout else bud ill betide.

Bud its a pelsy day without,
The snaw ligs deep an blaws about,
Thou gangs toth' bauk to perk;
Thus thou, like rakes, when troubles press,
As the girt refuge i' distress,
Taks bield i' Mother Kirk.

Thou thinks our prayers lile else bud whims,
Thou reckons nout o' psaums ner hymns,
They nobbut mak the freeten'd;
And flackerin here and thear to flee
The sun lets fall his leet on thee
Wi' au thy feathers breeten'd.

Thou cannot gaum ner understand,
Each yan thy lytle een hes scann'd
Seea lowly kneeled afore the,
Dis seea—for, strang i' faith he dreams
Of bein au, at thou bud seams,
A seraph wing'd i' glory!

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

“Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee;
“And now I write—what thou shalt never see!”
Rogers.

Where, loved One! is thy dwelling now?
In scenes where thou wast wont to be,
Thy laughing eye, thine open brow,
Thy sylph-like form no more we see.
There's grief around thy Father's hearth,
Which time shall scarcely change to mirth!

There's weeping in thy Father's hall—
Its chambers, which so lately rung
To thy light step or lively call,
Seem dark as if with sable hung;
Too well their gloom declares that thou
Hast left thy Father's dwelling now!

When last I looked upon thy face,
Thy fair cheek wore a palid hue;
Yet kept thine eye its wonted grace,
And wildly free thy dark hair flew:
I little thought whose breath had passed
Across thy features like a blast—

I little thought that Death had blown,
E'en then, his sickening breath on thee;
I little thought thy glance and tone
Then spoke and beamed their last for me:
My parting word, unthinking, fell;
I dreamed not of a last farewell!

But the same Moon whose crescent beam
Beheld thee in accustomed bloom,
Was seen to pour her waning stream
Of dewy radiance round thy tomb:
O loveliest and loved One, thou
Hast found a darksome dwelling now!

I went to where thy grave was scooped—
There children, seeming half to grieve,
Stood round in gazing clusters grouped;
I saw it, and could scarce believe
So dark and damp a cell could be
For aught so light and gay as thee!

Yet so it was. I saw thee lowered,
And heard upon thy coffin-lid,
With solemn sound the dull earth showered,
Till dust by dust was heaped and hid;
And looks I marked whose anguish said
Life's highest charm with thee was dead.

Then fled our frailest and our last
Illusion—that in which we think,
While ours the dust whence life has passed,
There still is one unbroken link:
That the grave broke—and all of thee
Hath faded to a memory!

There was a time when in thy mirth
Thou archly bad'st me write on thee;
And now, lost flower of fairest birth,
I write—what thou shalt never see.
Alas! how sad a song hath paid
Request scarce thought, and lightly made!

But shall my song have mournful close?
Oh! not for thee our tears should fall;
Thou art where Spring eternal blows—
Thou art where God is all in all!
Thine claim our grief, but, loved One, thou
Hast found a glorious dwelling now!

DEVOTIONAL STANZAS.

'Tis not by day—however bright
The beauty of the day may be—
'Tis in the night, 'tis in the night
My holiest musings dwell on Thee!

'Tis true, thy glorious hand I view
In every leaf that greens the tree,
And not a floweret blooms in dew,
But wakes a lovely thought of Thee;

'Tis true, the Mountain soaring high,
The River rolling to the sea,
The blue and boundless stretch of Sky
Bid the awed spirit turn to Thee;

But few and brief such feelings are,
From business and from day they flee;
Ten thousand nameless chances jar
On bosom-chords attuned to Thee.

'Tis in the night—when nought around
The ear can hear, the eye can see—
When all seems laid in sleep profound
Except my watching Soul and Thee—

'Tis then, my God! I feel thy power
And love, from all distraction free
My couch is Heaven in that high hour—
Thou'rt round me—I am wrapped in Thee!

THE END.