Rural sketches and poems | ||
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.
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.
THE HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE.
(After the manner of the “Battle of Otterbourne,”— see Percy's Ballads, and Scott's Minstrelsy.)
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.
When the wild-flowers sweetly lie,
When the primrose decks the green-shaw copse,
When the lark salutes the sky.—
And the Herberts light and gay,
From their proud mountain-homes went forth
To spend a hunting day.
And Skelton's Castle fair,
To seek the wild-boars lair.
And o, but he spake hie—
“This day among the Eskdale woods
Our prowess we will try.
And Esk a bonnie stream,
The Eskdale hills are high and bright,
And lovely as a dream!
The birds fly wild from tree to tree,
The silver trouts glide numberless,
The wild-flowers blossom free.”
Upon the bent so brown,
They lighted where that wild-boar lay,
The dread of Whitby town!
They drank the blood-red wine,
They swore an oath the boar must die,
Ere they would sit to dine.
The hounds so fierce and fell,
And far the chorus echoed loud
O'er rock and woody dell.
Loud neigh'd those joyous steeds,—
This day shall Esk,—shall Cleveland ring
With those brave gallant's deeds.
Why start the hounds aback?
Why snort the trembling horses,
Nor dare that rugged track?
Young Piercie loudly cried!
A silver dirk for him who spears
The boar of Eskdaleside!”
And strong as Whitby tide,
The huntsmen chac'd o'er hill and wood,
The boar of Eskdaleside.
O'er heath and cavern'd glen
They drove the grim old wild-boar,
The wild-boar from his den!
Beside the gnarled oak,
The Hermit meek of Eskdaleside
His lone communings took.
A Prophet of the skies,
A Teacher and a Minister
Of Nature's mysteries.
No shadow touch'd the Earth,
But Eskdale's holy hermit
Could track their earliest birth.
The wealth of hill and dale,
All treasures and all loveliness
That hermit knew full well.
But most in God's pure Word,
He spent his lonely vigils,
He wept before the Lord.
Rush'd through the open stead,—
Wounded and torn it stagger'd on,
Then fell before him dead.
To see the piteous sight—
“O man is far more fierce,” he said
“Than wild-beasts in their might.
To God and I were given,—
I little deem'd that earthly rage,
Had power o'er things of heaven.
Far hence your footsteps trace:
Herbert, De Bruce, how dare ye thus,
Pollute this sacred place!”
So loud I hear ye lie—
Ope wide the gates”—young Piercie roared
“Or, surely thou shalt die!”
They charg'd with pointed spear—
The rustic door in pieces fell
Where he was praying near.
The heir of Piercies hall?
How dar'd thou balk my fleet stag-hounds,
And keep our prey in thrall?
A banquet easy got—
And, by my troth, fit doom were thine,
To match that wild-boars lot.”
Thy braggart falsehoods hence—
Behold this Crucifix my shield,
The Church my sure defence.”
That could so sharply wound,
Has smote the hermit on the brow
Into a deathly swound.
Now struck each hunters soul,—
Away—away—o'er heath and crag
Each seeks his stately hall!
The horrid outrage spread,
Of his wound was well-nigh dead.
Those youths to Eskdaleside,—
“Now, by our holy mother Church
What may this deed betide?
Your punishment shall be,—
Yea, by my soul, though he should fix
Your doom the gallows tree.”
“Revenge be none of mine,
To extend our Holy Church's bound
Were nobler aim of thine!”
In penance, for this crime,
Of twigs within this forest ta'en,
At earliest morning-time—
A hedge that still must stand
Three tides,—nor ocean's giant waves
Shall wash it from the sand.
Your deed of shame shall sound,
To Time's remotest bound.”
“Farewell thou smiling shore—
Sweet Esk, bright Esk, I lov'd thee well—”
One gasp—and all is o'er!
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.
The whole of this narrative appears, nearly similar, in the First Volume of Young's History of Whitby, and also in Charlton.
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 bearTwo true lovers did walk here.’”
Graves' ‘Cleveland.’
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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!
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 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!
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.
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.”
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.
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.
Echo where that maiden stood—
Sounds of waters, hymnings holy,
(Guests of woodland solitude—)
All are gone—the very tree—
Tablet of their memory!
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!
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.”
THE ROSE OF CLEVELAND.
My bright my beauteous bride.”—
S. T. Coleridge.
All with rarest woodbine crown'd,
Where the flower (of flowers the sweetest;)
Cleveland's fairest rose is found!
O'er the weary world's repose;
When the moon walk'd high and lonely,
First I met my Cleveland rose.
Like the glow-worm in the dell,
Were those eyes so bright, so gentle,
Of the maid I love so well.
Drifted snow, and hawthorn white,
Yet her brow and neck are fairer,
Dazzling with a softer light.
Rise and fall with gentle swell,
Heaves the love-compelling bosom,
Where my heart's devotions dwell.
Bounding o'er their heather homes—
Graceful she, in every motion,
Shedding bliss where'er she roams.
