H525 oa Hi ■H A A = Ai en = JD = 33 3 = O ^ 6 S ^^^ 1 — 9 m "n \ ^^ 3D M 4 — _ _, 5 j^AAAA-AA^AAAA/^/V.-v -VAAAAAAAAAAAxS^ Till K^ ^?<; FANCIES OF A DREAMER. >B :-aH ^ 4- 4-1- '^ ^ 4- -?• ■?" 4- Siiftscrihcr'f Copy. WW . ,^^, 4-?-?> 4> •!> 4> 4> ■S' 4- 4-4> 4> (MJ y? •? 4» y 4- 4- 4» <§» $■ 4» 4> 4» 4- "|-4» AAyVAA/^AAA^^.yvy^ /'^^/v>V/^./^A^AA, /I THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^Ul^^l^^ "^yiLt^c^y^^ i^^ /^/^7 V THE FANCIES OF A DREAMER. ' True, I talk of dreams. Which are the children of an idle brain." Shakspere. "And as I slept, I dreamed a dream." BCNYAN. " In my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within." Byron. Who hath not felt the witcherie of dreams? When freakish Fancy from her storehouse teems Visions of beauty, girt with many a spell, Or forms of horror ! BY HENRY H. DAVIS. LONDON : SIMPKIN. MARSHALL. AND CO. A. FOSTER, KIRKBY LONSDALE. 1842. ENTERED AT STATIONERS HALL. Kirkby Lonsdale: Printed by Arthur Foster. FP TO THOMAS GREENE, ESQUIRE, M.P. ^ OF WHITTINGTON HALL, THIS VOLUME MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY HIS HUMBLE AND OBLIGED SERVANT, THE AUTHOR. 8 ,'■!,,/ ^-> ^'^.a'\ .' > Proem. There is a voice floats on the evening breeze, It mingles with the gushing of the fountain ; 'Tls heard in soothing whispers raong the trees, It speaks from every cloud that tops the mountain ; Earth, sea, and sky, alike its presence own. So grandly full — so softly sweet its tone ! And I have heard that voice — and felt the spell Through every nerve with force resistless stealing, As those celestial accords rose and fell, Like the jEolian's wildly-breathing swell, Searching the hidden depths of human feeling ! Yea, I have heard it ; in my childhood's days, By every rock, and stream, and tree, it sounded ; When I look'd upwards, nothing met my gaze, Save the sweet scenes by which I was surrounded ; And much I ponder'd what that voice could be Which thrilled my soul like Fairy Minstrelsy ! But when in after years I touch'd the lyre, And my young breast with fervent love was glowing. Oft as I rambled o'er its strings of fire, I felt those tones with its sweet music flowing; And then I knew it was the Voice of Song That sweetly mingled with the Voice of Nature. Upon the Zephyr's breath it sped along, And bore my wondering soul from this low creature. To gaze on visions beautiful and bright, Seldom revealed to common mortals' sight ! CONTENTS. PAGE. The Victim j The Old Hall Dobbie, Canto 1 25 ^-, Canto II 42 A Dream op Steam 5g Visit of the Queen Dowager 67 Miscellaneous Poems : — The Bard's Last Lay 79 The Broken-hearted gg Penwortham Bells g2 Love's Moments 33 The Poet's Death 84 My Father's Grave gg To an Early Snowdrop gg The Poet's World 90 Sonnet, on the Death of Blrs. Hemans 92 The Idiot Boy g. The Advent of May gj The Dying Orphan 9g To an Afflicted Eriend , gg Lines on the Death of Miss F R , Ulverstone 99 To a Lady, on her requesting the Author to write the First Piece in her Album jqO To a Tulip : on a Lady's receiving one from a Ficlile Lover .... 101 To Eleanor JO2 On hearing the Clock strike Twelve, on the last night of the year 1841 103 S0N6S : — The Rosebud of England 207 The Trysting Tree jq- The Hunter's Song jqo My dark eyed Maid _ jOg Farewell to Lonsdale 1 , n The Axe Grinder ,,, FANCIES OF A DREAMER. THE VICTIM. " That freedom, ye, at length, bestow, And bid me bless my envied fate ; Vet tell me I am free to go — Where?— I am desolate!"— Hon. Mrs. Nortoh. I. *TwAS on a Summer's holiday In the merry month of June ; The skies were bright — the earth was gay, And gladsomely I took my way Along the banks of Lune. The wild birds, on each fresh green tree. Warbled their mellow minstrelsie; The honey-laden bee's soft drone Had, in that hour, a deeper tone — As, 'neath the sycamore's sweet shade. Her drowsy melody she made: The sun-lit river, flowing nigh, Murmur'd its noontide lullaby; And, glancing, sped upon its way By bridge, and ruin'd arch, and quay, B THE VICTIM. Where, gracefully the tall masts rose Like needles in the air ; From which the flag that rules the seas. And " braves the battle and the breeze," Was glitt'ring broad and fair. The castle towers had lost their frown. And smiled on river and on town; The noonday glory, in full pow'r, Glow'd bright on battlement and tow'r; And hardly might ye be aware That Guilt and Woe were dwellers there. They look'd so beautifully fair ! The kine were standing in the stream. Which laved their swelter'd feet; Haply indulging in a dream Of pastures cool and sweet; And, now and then, upon the breeze. Came childhood's laughing cadences — Like some glad spirit's airy voice Calling on Nature to rejoice ! IL O! 'twas a glad and glorious sight. And fondly did I gaze; For it recall'd to mem'ry's light The scenes of other days! Those by-gone years return'd to me With their full tide of joy — And, in my spirit's phantasy, I was again a boy I As I indulg'd each rising thought. With pleasant reminiscence fraught, I heard a deep, convulsive sigh — And glancing round, I did espy THE VICTIM. An aged mac, in sleep profound, Beneath a tree, upon the ground. I went, and gazed upon his face — But never did I see. On human countenance, such trace Of settled misery! Was't grief or guilt disturb'd his rest ? Perchance he might be poor — opprest — Without a home to shield his head — And fain his weary limbs to spread Upon the green roof of the dead! His threadbare garments told a tale Of poverty and want ; And o'er his furrov/'d forehead pale His silver hair grew scant; And in one corner of his eye There was a tear-drop, not quite dry, — That silent witness told me all! Mine eye grew moist and dim; And hot and bitter tears did fall For the Unknown — for him, "Who, even in his noonday sleep Could not forbear his lot to weep. III. The old man woke — his first glance fell Upon my glist'ning eye; Which drew him tow'rds me like a spell Of kindly sympathy: — "Stranger!" he faintly cried — no more — The fountain of his tears ran o'er. As he, with gestures sad and wild. Embraced me, sobbing like a child. THE VICTIM. A piteous sight are old men's tears "Which spring from mental pain! The fountain may be dry for years. And then gush forth again: But ah! how deep must be the grief That draws from snch source, its relief I Alas ! what heavy weight of woe Must make that fountain overflow I I took his hand within mine own. And led him to a mossy stone Upon the river's side; And then with accents, soft and kind, I sought to soothe his troubled mind. And stem his sorrow's tide. My heart yearn'd for him — for he seem'd To struggle with the weight Of something, which, yet unredeem'd. He long'd to expiate : And then, I said "Thou poor old man. Unbosom all thy care; I'll heal thy sorrows if I can. And lighten thy despair ; And be it guilt or be it woe. None but us twain the truth shall know." IV. " Stranger ! I have not heard, for years, A voice so sweet as thine; It falls upon my ravish'd ears Like harmony divine! Nor have I seen, for many a while. So soft an eve — so sweet a smile! Thou seem'st a messenger of heav'n. Gifted with charity's sweet leav'n; THE VICTIM. And 'twill not cloud thy young heart's gladness To list my tale of grief and sadness; But rather show thee how to shun The rock that I was wreck'd upon." So we sat down upon that stone — I, and tliat aged man. Who, with a deep and piteous groan. His story thus began : — V. "I was not once what I am now — A wretch, bovv'd down with care; I had a heart as light as thou. As bright an eye, as smooth a brow, A face as fresh and fair. But thirty years within yon wall "Without a friend, to pine In want and woe, in grief and thrall — Thirty long years! — might well appal A stouter heart than mine! 'Tis a long tale, and full of pain And canker'd misery, Which all the world should tempt in vain For me to tell — hut yet, I fain Would tell it unto thee! VI. " My father had a little cot — No sweeter nor more lovely spot Throughout Old England might be found, Were ye to journey it all round; And this poor, flutt'ring pulse must cease Ere I forget that home of peace, B 2 THE VICTIM. Where first my fair j^oung mother smil'd Upon her boy — her only child ! 'Twould irk me to relate at length. How I grew up in health and strength — Like other youths', my time was spent In harmless, joyous merriment; Though when at school, I was inclin'd By learning, to enlarge my mind; And ofttimes would my teacher boast That, of all boys, I pleased him most. O ! happy days ! O I happy hours ! For ever gone, like last Spring's flowers ! O ! blessed moments, full of joy — Of perfect bliss, without alloy ! Would, ye had cheer'd my ev'ry scene, Or would that ye had never been ! But why arraign heav'n's just decree? Man must abide adversity; It is the fire through which we go To fit us, or for bliss or wo ! It is the furnace, where the mind From selfish feelings is refin'd ; And oh I that man is doubly blest Whose soul can undergo the test. And who can deem each worldly loss Ease from a weight of useless dross ! Such am not I ; my heart ivill turn ' To blighted Hope's sad funeral urn ! The torch of Mem'ry still will glare Into the past — but what is there? A gloomy cViaos of despair — A gulf unfathomable — void. Where e'en Hope's semblance is destroy'd; THE VICTIM. Where all my treasures, pride, and joy. In utter desolation lie! VII. "I was but young, when Death removed A father whom I dearly lov'd ; Yet I had one confiding friend. Whose fond affection had no end — My Mother ! Oh ! what other name Such filial tenderness can claim? What other bosom e'er can prove So deep a mine of hallow'd love ? I see her dark and beaming eyes ! A thousand nameless sweet thoughts rise Like half-forgotten dreams of bliss ! I feel the fragrance of her kiss. Which dropp'd upon my lips like dew — As noiseless, and as gentle too I I hear her soft, low vuice again. Tuning a simple, mournful strain So sadly sweet, I used to weep. And on her bosom fall asleep ! Hers was the charm, through long, long years. That lit my smiles and dried my tears ; That brighten'd all my young life's way. Like sungleams on a winter's day ; And so serenely pass'd my hours. Existence seem'd a field of flowers. Where new-blown roses bloomed around. Whose thorns had lost the power to wound ! But soon the storm began to blow Whose ruthless ruin laid them low ; And as, on some clear night, the skies Glow with a million radiant eyes. THE VICTIM. Which shed their light on earth and sea. Sleeping so calm and silently ; When, sudden, Tempest doth unbind The cloudy chariots of the wind. Which spread their murky squadrons o'er The heav'ns, so still, and bright before — So quick did gloomy horror spread Around mv poor, devoted head ; So soon did Trouble's wild waves foam In furious rage around my home ! VIII. "When I attain'd the prime of life. My mother bade me take a wife ; For age on her was drawing fast. And time would steal her strength at last ; And much she wish'd to see her son Well settled, ere her race was run. I look'd abroad, and Fortune sent A maiden, fair and innocent — A neighbour's daughter — whom I'd known From youth, to womanhood's sweet dawn. Our hearts were soon by love entwin'd, Which holy wedlock closer join'd ; And prospects brighter or more fair, Ne'er shone around a happier pair ! The produce of our little farm Sufficed to keep our hearthstone warm ; And, though not rich, nor very poor. We had enough, nor wanted more. For God had bless'd our little store. Distress ne'er sought our porch in vain. We fill'd her scrip, and eased her pain ; THE VICTIM. Nor sought a blessing, but from heav'n, With the poor's pray'rs — and both were giv'n. I dare not trust my tongue to tell On what my memVy loves to dwell ! My spirit fain would hover round That one bright spot of fairy ground ; And brood o'er bliss, forever flown ; Till reason totter'd on her throne. Spare me the task ! and let me on To themes I dare converse upon. IX. "*Twas harvest-time; — the fertile plain Waved bright with seas of golden grain! The farmer view'd his corn-fields o'er And prophesied a gainful store; — The poor man cast his eyes abroad. Saw plenty smile, and bless'd his God! Nor was my little plot of land Neglected by that bounteous hand Who makes the genial rain to fall. As well as blessings, upon all I Just at this time, to swell my joy, Heav'n made me father of a boy! My cup of happiness ran o'er. And would not carry one drop more! Art thou a Father? — on thy cheek No smile affirmative doth speak — Then thou canst never guess the love — The thrill of tender hopes, that move A father's heart, when he hath press'd His first-born to his beating breast! With what delight he loves to trace The lineaments of that young face; 10 THE VICTIM. Shewing, by many a fond caress, The joy, which words can not express — The pure, unmingled tide of bhss Whose only outlet is a kiss. Imprinted on that forehead fair. And hallow'd with the seal of pray'r! Oh! with what rapture I have smil'd Upon my mother, wife, and child ! The stem, the flow'r, the bud— all mine! Round which my heart-strings did entwine Like the fond tendrils of the vine! They're wither'd now— bud, flow'r and stem- And my heart's freshness died with them! Oh ! when I think I am alone. With nought of hfe to call mine own, In my soul's agony I feel Dark thoughts across my spirit steal; The hot blood rushes through each vein. And presses on my burning brain, Engend'ring madness! O! my God! Grant me thy strength to kiss the I'od ; Teach me with meekness to endure Thy chastisements, however sore ; Nor let me with an impious hand Asunder rend life's sacred band ; But let Hope whisper in my ear That truth which shall my spirit cheer. When passing through the Vale of Death, ' Whom the Lord loves he chasienelh.' X. " Our cottage stood within a dell, Through which a mountain streamlet fell. THE VICTIM. 11 Now murm'ring on with liquid tones. Unseen, amongst the rugged stones; Or retting in some limpid pool Beneath the leaves of bushes cool ; Or, with a sudden bound, 'twould leap Into a basin, dark and deep. From whence, with brawling voice, it sped Into a river's larger bed. The verdant hills which swell'd around. With thick, o'erhanging woods were crown'd ; And far bevond, a mountain high Reach'd its bleak summit to the sky. Ah, me I I do remember well Each flow'ry nook of that sweet dell ! And often, in my dreams, I roam To that secluded mountain home ! I hear the music of its rill. The shepherd's voice upon the hill. The evening lowing of the herds. The warbling of the singing birds ; I hear those voices, which to me, Breath'd all of sweetest harmony — And joy again my bosom fills Ungloom'd by memory of ills ! I know 'tis useless to repine Or murmur at decrees divine ; I know — at least I gladly would — That all things happen for our good; But still for home my bowels yearn; And 'tis a lesson hard to learn — To bear, like Stoics, quite unmov'd. The loss of all that we have lov'd! 12 THE VICTIM. XI. "The song of harvest-home was o'er. And Ceres clad the fields no more ; No longer did the loaded wain Creak 'neath its freight of rustling grain ; And silent was the reaper's lay As he to labour hied away ! There was a murmur in the breeze. Which swept the foliage from the trees ; The morn came, misty, dark, and dim. Without the lark's sweet matin hymn ; The dun and vapoury clouds did drop Their curtains on each mountain top ; The summer flow'rs had pass'd away. And Nature savour'd of decay ! A mournful spirit seem'd to dwell O'er all things in our quiet dell ! The mountain streamlet, as it play'd. Most melancholy music made. The zephyrs, as they flutter'd by, Seem'd but the echo of a sigh I And o'er my soul a feeling crept Of coming evil; if I slept, Dark forms, indefinite, but dread, Seem'd hovering around my bed! Awake — a chill was on my heart, A horror which would not depart! My bright fire-side, so snug and warm — Nay every thing that used to charm— Mv mother's voice — my wife's fond look- My babe's caress — I could not brook. For tears, unbidden, fast did flow. Like heralds of o'erwhelming woe ! THE VICTIM. 