 | Hunting Songs |  |
The Two Wizards.
Give ear, ye who dwell in the Tarporley Vale,
While I tell you of Beeston a wonderful tale;
Where its crag, castle-crown'd, overhanging the steep,
Noddles down like the head of an old man asleep,
A cavern is scoop'd, though unseen by the eye,
In the side of that rock, where it stands high and dry.
There has dwelt for long ages, and there dwelleth still,
A Magician—believe it or not, as you will;
He was there when Earl Blundevill laid the first stone
Of those walls, now with ivy and moss overgrown;
He was there when King Henry proclaim'd himself Lord,
When he belted his son with the Palatine sword;
He to King Richard gave up this stronghold,
Therein to deposit his jewels and gold;
He was there when the Puritans mounted the steep,
And defied the king's troops from its garrison'd keep;
And there stood this Wizard to witness the fight,
When Rupert's good sword put those rebels to flight.
While I tell you of Beeston a wonderful tale;
Where its crag, castle-crown'd, overhanging the steep,
Noddles down like the head of an old man asleep,
A cavern is scoop'd, though unseen by the eye,
In the side of that rock, where it stands high and dry.
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A Magician—believe it or not, as you will;
He was there when Earl Blundevill laid the first stone
Of those walls, now with ivy and moss overgrown;
He was there when King Henry proclaim'd himself Lord,
When he belted his son with the Palatine sword;
He to King Richard gave up this stronghold,
Therein to deposit his jewels and gold;
He was there when the Puritans mounted the steep,
And defied the king's troops from its garrison'd keep;
And there stood this Wizard to witness the fight,
When Rupert's good sword put those rebels to flight.
For two centuries then it was left to decay,
And its walls, weather-beaten, fell piece-meal away,
And his home grew so dull when the fighting was o'er,
The Wizard declar'd he could live there no more;
Till the thought cross'd his brain that to cheer his lone days
Some playmates the power of his magic might raise.
So at sunrise one morn stepping forth from his cell,
He uplifted his wand and he mutter'd a spell,
Each wave of that wand was seen life to infuse,
And the stones that it touch'd, all became kangaroos.
He had hung round the walls of his cavern inside
The armour of those who had fought there and died;
Transforming those plates which long rust had worn thin,
He fitted each beast with a jacket of skin;
Then pluck'd from each sword blade its black leather sheath,
Which he twisted and stuck as a tail underneath.
And its walls, weather-beaten, fell piece-meal away,
And his home grew so dull when the fighting was o'er,
The Wizard declar'd he could live there no more;
Till the thought cross'd his brain that to cheer his lone days
Some playmates the power of his magic might raise.
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He uplifted his wand and he mutter'd a spell,
Each wave of that wand was seen life to infuse,
And the stones that it touch'd, all became kangaroos.
He had hung round the walls of his cavern inside
The armour of those who had fought there and died;
Transforming those plates which long rust had worn thin,
He fitted each beast with a jacket of skin;
Then pluck'd from each sword blade its black leather sheath,
Which he twisted and stuck as a tail underneath.
And there, as a shepherd sits watching his flock,
Sits this kangaroo keeper a-perch on his rock,
Invisible still, but his care night and day
Is to feed them and watch left they wander astray.
Ever anxious, he guards them more tenderly still,
When the huntsman his pack has let loose on the hill;
And those hounds, terror stricken, all riot eschew,
When they hear a strange voice crying, “Ware Kangaroo!”
Sits this kangaroo keeper a-perch on his rock,
Invisible still, but his care night and day
Is to feed them and watch left they wander astray.
Ever anxious, he guards them more tenderly still,
When the huntsman his pack has let loose on the hill;
And those hounds, terror stricken, all riot eschew,
When they hear a strange voice crying, “Ware Kangaroo!”
To this Wizard invisible bidding farewell,
Of another I yet have a story to tell;
No invisible sprite! when he stands full in view,
You will own him a man, and a goodly man too.