Evening's breezes fan our brows,
Airs of heaven from western dwellings,
Greet us where yon Monarch glows.
To the bowers where Love's repose;
There shall every wild-bird carol
Concerts for my Cleveland rose.”
Music rose from every bough:
Flowers of perfume from the hawthorn
Dropt upon her lovely brow.
Honied notes enwrapt the grove—
When I told the tale of passion;
All the story of my love.
Years of sorrow, and of fear,
Like a star 'mid clouds of tempest,
She had dwelt in beauty near.
To my sight was holy ground;
How her beauty, never absent,
Fill'd the earth's abysm round.
By far streams, by woodlands fair,
I, in woe and sorrow wander'd—
She was ever, ever there!
All the world but her, was nought,
Fame, and wealth a gloomy shadow—
She the bliss, the heaven I sought.”
Glistening in the evening sun,
She, with eyes of love's confession,
Sweetly own'd my suit was won.
Treasure for a thousand woes—
Thrilling passions, hopes entrancing,
When I won my Cleveland Rose?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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!
CORONACH,
OF DRUID BARDS OVER A BRITISH CHIEFTAIN.
Renown'd in ancient story,
A reverend Druid stood—
His locks were long and hoary
His hands were red with blood.
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.
The tempests of battle rag'd round him in vain,
As he trod like an Angel of Death o'er the plain.
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!”
They mourn'd the hero sleeping,
In sadness and despair:
Whilst women's hands were reaping
Their locks of raven hair.
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.
When the minstrels awoke each melodious tone,
As the maids gaily dancing, the guests quaffing near,
We chanted the deeds of his forefathers gone.
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.”
Led forth the snow-white bull:
Whilst from the roaring rafter
The flames ascended full.
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.
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 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!”
EPITHALAMIUM.
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.
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, Dinsdale's fragrant bowers,
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.
'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,
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.
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, 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,
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!
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!
LINES
Suggested by the exhumation of a very ancient Urn from the Tumuli on Eston Nab, in Cleveland, November 9, 1843.
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.
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.
“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—
Her dearest heritage and home,—
Whose Patriots learnt to bleed and die
Beneath the Flag of Liberty!
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.
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—
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.
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?
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—
Thy empire, and thy Realm divine!
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.
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.
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.
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.
THE MEETING.
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 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.
When the summer heavens' were fair,
But a blast of winter weather
Shook our spirits' with despair;
Cruel words and harsh were spoken,
Ah, how idle was the token—
Love—true love—exists for ever!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.”
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!”
LINES
On the death of an old man who perished in the snow-storm of 1844.
O'er Moorsholm moor the wind blew cold,
The raven hoarsely scream'd for food,
The beasts stood trembling in the fold—
Fell fast about that aged man,
The wintry tempests wildly blow,
More fiercely round his temples wan.
No sheltering roof, no cottage near,
There's not a star in heaven doth shine
Nor taper's lonely welcome here.
The fleecy snows rush drifting on,—
Ah, cold and chill will be thy grave
Poor wanderer, ere the morning sun!
And wilder, drearer, spreads the moor
Blast follows blast with gathering might,
And eddying drifts confound him sore.
Still feebler grows the old man's tread,—
Save but the storms that wander free;
It is the silence of the dead.
What hope, what solace is their nigh,
Pale Phantoms o'er his vision swim—
He sinks upon the heath to die.
His cottage hearth, his blazing fire,
His weeping wife so lov'd, so dear,
His children wailing for their sire.
The gathering tempests stop his breath—
Is it an angel greets him now?—
'Tis Azrael,—'tis the angel Death!
His story by the winter grate,
And aged shepherds' sadly dwell
Upon his uncomplaining fate.
IMPROMPTU LINES
ON A YOUNG LADY VISITING FRANCE AND THE RHI
As she gaed o'er the border,
She's gane like Alexander
To spread her conquests farther.
Return to Caledonie,
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.”
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.
Britannia's bulwarks, cliffs and headlands bold,
The rocks of Albion which sweet Shakespere sung,
(Where, gathering samphire, the poor sailor hung,)
Beloved alike by Ocean and the sky!
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.
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.
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!
(The pride of cities, Europe's jewell'd crown;)
'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 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.
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.
Seraphic music in thy heart shall make;
The simple cottage, and the homes of old,
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.
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,
THE FIRST SONG OF SPRING.
To M------
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.
Cannot compare, love, with thy raven hair,
Nor silver beams that spangle midnight's crown
Match with the glances of thine eyes so fair.
Fresh buds upon each fragrant almond-tree;
But violet of the dell is not so sweet,
Nor almond-blossom beautiful like thee.
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.
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,—in thine everlasting beauty come—
The voices of the Spring-time call to thee,
And I am here, thy welcome and thy home!
LINES.
—Keats.
Are balmy-soft, and fragrant fair,
But she the floweret of my love
Surpasses them beyond compare.
The hawthorn-tree that blossoms nigh—
O, she is fairer than them all,
And meek in maiden modesty.