13 XII. " One night — oh! how can I forget? Its terrors chill my senses yet ! When day's last, ling'ring streak was spent, Deep darkness clad the firmament; Such darkness spread o'er Egypt's skies At Azrael's vengeful sacrifice. When all the first-born of the land Fell 'neath his keen, resistless brand! The rising tempest's hollow blast Howl'd round our dwelling as it pass'd; Driving the scatter'd drops of rain, Which play'd upon each window-pane Their fitful prelude! whilst by starts. The lightning shot its sulph'rous darts, Which flash'd around with hideous glare. Like demons sporting in the air! The wind, amongst the rocks and trees, Wail'd in sad, mournful symphonies. So agonizing to the ear. The boldest heart had shrunk with fear! And now the thunder's awful growl Mix'd with the Tempest's wilder howl ! The rain in wat'ry sheets came down. As if the earth once more to drown! The rill — alas! a rill no more — Rush'd down the dell with angry roar. Chafing and tossing like the tides That dash against dread Scylla's sides ! My mother said she ne'er could tell When such a dreadful storm befel; For earth and water, air and fire, Seem'd for destruction to conspire — 14 THE VICTIM. As if the dreadful day of doom, So long delay'd, at last had come! XIII. " The hour of evening pray'r was o'er — For even 'midst the tempest's roar And din of elements, we knew That Heav'n would hear and help us too I Where else for succour could we fly ? No kindly neighbour's house was nigh ; "We were alone — whate'er our fate — Alone — but oh ! not desolate 1 One Eye could see how it might save, One Hand could snatch us from the grave ; That Eye which ever guards the earth — That Hand, that guides us from our birth I Scarce was I seated in ray chair. With hope and trust confirm'd by pray'r. Ere suddenly, the thunder's growl. The rattling rain, and tempest's howl. Sunk to a calm so still and deep That Nature seem'd at once to sleep ! — Except the torrent's rushing sound. Whose dreadful rumble shook the ground. We look'd into each other's eyes Speechless with wonder and surprise — When down the flash and thunder came, Th' explosion mingling with the flame — As if th' artillery of heaven Had o'er our roof-tree fir'd its levin ! My mother stagger'd to my side, Nor could ev'n I my tremor hide ; My partner, who with terror shook. Our infant from its cradle took, THE VICTIM. 15 And pressing it within her arms Essay'd to stifle its alarms — But neither word, nor sob, nor shriek. From any lip, save its, did break ! There was another lull — and then. Afar — up in the mountain glen — We heard a hoarse, deep thund'ring roar, A sound I'd never heard before. And wish to hear — oh ! never more ! Heav'ns I but it was an awful sound. Like some dread voice from depths profound — It seem'd as not of earth, nor air — But yet it was — we heard it there ! We were not long allow'd to doubt — For lo ! there came a hollow shout. Which reach'd us as we, silent, stood, ' Run for your lives ! the Flood ! the Flood !' I gazed around — I heard no more — But open flung the yielding door ; Andj rushing forth 'midst wind and rain. We sought some safer spot to gain; — 'Twas reach'd — the blast and storm were braved — Wife, child, and mother — all were saved ! XIV. " Just then, the cold, calm moon look'd through The clouds that hid her from our view; The murky screen dissolv'd away Like mist before the morning's ray. And over glen, and mountain height. Brooded a strange and awful light. Like Arctic streamers' golden glow, Refliected from vast hills of snow! 16 THE VICTIM. My eye, instinctive, sought the spot "Where stood our now deserted cot; The fire-light glanc'd through chink and pane, I saw it then, but ne'er again! For onwards, onwards, came the din Of waters, roaring like a lynn! Rock after rock in foam was steep'd As the wild waves their bounds o'erleaped; Stones, like the remnants of a world. As pebbles down the stream were hurl'd; Rent by the roots, the giant trees, "Which had for centuries brav'd the breeze. Were hurried down the eddying tide, "Which, Hke a lake, spread far and wide! God ! 'twas a fearful sight to see Those dark waves in their raging glee ! A thousand wild steeds, white with foam. Sweeping across their desert home — Spurning, with angry hoof, the plains. And tossing high their flowing manes — As, rushing on with heedless force, They trample all things in their course — "Were ev'n as nothing to the sight Of the dread deluge of that night! Higher and higher rose the waves. Yawning and deep, like living graves; And as we gazed, there came a sound Heard even 'midst the din around! It was a sullen crash, which broke Upon the sharpen'd ear. More startling than the thunder stroke — O! 'twas a sound of fear! It told of ruin and despair — "Where was my cottage? — where! oh! where? THE VICTIM. 17 One shriek — one cry — one sudden yell, Proclaim'd the moment that it fell! 01 stranger I — then I first began To feel the miseries of man ! To know that trouble, toil, and woe Are fit companions below. Aye — all was gone! my peaceful home Lay buried 'neath those mad waves' foam; My household temple was defiled — Myself an outcast on the wild; My child, a beggar ! — Mother, wife. Deprived of every thing but life! And yet I went not mad ! The stroke Was like the first the woodsman cleaves. Which only shakes the sturdy oak. And scatters down its looser leaves; But misery, like the axe cleft on Till trunk, and bough, and branch were gone! XV. " At length assistance came — strong men. Whose shouts were echoed thro' the glen, Approach'd with cautious step, and slow. As if afraid the truth to know. Or see our full extent of wo ! They heard with sympathizing sighs The sum of all our miseries. And kindly tried to soothe the grief Which yet would hear of no relief. How could T smile ? — how could my heart Divest itself of sorrow's smart? So suddenly the blow came down My better feelings all were flown; c 2 18 THE VICTIM. My faith was stunn'd — and, in its stead. Despair and horror rioted ! Half stupified with mental pain, I join'd the melancholy train; And soon a kind asylum found, Where friends and neighbours gather'd round To hear, to weep, and strive who most Could give us back what we had lost! O Sympathy ! — however drest. In silken robe, or homespun vest. Whether in palace or in cot. Thy cheering influence faileth not The storms of trouble to subdue. And give Life's sky its brightest hue! I felt it so ; — kind voices spoke. And all my former self awoke; And Resolution soon began To whisper, 'Rouse, and act the man!' XVI. " Days pass'd: — the storm and flood were gone- But sad was earth to look upon! No sunbeam lit the mountain's height With transient gleams of fleeting hght; No wild bird's song came on the breeze. Which whistled cold through leafless trees; No fragrant flow'r the hedgerow deck'd — Alas ! both hedge and flower were wreck'd ! The valley's beauty was destroy'd. And all was sullen, dark and void! Its mossy banks were rent and bare. That once had bloom'd so sweet and fair; The brook, so pebbly once, and bright — Bright as a stream of living light— THE VICTIM. 19 Was shifted from its former bed. And stain'd, with clay, a muddy red ; And all its shady pools serene, Fringed with their veils of deepest green. Where the bright stars oft laved their beams When the tired world was sunk in dreams — Had vanished, like each beauteous thing That erst I hail'd with welcoming ! But when I reach'd what was my cot. Then I bewail'd my hapless lot With tears, the bitterest e'er I shed — Hotter than those that wept the dead! Stranger ! ev'n now I dare not speak Of what would make my heart-strings break — It is enough the truth to scan — I was a wretched, ruin'd man! My worldly substance all was gone, — For, though the ground I stood upon Was mine by ev'ry law of right. It was a wild and barren sight ! My cattle, too, were swept away — My stacks of grain — my ricks of hay — And I, who, one short week before, Bless'd Heaven for my gainful store. Was houseless, homeless, helpless, lone. With scarce a thing to call mine own! Thou 'It say, I might some friend have found To lend me money on the ground ; I might — and, after years of toil. Beheld again a fertile soil ; My cot once more I might have seen Rising 'mongst fields of smiling green; But no! — dark fate pursued me still With each imaginable ill; 20 THE VICTIM. And floods of sorrow deep did roll Their troubled waters o'er my soul! XVII. " I had a friend — at least I deem'd His heart as open as it seem'd ; In childhood we together play'd. O'er the same fields together stray'd — Our holidays together spent — Companions where'er we went — And, till the years of manhood came, We knew not parting, but by name ! Some years elapsed before we met, And care on him his seal had set; The world had warr'd with him, and he Had fought against it manfully. Till each resource had almost gone, That he securely counted on. A bond in his behalf I sign'd. Although against my mother's mind — What would I not to serve a friend. On whom I could so well depend? One day, while sitting deep in thought. With melancholy feelings fraught — Gazing upon each well-known scene. And musing what they once had been; And forming, in my busy brain A thousand schemes — but all in vain — A rough, strong voice my name pronounced, And two rude hands upon me pounced. heavens ! what I then foresaw ! They were two minions of the law. Whose words with horror struck me dumb; 1 was arrested for the sum THE VICTIM. 21 Of twelve score pounds — the full amount Of bondship, on my friend's account! And he, the false one, where was he? In other lands beyond the sea; For, finding every effort fail. And toil and saving nought avail. He fled, and left his friend too fond. To pay the forfeit of his bond ! I tried to force myself away, I pray'd them for a short delay; I begg'd, with tears and gestures wild. To see my mother, wife, and child — To give them one long last adieu Whom I perchance no more might view! I told, at length, my hapless case. And looked into each rigid face. Yet no relentings saw I there — But heartless sneers at my despair! 'Twas all in vain — I could not brook The horrors of that cruel look; So fainted, and was dragg'd away To prison, in the face of day ! XVIII. " Mammon accursed! thou world's worst bane! When thou inspir'st with thirst of gain — Farewell, all nobler powers of mind! Farewell, all feeling for our kind! Thou pale-faced Fiend of Interest! One passion only fills thy breast: — And that one passion must be fed Both from the living and the dead! Love, Glory, Sympathy, expire. In thine unhallow'd altar's fire; 22 THE VICTIM. The death of friends to thee's no loss — It multiplies thy hoards of dross; The tears of orphans fall in vain, — Each drop thou wringest is thy gain! The widow's substance is thy food. Her broken heart, thy gratitude ! Friendship to thee is worth no more Than what it weighs in filthy ore ; And even Love with thee is naught Unless with heaps of bullion fraught! But oh! thy favourite disguise In mock Religion's mantle lies; Its ample breadth, its flowing fold. Conceal a mine of ill-got gold. But thy disguise, whate'er its name. Thou 'rt Mammon, Mammon, still the same! The man who held my bond was one Whom love of wealth had seiz'd upon; A fiend, who, 'neath Religion's cloke All ties of blood and kindred broke! The world, who sees with half-closed eyes. Pierced not his cunning, fair disguise; His conversation was as pure As any angel might endure; Each Sabbath day he preach'd and pray'd For nought — but made it up in trade! But while his lips pronounced the name, Which conscious sinners hear with shame. While he, with hands uplifted high Appeal'd for mercy from the sky. His heart was brooding o'er each plan To circumvent his fellow man! He came to see me in the jail — My prayers were all of no avail; THE VICTIM. 23 By all that he most sacred deem'd. By all that he on earth esteem'd. Our common hope of blissful rest, — By all would move a mortal's breast, I him conjured to set me free — The heartless villain laugh'd at me! Such was the master of my fate ! Such he who seiz'd my poor estate; Thank God! I long have him forgiven — And hope he'll meet the same in heaven. XIX. " Weeks pass'd, and yet I ne'er had heard Of my belov'd ones ev'n a word — But oh! great heav'n thy hand was there! Thine ear had heard the prisoner's pray'r! My wife soon knew of my arrest. And, with a load of grief oppress'd. Her spirit to her God resign'd. And left her child a waif behind. But oh! not long! the message came — His mother's spirit breath'd his name. And from this world of pain and toil Transplanted him to kindlier soil ! I knew not, when the tale was told. But this I know — I had grown old And grey, and tattered in my dress When I awoke to consciousness! And while I in my madness lay. My mother's soul had passed away — So, when my mind resumed her throne — I found I was indeed alone I 24 THE VICTIM. XX. " Twas now th* oppressor's turn to tread The gloomy mansions of the dead : For thirty years, relentlessly. His vengeance had imprison'd me. For thirty years I toil'd in vain To ease the pressure of my chain: And thus my best of life was spent In wanton, causeless banishment. This morn my long- worn fetters broke But no kind voice a welcome spoke! The ponderous gate its hinges moved. But no stretch'd arms their fondness proved By clasping me in their embrace. And holding up my tottering pace ! But when I reach'd this spot of ground, Methought loved spirits hover' d round — And, though the merry bells peal'd out. Mingled with many a joyous shout, Methought I heard each gentle tone Breathing, as though again mine own! And then I lay me down to die, Beneath the glad and sunny sky; For Fm alone, and long to be Where only is true liberty!" He paused— I took him to my home No more a friendless wretch to roam ; And there he dwelt, till God removed Mammon's poor victim to the friends he loved! THE OLD HALL DOBBIE. PREFACE. The incidents of the following Tale actually occurred in the neighbour- hood of Ulverstone, not more than a dozen years ago. The Old Hall is still standing; and very many people are yet alive, who can remember the horror and curiosity which pervaded the district during the progress of the Bobbie's successive exploits. The cheat — for such, at last, it turned out — was dis- covered by a man of the law, yet living, who, with a friend, had gone to remain all night at the Hall, with the full determination of detecting, if possible, the imposture. THE OLD HALL DOBBIE. CANTO I. •* By the Apostle Paul ! shadows, to-night, Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten tliousand soldiers !" RiCHABD III. "List! list! oh, list!" — blue stockings, critics, sages. Authors and readers ! — pray you all attend ; Ye who love wonders, and who gloat o'er pages Teeming with horrors — by some ghost-seer penn'd — Ye who regret the scenes of other ages. Your rigid brows I beg you will unbend — For "wonderful! — most wonderful! and wondrous!" I've seen a ghost — as sure as earth rolls under us! "You've seen a ghost!" Oh! no — I beg your pardon! 'Twas a dear friend who saw the awful sight! He told me all about it in the garden — How he was waken'd at the dead of night. By something, which his stomach lay so hard on. He scarce could breathe, much less shout out for fright; And then he saw a glimmer, which he's certain Was not the moonlight beaming through the curtain! 