University of Virginia Library


86

THESE RURAL SKETCHES, IN GRATITUDE FOR HOSPITALITIES CONFERRED WITHOUT DISPLAY; AND IN ADMIRATION OF PERSONAL GRACES AND MENTAL ACCOMPLISHMENTS, WITHOUT AFFECTATION, ARE, WITH PERMISSION, RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO LADY PHILLIPPS, OF MIDDLE HILL, WORCESTERSHIRE, BY HER OBLIGED FAITHFUL SERVANT, THE AUTHOR.

Guisbrough, January, 1845.

87

DEDICATORY LINES.

Lady, with grateful hand I weave these flowers,
At random cull'd, now dedicate to thee;
If poor and worthless, 'tis an offering free,
Fresh from familiar hills and native bowers:
Full many a summer day I've spent my hours
Bending at Nature's shrine the reverent knee;
And if my Muse hath ought of Liberty
'Tis when to Nature's breast it fondly soars.
And Lady, 'midst the clouds of dark despair,
Voices of winds and waters shall be mine;
I shall behold thy dwelling rich and fair
In splendour gleaming o'er its verdant vales,
Whilst heavenly thoughts will spring of thee and thine,
Dreams beatific borne on odorous gales.
J.W.O.

89

THE HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE.

[_]

(After the manner of the “Battle of Otterbourne,”— see Percy's Ballads, and Scott's Minstrelsy.)

“Then Whitbys nuns exulting told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do;
While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry “Fie upon your name.”
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game,
St. Hilda's priest ye slew.”
Marmion, canto ii.
It fell about the may-day time,
When the wild-flowers sweetly lie,
When the primrose decks the green-shaw copse,
When the lark salutes the sky.—
That Piercie, Bruce, and Allatson,
And the Herberts light and gay,
From their proud mountain-homes went forth
To spend a hunting day.
And they have left fair Kildale's halls,
And Skelton's Castle fair,

90

And the stately towers of Ghestborough
To seek the wild-boars lair.
And up spake proud Lord Piercie then,
And o, but he spake hie—
“This day among the Eskdale woods
Our prowess we will try.
“O, Eskdale is a bonnie wood,
And Esk a bonnie stream,
The Eskdale hills are high and bright,
And lovely as a dream!
“The deer runs wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree,
The silver trouts glide numberless,
The wild-flowers blossom free.”
They lighted high on Eskdale side,
Upon the bent so brown,
They lighted where that wild-boar lay,
The dread of Whitby town!
They luncheon'd by the mossy hill,
They drank the blood-red wine,
They swore an oath the boar must die,
Ere they would sit to dine.

91

Then from their slips the hounds were loosed,
The hounds so fierce and fell,
And far the chorus echoed loud
O'er rock and woody dell.
Loud cheer'd those noble hunters,
Loud neigh'd those joyous steeds,—
This day shall Esk,—shall Cleveland ring
With those brave gallant's deeds.
But O! what stirs the branches?
Why start the hounds aback?
Why snort the trembling horses,
Nor dare that rugged track?
“The boar! the boar! the brindled boar”
Young Piercie loudly cried!
A silver dirk for him who spears
The boar of Eskdaleside!”
And fast as wolves that hunger,
And strong as Whitby tide,
The huntsmen chac'd o'er hill and wood,
The boar of Eskdaleside.
O'er moss and moor, o'er rock and cliff,
O'er heath and cavern'd glen
They drove the grim old wild-boar,
The wild-boar from his den!

92

But in that ancient forest,
Beside the gnarled oak,
The Hermit meek of Eskdaleside
His lone communings took.
He was a silent dreamer,
A Prophet of the skies,
A Teacher and a Minister
Of Nature's mysteries.
No star illum'd the heavens,
No shadow touch'd the Earth,
But Eskdale's holy hermit
Could track their earliest birth.
The wild-flowers of the forest
The wealth of hill and dale,
All treasures and all loveliness
That hermit knew full well.
But most in prayer and penitence,
But most in God's pure Word,
He spent his lonely vigils,
He wept before the Lord.
'Twas here the boar, all red with gore,
Rush'd through the open stead,—
Wounded and torn it stagger'd on,
Then fell before him dead.

93

He sore was griev'd, that holy man
To see the piteous sight—
“O man is far more fierce,” he said
“Than wild-beasts in their might.
“Methought this drear and desert spot
To God and I were given,—
I little deem'd that earthly rage,
Had power o'er things of heaven.
“Back to your homes!—Proud Piercie back!
Far hence your footsteps trace:
Herbert, De Bruce, how dare ye thus,
Pollute this sacred place!”
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud,
So loud I hear ye lie—
Ope wide the gates”—young Piercie roared
“Or, surely thou shalt die!”
Balk'd of their prey and mad with rage
They charg'd with pointed spear—
The rustic door in pieces fell
Where he was praying near.

94

“Thou shaven Priest, how dar'd thou stop
The heir of Piercies hall?
How dar'd thou balk my fleet stag-hounds,
And keep our prey in thrall?
“Belike, thou thought'st 'twas dainty fare,
A banquet easy got—
And, by my troth, fit doom were thine,
To match that wild-boars lot.”
“Stop, Piercie stop, that jeering tongue,
Thy braggart falsehoods hence—
Behold this Crucifix my shield,
The Church my sure defence.”
Then Piercie with his good broad sword
That could so sharply wound,
Has smote the hermit on the brow
Into a deathly swound.
Wild terror like a storm of hail,
Now struck each hunters soul,—
Away—away—o'er heath and crag
Each seeks his stately hall!
To Sedman, lord of Streoneshalh,
The horrid outrage spread,

95

That the holy monk of Eskdaleside
Of his wound was well-nigh dead.
Swiftly the Abbot did command
Those youths to Eskdaleside,—
“Now, by our holy mother Church
What may this deed betide?
Whate'er this pious hermit asks,
Your punishment shall be,—
Yea, by my soul, though he should fix
Your doom the gallows tree.”
“Alas my lord,” the hermit said
“Revenge be none of mine,
To extend our Holy Church's bound
Were nobler aim of thine!”
“I charge you on Ascension Eve,
In penance, for this crime,
Of twigs within this forest ta'en,
At earliest morning-time—
“To rear on Whitby's yellow shore
A hedge that still must stand
Three tides,—nor ocean's giant waves
Shall wash it from the sand.
“The bugle-horn which rung this day
Your deed of shame shall sound,

96

And all your heirs this tribute give
To Time's remotest bound.”
His eyes grew dim,—his voice grew faint—
“Farewell thou smiling shore—
Sweet Esk, bright Esk, I lov'd thee well—”
One gasp—and all is o'er!
 

Ancient name of Gisborough—“Ghestborough, vel spiritualis burgus.”

These two lines occur both in “the grand old Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens”—as Coleridge terms it,—and, also in the celebrated Ballad of the Battle of Otterbourne.