One lovely star illum'd the scene,—
Behold, a fairer gem is near
Star of my heart, my bosom Queen!
That fell with soft and mellowed light,
Beside the moon, was not so bright.
Can match not with her cherry lip,
The honey-bee at dawn of day
Might hither hie its sweets to sip.
Her nimble step, her starry eye,
Her mind can rise o'er passion's storm,
She hath a soul can Fate defy.
Rose of the desert, fare thee well:
Oft will thy memory warm my heart,
Thou fairest flower of Hilda-well!
THE LAST OF THE PHOENICEANS.
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!
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
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.
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,
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.
LINES,
Commemorative of a Pic Nic Party at Eston Nab and Wilton Castle, June, 1844.
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!”
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;
In triumphant tombs are laid,
And each mounded architrave
Marks the warrior's, patriot's grave!
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.
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!
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.
(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,
Mausoleum, Hall, you see,—
Whilst old Ocean's dimpled kisses
Greet the shore with stolen blisses.
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;”
“Woman, man's divinest treasure;”
Yet again, yea, nine times nine—
“Woman, matchless and divine!”
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!
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE BURNS FESTIVAL.
Held at Ayr, August 6th, 1844.
Following his plough along the mountain side.”
wordsworth.
Nith, murmur with thy gentlest roar,
Doon, “bonny Doon,” kiss all thy flowers,
Old Coila ring from shore to shore!
Shall kindle through a nation's ranks!
All England, Europe, waft a shower
Of joyous, gratulating, thanks.
A Comet blazing in the skies:
If frail and human, still divine
With heaven's and Nature's sympathies
In Burns' bosom shared a part;
Possess'd in turns bold Robin's heart.
Shone lurid gleams like hues of even,
'Twas such as gilds yon starry sphere,
Celestial splendour, “light from heaven.
Her branching woods, and silv'ry streams,
Her Hawthorn glades drank in the rays,
Like sunlight from a land of dreams.
Her maidens drank the rapturous flame—
Mid scorching suns, and frozen snow
Shines forth his beacon-light of fame!
The daisy perch'd in Nature's nook,
The “primrose by the river's brim,”
Imbib'd heav'ns sunshine from his look.
With humble peasants linger'd there,
And Poets weav'd the lilac-crown
For Burns, immortal Bard of Ayr!
The seraph-lipp'd, the eagle-eyed
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.
The snow-white tents, the banner'd sky,
Gay cavalcades, processions bright,
And woman's soft approving eye.
E'er pierced thy Poet's manly frame,
If cold neglect disturb'd his heart,
This hour eradicates thy shame.
Mean warfare with the loftiest wage,
But, independent, unsubdued,
Burns eagle-like outsoar'd their rage.
To wash the ungenerous stain away,
Whilst Burns from his cerulean home
Forgives them—for this glorious day.
Illumined with Promethean fire,
Though clouds obscure the heavenly ray,
And earthly dews relax your lyre.
And lash you with a rod of flame,
And myriads yet shall bless your name.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF CAMPBELL.
‘Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he.”
Babd and Minor Poems.
Another flower hath vanish'd from the earth;
Hot tear-drops fill each sympathising eye
For him, that pearl of genius, wit, and worth.
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:—
Each forest, and deep glen, and misty vale,
From every mountain, continent, and isle,
Shall sound the loud lament, the bitter wail.
What glorious visions kindled in his brain:
Like sun-lit waves each beauteous image ran,
Bright, rainbow-hued as drops of April rain.
He stalk'd or sported, merry or sedate;
Now as a Titan was he fierce and great.
Those festive moments, that harmonious glee!
What Protean colours gleam'd through Fancy's bowers,
What heavenly hues adorn'd Philosophy!
The polish'd brow, the Phidian nose, blue eyes,
The patriot look, the ever glancing smiles,
The thoughts inspired, and language of the skies.
Gamaliel, poet-father, Fancy's guide!
A critic thou, enthroned on highest seat,
A poet placed by Shakspere's, Milton's side!
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.
“Fair Wyoming” records to endless time
The poet's fame, and binds his laurell'd head;
By “Susquehanah's shade” he stands sublime.
Blooms with victorious garlands, heavenly flowers,
With fresh delight shall future poets ope
Each page inspired among the summer bowers.
Shall own the heart-quake and the shouts of war,
Red Linden quivered to his martial airs,
Nile, Copenhagen, tremble from afar.
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.
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!
Is musical with songs of lyre and lute!
All her broad forests murmur notes of love,
At his rich voice the nightingale is mute.
Stars in their spheres a melody more sweet;
Angels might listen to each heavenly tone,
And earthly lovers holier raptures greet!
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.
When Kosciusko's dust was mixed with thine:
O, proudly would the poet's heart have beat
In foretaste of an union so divine!
Accept this earthly offering in the skies;
To the bright mansions let this tribute wend,
With heart-rung tears, and agonizing sighs.
Rural sketches and poems | ||