 | Prince Oswy |  |
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SONNET TO JOHN WALKER ORD, F.G.S.L.
Hail, child of Genius! Cleveland's honour'd bard!Who, singing England's praise, forgat not her
Whose hills, and brooks, and plains, thou didst prefer
To all the world: thou wert a worshipper
Of Nature fair; and on the daisied sward
Of thy dear native vale did ofttimes lay,
(When Phœbus high in azure heaven did ride,
And sea-nymphs sported in the ocean tide,)
To hear the lark's glad song, see lambkins play,
And view thy Cleveland clad in garments gay
Of lovely green, with Flora's gems bedight
So rich and profuse, that thy gladden'd soul
Felt inspiration at the very sight,
And wing'd its way beyond the world's control.
George Markham Tweddell. Stokesley.
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PRINCE OSWY.
The harvest moon was waning
O'er Arncliffe's rich domain,
The silver stars shone sweetly
On rock and woody plain,
When from her stately dwelling
Northumbria's Princess trode,
To question that famed Augur
In Arncliffe who abode.
O'er Arncliffe's rich domain,
The silver stars shone sweetly
On rock and woody plain,
When from her stately dwelling
Northumbria's Princess trode,
To question that famed Augur
In Arncliffe who abode.
“O, say, mysterious stranger,
(That, to these sightless eyes,
Dost seem of royal lineage,)
What seek'st thou of the skies?
I know each planet's motion,
Can track each silent star,
And comet-like can wander
The firmament afar!”
(That, to these sightless eyes,
Dost seem of royal lineage,)
What seek'st thou of the skies?
I know each planet's motion,
Can track each silent star,
And comet-like can wander
The firmament afar!”
“O, wise and dreadful wizard,
A godlike gift is thine,
To read each starry missal,
To con each planet-line!
Of proud Northumbria's treasure
The darling of my love,
What speak yon heavenly prophets?
What say yon orbs above?”
A godlike gift is thine,
To read each starry missal,
To con each planet-line!
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The darling of my love,
What speak yon heavenly prophets?
What say yon orbs above?”
Awhile the wizard ponder'd,
Awhile absorbed he stood:—
“Who shall bring back the treasure
That lies 'neath Ocean's flood?
To-morrow shall thy darling
In Death's embraces lay;
So speak the starry prophets—
'Tis midnight now—away!”
Awhile absorbed he stood:—
“Who shall bring back the treasure
That lies 'neath Ocean's flood?
To-morrow shall thy darling
In Death's embraces lay;
So speak the starry prophets—
'Tis midnight now—away!”
Back to her stately palace
The sorrowing lady trode:—
“This night, at least, my darling,
I trust thee to thy God;
These arms shall guard my orphan,
This breast thy pillow be,
And, ere the break of morning,
I'll bear thee safe with me.”
The sorrowing lady trode:—
“This night, at least, my darling,
I trust thee to thy God;
These arms shall guard my orphan,
This breast thy pillow be,
And, ere the break of morning,
I'll bear thee safe with me.”
It was an Autumn dawning,
Soft lights o'er hill and plain;
Bright lay the golden harvest,
Glad rose the reaper's strain—
When, winding down the valley,
The cavalcade rode on,
Smart steeds and gay retainers,
The Princess and her son.
Soft lights o'er hill and plain;
Bright lay the golden harvest,
Glad rose the reaper's strain—
When, winding down the valley,
The cavalcade rode on,
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The Princess and her son.
The slumbering peasants started
To hear the clattering throng;
The milk-maid, in the paddock,
Stopt short her warbled song;
Osmotherley, and Ingleby,
Swainby, and Stokesley town,
Much marvell'd, greatly wonder'd,
To view that rout come down.
To hear the clattering throng;
The milk-maid, in the paddock,
Stopt short her warbled song;
Osmotherley, and Ingleby,
Swainby, and Stokesley town,
Much marvell'd, greatly wonder'd,
To view that rout come down.
Below the oak-tree forest
Of Osnaberg's huge hill,
The proud procession halted,
The cavalcade stood still:—
“Take forth the silk pavilion,
High let the streamers flow—
Then, to the rocky summit,
My boy and I will go!”
Of Osnaberg's huge hill,
The proud procession halted,
The cavalcade stood still:—
“Take forth the silk pavilion,
High let the streamers flow—
Then, to the rocky summit,
My boy and I will go!”
With toilsome, weary marching
She reach'd the towering height;
Rejoiced that free from danger,
She bore that cherub bright—
Who sometimes gamboll'd near her,
All playful as a fawn,
Or pluck'd the lovely wild flowers
Glist'ning with dews of dawn.