See “Otterhourne.”

The whole of this narrative appears, nearly similar, in the First Volume of Young's History of Whitby, and also in Charlton.


110

THE LOVERS.

“In the Hospital endowed by an Ancestor of Sir Charles Turner at Kirkleatham, amongst other natural and artificial curiosities, is a very singular tree. It had been cut down in Kirkleatham Park, but upon its being split by the woodman's wedge, the heart of the tree turned out round and entire, the outward part which enclosed it, being about the thickness of four inches.

Round the inner bole, or heart, which is about a foot in diameter, are several letters carved in a rude and seemingly irregular manner; but upon a clear observation are found to wind in a spiral form, and the following couplet is plainly legible:—

This tree longtime witness bear
Two true lovers did walk here.’”
Graves' ‘Cleveland.’

Pleasant are thy vales, Kirkleatham,
Bright and glad yon golden tide;
Hark! a thousand choral voices
From old Ocean rolling wide:
Every cavern, fountain, hill,
To Love and Hope are sacred still.

111

There the monarch oak-tree wantons
In his pride of pomp and power;
There the wild-rose, there the woodbine
Gaily flaunt their summer hour:
There sweet Nature's choristers
Deftly pour harmonious airs.
When the wild-birds caroll'd highest,
Piercing heaven's abysm clear—
Ere the spring-flowers clos'd their eyelids,
Pillow'd on their forest bier,
Pac'd two lovers through the greenwoods—
Sweet Kirkleatham's solitudes.
Who can picture how they linger'd
In each pleasant, gay alcove?
Words of passion, sighs of rapture—
All the ecstacy of love?
Who evoke a semblance fair
Of that young devoted pair!
Dreams of Venus, of Adonis,
Dian and Endymion bright,
(When the world was fresh and joyous)
Dazzle with poetic light;
Yea, a glory fills mine eyes
From the bowers of Paradise!

112

Young and fair,—(O, never doubt it!)
Eyes that mock'd the azure deeps;
Neck of snow, as May-flowers fragrant,
Tresses bright as evening streaks:
Such wert thou beloved maid—
Heaven's whole Treasury display'd!
Who the youth,—some rustic Poet—
Dreamer of the woodlands he?
Hill-side shepherd? joyous ploughman?
Pilgrim o'er the lonely sea?
Little recks it,—Love was his,
Youth, and Hope, and Happiness!
From the fierce, the surging billow,
From the thunderbolts of war,
Came he forth to see his true-love—
From the gory fields afar?
Haply, this the Farewell token
Of a fond heart well-nigh broken!
Spring pour'd forth her virgin glories,
Verdant shade, and sunny hue,
Whilst from every secret covert
Rose the blackbird's song—as now—
And each mellow distant wave
Chim'd a dirge o'er memory's grave.

113

'Twere a tale too oft repeated,
How that maiden's heart beat high;
When the tender scroll was sculptur'd
What entrancements fill'd her eye—
This tree, longtime witness bear
Two true lovers did walk here.”
Heaven was witness of their bridal,
Never breath'd a holier vow;
Nature sang their hymeneal
Kiss'd with nectar-lips each brow;
Love protected—virtuous love—
Such as seraphs feel above.
Now, alas, the grove is vanish'd,
All the verdant boughs are dead,
Ceas'd the wild-birds joyous music
Angel-strains divinely wed:
Now, no more the tuneful breeze
Murmurs Nature's minstrelsies.
Now, no more the Evening voices
Echo where that maiden stood—
Sounds of waters, hymnings holy,
(Guests of woodland solitude—)
All are gone—the very tree—
Tablet of their memory!

114

They are gone too, happy lovers—
Living pulses beat no more;
Keener blisses, deeper raptures
Greet them on the Eternal shore;
As those lovers lov'd below
Sister angels love them now!
But, though fled from human vision,
Not from human hearts they fade;
Sacred is the grove they wander'd,
Sacred every nook and glade:
Nature's self “doth witness bear
Two true lovers did walk here.”

135

THE ROSE OF CLEVELAND.

“And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright my beauteous bride.”—
S. T. Coleridge.

Lovely is the cottage window,
All with rarest woodbine crown'd,
Where the flower (of flowers the sweetest;)
Cleveland's fairest rose is found!
When the vesper-star shone palely
O'er the weary world's repose;
When the moon walk'd high and lonely,
First I met my Cleveland rose.
Like that evening stars first-rising,
Like the glow-worm in the dell,
Were those eyes so bright, so gentle,
Of the maid I love so well.

136

Poets talk of Parian marble,
Drifted snow, and hawthorn white,
Yet her brow and neck are fairer,
Dazzling with a softer light.
As the waves of summer ocean,
Rise and fall with gentle swell,
Heaves the love-compelling bosom,
Where my heart's devotions dwell.
Not the fawn, the wild-deer lighter,
Bounding o'er their heather homes—
Graceful she, in every motion,
Shedding bliss where'er she roams.
“Come belov'd, behold the wild-wood,
Evening's breezes fan our brows,
Airs of heaven from western dwellings,
Greet us where yon Monarch glows.
“I will bring thee to the fountains
To the bowers where Love's repose;
There shall every wild-bird carol
Concerts for my Cleveland rose.”
Dear, O dear that scene for ever—
Music rose from every bough:
Flowers of perfume from the hawthorn
Dropt upon her lovely brow.

137

Clouds of fragrance floated o'er us,
Honied notes enwrapt the grove—
When I told the tale of passion;
All the story of my love.
“How for years, in anguish, lonely,
Years of sorrow, and of fear,
Like a star 'mid clouds of tempest,
She had dwelt in beauty near.
“How the very place she trod on,
To my sight was holy ground;
How her beauty, never absent,
Fill'd the earth's abysm round.
“If, along the mountain heather,
By far streams, by woodlands fair,
I, in woe and sorrow wander'd—
She was ever, ever there!
“Then I swore,—then madly told her,
All the world but her, was nought,
Fame, and wealth a gloomy shadow—
She the bliss, the heaven I sought.”
Soft-uplooking from those tresses
Glistening in the evening sun,
She, with eyes of love's confession,
Sweetly own'd my suit was won.

138

Who shall tell that hour of rapture
Treasure for a thousand woes—
Thrilling passions, hopes entrancing,
When I won my Cleveland Rose?

152

TIDKINGHOW.

[_]

The following lines are written to commemorate a Fete Champetre furnished to his friends by Thomas Hutchinson, Esq. of Brotton Hall, and his amiable lady, on Monday, September 18th, 1843.

Hail Muse of Cleveland, look propitious down,
Whilst I a Cleveland Bard, resume my Lyre,
Grant me one leaf from Spencer's laurel crown
One spark of Wordsworth's Nature-breathing fire,
Whilst I, in fitting measures strive to sing
Scenes that uplift me on an angels wing.
Midst hazel boughs and clusters Autumn-brown'd
Through the deep dell, we track our pleasant way,
With lofty oak, and ash, the hills are crown'd,
And the sweet mountain brooks in chorus play—
Now sad and silent, now in sunshine bright,
Then prattling, like young children their delight.