28 OLD HALL BOBBIE. But whether 'twas the moonlight, or a ghost. Or whether 'twas the nightmare that opprest him- Or a gall'd conscience, torn and tempest-toss'd (The latter was enough to have distress'd him!) Is nought to us — therefore 'twould be time lost (He also told me he got up and dress'd him) To waste more words in ratiocination Upon a trifle, when there's no occasion. He saw a ghost ! there's nothing strange in that — He's not the only one whose eyes are tender! I could quote Scripture instances quite pat, Saul saw a spirit raised by her of Endor; And also — but, however, " verbitm sat," I did not introduce her to defend her, For if theology may be believed. In trying to deceive, she was deceived ! And that fact strengthens still my argument — That ghost-seeing is a very serious matter! She did not raise the spectre that was sent — It had not come for all her cant and chatter! For I believe, in ancient times, they went To their dark work, much similar to these latter. With incantations, filthy charms, and mummery. Enough to sicken ghosts not fond of flummery ! But, gentle reader! — ere I start my narrative, — I hope that you believe that such things are ! Because if you do not — 'twould be comparative Nonsense in you and me to travel far Together on this road; — for we can't share it, if I'm to be troubled with a wordy war! Since, if I state truths which you deem but fiction, I'm sure to suffer from your contradiction ! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 29 But if you'll read my "history of wonder,'* "I'll tell the tale as it was told to me," With due accompaniments of blood and thunder, And pale blue lights — most horrible to see! And how the mystery was rent asunder As easily as learning one, two, three, And how the ghost was laid by an attorney. Who made short work of it — like Mr. Gurney ! * Oh! FuRXESs! Furness! thou'rt a beauteous land! 'Tis sweet to view thee from some mountain's brow. Surrounded, as thou art, by the bright band Of restless ocean, sparkling in the glow Of summer sun-set! — and to see thy sand Vanish beneath the tide's resistless flow. Covering with water what so late was dry land Except thy green oiisis — "Chapel Island!" Yes! thou'rt a glorious land! thy fertile soil Revels in verdant beauty, — and repays. With teeming fruitfulness, the sweat and toil Of thy bluff sons! — It makes me sadly gaze Upon thy fields, which commerce fain would spoil By what is callM "improvement" in these days. And cutting, in its rage for engineering. Tunnels and railroads! (here I can't help swearing!) Lo, Fouldrey's Pile! majestic and alone! The ancient monarch of contending seas ! Far 'midst the deep, upon its ocean throne Battling against the wild waves, and the breeze Which howls through desolate chambers, overgrown With the dank sea-weed's dripping tapestries, Which in the fitful blast, all darkly wave. Like funeral banners, o'er its glory's grave! P2 30 OLD HALL DOBBIE. Companion of the tempest! wild and rude! Round which the breakers roar with ceaseless roll. Within thy walls the sea-mew feeds her brood, Where erst were mi2:htv feast and wassail bowl! And whisp'ring echo reigns in solitude, Unwaken'd by the minstrel's merry troll! The clang of arms — the warder's measured tread. And band of feudal vassals — all are fled! The moon is risen — and over Nightshade's Dell Sheds the full radiance of her silver beams ! Nothing is heard, save ocean's murmuring swell, And the soft purling of the distant streams. Which sound like music in a fairy shell. Or the sweet voice of her we love — in dreams ! All else is silent, save ray rustling tread Among the graves of the Forgotten Dead ! Remnant of by-past glories ! — holy pile !^ Thine honour'd walls in crumbling ruin nod ; Choked with rank weeds is now each "long drawn aisle," Where feet of Pilgrims and of Princes trod ! Reptiles and creeping things thy choir defile — Silent the voices which once worshipp'd God ! Scatter'd and broken all thy beauty Hes — Removed, the Altar !— fled, the Sacrifice ! Thy fountain hath run dry ! — I mark'd the spot, — And wept at that sad emblem of thy doom ! Thine abbots, where are they ? — all left "to rot. To lie in cold obstruction," mould and gloom ! Where are thy monks and vassals ? — all forgot 1 And thou, the monument above their tomb. Alone remain'st, to tell such ivere, of old — Alas ! for life !— 'tis but " a tale well told !" OLD HALL DOBBIB. 31 O Time ! O Time ! what changes dost thou bring, With stealthy pace, across our path of Ufe ! The past is hidden 'neath thy dusky wing, The present, varied but with peace or strife ! The future — look'd for with a welcoming — But found, alas ! to teem as rank and rife As that which hath been, with all human ill. And what was misery then, is misery still ! Thou changest all things — yet art still the same — Revolving on thy wheels of swift-wing'd hours I Thou buildest up, and puUest down — and Fame Springs, buds, and dies, in seasons like the flowers ! By thee one man attains his wildest aim. Thou robb'st another of his choicest powers ! Thou'rt a Kaleidoscope of God's creation. And Brewster's was a sorry imitation ! Thou art a plodding Weaver ! — and each throw Of thy swift shuttle, adds unto the past — That chequer'd web of happiness and woe ! That record of all actions, which will last Until the piece be finish'd — and then, lo ! How will th' astonish'd nations stand aghast. When thou, old Weaver! 'fore their eyes wilt bring 'em Thy strange and awful-looking cut of gingham ! 'Tis morning ! — and around, on every side Are the peak'd mountains tipp'd with orient gold I Each dewy floweret, like a bashful bride. Its hidden beauties gently doth unfold, — And flings its balmy sweetness far and wide Upon the summer breezes, which have troU'd In fragrant wantonness through Night's cool hours. Wooing, with gentle sighs, the sleeping flowers ! 32 OLD HALL DOBBIE. 'Tis morning ! — and the tide has cover'd o'er The sands' wide desert with its ghttering waves ; The vessel spreads her wings, and leaves the shore, And cleaves each playful billow, as it laves Her painted side. — Shall she return no more ? And shall her gallant crew find ocean graves ? Away, thou Dreamer ! ere she reaches port, Thou may'st be summon'd to Death's gloomy court ! The sunbeams gild the terraces and towers Of Princely Conishead" — the gay, the grand! Where youthful Flora earliest decks her bowers. And longest lingers with her starry band ! Where willing Plenty all her blessings showers. In rich profusion from her liberal hand — Where bounteous Heav'n its best gifts hath bestow'd, And smiling Pleasure fix'd her bright abode ! 'Tis Evening ! — and the God of Day is sinking In the red waters of the fiery West I Come, and I'll lead thee to a spot for thinking. When thoughts all passionless employ thy breast — Far 'midst the grove o'er which yon star is blinking. Stands a lone cell,'' by hermit once possess'd — There Solitude and Contemplation meet. And dwell with Peace in that unsought retreat ! I love thee, Furness ! and my Muse could dwell Amongst thy scenes of beauty — oh ! for ever ! By rock and fountain she should sound her shell. Singing thy praises, and would weary never ! And ev'n though doom'd to take a last farewell. And though the ties which bound us, aU must sever- StiU I have stored in Memory's inmost cell Bright dreams of thee — which tongue may never tell ! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 33 Good, gentle reader! — pardon this digression — Indeed, I could not help it, — on my soul I Besides, in story-telling, 'tis the fashion To make an introduction to the whole — And if at starting you get in a passion. How will you be before you reach the goal? You won't forgive me ? Well, I don't repent — If you won't, others will — so I'm content! And now, we're coming to my wondrous story — We've talk'd about a many things beside; And as for politics — I will not bore ye. Since I have long laid such conceits aside! It matters not to me who 's Whig or Tory — I've chosen good old Cobbett for my guide Because his principles are mild and lenient — First one side — then the other — quite convenient!* How pleasant is an Englishman's fireside With its huge log or coal-heap, blazing bright! Girt round with youths and maidens, side by side. With laughing faces glowing in its light! Whilst gray-hair'd Eld sits in the chimney wide Surveying with placid smile the pleasing sight, And joining in the jokes, as round they pass The merry circle, from each lad and lass! And pleasant is the fireside of an inn. Where, like old Falstafi", we may " take our ease" In some warm snug, far from the vulgar din. Whilst each choice guest does all he can to please; Certes, I think 'tis but a venial sin If we frequent sometimes such scenes as these — If I had not done so, you may depend on't. The world had lost mv talel so there's an end on't! 34 OLD HALL DOEBIE. 'Twas in the "Braddyll's Arras"'— as snug a spot As ever traveller put his storm-heat head in — Good breakfasts, dinners, suppers piping hot. Good wines, good company, good feather-bedding. Good host and hostess, waiters, and " what not" — And charges moderate as can be made in Such cases, where your money is well spent — (Pray, what think you of my advertisement ?) 'Twas in a small snug room — I well remember — So well, that I can tell the very date — 'Twas on the twenty-seventh of September, The year was eighteen hundred, thirty-eight! Some hunting pictures hung around the chamber, A cheerful fire was burning in the grate — The guests were all choice spirits, — five in number. Could take, or make, a joke — I hate live lumber ! And there we sat, and quaff'd our nut-brown ale. And smok'd our pipes, and "kept the mill a-going;" Each crack'd his jest, or told his merry tale, Or gave his toast with bumper overflowing; Nothing came wrong, however old or stale — The ground was ne'er the worse for frequent ploughing; The daily news — the gossip of the town. Were first discuss'd, and then with ale wash'd down! But on this night, the tone of conversation Turn'd on a subject rather new than strange; Witches and ghosts form'd themes of wild narration In which the fancy took a wider range; And one aroused our general admiration About a magic glass, by way of change, — He'd visited a witch, who, in her mirror Had shewn him things which struck his soul with terror! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 35 Another told a story, which he said. Was told to him some years since, by his cousin, Who heard it from a friend, (alas! now dead!) Who heard it from old men, at least a dozen — And their grandmothers well remembered Hearing, one night, when all the wells were frozen, A beggar man, they'd shelter'd from the cold. Telling the story, — which was then grown old! Loud laugh'd the company — excepting one — Whose serious air created some surprise; But looking closer, you could see there shone Mischievous meaning in his laughing e}^es ; — " Pray don't accost him — let him quite alone You'll see he'll prove 'a devil in disguise' " — And so he did, for, stretching out his knees. He said — " I'll tell a story, if you please!" " Hear! hear !"— " That's right !"— " Good fellows, pay attention !" " We'd better ring the bell, and call for glasses !" With other phrases which I need not mention. While round the table the tobacco passes : — The fire, which now had suffer'd some declension. Is stirr'd and fed, and clear'd of all its ashes — The waiter pours the ale with hand so steady. Departs, and shuts the door — " Now, sir, we're ready !" " You all know Old Hall Farm, and Old Hall Wood !" (But perhaps my readers never heard the name ? 'Tis call'd " Au'd Ha" — but, be it understood, "Aud Ha" — "Old Hall" — both mean the verv same; So if for rhyme's sake I shall find it good To use the former term, I'm not to blame. We've nought to do with it's orthography. Our business is with its topography.) 36 OLD HALL DOBBIE, " 'Tis a sweet spot, as you would wish to see — Down in the bosom of a sheltered vale, Once back'd by waving woods — but scarce a tree Remains, quite big enough to make a rail ! (Tliis latter figure is hyperbole.) A little brook meanders through the dale, On whose green banks wild flowers their beauties spread. Those toys, by childhood, oh ! how coveted ! " It is a quiet scene ! — you'll scarcely hear A sound, except the lowing of the herds ; Or, in the glorious spring-time of the year. The warblings of a thousand singing-birds ! Or, in the Autumn, the swart hunter's cheer. And deep-mouth'd yell of hounds — as, from the furze, Poor Puss, with ears laid back, like lightning flies From the dread presence of her enemies! "Here dwelt an honest couple — free from care — At least, as free as falls to mortal's lot! Darby and Joan were nothing to this pair. Who seldom travell'd from their fav'rite spot. Unless it was when he went to the fair. And she went after him to pay his sbot ! — But I'm oblivious ! — be served, every morning. The town with milk, and butter of her churning ! " They'd plenty of this world's gear, and — I'm loth To speak the truth — yet they were not contented ! Whate'er the reason, sure it was not sloth, A sin, alas! too often late repented ! For toil and hardship came alike to both. To other lot their fortune ne'er consented — Neither had they, until they'd laid up store Against the time when they could work no more! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 37 " They'd children, too — a daughter and a son — The first a sample rare of rustic heauty. Which had the heart of many a suitor won : Her laughing eyes beam'd rays enough to shoot ye^ And a bright eye is Cupid's deadliest gun I But her chief charm was filial love and duty — And these, with prospect of a little wealth, Made her a wish'd-for match! — Come, here's her health! " With all these blessings, they were not content — And I can tell you, too, the reason why ! The farm was but a small one for the rent. Which the good couple deem'd was rather high ! On this point we will hold no argument. They knew much better, sure, than you or I — Besides the land was not in proper training — Here wanting clearing — there requiring draining ! " He and his dame oft ' cudgell'd their dull brains' To see how matters could be brought about. In order to increase their yearly gains. And make their fortune ere the lease was out ! But who can alter what stern Fate ordains ? Each darling scheme they were obliged to scout, Till that occurr'd, which set at once to rest The anxious thoughts which fill'd each aching breast. " He had a brother, who, in distant climes, Had fatten'd on the glorious fruits of war, And had stored up his cash till peaceful times — (I recommend as much to every tar !) And wishing once again to hear the chimes Of his own village bells, — with many a scar, Down to Old Hall the wandering seaman came, Changed — save in heart, in honesty, and name ! s 38 OLD HALL DOBBIE. " Full kindly was the welcome which he met From that affectionate and happy band ! The gushing tear of joy each eyelid wet, And long was clasp'd each hard and horny hand ! The big arm-chair beside the fire was set, The clean white hearth was sprinkled o'er with sand. And o'er a bumper of old home-brew'd ale. The honest sailor told his artless tale ! " He told of distant lands, and sunny skies. Where one warm summer fills the circling year ; Of mountains, where the snow for ever lies, — Of ice-bound seas, and frozen deserts, drear ! Of lovely islands, which like emeralds rise In their green beauty, from the ocean clear ! Where fragrant woods with 'strange bright birds' abound, And in whose rivers gold and gems are found ! " He told of one, surrounded by the main — A huffe bleak rock, wash'd bv the ceaseless wave — Where Gallia's Emperor lived, and wore his chain. Far from the land of all the loved ! — the brave ! Of fiery mountains, and their red-hot rain, 'Neath which large cities found a sulphurous grave — Whilst gaping swains, with eyes and ears stretch'd wide. Heard with amaze, — and wonder'd if he lied ! " He told how in the night-watch he had seen The Phantom Vessel scudding o'er the seas With flying streamers, and sails set, I ween. Whilst his ship idly waited for the breeze ! How, after that they well-nigh wreck'd had been Among the reefs of the wild Carribees ! How sharks came round them watching for their prey. And fighting for the bodies wash'd away I OLD HALL DOBBIB. 