He it is who by dint of his magical skill
Uplifted the stones from the high Stanna hill;
Nor paus'd till those fragments, pil'd up to the sky,
Assum'd the fair form of that castle hard by;
He brandish'd his spade, and along the hill-side
The ascent, by a roadway, made easy and wide;
Unlike the hid portal I spoke of before,
Very plain to the eye is his wide open door;
Where the tiles of the pavement, the stones of the wall
Unceasingly echo a welcome to all.
There are stables where steeds stand by tens in a row,
There are chambers above, and vast cellars below;
Each bed in those chambers holds nightly a guest,
Each bin in that cellar is fill'd with the best.
Of another I yet have a story to tell;
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You will own him a man, and a goodly man too.
He it is who by dint of his magical skill
Uplifted the stones from the high Stanna hill;
Nor paus'd till those fragments, pil'd up to the sky,
Assum'd the fair form of that castle hard by;
He brandish'd his spade, and along the hill-side
The ascent, by a roadway, made easy and wide;
Unlike the hid portal I spoke of before,
Very plain to the eye is his wide open door;
Where the tiles of the pavement, the stones of the wall
Unceasingly echo a welcome to all.
There are stables where steeds stand by tens in a row,
There are chambers above, and vast cellars below;
Each bed in those chambers holds nightly a guest,
Each bin in that cellar is fill'd with the best.
When this Wizard wends forth from his turreted walls,
Four horses are bitted and led from their stalls,
He mounts and looks down on a team from his box,
All perfect in shape from their heads to their hocks;
The coats that they carry are burnish'd like gold,
Their fire by a touch of his finger controll'd;
A whip for his wand, when their paces he springs,
You might fancy their shoulders were furnish'd with wings;
Away! rough or smooth, whether up hill or down,
Through highway and byeway, through village and town!
With that ease and that grace with which ladies can wheedle
Stubborn silk through the eye of a delicate needle,
Through the arch with huge portal on either side hung,
He his leaders can thrust whether restive or young;
O'er the bridge at Bate's Mill he can twist at full speed,
Charioteering—which proves him a Wizard indeed.
Four horses are bitted and led from their stalls,
He mounts and looks down on a team from his box,
All perfect in shape from their heads to their hocks;
The coats that they carry are burnish'd like gold,
Their fire by a touch of his finger controll'd;
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You might fancy their shoulders were furnish'd with wings;
Away! rough or smooth, whether up hill or down,
Through highway and byeway, through village and town!
With that ease and that grace with which ladies can wheedle
Stubborn silk through the eye of a delicate needle,
Through the arch with huge portal on either side hung,
He his leaders can thrust whether restive or young;
O'er the bridge at Bate's Mill he can twist at full speed,
Charioteering—which proves him a Wizard indeed.
Faint harp-strings at night o'er his castle resound;
Their tone when first heard by the country-folk round,
They fancied (so far it surpass'd human skill)
That angels were tuning their harps on the hill;
It was strung, I knew well, by an angel inside,
The fingers that swept it were those of his bride.
Their tone when first heard by the country-folk round,
They fancied (so far it surpass'd human skill)
That angels were tuning their harps on the hill;
It was strung, I knew well, by an angel inside,
The fingers that swept it were those of his bride.
Ofttimes they who deal in these magical arts
Bear hatred and malice to man in their hearts;
But to enmity ne'er was this Wizard inclin'd,
A well-dispos'd being to all human kind
To console the afflicted, the poor to befriend,
Of his magic, is still the sole object and end;
And each cottager's prayer is, that spells such as these
He may long live to work in this Valley of Cheese.
Bear hatred and malice to man in their hearts;
But to enmity ne'er was this Wizard inclin'd,
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To console the afflicted, the poor to befriend,
Of his magic, is still the sole object and end;
And each cottager's prayer is, that spells such as these
He may long live to work in this Valley of Cheese.
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