153

Blue were the heavens, and balmy all the air,
And from the tremulous leaves, sweet music fell,
From the rich woodbine, and all wild-flowers there,
Fragrance, like angel-breathings, fill'd the dell,
Whilst joy and happiness of Eden part,
Fill'd with delightful dreams each happy heart.
No sound disturb'd that silent, still domain,
Save where the babbling waters made their moan;
Even the forest-birds had ceased their strain
And the loud mavis nestled all alone—
But sounds even dearer charmed the listless air,
Sweet human rapture, pleasure free from care.
Return we now: the festive cheer is spread,
Rich ample fare adorns the snowy board,
Wide is the roof—the heavens above our head—
Ample the room, by Nature's painting stor'd,—
Our choristers the winds that softly pass,
And at our feet, the first of carpets, grass.
O, lovely is the prospect, rich and rare,
Wild and subdued,—black heath all purple-topped—
Far distant heights that tower aloft in air,
And lovely fields of Autumn newly-cropp'd:
Hedgerows, and groves, and heaps of golden corn,
Dingles, and glens, and dells, the scene adorn.

154

And, now, the silvery mist unveiling slow,
Between yon hills with woods embowering clad,
Waves the monarchic Ocean to and fro,
And champs the shore, and froths as he were mad,—
Whilst o'er his beauteous bosom sailing on,
White lovely ships glance brightly in the sun.
Most lovely, most majestic! now a child
Laughing amid its ringlets, full of glee,
Now like a wounded tiger fierce and wild,
Fierce as ten thousand wolves, uncurbed and free
Till even old Neptune shudders in his rock,
And the huge bulwarks tremble with the shock—
Bulwarks that since the earth's foundations stood,
Have proudly rear'd aloft their giant head—
Huntcliffe and Rawcliffe, monarchs of the flood,
Erect, sublime, with storms and tempests wed—
Or, sweetly gleaming in the evening sun,
Home of the Sea-birds when their task is done.
Now draw the cork, and let the wine go round,
Vintage of blue Moselle, and purple Spain,
This spot shall Pleasure turn to holy ground,
In every breast shall joy securely reign!—
Britannia's lovely Queen” loud spake our host,
And heart, and hand, and voice respond the toast.

155

Words too of flame were heard, tones eloquent,
Free in that domeless Amphitheatre,
We fear'd not frowns, nor sneer of malcontent,
In liberty unbounded as the air:
No city walls confine, no courtiers roam,
The heavens our temple, and the hills our home.
And beauty with bright orbs encircled near,
Sweet O---y raven-tress'd, and seraph-eyed,
Gay, sprightly B---y, with a brow so clear,
Fair R---t---n of loveliness the pride,—
And others, dazzling with celestial light,
To match whose charms, must match the stars of night.
Feasting, and song, and joyous repartee,
Like foam-bells in the sun, or brisk champagne,
Sparkled incessant with tumultuous glee,
In smile-lit eyes, and bosoms free from pain—
Whilst wondering children in the distant dell,
Gazed as at some enchanted spectacle.
But shall no record linger of this day?
No festive tribute herald future time?
Sponsors we boast, and matrons can essay,
This Christening in the style of true sublime—
The matchless B—y “Be for ever famed,
And thus enforced, Mount Pleasant hence be named.”

156

Mount Pleasant,—aye, remembered will thou be,
That day, those smiles, those faces glad and fair,
Those mountain's homes of truth and liberty,
Those fertile vales, soft wind and balmy air,—
And till the sands of life, their lowest run,
The honour'd name of Thomas H—n!

181

CORONACH,

OF DRUID BARDS OVER A BRITISH CHIEFTAIN.

“The most important and essential rite of Sepulture among the Ancient Britons was the funeral song, containing the praises of the deceased, sung by a number of bards, to the music of their harps, when the body was deposited in the grave. To want a funeral song was esteemed the greatest misfortune and disgrace; as they believed that without it, their spirits could enjoy no rest or happiness in a future state.”

On Eston's promontory
Renown'd in ancient story,
A reverend Druid stood—
His locks were long and hoary
His hands were red with blood.
FIRST BARD.
“Hail foremost of heroes, the godlike in might,
Beloved of the maidens, of foemen the dread
No more shall thy faulchion be wielded in fight
No more shalt thou triumph 'mid heaps of the dead.
Like an oak-tree of Kempley he tower'd o'er the foe,
The tempests of battle rag'd round him in vain,

182

Destruction awaited each terrible blow,
As he trod like an Angel of Death o'er the plain.
He was mild as the rainbow, like morn bright and clear,
His hair soft and curling as mists of the hill
He was strong as the wild-boar and fleet as the deer
In Love and in Battle victorious still!”

With groans and piteous weeping
They mourn'd the hero sleeping,
In sadness and despair:
Whilst women's hands were reaping
Their locks of raven hair.
SECOND BARD.
“Where the wild-roe was swiftest, and fiercest the boar,
Fast as whirlwind he sped o'er each forest and dale,—
Now the mountains shall echo his footsteps no more,
No more shall the hunter's rejoice at his call.
No more shall his hearth ring with festival cheer,
When the minstrels awoke each melodious tone,
As the maids gaily dancing, the guests quaffing near,
We chanted the deeds of his forefathers gone.
Once like spring-tides of Ocean, like wolves of the plain,
Like the Avelanche rolling its deluge of snow,
Like some fierce mountain torrent all swollen with rain
In fury he rush'd on the ranks of the foe.”

Now came the Chieftain's daughter

183

And to the solemn slaughter
Led forth the snow-white bull:
Whilst from the roaring rafter
The flames ascended full.
THIRD BARD.
“Now Denmark, and Norway, and Iceland rejoice,
The valiant is perish'd once first in the fray,
He is dead the brave Chieftain whose terrible voice
Scatter'd dread and despair o'er each Island and bay.
But you, grateful Britons, whilst heaping his pyre,
Remember with rapture his glorious name,
For bright as the flames of this funeral fire
Shall his deeds shine aloft in the Temple of Fame.
His bones may all crumble, his Urn may decay,
His sword and his faulchion perish with rust,
But his spirit shall flourish in brightness of day,
And a radiance Immortal illumine his dust.”

CHORUS.

“He is gone!” loud rang the Chorus,
“He has reach'd the skies before us,
And he walks the sacred vale:
But his spirit hovers o'er us,
And re-echoes Glory's tale!”

184

EPITHALAMIUM.

Written on the marriage of the Lady Frances Anne Emily Vane, eldest daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness of Londonderry, with the Marquis of Blandford, son of the Duke of Marlborough, Wednesday, July 12, 1843.