39 *• Full many a legend wild of ghosts and sprites He told — which sailors knew foreboded wreck ! How voices from the deep would hail, at nights. The startled centinel upon the deck : And how the sea would glow with spirit lights, So bright, you might discern the smallest speck ! These things, he said, to him were nothing new. And though they might seem strange, yet they were true! " This was enough ! — our Farmer took the hint. And was determined he would have a frolic ; And though his brother's feelings it might dint. And warp his courage with a fit of cholic — Yet it was proved there was no evil in't. By arguments profane and apostolic ! Besides, thought he, the story will get out. And serve to bring my dearest ends about ! " Ah ! little thought the all-unconscious tar What plot was hatching to disturb his rest I He went to bed, and left his door ajar. Such small suspicion lurk'd within his breast: Then, as a bird, tired with its flight from far. Drops to repose within its moss-lined nest — So sank he into his soft bed of feathers — A treat to him, who'd slept out in all weathers. " He slumber'd soundly ! pity 'twere to break The happy state of that all dreamless sleep ! But all at once he started up awake — What's that ! — a distant groan — not loud, but deep ! Another ! and more near ! — his heart did quake. And cold and chill his flesh began to creep ! And scarcely had he time for further wonder. Before he heard an angry growl, like thunder ! 40 OLD HALL DOBBIE. " Again, that deep and agonizing groan! Mingled with shrieks, and clankings of a chain ! Screams, so distressing, they might melt a stone — Yells, as of some one in eternal pain ! His door with violence was open thrown, And then as swiftly was slammed to again ! Whilst horrid moans, and mutterings of despair, Stunn'd every sense, and stifFen'd every hair ! " Cold sweats of terror burst from every pore, (As in this case they naturally would,) When creak'd again the hinges of the door. And 'fore his eyes a dreadful spectre stood ! A long white garment cover'd it all o'er, Stain'd with foul clay, and dabs of clotted blood ; The hideous vision made him swoon away, And sense return'd but with returning day ! "Nor had he waken'd then, unless his brother Had come to call him to his morning's meal; And when he rose, he tried in vain to smother The terror which he could not quite conceal; He drank one glass of grog, and then another. That he might raise his courage, to reveal The secret hoiTors of that awful night, Which scared his senses with such deep affright. " He went down stairs with visage pale and wan. With nerves all shatter'd, and with aching breast — The family saw it, and at once began To question him about his last night's rest : He had got up so much an alter'd man — They felt quite anxious for their sailor guest! Sad rogues ! — sad rogues! — that I should have to state How pastoral innocence can dissimulate. OLD HALL DOBBIE. 41 " He sat him down, then, pointing to a scar. Said, 'this was done by a d d Frenchman's sword. When I was fighting him at Trafalgar : I fix'd him for 't — for with my pike I bored A hole into his carcass,' said the tar; ' He turn'd his eyes and jabber'd, but, good Lord! I'd as soon thought of seeing our anchor burn, as His b y spirit following me to Furness! " ' But howsomdever, brother, do ye see, I've fix'd my mind to go a-board the mail; If I and Captain Jarvey can agree, I mean this very morning to set sail! I'm sorry, brother, such a thing should be. But, zounds! 'twould kill me dead as any nail — I'll fight with flesh and blood in bhoals or hosts. But, hang me! if I like to fight with ghosts!' " Off went the sailor to his favourite bark, Happy in his escape from Old Hall terror; Although the mem'ry of that phantom stark Glared in his mind like features in a mirror! The farmer found he'd shot beside his mark — But human nature often is in error ! So he resolved to keep the ghost a-doing. Either to be his ' making,' or his ruin ! "But, really, gentlemen ! I see I tire Your patience, with this long and rambling tale:" •• No, no"—" Go on!"—" I say, just stir the fire!" "And ring the waiter in for some more ale!" While this is done, good reader ! I'll retire. For, finding that my memory will fail, I'll just step home, and look in my portmanteau, For the remainder makes a second Canto. E 2 THE OLD HALL DOBBIE. CANTO II. " How like a hateful ape, Detected grinning 'mid his pilfer'd hoards, A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds Areopen'd to the day!" Codnt Basil. " Shadows, avaunt! Richard's himself again !" Richard III. " Frailty — thy name is "Woman!" — but / say — " Frailty, thy i^roper name is Human Nature!" Alas! poor Man! — thou art but potter's clay Fashion'd and moulded by a great Creator ! And in -what service thou must wear away Thy life — is destined by a Legislator, "Who fits thee to each purpose of his will. And what he makes thee — thou remainest still ! "What are thy schemes ? — Go, trace them on the sand ! The wave rolls on! recedes! Remains a line? What are thy hopes ? — Bubbles ! which school-boy's hand Casts from his pipe — burst, while they brightest shine ! "What are thy treasures ? — Dust ! What thy command ? Yon Puppet-man's is greater far than thine ! "What is thy life ? 'tis at the very best A Nurse's song to lull her babe to rest ! OLD HALL BOBBIE. 43 Man's mightiest works — the seasons' changes — flowers — The pageantry of summer sunset ! — all That ever hath been — is — or will be ours. Proclaim with voices like a trumpet call That we are slaves of Destiny ! Ye Powers Who hold the Universe within your thrall, Compared with you, Man and his boasted Mind Are but as atoms borne upon the wind! What can Man do ? where lies his vaunted might ? Can he control the raging of the sea ? Vary the seasons ? change the day to night ? Wield the red bolts of heaven's artillery ? Can he command the elements ? or fight Against th' omnipotence of Deity ? Let him essay — like a crush'd worm he lies Writhing in impotence ! and vanquish'd dies I There is a Providence o'er all, whose hands Uphold and guide all systems as they roll ! The springs of human actions he commands — Our very being 's under his control ! Fame — treasures — blessings — curses — houses — lands — Princes and kingdoms — He doth sway the whole — Omniscient — Omnipresent — he surveys His various creatures, and directs their ways ! But, gentle reader ! — we have kept thee waiting By stopping now and then to moralize — My Pegasus required some extra baiting. And he must feed where he can get supplies ; Besides, the truths which I have just been stating. Were requisite, that thou might'st sympathize With Farmer John, whose scheme, though deftly plann'd, In the event, proved but a rope of sand ! 44 OLD HALL BOBBIE. Therefore, sweet reader ! — fret not, since thou'lt learn Much in this narrative to whet thy wit; For it will teach thee justly to discern Which is true coin, and which is counterfeit; That honest labours honest wages earn — That Providence exposes every cheat — That he, who for his neighbour digs a pit. Is oft tlie first to tumble into it I So these things being premised, resume we then The interrupted thread of our narration ; Supposing, always, the same gentlemen. Each occupying the same situation As when we left them — glasses fiU'd again — Pipes lit — fire stirr'd — and full of expectation To hear the crisis of the Dobbie's fate Which thus my friend continued to relate. "Meantime, the story through the country rung. And Rumour added what was left untold : — The awful accents trembled on each tongue. Scaring the courage even of the bold ! 'Twas heard with staring horror by the young — It palsied all the powers of the old — And each new version added something new. But what was stranger still, they were all true ! " Old maiden ladies took to bed for fright. And slept in triples to be safe from harm ! (I know a few, who on a sultry night. With fear and heat, would be a little warm !) Some vow'd the story gave them great delight. And other wore horse shoes by way of charm. But Mrs. , who "s fond of men and miracles. Each time she heard it, went into hystericals! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 45 "Some sought the Priest, and offer'd a reward. If he would use his exorcising power! Some, more courageous, went and mounted guard Up at Old Hall, in bands of three or four! ^ 'Alas', poor ghost!' — I own 'twas rather hard. Nay, 'pon my honour ! 'twas a horrid bore To be encounter'd by such odds — but then. One ghost is match enough for twenty men ! " A happy man was Farmer John, for, lo ! His landlord sent some labourers to work Upon the land, with hatchet, spade, and plough, To fell and dig where'er the ghost might lurk ! He sent some joiners to the house also, "Which made the old fellow happy as a Turk — For now he'd got the crazy hall repair'd And of good land some extra acres clear'd! "Still for all this, the ghost its antics play'd. But kept itself confined to one small room! So that the family were not afraid- Nay, they dare venture, ev'n at midnight's gloom ! ' It might remain,' the worthy farmer said, ' For aught he cared, until the day of doom ! Because, unless when strangers came t' attack it It ne'er disturb'd the house with any racket !' " O Curiosity ! to what a pitch In human breasts thou sometimes wilt be hatching: Pulling our sleeves with many a tug and twitch Our friends' or neighbours' motions to be watching; Thou art indeed an universal itch. Which more uneasy grows by constant scratching; And those who will continue the abrasion, Must seek to gratify on each occasion ! 46 OLD HALL DOBBIE. "By thy foul means thou didst entice poor Eve To taste the fruit of the forbidden tree — A sin, alas! which we have cause to grieve Since it but raised her curiosity! She had no other legacy to leave Unto her daughters, so she left them thee ! And Adam left his sons a thirst for knowledge. Which can't be quench'd by even going to college I " This thirst, or curiosity, raged deep and strong Within the breasts of two young gentlemen. Who deem'd their names would suiFer grievous wrong Unless they went to watch the ghost again ! It had defied all stratagem so long. And kept so close within it secret den. It must be all a trick, without a doubt, — And, sure a trick it was — worth finding out ! "So ofi" they set — for their young blood was warm — And enter'd on the adventure with much zest ; Determining to sleep at Old Hall Farm, And see if aught occurr'd to break their rest ! They both had pistols, too, in case of harm — (Manton's, of course, you know they are the best, Each with hair trigger and a patent lock, And warranted to fire — when at full cock ! ) " Richard and Thomas were these heroes hight. Who reach'd the house and walk'd right boldly in ; They told the folks they'd come to pass the night. To which their host consented with a grin ! But 'twas a grin oi pure, unmix' d delight — (I'm sorry I can't say so of his gin ! But that was not his fault — 'twas no great matter, I'd rather have bad gin, than dirty water!) OLD HALL DOBBIE. 47 " However, they were welcomed with good cheer. Wholesome as any on which kings are fed ! They supp'd on cold roast duck and bottled beer. With new milk cheese, and fresh baked oaten bread; Then smoked their pipes, and, without any fear. Desired their host to light them up to bed ! 'Twas rather strange, though, that in sultry weather, They'd such an anxious wish to lie together ! " They did not fear, of course, to sleep alone — Why should they, when they'd pistols at their side i* But two are better any time than one, If any evil chances to betide ! But 'tis no use to argue pro or con. Respecting facts which cannot be denied! However, one thing 's certain — both forgot Their night's devotions, just when they should not I " Whether the Dobbie noticed this omission, I cannot say — it very likely did, Through some small crevice in the oak partition Where, all unseen by them 'twas snugly hid ; And mischief being part of its commission 'Gainst careless folks who won't do what they're bid, There is no doubt that it resolved to punish them In such a manner as would quite astonish them I " It might be one o'clock — perhaps not so much — I won't be sure, for memory 's apt to fail — When Dick was waken'd by a thrilling touch, So cold and icy, that it made him quail! He felt about him, thinking he might clutch The hand, or what it was — when lo! — a pale And flickering light through the apartment glided. Whilst a low, hollow laugh his fears derided ! 48 OLD HALL DOBBIE. "He tried to waken Tom, — but 'twould not do — And he was so alarmed he could not shout — Just then, a horrid phantom met his view, Whose sunken eyes were wildly roll'd about — And by the sulphurous light of flames so blue. He saw the writhing worms crawl in and out ! And on its breast was many a gaping wound Whose dabbled gore was clotted all around! " The cere-cloths swathed around each livid limb, DistiU'd foul matter from the festering bone! Its loathly locks hung stifFen'd all — and grim Its rigid features, as if cut in stone ! The flame, which heretofore burnt blue and dim. Now with terrific splendour brightly shone ; Then sunk again into a lambent gleam. So quick, its former radiance seem'd a dream! '■' Half wild, poor Richard on the sprite did gaze. Which by its signs, besought him to arise; But he, transfix'd with horror and amaze, Glared on its motions with unconscious eyes! He was in what is call'd 'a sort of daze,' Which makes a man quite helpless with surprise, But in a while his blood and courage rallied — The ghost went out, and after it he sallied! "Through long, dark passages it glided slow. And Richard foUow'd, guided by its light; ' Locks, bolts, and bars,' asunder quickly go. As though they shrank from that most awful sight ; At last, they reach'd the open air — when, lo ! The very stars look'd pale and blue with fright — And black and murky clouds spread o'er the sky. Like giant funeral palls hung out to dry ! OLD HALL DOBBIB. 49 " Still, on and on it glided 'mongst the trees, O'er rocks, and bogs, and stumps, it led the way; But Richard follow'd not with so much ease. Although he knew the path in open day! Sometimes, in mire he sunk above the knees, Or, tripp'd by stumps, lay wallowing in the clay ; But a few minutes found him safely stood Right in the centre of the Old Hall Wood! " There in a little glade, now quite destroy'd. It stopp'd — and so did Richard, at a distance! And then it pointed to its wounded side, With gestures wild imploring his assistance ; The blood was welling from the gashes wide. As if impell'd by Newcombe's patent pistons; And then it seem'd appealing unto heaven, For vengeance on its murderer unforgiven ! "Then, with deliberate motion, sad and slow. It 'gan to sink into the yawning ground. The winds, till now suppress'd, began to blow. Loud thunders peal'd, and lightnings flash'd around! Strange, fearful shapes, with eyes of fiery glow. Sat 'mongst the trees, whose branches' creaking sound, Mingled with moans, which hurtled in the air Like the last dying accents of despair! "Meantime, poor Richard was in sorry plight — His situation boded him no good; He'd left his pistols, therefore could not fight — And, if he'd had them, dared not, if he would! Again — though fire-arras might have put to flight A dozen enemies of flesh and blood, They are no weapons 'gainst a ghost or ghostess! And if you doubt it, pray read ' Doctor Faustus' ! 