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]