Lady, in elder times 'twas not unmeeting
To hail such unions with a bridal greeting:
When Rome tower'd loftiest, when Greece was young,
The free-born Bard in rapturous measures sung
Of Innocence and Loveliness, displayed
Bright as Diana's in the forest shade:
Nor, deem I lady, though each brow was fair,
Eyes soft, and deep,—words liquid as the air,—
Though poets' hymns rose musical and free,
Liv'd one more blest, more beautiful than thee.
Greece had her Castaly, her Helicon,
Fountains and rivers glittering in the sun;
But thou, where Wynyard's rich and wooded plain,
Stretches afar its ample broad domain,
(Where Tees runs sweeping by old Barnard's towers,

Barnard Castle. These ruins present a fine remnant of antiquity, and were formerly the baronial residence of the Baliols, ancestors of Baliol King of Scotland (as De Brus of Gisborough, was also ancestor of Bruce King of Scotland, and of the present Queen Victoria, through marriage with the Stuarts) who came over to England with William the Conqueror.


Gainford's sweet valleys,

Gainford is a lovely village on the banks of the Tees, not far from Rokeby, the seat of the late J.B.S. Morritt, Esq. The beautiful scenery in this neighbourhood has been immortalized by the pen of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

Dinsdale's fragrant bowers,

Dinsdale Spa is well-known, and has formed the subject of many ingenious dissertations.



185

Then with a gentle sound, and pleasant motion,
Mingles its waters with the azure ocean,)
Wert nobly rear'd by parents just, and kind,
Who watch'd thy infant steps, who trained thy mind,
And, still enriching, gave it stores of love,
The eagle's power, the mildness of the dove.
When last I heard thy music-breathing name,
'Twas borne upon the trumpet-tongue of Fame,
'Twas linked with one descended from a tree
Whose every branch bore wreaths of Victory—
That valiant hero, who on Blenheim's plain
Review'd the deeds of Agincourt again,

The celebrated Duke of Marlborough, Conqueror of Blenheim, and ancestor of the Marquis of Blandford, is here alluded to.


Prov'd to the fiery Gaul that British steel
In British hands was still invincible,
That England, like her oak, may swerve awhile,
Then, scorn the tempests, and more proudly smile.
Nor, lady, should my humble muse forget
Deeds proud and high that stamp thy coronet
One name still honour'd in thy natal North,

The Marchioness of Londonderry's father, Sir Henry Vane Tempest, was highly popular in the County of Durham. “In his regular attendance to parliamentary duties, he was always to be found at his post: and the wants and wishes of the county were attended to, and forwarded to the utmost of his power and abilities. He enjoyed the unbounded confidence of his constituents, and he was never shackled by any pledge or promise as to the line of conduct he should pursue; they were satisfied he never would deviate from the right path, when he followed the dictates of his own heart! He never spoke in the House of Commons, nor at public meetings in the County, except he felt decply interested in the subject of debate, when, such was the noble energy of his delivery and masculine strength of his language, he governed the fixed attention of his auditors, and carried irresistible conviction to the mind.” Sharp's Hartlepool, p., 84.


Renown'd for generous acts, for sterling worth:—
Another,

The Lord Viscount Castlereagh, prime minister to George IV. during the domestic troubles that ensued after the termination of the war in 1815.

who when storms and tempests howl'd

When fiercest clouds o'er England's prospects scowl'd;
When Treason thundered, when Rebellion struck,
When hostile ranks in fierce collision shook—
He, calm, erect, undaunted, undismayed,
The Ægis banners of our Isle display'd;
And, through the stormy waves and angry spray,

186

Bore the good ship Britannia safe away!
Blessings be with you!—when I saw you last
You grac'd the festal throng:—that scene is past!
Now, parterres wide, now rich, and fertile plains,
Groves pure and fragrant, ample, broad domains,
Worlds of delight and happiness are thine,
Aspiring hopes, and ecstacies divine!
And O, from this glad union may there rise
Fair cherubs to delight their parents' eyes,
Young stems attendant on your marriage vow,
So that, in future time may spring from you
Fresh bays of Blenheim, and of Waterloo!

The Marquis of Londonderry gained immortal honour by his gallantry at the battle of Waterloo, and obtained the especial commendation of the Duke of Wellington for his distinguished valour. The noble Marquis is familiarly designated in the army as the British Murat.


And, now, poor verse, I waft thee o'er the Sea,
Perchance to meet those eyes I may not see;
No venal sacrifice, no courtly theme,
This is the souls free gift, a Poet's dream;
The lays that Pope rehears'd, that Dryden sung,
That Spencer warbled, never can be wrong:—
Nor, lady, send I thee mere tricks of art,
Each word I write springs gushing from the heart!

206

LINES

Suggested by the exhumation of a very ancient Urn from the Tumuli on Eston Nab, in Cleveland, November 9, 1843.

“How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their Country's wishes blest!—
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes a Pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
And dwell a weeping hermit there.”
Collins.

Keen blew the blast o'er Eston's height,

Eston Nab is a celebrated rocky height in Cleveland, and a famous landmark for vessels navigating the Tees. During the late war, a Beacon was erected on it by the late Thomas Jackson, Esq., of Lackenby, and there yet remains a strong and durable castellated edifice, which may have been used for a similar purpose. The property on which the tumuli were opened, belongs to the ancient family of Stapylton, of Myton Hall, by whom the author was granted full liberty to excavate, for the purpose more particularly of illustrating his forthcoming work, “The History and Antiquities of Cleveland.”


The sun shone clear, the sky was fair,
When bath'd in morning's earliest light
We laid the dust of ages bare,
Whilst eager hearts and straining eyes
Unlock'd their kindred sympathies.
Behold the Camp—the martial mound,

“This Camp occupies the highest part of an extensive insulated hill with an abrupt precipice on the North West; and the Camp is formed by a simicircular trench, each end of which terminates at the brink of the precipice, the edge of which is the diameter of the circle, and the only defence of the Camp on that side. As the form of the Camp has not been dictated by necessity, we may infer that it has been originally a British work; yet from the strength and beauty of the trench and gates, I am disposed to think that it has been subsequently occupied and improved by the Romans.” Young's History of Whitby Vol. II, p., 689. The tumuli were about a stone's-throw from this ancient encampment.


The trophies of Imperial Rome—

207

Once Freedom' consecrated ground,
Her dearest heritage and home,—
Whose Patriots learnt to bleed and die
Beneath the Flag of Liberty!
Perchance, within this heap of stone,

The first tumulus opened consisted of an immense mass of stones, carpeted over with heath, whilst a few feet beneath the surface lay a huge slab of rude, unpolished freestone, 7ft. 4in, long, and about 4ft. broad, in the cavity beneath which, no doubt had reposed the colossal remains of some ancient British chieftain, this tumulus being essentially British, and perhaps long anterior to the Christian era.