50 OLD HALL DOBBIE. "What must he do ? — Ah ! whither must he fly ? To whom appeal for succour and protection ? The Hall was distant I — not a mortal nigh! No charm to keep those spirits in subjection ! It was no time for him to weep and cry, And so he roused his quaking soul to action, Fully determined, without more a-do To quell his terrors, — and the Dobbie too ! "Flash'd o'er his mind a sudden gleam of thought — T' achieve a glorious deed of ' derring-do'; Which was to seize the sinking Dobbie's throat. Before it disappear'd quite from his view; And though the action was with danger fraught, He doubted not that he should struggle through ! But this idea, though my rhyme may swell it, Took him less time to think than me to tell it! "Quick! quick! resolve! — 'tis done! — he made a spring. And at one bound he reach'd the phantom's side! Oh! horror! 'twas no immaterial thing. But real flesh and blood 'gainst which he tried! And now the wood with yells began to ring, And tempests raged around them far and wide — And duskv forms press'd round to view the strife Of dreadful warfare betwixt Death and Life. " Hard did they pull and tug, and yell and tear! The Dobbie kick'd and bit like any foal ! For, fearless Dick had caught it by the hair. And pull'd it, like a badger, from its hole ! Some people say that it was heard to swear — But that I can't believe, upon my soul! And awful grew the battle, till, at last. Poor Richard, fainting, on the ground was cast! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 51 " Yet still he kept his hold, and panting lay. Waiting till his full breath return'd again! His tongue was parch'd and hard as half-baked clay. His limbs were bruised — his body was in pain! But up he rose, and made one more essay, And recommenced the fight with might and main ; Then, on a sudden, came a shower — ^just after Which, he was greeted with a peal of laughter ! "That veiy moment, when quite off his guard. The Dobbie hit him a tremendous stroke. Which laid him sick and senseless on the sward. And knock'd his bleeding head against an oak ! The blow he suffered was so very hard. It called him back to life, and — he awoke, But such a scene awaited his surprise He could not for a while believe his eyes! " He found himself full stretch'd upon the ground In the same room in which he went to bed ; Shivering and shaking like a cat half drown'd. With aches, and bruises, and a broken head ; And when he raised himself to gaze around For his antagonist so grim and dread. He stared like one just fallen from the moon. Or who from slumber has been waked too soon ! " Beside him lay the farmer in sad plight. With hair disshevell'd, and with blood-stain'd face — Betraying plainly he had been in fight With some antagonist of mortal race ! A long white sheet his burly form bedight, Which of the fray retain'd full many a trace ; And near him was a vizor like a skull. With some burnt sponge which smell'd of alcohol! 52 OLD HALL DOBBIE. " Upon the bed, in genteel dishabille, Sat Thomas, making efforts to suppress His laughter, at a scene so risible, Though minded with both terror and distress ! His nose and eyes alone were visible Betwixt his nightcap and the sheets — for less Than sheets had fail'd to stop on this occasion. The boisterous pealings of his cachinnation ! " Around the door, half frighten'd — half amazed — Stood the good hostess and her blooming daughter, Back'd by the servants — who, astounded, gazed Upon the mimic scene of midnight slaughter ! The first, whose courage can't be too much praised, Held in her hand a pitcher full of water. With which she'd now and then the champions greeted, For fear their passions should get overheated ! " At last, the tempest lull'd, and died away — The farmer's wife assisted him to bed : The servants help'd poor Tom his friend to lay Upon the couch — and then they dress'd his head ! The wound was small, and so, ere break of day Both from that awful scene of terror fled — For 'twas a scene of terror to poor Dick, And as for Tom, he'd found the Bobbie's trick ! " As for the farmer — he was never known To say another word about the ghost ; And he had reason good you all must own, For keeping silence when it served him most; He bribed the servant maid with a new gown, And, for the herdsman, many a pound it cost To make him keep the secret — but, however. He blabb'd at last — in a delirious fever ! OLD HALL DOBBIE. 53 " After a time, Tom told his friend the fact Of his adventure at the Old Hall. Farm — How that their host the Debbie did enact. Ne'er thinking he would come to any harm ; And least of all that he should be attack'd By those whom he intended to alarm — And Richard, finding this was really true, Told me the tale as I have told it you !" Our story 's ended ! — and, though I abhor all Attempts to spin out rhymes for sake of gain — Yet I can not conclude without some moral Or gentle maxim, given not in vain ! And so the following I prefer before all Others, as being neat, concise, and plain — "Dreamers, beware! — Somnambulists, give ear! Sup not on cold roast duck and bottled beer!" f2 NOTES TO THE OLD HALL DOBBIE. TO CANTO 1. (a) Who made short work of it — like Mr. Gumey I — p. 29. Mr. Gurney, the celebrated Parliamentary Reporter and Ste- nographist. (b) Remnant of by-past glories — holy pile ! — p. 30. Furness Abbey. (c) The sunbeams gild the terraces and towers Of Princely Conishead — the gay, the grand! — p. 32. Conishead Priory, the seat of the Braddyll Family. (d) Far 'midst the grove o'er which yon star is blinking, Stands a lone cell, by hermit once possessed. — p. 32. The Hermitage in the grounds of Conishead Priory. (e) It matters not to me who 's Whi j or Tory — I've chosen good old Cobbett lor my guide Because his principles are mild and lenient — First one side — then the other — quite convenient. — p. 33. "In moderation placing all my glory — By Tories call'd a Whig, by Whigs a Tory !" — Pope. (f ) 'Twas in the "Braddylls' Arms" — as snug a spot As ever traveller put his storm beat head in. — p. 34. lu Ulverstone. TO CANTO II. (a) Some sought the Priest, and offer'd a reward, If he would use his exorcising power! Some, more courageous, went and mounted guard Up at Old Hall, in bands of three or four! — p. 45. Several nights, parties of young men from the Town proceeded to Old Hall and the neighbourhood, to attempt an investigation of the mystery. The Priest was actually requested to exorcise it, as ia the text. A DREAM OF STEAM. A DREAM OF STEAM. " Your young men shall see visions, and your old men dream dreams.' 'Twals ane charmynge daie in y' monthe of Male, Als charmynge als could bee, Quhan I tooke ane stroUe to y* toppe of Hoade ^ To see quhat I could see. I satte me downe in y'' Loveris Chayre^ And gazit rounde with awe; For ane viewe soe gronde in fayre Englonde Ne mortale euir sawe! Y^ littel towne of Olver stone ^ Before my feete didde lye, Halfe hidde by bolde and swellynge hilles Quhich tow'rit toe y' skie; And there were fieldis and wavynge woodis. And distante mountaynis talle, — But Ingleborough, in y" easte* Didde farre out-toppe them alle! 58 DREAM OF STEAM. And I gazit on y' golden sandis, And I gazit on y" se. For sunneshyne gleamit upon its waifis Quhich dauncit merrilie ! And as I lookit on y" dystant mayne I sawe ane smooke appere. And my harte beat faste, — but I founde at laste, 'Twals y* smooke of y*" "Windermere!" I straynit my eyne, and sawe y^ spekke Stille large and larger growe; Until at laste, she anchorit faste In y^ Priorie Gutte belowe/ And I thochte of y*^ wondrousse michtie pow'r, Quhich mayde that uessel sayle Acrosse y" oceanis trackless waifis, With or without ane gayle! My eyne grewe heauie with y" thochte Of such ane presse of steme. So I lay me downe upon y^ rocke And fell into ane dream. Methochte it wals Anno Domini Nineteen hunderit, fortie-two; And agayne I satte in y^ Loveris Chayre To gaze upon y* viewe: Y^ towne wals stille beneathe my feete. But it soe large hadde growne, That it deservit some other name Than "littel Olverstone!" DREAM OF STEAM. 59 Y' " shorte, wyde, deepe, canalle" wals gonne/ And in its roome I sawe Ane longe straiglite streete of housis nete All buildit in ane rowe. Grayte milles thayre bulkie formis upreerit. Full fyfteen storis hie. And smookynge chymnis, fayre and talle, Tower it proudlye toe y^ skie. Y^ huge Bastylle, builte in y^ Gille,' Wals fallynge toe decaie; For pauperis all, bothe grayte and smalle, Hadde vanishit quite awaie! 8 And y' queere olde menne that walkit aboute In y^ liverie of y^ poore; And trailit a carte, like buirdlie beastis To gather fylthe and stoure. Had vanyshit, with thayre fustian cuffes,^ Like some unpleasant dreame; For nowe y* strete wals keepit nete By scavengeris of steme ! I tooke my eyne from off y^ towne And lookit tow'rdis y'' se, But I gazit not on its sparklynge waifis Dauncynge soe merrilie : Greene, smylynge pasturis, coverit o'er With cowe, and sheepe, and lambe, Weyre spredde before my wonder}^nge sichte, Instedde of bleke Morecambe ! 60 DREAM OP STEAM. And quhan I lookit for y* sylverye gleme That markit y« dystante mayne, Nocht mette my sichte but ane cloude of steme. And ane longe blacke luggage-trayne ! For ane derke, strayglite lyne stretchit o'er y^ baie, Quhere y^ tyde had flowit before, And y* fysshe cry it " Plague take Goodmanne Haigue, We shalle neuir see Oustoune more,' — " Vnless within Old Harrie's creele" Toe markyt we are takyn, Amydste y" quyverynge nerfis of vele. And y^ sighis of swettynge bakyn !" Now als I thochte on y® fysshis speeche, I herde ane whystel shrille ; And at Loncastre arose ane smooke At y foote of Castyl Hille! And I herde ane straynge and fearfulle sound, Lyke ane creiture out of brethe, Als tho' some fierce and shaggie hounde Huntit ane deir to dethe ! Neirir and neirir stylle it came Als I lookit o'er y^ baie ; And there came ane crie als it rushit bie " There's y® Comet runne awaie I" And als it passit y^ ruinit pyle In Nightshaydis glomye delle, Y^ ghoste wals scene of ane Abbotte, I weene, Exorcysynge it toe helle ! 10 DREAM OF STEAM. 61 But awaie it wente in its michtie powir, And he joukit backe in ane huffe ; For toe everie worde it gaif hym an hisse. And for everie banne ane pufFe ! And it spedde awaie with ane fierie trayne. And soundyt its whystel shrylle. Nor stoppyt in its rayce till it came apace Toe y^ Sunne at Holborne Hylle ! And welle mychte it stoppe, for y" steme wals stronge, Muche strongir than it coulde bayre — And there wals ane rushe, and a michtie crushe Resoundyt thro' y<= ayre ! Ye engyneer had ne tyme for fere, For owynge toe thys transaction, He wals blowne quyte clere beyond y" sphere Of Madame Earthis attraction ! Y" quheelis wayre blowne for mylis and mylis Acrosse y^ Iryshe mayne, And ran soe hie intoe y" skie. They nevir caym downe agayne ! And y^ water in y*" boyler pente, Wals scatterit with soche force. That ane scaldynge shouir cayme downe on Hoade, And fayrlie skinnit ane horse ! And as I satte in y^ Loveris Chayre, I wals nearly chokit with steme ; But my slomberis broke and I awoke. And beholde it wals ane dreme! 62 DREAM OF STEAM. And I rubbit my eyne, and gazit aboute And sawe y" sparklynge bale, "With its waifis daunc}Tige merrilie Beneathe y" noone-tyde raie; And alle wals as it usit toe bee — And soe lovelie it did seeme, That I sayde, as haime I bente my steppes "Thanke Godde — 'twals butte ane dreme!' NOTES TO A DREAM OF STEAM. (1) Quhan I tooke ane stroUe to y« toppe of Hoade. Page 67. Hoad— a green hill near to Ulverstone. (8) I satte me downe in y» Loveris Chayre. Page 57. The Lover's Chair a seat on a high rock on Hoad. (3) Y" little town of Olverstone. Page 57. Ulverstone, in Low Fumess. (4) But Ingleborough, in y» east Didde farre out-toppe them alle ! Page 57. Ingleborough— one of the highest of the Yorkshire hills. (5) In y« Priorie Gutte below. Page 58. The Priory Gut — a place where vessels anchor. (6) Y« "shorte, wyde, deepe, canalle" wals gone. Page 59. Ulverstone Ship Canal — " the shortest, widest, and deepest in the kingdom." (7) Y« huge Bastylle, built in y« Gille, Wals fallynge toe decaie. Page 59. The New Union Workhouse. 64 NOTES. (8) And y queere olde menne that walkit aboute In y« liverie of y poore. Page 59. (9) Had vanyshit, with thayre fustian cuffes, Like some unpleasant drearae. Page 59. Tliree paupers, who used to sweep the streets, dressed in white fustian, with black cuffs. (10) And y« fysshe cryit, "Plague take Goodmanne Haigue. We shalle neuir see Onstoune more." Page 60. Mr. Hague, the surveyor of the Morecanibe line of railway. (11) " Vnless within Old Harrie's creele, Toe markyt we are takyn." Page 60. "Old Harry" an old fisherman, who hawked fish. VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. ADDURSS. Althoi'gh the age of direct and immediate inspiration has gone by; and though a prophetic anticipation of the future cannot be securely and correctly counted upon, for all that modern pretenders have tried to prove to the con- trary ; yet — " In the mind's eye, Horatio" — we may see into futurity through the medium of probability. Nixon! Francis Moore ! Murphy! — the spirits attendant upon your incan- tations vrere spirits of delusion. The first was led away by deceptio visus, called by our northern neighbours, "glamour." The second read the stars, and used them, as a mischievous boy uses a broken looking-glass, to dazzle the eyes of the multitude. The third had his " weather eye," not upon the at- mospheric currents, but upon the currency. The consequence was, dear Public, that you were deceived. Alas ! they knew your foible. They baited their trap with high pretensions, and the tempting morsel was greedily swallowed, before you perceived that the hook had entered your gullet. Whereunto tends this preface? To some new system of quackery and pro- phetic legerdemain? No: we deny the insinuation! We profess not the mysteries of the Cabalists, or the Rosicrucians : we have no brazen head, like Friar Bacon; nor magic mirror, like Dr. Dee; nor do we profess ourselves interpreters of omens, like the augurs of old. Without denying the doctrine of the Oneirocritics, we hold that of the Probabilitists, a numerous sect, whose tenets are of a harmless character, rather than otherwise. The chief article of our creed is, "that certain events are productive of certain results:" "pro- bability, not certainty," is our motto. You, dear discerning Friend, will at once perceive that the following dialogue is founded upon this hypothesis ; and though the dream is a true dream, we do not deem it a true prophecy. Certain it is, however, that benefits will accrue to our "good old town" from her Majesty's visit; and the probability is ten lo one, that you, my dear Public, will largely share them. KiRRBY Lonsdale, 1840. VISIT OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER: A DIALOGUE BETWEEN KIRKBY LONSDALE BRIDGE AND THE RIVER LUNE. INTRODUCTION. The sun had sunk behind the western hill, And twilight flung her mantle o'er the skies — And, one by one, the stars began to fill Heaven's dark blue ceiling with their glowing eyes; The birds were mute, and all was calm and still, Except the river's murmuring lullabies, Which sounded like a low and tender song Of farewell to the scenes it flow'd among ! O'er Gregareth's summit, Luna, silvery pale. In cloudless splendour silently did peep Into the bosom of her favourite vale, Like a young mother o'er her babe asleep; 'Twas like a night in some old fairy tale. When elves and fays from out their caverns creep. And all things immaterial hold a revel. Just like the yearly carnival at Seville. Upon this eve, I took a lonely stroll Along the verdant banks of lovely Lune, To soothe the workings of my wayward soul. And gaze upon the melancholy moon ; 68 VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. Or listen to the ripples, as they troll Amongst the hollow rocks their tinkling tune; And woo, in midnight solitude, the Muse, Who in the day her favours doth refuse. I took my seat upon a wave- worn ridge Of rugged rocks, with ancient moss embrown'd, Close by the far-famed Kirkby Lonsdale Bridge, Whose date is lost in mystery profound ! No living thing was near me — not a midge. Nor beetle, with his drone's monotonous sound ! I felt the silence o'er my senses creep. And all unconsciously I dropp'd asleep. And as I slept I dream'd: — and still, methought That I was musing by the river's side. Watching the glancing ripples gently float. Silent as time, adown the silver tide; And thinking on the good which Satan wrought, By building that old bridge, whose arches wide Through unknown ages have so firmly stood. Alike defying Tempest, Time, and Flood ! And as I mused, I heard a sound of wo. Which seera'd proceeding from the middle pier — A rough, deep voice, which fill'd my soul with awe. And made my hair to stand on end with fear — The very stream stood still, and ceased to flow, Whilst from its depths a silvery note, and clear. Responded to the other's husky tones. Like woman's soothing voice to sick man's groans ! You'll hardly credit what I shall relate — But then, remember, it was but a dream ! — VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. 