The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Such were the lines, my friend, at noontide read,
Roundly inscribed upon that antique well.
The little streamlet tinkled like a bell,
And murmur'd sweetly from its grassy bed;
A shower of primrose blossoms decked its head:
Whilst, from the hawthorn bowers, rich music fell
In quires of rapture, ringing through the dell!
Even thus, oh classic Hall, the glory spread,
When thou and Sterne, with Inspiration fed,
Reposing here, the liquid numbers rung;—
The same delightful glade, Elysian plain,
Rejoiced your spirits, brooding in this shade:
Alas! the place is silent where ye sung,
But Nature yet maintains her ancient reign.

Sir John Stevenson Hall, the finest classical scholar of his time, resided near this spot, at Skelton castle; and the lines quoted may be fairly attributed either to him, or his intimate friend, the celebrated Laurence Sterne.

280

THE SPA.

All sounds of winds and waters are thy dower,
Thy coronet the oak-trees towering high!
Here nature revels in her mighty power,
With songs of earth and blessings of the sky.

O, hours of love within thy sheltering woods!
Delights and raptures like the rainbow fair;
How blest were then thy sylvan solitudes,
With youth, and hope, and thee Beloved there!

Bright are thy domes, O Memory!—as a dream
Angelic are the temples tenanted:
The painter's vision, and the poet's theme;—
With seraph-halos circled o'er thy head.

Joy for the Past and Future!—they shall be
Impulse and Inspiration unto me.

THE SYCAMORE.

“This sycamore, oft musical with bees,
Such tents the patriarchs loved.”
Coleridge.

Bright is the scene, and lovely!—not a cloud
Darkens the heavens, nor wind disturbs the air;
Only I hear the blackbird piping loud,
Or throstle carol in his leafy lair:

281

Peace sits enthroned, the ruler everywhere.
And thou, huge sycamore, hast summer bowers
Of ease and plenty. There the yellow bee
Revels at will, and wantons 'midst thy flowers,
With fragrance, and the wild birds' minstrelsy.
Thy gifts are heavenly, and to heaven ascend—
Earth's hostage to the sunlight and the breeze;
A richer burthen do the seasons lend
Than silks of monarchs from the Indian seas—
And life and love are thine, queen of the forest trees.

THE RETURN.

As from the distant wars some love-lorn knight
The maid revisits, whom he woo'd of old—
And grieves full sore, that war and hostile fight
Had won from Beauty to adventure bold;
Even so lament I, and, when I behold
Glad native hill's, your glory and your pride—
See Nature's charms, each wood and verdant glade,
And hear the mountain-brook's rejoicing tide,
Or forest birds that warble in the shade:
O, then my bosom yearns for years departed,
Memories, and hopes, that gild the page of Time.—
Bright, glorious shapes awaken, long since parted,
When love, and youth, and joy were in their prime;
And tears start forth in many a gushing tide,
Nature! that e'er I wander'd from thy side.

282

TO ROSEBERY.

Cleveland, each Yorkshire vale salutes thee king,
And thou art watch-tower for the roaring sea;
Hundreds of ship-wrecked tars have look'd to thee
As through the howling billows they did swing:
Thou soar'st aloft, as with an eagle's wing,
Elate with looks of mountain sovereignty.
Spring's earliest clouds rest on thy forehead free,
Spring's youngest flowers commence their blossoming
Within thy bowers:—to thee the birds first sing!
And thou hast joyous pastures, verdant plains,
Groves for thy subjects, mountains for thy slaves;
Yea, the fierce storms salute thee, mighty thing:
Within thy cliffs the lordly eagle reigns—
Cliffs coeternal with the winds and waves!

May, 1841.

THE ALUM ROCKS.

These rocks, now shrouded o'er with oak and pine,
Fern, bramble, flowering furze,—each rugged plant
Once shook with heavy toil through every mine,
And labour struggled for a nation's want.
The aspiring Chaloner, from hills of Rome,
Brought the rare art, and fixed it here—his home;

283

(For this the dread anathema was hurl'd
And Rome's imperious oriflamme unfurl'd:)
Stately they rise, firm, steadfast and serene,
Nor Winter harms them, nor the Autumn rains,
Yon fir-trees are their coronals of green,
And still they tower majestic o'er the plains;
Alas! the noble peasants are no more,
But nature reigns, and shall for evermore!

The anathema is the same quoted by Sterne as the curse of Ernulphus, and is published at length in the Notes to the first volume of “England,” an historical Poem.

WRITTEN ON NEW-YEAR'S-DAY.

Another year is gone! Another year
Of circling hopes and fears is pass'd away;
Changes have fallen upon this earthly sphere;
Changes of tribulation and dismay.
Of true hearts wither'd, and of fond hearts gray!
The sacred home, the dear domestic hearth
Once blest with peace, have lost a note of mirth,
And mourn in lamentation those away;—
Tears for the living, grief for the departed:
Ah me!—how many a green vale and lone river,
Cottage and wood-side, weep for the true-hearted,
Passed to the final resting-place for ever.
Grieve not, ye sad ones! there is hope above,
And ye are nearer to the friends ye love!

284

HIGH CLIFF.

Hail, mighty cliff! hail, monarch of the plain;
Brother of clouds, fit tenant of the sky!
What mighty earthquake rear'd this remnant high?
From what fierce deluge first commenced thy reign?
Those rugged features tell of grief and pain,
Those ghastly rents of fearful agony!
And, say, what ancient people did espy
Yon towering summit, and its name ordain?
It recks not;—thou hast spurn'd the greedy main.
Majestic, as when Druids worshipp'd there:
Thy ministrations more enduring stand
Than bloody rites of Saxon, or of Dane;
And blessings greet thee from the summer air,
Showers, breezes, sunbeams, a perpetual band!