(The wilder'd heath its sable shroud,)
Some conquering hero sleeps alone
Whom Death, not Victory, subdued:
Here all the mighty warriors stood
Lamenting o'er the great and good.
And who was he? What distant age

Were I to follow the Rev. Mr. Graves in his fanciful conjecture, that Eston Nab is the famous Badon Hill, I might by a small additional prurience of imagination, pronounce this tumulus to be the tomb of King Arthur. The late Sir John Stevenson Hall has however bestowed that honour on Freeborough Hill—

“Freeborough's huge mount, Immortal Arthur's tomb,”
and I shall not therefore attempt to deprive that illustrious Prince of the dignity of his more majestic sepulchre. I may mention that the Badon Hill of History has been almost universally placed in the neighbourhood of Bath.


Boasted the tenant here inurn'd?
What Chieftain big with Patriot rage,
In whom the fires of Freedom burned?
What British Bruce, what Cleveland Tell
Who, fighting for his country, fell!

It is probable, indeed pretty certain, that this encampment was originally British, and part of an extensive line of defence established on the neighbouring hills. Afterwards the Romans would occupy these entrenchments, and appear to have added considerably to their beauty and strength. We are therefore justified in concluding that some “British Bruce, or Cleveland Tell” might here make a last struggle for expiring Liberty, and be interred in this place by his sorrowing countrymen.


Did maddening shrieks enlarge the gale,
Of wild-haired women wailing near
Some prophet Druid cold and pale,
Interr'd within this mountain bier?
Or, wept they o'er the sacred form
Of Bard whose Lyre could charm the storm?

The Bards in those days were only second in dignity to the Druid priests, and their obsequies were attended by their brethren, who chanted songs of lamentation over their remains, and commemorated their virtues.


Or, sprang he from Monarchic Rome,
Wielder of thunders o'er the Sea?

This supposition is not unreasonable, as the Romans certainly occupied the encampment near, and might bury their dead in the neighbourhood after the manner of the British. See Æneid, v. 371, and vi. 212 to 235. After Misenus had been buried, the calcined bones were collected in a vessel (cadus) and then the hero of the Æneid erected over him an immense tumulus,— “ingenti mole sepulcrum imposueri.”


Say, Tyrant, were these hills thy home,
To trample o'er the brave, the free—

208

Whose heights, O, Liberty, are thine,
Thy empire, and thy Realm divine!
None know! Life, love and hope, were his,
The pulsing heart, th' aspiring brow,
Thoughts burning with tumultuous bliss,
And passions red with fury's glow—
Smell, hearing, taste, the eagle's eye,
And mind that rounds Eternity.
Even like ourselves he gaz'd around,
He saw old Ocean rolling near,
He view'd th' expansive mountain-bound,
Yon river flowing bright and clear:
Whilst Eston Nab, and Roseberry
Echoed the shouts of Victory!

“In front is the mouth of the River Tees, the winding course of which may be traced many miles towards its source in the West, beyond which the hills above Richmond, and some of the most elevated mountains in Lancashire, Westmoreland and Cumberland, with the Cheviot Hills in Scotland, are visible; while nearer at hand a great extent of Coast to the East and North, and the principal part of the County of Durham, with villages and farm-houses interposed may be distinctly seen. Roseberry Topping with the range of Cleveland hills and the heights of Blackamoor, appear in the south.” Graves' History of Cleveland, p. 448.


Come hither!—from your temples come—
The proud, the ambitious, and the great;
Behold your ancient Fathers' home,
How simple, and how free from state:
Two thousand years the storms have beat,
And scarce these bones are crumbled yet.

On opening the urn in the presence of our party, consisting of the Rev. J. Charnock, Rev. J. Holme, T. C. Wilkinson, Esq., of Newall Hall, John Jackson, Esq., of Lackenby, John Jackson, Esq., Stokesley, and several gentlemen, from Stockton-on-Tees, we found the bones, consisting of three acetabuli, several patellœ, a large portion of the scapula, a zygomatic process, the upper part of the tibia, and numerous ribs, finger bones, pieces of skull, and teeth, in a remarkable state of preservation. There was a sufficient quantity to fill several large bottles, one of which the author presented to the Rev. Dr. Young, of Whitby, and the rest to different Museums.


So fades the world! Two Thousand Years
How doleful, like a midnight bell!
Eternity of hopes and fears,
Who bravely fought, and nobly fell:
Danes, Britons, Romans, all are gone
Sole record now this Urn,—this stone!—

The urn, which is of baked clay, presents a fine specimen of antiquity, and is perfect except in one small portion broken off by the spade of a workman. Its largest circumference is 40 inches, and its height about 17 inches. It was completely filled with human bones, overlaid with a small deposit of earth, and the reason why the bones and urn were so complete, seems to have arisen from the circumstance of their being entirely protected from the rain and weather, by a large shield-formed stone, laid over the mouth of the urn. This stone was curiously carved inside, and will prove very interesting to the Antiquarian.



224

THE MEETING.

“It was the soothing hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which seems as if the whole green earth it bounded
Circling all Nature, hushed, and dim, and still.—” [OMITTED]
“Alas! the love of woman! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing.—”
—Byron.

We stood beside the ocean
We gazed upon the sky,
Whilst the waves with gentle motion
Softly sung their lullaby;
And I look'd upon her face,
But I could not, dar'd not speak,
For the past sprang up apace,
And my heart was like to break.
We had wander'd forth together,
When the summer heavens' were fair,
But a blast of winter weather
Shook our spirits' with despair;
Cruel words and harsh were spoken,

225

“Thou shalt wed him, daughter, never:”
Ah, how idle was the token—
Love—true love—exists for ever!
And still the sun shone brightly,
The sea-birds hover'd near,
The foam-topp'd waves fell lightly
Among the sea-shells near;
The sparry-spangled grotto
Among the rocks gleam'd fair,
Where true-love's hallow'd motto
Recorded our despair.
“O seat thee gentle maiden,
Best and dearest rest thee here,
For my heart is over-laden
With its agony and fear;
Let my bosom be thy pillow
Whilst I gaze within thine eyes,
For gently falls the billow,
And sweetly smile the skies.
“How truly I have lov'd thee
Through darkness and despair,
How wildly passion mov'd me,
Let these burning tears declare;
Every light that shines in heaven,
Every sound on earth seem'd gone,
But thine eyes like stars of even
And the music of thy tongue.

226

“Though harsh voices may surround us,
Though rude tempests rage between,
Like yon azure heavens' around us,
Love like ours shall smile serene.
Bars of iron cannot sever
When true hearts united are,
Love will bloom and burn for ever,
Fix'd and steadfast as a star!
“My bark is on the water,
And the breezes lightly float,
Let us go sweet ocean-daughter,
Where fierce hate can harm us not:
In the lone and far Savannah
A green bower I'll build for thee,
Where the birds shall sing hosannah,
And the flowers thy couch shall be.”
A tear-drop lingered brightly
In that eye of softest blue,
The blush of love dawned lightly
On that cheek of purest hue;
“To the wide-world's farthest border,
Though the stormy ocean roar,
I obey my true-love's order—
I will tend thee evermore!”