69 The Bridge and River were in high debate About some certain honours, it would seem; T cannot mention all that each did state. For, like a cat, I only got the cream Of their discourse, with which I now present ye, Hoping, kind Reader, that it will content ye. THE DIALOGUE, BRIDGE. " Ah! well-a-day! — O weary heart! — alas! Old age conies on with many an ache and groan! And I have seen strange chances come to pass. Enough to wear the heart of any stone ! Seven hundred summers I have seen the grass Upon these meads, spring, ripen, and then mown — But never has it been my lot to bear. As I have done this day, such weight of care!" RIVER. " How now, old Archie! prithee, why dost grumble? Just look at me, how I am doom'd to roam! O'er craggy rocks obliged to leap and tumble. And yet can only vent my rage in foam; And sometimes forced to be as calm and humble As water in a washing-pot, at home! And talk of age! — I've run since the creation; And how would'st thou like such an occupation ?" BRIDGE. " Tuts, man ! I do not grumble at my age — I'm only mourning for my frailty's sake ; I'm strong enough to bear an equipage, For none of modern days my back can break ; 70 VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. Nor ancient, neither — that I durst engage! — But oh! to-night, my very ribs do ache; For such a load of honour and of people I never bore, since Kirkby had a steeple ! RIVER. " Why, what's to do?" BRIDGE. " The Queen" — RIVER. "God bless her! — what, What of the Queen?— I say, God bless the Queen!"— BRIDGE. " Has cross'd my back to-day — ^just think of that!" RIVER. " Why, Archie! what the dickens do you mean ?" BRIDGE, "I did not think you'd been so great ^.flat — I tell you that her Majesty has been And stood upon my back to gaze on you" — RIVER. "I don't believe you, Archie !" BRIDGE. " But it's true !" RIVER. " To gaze on me, good Archie ? — dear me ! well ! Oh ! what a proud and happy stream am I ! For a full month to come I'll be a swell. And roar and rumble, just for very joy! I'll call my tributaries from each fell. And make a run upon the banks, my boy! My dear friend, Archie! keep yourself quite steady, I feel th' effect of a Queen's face already I" VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. 71 BRIDGE. " Peace, peace, good Fillpot ! — prithee, not so fast — Let me expound to thee thy gross mistakes ; 'T was only the Queen- Do war/ er, who pass'd, Upon a visit to the Northern Lakes : And Royalty has honour'd me at last! (The very thought recalls my pains and aches.) But as for keeping steady, let me tell you, I'm staid enough for such an ancient fellow !" RIVER. " Thou stone-and-mortar Compound I dost thou rail. And fling thy musty, dusty jokes on me ? Didst thou not murmur that thou hadst grown frail, And that old age had sorely weaken'd thee ? Though Time hath touch'd thee with his cank'ring nail. The lightning and the storm have let thee free; But now / am thine enemy — my power Shall make thee tremble the next thunder- shower !" BRIDGE. " Why, thou unstable, fluctuating thing! Think'st thou, I care for such a stream as thou ? Call on thy tributaries; bid them fling The granite fragment from the mountain's brow; And these, with uptorn oaks, against me bring — Still I shall stand as firm as I am now. And stride across thee. Monarch of thy course — Curbing thee, as a rider doth his horse !" RIVER. " Well, well, good Archie ! moderate your ire; All that I said was merely meant in joke ; You'll get so hot, you'll set my face on fire. And then my vapouring will end in smoke ! 72 VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. But pray allow me, Archie, to enquire. How dress'd the Queen ? — wore she a shawl, or cloak? How did she look? What were the words she said? Had she a crown, or bonnet, on her head ?" BRIDGE, " If you'll be quiet, and subdue your passion, I'll tell you all about it: she was dress'd Like a real English lady of good fashion, Who wears a feeling heart within her breast ; Not like your tinsel Bond- street belles, who dash on In foreign silks and laces, while the oppress'd And starving weaver sees the thing go by, And for his ruined traffic heaves a sigh ! " She did not travel with a numerous train Of saucy menials, to jostle through A crowd of hoest men; nor seem'd she vain Of those high honors which to her were due : Her state was unassuming, neat, and plain. But yet there seem'd much more than met the view — A certain air, which gives to what is born in it A nameless grace that alwa5's is adorning it." RIVER. " Aye, aye, friend Archie ! that's the proper way That kings and queens should travel; not like those Who by their glaring equipage display What may be term'd, " effect," without the " cause;" Whose purses often lack the means to pay For whims and luxuries, which always shews The truthfulness of that most witty story About the daw dress'd in the peacock's glory ! VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. 73 " And when you mention servants, I confess It is most odious to an honest mind To see the apish creatures in their dress Leave their good lords and ladies quite behind! And then their language — such a precious mess Of mix'd-up vulgarisms, half refin'd ! I'm sure, when bathing sometimes I have found 'em, 'T was a temptation to have snugly drown'd 'em I" BRIDGE. "Well! — but the Queen! — it would have done you good To see the crowds that waited to receive her — I'm sure, upon my back for hours they stood — A circumstance that cannot help but grieve her. Seeing that some who had not too much food. Left strap and lapstone, shovel, spade, and cleaver. And on my Brow meander'd up and down — Perhaps in expectation of a crown ! " 'T would have amused you to have heard each knot Of idle loungers vent their crude opinions ! (There's no such unsophisticated spot Within her British Majesty's dominions. Unless 't is Dent, or Gotham — now forgot — Where minds are at a discount — except guinea ones ; That is to say, the minds of those who wear Black gowns, and wigs of whalebone, or curl'd hair !) " Says one, 'She'll hev her crown on, thear 's nea doot. An' fine, grand jewils, cover'd ower wi' goud 1' ' Aye, an' a gown on, lined inside an' oot Wi' silver leace, at's nobbut ya month ou'd !' H 74 VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. ' They say her hair an' een 's as black as soot !' ' Nea, they 're red, ex any yan i' t' crowd!' ' And,' says an ancient crone with smother'd glee, ' Dunnet ye think she'll ex us o' to t' tee ?' " RIVER. "Hal ha! — dear Archie, you are grown satirical — I never heard a better, 'pon my word! You'll get as noted as the Delphic Oracle, Of which, no doubt, you oftentimes have heard; You're quite a wonder, man! — a modern miracle. That far outstrips the famous talking-bird! But pardon me — I see I give you pain, So pray resume your narrative again." BRIDGE. "At length the Royal cavalcade appear'd: — The bells rang out a Three Bob Major peal, — A thousand hats flew up, and people cheer'd With such a deafening din, it made me reel; The fiery horses caper'd and career'd. And sorely wounded me with toe and heel ! Whilst the Brass Band struck up those jovial staves Denoting 'Britons never shall be slaves!' "Nay, such the joy, (which oft with sense will battle,) That men forgot themselves, and seem'd quite bent On changing places with the jaded cattle. And dragging Majesty where'er it went! I'm sure an infant with its first-bought rattle Could not play antics more extravagant. Than these Free Britons did, who in their loyaltv. Wanted to make a Juggernaut of Royalty. VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. 75 "The Queen, God bless her heart! with much propriety. Graciously spoke, and begg'd they would desist; Her voice restored a something like sobriety And so the slavish notion was dismiss'd, — Except by one, who, longing for a riot, he Open'd the carriage door, and would insist — (And 'tis no lie with which I mean to 'gag' you) 'P — p — please, ma'am, you'd better let us drag you!'" RIVER. " I heard those shouts of triumph from afar — They waked me from a very pleasant dream : The wild birds caught the sound, and then a war Of melody arose, shrill as the scream Of battling eagles, or the shrieking jar Of locomotive whistles blown by steam ; — Whilst Nature, willing to increase the wonder, Play'd a fine obligaio on the thunder! "But what said she of us?" BRIDGE. "Oh! here she stood, And gazed upon you with extreme delight; Then she admired your bordering of wood. And seem'd surprised at my unusual height: — She ask'd my founder's name — but 'tis not good To mention that dread word 'to ears polite' — But just as it became so entertaining They drove away, for it had started raining." RIVER. " Well, Heaven bless her Majesty I — in sooth I always was, and always will be, loyal ; For since the world was in its pristine youth — Since first Dame Nature pour'd me from her phial. 76 VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER. I have maintain'd her laws with constant truth, Though of my strength I sometimes make a trial ; And some day soon, though you have got your cramps on, I'll make you shake, were you as strong as Sampson. "Rise, waters, rise! ye clouds, your cisterns pour! Ye mountain torrents, from your sleep awake! Ye brawling children of the thunder show'r, Lift up your voices, and my joy partake! Ye verdant trees — ye rocks — and every flower. Join in our Pseans for Queen Adelaide's sake, And, with one joyous, universal voice. Call on our honoured valley to rejoice!" BRIDGE. " Hurrah! hurrah! — long may my staunch old piers Be strong and able to support the crown ! And may this honour to my ancient years, To last posterity be handed down; I dare to prophesy, I have no fears Of having Kirkby made a corporate town — I see her blazon'd arms not far remote — A BmvGE per pale with a Red Petticoat!"* Just then, the Exmouth coach came rumbling by. And all at once the strange illusion fled! The stars were sinking in the western sky, And in the East appeared the morning's red — The lark his notes was trilling up on high. So home I trudged to my neglected bed. To ponder o'er my strange and wondrous dream Beside that ancient Haunted Bridge and Stream. * The red cloth which was used as a foot-cloth for the Queen, was made into petticoats for old women. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. It would be a gratification to the Author, if the Reader should remember having read any of the following Poems in the Provincial Journals, in which they have from time to time been published, according to the dates subjoined. The first piece appeared in the Preston Pilot, in a few months after he commenced his apprenticeship in that ofiBce. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE BARD'S LAST LAY. A VISION. The sun had set in glory, 'neath the billows of the West, Each fairy flower had hid its face beneath its silken vest ; And Cynthia's beams shone brightly o'er the surface of the deep, When on a bank of fragrant flowers I gently fell asleep. Methought I saw an ancient bard bow'd down with weight of years, He lean'd in sorrow o'er his harp, and bathed it with his tears ; And, as with hurried hand he swept the wailing chords along. He raised his trembling voice aloft in sad and mournful song. He sang of bright and golden days, when Britons' hearts were free ; Unfetter'd by the thirst of gain — unsear'd by tyranny — When men were loyal to their king, yet firm in free- dom's cause — When England's sons maintain'd her rights amidst her numerous foes I so MISCELLANEOUS. "But ah!" — thus sang the ancient one — "thy fame, loved isle, hath fled. For honour, love, and loyalty, in men's hearts now are dead! And soon thy glory on the earth will never more be known. My once much-loved Britannia, my beautiful, mine own ! "For oh! thy once unsullied flag, which floated proudly o'er Thy fields of honour, now hath droop'd, alas! to rise no more ! Thy glorious Constitution 's gone, and I must now away, For all that bound thee to my heart hath fallen to decay ! " And thou, my harp, whose thrilling tones have waked these notes of sadness, Shalt never more arouse the strains of ardour or of glad- ness ! No ! thus I break thy strings of fire, far famed in song and story. Thou ne'er shalt sing of Britain's fall — thou didst but sing her glory!" July, 1829. THE BROKEN-HEARTED. I saw thee in thine infancy, upon thy mother's breast. Thy little angel form had sunk in innocence to rest; And oh! so lovely thou didst seem, ere yet thy forehead fair Was shaded by the gloom of life, or darken'd by despair! MISCELLANEOUS. 81 Thy little hands were clasp'd whilst laid upon thy mo- ther's knee, I saw her raise her eyes to heaven, and breathe a prayer for thee; For thou wast first-born of her love, and tears bedimm'd her eye, Lest thou should' st feel the cold world's slight, or ought of misery! I saw thee in thy girlhood's first and brightest dream of youth. And thou wast full of loveUness, of gaiety, of truth ; Thou wast a rosebud young and fair, just opening to the sight. That cheer' d the heart with gladness, like a vision of delight ! I saw thee bloom in beauty when a woman thou had'st grown. And many a suitor foUow'd thee, and wished thee for his own; But ah ! thy heart was given to one who claim'd thee for his bride. Thou lovedst him with devotedness — he loved none else beside ! I saw thy cheek begin to fade, thine eye to lose its brightness. Thy fawn-like step more feeble grew — thy form had lost its lightness; But still the workings of thy heart more warm and fer- vent grew As the moment that must sever us still near and nearer drew ! 82 MISCELLANEOUS. I saw thee in thy spotless shroud when friends around were weeping. And thou wast lovely in thy death, ev'n as an infant sleeping ! But when I press'd my lips to thine, the chilling truth came o'er me. For then I knew it was indeed thy corpse that lay before me! I saw thee put within the tomb, and heaved a deep, deep sigh! Though tears around were falling fast, my cheek alone was dry; Alas! alas! I could not weep, though thou and I were parted, For thou hadst gone to endless bliss, but I was broken- hearted! October, 1832. PENWORTHAM BELLS.* At evening, when day in the west is declining. And nature is sinking to silent repose; When the stars in the blue vault of Heaven are shining. And dew- tears are wept o'er the lily and rose ; When the moonbeams on Kibble's still waters are gleam- ing And night- winds sigh gently along the green dells, — When each little bird in its soft nest lies dreaming, — Then sweet is the music of Penwortham Bells! * Penwortham Church is on the banks of the Ribble, near Preston. MISCELLANEOUS. 83 I feel their soft cadence steal over my bosom Like sunshine on earth, or the dew on the flower, Refreshing the bud, and restoring the blossom. Which sorrow had nipp'd in adversity's hour: For memory recalls those fond moments of feeling Which live in the heart, hut which language ne'er tells. When borne on the zephyr, I first heard the pealing. And loved the sweet music of Penwortham Bells I Oh! 