She reach'd the towering height;
Rejoiced that free from danger,
She bore that cherub bright—
Who sometimes gamboll'd near her,
All playful as a fawn,
Or pluck'd the lovely wild flowers
Glist'ning with dews of dawn.
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Now, safe beneath the awning,
The happy mother sate,
Nor reck'd the cruel Augur,
Stars, prophecy, or fate;
Yet, would the lady shudder
To view that boundless sea,—
Even silver Tees brought terror,
So lovely though it be.
The happy mother sate,
Nor reck'd the cruel Augur,
Stars, prophecy, or fate;
Yet, would the lady shudder
To view that boundless sea,—
Even silver Tees brought terror,
So lovely though it be.
And, what a gorgeous vision
Lay stretch'd beneath her feet!
The groves of sweet Upleatham,
The shores of Cargo Fleet:
Old Gisborough's graceful Priory
Beneath the sunbeams glow'd;
And many a swan-like vessel
By Marske and Redcar rode.
Lay stretch'd beneath her feet!
The groves of sweet Upleatham,
The shores of Cargo Fleet:
Old Gisborough's graceful Priory
Beneath the sunbeams glow'd;
And many a swan-like vessel
By Marske and Redcar rode.
She saw the ripening orchards,
The fields of golden grain,
The groves and pleasant hedgerows,
The glories of the plain;
And, far mid mists of azure,
The mountains of the West;
Tynemouth, and rocky Hartlepool,
Reposed on Ocean's breast.
The fields of golden grain,
The groves and pleasant hedgerows,
The glories of the plain;
And, far mid mists of azure,
The mountains of the West;
Tynemouth, and rocky Hartlepool,
Reposed on Ocean's breast.
And now the sun had pointed
The altitude of noon;
The heavens were still and breathless,
Ceased was the reaper's tune;
No cloud obscured the azure,
The distant groves were still;
When slumber, soft as snow-flakes,
Oppress'd the lady's will.
The altitude of noon;
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Ceased was the reaper's tune;
No cloud obscured the azure,
The distant groves were still;
When slumber, soft as snow-flakes,
Oppress'd the lady's will.
So, like a marble statue,
In holy sleep she lies;
The moss her couch of slumber,
Her canopy the skies;
And near her, like an angel,
The royal infant trips;
Now twined her raven tresses,
Now kiss'd her ruby lips.
In holy sleep she lies;
The moss her couch of slumber,
Her canopy the skies;
And near her, like an angel,
The royal infant trips;
Now twined her raven tresses,
Now kiss'd her ruby lips.
Then, weary of his dalliance,
He sought the grassy mound,
Pluck'd oft the azure harebell,
The foxglove tapering round:
And then, O lovely vision,
Beneath the mountain brow,
A fountain, fair, enchanting,
With heaven's own colours true!
He sought the grassy mound,
Pluck'd oft the azure harebell,
The foxglove tapering round:
And then, O lovely vision,
Beneath the mountain brow,
A fountain, fair, enchanting,
With heaven's own colours true!
What is 't that fills with wonder
The laughing cherub's eyes?
Why claps his hands with rapture?
Why crows with glad surprise?
Within that crystal mirror
He views a lovely form—
Cheeks fair as summer weather,
Locks beauteous as the morn.
The laughing cherub's eyes?
Why claps his hands with rapture?
Why crows with glad surprise?
Within that crystal mirror
He views a lovely form—
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Locks beauteous as the morn.
And wondrous—still more wondrous—
Whilst beckoning it to come,
With equal love entreats him
Into its watery home:—
O, fear! O, dread!—he clasps it—
One cry—and all is o'er:
The treacherous spring enfolds him—
Prince Oswy is no more!
Whilst beckoning it to come,
With equal love entreats him
Into its watery home:—
O, fear! O, dread!—he clasps it—
One cry—and all is o'er:
The treacherous spring enfolds him—
Prince Oswy is no more!
And who shall tell the waking,
The sorrow and the pain?
The bitter pangs of agony,
That wrung that mourner's brain;
When, low beneath the sedges,
In pulseless death he lay?
“But God His ways will vindicate,”
Still did the lady say.
The sorrow and the pain?
The bitter pangs of agony,
That wrung that mourner's brain;
When, low beneath the sedges,
In pulseless death he lay?
“But God His ways will vindicate,”
Still did the lady say.
And, on the rocky precipice,
Beneath the wooded knoll,
A hermitage the lady rear'd,
With masses for his soul:
And, with the holy hermit,
Full oft devoutly prays,
“Whom God hath given, God takes away,
And vindicates His ways.”
Beneath the wooded knoll,
A hermitage the lady rear'd,
With masses for his soul:
And, with the holy hermit,
Full oft devoutly prays,
“Whom God hath given, God takes away,
And vindicates His ways.”
| Prince Oswy | |