234

LINES

On the death of an old man who perished in the snow-storm of 1844.

O'er Freeborough hill, and Stanghow wood,
O'er Moorsholm moor the wind blew cold,
The raven hoarsely scream'd for food,
The beasts stood trembling in the fold—
Whilst whirling high, dense flakes of snow
Fell fast about that aged man,
The wintry tempests wildly blow,
More fiercely round his temples wan.
Night came, the glimmering beams decline,
No sheltering roof, no cottage near,
There's not a star in heaven doth shine
Nor taper's lonely welcome here.
Fast onwards, like a rushing wave
The fleecy snows rush drifting on,—
Ah, cold and chill will be thy grave
Poor wanderer, ere the morning sun!

235

Now blacker glooms the scowling night
And wilder, drearer, spreads the moor
Blast follows blast with gathering might,
And eddying drifts confound him sore.
Nought doth he hear, nought doth he see,
Still feebler grows the old man's tread,—
Save but the storms that wander free;
It is the silence of the dead.
His eyes grow faint, his eyeballs dim,
What hope, what solace is their nigh,
Pale Phantoms o'er his vision swim—
He sinks upon the heath to die.
Alas, the sights that hover near
His cottage hearth, his blazing fire,
His weeping wife so lov'd, so dear,
His children wailing for their sire.
The snows lie chill upon his brow
The gathering tempests stop his breath—
Is it an angel greets him now?—
'Tis Azrael,—'tis the angel Death!
Yet, often shall the housewife tell
His story by the winter grate,
And aged shepherds' sadly dwell
Upon his uncomplaining fate.

245

IMPROMPTU LINES

ON A YOUNG LADY VISITING FRANCE AND THE RHI

“O, saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the border,
She's gane like Alexander
To spread her conquests farther.
Return again fair Lesley
Return to Caledonie,
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.”
—Burns.

The ship that bears thee o'er the salt sea-foam,
Far from the pleasures of thy youthful home,
Leaves not on English ground thy like behind,
Wafts richer treasure than the pearls of Ind:
Ye waves rebel not! clouds and storms depart!—
Or ye will rend in twain some lover's heart.
Breasting the Kentish shore thou wilt behold
Britannia's bulwarks, cliffs and headlands bold,
The rocks of Albion which sweet Shakespere sung,
(Where, gathering samphire, the poor sailor hung,)

246

And Dover's castle-walls still towering high
Beloved alike by Ocean and the sky!
Fast roll the waves along that Channel free,
Loud sweep the breezes o'er the bounding sea;
But, loveliness like thine, will still command
Homage from winds, and waves, and stormy strand,
Whilst beauteous sea-birds hovering in the air,
Rejoicing linger o'er a form so fair.
Thou'lt see Boulogne's bright shore,—where, long ago,
In youth's glad prime, I wander'd to and fro,
Dear are its upland walks,—yea, ever dear,
Ev'n the harsh rocks, and sea defying pier;
Dear that lone beach, erst sanctified to love,
Where Naiads once, and sea-nymphs seem'd to rove.
And thou wilt wander the gay realm of France,
Region of beauty, chivalry, romance,
Through vales sweet-smiling, and majestic towns,
Groves fresh and verdant, fields which Plenty owns;
Swains frank and courteous, maidens pure, refin'd,
Will hail thy presence with a welcome kind,
And, mourning Scotland's vanished treasure, see
A Queen of love and beauty still in thee!
Would I were with thee in th Imperial town,
(The pride of cities, Europe's jewell'd crown;)

247

To roam with thee along the gentle Seine,
'Mid pleasant vineyards, bright with summer rain,
Pace the gay Boulevard—Palais Royale
Jardines des Plantes—Champs-Elysee—and all
The festooned walks, rich parks, and temples free,—
Majestic Louvre, gorgeous Tuilleries.
No more the clanging trumpet frights each street,
No more is heard the furious war-steeds' feet;
Riot and red rebellion, sunk to rest,
No longer stir each palpitating breast:
But cheerful smiles and laughter-beaming eyes,
Will greet thee oft with sympathising sighs,
And love-adoring whispers kiss the air,
Wondering from what blest sphere sprang one so fair.
And thou wilt view majestic and divine,
Immortal, glorious, ever-honour'd Rhine,
Rolling right onward beautiful and bold,
Tinged with cerulean hue, or evening's gold,
Mayence's proud towers, Cologna's spire-wreath'd town,
And lofty Ehrenstein's flower-mantled crown,
Grim forests spectre-haunted, dark and dun
And vineyards gleaming in the setting sun.
The silvery waters of Geneva's lake
Seraphic music in thy heart shall make;
The simple cottage, and the homes of old,

248

Dwellings of Truth and Freedom thou'lt behold,
Glad-hearted maidens sporting in their glee,
A people like our own, erect and free;
Mountain and vale—perchance the very dell,
Birthplace of Liberty and William Tell.
Yet lady, though fresh prospects bring delight,
Rhine please thine ear, and Gallia charm thy sight,
Though fertile vales, proud towns, and temples high,
Salute thee,—verdant groves and balmy sky—
Nor fields, nor skies, nor cities like thine own
O'er the broad earth yon Sun can shine upon,
Nor, (pardon, lady, if I rashly swear!)
Can Rhine, nor France, boast aught like thee so fair,
Nor truer poet-heart proclaims thy praises there,
 

Referring to the lovely and unfortunate Queen Mary Stuart


256

THE FIRST SONG OF SPRING.

To M------

Let not the morning sun ascend the sky,
For thou art brighter in thine own calm sphere,
The fairest star that hath its throne on high
Thou dost surpass, love, in thy heaven here.
The dusky cloudlet circling round the moon,
Cannot compare, love, with thy raven hair,
Nor silver beams that spangle midnight's crown
Match with the glances of thine eyes so fair.
The Spring hath spread fresh flowerets at our feet,
Fresh buds upon each fragrant almond-tree;
But violet of the dell is not so sweet,
Nor almond-blossom beautiful like thee.
The mountain streams are rich with emerald light,
Loud sing the birds in every leafy grove;
Whilst thou as mountain streams art pure and bright;
Sweet as the lark's thy warbled strains of love.

257

The bowers are budding, green each woodland dell,
The hawthorn blooms invite us to their shade,
O'er hill and dale soft genial raptures swell,
And greet with notes of joy my dearest maid.
Come to mine arms, beloved,—o'er the sea
Come,—in thine everlasting beauty come—
The voices of the Spring-time call to thee,
And I am here, thy welcome and thy home!

LINES.