'tis sweet, 'neath the shade of an elm to be lying. When the thrush with her melody wakens the grove; When the heart aches with beating, the bosom with sighing, And all the fond soul melts in rapture and love; But oh! with what joyous, delightful emotion My bosom is fiU'd, and my heart, how it swells. As I hear, with a feeling of fervent devotion. The soft flowing music of Penwortham Bells ! November 1832. LOVE'S MOMENTS. What are Love's Moments ? — they are flowers That bud, and bloom, and die! Planted in Fancy's gayest bowers. And nurtured by a sigh ! A dazzling scene of visions bright. And fond imaginings. Which vanish from the enraptured sight Like other earthly things. 84 MISCELLANEOUS. A lily fair had made its bed Upon a river's side. Awhile it bloom'd, then hung its head, 'Twas blighted, and it died ! I saw its leaflets pass away Upon that dark deep stream, Like sunshine on a winter's day. Or fancies in a dream. I heard two lovers breathe their vows Beneath a poplar's shade — The dew-drops glisten'd on the rose And moonbeams lit the glade; And all was rapture, joy, and bliss. Which is but memory now! Cold is the warm, endearing kiss. And broken is the vow! Such are the visions Fancy weaves Around those youthful hours. Our dearest hopes are wither'd leaves, Love's moments — wither'd flowers! Nov. 3rd. 1834. THE POET'S DEATH. His eye was dim, yet still he gazed upon the summer sea, The wild waves in the sun's red beam were sporting joyously; MISCELLANEOUS, 85 And the golden clouds sailed lightly on the evening's gentle breeze. As though they loved to see their forms reflected in the seas! Friends of his youth beside him stood — each eye was dim with tears; His widow'd mother too was there, who watch'd his childhood's years; But he had bid farewell to all, and long'd to pass away, As the last sunstreak on the wave proclaim'd the close of dav ! His lute was laid beside him, too, but broken was each string. And hush'd for ever were the songs he loved so well to sing; The lightning of his eye was quench'd — his cheek's bright hue had fled. And that fond heart — "young pleasure's tomb" — must moulder with the dead ! The beacon's light athwart the sea had cast its lurid gleam. And in the far-off" west bright day had shed its parting beam; — The twinkling stars their beauty laved within the waters deep, — The time was come — the Poet smiled, and said, "now I must sleep! "Hark! there is music in the air! — a grand and glorious strain — Which calleth me from earth to heaven, never to part again ! 86 MISCELLANEOUS. One look at yonder glorious land — one glance upon the sea, — One love-fraught gaze on all around — and then my soul is free!" He ceased: — the breeze of the young night breathed on his lips a kiss — His longing soul had pass'd away to other worlds of bliss ; And a tear was on his pallid cheek — like a bright gem it lay, As though his spirit o'er him wept when it had left the clay! Why mourn ye for the Gifted Ones ? why sigh ye for the Brave? Why weep ye that the Beautiful are swallow'd by the grave ? Rejoice! they are the Loved of heaven, that tread the path before ye — The lamps that light the path of Death — the heirs of endless glory! Nov. 30, 1834. MY FATHER'S GRAVE. " Here lie the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times !" — Shakspere. Friend of my youth — my Father — thou art dead ! And the dark grave is now thy only bed. Thou canst not hear my sighs — nor see my tears. Thou loved protector of my infant years ! But one fond tribute unto thee I'd pay. My faithful heart's deep anguish to allay. MISCELLANEOUS. 87 O ! painful thought ! that I should see the hour That gave thee up to Death's all-dreaded power ! And left me lonely o'er the earth to roam, Without a resting-place — without a home ! No hand of love to guide my wandering feet. No voice of pity mild mine ear to greet ; "Without thy counsel, given with a smile. Yet sage, and full of meaning, all the while ! From the world's slight thou oft didst me defend ; When thou wert near, I always had a friend ! Well I remember, in my infant years. How kindly thou didst dry my griefless tears. And with a kiss drive the light cloud away That dared to shade the sunshine of my day ; A smile from thee restored again my joy. For well 1 knew that thou didst love thy boy ! And when I first was launching into life, A young adventurer on a sea of strife — When tempting snares were laid on every side, 'Twas then thou taught'st me my frail bark to guide ; And how to shun the sunken rocks of sin. Whose whirlpools by degrees would draw me in ; Bade me keep clear of Pleasure's sunny isles. Where Dissipation spreads her tempting wiles. And sad Repentance lurks 'neath witching smiles! Where Syren voices chaunt voluptuous songs. While aspic's poison rankles in their tongues ; Where, within lovely forms and sparkling eyes. Dwell the foul passions and their miseries ! Oft didst thou spread before my wondering sight The page of Fancy, teeming with delight ; Or lead my restless spirit through the maze Of wondrous histories of other days I 88 MISCELLANEOUS. Well I remember, how, at eventide. When life's turmoils were gladly laid aside. Seated around our own fire's cheerful light. Which glow'd on happy faces, smiling bright, — Then wouldst thou read from some inspired sage Within the holy Bible's sacred page. And teach our youthful minds the way to heaven. Through Him who died, that we might be forgiven ! Then wouldst thou kneel, and with uplifted eyes, Seek the acceptance of our sacrifice ; And as we bent around thy elbow chair. Our tears fell fast, whilst listening to thy prayer. For holy thoughts would fill each heaving breast. And set our little griefs and woes at rest ! Why wert thou taken ? — why did cruel fate Break the sweet union of our happy state ? Why didst thou die ' — but how can I repine 'Twas Heaven's own will, and endless rest is thine ! No epitaph can on thy tomb be read. Whose sounding virtues do but mock the dead ; A simple stone records thy humble name, Unblazon'd by the praise of common fame ; And all the canopy that decks thy grave Is form'd of elms that o'er it, rustling, wave ! But I thy worth may sing — and sure these lays Are a son's tribute to a Father's praise — Father ! — a name that sums each tender thought. With love and pity eloquently fraught ! Oh ! if bless'd spirits are allow'd to know The thoughts and actions of their friends below ; If, all unseen, communion may be given To whom they loved on earth, by those in Heaven ; Then, O ! my Father, be to me a shield. Lest to Temptation's darts supine I yield ; MISCELLANEOUS. 89 Still may thy voice a warning whisper give. And let me learn from thee the way to Hve. And though in distant lands my bones may lie. Oh ! in the hour of death do thou be nigh ; That when my soul is freed from earthly leaven, Thou may St conduct it to the gates of Heaven. Jan. 5, 1835. TO AN EARLY SNOW- DROP. Thou lovely Flower, fair offspring of the Storm! From what mysterious source first sprang thy form.^ Why in cold winter only dost thou bloom. Like a bright star, to cheer the darkling gloom ? Art thou a tear, new fallen from the sky. Frozen, whilst dropping from some angel's eye. Who, weeping to behold the ice-bound earth, Dash'd thee away, and thus produced thy birth? Or wert thou sent by heaven to cheer the soul. When gloomy winter holds his stern control ? It must be so: — for when bright summer 's fled. When flowers, and trees, and all the earth, seem dead — When, o'er the plains, the blustering north winds blow. And half- starved Nature robes herself in snow — When not a ray of sunshine lights the scene. When search we vainly for one speck of green — Then fairy-like dost thou erect thy head, Like a bright vision from among the dead ; To wearied sight thou dost a welcome bring. Thou sweetest harbinger of genial Spring! So when the false world's blandishments are flown. When summer friends have left us all alone — I 2 90 MISCELLANEOUS. When storms of grief and sorrow o'er us roll, Vexing the mind, and torturing the soul — True Friendship cheers us with her soothing balm. Turns gloom to brightness — tempest into calm — Points out the hope of happier days to be, And for her emblem turns, sweet Flower, to thee! Feb. 24, 1835. THE POET'S WORLD. There is a world, oh ! sweeter far than this. Peopled by beings strangely beautiful! Where the bright sun more dazzlingly doth shine. And o'er the deep blue skies the light clouds hang Like veils of silvery gauze o'er Beauty's eyes ; And starry flowers bedeck the lovely earth. Flinging their endless sweets upon the breath Of rosy Morn, who, smiling, opes her eyes Waked by their balmy fragrance into life ! And spirit music floats upon the breeze. Melting with its sweet symphonies the soul. Or rousing passions which had slumber'd long. To high achievements and heroic deeds! Voices unseen commingle their soft tones With the glad murmuring of the gushing streams ; Whilst birds of glittering plumage, beautiful. With dulcet notes make the dark woods resound With harmony too ravishing to hear ! The clustering trees their graceful branches lave In deep pellucid lakes, whose surface bright Is ne'er disturbed, save when the gentle swan. In conscious pride, bends her white, downy neck To gaze upon her beauty rairror'd there! MISCELLANEOUS. 91 And there are forms of glowing loveliness, The bright inhabitants of this fair world. Brought into being from a lover's brain. Fed by a look, and nurtured by a sigh ; And in the glittering grot they tune the lyre To plaintive numbers fraught with melody. Or by the bubbling fountains sit, and sing. In higher strains, immortal heroes' deeds ! And when the stars have oped their eyelids blue. And with their voices hail'd their pensive Queen, Who with her jewell'd train hath darkness scared — Then these bright beings launch upon the lakes. Their voices blending with the distant streams In one mellifluous harmony : — the birds In their soft nests, with love-notes answering call. The flowers and trees dash off their dewy gems. And moon and stars join the sweet revelry ! Upon the shores, and 'midst the silent vales. And 'mong the groves, enraptured lovers walk. Inhaling odours from each half-closed flower. Some, to the hautboy's sound, with nimble feet Trip, sylph-like, through the mazes of the dance; Zephyrs sigh softly into Echo's ear. Who, waking, makes each sound seem doubly sweet ! Such is the Poet's World ! — in his deep soul Alone 'tis pictured, and alone exists; And here his Fancy culls, insatiate. The sweetest buds and flowers of Poesy. And as he roves amidst its blissful scenes. New beauties rise, and brighter visions throng Into the inmost caverns of his mind : And this cold world, with all its scorn and gloom. He spurns and laughs at, as a thing too mean To mingle with his soul's minutest thought. March 22, 1835. 92 MISCELLANEOUS. SONNET, ON THE DEATH OP MRS. HEMANS. Sweet Minstrel of th' Affections, thou art gone — And the pure spirit that once touch'd the lyre. And fiU'd the bosom with poetic fire. Now strikes its chords before the heavenly throne. Leaving us but the memory of its tone ! Thy song on earth is hush'd — the glorious choir Of saints and angels claim'd thee for their own. And grander themes thy spirit now inspire ! But thou'rt not dead to us ! — Like the sweet rose, That scents the air, whilst living, with its bloom- And ev'n when wither'd gives forth its perfume, So will thy works the master-mind disclose. And beam around its brightness — like the sun, That leaves his glory, when his race is run ! June 20, 1835. THE IDIOT BOY. Oh I stranger, pause, and I will tell A simple tale to thee, And it may tend, perchance, to rouse Thy deepest sympathy ; 'Twas no new sight I look'd upon. But one which oft, I ween. Throws bitters in the cup of life. And blights the loveliest scene. I saw a lonely cottage, built Within a garden fair. And flowers of every sort and hue Shed fragrance on the air ; MISCELLANEOUS. Sweet roses deck'd its trelliss'd porch. And kiss'd its whitewash'd form, And trees of thickest foUage Protected it from storm. In sooth it was a lovely spot ! But ah! there was within, A scene of human wretchedness — The fruit of Adam's sin ! A widow dwelt there with her son. Whose sire was slain in fight. And left her lonely in the world. Ere he had seen the light. Oh! grief had bent her once fair form, And care had sear'd her brow; Her heart, that once with gladness beat. Was sore with anguish now; And oft she'd gaze upon her son, Whilst tears stream'd from her eye. For though she seldom ceased to weep. Their fountain was not dry! And weep she might — for it was sad To see that lovely child. With his sunny hair, his vacant smile. And dove-like eye, so mild; 'Twas sad to see that human form As perfect as could be. Deprived of reason's glorious light. In hopeless idiotcy! He'd sit beside his mother's chair And murmur soft and low. And wring his white and slender hands Whilst rocking to and fro ; 93 94 MISCELLANEOUS. And he would gaze into her eyes. And if he saw her weep. Would hide his head within her lap. Or to her bosom creep! 'Twas only instinct guided him To seek his mother's breast, For he'd been used to nestle there. And gently sink to rest; And something might have told him, too. Should aught of fear alarm. That she alone could comfort him. And shelter him from harm. It was a dark and stormy night, No star shone through the gloom — A taper's dim and flickering light Gleam'd from a lonelv room; That widow's hearth was cheerless then That brightly used to blaze, And she was weeping o'er her son About to end his davs! He lay upon his little bed. His hands clasp'd on his breast. But there was nought of agony Disturb'd his peaceful rest; It seem'd as though his Father's hand Had sraooth'd the path of death — So placid was his pallid face. So soft and low his breath! The widow wept — for he had been Her only earthly joy, And oft she pray'd that God would take Unto himself her boy ! MISCELLANEOUS. 95 They were not hopeless tears she shed. Her sighs were not of wo — She knew that when he left this life To heav'n he'd surely go. And whilst she weeping o'er him bent, His breathings fainter grew; A glassy lustre dimmed his eye — That eye of brightest blue ! He press'd his mother's lips to his. And gently droop'd his head — One little sob, and all was o'er — Her idiot boy was dead ! December 7th, 1835. THE ADVENT OF MAY. "Hail! all hail! the merry merry month of May." She comes, she comes, with her garland of flowers By the laughing zephyrs borne; She hath called to the buds in a thousand bowers With the earliest blush of morn ! She hath flung her smiles o'er the gladsome earth. And the birds have waked their lay. And the bee hums forth her joy at the birth Of May— sweet May ! The sun looks down from a brighter sky — The moon rides in deeper blue; And the gems of night watch more lovingly O'er those that are met to woo; 96 MISCELLANEOUS. And the maiden's heart hath a wilder beat — Her step is more light and gay; And the glance of her eye it is bliss to meet In May — sweet May! There's a voice of joy on the heathy hills, They are changing their coats of brown; There's the bubbling laugh of a thousand rills As they joyously rush down! And the laverock's melody sounds more clear When she greets the morning's grey. For the sweetest season of all the year Is May — sweet May! O beautiful May! — thou wert wont to be Welcom'd with tabret and lute. And thy pole was deck'd out right merrily — But those sounds of joy are mute! And the youth that danced on the village green Like a dream have pass'd away — Alas! for the good old days we have seen In May — sweet May! April 30, 1837. THE DYING ORPHAN. I go to the home where my fathers sleep In their narrow beds of clay ; But few are the friends that will round me weep When my soul is pass'd away! My spirit will soar through the realms of air On the seraph's rosy wing. And the loved ones of youth will greet me there With a rapturous welcoming! MISCELLANEOUS. 