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”
—Keats.

The primrose-shaws of Kilton grove
Are balmy-soft, and fragrant fair,
But she the floweret of my love
Surpasses them beyond compare.
The violet on the castle wall
The hawthorn-tree that blossoms nigh—
O, she is fairer than them all,
And meek in maiden modesty.
I gaz'd upon the heavens so clear,
One lovely star illum'd the scene,—
Behold, a fairer gem is near
Star of my heart, my bosom Queen!
I saw the glinting of her eye
That fell with soft and mellowed light,

258

The loveliest star in all the sky,
Beside the moon, was not so bright.
The peach-flower blossoming in May,
Can match not with her cherry lip,
The honey-bee at dawn of day
Might hither hie its sweets to sip.
But not alone her graceful form,
Her nimble step, her starry eye,
Her mind can rise o'er passion's storm,
She hath a soul can Fate defy.
She's gone! 'tis thus Love's dreams depart,—
Rose of the desert, fare thee well:
Oft will thy memory warm my heart,
Thou fairest flower of Hilda-well!

269

THE LAST OF THE PHOENICEANS.

[It is well known that a colony of Phœniceans, long ago, trafficked in Tin, to the mines of Cornwall. Tradition states that the last of this remarkable race of men, was observed wandering on the sea coast, apparently without any object or aim, and was never seen more—he was an aged man of singular dress and manner, and spoke in a language totally unknown to the inhabitants of the country. The following brief and imperfect sketch was composed on hearing the narrative.]

Like the sand of the ocean, his brow's furrow'd o'er,
And his tresses were white as the turf-beaten shore,
Yet, the dark eastern glow flashes quick in his eyes,
And a throng of home-memories heaves in his sighs.—
Those low wilder'd mutterings, oh, what do they mean?
'Tis a language more strange than his garments and mien,
He's the last of a race of the mighty and brave,
Who have found in these deserts a home and a grave!
Phœnicea's proud princes, young heroes, fair daughters,
In triumph and gladness swept over the waters;
A barbarous people, unletter'd they found,
A realm of bleak mountains, and verdureless ground,
They taught a sweet language and harmony's sound;
The science of ages, themes lofty and high,
O wondrous religion, the lore of the sky

270

Lone, lone are his vigils!—oh, what doth he see?
Phœnicea's fair gardens glow bright o'er the sea:
He beholds the broad palm-groves in beauty ascend,
The tall, graceful date-trees luxuriantly bend;
Rich blooms of the East, in that sunlight appear,
And the songs of its nightingales float on his ear,
And the murmur of breezes, the music of streams—
'Tis the home of his childhood illumines his dreams.
Eleutherus, Adonis, and Biblus glow bright,
Mount Carmel, and Libanus gleam on his sight,
The terraces, temples, and marbles of Tyre,
The splendours of Sidon, the altars of fire,
Moloch, Ashteroth, Thammuz (whose orgies they hail
All frantic and wild) and the worship of Baal,—
This, orb'd in his vision, like sunset appears,
The phantoms of boyhood, the glory of years,
No more, O, no more, can these eyeballs behold—
The sun is descending, pavilion'd in gold!
He hears the soft waters, the rippling of waves,
The dash of the sea-birds, the echo of caves,
And, again high-uplifting his eyes to the sun
He dreams of the land which his fathers had won;
Oh glory immortal!—what splendours on high—
Tis Baal,—'tis Baal himself in the sky!—
Exhausted, entranced, lo, he sinks him to die.
 

See description of this annual rite in Milton's Paradise Lost.


271

LINES,

Commemorative of a Pic Nic Party at Eston Nab and Wilton Castle, June, 1844.

Hasten to the feast of joy,
Far from every care's annoy!
Why should tear-drops dim the eye?
Why should sorrow heave a sigh?
Lo, the heavens are beaming bright,
Gentle breezes linger light;
Honeysuckles deck each bower,
Fragrance breathes from every flower:
Earth and sky unite to say
“Blessed be your holiday!”
Youths and maidens weave a crown,
Garlands for the month of June;
Leave yon dull retreats below,
Upward to the mountains go:
See, yon beacon-light of glory,
On old Eston's Promontory;

280

There the proud victorious dead
In triumphant tombs are laid,
And each mounded architrave
Marks the warrior's, patriot's grave!

Referring to the numerous tumuli in the neighbourhood.


Sights and sounds are yet on earth,
Lovely forms of heavenly birth;
See yon Blue-rob'd mountains rise
Their crested bulwarks to the skies:
Lo, with clouds and sunbeams wed,
Stately Rosebury rears his head—
(Dear to Poets, with a shower
Of laurels like Parnassus' dower!)
See yon broad and sweeping lawn
Glistening with the dews of dawn,
Jocund once with noble cheer
Of the hunters of the deer.

“Park-wood,” formerly a deer-park to Gisborough Priory, and afterwards of the Chaloner family.


O'er the purple heath we go,
Where the lovely hill-flowers blow,
Where the breezy groves of pine
Murmur symphonies divine,
Where the mounds of heroes hoary
Point toward heaven the path of glory,
Till descending Wilton's woods,
Listening where the cushat broods,
When the music of the stream
Sounds like voices in a dream!

281

Mark we now the festal throng

The party consisted of about thirty ladies and gentlemen from Stockton-on-Tees.


Hark to laughter, toast, and song,
Happy maidens in their joy,
Thoughts of bliss without alloy,
Love and youth, and harmless wiles,
Sparkling eyes, delighted smiles,
Or, beside the chrystal spring,
Gaily dance, and sweetly sing,
Till within the Poet's eyes
They rival shapes of paradise.
`Tis the lady's favour'd bower,

The lovely grotto where we dined is termed “Lady Elizabeth's bower,” being a favorite retreat of lady Elizabeth Lowther, and commands a fine view of the sea and surrounding country. On this occasion it was kindly granted to our party by the Lowther family.


(Lady of yon castled tower;)
Roses, violets, eglantine,
Round that bower of beauty shine:
Graceful Parks, majestic groves,
Minister to youthful loves;
Temple bright of charity,

The noble Turner Charity at Kirkleatham is here alluded to.


Mausoleum, Hall, you see,—
Whilst old Ocean's dimpled kisses
Greet the shore with stolen blisses.
Let the sparkling glass go round,
Joy and rapture without bound!
Who's the recreant will not join
Lovely woman with the wine?
Three times three, and seven times seven
“Woman, fairest flower of heaven;”

282

Fill, fill up the flowing measure,
“Woman, man's divinest treasure;”
Yet again, yea, nine times nine—
“Woman, matchless and divine!”
Dearest joys are ever fleetest,
Fleetest blisses ever sweetest:—
Now the sun's declining motion
Lingering o'er the purpled ocean,
Warns our joyous troop to part
With sad touches of the heart;
Yet, as life declines away,
Memory will impart a ray
Bright and radiant as the beams
Lingering o'er yon land of dreams!

314

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE BURNS FESTIVAL.

Held at Ayr, August 6th, 1844.

“Him who walk'd in glory and in joy,
Following his plough along the mountain side.”
wordsworth.

Sweet Ayr sing gaily 'midst thy bowers,
Nith, murmur with thy gentlest roar,
Doon, “bonny Doon,” kiss all thy flowers,
Old Coila ring from shore to shore!
This glorious day, this heavenly hour,
Shall kindle through a nation's ranks!
All England, Europe, waft a shower
Of joyous, gratulating, thanks.
Scotland, he was thy noblest,—thine
A Comet blazing in the skies:
If frail and human, still divine
With heaven's and Nature's sympathies
All fears, all hopes, all tenderness,
In Burns' bosom shared a part;

315

The pangs that rend, the loves that bless
Possess'd in turns bold Robin's heart.
And, if along his dark career
Shone lurid gleams like hues of even,
'Twas such as gilds yon starry sphere,
Celestial splendour, “light from heaven.

Read the impressive and eloquent defence of Burns, by Burns himself,

“I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
Was light from heaven.


Old Scotland's hills, her “banks and braes,”
Her branching woods, and silv'ry streams,
Her Hawthorn glades drank in the rays,
Like sunlight from a land of dreams.
Her peasants felt the bnrning glow,
Her maidens drank the rapturous flame—
Mid scorching suns, and frozen snow
Shines forth his beacon-light of fame!
Yea, Scotland's “symbol” spared by him
“I turn'd aside my weeding-hook
And spared the symbol dear.”

The daisy perch'd in Nature's nook,

See “Lines to a mountain-daisy, on turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786.


The “primrose by the river's brim,”
Imbib'd heav'ns sunshine from his look.
Proud lords and ladies of renown
With humble peasants linger'd there,
And Poets weav'd the lilac-crown
For Burns, immortal Bard of Ayr!
Yes, Scotland's second Burns attended,
The seraph-lipp'd, the eagle-eyed

316

Whilst rank, from lofty state descended,

The Earl of Eglintoun presided, and Professor Wilson, Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, occupied the Vice Chair,—a delightful union of nobility of rank and aristocracy of talent. A better selection than Professor Wilson could not have been made,—kindred with Burns in passion, genius, enthusiasm, and nobility of nature.


And sat with Wilson side by side.
Most festal, most triumphant sight!
The snow-white tents, the banner'd sky,
Gay cavalcades, processions bright,
And woman's soft approving eye.
And, Scotland, if despair's keen dart
E'er pierced thy Poet's manly frame,
If cold neglect disturb'd his heart,
This hour eradicates thy shame.
Pale Envy, Hatred's hideous brood,
Mean warfare with the loftiest wage,

See also Childe Harold:—

“He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest heights are most enwrapt in snow,
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.

But, independent, unsubdued,
Burns eagle-like outsoar'd their rage.
Now, lo, as Ocean waves they come,
To wash the ungenerous stain away,
Whilst Burns from his cerulean home
Forgives them—for this glorious day.
Then fear not, ye of kindred clay,
Illumined with Promethean fire,
Though clouds obscure the heavenly ray,
And earthly dews relax your lyre.
Though hell-born Furies shriek with pain,
And lash you with a rod of flame,

317

Your present loss is future gain,
And myriads yet shall bless your name.

326

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CAMPBELL.

“And Cambell's epitaph shall be,
‘Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he.”
Babd and Minor Poems.

Another light hath faded from the sky,
Another flower hath vanish'd from the earth;
Hot tear-drops fill each sympathising eye
For him, that pearl of genius, wit, and worth.
Ten years, ten mournful years, have glided o'er
When first this faithful hand rehears'd his praise;
Since then the bard of Ettrick is no more,
Sweet Coleridge, Southey, master of the bays:—
And Campbell—from the blue hills of Argyle,
Each forest, and deep glen, and misty vale,
From every mountain, continent, and isle,
Shall sound the loud lament, the bitter wail.
How large his soul! how noble was the man!
What glorious visions kindled in his brain:
Like sun-lit waves each beauteous image ran,
Bright, rainbow-hued as drops of April rain.
“From grave to gay, from lively to severe,”
He stalk'd or sported, merry or sedate;

327

Now as a fairy's song he charm'd the ear,
Now as a Titan was he fierce and great.
O, how divinely tripp'd the joyous hours,
Those festive moments, that harmonious glee!
What Protean colours gleam'd through Fancy's bowers,
What heavenly hues adorn'd Philosophy!
I see him now!—the orb'd, majestic head,
The polish'd brow, the Phidian nose, blue eyes,
The patriot look, the ever glancing smiles,
The thoughts inspired, and language of the skies.
Yea, proud was I to worship at thy feet,
Gamaliel, poet-father, Fancy's guide!
A critic thou, enthroned on highest seat,
A poet placed by Shakspere's, Milton's side!
In prose, or honey'd verse, alike a king,
Renown'd in Grecian, as in Roman glory;
Thou eagle-like could'st soar, or lark-like sing,
Now crown'd immortally in English story.
He is not dead! O say he is not dead!
“Fair Wyoming” records to endless time
The poet's fame, and binds his laurell'd head;
By “Susquehanah's shade” he stands sublime.

328

He is not dead!—the Paradise of Hope
Blooms with victorious garlands, heavenly flowers,
With fresh delight shall future poets ope
Each page inspired among the summer bowers.
He is not dead!—Old England's mariners
Shall own the heart-quake and the shouts of war,
Red Linden quivered to his martial airs,
Nile, Copenhagen, tremble from afar.
He is not dead!—whilst Poland is alive,
And Poland's heart still cleaves to liberty:
In Poland's blood-stained annals he shall live,
A meteor-light in Freedom's cloudless sky.
He is not dead!—whilst Scotland's mountains stand,
Loch Awe, Loch Katrine glow with burnish'd gold;
His name shall star-like hover o'er the land,
Link'd with her Burns!—her proudest sons of old!
Her woodland flowers lament him, the deep grove
Is musical with songs of lyre and lute!
All her broad forests murmur notes of love,
At his rich voice the nightingale is mute.
Her streams hear music sweeter than their own,
Stars in their spheres a melody more sweet;
Angels might listen to each heavenly tone,
And earthly lovers holier raptures greet!

329

And when he died, the nobles of the land,
They who derided, or had scorn'd his lot,
Clasp'd round his corpse, who had refused his hand,
And crowded to that consecrated spot.
Immortal ever!—more immortal yet
When Kosciusko's dust was mixed with thine:
O, proudly would the poet's heart have beat
In foretaste of an union so divine!
Farewell true poet, most beloved friend!
Accept this earthly offering in the skies;
To the bright mansions let this tribute wend,
With heart-rung tears, and agonizing sighs.

349

THE END.