97 My father will smile on his first-born son, My mother will kiss her boy, And cherubs rejoice o'er the battle won. In celestial strains of joy ! They will lead my feet through the golden halls Where the floors are paved with gems, Where the stars flash light through the crystal walls On a million diadems. I shall have a harp, and a crown of gold, I shall learn the eternal hymn ; I shall stand 'fore the throne with the saints of old 'Midst the shouts of seraphim ! I shall live for ever, and feel no more Of sorrow, nor pain, nor tears, — I shall wonder, worship, love, and adore Through millions of thousand years ! Farewell then to earth! — on the evening breeze Comes a strain of melody — My spirit hath echoed its harmonies And is struggling to be free ! And the world ebbs fast from my fainting sight — That strain hath a louder swell ; All hail to the regions of endless light. And to thee, dark Earth, farewell! May 11, 1837. 98 MISCELLANEOUS. TO AN AFFLICTED FRIEND. Daughter of sorrow ! let my trembling lyre Attune for thee its sweetest harmonies; And had I but a portion of the fire That lit the soul of Israel's minstrelsies, How would I whisper to thy spirit, "peace!" I'd bid the anguish of thy life "begone" — I'd bid its tempests and its billows "cease;" Lead thee o'er paths with thornless roses strown, Where pain, and anguish, and affliction ne'er were known ! Oh! 'tis a glorious boon to pour the balm Of consolation into sorrow's ear! To lull the storms of trouble into calm — To see hope's sunbeams banish gloomy fear. Whilst smiles of happiness dry up each tear! Just as the tender lily, tempest riven. Beaten by winds and rain — no shelter near — Smiles 'neath the warmth of an unclouded heaven. And lifts her drooping head, like frailty just forgiven! But there is One — and oh! on him rely. For he hath sent, and he can cure thy woe; He'll check the tempest as it passes by. And bid the angry torrent cease to flow; For ne'er did mortal to his presence go, Who trusted in him, but he heard their cry, — Then, though affliction lays thy body low, Thou'lt have a rest beyond yon azure sky. Where grief, and care, and trouble never dare come nigh! April 21, 1838. MISCELLANEOUS. 99 LINES ON THE DEATH OP MISS F R , ULVERSTONE. Thou'lt return no more! Thou art gone — thou art gone to a land more bright. And its glories have greeted thy ravish'd sight! Thou art gone to those regions of endless joy- Where pain cannot enter, nor grief alio}' — Where the gladness of beauty and youth shall be Thy guerdon of bliss through eternity! Thou'lt return no more! We have mourn'd thy fate — we have wept thy doom — We have water'd with tears thine early tomb; On its fresh-turn'd earth bright flowers we see. Which will bud, and bloom, and perish — Uke thee! Alas ! for the Beautiful ! thou art gone — The fairest flower we e'er looked upon ! Thou'lt return no more ! In our souls alone we shall see thee now. With thy gladsome smile, and thy sunny brow! But our hearts will echo thy voice's tone As a strain of our childhood, long since gone — When the gushing sound of our native streams Like familiar music greets our dreams! Thou'lt return no more! Thou hast left behind thee a land of wo. Where the waters rage, and the tempests blow; Thou art harbour'd safe in a world of bliss. And our only comfort and hope is this — When the hour is come that must set us free. Thou Beautiful One ! — we shall come to thee ! March 20, 1839. 100 MISCELLANEOUS. TO A LADY, ON HER REQUESTING THE AUTHOR TO WRITE THE FIRST PIECE IN HER ALBUM. Maiden ! thou askest me to write my name Upon these virgin tablets pure and white, Whereon ne'er yet the pen of mortal came. And which, till now, have yielded no delight ; For nought was there but the fair paper, gleaming Like an unbroken plain of new-fall'n snow ! No trace of life — no sketch of poet's dreaming — No painter's wreath of everlasting glow ! 'T was like a statue, void of thought and feeling. The artist's busy skill alone revealing I Unworthy I to whom the task is given, — And all unworthy is my humble lyre, — To bring, Prometheus-like, the fire from Heaven, "Which shall these lifeless leaves with life inspire ! My harp's sweet strings have lost their tones of gladness ; The dews of sorrow o'er its chords have pass'd; It will but breathe the wailing notes of sadness. The tear-fraught dirge o'er joys that would not last; For when it echoes to my wooing fingers. On every trembling chord, grief's discord lingers! But thou, fair Maiden! why, o'er thy young heart Should dark Misfortune cast her clouds of gloom ? A happy lot to thee I'd fain impart. But Life and Love bring each a separate doom ; Keep thou from Love ! — there is no bitter potion So bitter as love's draught, howe'er disguised; MISCELLANEOUS. 101 The faithful heart's most ardent, fond devotion. By selfish man is far too lightly prized ! The tares that bow beneath the reaper's sickle Are not more worthless, nor than man more fickle ! Look thou to Heaven — fix thine aflections there — There let thy young heart's fondest treasure be! Fix them on earth, thy dower is despair; Thy soul's enjoyment, canker'd misery ! For mortal love is hollow and deceiving. As the dread quagmire cover'd o'er with flowers ; Oh ! step not there to gather — once receiving, Thou'rt lost — and then farewell to sminy hours! But ah I fair Maiden ! my advice is vain — Thou'rt young and beautiful — thy fate is plain ! March, 1842. TO A TULIP: ON A lady's receiving ONE FROM A FICKLE LOVER. Fair flower! that art with gaudy colours painted — And frail as fair! — for soon thy beauty flies! Meet token of a heart with falsehood tainted, Of hollow friendship in a fair disguise — For thou canst yield no sweets that mortals prize! Why art thou sent as Friendship's harbinger? Thy flame-streak'd leaves oflend my weeping eyes. And thy rank odour is a murderer, That strangles the fond breathings of my sighs ! Thou tell'st me he is false! — false flower — false lover- And false myself, his falsehood to discover! k2 102 MISCELLANEOUS. TO ELEANOR. Though tickle fortune hath of friends bereft me. And sorrow's tempests o'er my head have roU'd Their wildest fury, ere my years have told Their youthful prime; and although nought is left me Of thoughts and feelings which were once mine own Which breath'd upon my heart a voice and tone, Conjuring up the scenes of other days, And filling me with joy as I did gaze With childhood's memory, upon each spot. And each familiar face that sweetly smiled — And heard each voice that bless'd me, when a child — Now pass'd away, but ne'er to be forgot ! Aye — though my heart is sear'd — my feehngs torn By those who should have been my comforters, — And I have now no comfort, saving hers, Who shares with me the world's contempt and scorn — Yet, sweetest sister! do not thou disdain A brother's love — nor let him love in vain! I've nursed thee — watched thee — oh ! that we could pass Again those hours of happiness! — ev'n now I see thee with thy fair and laughing brow Deck'd with my wreaths of wild flowers, which, alas ! Wither'd too soon! — sad emblems of my fate — To bloom awhile, and then be desolate ! Sister! of all who bear that tender name. The only one who e'er my love shall claim — Oh ! never more my breast shall be thy piUow, As was its wont, while gazing on each star. We saw it gleam from its blue home afar. And glance its rays upon the river's billow — That river of our youth — on whose loved shore, My feet, alas ! must wander never more ! MISCELLANEOUS. 103 Why weep I thus ? — why is the tear-drop steaUng Adown my burnmg cheek with trickling flow ? I deem'd not that mine eye could ever know Again that outward sign of human feeling! But it is past! — O! by the memory Of what is lost to us, that once was dear — The fountain of young feelings warm and clear! Let not the world have power over thee To cast me from thy love! — still in thy breast, O ! let my spirit find a place of rest ! ON HEARING THE CLOCK STRIKE TWELVE, ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR 1841. Ding, dong, bell ! Forty-one is come and gone. Ding, dong, bell! The clock has struck its solemn knell, And the midnight's hoUow chime With iron tongue Hath its death-note rung, As it dropp'd in the grave of time ! Ding, dong, bell! Where are its flowers. And its sunny hours — Its hopes, its joys, its gladness? All, all are fled, And the light it shed Has been quench'd in tears and sadness! Its balmy spring. Like a welcoming. Did a thousand spirits cheer; — 104 MISCELLANEOUS. And we sigh'd to see Its summer flee, And its leaves grow brown and sere! And the wintery blast When it came at last. With voice so dread and drear. Hath made its moan With many a groan. For the old and worn-out year! Then ding, dong, bell! Let us ring the knell Of the year that 's dead and gone — And a merry peal For the new one's weal! And so farewell ! Forty-one ! SONGS. SONGS. THE ROSEBUD OF ENGLAND. The Rose of Damascus, is lovely to view, Delicious its fragrance, resplendent its hue; And Persia's sweet roses are far-famed in story. But we have a Bud that eclipses their glory! May it bloom into beauty, and wither oh! never — The Rosebud of England, Victoria for ever! Her mind is the fragrance that cheers all around — Her goodness the root, fix'd in principles sound! The leaves are the young and the fair who attend her. The thorns are our swords, from her foes to defend her! Oh ! long may it flourish ! — and wither oh ! never — The Rosebud of England! Victoria for ever! In the hearts of her people, long, long may she reign! The Pride of the Isles! and the Queen of the Main! May Peace and Prosperity hover around her! And loyal and true be the hearts that surround her ! And far be the blast from its stem that shall sever The Rosebud of England! Victoria for ever! June 15, 1838. THE TRYSTING TREE. Sweet is the bloom of the new-blown rose When tipp'd with evening dew ; Sweet is the balmy gale that blows From India's skies of blue! 108 SONGS. Sweet is the song of the warbling bird As she springs from the sun-lit lea, But there's nought so sweet as when lovers meet Beneath the Trysting Tree ! Sweet is the song of the nightingale Breathing her evening lay, And the voice of the thrush in yonder vale, As she hails the rising day! Sweet is the murmuring of the stream. And the humming of the bee, But there's nought so sweet as when lovers meet Beneath the Trysting Tree I When day on wings of light hath fled. And the moonbeams play around ; And the stream runs over its pebbly bed With a soothing, silvery sound ; — When the gentle night-breeze woos the flowers, And the heart is light and free — O ! then how sweet my love to meet Beneath the Trysting Tree ! THE HUNTER'S SONG. I love to rise at break of day When the eastern sky is red. When the dew is sparkling on the spray, Ere the deer has left his bed ; I love the sound of the baying hound As it greets the rosy morn. When the scent lies fresh upon the ground, And cheerily winds the horn ! SONGS. 109 I love to stem the mountain stream — And to scale the crag's broad breast; To rouse the red deer from his dream The lark from her heathy nest! I care, not I, for the tender sigh That melts the heart away — Sweeter to me is the cheering cry, " Hark ! hark ! to the chase away I" The miser loves his hoarded gold, The soldier, war's alarms! The lover's joy is to enfold His mistress in his arms ! But hurrah ! hurrah ! for a hunter's lot. And a bosom light and gay — For the ills of life he careth not When away to the chase away ! MY DARK-EYED MA.ID. My lovely maid ! whose dark bright eve So softly on me beams. Oh ! waft to me thy gentlest sigh. And visit me in dreams! Though I from thee am far away. Let none thy love upbraid. For oh ! my heart can never stray From thee, my dark- eyed Maid ! I'll think on thee when 'midst the throng Of beauty and of youth ; And still the burthen of mv song- Shall be thy constant truth ! h 110 SONGS. And though the clouds of absence, love. Have cast thy form in shade. Believe, my heart shall never rove From thee, my dark-eyed Maid ! As music on a moonlit lake, As sunshine on the sea — As bright skies, when the storm-clouds break. So thou art, love, to me ! The memory of childhood's streams Shall from my bosom fade, Ere thou shalt cease to cheer my dreams. My own — my dark-eyed Maid ! FAREWELL TO LONSDALE. Farewell ! lovely Valley ! Bright River, farewell ! To forest and fountain, and heath-blooming fell ! There's a voice in my spirit I silence in vain, Which whispers, I never shall see thee again ! O ! Stream of my Childhood ! thou Beautiful Lune ! Through meadow and wildwood still murmur thy tune ; O'er grey rock and pebble rush gladsomely on, Though thy gleam from my vision be vanish'd and gone ! For thy many-toned music I loved when a boy Shall still soothe my spirit in sorrow and joy ; And the voice of thy waters — the laugh of thy streams My mem'ry shall echo in waking and dreams ! Ye groves where I've wander'd — ye meads, where I've stray'd — Ye bowers where I courted my beautiful Maid ! SONGS, 111 Ye hills, on whose summits the fleecy mists form — Where my footsteps have trodden in sunshine and storm, — Farewell, and for ever ! for ever we part ! But your beauties are graven full deep in my heart; And wherever I wander, on far land or sea, My own native Lonsdale, I'll think upon thee ! THE AXE GRINDER. Tune, — " Dumhle dum deary." [This Song has been inserted in a late local work, to the surprise of the Author, as he has repeatedly refused to sanction its publication : he, however reprints it, as it is not very probable that many of bis readers will have seen it in the " BOOK" alluded to.] Since my musical powers you 're determined to tax, I'll sing you a song about grinding an axe; But though simple the subject, yet listen a minute. And you'll find there 's a very deep moral within it. Durable dum deary. A young country scholar stood sucking his thumbs. When to him a journeyman carpenter comes. Who 'd an axe on his shoulder he wanted to grind. But he couldn't tell where a grindstone to find. ■^ Dumble dum deary. He ask'd simple Hodge if a grindstone he 'd got — Hodge nodded, and ran for the watering-pot; "That's right," quoth the carpenter; "come, you shall learn. As you 're a fine fellow, a grindstone to turn!" Dumble dum deary. 112 SONGS. Hodge turn'd till his hands were all hlister'd and sore, And he thought that the carpenter ne'er would give o'er; But expecting some little reward to obtain, He kept turning and turning with might and with main. Durable dum deary. At last, it was sharpen'd as sharp as could be. When the carpenter said, "You young rascal!" said hc; " You've been playing the truant — so get off to school. Or I '11 dust you your jacket, you idle young fool !" Durable dum deary. As we journey through life, we shall very oft find A great many people who 've axes to grind — Who will flatter and coax you, with sweet word and smile. To do them a good turn, by turning a while ! Durable dum deary. They '11 keep you at work till you 're tired out, and spent. And your kindness you half are inclined to repent ; But when they 've secured what they wanted to gain, They '11 laugh at, and call you a fool for your pain ! Durable dum deary. When people begin, with their round about ways, To call you " good fellow," bamboozle, and praise. Remember my story, and call to your mind. That those are the folks who 've got "axes to grind !" Durable dum dearv. PRINTED BY ARTHUR FOSTER, KIRKBY L0N8DAI B. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. rm L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 PR Davis - 1^2^ The fancies of D2898f a dreamer PR D2893f UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAi AA 000 369 104